Remedies

by Kate Ledger

  On her own. What a delicious prospect, she thought as she drove. Of course, she wasn’t entirely alone because she had Will. She felt open to learning about the world, and Will had so much to teach. She should have realized it about him years ago, she thought remorsefully, but she needed other things then. It was amazing to feel—after all this time, in this hardened state—that she was still capable of growing, of changing. Her instinct to take care of herself was still there, but it was seasoned with understanding. She was making decisions based on the realities of her life, the one she had lived until this moment.

  When she arrived at the house on Greenway, it was a little after five o’clock, and she was half startled to discover Simon sitting at the dining room table. Spread before him was a mess of paper, half typed, half scribbled over with red pen. Upstairs, she could hear the long, melancholy song of the vacuum. She’d forgotten it was a Friday, and she realized she’d forgotten cash for Lorraine. She hoped Simon had remembered.

  “Look at this,” Simon said, showing the draft he was working on, crisscrossed lines and circles of red, the print sideways and diagonal. His hair was mussed, as if he’d been tearing at it. “I was up all night last night. Couldn’t sleep at all. As soon as my last patient was done, I came right upstairs to try to finish. Journal article. I’ve got to get the word out.”

  Emily, thinking of the message she needed to deliver and wanting to speak with Simon alone, asked, “Where’s Jamie?”

  He gestured upstairs with his pen.

  She stood at the edge of the room, barely moving. “Don’t you wonder where I am anymore? Have you even noticed I’ve been in and out of town a dozen times in the last month?” she asked slowly.

  He nodded. “Meetings, right?”

  There was only to say it. She stood behind a dining room chair with both hands draped over the back as though she were giving it a massage. When she spoke, her voice came out low, as if she had pebbles in her mouth. “I don’t want to do this anymore, Simon.”

  He tucked his red pen behind his ear, leaned back. “A lot of travel, huh? Sorry I’ve been distracted lately. This treatment is—Emily, it’s going to be amazing. When people find out—did I tell you a reporter from the Sun was here today? I pitched the story and they sent a reporter out here to talk to me, to follow me and meet the patients.”

  “No, I mean, this.” She indicated the space between them with a slow movement of her hand.

  He grew silent. The skin under his eyes went lavender, and she felt her stomach clench. “You don’t want to—”

  “To be married anymore.” As she finished his sentence, the expression in his eyes seemed to glaze over, as if he had ceased to see her. She remembered the moment with Will when she’d actually felt like a cheater, when she’d given them both away, and she felt herself falter. Like a hand in the dark, she groped for the decision she’d made—what was it?—a life that felt different—but what was it supposed to feel like?—she couldn’t remember if she’d actually come to an image. Wasn’t this for the best? Wasn’t this going to save them both? Yes, that steely voice inside her said, it was for the best. She recognized that voice. It had once told Will that she wasn’t going to India. It came from the place that took care of her, from the core that knew how to make critical changes. She had to take care of herself. And then she was strong again. And determined. “There, I’ve said it. That’s what it is.”

  “Oh.” He stood up, bent over, as though she’d just socked him and he couldn’t straighten. The chair he’d been sitting on fell backward, banging dully on the rug. One hand went to his head, absently knocking the pen from behind his ear. It bounced and rolled under the table. “Really?”

  He wasn’t going to explode, she realized. At that moment she felt her strength turn a little bit brutal. A matter of survival, she thought. “I’ve rented a place. Near work, so I won’t have to worry about the commute.”

  He began gathering up the papers. “This is not very good timing.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you.”

  “It’s a great treatment,” he said in a voice that sounded like it came from a dream. “Noninvasive, nonaddictive. The only side effect seems to be a pervasive sense of well-being. You wouldn’t believe the response. The phone’s been ringing off the hook, people telling their relatives.”

  Could he not engage at all? “I want a few pieces of furniture. Nothing important. You can keep the dining room set. I know you cared a lot about the piano.”

  His voice dropped until it was almost a whisper. “It’s the most important moment of my career. The most significant, hopeful thing I’ve ever been able to do. I’m flying to Salt Lake City tomorrow. There’s a pain conference I just learned about. All pain people. Who treat pain, I mean. Who know how little there is to offer patients and how desperate most of them become when the therapies don’t work.”

  “Did you hear me?” she continued like a robot. “I said I’m leaving.”

  “It’s just—the timing,” he said. Silent for a moment, he regarded her. “You believe me, don’t you? You know I’m not imagining it, right? This treatment is for real.”

  “We can’t just keep doing what we’re doing.”

  “Right.” Vindicated, he left the room, still holding his handful of papers, scratching his head. She looked around the room—would she miss any of it? Every item they’d acquired, every color in the room, seemed to have lost relevance to her. When he returned to the dining room, she hadn’t moved. “You’re sure about this? Because I think—I know if there’s something I can do better, I’ll try. Just let me.”

  But she’d already envisioned the end of the tunnel, and herself out the other side. Even if she began to list the things that had occurred that had bothered her, little things like the window washer, he’d never understand the link to other things, like calling Jack Whitby when there were a million and one people in pain he might have chosen. Simon would look at her the way he’d looked at her in the car on the way to the airport, as though she were the one who lacked understanding of social interactions as well as feeling for humanity. He could beat her over the head without ever acknowledging the cudgel.

  “I’ve made up my mind.”

  “Really?” he repeated. “I don’t get it.” The fact that he hadn’t seen such a change coming—and even worse, that he seemed not to be undone by her decision—made her more resolute.

  “It’s nobody’s fault, but we ruined it. Both of us, a long time ago.” He stared at her. “I don’t think we ever healed.” It was harder saying the words than she’d expected, and she had to force them out: “From Caleb.”

  “Right. Caleb.”

  She was reminded of standing in the shoe store, her son’s name spoken in the wrong voice. Even hearing Simon utter it, somewhere between a statement and a question mark, was painful.

  “We have to get out from under it.”

  He looked hard at her. “But we did, together.”

  She didn’t respond. She considered telling him that she didn’t blame him, that she knew what had happened hadn’t been his fault. In her heart of hearts, she still believed it. She believed it as a fact, and she believed it with love. Even the pediatricians hadn’t been able to save Caleb, she thought resoundingly. In certain ways, he was right, they had managed to protect each other all those years. But some other impulse kept her from uttering the words. If he was waiting for her to reassure him, she couldn’t bring herself to say anything.

  “I thought you needed space,” he said. “I gave you space.”

  “It’s still with us though.”

  “You didn’t want space?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He ventured cautiously, “You don’t love me?”

  “This isn’t about love,” she said, both hands still gripping the back of the chair. Love wasn’t the issue. You could love a person past the point that you could live with him. You could love him and need to start over, somewhere apart from your mutual wounds. She needed to
look at a day without feeling like a person being swallowed by the past. “I’ll have a phone by the end of the week.” The sound of vacuuming ceased. She looked around in the stunning silence, having forgotten that they weren’t alone. They listened to the machine being unplugged, Lorraine’s footsteps, the sound of the cord being sucked back into the bowels of the machine. “Where’s Jamie?” Emily asked, more softly. “I should tell her myself. Or we can tell her together, however you think is best.”

  His stricken face pulsed with another wave of unease. “She wasn’t feeling well. She went to bed early.”

  “It’s only five,” she said with concern. “She’s sick?” She could see clearly, just then, how out of touch she’d been from the house all summer, how she’d floated through the space like a stranger. She was a terrible, terrible mother. She had to change.

  “She’s got some virus. She’s not speaking to me lately. Since the wine. I told her—I promised we’d get to it, as soon as this treatment’s on steady ground.”

  “She was counting on you,” she said, watching him wince.

  “It’s consumed me, this treatment. You have to understand, it’s monumental. It could change countless lives. I can’t just pretend nothing’s happened.”

  Emily took a deep breath. She’d imagined more emotion from him. Maybe she’d been hoping for histrionics. Instead, she felt deflated, all of it happening neither with a barrage of loud words nor with a weepy, hand-holding summit like Will had described with Lindsay. She had girded herself for the worst. Even more devastating, it was going to be too easy to split apart.

  “I should be the one to tell Jamie,” she said with determination. “We’ll work something out, joint custody or something. I don’t want to fight about anything.”

  He nodded, still processing. “Okay.”

  She walked steadily up the stairs, but the light was out in Jamie’s room and she could hear her daughter breathing heavily from bed. She didn’t have the heart to wake her—and it didn’t seem the right way to do it. She wanted to sit down with Jamie and describe the situation, the whole complex and layered picture.

  “I’ll tell her tomorrow,” she said as she returned to the dining room.

  “Are you staying here tonight?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she answered, realizing she hadn’t thought that far ahead. She didn’t want to stay, but she also didn’t want to leave without explaining to Jamie what was going on. She wondered suddenly whether Simon would want her out of the house, but he didn’t seem to be pushing her to leave. “I guess I’m staying. There isn’t electricity yet. In the apartment. Or a bed actually.”

  “Okay,” he said, not moving. After a moment, he added, “It would help, if you were here. I’m supposed to leave tomorrow for this conference, remember? Jamie, well, she’ll probably be fine in the morning, but you should be here. I was supposed to leave early tomorrow. I tried to call you. But I just assumed—”

  “I’ll stay. Of course, I’ll stay.” She saw a chance to be with Jamie, alone. It would be a chance to begin rebuilding.

  “The conference goes until Monday night. Three days.” He looked bewildered. “Maybe we should tell Jamie together when I get back.” And then so like a little boy that she was surprised to feel her first moment of sadness. “Can you wait? I’d really prefer to tell her together.”

  She swallowed. “We can tell her together.”

  He looked down at his papers. Then he looked back at her. She was glad he was leaving in the morning. She didn’t want to defend her decision or explain. But apparently he wasn’t going to ask her to. Instead, he changed the subject altogether. “I’m hungry,” he said, as though he had just remembered the fact. “Lorraine made something. I’m not sure what it is, but it has potato. You coming?”

  Then the strangest thing happened: As if it were any ordinary day, they went into the kitchen and ate together, some salami, potato and bean concoction and a green salad Lorraine had set aside earlier. They set forks and plates and sat at the table. Their postures were hunched, and they stared downward. They didn’t speak for a long time. Sadness hung over the table, but a certain anxiety was gone, Emily observed, and just the way the vacuum cleaner had revealed itself when it shut off, the silence had crispness that was new.

  Finally, Simon asked, “You sure about—this?”

  “Yeah.”

  “My business is here. I’ll have to buy you out.”

  “That’s ridiculous. You’ll change location.”

  “No, too much disruption.”

  “Your patients will follow. It’ll be good for you to have the office far from the house. A little more breathing space.”

  That young, wistful look fluttered across his face. “You’ve always helped with the big decisions. We’ve always done these things together. You’re sure this is what you want?” She didn’t answer. “I was thinking maybe I shouldn’t go. Tomorrow, you know? Because—” He paused, but in marital nuances it was clear he was talking about Jamie.

  “No,” she said quickly. “You go. It’s important—as you said—the most important moment of your career. I’ll wait for you to get back to say anything.”

  “This isn’t a trivial cause,” he said again. “These people are in pain. They can’t get out of their houses. They’re suffering and they’re desperate. A lot of them have been hurting for years and nothing’s helped them. Some of them lose the will to live because the pain’s gone on so long.”

  What kind of pain had she been enduring? Something dull and tight and forced, imprinted under the skin like a watermark, and yet there were times when she’d convinced herself she had everything in order and she’d managed not to feel it at all. Why was it that he couldn’t understand it in a way that could help her? “I’d like to get some sleep,” she said finally, rising from the table and taking their plates.

  “I’m back Monday night.”

  “I’ll be with her.”

  They could hear Lorraine stowing cleaning equipment in the second-floor closet, and then descending the front stairs with her tired gait. Emily never liked the interaction at the end of the day, feeling something between guilt and embarrassment, as if Lorraine had too much dirt on them. (“It’s her job!” Simon was always quick to point out.) Emily stayed in the kitchen as Simon went to the front to pay her. His voice sounded as energetic and exuberant as ever while he was thanking her and ushering her off. Emily listened to him close the door and then the sound of his footsteps returning to the kitchen. “I’ve got some things I need to look up,” he said, as if he’d returned to business as usual. “Articles and such. I’ll be up later.” She watched him head down the basement stairs, and she waited for a feeling of unease or apprehension or dismay and felt nothing. No, she felt fine. She washed the dishes and wondered whether she would want any furniture from the house at a later date when she wasn’t feeling quite as numb. Simon could have the piano that he’d lobbied so hard to buy with the house, the piano that Rachmaninoff had played at the music director’s birthday. She might like to have a china cabinet that had belonged to her parents and the antique vanity that she’d bought at auction and that had turned out to be worth three times what she paid. She remembered two paintings in the house that Simon had acquired through connections, and she felt certain he would give them to her.

  So she’d have the weekend alone with Jamie. As promised, she’d wait to explain the situation to her daughter, but it felt better to be saving the news for his return. It would be a family conversation.

  She lay next to Simon that night, but she kept to herself inside her eyeshades, and she slept fitfully. She could hear his breathing, and she thought it strange how each person’s breathing was as distinctive as a voice, even though there was nothing to hear. At some late hour, she thought she heard him say into the darkness, “Emily, my head’s spinning.” Was he talking in his sleep? (She noted smugly how different his pronunciation of her name was from the way Will said it. So plain and straightforward, no hidden m
usicality. Hemily, as funny as it sounded, was an unexpected gift.) She listened for more, but she didn’t answer. Sometime later she heard him stirring, getting up, dressing, gathering his things for the airport. She didn’t remove her eyeshades, and she didn’t say good-bye. All night, she’d been trying to imagine how they’d tell Jamie when he returned. Delicately, she was sure, using vague adult expressions. We’ve drifted in different directions. She thought of Will, his face glowing with the thought of Anne, and she wanted that raw, bare-bulb emotion. We had no choice but to . . . and Jamie would say—what? Emily couldn’t even picture it. They’d have to be smart to make Jamie understand.

  When Emily came downstairs in the morning, Jamie was slumped on the leather sofa in the den, still in a nightshirt, long and pink with the word “Angel” in glitter across the front, and she was eating cereal out of a mug. She appeared zoned out, watching a cartoon, chewing with her mouth open and dribbling little drops of milk onto her lap. The cartoon featured a dorky man in a trench coat who seemed to have superhero qualities. Emily was tempted to say something about the mug on the leather sofa—there were house rules, after all. It took all her willpower to swallow the remonstration. She sat down and then reached out to put her hand against Jamie’s forehead, but Jamie arched out of the way. Emily sighed and sat down on the sofa, staring at the TV.