Mt. Moriah's Wake

by Melissa Norton Carro

  “What is it, Jo? What are you scared of?”

  “Confide in him,” Dr. Weisz had once said. “Let him help you. It starts with him knowing everything.”

  But instead I forced a smile and said, “I’m fine, Tom.”

  And believed myself.

  Tom brought up the canvas one evening in February. He was packing for a trip and had gone to the guest room to retrieve his suitcase.

  “Well now I know where that canvas is. I wondered where you had hidden it.”

  I sat cross-legged on our bed, fiddling with the gear in his photography bag.

  “It’s not that I didn’t appreciate it.”

  “But what?” Tom was distant; he always was when he had work on his mind, and he was leaving for a two-week shoot in London. “If you liked it, you would have put it somewhere that you could see it.”

  “It just brings back so many memories, and I guess they aren’t memories I’m ready to remember.”

  Tom fastened the strap across the top of his clothes and gave the luggage a final stare. “Yep, I think I got it all,” he muttered and zipped up the case. Then he sat down beside me.

  “Ya know, Jo, looking at the pictures Doro sent me—and she sent me more than just those—it seems like you had a pretty good friend in Grace.”

  “Did I ever deny she was a good friend?”

  “But doesn’t it make you happy to see Grace and remember the good times?”

  How could I explain? How could I tell him why I not only wanted to hide pictures of Grace from my sight; I wanted to bury the pictures that lingered in my mind. Wanted to forget her and Mt. Moriah and everything that came before Tom.

  “Those pictures looked like the kind of childhood I hope our children have.”

  “Our children?”

  He held my hand, gently rubbing my palm with his thumb. “All four of them.”

  “Four? I’m not sure I ever agreed to having even one.” I grabbed both of Tom’s hands. “I might as well tell you, the thought of children terrifies me.”

  “Why? It’s the circle of life. It’s the way things go on.”

  Ever the optimist.

  “Until they don’t. Until something goes wrong. Until parents die and leave their children alone, or until best friends are murdered.”

  “Jeez, Jo, you can’t think like that! What about the millions of families where that doesn’t happen?”

  “Like yours.” The heavy resentment in my voice surprised me.

  Tom lay back on the bed and pulled me down, cradling me under his armpit, our legs balanced on the closed suitcase.

  “My favorite dog, Trudy …” He paused when I raised up to look at him. “I know, I know, the T thing, anyway she died when I was ten. My grandmother died when I was fourteen, and my grandfather died when I was twenty-two. And the thing is I feel like I need to list out these deaths just to keep up with you.”

  Clearing his throat, Tom continued. “I never lost anyone suddenly—or anyone who wasn’t dying age. But I feel like I have to apologize for having a good, ordinary life, and that’s not fair.”

  “Is that what you think?” I said. “That it’s a competition?”

  “It’s like a contest of grief, Jo. It’s like because I’ve never felt your grief you think I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Then help me understand.”

  “You can’t understand because your life has been happy—”

  “And so was yours, Jo. All those years in Mt. Moriah were happy years—at least it looks that way. Yes, your parents died when you were little and that’s rough, but then you lived with this amazing woman and had this amazing friend—”

  “Who died.”

  Tom pulled his arm out from around me and propped himself up on one arm.

  “Yes, and that’s horrible—beyond horrible—but how can two bad things wipe out all the good?”

  “They don’t wipe it out. They …” I searched for the word. “They muffle it. It’s like how can I enjoy being happy when I don’t know what comes next?”

  “Seriously? You think like this?”

  I had gotten up from the bed and was changing into my nightshirt. I wanted this conversation over. I wanted to lie in his arms and have the words end. I wanted a drink.

  “Call me crazy.”

  “Not crazy, just, I don’t know …” His hands rubbed his temples, a sign of frustration. “Pessimistic.”

  Tom sat up.

  “So let me get this straight. All the time we’ve been together, all the good times we’ve had together, you were waiting for something bad to happen?”

  “Waiting for the other shoe to drop.” Yes, I had been.

  “But doesn’t the thought of having kids and playing with them and watching them grow up—doesn’t that make you happy?” Tom asked.

  “And what if they get hurt? What if something happens to them?”

  Tom stared at me as if I were from Mars.

  “So you see a cute little girl with pigtails swinging and you think, ‘bet she’s gonna fall out of the swing and hit a rock and die’?”

  “You’re making fun of me.”

  His voice softening, Tom stroked my cheek. “So how did you ever let yourself fall in love with me?”

  “I couldn’t help it,” I sniffled. “But it doesn’t keep me from worrying about the future.”

  “Too much worrying about the future and you miss the present,” Tom whispered. “Carpe diem and all that.”

  The summer before our freshman year in high school, Grace and I were running errands in Target with Genia. Grace and I left Genia in the paper goods and wandered through the racks of clothes. Despite having been raised on a limited budget, Grace had very sophisticated taste in clothes. Snobbish taste, according to Doro.

  “It doesn’t matter the price of the shirt on your back. What matters is the value of what’s inside,” Doro said more than once.

  As for me, I had an allowance that was burning a hole in my pocket. While Grace’s allowance was routinely spent within a few days, I hoarded mine and my paycheck from the Inn. Doro had taught me to value shop. Target was my mecca.

  “This is cute,” I said, holding up a floral romper for Grace to see. She instantly turned her nose up.

  “I don’t have any clothes from Target,” she said.

  “I know you don’t. You also don’t have any money,” I reminded her. “Bet you can find something here you like. You just don’t try.”

  She shrugged and wandered off, gingerly touching the clothes as if they were dirty. Despite her many endearing traits, Grace was a bit of a diva.

  In a few minutes, Grace came back, grinning and holding something behind her back.

  “Jo Jo, you will be proud. I found us matching t-shirts, and I would actually wear mine. Guess what’s on it?” She paused for effect. “Your hint is Robin Williams.”

  Dead Poets Society had come out that summer, and we had seen it twice, both of us snotty messes at the end. Grace pulled her hands from her back and held up two black t-shirts, with the words Carpe Diem across the front.

  “I love it. Let’s get them.” I reached over and checked the price tag. “See, they’re only five dollars. I told you Target is the best.”

  Grace rolled her eyes and then, “I’ll have to borrow from you. I’m broke.”

  Carpe diem. Grace.

  “I don’t want to lose you,” I whispered into Tom’s chest.

  “So maybe you won’t. What if we live to be ninety-five, and our biggest problem is where we put our dentures? What if our kid falls off the swing but just needs stitches, or we have a car accident and just have to find money for a new car? What if the worst doesn’t happen?”

  I wanted to believe in that, in Tom’s happy-ever-after.

  But there was that canvas in the closet and shadows in my mind.

  21

  UNRAVELING

  TOM’S TRIP TO LONDON WAS THE FIRST of a number of trips he took to Europ
e in the spring of 2001. With more time on my hands, I frequented my old haunts in Chicago: sitting outside the Macy’s on State Street, sipping coffee and feeling the rumble of the el overhead. Sitting in the courtyard outside the Wrigley Building, submerged in the sea of business people and students, all intent on their destination. All busy, all oblivious to me. Sitting on the patio of Houlihan’s, in the shadow of the Chicago skyline, sipping Long Island iced teas and swapping office gossip with Megan. During that time, I couldn’t help feeling as if Tom didn’t exist. Perhaps I had imagined the whole relationship.

  I tried to spend as much time as possible at work. Candace was dumping more and more projects on me. Now at S&H for over three years, the excitement of editing other people’s copy had worn off. On the bottom of each copy proof was a place for my initials. Every time I penned JAR, I felt diminished. Reduced to just three letters when there was so much more of me—so many words unused within me.

  At home more poems stacked up—most bordering on the morbid. My book was going nowhere, and I was restless.

  One Wednesday morning in mid-June I happened to be on the elevator with Candace.

  “How’s the newlywed?” She smiled her brown smile and slid her hands down her hips, smoothing out what was already smooth.

  “Not so new,” I smiled. “It’s been a year actually.”

  “Oh,” she said, examining her hair in the mirrored elevator door. “I didn’t realize. That’s so …” she turned to look at me, her smile forcing her eyes into thin slits, “sweet.” She touched my elbow lightly so I would be assured of how very sweet she thought our little marriage was.

  I could hear Tom’s voice in my head. Assert yourself. Speak up for yourself.

  “Candace, could we talk sometime about my future here at S&H?” As the words came out I noticed a spot of salad dressing that I was wearing on my black blazer. Very professional.

  “Why, JoAnna, the sky is the limit, isn’t it?” Candace raised her eyebrows in her carefully perfected “I hear you and appreciate you” facial expression.

  “Well it’s just that I would like to do some copywriting.” I paused and cleared my throat, Tom’s voice again in my head. “I’m a good writer.”

  “I didn’t know you wanted to write. Yes, we can certainly talk, JoAnna, but what would we do with your job? You’re just too valuable in that role!” The elevator door opened and she stepped out. “But call Nicole and ask her to set up a coffee for us. Cheers!”

  So I was too valuable to do more than I was doing. I took the train home that night, instead of waiting for Tom. I got off one stop before our house and went to our favorite liquor store, Windy City Liquors, on the corner. An old man named Louis manned the register and smiled at me as I set bottles of Stoli and Merlot on the counter.

  “You look like you had a hard day, miss,” said Louis, a toothpick hanging from the corner of his mouth and a half-eaten hoagie behind him.

  “Yeah, kind of I guess.” I saw the electrician handbook open next to the sandwich and pointed to it. “Studying something?”

  “Three more months before I can sit for my electrician license,” Louis said in a thick Italian accent.

  “Good for you. So I won’t see you here anymore?”

  Louis smirked. “Ha. I doubt that. My wife just had our fifth.” He handed me my brown bag. “But at least maybe money won’t be so tight. Maybe take a vacation one day.

  “Well, enjoy your fifth, miss.”

  “And congratulations on yours,” I said, warmed by his joke. Part of Chicago’s allure were the mom and pop shops I passed every day, and the people like Louis who were threads in my life’s quilt.

  The sun sinking fast, I hurried the three blocks to our house. Living in downtown Chicago two years ago, I felt a false sense of security. I was brazen and daring. But now in the suburbs, I felt alone, vulnerable, scared of my own shadow. Of all shadows.

  At home, I flipped on all the lights. Opening the Merlot, I thought about Louis. How many jobs was he working? How many hours of class was he taking each week in addition to a wife and five children at home? How blessed my life is, I thought. Why can’t I be happy?

  Suddenly my eyes moistened and there was the threat of tears. A sinus infection had plagued me all week. Damn! Had I forgotten to take my antibiotic? More importantly, had I forgotten my birth control pill? No on both counts. I remembered taking them both before breakfast.

  I poured myself a glass of wine and turned on the news, telling myself I would anonymously leave a nice tip on the counter for Louis the next time I went into the store. By the time I had finished my fourth glass, Tom came through the door. I had left the bottle in the kitchen so it wouldn’t be so obvious that Mr. Merlot had been my couch companion. The only telltale sign was the heaviness of my eyelids. I may have felt professionally dejected but I was also sinking into a delicious sleepiness.

  But Tom didn’t seem to notice my slightly sedated state or me in general for that matter.

  “Guess what?” he said, performing his nightly ritual of stepping out of his shoes, undoing his belt, and untucking his shirttail, letting out a little sigh with each added bit of freedom.

  I shrugged.

  “The Tommy Hilfiger campaign won an Addy. That means me!” He leaned over and kissed me hard on the lips. “Hmmm, I think I’ll have some wine too!” He headed to the kitchen for a glass, then stuck his head back around the corner. “Your husband has won an Addy. Can you believe it?’

  I could believe it, actually. Tom’s gritty portraits were what made the Tommy Hilfiger campaign so effective.

  “Does Candace know yet?”

  He sat opposite me on the sofa. “Of course. She called me to her office to tell me. That’s why I was late. She and Adam must have felt pretty confident, because they already had a bottle of champagne chilled.”

  Once he said that I could see the telltale red in his eyes.

  “So you drank champagne with them?”

  “We had a toast, yes.” Tom leaned across the sofa to kiss me. “Then I came home to celebrate with my baby.”

  Your baby? Since when did he call me that?

  “Because I talked to Candace today, and she didn’t mention it,” I said.

  “Maybe they hadn’t gotten the word yet. Or she wanted me to hear it first.” He took a hefty swig of the wine, then stretched out with his head in my lap. “So what did you talk to Candace about? Writing?”

  “Yes, I tried to talk to her but I’m not sure how much she heard. She said we’d have coffee, but then said I was too valuable in my current job.”

  “Well you are the best.”

  “That’s hardly the point, Tom. I could be writing. I should be writing.”

  “Well, and you’ll tell her that over coffee.” He reached up and played with my curls, dangling over his cheek. “Remind her you are a famous photographer’s woman.”

  His woman? As happy as I was for Tom and what it meant for his career, a little voice inside me wondered when I had stopped being JoAnna Wilson, aspiring writer and become JoAnna Rivers. Someone’s woman. His baby.

  Tom’s eyes were semi-closed, and I could tell sleep was coming soon for both of us.

  “Hey, I don’t mean to make this all about me, but can I tell you something else?”

  I had to smile at his cuteness. “Go ahead.”

  “We were celebrating something else in Candace’s office. We landed the Higgins Properties account. Twenty locations. I’m going to be able to pass off some of the lesser accounts …”

  Lesser accounts? Was his ego growing before my very eyes?

  “Because I’ll need to clear my plate. We’ll be traveling for most of July, coming back just in time for the Addys on the 28th.”

  “We?”

  “Candace and I. They’re using two different contract writers. They’ll be meeting us on the road.”

  “So you and ol’ Candy.”

  “She’s the account exec, Jo. She won the account.” He sat up and looked at
me quizzically. “Are you terribly jealous of the exotic junket I’m going on? Milwaukee? Toledo? Pittsburgh? Shall I continue?”

  “When do you leave?

  “Two weeks.”

  That night, as tired as we both were, we made love. As our bodies moved in a comfortable syncopation, I stared at the ceiling fan. I was there and yet not.

  I was already lonely.

  I called Nicole and got on Candace’s schedule to have coffee on the day in July she and Tom were to leave for the photoshoots. My husband’s career is taking off, I thought. At least I can work on mine.

  “I don’t know what to say to her,” I said the night before. Tom had made my favorite pasta but the sight of it was unappetizing. I chased the ziti noodles around the bowl with my fork.

  “Tell her you want to write. It doesn’t have to be a big speech.” Tom was eating at lightning speed. Where’s the fire? I could hear Doro say.

  “It’s not that big a deal.”

  “It’s a big deal to me, Tom.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I just mean that I’m sure Candace expects—that every boss expects—that an employee is going to want to do more or move up the ladder. Just tell her you’re willing to work hard and that you’re a fabulous writer, if she’ll give you the chance.”

  A piece of ziti accidentally sprung from my fork and landed on the floor.

  “Yeah, like Candy Cane would know a fabulous writer if it bit her in her perfect ass.”

  Tom reached with his napkin to retrieve the errant noodle. “Ya know, you might want to stop calling her Candy Cane so you don’t accidentally say it to her face.”

  I leaned my arms on the table, pushing my untouched pasta away.

  “Since when did you stop calling her Candy?”

  “Since when did you stop eating?”

  Truthfully, the pasta smell had triggered bile rising in my throat since Tom set the bowl in front of me.

  “I do eat. My stomach’s just been bothering me lately. Now what about my question?”

  Tom reached over to stab some ziti from my bowl. “Well she still bothers me,” he pointed his fork directly at me. “A lot. But I can appreciate that she does have leadership skills. She does land some big name accounts.”