Left Neglected

by Lisa Genova

  We keep them on task with verbal reminders. Brush the top. Get all the way back. That was too fast, you’re not done. We sometimes sing “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” and they brush for the duration of the song. And Bob flosses for them.

  Now it’s my turn. I can’t be trusted to brush my teeth properly without supervision either. It’s early in the evening for me to be getting ready for bed, but Bob wants to get me settled before he leaves.

  “I can’t,” he says. “You’re not brushing the left side.”

  Staring at my face in the mirror, I poke my toothbrush wildly around in my mouth, hoping to make incidental contact with the left side. God knows I can’t get there on purpose. Unless I concentrate really hard, I’m not at all aware that the left side of my face exists. And at the end of the day, it’s really hard to concentrate really hard on anything.

  No matter what time of day it is, the nonexistence of the left side of my face creates less than desirable consequences. I sometimes drool out of the left side of my mouth and don’t know it until someone (my mother) dabs me with a napkin or one of Linus’s bibs. While a little slobber sliding down the chin is arguably cute on Linus, I’m quite sure it does nothing good for me.

  I now also have a reputation for unknowingly hoarding partially chewed wads of food in the pocket between my left teeth and gums, like I’m a chipmunk collecting nuts for the winter. This is not only gross, it’s a choking hazard, so my mother does a “chipmunk check” several times a day. When I’ve been found guilty of hoarding, she either clears the food out with her finger or hands me a glass of water and asks me to swish and spit. Either way, the solution is just as gross as the problem.

  And I have an expensive collection of cosmetics that no longer sees the light of day. Mascara, liner, and shadow on one eye, blush on one cheek, and lips colored in ruby red only on the right side made everyone noticeably scared of me. I asked Bob to apply my makeup for me only once—I looked like I should be walking the red-light district. Since my options seemed to be limited to deranged lunatic or prostitute, I decided that we’d all be better off if I kept my makeup in the drawer.

  So, needless to say, brushing my teeth on the left side isn’t my gold medal event. Bob always makes me give it a Girl Scout try, and then he does it for me. I poke around, accidentally jab the back of my throat, and gag. I retch over the sink, spit, and hand the brush over to Bob.

  “Is anyone else going in?” I ask.

  “I doubt it. Maybe Steve and Barry.”

  Senior management at Bob’s company told everyone on Christmas Eve that they’d be shutting down for the week between Christmas and New Year’s—a forced, unpaid vacation for the entire staff, an effort to save costs during an annually slow week for many businesses, even in the absence of a recession. From what Bob has told me, Steve and Barry are insane workaholics, even by our standards. Steve loathes his wife and has no kids, and Barry is divorced. Of course they’re going in. They have nothing better to do.

  “That’s crazy. Stay. Take the week off. Ski with the kids, watch movies by the fire with me. Sleep. Relax.”

  “I can’t. I have a ton to do, and this is the perfect chance to catch up. Now stop talking so I can brush your teeth.”

  Because of all the layoffs, Bob is short-staffed and has been doing the work of three other employees plus his own job. I’m amazed that he’s able to do this but also concerned about the toll it’s taking on him. Aside from the time he spends helping me and the kids in the mornings before school and in the evenings before bed and the handful of hours he sleeps each night, he does nothing but work, easily logging eighteen-hour days. He’s burning the candle at both ends, and I’m worried that at some point there’ll be nothing left of him but a puddle of wax.

  I raise my right hand, signaling that I need to spit.

  “So you’re going to work for no pay instead of spending the week with us,” I say.

  “I’d love to stay, Sarah, but I’ve got to do everything I can to keep this company and my job alive. You know I have to do this.”

  Each time my mother brings in the mail at home, and I see the white envelopes stacked on the kitchen counter, the scary dark pit in my stomach deepens, becoming darker and scarier. Even if Bob keeps his job and his salary, if I don’t go back to work, we’re living beyond our means. The bills keep coming in like a relentless winter storm, and we’re starting to get snowed in. And if Bob loses his job without another position lined up before I’m able to return to Berkley, then we’re going to have to start making some dark and scary choices. My heart races, acknowledging what my mind is too chicken to imagine.

  “I know. I understand. I just wish you could stay. When’s the last time we both had a week off at the same time?” I ask.

  “I don’t know.”

  We haven’t been on a weeklong family vacation or a vacation away together without the kids since Lucy was a baby. Whenever I could take a week, Bob couldn’t. And vice versa. We most often ended up taking vacation days in dribs and drabs and for reasons that can hardly be considered a holiday, usually when Abby was away or called in sick. With the exception of this year, when I used up all of my days sitting bedside at the lovely Baldwin Resort Hotel, I’ve never taken all of my allotted vacation time in a given year. Bob never uses all of his either. And this time doesn’t roll over to the following year; if we don’t use it, it’s gone forever.

  For the first time, this behavior strikes me as absurdly sinful. Our employers offer to pay us to spend five weeks a year together, away from our desks and meetings and deadlines, and every year we basically say, Thanks, but we’d rather work. What’s wrong with us?

  “You sure? The company can’t sink or be saved this week, or they wouldn’t have shut the doors. You’re exhausted. Stay. Ski. Rest. A week off would be so good for you.”

  “Open,” he says, floss wound around his fingers and seeming a little too pleased with having the power to shut me up.

  I cooperate, and he begins flossing my teeth. There’s no way I could do this myself. I’d probably have better luck training my right big toe to hold one end of the string while flossing with my right hand than trying to get my left hand to participate in this task. But I’m not willing to look like a chimpanzee for the sake of my dental health. So thank God that Bob flosses for me, or I’d probably be toothless by the time I’m forty.

  I watch his eyes concentrating on the inside of my mouth. Before I left Baldwin, I cried every time I pictured Bob taking care of me like this. I grieved the imagined loss of our equal partnership, for the lamentable burden forced upon him as my caregiver, embarrassed for our pitiful fate. But now, when I actually see him taking care of me, I feel none of what I imagined. I watch his calm and tender concentration, and my heart swells with warm and grateful love.

  “I can’t, babe. I’m sorry. I’ll be back end of the week.”

  Pre-accident me nods, understanding the life-and-death stakes completely. He’s doing exactly what I would’ve done. But I’m worried more about him than his job right now and can see what pre-accident me is blind to—that he and his job are, in fact, two separate things. Finished with my teeth, we walk together over to the bed. Bob retrieves my pajamas from the dresser.

  “Arms up,” he says in the same playful tone we both use with the kids.

  “How’d I do?” I ask, not knowing if my left arm obeyed the command.

  “You tell me.”

  He taps my charm bracelet, and I hear the jingle coming from somewhere near my thighs, not up above my head. I’m not surprised. Whenever I ask both arms, both hands, or both feet to do something at the same time, it’s as if the sides compete to see who gets to do it, and the right side always wins. When my brain hears arms up, the gun goes off, and my right arm sprints to the finish while my left arm, knowing it’s way out of its league, doesn’t even bother inching one fingernail over the start line, paralyzed in place, awed by the magnificent abilities of my right arm.

  Come on, left arm, l
ift UP!

  I imagine my left arm answering in a voice similar to Eeyore’s. Why bother, the right arm’s already there. I wish my left side would realize that this isn’t a competition.

  Bob pulls my buttonless wool sweater up over my head, down my left arm, and off. Next he reaches behind my back to unclasp my bra. He never had a second’s hesitation undoing my bras while we were dating, but now they befuddle him. I guess motivation matters. The side of his face is next to mine as he pinches at the hooks. I kiss his cheek. He stops working at my bra and looks straight at me. I kiss him on the lips. It’s not a sweet kiss or a thank-you-for-brushing-and-flossing-my-teeth kiss. And it’s not one of our hurried, courteous good-bye kisses. All my wanting—wanting to recover, wanting my job back, wanting to ski, wanting Bob to stay, wanting him to know how much I love him—is in that kiss. He goes there with me, and I swear I can feel his kiss in my left toes.

  “You’re not going to seduce me into staying,” he says.

  “You’re not staying,” I say and kiss him again.

  He pulls my bra off without any further struggle, helps me onto the bed, and slides my pants and underwear off. He takes off his clothes and lies on top of me.

  “We haven’t done this in a long time,” he says.

  “I know.”

  “I’m worried I could hurt you,” he says, stroking my hair with his hand.

  “Just don’t pound my head against the headboard, and I’ll be fine,” I say and smile.

  He laughs, revealing how nervous he is. I reach behind his neck and pull him toward me for another kiss. His bare chest, broad and strong and smooth, feels so good against mine. And the weight of him on top of me. I’d forgotten how much I love the feel of his weight on top of me.

  I didn’t think this through before I kissed him, but even in this most passive of positions, I need to actively use my left side. My right leg is wrapped around him, but my left leg just lies there on the bed, a lifeless lump of flesh, not aroused one bit, and my asymmetry is making it difficult for Bob to get into the groove of things, so to speak. And although I’m game for trying all kinds of wacky rehabilitative tools and techniques for reading and walking and eating, I refuse to allow any kind of red ruler, orange tape, granny cane, therapeutic sex prop into our bedroom. I want to have normal sex with my husband, please.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t find my left leg,” I say, feeling suddenly overcome with the wish that it were a prosthetic, and I could simply detach the useless thing and chuck it to the floor.

  “That’s okay,” he says.

  We manage to get going, and I notice that Bob is holding my left leg, pushing up on it from under my knee, balancing me out, reminding me of how he held my leg when it came time to push during the births of our babies. My mind wanders into memories of labor—contractions, epidurals, stirrups, episiotomies. I catch myself and snap out of it, realizing that this kind of imagery is completely inappropriate and counterproductive for what I’m doing.

  “Sorry my leg is so hairy,” I say.

  “Shhh.”

  “Sorry.”

  He kisses me, probably to shut me up, and it works. All intrusive and self-conscious thoughts dissolve away, and I melt into his kiss, under the weight of him, from how good he feels. This might not be perfectly normal sex, but it’s normal enough. And kind of perfect, actually.

  Afterward, Bob dresses, helps me into my pajamas, and we lie back down next to each other.

  “I miss doing that with you,” he says.

  “Me, too.”

  “How about a date in front of a roaring fire when I get back?”

  I smile and nod. He checks his watch.

  “I’d better get going. Have a great week. I’ll see you on Saturday,” he says and kisses me.

  “Come Friday.”

  “I’ll be here first thing Saturday morning.”

  “Take Friday off. Come Friday morning.”

  “I can’t. I really have to work.”

  But he paused ever so slightly before he spoke, so I know there’s a chink in the armor.

  “Let’s shoot for it,” I say.

  We stare at each other for a suspended second, both realizing what happened after the last shoot.

  “Okay,” he says and pulls me into a seated position facing him.

  We both cock our fists back.

  “One, two, threeeee, shoot!” I say.

  Bob’s paper covers my rock. I lose. But Bob doesn’t celebrate his win.

  “I’ll take half a day on Friday. I’ll come up early Friday evening,” he says.

  I reach for his hand, pull him toward me, and give him a huge one-armed hug.

  “Thank you.”

  He tucks me in under a thick fleece blanket and down comforter.

  “You good?” he asks.

  It’s not my bedtime, but I don’t mind going to bed early. I’ve been getting tons of sleep since coming home from Baldwin, at least nine hours each night and another hour or two in a nap each afternoon, and I’m loving it. For the first time since I can remember, I don’t feel exhausted when I wake up in the morning.

  “Yes. Please drive safe.”

  “I will.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you, too. Sweet dreams.”

  I listen to the sounds of him leaving and then watch the beams from his headlights slide across the bedroom walls as he pulls out and drives away. It’s after eight o’clock, but I can see the branches and trunks of the maple and pine trees out the window, jet-black silhouettes against a creamy blue sky. There must be a bright moon out tonight. I don’t think there are any streetlamps in all of Cortland.

  Bob left the bedroom door open a crack, probably so that my mother can hear me if I need to call for help. Light from the fire still burning in the fireplace dances in through the opening. I listen to the popping and crackling of the wood as I drift to sleep in shades of gray.

  CHAPTER 25

  It’s Monday morning, and my mother is clearing the dishes from breakfast. I had steel-cut oatmeal with maple syrup and strawberries and a latte, and the kids and my mother ate scrambled eggs, bacon, English muffins, and orange juice. My mother is a firm believer in a hot and hearty breakfast, which is news to me. I grew up on Cocoa Pebbles, Pop-Tarts, and Hawaiian Punch.

  I’ve been learning a lot about my mother since coming home from Baldwin. She also believes in saying grace before dinner, in wearing slippers or socks and never shoes or bare feet in the house, that all laundry needs to be ironed (including towels and underwear), that everyone should get at least fifteen minutes of fresh air every day regardless of the weather, that the kids have too much “stuff” and watch too much TV, that Bob is a “good man” but he’s “working himself into an early grave,” and that God has a plan. With the exception of the obsessive ironing, I agree with her opinions and ways of living (even if I haven’t been living by them myself) and am surprised by how alike we are.

  But in all that I’m discovering about her, I have little sense for what she believes about me, except that she believes that I need her help. I find myself wanting to know more, studying her for clues, unable to ask, like I’m back in junior high school, gaping at the back of Sean Kelly’s head in homeroom, wondering in my unbearably awkward silence if he likes me. Does my mother believe that I’m a good woman? A good mother? Is she proud of me? does she believe that I’ll fully recover? I wonder.

  And the more I learn, the more questions this seems to un-earth, especially about the past. Where was this woman during my childhood? Where were my rules and hot meals and ironed clothes? I wonder if she knows how many hours of The Brady Bunch I logged, how many bologna and mayonnaise sandwich dinners I ate alone in front of the TV and without saying grace while she stayed sequestered in her bedroom and my father worked the night shift at the station. Why wasn’t I enough for her? I wonder.

  Mount Cortland weather this morning is reporting high winds and all summit lifts closed. Even though this wouldn’t affect Charlie
and Lucy on the beginners’ slopes, we’ve decided to lie low and stay home today. I assumed they’d be dying to watch a movie or play a video game, since they haven’t done either since the car ride up on Friday, but they both want to go outside to play in the yard.

  “Snowsuits, hats, mittens, boots,” I say as they race each other into the mudroom.

  “Where’s the beach stuff ?” hollers Charlie, referring to the bin of shovels, pails, and castle molds as suitable for playing in snow as they are for sand.

  “Everything’s already outside,” calls my mother. “Charlie, hold up! Your vitamin!”

  He swishes and clomps in his suit and boots back into the kitchen and dutifully swallows his Concerta.

  “Good boy. Off you go,” says my mother.

  We watch them out the picture window. Lucy, wearing one of her many sets of fairy wings over her coat like a backpack, is collecting sticks into a red pail. Charlie runs out closer to the woods and starts rolling in the snow. Meanwhile, Linus is cruising around the coffee table in the living room, still wearing his feety pajamas, clicking magnetic trains together.

  “I’ll take Linus out for some fresh air in a few minutes,” says my mother.

  “Thanks.”

  She sits down in the chair next to me, to my right, her favorite place to position herself so I can be sure to see her. She holds her mug of herbal tea in her hand and flips open People magazine. I have yesterday’s New York Times in front of me. I’m searching for page C5, a continuation of the article I started yesterday from the front page about the cost of the Afghan war. I can’t find it.