Just Once

by Lori Handeland

  The anger drained out of him so fast he got a head rush. ‘I’m sorry. Hannah lost her brother. We shared some things.’

  ‘More than some from the looks of it.’

  ‘Would you let me finish?’ He couldn’t get his thoughts together when she kept sniping at him like that.

  ‘By all means. I can’t wait.’

  ‘She needed me, Frankie. You never have.’

  She appeared stunned. ‘You never wanted me to.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I needed you for the past six months and you weren’t there. You were here. With her.’

  The two of them faced each other, close, but so far apart and suddenly Charley realized that they’d always be this far apart. She wasn’t ever going to get over the loss of Lisa. She shouldn’t have to.

  She also shouldn’t have to stay married to the man who’d been too busy with his camera to watch his daughter. Every time Frankie saw him, she’d see Lisa. Probably in a casket. Or the urn.

  But, maybe, if she didn’t have to see him, talk to him, live with him, pretend to love him, she could move on.

  He still loved her, would always love her, and because of that he would give her this.

  ‘I love Hannah,’ he said.

  And in saying it he realized he did love Hannah. He didn’t want to lose her, leave her. He wasn’t sure when that had happened.

  Maybe the day she’d confronted the AIDS protestors. God, she’d been amazing. Her face full of fury when she’d spun on him with her fists raised, ready to battle any way she could for Heath. Or perhaps it had been when she’d slept night after night at her brother’s side as he died inch by agonizing inch. Or when she’d let Charley touch her even though no man had ever touched her before.

  Most likely it had been when she continued to look at him with the same adoration she always had even after he’d killed his own child.

  Frankie drew in a sharp, tiny breath, as if she’d been stuck with a pin somewhere vital. ‘You always called them kids.’

  ‘They weren’t. She isn’t.’

  ‘Well, not a kid, as in pedophile range, but …’ She spread her hands.

  Her gloves lay on a nearby table. When had she taken them off? She should tuck them in her pockets so she didn’t leave them behind.

  Silly, pointless thoughts. What was wrong with him?

  Everything.

  ‘Would it have been better if she was my age?’ Charley asked.

  Frankie approached slowly. He had no idea what she meant to do until her fist shot out.

  His lip split against his teeth. Her knuckles did too.

  ‘Ouch.’ She shook her hand and blood spattered on to the floor.

  He touched his front teeth. They felt jagged and wobbly. ‘Jesus, Frankie.

  ‘It’s a good look for you. I like it.’

  ‘Charley!’ Hannah flew into the room and began to fuss. ‘You need a cold towel. An oral surgeon.’

  Frankie took a long step over the blood and headed for the door.

  ‘Frankie,’ he called, though it came out, ‘Fwankie.’

  She waved goodbye with her still-bleeding middle finger and disappeared.

  ‘What happened?’ Hannah rushed to the sink, ran water on some paper towels and rushed back.

  ‘I told her.’

  Hannah handed him several towels to hold to his lip, keeping a few to wipe the blood off his chin. ‘Your shirt is toast.’

  His marriage was toast, but so was his life.

  ‘What did you tell her?’

  ‘Everything.’ His voice came out muffled, but he was learning to enunciate with a fat lip.

  ‘What, exactly, is everything?’

  ‘About you, me, us.’ That came out ‘uth’ but Hannah got the drift.

  Her eyes widened; her cheeks pinkened. ‘There’s an us?’

  She really was very sweet, and she adored him. He knew he was pathetic for needing adoration, but a man could only take so much disdain. Even if he deserved it.

  ‘Isn’t there?’ he asked.

  She dropped the paper towels, which fell to the floor with a soft shoosh very similar to the falling snow. ‘Yes. Of course. Whatever you want.’

  Charley peered out the window. The snow had stopped as suddenly as it had started. Where did he go from here? His life had flown so far off course in so many ways.

  ‘Did you want to go to the hospital?’

  Charley shook his head. He’d had enough fat lips to know that this one wasn’t serious. The bleeding had stopped; he didn’t need stitches. But he was probably going to need some capped teeth.

  ‘Let’s just go.’

  ‘I should tell my mother—’

  ‘No.’ The thought of talking to her mother, or anyone out there, was too much. Even if Hannah just said goodbye, there would be questions. And Hannah had never been very good at lies.

  Unlike him.

  ‘We’re both headed out the back door. I’ll disappear like the mysterious artiste that I am.’

  Hannah seemed uncertain, but she went along with him. She always did.

  On the train to DC, after a few questions about the show, which he answered with monosyllables, Hannah remained blessedly silent. He tried to think what he should do next.

  File for divorce? He couldn’t. The end had to come from Frankie, otherwise how would she ever move on?

  But what if she didn’t? What if she forgave him? What if …?

  He touched his tongue to his jagged front teeth. That wasn’t going to happen.

  At the apartment, Hannah gazed at him with so much love, so much hope, he panicked. He’d never be the man she thought he was. Just ask Frankie.

  ‘I have to make a call.’ He kissed her forehead and urged her out of the room.

  The way she glanced back, she thought he was calling his wife. This tightrope dance was exhausting already.

  He called Ray Cantrell and begged for the longest, most distant assignment the man had.

  ‘How about Zonguldak?’

  ‘You made that up.’

  ‘Turkey. Mine explosion. Over two hundred dead. Interested?’

  He was. Very. And what did that say about him?

  ‘I’m on the next flight.’

  Hannah seemed OK with it, though as he said goodbye the next morning Charley noticed dark circles under her eyes. Had they been there before? Maybe it was the light. As far as he knew she’d slept just fine, right next to him all night.

  ‘When will you be back?’

  ‘I’ll call you.’

  He didn’t. Zonguldak was a mess. He was there for over a week.

  Right when he was about to leave, an earthquake hit Erzincan – eastern Turkey – and killed five hundred. Since he was already there …

  To be honest, he was inappropriately thrilled with all the disasters. They kept him from thoughts he didn’t want to have.

  Two weeks after he’d left DC, his phone rang. Not Frankie. Not Hannah.

  Carol.

  ‘I’m worried about Hannah.’

  Unease trickled across his skin. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘You didn’t notice how much weight she’s lost?’

  ‘I … uh …’ He didn’t want to admit he hadn’t talked to her for two weeks, let alone seen her. ‘She keeps saying she needs to drop ten pounds.’

  ‘Not in a week.’

  Was that even possible?

  ‘She’s also missed several meetings. Forgotten a deadline. Shown up for work late nearly every morning. She hasn’t slept. She’s a mess.’

  After Lisa, Charley hadn’t worked for months because he’d have been as worthless as Hannah was right now. ‘I’ll talk to her.’

  ‘You think I haven’t tried? She keeps insisting she’s fine. But she isn’t, Charley. Not even close.’

  ‘I’ll be back tomorrow.’

  He hadn’t planned to be. He’d planned to fly straight to Buenos Aires, where a truck bomb had killed twenty-eight at the Israeli embassy. But apparently his
need to be needed overrode the new favorite in terrorist tactics, an embassy truck bombing.

  ‘Good. Thanks.’ She sounded so relieved, Charley almost believed he might be able to do something to help.

  A day later he let himself into the apartment. It looked almost as bad as Erzincan.

  The mail had been tossed on the hall table unopened, so much of it that a good portion had cascaded on to the floor.

  The garbage can was overflowing on to the floor as well – mostly used tissues; definitely no food or it would have smelled like Erzincan too.

  ‘Hannah?’

  No response. It was after 8:00 p.m. Where could she be?

  He moved through the apartment, growing increasingly concerned at the state of the place. The mess was so unlike her.

  He set his bag in her room, frowning at the pile of clothes on the dresser, the chair, the floor, even the bed. They’d been tossed around as if she took out one thing, then another, unable to choose what to wear. Heath had often helped her decide. Was she now unable to do so on her own?

  He checked the bathroom. Unoccupied. But all of Heath’s toiletries were strewn across the countertop. Half of them were open and all of them appeared recently used, even his razor.

  He headed to the bedroom to dig his phone from his bag and a soft sigh drifted from Heath’s room. The hair on his arms lifted, and he flicked on the hall light. A Hannah-shaped lump became visible on the bed.

  She was asleep, and from the waxy shade of her face and the eggplant smudges beneath her eyes, this was the first time in a while.

  He reached to turn out the hall light and she murmured, ‘Charley?’

  ‘I didn’t mean to wake you.’

  ‘That’s …’ A huge yawn made her jaw crackle loud enough for him to hear across the space between them. ‘Fine. You back already?’

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t call.’

  ‘You didn’t? Oh, right.’

  Was she that sleep deprived? Or maybe she didn’t care as much as he thought she did. She was, after all, a sweet, young, talented woman. What did she need with broken old him?

  She sat up. ‘It’s been, what, a few days?’

  ‘Hannah.’ He joined her on the bed. ‘I’ve been gone two weeks.’

  She blinked, yawned again. ‘Huh.’

  She didn’t seem concerned about that either.

  Charley knew from experience that not sleeping could cause all sorts of havoc in your brain. He hoped that’s all this was.

  ‘Go to sleep.’ He tried to urge her on to the pillow.

  She refused to go. ‘I only slept here because my bed seems so empty.’ She paused. ‘The whole apartment seems empty.’

  Charley remembered how empty the house in Whitefish Bay had been … after. One of the reasons he’d fled. It had never occurred to him how empty the place would feel to Frankie. No wonder she hated him.

  Hannah took his hand, drew him up and out of Heath’s room, down the hall and into her bedroom. He still didn’t think of it as theirs. Maybe they should get their own place.

  The thought made him uneasy and he shoved it away. He had plenty of other things on his mind.

  A month later they were still there. He was still there. Charley had been too concerned about Hannah to leave.

  Frankie’s words – I needed you for the past six months and you weren’t there – haunted him. He couldn’t repeat his mistake. He had enough guilt already.

  Hannah slept well at his side. Her dark circles were gone in a week. She put on a little weight. Some color returned to her cheeks. Carol said she was doing better at work; at least she was showing up.

  There were some issues with Heath’s hospital bills and insurance. While other parts of her life seemed too big for her to deal with, Hannah dealt with that like a lion protecting her cub.

  ‘My brother isn’t to blame for his condition. You wanna cause trouble. I’ll show you trouble. The name of your insurance company will be splashed across every major newspaper, accompanied by photographs of a dying man and the grief you caused both him and his family. It will not be pretty. I goddamn guarantee it.’

  The insurance company didn’t cause any more trouble.

  ‘Remind me not to get on your bad side,’ Charley said. Sometimes she amazed him.

  ‘That’ll never happen,’ she returned, but her smile was vague.

  Other times she scared him to death. What would he do if something happened to her too?

  Charley took a few short assignments in the country – never gone more than a day or two. He hated every one. Who cared if Ross Perot ran for President? He wasn’t going to win. What difference did it make if Tiger Woods was the youngest PGA golfer in thirty-five years? The true issue, in Charley’s opinion, was that he was photographing golf. Paint dried with greater zest and probably made better pictures doing it, too.

  When Ray called with the news that sixty thousand gallons of crude oil had just spilled into the ocean in Mozambique, Charley nearly did an inappropriate little dance.

  ‘I’m on it,’ he said.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He packed his bag, went to the phone in the kitchen, planning to call Hannah and tell her he was going, then he saw there was a message on the answering machine. He pressed the play button. Disappointment flooded him when the message wasn’t from Frankie.

  He was such a fool. Frankie wouldn’t be calling him. He didn’t deserve for her to call him.

  ‘Hannah, this is Joseph. You never came in so we could file your tax returns. I hope you did them on your own.’

  Charley hadn’t seen Hannah filling out any forms, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t. Still …

  He’d been going to call her anyway; he’d just lead with the tax return question.

  ‘I don’t have to file until April fifteenth,’ Hannah said.

  ‘It’s April sixteenth.’

  ‘What?’ Papers rustled, no doubt her desk calendar, which she used to update religiously according to Carol, but now did not. ‘It can’t be.’

  ‘I assure you it is.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘I can file an extension.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you have had to do that before the fifteenth?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  She sounded so despairing that a tinge of concern overrode his excitement about Mozambique.

  ‘By the time you get home, I’ll figure it out.’

  ‘Would you? Thank you! I’m buried here.’

  Charley thought the problem was that Heath was buried. Well, not literally. Literally he was in the box in the cupboard while they tried to get permission to toss him around at Fashion Week. Charley didn’t think it was going to happen.

  He made some calls. His first was to a psychiatrist he’d done a story on while at Time magazine. The man specialized in grief. Considering his profession, Dr Mark Maloney was quite a cheery fellow.

  ‘Charley! It’s been ages. How are you?’

  Charley probably should have called the guy after Lisa. Hadn’t even entered his head.

  What should he say in answer to the doc’s question? Surviving? Managing? Sinking like a stone? As this call wasn’t about him, he said none of them.

  ‘I have a friend whose brother just died of AIDS.’

  Mark immediately sobered. ‘I’m sorry to hear it. Sorry every time I hear it, in fact, and I hear it a lot.’

  The epidemic was still rampant. If Charley hadn’t felt so lost, he might be even more pissed off.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ Mark asked.

  Charley quickly described Hannah’s behavior.

  ‘Were they twins?’

  For an instant, shock rendered Charley speechless. ‘How’d you know?’

  ‘I’ve treated a few twin survivors. This is common. Losing a twin is losing a part of yourself. You’re no longer whole but half.’

  ‘What can I do to help her?’

  ‘You could bring her to see me, b
ut since I’m in LA, I’ll suggest a few doctors in your area.’

  ‘Thanks. Anything I can do myself?’

  ‘Do whatever you can to make her feel whole.’

  For a minute Charley thought that Mark had heard about Hannah and him and was making an off-color joke. But Mark wasn’t the off-color joke type.

  ‘Make her feel secure, loved, wanted. Be patient and be there. Time does heal. I promise.’

  Charley wondered if time would ever heal him.

  He thanked Mark, said goodbye, made a few more calls.

  IRS. Accountant. Hannah was screwed. The IRS didn’t care who had died. April fifteenth was April goddamn fifteenth. She’d be fined accordingly, with interest.

  The psychiatrist was nicer. He got Hannah in the next day.

  Ray was more pleasant than the IRS, less pleasant than the doctor.

  ‘Are you fucking kidding me? You should be on a plane right now.’

  ‘I need to stay a few more days. There’s some personal stuff …’

  ‘You used to be the least personal-stuff guy I had. You’d go anywhere, anytime, no matter what. What the hell ha—?’ He broke off.

  Death had happened. Too much of it.

  ‘I’m sorry, Charley. Do whatever you have to do. I hope Frankie is better soon.’

  He hung up before Charley could correct him. Though would he have corrected him? What could he say?

  I’m a cliché. Always will be. But at least I’m owning it.

  The doorbell rang and Charley found the doorman in the hall with an envelope.

  ‘I signed for it. Looked important so I brought it up before I left for lunch.’

  ‘Thanks, Carl.’ Charley pulled a few bills out of his pocket, his gaze on the return address.

  Lamphill, Lamphill and Davis, Attorneys at Law – Milwaukee.

  Charley tore it open, but he didn’t need to. He knew what was inside.

  The document was fairly straightforward. As Wisconsin was a no-fault state, neither party needed a reason for the divorce beyond that they were done.

  And they were done. This proved it.

  Charley sat there for the rest of the day reading the legalese over and over. It was the only way he could keep himself from either calling Frankie and begging her not to go through with it, or hopping on the next plane to Milwaukee, showing up on her doorstep and begging her not to go through with it.