A Curve in the Road

by Julianne MacLean

  He’s quiet for a few seconds. “Yeah. I thought about you over Christmas. I wanted to call you, actually, just to see how you were doing, because I know what it can be like, but I didn’t want to intrude.”

  “You wouldn’t have intruded. I would have liked to talk to you because you’ve been where I’m at right now, and sometimes it feels like Crazy Town.”

  He chuckles. “I know the feeling. You can call me anytime, you know. You have my cell number.”

  “I do, and thank you. I appreciate that.” I take a deep breath. “I’m just glad the holidays are over.” Moving to a chair in the lobby, I sit down.

  “So how’s Zack getting along?” Nathan asks.

  “Pretty well. Better than me, but I suppose he isn’t working with all the information I have, so it’s more of a normal grieving process for him. As for me, I still feel like I’m being tossed around inside a washing machine.” I stop talking and press the heel of my hand to my forehead. “I’m sorry. I’m sure you didn’t call to hear me whining about my life.”

  “Actually, that’s exactly why I called.”

  I laugh, and he pauses. “So you haven’t told Zack anything.”

  “No. I’ve talked to him about the drunk driving because the whole world heard about that, and I told him about Alan’s cancer diagnosis but not about the affair, and I’m still not sure I ever will tell him. At least he has a good support system at school. The teachers and his coaches have been terrific.”

  “That’s good to hear. Are you back at work now?”

  “Yes, and it’s been good for me to get back into a routine, to have a reason to get up in the mornings.”

  “It definitely helps. Just remember what I said. It will get easier. I promise.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Beyond the doors to the rink, a whistle blows, and the music blasts through the speaker system.

  “Are you listening to ‘We Will Rock You?’” Nathan asks.

  “Yeah. I’m at a hockey rink. Zack’s playing tonight.”

  “What’s the score?”

  “Three to one right now. They’re winning.”

  “Good stuff,” Nathan says. “I’ll root for him.”

  A few high school girls enter the community center through the main doors. It’s below freezing outside with fresh snow on the ground, but they’re wearing short skirts and ballerina flats with no socks on their feet. I watch them giggle and check their phones as they push through the inside doors to the rink.

  “So you’re probably wondering why I’m calling?” Nathan asks.

  “Aside from your interest in high school hockey?”

  He chuckles. “Yeah. I wanted to check and see how Winston was doing. Before Christmas, you mentioned that his incision looked good, but I’d still like to see him for a final follow-up appointment, just to make sure everything’s okay.”

  “Of course. Zack and I go to my mom’s place for dinner most Sundays. Are you open on weekends?”

  “Not usually, but I’ll make an exception if that’s the only time you’re in town. Are you coming this Sunday?”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose, struggling to remember my call schedule for the week. I’m pretty sure Sunday is open.

  “Yes, that’ll work,” I say.

  “Great,” he replies. “What time is good for you?”

  “How about late afternoon?”

  He takes a moment to check his schedule as well, then suggests I come by at four thirty.

  I thank him again, end the call, and return to the game.

  Late on Saturday afternoon—following a long night in the OR with a complicated hernia case—I take a nap on the sofa in the living room. I’ve just drifted off when I’m awakened by the sound of a key in the front door.

  Zack walks in, but I’m so tired I don’t bother to move or get up. I continue to lie there, stretched out on my stomach with my arms wrapped around the sofa pillow.

  Zack goes straight to the kitchen to get something to eat. He’s not gentle with the microwave door, which he slams shut, and then I hear the beep of the buttons and the hum of the machine when he presses start. He sets a plate down on the granite countertop with a noisy clink that echoes off the ceiling. Everything seems amplified, especially the chip bag he rips open with a vengeance. I can hear him crunching loudly.

  I want to tell him to be quiet, but I let it go because I just want to keep sleeping.

  He eats standing up in the kitchen, and I hear him speak softly on his cell phone to someone.

  “Yeah, she’s asleep on the couch . . . no, she still hasn’t cleaned out the closet yet . . . I don’t know . . . I think she’s nuts. She won’t talk about him, and she won’t say why she hates him so much . . . he’s dead, and he can’t defend himself . . . sometimes I just want to shake her because she won’t move on. I can’t wait to get out of here in the fall. I swear to God I won’t look back.”

  Stunned and hurt by how my son talks about me, I fight not to cry. I don’t know what to say to him or how to deal with this right now, so I pretend to be asleep as he leaves through the front door.

  Zack doesn’t come home again that day. He texts me later to tell me he’s going to a party and plans to sleep over at a friend’s house.

  I decide to give him some space until I can figure out how to deal with this in a calm way, but I’m deeply hurt and troubled by what he said on the phone. I can’t believe it. He’s never spoken that way before, with such bitter disdain for someone, at least not when I was within earshot. I feel wounded and anguished, and I worry that Alan’s death has affected him more than he’s letting on. I feel like I’m losing everything I love . . . that it’s all falling apart . . . and my house feels colder and emptier than ever.

  The phone rings, and it’s Maureen. I tell her about what Zack said.

  “Oh, Abbie. Teenage boys can be so insensitive sometimes,” she says, “but it doesn’t mean anything. He’s a great kid, and he loves you.”

  I’m tempted to let everything spill out about Alan’s infidelity—because Maureen is one of my closest friends and so far I haven’t told her anything about his cheating—but I’m afraid Jeremy might find out, and I can’t let Zack learn about it from anyone but me, so I bite my tongue. Carla and Nathan remain my only confidants.

  Maureen and I chat about other things, and then we talk about catching a movie that night with a few of the other hockey moms, since the boys are going to a party anyway.

  “I’ll call Gwen,” she says, “and you can call Kate.”

  “That sounds great.”

  It all works out, and Maureen picks me up at six, and we meet the other gals at the theater. It really helps for me to laugh with some friends at an outrageous chick flick. It feels good to get my mind off things, at least for a little while.

  Later, when I return home, Winston is waiting at the door for me. I let him out the back door, and then we curl up on the sofa together to watch the news.

  Winston. Like an angel, he rests his head on my lap. I rub behind his ears.

  When we finally go upstairs to bed, he jumps up and sleeps on Alan’s side, which is unusual for him, as he normally prefers his own fluffy cushion on the floor.

  I like how it feels to share the bed again, even if it’s only with my dog. I suspect Winston knows how much I appreciate it, because he’s amazingly intuitive.

  The following day, Zack and I get into the car to drive to my mother’s house for the afternoon. As soon as we’re outside the city, I feel ready to bring up what I overheard him say on the phone the day before, although I don’t want him to know that I eavesdropped.

  I glance across at him. He’s staring down at his phone, texting.

  “How was the party last night?” I ask.

  He finishes what he’s doing, then looks up at me. “What?”

  I repeat the question.

  “It was okay. And it wasn’t really a party. There were only twelve of us.”

  “I see. So enlighten me.
If twelve doesn’t qualify as a party, what number does?”

  He thinks about that for a few seconds. “Oh, I don’t know. Twenty? Twenty-five?”

  He leans forward and switches on the radio.

  “Listen, Zack,” I say, turning the volume down slightly. “I wonder if we could talk about something.”

  “Sure.” He gazes out the window.

  I clear my throat and dive straight to the point. “Remember when you came home yesterday afternoon and you thought I was asleep on the couch?”

  He turns toward me and frowns, but I continue, undaunted.

  “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I heard some of the things you said when you were talking on the phone, and I was really hurt. I had no idea you felt that way.”

  “What are you talking about?” he asks, and I sense he’s about to deny everything.

  “I heard you say that you were disappointed that I haven’t removed your father’s things from my closet, and that you think I hate him—which I don’t—and that I’m not moving forward like I should be, and that you can’t wait to move out in the fall. Is that true?”

  His cheeks flush red, and he stares at me with a look of pure horror.

  “I’m not angry, honey. I just want to talk about it, because I hate to think that you’re unhappy at home. Or that you think I’m nuts. If there’s anything you want to ask me, I promise I’ll answer it honestly.”

  His eyebrows pull together with alarm. Finally, he speaks. “Mom. I never came home yesterday.”

  I dart a glance at him. “What do you mean? Yes, you did. You made yourself something to eat, and then you left again.”

  He shakes his head. “No, I didn’t.”

  “Yes,” I insist. “I heard you talking on the phone. And you cooked something in the microwave and ate chips.”

  He faces me more directly. “I swear to God, Mom, I didn’t come home. I was with the guys all day. We had hockey practice at three, and then I went straight to Greg’s house and texted you that I was going to spend the night there. I know you got my text because you replied to it.”

  My heart begins to pound. “But I heard you talking. I heard the microwave.”

  Then suddenly I remember waking up and going into the kitchen and being surprised that there wasn’t a mess. Zack had cleaned up all his dishes and put everything away. The kitchen was spotless, but I realize I never heard him running water to wash up.

  “Are you okay, Mom?”

  “I don’t know.” I wonder briefly if I should pull over because I’m afraid I might be delusional, but I take a few deep breaths and keep driving. “Did I dream that?”

  Zack watches me with concern. “You probably did, like you dreamed about the intruder that night.”

  “But that was real,” I say. “I swear it was. Even Winston heard it.”

  “Well, whatever you think happened yesterday didn’t, because I never came home.”

  Despite my concerns that there might be something wrong with me, I’m relieved that my son never said those awful things. “So you never said you can’t wait to move out?”

  “No. I swear on my life, Mom. I didn’t.”

  I reach to take hold of his hand and squeeze it. “Oh, I’m so glad. I thought you hated me. I was heartbroken. I hardly slept a wink last night.”

  “No, Mom. I love you more than anything, and I want to live at home next year. I told you, I don’t need to go away.”

  I start to laugh and cry at the same time, even though I’m afraid I might be going insane with these bizarre dreams that seem like reality.

  “Maybe you should see a doctor,” Zack says. “I’ve noticed you’ve been sleeping a lot lately.”

  It’s true. I’ve been falling asleep at the strangest times and have been having trouble staying focused. I’ve been gaining a bit of weight too.

  “I will see someone, but it’s probably just stress,” I say to Zack, not wanting to worry him—or myself. “It’s been a rough few months.”

  We drive for a while in silence. “But do you really think I should be ready to clean out the closet by now?”

  He lets out a heavy sigh. “First of all, I never said that. And you’ll be ready when you’re ready, Mom. There’s no need to rush it.”

  My son makes me feel so much better. I’m glad I have him in my life.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Shortly after four, while Zack is helping my mother chop vegetables for dinner, I zip out to take Winston for his appointment with Nathan.

  Nathan meets us at the door and shows us in to one of the small private examination rooms. He checks Winston over, asks me all sorts of questions, and finally delivers a clean bill of health. “He’s a trouper. Tip-top condition. A-plus in terms of a recovery.”

  “At least one of us gets an A,” I reply with a touch of humor as I bend to hook Winston’s leash onto his collar.

  Nathan leans back against the counter and studies me for a moment. “Everything okay?”

  I wave a hand dismissively through the air. “Yes. It’s nothing.”

  “I’m sure it’s not nothing. You look tired. Are you sleeping okay?”

  I realize this man is very good at reading people—or maybe he’s just good at reading me. It’s not surprising. I never quite managed to master the art of the poker face, which is why I’m so worried about messing up everything with Zack. This whole situation feels like a ticking time bomb.

  “Actually, sleep’s been a bit of a challenge lately,” I admit. “I’ve had a few strange dreams. But I can’t keep pouring out all my woes to you every time I see you.”

  “I don’t mind. What kind of dreams?”

  Winston sits down, and I pat him on the head.

  “Well, first I dreamed that someone broke into my house through the garage. I was so scared I was literally paralyzed. To be honest, I’m still not sure it didn’t actually happen. I called the cops and everything, and Winston went completely ballistic. He ran all over the house barking—like a very good guard dog—so I thought he heard something too, but maybe he was just sensing my fear. I don’t know. Anyway, the cops came and said there was no one in the house, and no sign of forced entry. I even thought I heard Zack banging on my door to warn me about the intruder, but he said he didn’t do that. So maybe I did dream the whole thing. It just felt so real.”

  “Jeez.”

  “I know, right? It was scary. And then yesterday, I fell asleep on the sofa and thought Zack came home to fix himself something to eat. I asked him about it today, but he said he never stopped by after school. So that didn’t even happen.” I angle my head slightly. “Did you ever have dreams like that after you lost your wife? Dreams that seemed real? Maybe they’re what they call lucid dreams.”

  He considers that for a moment. “Come to think of it, I did have a recurring stress dream. It was always some variation of the same thing—that I’m performing surgery on a dog or a cat and something goes wrong, like the power goes out or my instruments aren’t clean, and I have to do the surgery anyway. The dreams eventually stopped after I moved home and opened up the clinic here.” He appears pensive. “Gosh, I haven’t had a dream like that in two years.”

  “Well, that gives me hope.” I pat Winston again, pleased that he’s so polite and patient while we’re talking.

  “Still . . . ,” Nathan says, “you should probably see your doctor if something feels off. And remember, you fainted that time. Best not to take chances.”

  “You’re right. I’ll make an appointment.”

  Nathan gives Winston a light scratch behind the ears. “Otherwise, you’re doing okay?”

  I shrug. “Some days are better than others. There are just so many details to take care of, like banking issues or Alan’s magazine subscriptions that need to be canceled. Every day, something comes in the mail that I need to deal with. And I want to clean out the closet and get rid of his stuff, which is starting to collect dust, but part of me can’t bring myself to do it, while the other part of me
just wants to burn it all because I’m still so mad at him. That said, I don’t want Zack to see an angry display and suspect something’s wrong, beyond the obvious—that his father is dead.”

  I speak the words harshly, and my stomach turns over with disgust that I can sound so cavalier and bitter about my husband’s passing. What sort of woman am I becoming? I don’t want to be bitter.

  Tears spring to my eyes. I work hard to blink them back.

  “That came out wrong,” I say, looking down at the floor and shaking my head. “You must think I’m a terrible person.”

  “No, I don’t think that at all. I think you’re shouldering a lot—more than most people could handle. I’m amazed, actually, that you’re keeping it together as well as you are.”

  “Well,” I say with a hint of mockery, “you didn’t see me flip out at my father-in-law after Alan’s funeral. Or pound the steering wheel after I found out the truth from Alan’s mistress. I’m doing everything I can to keep calm for Zack, but I assure you, deep down, where no one can see . . . there’s a lot of running and screaming.”

  He chuckles at that. “I know the feeling. I think it’s part of being a parent. Sometimes you just want to go hide under a rock somewhere, but you have to stay strong for your kids, to keep their world upright.”

  “Exactly. That’s it, in a nutshell.”

  Hearing him say those words feels like an epiphany, but it isn’t. As a mother, I’ve always known it was like that, but I never heard Alan say it. I suppose when it came to our son, I was always the soldier who never left her post, while Alan obviously felt free enough to dash off and take care of himself when he needed to, knowing I’d be there, holding down the family fort. Maybe Nathan’s wife was a dependable soldier too, but she’s gone now, and he’s on his own, taking full command of the troops. Like me.

  “I’m discovering very quickly,” I say, “that when you’re a single parent, you can’t afford the luxury of falling apart, because there’s no copilot to take over for you. But maybe that’s a good thing. It makes us strong.” I pause. “But still . . . there are days when I would love to have a record-breaking meltdown. There are a lot of days like that, actually.”