I carried the phone to the porch and dropped into a sun-warm chair. “They teach you that in med school, do they?”
“Right after how to remind the weeping client that she owes you for three sessions. It’s called transference management.”
These flashes of irony annoyed me. I didn’t like it that he might, in another circumstance, be able to make me laugh. “Fine. But manage your transference with someone who is still your client. You can call me Meggie. Or Megan. Or Ms. O’Brian, if you have to keep your distance.”
“I’ll call you Megan.”
I ignored that slightly ironic tone. It wasn’t my fault that after decades of being the only Megan in the Midwest, I now heard my name called out by mothers chasing toddlers in the mall. “I’ll call you Mike.” So there.
“Okay. I just called to see how the will-reading went.”
I must have worried him with my late-night harangue. He thought I was dangerous. That cheered me up a bit. No one had ever thought of me as dangerous before. “I’m still standing.”
My voice must have had that Sharon Stone edge, because he said, “Is the other widow similarly unscathed?”
“I wouldn’t assault her with her attorney watching. I’m waiting for a dark night and a busted beer bottle.”
“So it wasn’t a great experience.”
I could tell him. I realized that. I couldn’t tell Tracy because it would hurt. I couldn’t tell my best friend Barb because it would confirm her contempt for Don. But I could tell Mike Warren. He knew how badly that woman had distorted Don’s thinking. “Don disinherited Tommy.” It was too melodramatic, I knew it even before the words slipped out. “I don’t mean disinherited. We set up life insurance in the settlement. Just nothing left to Tommy in the will.”
Mike Warren drew in his breath. “I never—” He paused but recovered quickly. “How do you feel about it?”
“How do I feel about it? How do you think I feel about it?”
“Sometimes it helps to put it into words.”
Words. Oh, yeah. The substitute for action. “Okay. I feel like smashing something. I feel guilty. Like I didn’t do right by Tommy, that I could have done more to secure his future, instead of caving in for a lot less than I could have gotten and hoping Don would see that as a sign of how much I really loved him.”
“You said there’s life insurance. So you did take care of Tommy in the divorce agreement.”
That helped a little, especially in that reasonable voice, as if he were doing no more than stating the absolute truth without any bias. But it couldn’t calm me. “See, that’s not good enough. It’s all because Don got his eyes and hands full of nubile young flesh and forgot who he was. I’m stuck with helping Don’s sister, because for sure Wanda won’t. And it’s not that I can’t afford it, only it’s not my job anymore, and it’s having to clean up after this damned mess he made.”
When I wound down, he replied in that pensive psychiatrist voice, “You feel like you have to clean up this mess, then? Instead of just letting the consequences play out, since he left everything this way?”
“I know what you’re going to say. That I’m enabling him.”
“Enabling.” He said that as if he’d never heard the term before, as if he hadn’t used it to describe me during our very first session. “You mean your willingness to clean up his messes made it easier for him to make messes, thereby giving you a continuing role in the drama?”
Now the reasonable tone that had soothed me earlier scraped at my ears. “You might mean that. Those are your words, not mine.”
“You were the one who called yourself enabling.”
There was no arguing with this man. “I see it as taking care of the living. Tommy won’t have to worry his dad forgot about him. I won’t have to worry about him. But sure. Have it your way. I’m a poster girl for co-dependency.” My tone was getting brusque, so I added, “I’m okay. Thanks for calling.”
“Cleaning up after others isn’t necessarily a pathology. Sometimes it’s necessary for a community to have people who take responsibility for others. It’s a matter of degree.”
He hung up without telling me what percentage of enabling I’d have to attain to be regarded as “pathological”. A pathological cleaner-upper. What a fate. My mother would be so proud.
Chapter Four
I WAS AN accountant, so I’d have no peace until I added it all up. I returned to the computer and the spreadsheet that calculated my net worth. I imagined Wanda doing the same, or rather hiring someone to do it for her. No doubt her bottom line was many times greater than mine. But I yanked my mind away from her balance sheet and concentrated on my own.
There. Bottom line. Well, it told me we needed the life insurance, so I called the agent who handled Don’s insurance policy. She said all she needed was a copy of the death certificate, and she’d get that as soon as the coroner had signed off on it. I wouldn’t even have to see it, to see the date and time of demise. All I would need to do was deposit the funds in Tommy’s trust.
Relieved, I sat down at my desk with some graph paper and worked out what I could l draw from the trust fund every month to replace Don’s support check. It still angered me that a rich man could die and stiff his minor children (in fact, I’d drafted a letter to my state senator demanding a change in the law), but at least my attorney had planned for such a contingency. As far as Tommy was concerned, his father was still supporting him.
I thought I would be okay too. My percentage of the sale of our company–no, I didn’t get any of that, as I was told I hadn’t been a partner after all–rather, my percentage of the marital estate after Don sold his percentage of the company, was invested conservatively and had recovered from the stock market crash.
I was making a few minor asset-relocations when I heard Tommy come clattering up the stairs. “Hey, Mom! You wouldn’t believe. Volcano threw Atom Smasher out of the ring, and he took down Volcano’s manager, so the manager got up and kicked Volcano--” You can tell that long ago I’d given up the battle against violence on TV and other entertainment. I did my best to pay attention, nodding at him and laughing at the wrestlers’ names—I didn’t have to force that—and then I could tell, to the very instant, when he remembered.
His face was animated in that inimitable Tommy way, his mouth moving from smile to grimace and back again, and then he said, “I can’t wait to tell—” and his expression froze. He stood there for a moment, then spun around and ran out.
What was the right thing to do? Let him go and grieve on his own? Go after him?
I went after him. He was pounding on his pillow.
Children grieve in pieces, Dr. Warren had said. And boys filter sorrow through anger. Anger was easier to bear. “Hey, Tom . . . ” and then I didn’t know what to say. Let me make it go away. Let me hurt for you. It’ll hurt me less if I do it myself.
He kept pounding the pillow, and then, finally, with a muttered curse, he grabbed the case and ripped it. Instead of a shower of feathers, he just got a bulge of foam rubber through the tear. He stared at it, then threw the pillow down and flung himself on the bed.
“I don’t want any dinner,” he said with surprising calm into his mattress.
I picked my way through the dirty clothes to the bed and tentatively patted his shoulder. “Okay. Let me know if you get hungry.” The rigidity of his body told me that he wasn’t going to give in as long as I was there. It used to be the opposite. Even a couple years ago, if he was miserable, he could hold on until he saw me, then he’d relax his guard and let himself cry. Now he didn’t want the safety I offered, or the vulnerability I represented.
I left. I wanted to cry myself, but the doorbell rang. Vince was there, ready for our usual walk. I glanced up the stairs. “I think I better cancel today. Tommy’s a little upset.”
Vince understood. Vince alw
ays understood, and I promised to get back into the routine the next day. After he strode away, I went to the kitchen. May as well give the slacker free rein, so I mixed up a batch of brownies. Forty-five minutes later, Tommy appeared in the kitchen. No fifteen-year-old could resist the smell of homemade brownies. I set the pan down on the breakfast bar, gave him a fork, and he dug in. I poured him a glass of milk.
He drank it down in one long swallow and ate the other half of the brownies. Then he said, “Thanks, Mom,” and went to watch TV.
I cleaned the kitchen, then joined him in the den. He sat in the recliner, the first piece of furniture Don and I bought. I sat on the couch and we watched Amazing Stupid Criminals and laughed at the bank robber who forgot where he parked his getaway car. Sometimes TV is a balm equal to any tranquilizer.
When Tommy changed the channel to wrestling, I decided to call my mom. She’d listen to me fret about Tommy. She would even enjoy it, as long as she didn’t miss her CSI: Miami re-run.
Mom got right to the point. “Did you go to the reading? What did Tommy get?”
I wasn’t about to betray Don to my mom. She had enough ammunition already, and since Don wasn’t around, I usually got the faceful of buckshot. “He’s taken care of. A trust fund.”
Mom had always been cagey, and not one to be fobbed off like that. “And you? Did he leave you anything to mark twenty years of blameless devotion and worthy self-sacrifice?”
Okay, so my mother was irritating, but at least she was on my side. “I didn’t expect anything, not with the bimbo in residence there.”
“What bimbo? She got all that money. Whereas you, my Phi Beta Kappa from the Ivy League, you ended up alone. Maybe smarts don’t matter as much as youth and beauty.”
What did I say about her being on my side? I take it back.
Mom added in what she must have considered a conciliatory tone, “But you had weapons that would have been worth more than her looks, if you would have used them.”
She meant refusing to sign the divorce papers, refusing to let Don near Tommy, and threatening to take him for every penny. You know, mutually assured destruction. It worked for all her friends, back in the Cold War era. Not that I hadn’t considered it. I am, after all, my mother’s daughter. But my attorney disabused me quick of any notion that Indiana law might be kind to abandoned wives. “No-fault divorce” meant no contesting, no blaming, no community property, no alimony, only “equitable settlement”, and equitable was determined by the judges, who were mostly men who knew how expensive midlife crises could be.
“I tried. I failed. End of story.”
“You accepted defeat, and that’s the same as surrender. I know. I faced the same problem with your father, and I—”
“You did?” Oh, great. More than I wanted to know about my poor dead sweet dad.
“Yes, and it’s a tribute to my persistence that you and your brothers didn’t even know it. I told him I was prepared to ruin him to keep him from running off with her, and he gave up and came home. And you could have done that too, if you’d stood tougher.”
“The laws have changed, Mom. Now, it’s no-fault, and you end up divorced, whether you like it or not. Anyway, that’s all done. I’ve got a new life now, and I’m happy.”
She sniffed. “What sort of life? You and Tommy alone in that house, in that big city.”
“It’s not a big city. It’s not even as big as Ft. Myers.” Hopeless. I don’t know why I bothered.
“Why not send Tommy down here in August ? Get him away from all the memories.”
I glanced through the arch into the den, where Tommy was sitting with the laptop. “I’ll see. He might not be too interested in traveling for a while.”
“You’re afraid to let him go.” She’d been watching the Wendy Williams talk show, I could tell. Wendy was the one with mothering issues. “Afraid to be alone. Why didn’t you and Don have more children? I thank God every day that I have four children to support me in my old age.”
I thought of my younger brothers and gave into temptation. “Well, Mom, I didn’t want to make all the same mistakes you made. Talk to you later.”
I would call and apologize tomorrow, or at least make nice so Mom wouldn’t be hurt. After all, she’d been making little digs like that all my life, so why should it bother me now? I should accept her for who she was and not give into my baser instincts.
Then again, why should I be the one with the restraint? She’d never held back from saying things to hurt me, for my own good, that is. I went to the doorway of the den. “Tom, do I ever make nasty little cracks that make you feel inadequate and defensive?”
Tommy quickly shut the laptop lid and swallowed the potato chip he’d been chewing. I held myself back from saying anything about chewing with his mouth closed.
“Well, you tell me not to mumble, and you keep asking why I don’t grow my hair out because it’s so pretty when it’s long enough to curl. That’s kind of annoying.”
I was relieved. “That’s regular mother stuff. That’s not demeaning of your personhood.”
“If you say so. I let it roll right off, so don’t worry.”
I wasn’t that reassured that he didn’t pay any attention, but at least he wouldn’t hear the echo of my admonitions decades from now. “Nice to know I might as well save my breath.”
“You don’t do discipline, Mom. Not like some parents.”
I heard the catch in his voice and saw him duck his head and knew he meant not like Dad. We’d only buried him a few days ago, and already we had to talk around his absence.
Tommy wasn’t crying, but he was red-faced with the need. Should I urge him to let out the grief? Or tacitly accept his need for control? He wasn’t a child anymore, but not yet a man. I punted. “Let’s go eat some more, okay?”
He swallowed, got hold of himself, took charge. With elaborate cool, he flipped open the computer again. “Just let me exit here and I’ll be right down.”
Something furtive activated my Mom-meter. He was online, and he didn’t want me to know where. I’d put parental controls on the browser, which presumably kept him out of the Hot HOT HOT! sites. And I didn’t see any bare breasts or G-strings as he clicked the exit button. Just text. Hmmm. Another mystery. “Whatcha doing?”
“Nothing.” He knew that wouldn’t stick, so he added, “Just history stuff. For a report.”
“A report? But school’s out.”
“For next term. I’ve got Mr. Parcells for history. And he makes his class do a report first six weeks even. So I thought I’d start downloading stuff.”
Getting an early start on an assignment was about as likely as him turning off Attack of the Show halfway through. But I knew better than to push it now. “No reason to work too hard this early. By the way, Gran wants you to come down later in the summer.”
“Sounds good to me.” He crossed into the kitchen and got himself a bowl of cereal.
“Are you sure? You might want to stick close this summer, with your dad gone.”
“Not really.” On his face was an expression I didn’t know, hard and controlled. A man’s expression. “It’s not like this is going to make some huge difference. It’s not like he was here all the time, like I saw him every day and we were doing things together.”
I was about to say something harsh. Then I recognized the anger under the cynicism, and the hurt under the anger. Time for some adult wisdom, not that I had much to spare. “Honey, it doesn’t work that way. When my father died, I was grown, and hardly saw him twice a year, but it affected my life. I didn’t have him anymore, and my mother was so sad.”
“They were still married. It’s different when you’re divorced.” No one but a teenager could mingle sympathy and contempt so well. “Maybe you’re going to mourn forever, Mom. Par for the course. But I think it’s about time for me to s
top hurting so much.”
It didn’t sound like Tommy. Tommy still cried at sad movies. And he and I were close. He never before addressed me with such scorn, par for the course. He sounded like someone else, hard now, frozen. It was as if I were losing him too, into some new incarnation.
“Oh, all right. I’ll make reservations for August. But I want you to stick close until then.”
“Sure. Except for track camp.”
“Track camp?”
“Don’t tell me you want me to give up track camp? No way. I’ve got to make varsity this year. And I won’t if I can’t get some training this summer.”
“But --” But what? But that means I’ll be all alone for three weeks? But the house will be too quiet if you aren’t howling over some video game? But I’m depending on you, kid?
The worst thing about kids growing up is it means you have to grow up too, preferably at least a couple of days ahead. “Sure. Track camp. I paid for it, so no sense in wasting the money.”
He was about to pour his last bit of cereal milk down the drain, but halted, the bowl leveraged over the sink. In a quick slurp, he drank it all up, rinsed the bowl, and put it in the dishwasher. “Uh, Mom, if we can’t afford it, I don’t have to go to Gran’s. Or to track camp.”
“Can’t afford it? Come on. I’m not unemployable. I make enough for us to live on.”
He looked skeptical. Typical male. He figured any job that I could do and still have time to volunteer at the school bookstore must not pay well. “We could drop cable.”
At this ultimate sacrifice, my heart melted. “Honey, we’re not in trouble. I’ve got money, and your dad left you enough to get you through college and maybe even grad school.”
My assurance must have worked, because a crafty light appeared in his eyes. “What if I want to use the money to buy a car?”
Sometimes parents have to lie. “The money is either for your college or my Maserati.”
“Mom, a Maserati would be wasted on you. You’d spill diet Coke all over the upholstery.”
Until Death Page 5
