Three Women at the Water's Edge

by Nancy Thayer

  “We’ll get you back to bed soon,” Daisy said, softly stroking her daughter. “Just a few minutes more. See how the steam is helping? Don’t you feel better?”

  In answer, Jenny closed her eyes. Her body sagged heavily against Daisy. She breathed noisily, laboriously, but evenly.

  “Jenny,” Daisy said, “I want you to sit right here on this soft bath mat. I’m going to go fill the vaporizer again. You wait here.” She arranged her daughter’s limp exhausted body against the bathtub, inside the shower curtain, her head against the white porcelain of the tub, close to the steam. Then she went out of the bathroom and got the vaporizer and filled it. She ran down into the family room and got the vaporizer she had had going that evening while they watched television, and filled that and got it going in the bedroom, too. She put an extra teaspoon of baking soda in to make the steam come faster. When she plugged it in, it nearly exploded with steam, and sputtered so much that she had to put a towel under it. But the room quickly became dense with warm moisture again, and Daisy brought Jenny back to bed. She gave her more medicine. She propped her against pillows, covered her with blankets, and sat staring, as Jenny fell helplessly into sleep. Her breathing was almost normal. It continued evenly, in and out, with no trace of the honking or rasping noise.

  Daisy began to shake. Now fear and the lack of sleep hit her in the head and stomach; she hurried from the bedroom down the hall to the bath. The air of the hall was startlingly cooler and drier than the bedroom and bathroom; she felt as though she were hurrying through an icy tunnel. In the bathroom she leaned on the sink, wanting to retch, but nothing happened. Her stomach churned, she shook, but she could manage no relief.

  “Oh, Paul,” Daisy cried. “Oh, someone. Please help me.” But there was nothing, only silence and the feel of cold porcelain on her hands.

  Finally she straightened and took a sip of cold water. That seemed to help. She went into Danny’s bedroom and saw him sleeping easily, and she tucked his covers about him, and that helped, too. She went back down the hall to sit with Jenny.

  Jenny was totally asleep, pale and small, breathing quietly and evenly. Daisy sat on the edge of her bed, watching. She sagged with exhaustion, but still could not feel sure enough of Jenny’s breathing to truly relax. Light was beginning to glimmer around the edges of the window shades; morning had come. Daisy thought of Paul, lying asleep in bed with his lover, thought of the breakfast they would have together, graceful and serene. For a moment she longed to call him, just to share the worry, to say, “Jenny is so sick, and I can’t bear it alone.” But she knew calling him would not help, and would only irritate him. He would think Daisy was inventing it or exaggerating it simply to call him. They—Paul and Monica—would think she was a harpy, a spurned woman turned bitter and vexatious. No, she would not bother Paul; and what could he do anyway? He could come over and stare at Jenny, now asleep, but then he would go off to work, he had never lost a day’s work before because of a sick child, so he certainly wouldn’t now. No, he would not be of any help.

  But Daisy longed for someone. She wanted to be held, comforted, praised for getting Jenny through the night. She wanted someone to say, “I’ll watch Jenny for a while; you go on to bed and get some sleep.” But who could do it? No one. Her mother, her sister, were miles away. Her friends all had families of their own, and could not come over; Daisy would not ask it of them. Also she somehow felt that it was necessary that she, Daisy, be the one there at her daughter’s side, as if only through Daisy’s diligence and concern could Jenny’s life be saved. Looking down at her daughter, sleeping so innocently and easily now, Daisy felt at once achingly tired and profoundly glad. She had taken Jenny through the dark night and brought her out alive to a new day. She felt Jenny’s forehead: the fever had gone. Instinctively she knew that although there had been steam and antibiotics, it had been the power of her spirit, of her love, which was the real vital force that saved Jenny, that had fought back the spirit of Death from the room. She remembered her own mother’s constant generous care during the times she or Dale or their father was ill; she remembered the feel of a cool hand on her forehead, the feel of someone strong and good standing next to her bed, guarding her, willing health back into her body. Now it was her turn to tend to her children, and she did not begrudge the need or the work. It seemed almost an honor to be able to do it, as if invited to join an ancient ritual of magic. So she was glad. But she was so tired. And so alone.

  Daisy sat on her daughter’s bed, watching her, until seven-thirty, when she heard Danny stirring in his room. She woke Jenny to give her more medicine, and Jenny took it, still more than half asleep, and fell back against her pillow. Her breathing seemed almost normal. Daisy went out into the hall to see Danny. She cuddled with him in his bed for a moment, almost overcome with the need to let go of her consciousness and to sleep, then she managed to get up, to help him dress, to fix him breakfast. She was not hungry, nothing appealed to her; she drank black coffee, hoping it would keep her awake.

  At eight o’clock she turned on the television, and there was Captain Kangaroo in his red coat at a marina with performing dolphins. Daisy stared, entranced. She was amazed to realize that the whole world was out there: Captain Kangaroo, obliging dolphins, laughing children, cameramen. All around the world women were fixing breakfast, children were worrying about tests in school, old people were putting in false teeth, dogs were whining to be let out on the lawn; all over the world people were awake, walking, eating, driving cars, listening to radios, gargling, slamming doors and calling goodbye. It was marvelous, marvelous, and overwhelming to consider.

  Yes, Daisy thought, watching a gray dolphin jump and titter, all that is out there, and yet sick children were out there, too, with mothers and fathers riveted to the bedside, sick with fear and hope, with the entire marvelous world shrunk to the size of one closed and steamy room.

  “Danny,” she said, “I’ve got to go check on Jenny awhile. You’ll have to be a very good, quiet boy today. Jenny is very sick, she was sick all night, and I’m very tired. I’ll tell you what, you can watch television all morning today.”

  “Any program I want?” Danny asked.

  “Anything,” Daisy said. She turned and went back up the stairs to Jenny’s room. Jenny was sleeping peacefully.

  The day went on. Daisy drank coffee and gave Jenny medicine and managed to get her to drink a bottle of apple juice. Danny went to preschool, came home again. Jenny felt good enough in the late afternoon to sit down in the family room and watch cartoons. Daisy moved about like an automaton with a few blown fuses, doing this and that, the necessary things. She did not change out of her robe and gown all day. She called no one; isolation crowded around herself and her house like a mist.

  By six in the evening, she could hardly move, she was so tired, so deathly tired. Jenny had revived, was breathing easily, had good color, and wanted to move around, but Daisy would not let her. She longed and longed for the bedtime hour to come. She felt constantly nauseated; it hurt to walk, to talk, to smile. Finally she got the children into bed, finally they fell asleep. Daisy fed the cat and washed up the dishes from Danny’s dinner and made a brief attempt to tidy the family room, but soon gave up. She was too tired, too tired. At nine o’clock she checked both children, then curled up in her nest on Jenny’s floor, with both vaporizers hissing away, and fell into a deep sleep.

  Danny woke her at midnight, crying. He was vomiting. Daisy pulled herself up off the floor with weak arms, and after glancing quickly at Jenny—she was breathing normally—rushed out to help Danny. She carried him to the bathroom (how heavy he was) and he threw up on her robe as she did. He threw up on the bath mat and finally into the toilet. He cried as he vomited. Daisy felt his head; he was warm, but not terribly hot. She stripped off her smelly robe and Danny’s sticky pajamas, dressed her son in clean pajamas, ran down to the kitchen to get him a glass of 7-Up, carried him into the bedroom and sat him on the floor while she changed his sheets and cleaned u
p the mess on the carpet, got Danny back into bed with a towel spread over his pillows and another over his sheets and blankets. He whined nastily when she wanted to put a thermometer in his mouth, he said he felt just fine, he just wanted to go back to sleep. Daisy felt his forehead, then left him alone. She went into her bedroom and dug out an old robe that would not close over her stomach but which still kept her arms and back warm. She checked Danny again, piled the smelly clothes into one heap in the bathroom, then stumbled down the stairs to get the pink antibiotic medicine for Jenny out of the refrigerator. She climbed the stairs, gave her sleepy daughter the medicine, then shuffled back down the stairs to put the medicine away. Climbing the stairs again, she nearly cried with fatigue. She filled the vaporizers, then fell into her nest in Jenny’s room and slept.

  Two hours later, Danny cried and threw up again. Daisy helped him again, gave him 7-Up again, changed his sheets again, and put him back to sleep. She found herself sobbing and cursing Paul as she stacked more sticky sheets into the pile; she found herself horrified at the amount of washing she suddenly had to do, when all she wanted to do was sleep. She checked Jenny again, then crawled into her own bed, desperately hoping no one would wake up till noon. But Danny woke her again at six, vomiting again, weakly this time. Daisy carried, soothed, cleaned, finally got him back asleep, and went back to bed.

  The children woke up at eight, as if it had been a normal night. Danny was cranky and tired, and he had blue rings under his eyes, but Jenny had apparently recovered. She was full of movement and noise; she bumped and jumped against Daisy until Daisy felt seasick watching her. By now Daisy was nearly ill with the need for sleep; she blundered down the stairs and filled two bowls full of dry sweet cereal and put the children in front of Captain Kangaroo and told them to stay quiet until it was over. Then she went back to her bed and passed out for one sweet lost hour. At nine the phone rang, waking her.

  “Daisy? This is Karen. I’m afraid I won’t be able to drive Danny to school today. Andrea is really sick with a stomach flu.”

  “Oh, no!” Daisy said, stunned at the sound of a friendly voice. “Oh, Karen. Danny is sick, too. He was up all night.”

  “Well, get ready for a busy week,” Karen said cheerfully. “This stuff is very contagious. You’ll get it, Jenny will get it, Paul will get it, if you have a dog or cat, they’ll get it.”

  “Oh, God,” Daisy said, and began to cry weakly. “Karen, Jenny’s sick with bronchitis. I can’t let her get this stomach flu.”

  “Well, if Danny’s got it, you can’t do anything about it,” Karen said. “Don’t worry too much, it doesn’t last too long, it’s just a forty-eight-hour thing. You can take care of the kids, and then Paul can take care of you, and then you can take care of Paul. Hey, are you crying?”

  “Oh, Karen,” Daisy wailed. “I’m so tired. I haven’t slept for three nights. And Paul’s gone, he’s left, he’s living with another woman.”

  After a long pause, Karen said, “Oh, Daisy. My God. I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry. What on earth is Paul thinking of? What’s the matter? Is he having his midlife crisis?”

  Daisy burst out laughing, wiping tears from her face as she did. “Oh, Karen, Paul hasn’t even reached midlife yet, how could he be having his midlife crisis? He’s too young for a midlife crisis. This is not a crisis for him, it’s romance and freedom and falling in love. It’s divorce. I just hope Danny managed to bring the flu bug into the house before Paul left, I’d like his new sweetie to hear him when he throws up.”

  “Well, Daisy, what can I do? How can I help? I can’t even come over today because of this flu thing.”

  “I know, I know. It’s all right. Listen, maybe I’ll call you later. It will help just to know you’re there. I’ve got to go check on the kids now, I stuck them downstairs with cereal and Captain Kangaroo, and I think I forgot to give Jenny her medicine this morning. Don’t worry, I’ll be okay. I’ll call you later.”

  Daisy hung up the phone, crawled out of bed, and went downstairs. She felt dizzy from three nights of interrupted sleep, but otherwise rather cheerful, simply to know she could count on talking to Karen later. The family room was a mess. Jenny hadn’t wanted her cereal, and had accidentally knocked her bowl on the floor, and little round sugar-coated balls of corn were lying everywhere. But both children were sitting placidly, hollow-eyed, against the sofa, staring at Romper Room. Daisy crawled about on the floor picking up the cereal. She gave Jenny her medicine and held her and forced her to drink more 7-Up. She trudged up the stairs, picked the soiled laundry up in her arms, and trudged down to the laundry room to begin washing the clothes. By the time she got back upstairs, Danny was crying again, and throwing up pathetic amounts of clear liquid. She cleaned up Danny and the mess on the family room rug, and wrapped him in a blanket, and read him stories until he fell asleep in her arms.

  The doorbell rang. Daisy looked at her watch; it was ten-thirty. She was reluctant to answer the door, knowing how she must look on this bright morning in her too-small rumpled robe and nightgown, with her hair sticking out every which way. But she still put Danny down on the sofa and went to answer the door.

  A prim, neatly-suited woman in her sixties stood there smiling, a large black notebook in her hand.

  “Mrs. Mitchell?” she said. “I’m Corinne Wentworth. I’m with Hamilton, Hamilton and Dunne Realty. I’m sorry if I’ve caught you at a bad time, but I was in the neighborhood and thought you wouldn’t mind if I looked through the house.”

  “Why? What about the house?” Daisy felt numb.

  “Well, to get information for our listing sheets and our clients, of course,” Corinne Wentworth said brightly. “I’m sure you’ll have no trouble selling this house; everyone wants to live on the lake.”

  “This house isn’t for sale,” Daisy said.

  The woman stared at her. “Why, yes it is,” she said. “Yes, indeed it is. Mr. Mitchell talked with us just this morning.”

  “This house is not for sale,” Daisy said, and she began to shake. “This house is not for sale now, and it never will be. It’s none of Mr. Mitchell’s business. I live in this house, and so do my children, both of whom are sick, and no one is going to come in this house and bother me and my children, now or ever.”

  “Well, I’m terribly sorry, I’m sure,” Corinne Wentworth said, not backing off an inch. “But Mr. Mitchell spoke with me personally this morning, and he assured me—”

  “THIS HOUSE IS NOT FOR SALE!” Daisy screamed. “If you try to come in this house I will kill you! Mr. Mitchell is a liar and there is no way this house can be for sale! The deed is in my name as well as Mr. Mitchell’s and my father gave me money for the down payment, and the house is not for sale and never will be, and if you ever bother me again I’ll call the police and have you arrested for harassment. Now get off my property!” Daisy slammed the door in the woman’s face, and turned the night lock firmly.

  She ran to the family room: Danny was asleep and Jenny was staring docilely at a game show. The sunlight streaming in the window seemed unreasonably and harshly sane. Daisy went into the kitchen and dialed Paul’s office. When he answered she had to dig her fingernails into her shoulder to force herself not to scream at him. She was not crazy, she reminded herself, he was: crazy and wicked.

  “Paul,” she said. “I’ve just sent away a woman who seems to think this house is for sale and that you told her so.”

  “Daisy,” Paul began.

  “Before you go on,” Daisy said, her voice shaking but resolute, “let me tell you that Jenny nearly died two nights ago, and everyone is sick now. Jenny has bronchitis and Danny has stomach flu. You are not going to kick us out of this house, not now, not ever.”

  “Daisy,” Paul said, “I’m sorry to hear the children are sick. And I’m sorry Mrs. Wentworth bothered you. She shouldn’t have come over there this morning. She was rushing things. I mentioned that I was going to put the house on the market, and she just got overeager, I guess.”


  “You are not going to put the house on the market,” Daisy said.

  “Daisy, I don’t want to argue with you while everyone’s sick. You shouldn’t have to discuss this now. Why don’t we talk about it another time, when you feel better?”

  “You are not going to put this house on the market. You are not going to sell this house.”

  “Daisy, I need the money. I can’t possibly keep up the mortgage payments, and I need the money from the equity.”

  “Most of the equity is money my father lent us,” Daisy said coldly.

  “Twenty thousand of it is,” Paul replied. “The other twenty thousand is ours. Half yours, half mine. If you can figure out some way to pay your father back his twenty thousand, and some way to give me my ten thousand, and some way to keep up the god-awful mortgage payments and fuel bills, then you can keep the house. But otherwise you’ve got to sell the house, and that’s that.”

  “This is our home,” Daisy whispered desperately.

  “It’s too big for you,” Paul said. “One woman and two little children don’t need such a big house.”

  “We needed a big house when you were living with us, and all you ever did was sleep here,” Daisy said. “And let me remind you that it’s going to be one woman and three little children. Paul, I’ve been as nice to you about all this as I could. But if you try to take the house away from me, you’re in for a lot of trouble.”

  “Daisy, I don’t want to fight with you. You’ve got to be reasonable. It will end up in court anyway, and no judge will let you keep such a big house, no judge will expect me to make such payments. My God, if I make the house payments, I won’t have anything left to pay you child support and to live on myself.”

  “You can’t sell this house,” Daisy repeated stubbornly.

  “Daisy, you’re tired. You’re distraught. I won’t sell the house now. We’ll wait. I’m sorry that woman bothered you. Just wait, and we’ll talk about it again. Maybe early next week.”