Every Body has a Story

by Beverly Gologorsky

  Eyeing the dark hair falling easily over her perfectly rounded shoulders, he hesitantly, almost shyly, slips an arm around the satiny skin he’s missed so much that he could cry. He waits for her to inch away as she’s been doing lately. But she turns to bury her face in his shoulder. And he wonders if he’s fallen directly into REM sleep because, surely, he must be dreaming.

  43.

  “Rosie,” Mirabelle calls softly, padding down the stairs. “What happened? Is someone hurt?”

  “He came to take me home, the highwayman without a horse.”

  “Why are you talking this way?”

  “What way?”

  “You’re never poetic.”

  “Never?” But she is feeling weird, and can’t explain her state of mind even to herself.

  “Did something happen? Can you answer that simple question?”

  “Everything is the same.” Which can’t be true. Her father charged in with an attitude bordering on aggression. Unless he’s having a breakdown, why the sudden transformation? No one goes from laid-back to caveman in one leap. It doesn’t work that way.

  “He expected you to walk out with him in the middle of the night?”

  She sighs. “I think so. Please, Mirabelle, go up to bed. I need to think. We’ll talk in the morning, I promise.”

  “If you’re sure. I am your best friend and I’m here for you, whatever.”

  “I know, and I appreciate it. Now go.” She hears Mirabelle’s step on the staircase, then sits back in the overly large chair and hugs her knees. Why should anything he says matter now? One day he wakes up and decides it’s time to get his daughter home? Well, tough shit, it isn’t that easy. He messed up her future. They both did. Her mom stalking her. It makes her furious. She still thinks about Sonny, though not every minute the way she expected to. Being loved, though, she misses that. Nevertheless, her mother rejected him without knowing him. That’s sinful. If he’d lived in a palace her mother would’ve felt differently about him. Gross.

  Why in all the world are her parents trying so hard to get her back? They can barely take care of themselves, let alone her. It wasn’t just anger that propelled her out the door, it was insight. They should celebrate her self-sufficiency. Instead her father mocks her, calls her stupid. That, at least, is one thing she isn’t. She gets it. He’s trying to impress her mother with his post-midnight visit. She won’t be used, not for his or anyone’s purpose.

  Not that she wants to live here forever. Mirabelle’s parents spook her. They talk softly, walk softly. She finds herself whispering most of the time. They go to bed so early. Two years ago, when Mirabelle’s mother invited her to spend Christmas with them at a ski lodge upstate, she was ultra-excited. How beautiful it would be, how romantic, and she’d never been to a lodge. Her mother didn’t want her to go, but she insisted. All three days away she was lonely for the noisy holiday goings-on at her own house, filled with people acting silly and crazy after a few drinks. When she returned, her parents, even Casey, were so happy to see her. Her mother declared she could never, ever, not in a million years, be away for Christmas again. Dory said the holiday hadn’t been the same without her.

  Of course she’s upset about Dory. She loves Dory, but the way her father used it. So manipulative. It wasn’t going to melt her into complying. Stu must be freaking out. She imagines everyone sitting around the table discussing Dory’s illness, offering advice about next steps to take. It’s what they do when crisis strikes, and her voice was missing at the table. Maybe that was what prompted her father to come get her. But if so, why didn’t he say that?

  She stares at the chandelier. It is a magnificent room, but so what?

  She wanders into the darkened kitchen, where the well-stocked fridge’s buttery light reveals an unopened bottle of vodka. She stares at it, unscrews the cap and takes a long drink.

  44.

  In bed with Dory for hours and still wide awake. He understands now. Sleep will never come. He takes his clothes to the bathroom, dresses quietly, tiptoes out to the garage, gets in the car, and prays the clatter of the opening door wakes no one.

  He’s not sure where to go or what to do or how to get through what’s left of the night. He turns the key in the ignition. The A/C comes on and so does the radio, which he promptly switches off because music of any kind seems inappropriate.

  He heads south, driving slowly under a moonlit, charcoal sky. Clouds as wispy as smoke ride along with him. Except for a few trucks, the expressway is free of traffic, unusual, like everything else in his life right now. Is it bourbon he needs or a place to sit with no voice other than his own nattering in his head? He takes an exit, makes a few familiar turns, and arrives at the bus-shaped diner, open 24/7. He parks beside the only other car in the lot and hikes up three dirty rubber-matted steps. The lighting inside is dull, but at least it’s air-conditioned.

  Before he can settle in a booth near the window, the waiter is out from behind the counter with pad and pencil. Thick and powerful, the guy reminds him of his father, not necessarily the best of memories. “Coffee, black, please.” The waiter looks disappointed. What did he expect, meat and potatoes at this time of night?

  If his mom were alive, he’d be sitting at her place instead of a diner. A boy who didn’t give up his thoughts too easily, he could always talk to her. She listened and as far as he could tell never judged him, no matter what he said. His mom made sense to him, even if she always repeated the same few mantras during stressful times: every body has a story and each person’s problem is the worst in the world. Married to his father, who returned from Vietnam addicted to alcohol, she hated that war with a fierceness that couldn’t be breached. No one was allowed to mention it in her presence. She blamed it for the ruination of her husband. When his father died, he felt relief. His mother’s burden had been lifted. She was finally liberated. Eighteen months later, she died of a heart attack. Dory dubbed it a broken heart, but he couldn’t see it, until now, when a sliver of the truth of it cuts into his thick brain.

  At bars, at work, people share stories of impossible situations, but he’s not good at venting. Even if he were, what would he say? I just learned that my wife’s going to die a slow, horrible death, and this afternoon I made love to her best friend? Who would he say it to? He doesn’t exactly have a line of friends waiting to sort out his problems. Once upon a time he could bank on Zack for anti-anxiety words of comfort. But he’s fucked that possibility forever. He can’t even look the guy in the face now without the neon light of Lena flashing in his head. The hours with her were beyond amazing. He planned to conjure them up at least once a day forever. Yet it’s no longer what he wants to hold onto. Dory’s illness has altered something deep inside, something he didn’t know was there. He can feel it, but has no idea what it is.

  He stares out the Bronx-grimed window at the two- and three-level attached brick houses beyond the parking lot. He and Dory considered buying such a place when they were looking, but decided that being a Siamese twin to a neighbor didn’t appeal to them. They’re in sync about such decisions, where to live, what car to buy, what’s for dinner, who to visit, who to cross off their list. His drinking upsets her, it’s true, but did she ever throw a tantrum or act out one of the TV sitcoms, “Don’t you dare go out tonight, or else”? No. She’s not like that. What makes him happy is fine with her. She’s his best friend, a repository of more than half his life, the person he could talk to about anything if he chose to, anything at all, except Lena. But what does that matter now? So why has he been skipping over her virtues and only tallying up the shit-stuff of late? Which is what, exactly? That she loves him too much to bear? That her tender ways make him feel guilty? Or is it that her body no longer sends his prick into instant upright? Is sex the only glue that counts? He really can’t say, except Dory is a piece of him, like his liver or his kidney. Is that love, he really can’t say either, except that he never even stopped to think about any of it before. He feels lost, panicked, and not because he�
��s going to have to play nursemaid to a sick wife either. It’s something so much deeper and bigger, and it’s clawing at his insides.

  He gazes at the waiter, idly thumbing through the pages of a newspaper. By the quick turn of the pages it’s clear the guy is just looking at pictures or headlines, probably killing time till his shift is over and he can go home to be easy again. A hot streak of envy courses through his body. With Dory gone, how will he ever feel easy again? Even when he thought about leaving the marriage he imagined her there where he could find her, a body active with life, a woman he could always come back to, who loves him in that way.

  He glances at the cold coffee, drops a five on the counter, and heads out into the sudden fog of heat, which sends goose bumps up his arms. The night sky is receding, offering up a pencil-thin red line of light beyond the farthest houses, and it’s the loneliest sight he ever saw.

  Leaving the car in the driveway to avoid the noise of the garage door closing, he tiptoes through the house to the bedroom. Undressing quickly, his clothes scattered on the floor, he slips in beside Dory, who is or isn’t asleep. He can’t say for sure. He sidles up to her naked back till his knees fit inside hers, till his chin rests in the smooth, soap-scented neck space below her ear, and whispers, “Dory, help me.”

  45.

  Cocooned in a blanket at a comfort level that will dissipate the moment she moves, it takes a while before the rhythmic thudding penetrates her brain. Her eyes open on the clock: 6:45. She nudges Zack. Empty space. He must be in the bathroom. The thudding continues. Someone’s banging on the door, and no one’s responding. Damn. She slips on a robe and shuffles through the hallway. Zack appears and follows her. Coming up from the basement, Casey beats them both to the door.

  “Ask who it is,” she calls.

  “Who is it,” Casey says with little gusto.

  “Who’s there?” she shouts.

  “Rosie.”

  Stunned, she watches Casey unlock the door and pull it open. Her daughter in sundress and flip-flops, wearing a backpack and carrying a small bag, offers her presence wordlessly, then announces to no one in particular, “I came because Dory’s sick. I’ll put my things in with yours, Casey, okay?”

  Rosie walks past them. Casey follows her. She makes a move to follow them to the basement, but Zack puts a restraining hand on her shoulder. “I was going to tell you this morning,” he whispers.

  “Tell me what?”

  “I went to see Rosie late last night, told her she had to come home. She told me to get lost, said I wasn’t a good father, and that nothing I said mattered. For some reason, she changed her mind. Are you mad that I went to see her without telling you?”

  “No. It worked.” Still somewhat stunned, she wonders what to do next.

  “Lena, she isn’t the same kid who left our house. She’s lived with a man. Who knows what other experiences she’s had? She’s not going to toe the line easily.”

  “I just wish I knew what she might need from me.”

  “Give it time.” He strokes her hair. “Last night … making love … I didn’t expect … well … it made me so happy.”

  She smiles. What can she say? She did it for him? It was comforting to feel him take her in so easily. But Stu was present as well, not a shadow on the wall but a physical weight inside her.

  “I need to finish dressing. I can’t be late for work.” He grins and heads back to the bedroom.

  Almost instantly, she starts for the basement. Zack’s probably right. It’s too soon. It could be the world’s stupidest move. Still, she’s the girl’s mother. She has to try.

  She pushes open the basement door. “Rosie, Casey, is it okay to come down?” She descends the few steps without waiting for a reply.

  Rosie’s on the futon sofa, remote in hand, surfing channels. Casey, on the floor, propped up against the sofa, is watching something on his laptop. Her eyes sweep the room, two floor lamps, red director’s chair, red-and-black striped rug, two windows, and a small A/C unit. Decent enough. A white curtain across a ceiling rod hides the washing machine and dryer.

  “You both look comfy,” she begins.

  No response. This is all on her.

  “What are you watching?”

  “Mom, I’m going upstairs to get some breakfast,” Casey says. She feels a wave of empathy for him, avoiding what’s to come. If only, she thinks, and takes a seat on the chair facing Rosie, whose eyes remain on the screen. “So you heard about Dory?”

  “You mean when Casey phoned? Or when Dad made his middle of the night visit to Mirabelle’s? I’m sure he was afraid to wait for morning because by then Dory could be dead. Really, how dumb is it to barge into someone else’s house at that time of night? What’s going on with him? He was all confess-y.”

  “Confess-y?”

  “Yeah, wanted to let me know that he’s no longer the father I knew. He’s a new man and some other stuff, the kind of stuff you tell your shrink not your daughter.”

  “He was trying to let you know that things are changing.”

  “Are they? How?”

  “Well, he has a job,” it’s the first thing that comes to mind.

  “Great, my father finally got a job, which most fathers already have. What does that have to do with me?”

  “We’re not going to be at Dory’s much longer.”

  “Oh? Just a year or two or three?”

  She tries to locate the hard sarcasm in her daughter’s face, but it’s as lovely and unblemished as ever. “Can’t you just talk to me?”

  Rosie mutes the TV. “You should’ve thought of that before stalking me. I cared about Sonny. You scared him away. You didn’t let me have my experience. You made me unhappy. My own mother! I still miss him. Though I’m furious at him as well for being such a wimp. He should’ve stood up to you or ignored you instead of buckling. Now you expect me to slide into an easy relationship with you?”

  Of course she’s right, this oh-so-smart girl of hers. How can anything be easy with all that’s happened? “He wasn’t good for you,” and even she can hear how lame it sounds.

  “I’m not in the mood to rehash it, especially with you.”

  Remembering the little girl who loved telling her stories about every possible thing, at times boring her to sleepiness. “Tell me about your time away, where you were, what you did …”

  “You mean how did I spend my summer, or what did I think of Mirabelle’s parents?”

  She doesn’t reply to her daughter’s taunts.

  “I drank whiskey and vodka. I smoked fairy dust, that’s drugs. Each time I did, it felt so good I wanted more and had more. Nothing mattered but the moment and the moment was happy. You should try them. And then with Sonny there were all the times of day when he would begin to undress me. He would …”

  Leave now, she thinks.

  “Poor Mom. Cat got your tongue?” Rosie’s eyes blaze at her.

  “You’re here. You’re safe. I’m grateful, relieved and I wanted to reach out to you.”

  “Reach out to me? What does that mean? I’m not across the ocean.”

  She turns away before Rosie can see her distress. There’s so much she wants to say to this girl, that the future is hers, that whatever’s happened will be superseded by the things, good and bad, still to occur, that she’s sad about the time they’ve lost and wants to make up for it. Yet she can’t bring herself to say any of it, too afraid her words won’t matter one bit. “Rosie, just know I love you,” is what she settles for as she leaves the room.

  Her mother’s bare feet and slim ankles disappear up the stairs. The basement door shuts. What did her mother expect, a grand reunion? And if she’s so delirious about having her back, why not admire her spunk and determination? Nothing, she fears, will change. She powers off the TV.

  Why is she here? Yes, Dory? But no, Dory, too. So what is it? Mirabelle couldn’t understand why she would leave her guest room only to be a guest in someone else’s house. A point well taken. She gazes at her pho
ne on the sofa and has a quick chat with herself. Go ahead. Call him! Why the hell not? Because he won’t want to talk to her? Of course he will. He’s not an asshole. And if he picks up, what’ll she say? It’ll come to her. She dials the number. He does pick up. His voice sounds so the same.

  “Hi, it’s me, Rosie. Are you surprised?”

  46.

  Without knocking, she enters Dory’s bedroom and lies down next to her friend, whose pale red hair, loosened from its usual ponytail, softens her slim face. “Are you available?”

  “Why?”

  “We haven’t talked one on one since you told us about the diagnosis. I’m sorry I reacted so childishly, but I was stunned. I still am.”

  “Me, too, except … I don’t know … I’m weirdly not freaking out. I keep thinking tomorrow or the day after I’ll have some kind of hysterical breakdown. Or maybe not, which is even weirder, don’t you think?”

  “I will do everything for you.”

  “No you won’t. I’m the caregiver, remember? It’s my job. It’s what I do, what I’ve done for more than half my life. I can care for myself.”

  “You’re just in denial.”

  Dory sits up. “Maybe I am and maybe I’m not. But I’m explaining, plainly, it’s who I am.”

  “That’s your message? Don’t deal with the illness? Pretend it’s another day in the happy life of Dory?”

  “You sound pissed.”

  “I am. You’re always there for me. I want to be there for you.”

  “I have to get ready for work. So you can leave my room or watch me get dressed. Up to you.”