“It’s unplugged,” one of them said. “Jesus.”
One of the firemen went to plug in the generator, but Holly shook her head, speaking through her sobs.
“She’s gone, okay? It’s too late.”
The fireman dropped the cord. The room, full of first responders, fell silent. Connor buried his face in Holly’s coat.
“What happened, Connor?” Holly said. “You need to tell me.”
“She woke up when the lights went out,” he said, now crying convulsively. “She told me to unplug that machine over there, the red one, because she said it could short out her iron lung when the power came back on. I didn’t know, Mom. I just did what she asked, and then she started gasping. She told me not to get you, but I was calling for you anyway, and I got Marshall to call 911. You didn’t hear me, Mom. I kept calling, but you didn’t hear me, and I couldn’t see you.”
“It’s my fault,” Holly said, putting an arm around Connor. She turned to the firemen. “I left them for a few minutes, and I didn’t know the power went out. He didn’t have the training. It’s completely my fault.”
Racine was standing with the cluster of policemen, who were all looking at Vivian.
“It’s what she wanted,” Racine said quietly. “She told Connor to unplug the generator. She was ready to go, and he was her chance. No one else would have done it.”
A policeman came forward with a clipboard in his hand to begin the paperwork that would usher Vivian from the world.
“But I wasn’t ready,” Holly said, knowing as she said it that her readiness didn’t matter. Racine put a hand on her shoulder. “I still needed her.”
Then Darla, who had heard the ambulances on her way to Vivian’s house, pushed her way through the crowd.
“Oh my God,” she said, her voice quivering. “She can’t be gone.”
Holly slowly nodded her head, though it took what she noticed was a surprising amount of effort.
“I’ll take care of everything,” Darla said to Holly. “I’ll get the rest of the crew together and we’ll manage. You take care of the boys.”
Holly nodded weakly. She turned to Racine, who looked confused.
“Special edition,” she said. “If anything ever justified it, this is it. We’ll want to have them printed by morning and delivered to every house in town.”
He nodded.
The paramedics worked around the lung, detaching cords and unlatching the rubber collar, as one of the policeman ushered the boys and Racine into the kitchen. Holly stayed to see them remove Vivian from the lung. Her body, dressed in one of the loose white hospital gowns that had become her only wardrobe, looked so small and frail as they placed her on a stretcher that was half the size of the one that held up her machine.
The machine now looked forlorn, stripped of its purpose. Holly walked over to it and closed it back up so that it didn’t look so exposed. She wondered what would happen to it. Surely, no one else would use it, but where would it end up? In a junkyard? A scrap heap? A museum of antiquated medical devices? She couldn’t imagine. She touched the smooth enamel surface and silently thanked the machine for keeping Vivian alive for so long.
CHAPTER 31
Vivian’s Unaired Podcast #11
I’m fascinated by this new company called Facebook, which allows me to live vicariously to an unprecedented degree. I’m trying to get Holly and Marveen to join, but they keep saying they have better things to do.
“You would love it,” I told Marveen after I discovered it. “You can share your photos with friends and find out what everyone’s doing. It’s like gossip on steroids.”
“C’mon, Vivian. It’s nothing more than a bunch of kids talking about getting drunk and a bunch of bored moms telling you about every single poop little Jimmy has ever taken. Who has time for that?”
“You don’t know what you’re missing,” I said. “You get on this thing, and I guarantee you’ll be hearing from old boyfriends and reconnecting with your best friend from nursery school.”
I, in fact, was able to track down Timmy Gallagher, the boy I hadn’t seen since elementary school. And, remarkably, we were able to talk as if we had lived next door to each other for decades.
“I remember that day my mother took me to your house to see your new television set,” Timmy wrote to me. “After she pushed me out the door, she couldn’t stop talking about how terrible it must be for you, trapped inside that machine. The thing is, you seemed fine. What she really meant was that it made her uncomfortable to see you that way.”
“And you never came back,” I wrote back, not to make him feel guilty but just to state a fact.
“I missed you, though. You were the wittiest girl in school.”
Timmy, I found out, later went by Tim. A few years after our television party, his family moved to Houston, where he graduated from high school before joining the navy. He married young, at twenty, and had four children, who had all gone on to liberal arts colleges, the kind I had always wanted to attend.
After we caught up, we talked rarely, but I liked knowing what had happened to Timmy. I liked knowing that he was a good citizen with a solid family and less heartache than most. And I liked that his recollections of our school days gave me a different impression of my own past. I liked being called “the wittiest girl in school.”
It wasn’t long before Holly, Marveen, and the rest of Bertram Corners had Facebook profiles, and it meant that I could schedule the volunteer rotation without having to send out e-mails to a long list of people and wait for them to reply.
It was Facebook that gave me the idea of investing in the cash-for-gold business. I saw a few people talking about how they traded in broken jewelry for cash and comparing the best ways to do it. I had already decided that I wanted a solid investment right here in town so that I could adopt one of those orphaned storefronts and bring some little segment of the town center back to life. The cash-for-gold idea just seemed like a good investment, too, with investors getting skittish about the stock market and pushing up the price of gold.
Here’s the thing about investing: all the information is out there in the market coverage, prospectuses, annual reports, and the like. But almost no one takes the time to read any of it. They’d rather work at pointless dehumanizing jobs to make tiny paychecks than sift through a spreadsheet and figure out which stocks to buy. Money makes more money. It’s really not that hard to understand.
Bertram Corners has its comfortable residents, the ones who drive a Lexus and use “summer” as a verb. But in the twenty-plus years I’ve lived here, I’ve seen a generation lose ground—people like Holly, who grew up in a manor house and now can’t afford to put her kids through college. I’ve tried to talk to her about it, but she acts like she can’t do anything about it.
“I can show you how to invest, Holly,” I told her. “You’re a smart woman. You’d get the hang of it.”
“Vivian, I barely made it through algebra,” she said.
“Why does everyone think there’s high-level math involved? It’s more logic than anything else.”
“I’m just nervous about the stock market. If it went down and I lost that money, I’d never forgive myself. To me, it’s like sticking money in a slot machine.”
The Bertram Corners of twenty years ago wasn’t the most progressive place on earth, but I feel it contracting in its worldview. People seem to move here out of resignation. Decent but not outstanding schools. High but not outrageous real estate prices. Crumbling but not completely deserted town center. It’s like the Wendy’s of towns—a notch above McDonald’s but still fast food. I want better for Holly and her kids, so I keep trying, because it’s what keeps me going.
More and more, though, I have days where I’m not sure why I continue to wake up or what I contribute to this planet. I find myself reading the obituaries and feeling strangely envious. The struggle is over. “Is” becomes “was.” No more pain, no more sorrow, no reason to fret about that extra ten pounds or the dru
g-addled nephew. Just peace.
Holly, I assume you’ll be the one to find these podcasts—which I recorded when my nurses were here and otherwise occupied. If you have, that means I found a way out. Like Lance, I just couldn’t stay motivated anymore, and once I knew your family would have a stable future I decided it was okay to leave.
You more than anyone in my life besides my parents were able to look past the ghastly machine that kept me alive and see into my soul. You didn’t judge me, you didn’t try to minimize my predicament, and you didn’t find an excuse to leave me, even when you had enough problems of your own. You mostly just listened, and for that I will always be grateful.
I’m sure you know by now that I left you my house so that you never have to worry about having a roof over your head. I didn’t leave you the rest of my money—what was left of it—because I believe so strongly that you will find your own way. I didn’t want you to feel that I bailed you out, or that you wouldn’t have succeeded on your own.
Good-bye, my dear friend. Know that I am in a better place—or no place, which is still better.
—Know that you helped me.
—Know that you are a beautiful person and a devoted mother, and that your sons are growing up into fine young men.
—Know that you have resources deep within you.
—Know that you are loved.
CHAPTER 32
Holly put on the only dress she owned with flowers on it. Even though it was February, Vivian had decreed in her will that everyone should be asked to wear spring colors and “cheerful” clothing to her memorial service.
She had also specified that she didn’t want a funeral with a traditional casket.
“I’ve been laid out in front of this whole town for decades,” she said in her instructions to Holly, whom she had named as executor and to whom she had left her house, free and clear. The savings she had went to establish a new computer lab at the library. “I want my memorial service to be the opposite of a funeral. I want people to move, since I never could.”
Holly had hired the DJ Vivian requested, and he was setting up in the high school gym, the only place in town large enough to hold the crowds expected. As per Vivian’s instructions, people were asked to donate balloons instead of flowers.
“How’s it going, boys?” Holly called to Connor and Marshall, who came into her room in their stiff new blue blazers and khakis. Since Vivian had not dictated what the boys should wear, Holly had decided they needed to look presentable.
They were ready long before they needed to be, so all three went into the living room to wait for Racine. The room looked empty without Vivian’s gurney and iron lung taking up most of the space. Holly hadn’t had time to think about buying any furniture, with the newspaper establishing its online operation. But she would eventually. She would make their new home warm and inviting, a place the boys would be proud to bring their friends. And being there would keep them close to Vivian. They would never forget how she had cushioned their fall.
Connor sat down on the small couch that used to be pushed up against the wall for Vivian’s visitors. He sighed.
“What’s wrong, honey?” Holly said, coming over to feel his forehead. “Feel okay?”
“Everyone’s going to look at me funny,” he said. “She could still be alive if it wasn’t for me. I still don’t understand why she asked me to unplug the machine.”
Holly sat down on the couch and put an arm around Connor, who looked like he might cry. Marshall, to whom Vivian had left her state-of-the-art computer, parked himself at the small desk in the corner to continue saving her podcasts and files to an external hard drive so he could free up some memory.
“You’re wrong, sweetheart,” she said. “You were her salvation. Remember what I told you? She still had time when I came inside, but she asked me not to plug the generator back in. She thanked me, Connor. Those were her last words.”
Holly placed her chin on top of his head, pulling him toward her so that they fit like puzzle pieces. She felt him relax against her but realized she would have to reassure him for a while longer.
The doorbell rang. It was Racine, who was dressed in a slim-cut tan suit with a pink-and-white-striped shirt underneath. Holly marveled at the fact of him standing there. The fact of them, a couple.
“I’m early,” he said. “I didn’t know what to do with myself this morning.”
“I know what you mean,” Holly replied. “I guess we could head over early. Are you ready, Marshall?”
“Wait a second,” Marshall said. “She left something for you, Mom.”
They all gathered around the computer screen as Marshall pointed to some files. “These are all podcasts that she made in the last few months,” he said. “But none of them have aired. And the file names all say ‘For Holly.’”
“Click on one,” Racine said.
Marshall opened the first one, and they all listened, wide-eyed, as Vivian’s voice emerged from the speakers and spoke of the day she came down with polio. Holly drew in a breath so loudly that everyone turned to her.
“It’s her story,” she said. “What’s the date on them, Marshall?”
“Looks like she started them in September of last year.”
“That was right after the storm knocked out the power to her generator,” Holly said, remembering how terrified she was that day. She wondered, now, if Vivian had been planning her exit ever since.
Holly drove slowly, with Connor solemnly holding the balloons through an open window, since they wouldn’t fit inside her Subaru with everyone in the car. On the way to the high school, they drove past the gold store, which had closed, and the Dunkin’ Donuts, which was thriving, since Racine had convinced the town to allow him to put tables with umbrellas on the sidewalk. As they approached the gym, they could see dozens of cars with balloon bouquets being held outside of windows, and dozens more with so many balloons inside the car that the occupants couldn’t be seen. The gym itself looked like a carnival, full of balloons and bright colors. Bluegrass music—Vivian’s favorite—blared from the sound system.
“Holly!”
She looked around and saw Henderson moving through the balloons, dressed in a dark blue suit and red tie, looking like the successful businessman he used to be. Phoebe trailed behind him, carrying a giant Mylar balloon in the shape of the letter V. She was wearing a white sundress with flowers on it and no glasses.
“Phoebe,” Holly said, putting an arm around her. “You look spectacular.”
“Contacts,” Phoebe said. “They have changed my life.”
Holly smiled at Henderson, who tugged at the cuffs of his shirt, each one in turn. He had taken a job with his ex-father-in-law, who was looking to expand his business overseas. Henderson had told Holly that he hoped to be running the show in another year, since his ex-father-in-law was being robbed blind by his staff. She had always been sure that Henderson would land on his feet, but she had been slightly surprised to see him bury his pride and join up with his ex-wife’s family. Then she saw Henderson glance tenderly at Phoebe, who was talking to her cousins and waving up at the balloon-plastered ceiling. This, she thought, is why we do what we have to do.
Desdemona, whose angular features and thin frame seemed at odds with all the balloons in the room, slipped through the crowd toward them in a floor-length, hot pink dress. Holly feared that Desdemona’s elbows might pop some of the balloons.
“What a scene,” she said as a man came up behind her and put his arms around her tiny waist.
Holly looked at the man behind Desdemona, wondering where she had found him. Her rap on the men in New York was that they always wanted the women they couldn’t have.
“Holly, Hen, this is Jerome,” Desdemona said. “He’s my podiatrist . . . or was my podiatrist. I hope you don’t mind that he came along. I was telling him about Vivian, and he wanted to pay his respects.”
“An amazing woman,” Jerome said. “I read her obituary in the New York Times.”
Holly shook Jerome’s hand and wondered how long he’d be around, since Desdemona tended to fall in and out of love like a teenager. Still, she was glad to see Desdemona at least momentarily happy and Henderson back on his throne of privilege, where he belonged.
Holly spied Marveen arranging chairs on the platform that had been constructed to form a stage and excused herself to join her. The Sister Sisters, who were wearing their traditional black robes with Hawaiian leis, waved to her as she walked by.
“Holly, thank God you’re here,” Marveen said. “The DJ says he doesn’t have ‘All Shook Up.’ Do you think Vivian would be upset if he played ‘Jailhouse Rock’ instead?”
“I can pretty much assure you that Vivian would not mind,” Holly said.
Marveen began to walk away, then turned back around. “Everyone understands, you know,” she said, looking Holly directly in the eye.
“Do they?” She found it hard to believe. It was human nature to want to blame someone for a death that might have been prevented.
“I told them,” she said, “that Vivian asked me to unplug the generator before I left, but I refused. She knew the storm would get worse. She knew she might have a chance to get out. She was counting on the fact that you loved her enough to let her go. That’s what I told them.”
Holly smiled at Marveen, who was a better friend than she sometimes gave her credit for. She unfolded the notebook paper she had in her pocket. She hated public speaking, but Vivian had asked in her extremely detailed will that Holly give her eulogy.
When the service began, Holly looked out over the crowd. The Chronicle staff was there taking photos and video. Her boys were sitting with their friends from school, and Racine was standing in the back with Darla, who gave Holly an enthusiastic thumbs-up as she caught her eye.
After the pep band played the Notre Dame fight song, “Victory March,” which Vivian had loved ironically, Holly stepped to the podium. Her hands were damp and her stomach unsettled, but she was determined not to show her nerves. She smoothed out the paper and looked up at the expectant faces of Bertram Corners.
The Virtues of Oxygen Page 22
