The Wally Lamb Fiction Collection: The Hour I First Believed, I Know This Much is True, We Are Water, and Wishin' and Hopin'

by Lamb, Wally

  When I step out into the cabin, there’s a line. A stylish woman, a guy in a ball cap, a young couple with their hands in each other’s back pockets. The mile-high club: that’s what it’s called. Gross . . .

  Back at my row, I stand and wait but finally have to tap Aisle Seat Guy on the shoulder. “Sorry to bother you again. Is your foot okay?” Does that grunt mean yes or no?

  “Feel better?” Jesus Woman asks when I’m in my seat again.

  “Yes, thanks.” There’s stuff all over her tray table: beads, little medals, a spool of . . . what? Fishing line? Oh, I get it; she’s making bracelets. Hey, if we hit some turbulence, her little cottage industry will be all over the floor. Why doesn’t she just knit?

  “So what’s your due date?” she asks.

  “Hmm? Oh, March. March twenty-sixth. How did you know?”

  “Well, for one thing, I figure that’s not pleasure reading you’re doing.” She chuckles, points. The book I’ve brought, Home from the Hospital: Now What? is poking out of my seat pocket. “That, and I heard you say you were on your way to the john,” she says. “This your first?”

  “Yes.”

  “Morning sickness?”

  “More like morning, afternoon, and evening,” I say.

  “Oh, honey, that’s tough.” She reaches over and pats my hand. “March, huh? So you’re only a couple months along?”

  I nod. She’s older than my parents. Short, teased hair dyed jet-black. It’s probably the same style she wore back in high school. Axel’s mother is about this woman’s age and she wore her hair like that, too. A lot of women do that, I’ve noticed: hold on to the hairstyles of their youth. Her GOD IS GREAT sweatshirt probably means she’s one of those family values types. To fend off any questions about a husband, I ask her if she has any kids.

  “Oh, good golly, yes. Three sons by my first husband, What’s His Name, and three daughters by my second, What’s His Name Number Two.” Her laugh is a pleasant cackle. “Grandkids now, too. Seven of ’em. That’s why I’m flying in from Colorado: to see my latest grandbaby and help my daughter out. My youngest. She’s just had a nine-pound baby girl—her first, too. She was in labor for eleven hours, poor thing. Lisa’s narrow-hipped, like the women in her father’s family.” She extends her hand. “Dolly Cantrell, grateful alcoholic.” We shake.

  A grateful alcoholic? If she saw some of the winos we serve at Hope’s Table, she wouldn’t be so grateful. “Glad to meet you. I’m Ariane.”

  “Glad to meet you, too. You flying for business or pleasure?”

  Neither, really. I’m going to Mama’s wedding out of obligation. “Pleasure,” I tell her. “I’m visiting my parents.” What am I going to say? That I’m seeing my father first, then going to my mother’s gay wedding?

  “Oh, that’s nice.”

  I nod. I think about that Christmas vacation two years ago, the last time all five of us were together as a family. I’m back there in my room, packing for my flight back to San Francisco, when Mama comes in. . . .

  “Is this yours, Ariane?” she asks, handing me my cell phone charger. I thank her for spotting it. It would have complicated things if I’d left it here in Connecticut. Instead of leaving my room, Mama lingers. Straightens some of my old stuffed animals on the shelf, looks out my window. Then she turns and faces me. Asks me to sit down. There’s something she needs to tell me, she says. Whatever it is, it’s bad. I can tell from the look on her face. Is she sick? Is Daddy? I’m scared.

  “Ariane, your father and I are separating.”

  My tears start spontaneously, partly because she hasn’t just said that she or Dad has cancer, and partly because of what she did just say. “Separating? Why?”

  They’ve grown apart, she says. Her work, her life in New York. His life here.

  “But it’s a trial separation, right? Are you guys going to marriage counseling?”

  She shakes her head. Says she’s already seen a lawyer about a divorce.

  “Is this Daddy’s idea or yours?”

  She lies. Says it was a mutual decision.

  “Mama, I’ve been home for six days. Why are you just telling me this now?”

  Because she and Daddy didn’t want to ruin our Christmas, she says.

  My thoughts ricochet. How long has this been in the works? Was it a snap decision?

  “Do Andrew and Marissa know?” I ask.

  “We told your sister last night before she went back to the city. Asked her not to call you or your brother until after we’d had a chance to speak with you ourselves. Daddy and I figured we’d sit down with you two after breakfast this morning, but it hasn’t worked out that way. Andrew texted me late last night to say he was sleeping over at Jay Jay’s because he had too much to drink and didn’t want to drive. And then your father got a call this morning and had to rush off. One of his patients left a message on his voice mail. Apparently, she came back to school early and has been walking around the empty campus having suicidal thoughts. We’ll talk to Andrew this afternoon when he comes home, I guess. His flight doesn’t leave until five o’clock. Hopefully, your father will be back by then. It depends on whether or not this patient of his—”

  “Mama, stop! Never mind about Daddy’s patient. Why aren’t you and Daddy at least going to try and save your marriage?”

  “Because it’s gone beyond that point. Ariane, I just want you to know that this isn’t—”

  I put up my hand to stop her. “Would you please just leave me alone?” She nods, invites me to ask whatever questions I have. When she gets up and goes, I close my door and lock it. Flop facedown on my bed and hug my pillow.

  It should have taken me all of fifteen minutes to pack my stuff, but the task has become overwhelming because of Mama’s news. An hour later, I’m still not done. Mama’s back upstairs again; I hear her coming down the hall. Thankfully, she stays on the other side of the door and doesn’t try to open it. “Are you almost ready, Ariane? We should leave pretty soon.” Oh? Why is that, Mama? So you can dump me off at the airport and rush back to your hip life in New York? I almost say it but, instead, tell her to give me five more minutes. “Ready?” she asks when I come downstairs with my suitcase. Instead of answering her, I open the door and head out to the car.

  On the way to the airport, she makes small talk while I stare out the side window. Once she’s taken the exit from I-84 to I-91, she tries broaching the subject of their separation again, but I stop her. Tell her I don’t want to discuss it with her until I’ve spoken to my brother and sister. “And my father,” I add. I’m not even sure why I’m more angry with her than I am with Daddy. Later, I’ll know why, but I don’t at this point. For the rest of the ride, we’re silent. At the airport, she puts on her blinker to signal she’s going to short-term parking. “You don’t have to check in yet,” she says. “I thought maybe we could grab a quick cup of coffee and—”

  “No thanks,” I say. “Just drop me off in front. I’m flying Delta.” She complies, pulls up in front of Delta’s outside check-in. With the engine running, she gets out. Stands by the trunk while I pull out my luggage. “Hug?” she asks, holding out her arms. I nod but just stand there—make her come to me. I don’t hug her back. I know I should, but I can’t. I’m sick of being the good daughter—“Saint Ariane,” as my brother used to call me. Entering the airport, I can sense that she’s waiting for me to turn back and wave. I don’t.

  Check-in goes okay, and the security people aren’t too obnoxious. Waiting at my gate, I try calling Marissa, but she doesn’t answer. Call Daddy’s cell. “You’ve reached the voice mail of Dr. Orion Oh. If this is an emergency . . .” I don’t leave a message. I think about calling Axel but decide not to. He’s still in Wisconsin with his family, and we’ve only been going out for a month. Our relationship is too new to dump this on him. Alone with Mama’s news, I try to reason with myself. It’s their marriage, their decision, not mine. But our family’s never going to be the same. If they go through with this divorce, what will next
Christmas be like? When I finally look up, most of the seats around me are empty. When did they start boarding us? Did they even announce it? I’m one of the last people to walk through the jetway and onto the plane.

  I’m glad I’ve been assigned a window seat. Relieved, too, that the seat next to me is empty. I spend most of the flight staring out at the sky, at the distant ground below. I wonder how many of the people in those little Monopoly houses down there have been affected by divorce. At least they didn’t split up while we were still kids. I’ll give them that much.

  My layover’s in Atlanta. When we land, I put my phone back on. I’ve missed a call from Daddy, but when I try to call him back, I get his voice mail again. Marissa’s still not answering either. I start dialing Axel’s cell but change my mind and shut the phone. Get up and stand in line at Cinnabon instead.

  The flight to San Francisco takes forever, and the woman sitting next to me is a mouth breather. I’d like to get up and slap that whiny little boy across the aisle. I keep trying to get lost in the movie they’re showing, but I can’t concentrate. Why haven’t they gone to see a counselor? A marriage of almost thirty years isn’t worth even trying to save?

  “Ma’am?”

  I look over. It’s the flight attendant. “Hmm?”

  “Something to drink?”

  “Oh. Sure. Do you have Coke?”

  “We do. Coke, Diet Coke, and Coke Zero.”

  “Regular Coke, please. No, wait. Ginger ale.” Maybe it’ll settle my stomach. I don’t need the calories, but I’m supposed to avoid diet soda while I’m pregnant. Jesus Woman says she wants black coffee, and Aisle Guy wants Bloody Mary mix, “the whole can, no ice.” My stomach heaves a little at the thought of drinking spicy tomato juice.

  “And would you three like peanuts, pretzels, or Biscoff cookies with those?” the flight attendant asks us. He wants peanuts, she wants cookies. “Nothing for me, thanks,” I tell her. I’ve long since heaved up my breakfast and I’m starved, but I don’t dare eat anything because—

  “Uh-oh. Looks like I’m out of Bloody Mary mix, sir. Be right back.” I watch her walk toward the front of the plane. Who’s fatter, I wonder. Me or her? Back when they were called stewardesses, they were all as thin and glamorous as models. At least that’s the way they make it look on Mad Men. It’s fun at work on Mondays, when we’re preparing for the lunch crowd and talking about what happened on Mad Men the night before. When I’m on maternity leave, I’ll miss those mornings, cooking and chatting with my volunteers. But six weeks will probably fly by, and I’m sure I’ll visit once I get my bearings. Everyone will want to see the baby. . . .

  It’s a little after five California time when the plane lands and taxis toward the gate. Eight o’clock back in Connecticut. All around me, I hear people’s cell phones go on. Hear their shorthand conversations with their loved ones. “Hey, it’s me. I’m here.” I’ve missed another call from Daddy but decide to wait to call him back. I don’t want to have a private conversation in this public place. It takes longer than ever for our baggage to come out. When I finally grab my bag and go outside, climb into the back of a taxi, I try my brother. No answer. He must still be in the air. He must know by now, too. Is he taking it better than I am? Worse? Andrew has Mama’s temper. I bet he’s pissed at both of them.

  I’m at the door of my apartment, putting my key in the lock, when I hear the phone ringing inside. I enter and rush to it, figuring it’s Daddy or Andrew. But it’s her again. She asks me how my trip back went. “You drop your bombshell, then I have eight hours to just sit with it by myself on planes and in terminals? How do you think it went, Mama?” I’m never snotty like this. That’s Marissa’s thing, not mine. But right now, I don’t even care.

  She tells me how sorry she is. Then she apologizes for something else: for not having told me the whole truth earlier. “I was going to,” she says, “but when I saw how hard you were taking it, I lost my nerve.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? What ‘whole truth’?”

  Listening to her, I stare down at the photo of Axel and me on my coffee table. It was taken at that crab restaurant we went to down near Fisherman’s Wharf. I’ve left it out because I want to put it in that little frame I bought. “I was the one who asked for the divorce, Ariane,” she says. “There’s someone else in my life now.”

  “Who?”

  “Honey, it’s Viveca, the woman whose gallery represents my work.” I don’t get it at first. Why does she have to divorce Daddy because of some professional relationship? “I didn’t mean for it to happen. I didn’t even see it coming at first, but I’ve fallen in love.”

  “With who?”

  “With Viveca.” She says other things: how she tried at first to deny her feelings. How the last thing she wanted to do was hurt Daddy.

  “Mama, stop it. You’re being ridiculous.”

  “I know it’s going to take some getting used to this, Ariane, but I hope that after a while, after you’ve had time to think it through—”

  “I mean it. Just stop. You’re not leaving Daddy for a woman.”

  “Yes, I am, honey. I already have. I’m sorry.”

  Axel and I go blurry from my tears. I reach down and turn the picture facedown. “This is bullshit!” I tell her. Hit the button to shut her up and fling my cell phone across the room. I’ve never been this mean to her before, but she deserves it. It’s crazy, what she’s saying. How dare she do this to Daddy! To all of us!

  A few minutes later, I follow the ring tone to where my damn phone landed. It’s underneath the couch. Figuring it’s Mama calling back, I ignore it and head for the fridge. There’s got to be something in there that hasn’t gone bad yet. A half-carton of cold lo mein later, I pick the phone off the floor and see that it’s Axel who was calling. It’s bad news: his grandmother, a massive stroke, a decision to take her off life support. He’ll stay in Wisconsin until after the funeral. His semester doesn’t start for another two weeks and he’s brought his laptop, so he can work on his syllabus while he’s out there. “Talk to you soon, babe. Sorry I have to scrap our New Year’s Eve plans, but I know you understand.”

  And I do. I’m sympathetic. But the timing couldn’t be worse. Should I fly out there to be with him? No, we haven’t been going out long enough. I’ll send flowers or donate to a charity if they’ve designated one. . . . Shit! I was really looking forward to us seeing in the New Year together. Now I guess I’ll be spending the night with my last year’s New Year’s dates, Ben and Jerry. Eating Cherry Garcia and trying not to think about my mother and that Viveca woman. About poor Daddy by himself in Three Rivers . . .

  When Marissa finally answers, I can tell from her slurry voice and the background noise that she’s at some bar getting drunk. “Yeah, I was surprised at first, too, but hey. People change, Ari.”

  “From straight to gay? When they’re in their fifties? And we’re just supposed to accept this little adventure of hers?”

  She starts in on this stupid theory about how rigid categories like gay and straight are imposed by society. “Scratch the surface and we’re probably all bisexual, Ari.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, this is our mother and father we’re talking about! Stop being so hip about it, will you?”

  “Stoli and pomegranate,” she says, throwing me until I realize she’s halted our conversation to order herself another drink. “I’ve gotten to know Viveca a little. She’s awesome, Ari. You should see her apartment.”

  “I don’t want to see her apartment. I just want Mama to come to her senses.”

  “What did you say? God, it’s so fucking loud in here.”

  “Nothing. Never mind. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, okay. Just try not to be such a tight ass about it, okay? People evolve.”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  After a nearly sleepless night, I call my father. It’s 8:00 A.M. where he is, almost sunrise here. Yes, he’s unhappy about it, he says. Yes, he feels angry and betrayed. B
ut what can he do? Insist that she stay married to him when she doesn’t want to? When I ask him how Andrew took the news, he tells me he didn’t say much. Then he went up to his bedroom and punched a hole in the wall. That was what Daddy was doing when I called, he says: trying to see if he could patch up the damage instead of having to replace the Sheetrock.

  After about a week, I start answering Mama’s calls again. Start coming around. Good old Saint Ariane, she always does. But accepting the fact that she’s having a lesbian affair doesn’t mean I have to like it. . . .

  I loosen my belt a few inches and rebuckle it. I’m starting to show a little, but I can still conceal it. I hope, anyway. When I ordered my dress for Mama’s wedding, I’d already had my procedure but wasn’t sure if I was pregnant yet. I’m glad I thought ahead and got the empire style instead of the dress I liked better. I just hope it won’t make me look too dumpy. Marissa said Viveca took her shopping and bought her a designer dress—a strapless black mini. We’ll be quite a contrast: Annie’s thin, striking daughter and the dowdy older one. The do-gooder. Well, what’s new? In high school, Rissa was a homecoming princess and I was president of the Let’s Discuss It Club.