I Liked My Life

by Abby Fabiaschi

  I google Rory Murray. There are millions of hits, tech geniuses to porn stars. I narrow it down by adding a common word from the articles on my mother. Tragic. And there it is, Rory’s misfortune for the world to read. I clutch my hand to my neck. The picture alone tells a story of what she lost: a good-looking man with his arm around a younger Rory as she holds up a newborn baby, beaming.

  Holiday Tragedy, Avoidable Death of a Toddler

  November 26, 2005

  SAN DIEGO, CA, United States—A two-year-old child died today in a tragic traffic accident in the Gaslamp District on 6th Street. According to preliminary investigations, Steve O’Malley, 34, fell asleep behind the wheel of his 1998 Mitsubishi Montero, hitting Emma Murray, who was in a stroller pushed by her mother on the sidewalk.

  The child was pronounced dead at the scene. The mother, Rory Murray, 29, was taken to the hospital suffering critical injuries, including a leg broken in four places.

  According to sources in the department, charges will be pressed against O’Malley, who had allegedly been on the road more than nine hours straight.

  Everyone has a history. Sadness isn’t mine alone. It only feels that way because my friends are too young to know the kind of pain that leaves you physically heavier than before. I wonder if there’s a calculus equation for that? I look at the clock on the computer, surprised it’s past four already.

  I’m ten minutes late for round two of therapy. This time I picked a man. He’s probably thirty years old, so his corduroy blazer with faux-leather elbow patches doesn’t match his age. I can tell it’s something he wears to look wise, but instead he looks dorky. After sharing the basics, I dig right in with my epiphany. “Everyone I go to school with will be devastated by something someday.”

  “That’s an astute observation,” Dr. Jahns says. “One that takes some a lifetime to figure out. Congratulations.”

  It’s weird to be congratulated on understanding that everyone has a private hell to hide, but I accept the compliment. At least he didn’t come back with This too shall pass or You can’t change what life brings, but you can chose what to do with it. I’m tired of the feel-good shit.

  I wait for Dr. Jahns’s next question but get nothing. His practiced eye contact suggests this silence is a strategy of some sort. Won’t he be disappointed to learn I’m in no hurry. We remain mute three minutes. I know it’s three minutes exactly because there’s a clock on the wall the size of an oven, probably to make sure weepy patients are aware when their session has ended. I fill the quiet time pretending we’re in a staring competition. Dr. Jahns does pretty well considering he doesn’t know we’re playing.

  He finally loses the chicken fight by asking me to describe my current state. “I don’t know,” I say, thrilled by the victory. “My mom did everything. I guess I’m afraid of how I’ll get on without her.”

  “So you’re scared for your well-being?”

  “I didn’t say scared,” I correct.

  “I’m sorry, you’re right, you said afraid. Let me rephrase, are you afraid for your well-being?”

  He succeeds at making me sound like a dumbass. Current score: 1-1. “Yeah, I guess,” I say, looking at the clock. Forty-eight minutes until I can bail on talking doctors for good.

  “Mmm. What about lonely? Do you feel lonely?”

  “Duh.”

  “Tell me about that.”

  “Tell you the definition of lonely?” He folds his arms but says nothing. Another standoff. I don’t want to sit through a round of silence, so I add, “We spent a lot of time together. Now she’s gone. And it’s not like anyone understands.”

  “So it sounds like lonely and scared are closely related emotions for you. You depended on your mom, so without her you’ve lost a key support. Losing that foundation would, quite understandably, make you feel isolated and unsure.”

  “Good summary,” I reply in a voice my mom would call patronizing. It’s fun to be a smart-ass with this guy. Maybe I’ll come back just to mess with him.

  “How did you feel about suicide prior to your mom’s death?”

  Is he for real? “Great. I loved it. I thought suicide was awesome.”

  He tips his head to the right. “Did my question irritate you?”

  I tip my head to the left. “Yes.”

  “Because you found the answer obvious?”

  “Because I found the question pointless.”

  “Huh. Okay. What should I have asked?”

  I stop. That’s actually a decent comeback. Another point for the talking doctor. “What you’re really wondering.”

  “What am I really wondering?”

  “If I know why she did it. If there’s some big secret I’m hiding.”

  He raises his eyebrows like the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. As if. “Is there?”

  “No. I don’t know. I-I thought she was happy.” How did this get back to a serious conversation?

  “So you didn’t know your mom was having a tough time?”

  “And for the second time—no.” He underlines something on his notepad. Hopefully it’s the fact that I didn’t know, so he’ll fucking drop it.

  “Right.” He looks right at me. “So why did you think your mom was happy?”

  He’s got me there. Up until three months ago I thought everyone was more or less happy. “I mean … I like … assumed it, but then, I never asked her.”

  He puts the notepad down. “Asked her what?”

  “Asked her anything. I mean, I asked if I could have stuff or if she could do stuff for me. You know, Can you … take me here, wash this, make that, buy these? I thought I was this great kid since I always said please and thank you, but I never asked how she was doing.”

  “I see,” he says. That’s doubtful. I don’t think Dr. Jahns got out much in high school. I picture him as the mathlete in the Star Wars T-shirt eating lunch alone. I’m not saying that’s a bad thing; I’m just saying he probably wasn’t a very demanding kid. “And you feel badly about that?”

  “Yeah. She constantly asked how I was doing, and it never crossed my mind to ask back. Isn’t that sick? It’s not like I held out to spite her. I really never thought, ‘Huh. I wonder how Mom’s doing.’”

  “Sounds like you behaved the way every teenager in the world behaves.”

  “Well, that’s screwed up. Who cares about clothes and curfews and prom dates? I feel so stupid I ever did. Like, even if she hadn’t committed suicide, even if it’d been a car accident or something more normal, it was always a possibility I could lose her. My friends totally don’t understand that they could come home one day to, like, a different world. And, I mean, I watch the news and stuff. I knew people died. I just never realized people I loved could die. That my mom could die.” I start to cry. Waterproof mascara is a total sham.

  He hands me a tissue, but presses on. “So now you feel like you understand more than your friends?”

  “I know I do,” I say, resting the back of my head on the couch. “They’re all so totally clueless. Everyone thinks I’m depressed or whatever, but I’m not. I finally get it and they still don’t. I can’t pretend to give a shit that Lindsey gained five pounds, or Noel broke up with Katy when they were dating for, like, one freaking day.” Snot streams from my nose. I grab another tissue. “I’m so pissed for not realizing how pointless all of it was sooner. Now she’s gone and I missed my chance.”

  Dr. Jahns waits until my crying dies down. “Keep in mind that if you never answer the door, people will stop knocking.” He sounds like my mom. The clock reads two minutes past five. I’m the weepy patient who needs to be reminded to leave. “Will you come back next week?” he asks, as I grab my bag.

  I’m impressed he knows there’s a chance I won’t. “I think so,” I say and he smiles.

  “Oh, and Eve, we don’t come into this world all-knowing. That’s what life is for.”

  Brady

  No one knows who their partner will become after they marry. I once worked for a man who ra
n a ten-person finance team until he had a random dream where a crucifix floated above a box that had a question mark seared to the side. He woke up certain the Lord was unhappy with his life. He quit his job to become a math teacher, gave up booze, and dropped out of our sporting pool, suddenly disgusted by gambling. Not long after, Maddy ran into his newly ex-wife at the supermarket. She said she got a divorce because finding the Lord made him boring as all get out, which was an unforgivable sin in her book. Thinking on it, I wonder if Maddy considered divorce as a possible alternative. I’d take joint custody at this point.

  I proposed to the woman Maddy was in that exact moment. I married a phase and she did too. We changed. We adjusted to each other’s changes. Those tweaks sparked further change and so on, to the point where it’s impossible to unravel who I was before Maddy, what changed with her influence, and what my prevailing personal opinions are now that she’s gone.

  “If you can’t articulate what’s different since your wife passed, how about telling me what’s stayed the same?” Dr. White asks.

  It’s an unmanageable task given our gnarled history. I’m terrified to untangle it; I don’t know that I’ll like the scraps tied solely to me. “Christ … I don’t know. I’m still considered talented at my profession. I work out. I have Eve.” He’s visibly unimpressed. “What do you want me to say? I’m still a Republican allergic to penicillin?”

  Dr. White scratches his head. I failed even the moron version. “I’m looking for something you enjoy already that you could do more with,” he clarifies. “I’d like you to foster a passion. The Fourth of July is tomorrow. Have you thought about how you’re going to spend it?”

  “Probably at the office. Eve usually hangs out with friends.”

  One eyebrow lifts. “Are you sure Eve wants to be with friends tomorrow?”

  I adjust my posture, embarrassed to admit I’m not. “I’ll ask. I can’t imagine she’ll opt to spend the day with me.”

  “Ask, but either way, don’t work. Maddy won’t be here next Fourth of July either, and working every holiday is not a wholesome solution for a lifetime.”

  “So you’re suggesting I host a barbecue for one? Set off sparklers alone in the driveway?”

  He sighs the way I do when Eve takes something I say to an unreasonable degree. “Nooo. I’m saying if Eve is busy, work isn’t your only option. You said you like to work out, so go for a long run. Maybe there’s a holiday road race you could do. Rent a movie. Read a book. Relax for a change. But don’t go to work. Your healthy new routine isn’t at the office.”

  * * *

  I wake up with a plan, as if my brain spent the night plotting while the rest of me slept.

  Once I find the damn thing it’s easy to get into a rhythm with the outdoor sweeper. It’s nice to do something where the result is immediate, visible. Each time I extend the broom, dried leafs, sticks, and dead bugs move the hell out of my way. Cause and effect. I’m in a bit of a trance when Eve wanders outside searching for me.

  “Look at you,” she says, offering a mock round of applause. I unbend my shoulders to attention, happy the tennis court is almost clear. Her surprise is fair enough. Our fifty-thousand-dollar investment became an expensive lawn ornament once Eve started playing year-round at the country club.

  “No time like the present,” I say, more chipper than I feel. “You in?” I’ll be pissed if she says no, but manage to hide my emotions more effectively than I did on her birthday.

  “It’s funny,” she says. “I woke up craving a game too. Let me change.”

  Huh. That was easy.

  Besides announcing the score, we don’t speak the entire match. Eve fights hard; I fight hard. No freebies. It’s a physical display of our current relationship: back and forth, control shifting almost every play. The final set runs eleven rallies before either of us earns a two-point lead.

  “That was great,” she says after winning match point.

  “For the victor,” I jest, looking at my watch. It’s only noon. Even when I’m having some semblance of fun, time no longer flies. I hope I’m not one of those sorry bastards who live to a hundred. “Do you want to go to the festival in Natick after we clean up?”

  “Oh boy, really?” she replies, dramatically clasping her hands together like an excited toddler. “Can I ride the Ferris wheel?” It’s the same facetious reaction I had when Dr. White suggested I make plans alone, but relating doesn’t assuage the sting of rejection. She can tell I’m wounded. “Let’s just hang out,” she counters. “Make burgers. Watch the fireworks from the back deck.”

  I look up, grateful. “Burgers might be tough.” I point to the destroyed grill and charred patio. Once I find a new assistant, her first task will be hiring a contractor to take care of it.

  “You’re SO funny,” Eve gibes. “We can cook things on the stove, you know.”

  “I don’t think we have a choice, Julia Child.”

  “Who’s Julia Child?” she asks, heading for the house before I have a chance to answer.

  In the shower I brainstorm things for Eve and me to talk about. Our conversations are an effort. I enjoy time with my daughter, mostly, but I spend it petrified of screwing up. Fear consumes energy, so even when we’re getting along, being with her is work.

  An unsolicited thought crosses my mind: Maybe I should offer Eve a drink with dinner. Maddy would. She didn’t believe naïveté was a good parenting quality. She’d argue Eve leaves for boarding school in two months, where I’ll have no jurisdiction. There will be booze and worse at her disposal. Kids act the way they’re treated, forbidden fruit and all that. Playing what I find to be a compelling devil’s advocate, Eve got wasted at preprom and could’ve died. She’s already proven herself reckless in this arena. No need to revisit it.

  So you think she’s never going to drink again? Maddy’s voice shoots back in my consciousness.

  No, but I also don’t think I need to encourage it, I rebuke.

  She needs to know you trust her.

  If you wanted to be a part of these decisions you should’ve stuck around, I snap, ending the imaginary debate.

  Full-blown make-believe conversations like this have been happening a lot lately. I appreciate that I’m not really some third-eye, spiritual intuitive talking to dead people. I’m a desperate, grief-stricken man telling myself what I want to hear, and since I know Maddy’s two cents on everything, it isn’t hard to re-create.

  When we reconvene on the patio, I give in to Maddy’s wish, as usual. Even in death she has a hold on me. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Coke, please,” Eve requests, giving me the perfect out.

  “You can have a beer or glass of wine, if you want.”

  She eyes me suspiciously. “Really?”

  “Yes, really. This isn’t an after-school special.” She laughs, but doesn’t change her answer. “We’re staying here tonight,” I press. “You’re leaving for boarding school soon. If you don’t know how to handle yourself, we’re in trouble either way.”

  What the hell? How did I go from not wanting to offer to begging her to have one?

  Eve bites her bottom lip. “Sure, I’ll have a glass of chardonnay, please, with two ice cubes.” I find the request comical, but withhold comment.

  When I return with our glasses, Eve sees I put two ice cubes in mine too and smiles. “A hostess makes everyone feel comfortable,” we recite in unison, bringing Maddy into the moment. If she’d died any other way it’d be a fond memory. We take a few sips in silence. The sun dips lower. I exhale what feels like more than a breath. I don’t know if it’s the wine or what, but without the usual anxiety, I ask Eve about “camp” starting next week and how math is going. She tells me math isn’t so bad—she loves her tutor—and she’s excited to work with kids. Then she reciprocates, asking about work: Have I found a replacement for Paula? Will I travel more after she leaves for school? Never once do we discuss logistics, finances, permissions, or punishments. She laughs at my jokes and I l
augh at hers. We listen to each other. She’s choosing to be with me instead of anyone else, and unlike the other times in my life when that was true, this time I appreciate it.

  When the first firework erupts in the sky it brings a flash of serenity. Moving forward seems feasible. Not simple, not immediate, but possible. We’ll be okay. I’ve said that to Eve a hundred times since Maddy’s death, but this is the first time I believe it.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Madeline

  Linda is dying. Rory leaves her brother a simple message. “Hi, Brian. Mom is at the hospital. Room 366B. It won’t be long now.”

  She massages the veins on her mother’s wrinkled hands and bloated feet, watching, whispering, “I love you. You’re going to be okay.” She notices the skin sagging from her mother’s arms. Seeing her daily made the weight loss less evident, but today, this last day it seems, her mother’s frailty is fully exposed—monitors humming, tubes delivering pain medication and hydration, eyelids remaining halfway down even while she’s awake. When her heart fails they won’t resuscitate; Linda’s paperwork is clear. Rory is grateful for the formality of it, that it simply isn’t her choice. Her mother’s last gift.

  “I’m so glad you’ve come,” Linda says when she wakes, though Rory’s been there all day. “I have something to tell you.” It’s exhilarating, for a moment, how engaged Linda appears, but she fades back to sleep before any telling takes place.

  An hour later Linda wakes again and continues talking, as if the nap was only a pause. “You must forgive yourself, sweetie.” Rory blinks, questioning her mom’s lucidity. Forty-three years of motherhood enables Linda to read Rory’s mind as well as I can. “I damn well remember who you were before that accident. You need to get back there.”