Patricia Gaffney

by Mad Dash

  Andrew’s smiling at me over his wineglass, his eyes warm in the candlelight, and I love that look. The acceptance, the pleasure he takes in me. I could fall right in and forget about climbing out.

  “Did you get a Christmas tree?” I ask at random. “Or a wreath or anything?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing? I wasn’t going to either, but then yesterday I went out in the woods and chopped down a little tree. About this high.” I show him with my hand. “I decorated it with popcorn. God, that was tedious. It still needs something.” This is a sad conversation. “Owen came over and fixed the faucet.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Bender’s son-in-law—I told you about him, I told you about Mrs. Bender and her heart—”

  “I remember,” he says, defensive; I always tell him he doesn’t listen and he always denies it. “Owen, Owen something or other, the son-in-law who can fix anything.”

  “Owen Roby. He says he can plow me out—he’s got a plow thing on his truck, he can clear the driveway for me if it snows.”

  “Handy.”

  “Oh—he had the best idea. Instead of refinishing the kitchen cabinet doors and staining and varnishing them and all that, Owen says he could cut the centers out with his saber saw, put grooves around the edges with his router, and then set glass in the grooves. So we’d have beautiful glass cabinet doors inside about a two-inch square of stained oak all around—is that incredible? And it would cost almost nothing, just the glass and Owen’s labor, and he doesn’t charge any more than Mr. Bender did.”

  “I thought you liked doing the cabinets yourself. That was your winter project. You said you were into it.”

  “Yeah, but there are a million other things I can be doing. I’ve been trying to figure out a way to brighten up the kitchen and still have stained wood cabinets, and this is it. On the cheap.”

  The waiter comes for our order.

  Andrew’s feeling okay, he says when I ask. Except for a pain, more of an ache actually, just above his solar plexus—he opens his jacket to show me exactly where. He’s had it for two days. An ulcer? I suggest. I always play along with these fantasy ailments. No, probably not, he admits; stress, more likely. Or indigestion. Besides, an ulcer would be lower down.

  “Oh,” he remembers, “I brought you some mail.”

  “God, not more Christmas cards.” He sent a huge batch down to the cabin a couple of days ago. Dozens of unrequited lovers, it felt like. “This is the first time in our lives we haven’t sent any. People will think we died.”

  He smiles in a whose-fault-is-that way as he pulls a sheaf of envelopes out of the pocket of his overcoat.

  “Oh, I don’t want to look at them now.”

  “Just read the one on top. That will interest you.”

  It’s from the Caplans, I see by the return address. We used to double-date, that’s how long we’ve known them. But then, years ago, they moved to New Mexico, and we never see them anymore. “What?” I say, pulling the card out. “Oh, Andrew, don’t tell me somebody died.”

  “Nobody died.”

  But it’s almost as bad. “Not such a merry Xmas this year,” Nancy has scribbled on the back. “Ed and I have gone our separate ways, as the saying goes. It’s even pretty amicable (for a divorce). He sends his love to you guys. Me, too. Will fill you in on gory details soon—promise. Happy New Year, N.”

  “I can’t believe it.” I read the note again. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Ed and Nancy. They got married before we did.” The irony in Andrew’s expression registers on me. “I just didn’t expect it, I thought they were, you know…”

  “Devoted?”

  “Yes. Or at least together, I thought they had a good relationship. Didn’t you? It looked like it worked, didn’t you think? Wow. Ed and Nancy. Ed and Nancy,” I say again to distract him, but it doesn’t work.

  “I thought we worked.” He pitches his voice lower, so no one can overhear. “I thought we had a good relationship.”

  “We did.”

  “We did? Then what happened?”

  I sip water. “I don’t know.” I didn’t want to go here yet, not this early in the evening. We haven’t even eaten.

  “You don’t know?”

  “No, I don’t know. Stop saying what I say. And I’m allowed not to know.”

  He folds his hands at the edge of the table. He’s trying to be reasonable, but he’d like to reach over and shake me.

  “Let’s call Chloe,” I say, and not only to change the subject. I miss her.

  “Call her here? Now?” He disapproves of cell phones in public places. Well, who doesn’t, but right now I don’t care. “Actually,” he says, “I’ve already spoken to her. I called this afternoon.”

  “So did I—but Andrew, it’s Christmas Eve.”

  “All right. What are we going to tell her?” About us, he means. So far it’s been easy: We simply don’t bring up the tiny detail that we’re not living together. Naturally Chloe doesn’t ask—it’s the furthest thing from her mind. So we’re lying, I know we’re lying, but only indirectly. And we hate it, him more than me; Andrew’s an honesty absolutist, whereas I’m more of a…pragmatist.

  “Nothing. We won’t tell her anything,” I say, dialing. “Or whatever; we’ll just see how it goes. Play it by ear. Okay?” I pause before pressing the last number. Playing it by ear isn’t Andrew’s strong suit. He hunches his shoulders and shakes his head in disapproval. “Okay,” I say, since he won’t answer.

  Chloe answers on the second ring. “Merry Christmas!” she sings out, and I laugh, glad she’s so happy, sad she obviously isn’t missing us one bit. “Merry Christmas, yourself.”

  “Mom.” There’s a definite note of surprise that she’s hearing from me again in a matter of hours. No irritation, though—that’s good. Chloe is the sweetest child. If college ruins her, I’ll die.

  “I know, you can’t get away from us. Your father and I just wanted to say Merry Christmas again—together. Honestly, we’re not stalking you.”

  She laughs her full-throated uh-huh-huh, the perfect echo of my mother’s laugh, and I see her, clear as an etching, the flyaway hair and baby skin, her slender wand of a body, her serious face. I’ve taken a million photographs of Chloe over the years, the history of my daughter in pictures. Always and forever, she’s my favorite subject. “No, it’s great,” she says, “Emily’s talking on her cell right now to her dad, so it’s like a ’rents moment.”

  “Oh, good.” Emily’s parents split up in the fall, and Chloe and the other roommate, Valerie, were her faithful support group all semester. Now the three of them are inseparable. “So this party you’re going to,” I say casually, “does everybody know everybody, or nobody knows anybody, or what.” I am so curious about Chloe’s social life. I try to be cool, but I fail; I’m wild to know everything.

  “I don’t know anyone but Em and Val,” she says in a patient voice, “and Em doesn’t know anyone but Val and me, but Val knows lots of people, in fact most of them she went to high school with.”

  “Well, that’ll be nice, lots of new people. Interesting men.”

  She doesn’t respond to that, or not audibly. I’m glad she’s not the kind of girl to roll her eyes. At least I don’t think she is. She didn’t used to be.

  “What are you wearing?” I ask.

  Here we’re on firm ground. We discuss what shoes go best with the outfit she’s chosen, we segue to jewelry, specifically the little crystal drop earrings or the long, dangly red bead ones, and I catch Andrew watching me with that soft-faced, mellow look again. I smile at him. “Here,” I say to Chloe when we’ve run through all her accessories, “your father wants to say hi.”

  I miss her, oh, I miss her, I want her back. I was thinking of all the things we would do before I found out she wasn’t coming home, all the fun things we like to do together, and not just shopping—art galleries and ice skating, movies we’ve been dying to see. Staying u
p late watching TV with microwave popcorn and Coke floats and brownies made from a mix at one in the morning, snuggled under a blanket on the couch like a couple of cats. I miss the clean, rainy smell of her hair, the way her contacts make her wide blue eyes blink, the way she says “Mo-om” for a joke, mimicking the cadence of a different kind of teenager whose mother’s being a pain. When she’s really aggravated with me, Chloe gets quite dignified and calls me “Mother.” I miss that, too.

  “He’s about the same,” Andrew is telling her—she must have asked about her grandfather. “Not much change lately. I think he’s…yes, settling in. Finally.” He chuckles. “Well, not since that time. No, nothing since then, to speak of.”

  Nothing since Edward threw a vaseful of zinnias at the night nurse at his assisted-living place. Andrew can smile now, but it wasn’t funny then; we thought they were going to kick him out. His heart disease is bad enough, but now he’s going dotty, too.

  “Em, really? Well…No, well…” He looks at me with worried eyes.

  “What?” I mouth.

  “Well, yes, actually, we are. Yes, em, a restaurant, we just thought it…Isabel’s. In Takoma Park. Yes.” He laughs falsely. “Well, I guess your mother—I guess she didn’t feel like cooking just for the—just, em—she didn’t feel like cooking,” he finishes. Just for the two of us would be a lie, and Andrew doesn’t lie. Simultaneously, he says, “Well, here’s your mother” and I mutter, “Oh, give me that,” and he hands the phone back.

  “Hi,” I say brightly, sending him a look. Hopeless.

  “What’s wrong with Dad? He sounds funny.”

  “Well, he’s had a glass of wine.”

  “Oh.” Chloe laughs politely. “So you guys are having dinner out?”

  “Sure, why not? Why cook a big meal when we can get people to wait on us?”

  “I guess.” I can imagine her adding this to the mental list of changes going away to college has brought to her life, her loved ones. I do it, too. No one thing is a big deal, you just make a small adjustment in your outlook; it’s when you add them all up that you notice the sea change. Nothing is the same anymore.

  Which must be why I say next, “Don’t you miss us at all?” At least I say it in a humorous wail, and take care to laugh at the end. “Aren’t you ever coming home again?”

  “Mo-om, I was just there in November. One month ago, four mere weeks. And I do miss you, but I’ll be home again for the long weekend in February. And then don’t forget Easter.”

  I want to wheedle and nag, but we’ve already done that. She’ll bring her roommates here, finally, over spring break, but for now she’s spending Christmas and New Year’s in Vermont and Connecticut, because that’s where Val and Emily live. And all that’s left for a mother to do is pretend she’s thrilled for her.

  She has to go, they’re calling her, they’ll be late if they don’t leave right now. “Have a wonderful Christmas, sweetie.” “Okay, Mom; you, too.” “We love you.” “I love you, too. Merry Christmas!” “Merry Christmas, and be safe. Have fun, but be careful, whoever’s driving, tell them to be careful, and be happy.” “Okay, Mom. Love you.” “I love you, Chloe.”

  I could go on indefinitely like that but, wisely, Chloe hangs up. I take a deep drink of wine to keep from bursting into tears.

  Andrew’s a little misty-eyed himself. “She sounded fine,” he says consolingly. “Very happy, I thought.”

  “I know.”

  “She aced her history independent study paper, did she tell you?”

  “God, how did she get so smart? She’s smarter than you.” She’s following in his footsteps, too, majoring in history, which she’s always loved. She wants to teach it.

  “We sabotaged ourselves,” Andrew says. “Our daughter’s a tribute to our parental brilliance because she doesn’t need us anymore.” He makes a mock sad face, but personally I don’t see the joke.

  “It’s true,” I say. “Sometimes I think, what if she had a problem, she was a drug addict or she had fetal alcohol syndrome”—Andrew looks shocked—“no, I know, but then at least she’d need us. But she’s growing up in the most normal, easy way, and we’re just obsolete. Really, we’re just irrelevant. The Pattersons, at least—”

  “Oh, come on, Dash.”

  “I know, but at least they’ve got him for life, poor Teddy.” The Pattersons’ son has schizophrenia and can’t live on his own. “I’m just saying you’re right, we sabotaged ourselves, and now look, she’s gone.”

  “She’s not gone.”

  “She has her own private thoughts. She has a secret life, her own life. Yes, of course, it’s healthy and right and a good thing, but that doesn’t mean it’s not painful.”

  The food comes, thank God; otherwise I might get emotional and ruin the evening. That’s not supposed to happen till the end.

  As usual, I like the look of Andrew’s dinner better than mine. Ordinarily I would suggest sharing, but tonight I stick to my own plate, for the same reason I chose Isabel’s: to keep us from falling into those undermining little intimacies. And I make small talk, I amaze myself by how deftly I dance around the big coiled snake on the table. I can’t keep it up indefinitely, though, and by the time coffee comes I’m worn out. Andrew doesn’t waste any more time getting to the point.

  “Okay, Dash. What are we doing?”

  Deep sigh. “I can’t answer for me in one word, or one sentence. One paragraph, it’s too—”

  “Write a short story, then. An encyclopedia. I don’t care, but you have to explain to me what’s going on.” He pats his fingertips on the tablecloth very gently but intently. He’s so controlled. I know what he’d rather do is bang his fists.

  I bow my head. “Okay. I’m just…I’m not myself. I want a lot of things to change. I want change”—that’s it—“and you…” He’s watching me with a patient, baffled expression that makes me feel hopeless before I start. It’s as if we speak two different languages; I’m fluent in his, or at least I get the words, but mine is completely incomprehensible to him.

  “We have nothing in common,” I start over. “Last year, remember we were trying to decide on the ideal vacation, and I said Machu Picchu and you said riding our bikes around Colonial Williamsburg. There. I mean—”

  “We’ve never had anything in common. What’s new?”

  “That’s not it anyway, that’s just not helping right now. It’s more me than you,” I say, to be nice. “I hate getting old. I feel like the best is behind me.”

  “You’re not old.” He smiles patronizingly. “Wait’ll you’re fifty.”

  “I’m going to die, and for the first time in my life that’s not just a rumor. I believe it.”

  “Because of your mother.”

  “I suppose. I mean, yes, obviously. Without her there’s no…no guardrail between me and dying. She was the buffer.”

  “I can understand that.”

  “But that’s not it. It’s not death. I’m never going to be famous for anything, I’m never going to get better looking, my sex life has peaked, Chloe doesn’t need me anymore. All the best things are over.”

  “But what’s that got to do with us? That’s depression, you’re having a classic mid——”

  “If you say midlife crisis, Andrew, I swear I will throw this glass of water in your face.”

  He puts up his hands. He knows I’ll do it. “Far be it from me to minimize your experience. I want to validate your experience.”

  Snort.

  “I do. I’m not joking, I’m taking this very seriously. I think you could use some help. What about your friend Amy’s therapist, or a referral from him, somebody you could talk to about these things that are depressing you.”

  “I’m not depressed.”

  “Dash.” He leans forward. “Clearly—”

  “I’m not. I’m not depressed, Andrew, and I’m not going to some shrink who’ll put me on Prozac and make me talk for the next five years.”

  The waiter comes over to ask if we’d
like anything else. No, I say, just the check.

  Andrew is shocked. “You want to leave? But we’ve just started.”

  “I know, but I hate this place. Claustrophobia. Come on, let’s just go.”

  It’s better outside, even though it’s freezing. We parked our cars adjacent to each other in the lot; we stand next to mine, facing the busy street, cars whizzing by in both directions like it’s any night, not Christmas Eve. “Where the hell is everybody going?” I grouse, pulling on my gloves. “Why aren’t they at home?”

  “Why aren’t we?” Andrew ducks his head and shoves his hands in his pockets. The frosty exhale of his breath is like a cartoon balloon of frustration.

  “Look,” I say, “I know this is lousy. It probably seems selfish to you, but I can’t help it. If I could help it, I wouldn’t be doing it.”

  “That’s it? You’re finished telling me why you left? Because if you are—are you?” He’s shivering from the cold, but it’s his own fault, he doesn’t zip the lining into his overcoat until January 1. Why? Who knows. His little eccentricities, the hypochondria, the list making, the wacky but unalterable life rules—usually they irritate me, in fact more all the time, but now I feel a perilous tenderness.

  I slip my hand under his arm. “Sorry,” I say softly. “I hate this, too. Oh, I wish we—”

  “No.” He backs up. “No, I just want to know. Is that it, are you through? Because if you are—”

  “Because if I am, what? It doesn’t make sense?”

  He gives a humorless laugh. “You could say that.”

  “The worst possible sin in your book.”

  “It’s ridiculous, is what it is.”

  “Oh, but you didn’t want to—disparage my true feelings, you wanted to validate them. Thank you so much!”

  His eyebrows meet in the middle; his ascetic face looks anguished, Christ on the cross. “Dash, I don’t get it. How can I deal with it if I don’t get it? If you could, for two minutes, be reasonable. Is that possible? Two minutes.”