"Test time," an aide called out, knocking and walking through the door at the same moment. "We have to take Dr. Ward to X ray for a scan. It'll be a couple of hours—if you're going out, you might want to call before you come back."
As she bent to kiss Philip goodbye, a wave of dizziness swept over her. She straightened and concentrated on keeping her balance.
"Are you all right, Mrs. Ward?" the attendant asked.
"I'm fine," Karin told him, "I've been feeling a little woozy—I hope it's not the flu."
"Plenty of that around here," he answered, as he wheeled Philip out of the room.
She had to hold herself back, not to run through the lobby. She covered her mouth as she passed the flower shop to avoid the sweet, funereal smell of carnations. Outside, she held on to a post while she took in several large gulps of air; if I had to go back inside right now, she thought, I could not do it.
The music was loud enough to hear from the front door. The Who, Karin thought. That means she's at home. As she put her key in the lock, Marge opened the door from the inside.
"I can't find her," she said, "I got here about ten minutes ago, and I've been looking . . ."
Karin switched off Thea's stereo and the house seemed to swell with the silence. The women stood, listening. A tree limb brushed against the window; the wind was rising, it was going to rain. Karin began to tremble.
"Stay here," Marge said, "I'm going to make a more thorough sweep."
Karin could hear Marge as she entered each room . . . the spare room first (she would see that Karin slept there), then Dan's. She heard the closet door squeak open and close again. On down the hallway, into the master bedroom. Philip's room. Then Marge's voice, loud, calling: "Karin, come!"
Thea was huddled in a corner of Philip's big closet, her face just visible between the folds of his suitpants. Her expression was blank, empty, lost. A long thin wail escaped into the awful silence. Thea is screaming, Karin thought, until she felt the sound ripping out of her own throat. Thea crouched motionless, clutching to her chest an old leather case, and Karin knew exactly what was in it: Philip's father's straight razor.
Israel's arm was hurting him, I could tell by the way he favored it when he lifted my chair through the doorway. I pretended not to notice. I hadn't wanted to ask him to take me to Karin's, it was drizzling out and cold, and I knew he wasn't up to it but I also knew it would have angered him if I had asked anybody else.
On the drive over the bridge he had said to me, "I just keep thinking of how they were that night at the big party Mrs. McCord gave them down at Wildwood. And in Hawaii, at the luau on the beach. That poor sweet little girl . . ." I did not know if he meant Karin or Thea, and I did not want to interrupt to ask. There was a certain comfort in the low, biblical roll of his voice: "For the mountains will I take up a weeping and wailing, and for the habitations of the wilderness a lamentation."
Kit was already there, and Marge and Hank. Thea sat in a corner of the sofa, a quilt over her knees as if she were an invalid. She waved weakly to me, and managed a smile when Israel called out in one long breath, "Hello over there in the corner little Miss Thea Ward, registered California driver, when we going to the drag races darlin'?"
I took one look at Karin and I wanted to cry. Her eyes were rimmed in red. I reached for her hand and could not help but see her poor fingernails, bitten so deeply beneath the quick that they were bloody. "Dear child," I blurted, "you have got to have some relief."
"Exactly right," Hank Fromberg said, putting his arm around her firmly and leading her over to the sofa to sit next to Thea. "And that's what we're here to talk about, Karin . . . and Thea. Both of you need a respite . . . no, listen to me first Karin. May wants the two of you to come to Hawaii to stay with her for a little while. There is a very fine private school in Honolulu, Punahou, and we've talked to some people we know there, the Browns, their daughter Lynne is going there—you remember Lynne, Thea. She'll be happy to have you go to classes with her while you're there, if you want to."
Thea was looking at Hank intently, as if everything he was saying was of tremendous interest. He asked, "What do you think? Does that sound like a plausible idea, Thea? Going to Hawaii for a while?"
"Wait," Karin tried to cut in, "I don't see how . . ."
Thea began to cry then; she lowered her chin to her chest and sobbed quietly. "Darling," Karin said to her, "please, don't cry. Tell me, do you want to go to Hawaii?"
The child said nothing.
"Yes?" Karin prompted. "Would it help to get away for a bit?"
"I can't go back," Thea said, her voice rising with the threat of hysteria, "I can't see Daddy like that any more. I can't."
"All right," Karin said, petting her to quiet her down, "all right honey, you don't have to go, we'll figure it out."
Kit had been quiet all this while, but now she broke in, "We've all talked about this, Karin and Thea. Behind your backs, I'm afraid, because we are worried. We think that you should go to Hawaii together. I know it is hard to leave, but let me tell you something. Marge and I had a talk with the psychologist at the hospital today. He thinks that Philip is so overwhelmed with the need to deal with his family that he can't deal with what is going on within himself. He even believes that Philip might feel a sense of relief, if he knew you were someplace where you were getting some rest.
"There are therapists who could be brought in to work with him. And I will be able to help. As a matter of fact, I dropped by the hospital this afternoon, after Marge called, to take him a book about Morse code. I remembered Philip saying that he knew it once, and today when I asked him if he would like a refresher course he said yes. So that would be something I could work with him on while you are away. And you could take a copy with you, so when you get back you'll know it too.
"One more thing. I know you go in every afternoon, Karin, so I knew Philip would be wondering where you were today. I told him that Thea wasn't feeling well, and you had asked me to come and explain why you couldn't be there. I asked him if it upset him, not having you there, and he made the signal for 'no.' Obviously, he wanted me to explore that answer, and I tried to. I asked several different questions, but it was only when I said, 'Are you worried that Thea and Karin are pushing themselves too hard?' that he said 'yes.' What both of you have to remember is that he loves you, and that he is quite capable of being enormously worried about the effect his illness is having on you."
"Yes," Marge chimed in, "and that is the very best reason for you to go . . . don't you see? He will have a chance to think about himself if he knows that you are all right."
"Karin?" Thea asked in a tiny voice.
"Do you want to go, darling?" Karin asked.
"Yes," Thea said. "If it will help Daddy."
Karin looked at me. "Tell me what to do, Faith," she said.
"I can't tell you what to do, child," I answered, "but I do believe that if you ask Philip, and he says 'yes' he wants you to go, then you should go. You know we will keep close watch over him for you."
On the way home that night, Israel said rather wistfully, "I hope they go. I do believe Hawaii is a balm for the sorrowing soul. They could restore themselves there. If I had my druthers . . ."
"You don't need to finish," I told him, "I know where you'd be right now, if you had your druthers."
"You are right, lady Faith. Back in those blue Pacific islands." The rest of the way home he sang me songs that Kimo and the others had taught him, all about palm trees swaying and silver moons shining and the pretty wahines on the beach at Waikiki.
Kit came bustling into the hospital room, balancing a cup of coffee and a croissant—"my breakfast," she explained to Philip—with a tote bag filled with books and papers.
"Sorry I'm late but May called this morning just as I was heading for the door, and she wanted to talk. She's the one who usually speaks in shorthand because she is in such a rush, but not this morning. Which is well and good, because she had lots to tell me about Thea and Ka
rin and I took notes, so I could remember it all."
She stopped, turned, and looked at him, took a deep breath, smiled widely, and said, "Good morning."
Philip blinked once. "Yes," she echoed him.
"All right," she went on, "I'm going to slow down for a moment, have my breakfast, and tell you all the news. Then we can get down to the business of the day. But first, have they made you comfortable? Yes, good."
She smiled again. "I'm going to have to get used to the sound of my own voice, I suppose. And of being alone with you. Hank said you asked that your visitors be limited, is that right? Yes. Well, that makes sense, if we're going to get any work done.
"The news from Hawaii now. At the end of the first week, May says that Thea seems much like her old self, though she still gets weepy when she talks about you. She has had one session with a psychiatrist who has had quite a lot of experience with adolescent trauma, and Thea said she would like to continue seeing him. May is more worried about Karin. She says she sleeps too much, and seems lethargic. But she has stopped biting her fingernails, which May takes as a sign that she is calming down. They are staying at May's apartment in Honolulu, and Karin is talking about coming back at the end of the week. May says it doesn't do to try to push her right now, but she thinks it is going to take longer for both of them to settle down and get their balance. May knows somebody who has a modest little house to sublet which is up in the hills in the Makiki Heights section of Honolulu, within walking distance of Punahou School, and it looks like they may move up there tomorrow. Yesterday Thea went to class with the little friend of the Frombergs, and she liked it so much she wants to sit in next week, too. The school is tough to get into, but we've squared it with them—don't ask me how, I don't want to have to tell you." She looked at him, grimaced, and said: "Oh to hell with it, you know anyway. May did a little endowing . . . but she can afford it, believe me." She laughed, and added, "I hope you think that's funny."
She paused to sip her coffee and looked at him over the cup; his eyes were fixed on her face. She thought, "He is still such a fine-looking man." Then she smiled and said it out loud. "I'm telling you this because it suddenly occurred to me that it would be wonderful if we could just tap into each other's minds, and forgo the words. And then I thought, why not try to do that, as much as I can, by telling you my thoughts. Not doctored, not edited for any particular consumption, just as they are—unvarnished, sometimes unlovely, but as true as I can make them."
He blinked once. Yes.
"Are you sure?" she asked, and he blinked again.
"This could be an interesting experiment," she told him, adding, "or it could be a disaster. I've never allowed anyone into my thoughts before." She took a sharp breath, remembering. "Oh my God," she said, staring at him, "that's what you accused me of—when you were thirty-one and I was forty-one, all those years ago—you said I would never allow you all the way into my mind, my thoughts."
He closed his eyes, and opened them again slowly.
"You were wrong, Philip . . . I am letting you in, now. A little late perhaps—but not too late, I hope. I am sixty-nine now, so you would be fifty-nine. The difference in our ages was terrifying to me then, and it's terrifying to me now. But now, I think, I can face it. And part of the reason . . . to be cruelly honest . . . is because of what's happened to you."
She leaned close, put her hand over his. "Nobody knows for sure how much you are going to be able to do for yourself. There are some hopeful signs, the doctors say. You know that much. What you don't know is that how well you recover has a great deal to do with how much you want to recover. You're going to live another fifteen years or more, but how well you live is something else."
She stopped, turned her back on him, and looked out the window. Then she turned back, resolve in her face, and said, "I have to tell you that I take a certain comfort in not knowing if what I am about to say is going to embarrass you. But here it is. I can't tell you why, Philip, but the prospect of working with you, of helping you get back as much mobility, as much speech, as you possibly can, excites me tremendously. If only I could crawl inside of you right now and turn on all the switches that say 'Go, Kit! Do it! I'll work with you as hard as I can!' I would, because I want it so much. I have been feeling so tired with my life, Philip. This may sound melodramatic, but I think you could be my salvation. This is the first real challenge I've felt for a very long time . . . this is so hard, not knowing what you are thinking about any of this . . . I'll try to explain—Philip, it wasn't right for us all those years ago. We didn't make a mistake, it could not have worked, not then . . . you had too much to do, and I was never any good at tagging along, you know that. I didn't do a very good job of explaining it at the time, I know I hurt you . . . but I have so much feeling for you left over from that time. It surprised me, too, truly it did." She paused to wipe her eyes and said, "I'm sorry."
He blinked his eyes, twice. No.
She smiled, put her hand over his again and said, "You're right. I'm not sorry."
TWENTY-FIVE
THEY RAN, ONE in front of the other along the sun-splotched path that paralleled the beach. May, tall and dark, in the lead and Karin, small and blond, behind. They ran in rhythm to each other, their strides measured. The only sound they made was the pull of their breathing, and the crunch of dry seed pods under their running shoes.
Finally Karin called, "Time-out. The banyan tree."
May pulled up under the vast, spreading tree, grabbing on to one of the dangling roots that dropped from the branches and swaying with it. "You're getting there," she said as Karin collapsed in the leafy shade.
"I certainly hope so," Karin answered, pulling off the headband she had been wearing so that her hair sprang out. "It's all frizzy—that's what this climate does to me."
"Makes you frizzy? Looks to me like you're reverting to hippiehood."
"And you're reverting to sado-masochism, making me run every day . . . besides, I never looked like a hippie."
"Correction. You never smelled like a hippie."
"That's because I hate patchouli oil." Karin laughed.
May considered her, and said, "God, it's good to hear you laugh again."
"Well, if I may return the compliment, I have to say it is good to see you looking so happy, and I don't think it is totally from the sheer enjoyment you get from torturing me in these exercise outings."
"Right you are. It's because I had my Wednesday morning Hayes fix—about an hour ago. The aura lasts about half a day, then I go into withdrawal, wanting him so badly my teeth ache. Not to mention other tender parts. It's so crazy, K—all those months without him, and now it's pure agony if I don't talk to him every day. His voice is enough to turn me on."
"How much longer till you wind up the program here?"
May sighed. "Obregon isn't making it easy. He acts as if I'm deserting the ship. I think he would like for it to go on forever—and why not? He gets the lion's share of the credit while Tim and I do all the work. But the bulk of the work is in place. It's actually become pretty boring—luckily, Tim doesn't think so. But I am definitely going to be done by June, that's the one thing I am certain about. This morning Hayes talked about setting the date. We want to keep it simple—maybe a small ceremony in one of the little churches on the Big Island. What do you think?"
"I think that would be perfect. . ."
"And you will be my witness. That's as much as we've planned."
They walked slowly to the car, talking about May's plans, May's future. "It's so strange how everything has fallen into place," she said. "After Hong Kong, it just seemed as if all the obstacles were surmountable." She laughed. "I didn't make it over the Burma Road, but that fiasco somehow made everything between Hayes and me possible. Wouldn't Sam hate that? If being together means I have to go to Timbuktu, then that's where I'll go. Hayes thinks we can find a place where both of us can work. Wherever we end up, being together is the important thing."
Karin's face was soft wi
th reflected pleasure. She listened, nodded, asked questions. When they reached May's car they opened the doors and rolled down the windows. They faced each other over the top of the car, waiting for it to cool. Suddenly May blurted: "You just look so sad, I, I wish . . ." She could not say what she wished.
Karin rested her chin on her arms and thought. "You asked me to be your witness. Now you be mine. Help me do what I should do."
"Should is a worrisome word."
Karin ignored the remark. "Thea's doctor says she is doing very well. He doesn't feel she was seriously suicidal. The thing is, we've been here almost three weeks and every time I try to talk to her about going back, she turns me off. She has been going to school every day with Lynne, but now she is doing the homework, which means she no longer thinks of herself as a visitor. And she is talking about taking a dance class—with a woman who teaches at the University of Hawaii. There's even a boy who likes her . . . and this weekend she is planning to go off on a senior class trip. It's making me very nervous—we need to get back."
"Need?" May said, "What do you want to do?"
Karin slapped her hand, hard, on the hot top of the car. "Can't you hear me? What I want has nothing at all to do with it. What I want is not the issue and never was. We can't all go around doing what we want to do."
The look on May's face made her say, "Oh, I don't mean you, May—I'm talking about myself. I've been doing what I want to do instead of what I should be doing. Philip is my husband and my place is with him but I don't know what to do about Thea."
They drove in silence for a time. "What does Kit have to say about Philip's progress?" May asked, changing tactics.
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