The Resurrection of Joan Ashby

by Cherise Wolas

  The overdose had been drastic, but it could have been tragic, had she not sacrificed herself, stayed home as he built Solve, said to him again and again, “Whatever you’re doing to yourself, you need to stop.” She had seen what was coming. He hadn’t suffered from pica as a child, but he had been addicted nonetheless, eating all that grass and dirt, chewing on all those stones, and one of the theories about pica had stated it demonstrated a tendency toward addiction. She had not been wrong in her assessment of him. Her diatribes must have gotten through, because he was getting help, but she could easily imagine him decrepit and wasted, friendless and homeless, rotting his insides with alcohol, puncturing his skin with needles, his teeth nubbed and yellowed, his laughter unhinged. He swore there had been no needles, mostly pills, a lot of pills, and a lot of alcohol, a good amount of weed.

  When he said, “You’re off the hook, Mom,” guilt had heaved up within her because despite all she had done, he must have felt the equivocal nature of their relationship over his lifetime, sensed her resentment toward him in the last seven years. She had not always hidden it well. What else could she have done when his genius wouldn’t be ignored, his ascendency an uncontrollable force, and she powerless to counteract what Martin enabled. As devastated as she was, each time Eric said “You’re not to blame,” the guilt eased the littlest bit. She stayed in Oregon for a month, called Daniel each day when she returned to the hotel, breaking their pact, talking about Eric.

  After ten weeks at the Oregon rehab, Eric was taking a sabbatical, thinking about what kind of life he wanted to live in the future. While Solve ran in his absence, he had taken himself far away. Of all the places her brilliant, wealthy, younger son could have gone, he chose India, the place she had never been to but considered her own. He sent her emails that said, “You and Dad should come visit.”

  * * *

  Being married for so long to a doctor, she knew it was a fallacy that every seven years a person becomes entirely new at the cellular level. Each type of cell has its own life-span—months, days, weeks—dying and being replaced all of the time, except for brain cells, which must endure for a lifetime, and are never replaced when they die. But Joan did not care, she liked the idea that every cell in her body was fresh and new, because she had survived those seven unbearable years.

  23

  There was the cyclonic aftermath of Eric: the brutal discussions and arguments she and Martin had about him, his overdose, her time with him in Oregon watching him shake and shiver while Martin performed surgeries in Hungarian villages without cell service. She and Martin were barely talking when Joan finally pulled Words from the box in late February. And then, having endured so much, she could not turn past the title page, fearful that the gorgeous book she had written would not be as she remembered.

  Sammy Treeling, the boy who held her hand at naptime in kindergarten, who peed during piano hour in first grade, his puddle soaking the flipped ends of Joan’s flowered dress, who gave her a candy necklace in second grade and bit off a bunch with his buckteeth, saved her. They had never seen each other again after Sammy’s family moved away, but he popped into her mind like a gift and she had typed his name into the computer in the study, shocked when his obituary appeared. In the ground, or his ashes thrown to the wind, or dissolved in some body of water two years before. The undisclosed cause of his death like a story untold. He left behind a wife and three daughters and his position as chief of oncology at an Arizona hospital, and she saw pictures of his family at one of their daughters’ weddings. When she figured out the dates, she realized he was dead within a year of that happy day. Joan hoped that his ending was unforeseen, that he died in an instant, that he was not ailing when the family posed for that picture.

  She had thought about what she wanted her own obituary to say. The personal in a penultimate paragraph, the lede that a substantial writer was dead, followed by a lengthy list of her works: the miraculous and long-lived story collections, Words of New Beginnings, the other inchoate novels waiting for her to mix and deliver, a list of the awards and prizes her achievements had earned. Why not gild her death notice? She would only ever have one.

  Standing at the tall study windows, she had stared out at the frozen white landscape, the trees wearing icicles, thinking no one knew when they would cease to exist. She sent out prayers then for Sammy and his wife and his daughters, for Eric’s continued recovery, for Daniel’s contentment, for Martin, and for herself and the novel waiting to be freed, the other work she would one day leave behind. An hour later, she set the title page of Words aside. A hard eye over the next months on the book she spent nine years writing. In the end, euphoric that the novel’s power and prescience had not been diluted, the story not made redundant by its seven years in the box, she made no changes at all.

  * * *

  All of that is the past, Joan thinks, now that it is late spring, Memorial Day weekend. On Tuesday, she will call Volkmann, tell her about Words, send her the book. There, on the limestone island, is the copy for Volkmann, and in a box tied with a red ribbon, the copy she will give Martin tonight at the dinner she planned, reservations at eight. He will have questions when she tells him about the book’s existence: when did she write it, why did she keep it a secret, why didn’t she send it to Volkmann immediately when she finished. Those questions, and more, each resisting the simple answers he prefers, each answer containing a universe of truths, like a pea, next to another pea, next to another pea, in a pod.

  She will not blame Martin, though she will want to, and has in the past. There is nothing now to gain by stating explicitly she wrote secretly because he had invaded her privacy, because her daily life had been a thick vine wrapped around her neck, that she had not sent the book to Volkmann because one of them needed to be the responsible, stalwart parent. It hadn’t worked perfectly, but at least Eric made it through the worst, is safe.

  She will not describe again to Martin how punishing these past seven years have been, how angry she still is that she shouldered the bulk of the emotional burden, that he refused to give credence to her warnings. She has yelled enough about all of that.

  She will say to Martin that it seems the right time for her to return to the life she had when they met: Eric may be only five months past his attempted self-destruction, but based on his emails from India, it seems as if he has found a better path for himself, even if it is not a path Martin likes; and Daniel, he’s happy working on some mysterious project he refuses to discuss, but tired perhaps, something she hears in the tone of his voice; and Martin himself is reducing his surgical travels, finding new interests—the cycling, the cooking—so it’s her turn now.

  She will keep to herself her own astonishment that the memories of these seven years are beginning to fade, that the human mind can cauterize the misery, allow a strong woman to pick back up where she was, to recover her inherent power, unleash her personal intention, grab at what she wants, now that she is again free.

  24

  Barefoot on their front walk, amidst all the blooms, Joan watches Martin as he drives past and waves to her, his sleek black bike attached to the trunk of his sleek black car. He gives a last honk, then crests the hill, and disappears from her sight.

  He is headed out again to cycle with the men of Men on Bicycles, his new pals who throw their middle-aged fists into the air to prove they are still adventurous and dynamic, eons away from loosening their hold on the spoils and mercies of life, insisting that they, and their cycling, be viewed with appropriate gravity. They biked seventy-five miles yesterday in the holiday heat. Their goal this Memorial Day Monday is eighty miles. He has told her he might not be home until dark.

  It is only seven, already sunny, sure to be hot. She walks through the gardens, headed down to the lap pool in the glen. She pulls off her shirt, steps out of her shorts, and dives in. Easy music on her waterproofed iPod for her first warm-up laps, sunlight glittering when she breaks through the water. The next song is raucous and pounding, and she thinks of
Martin in his car, the windows rolled down, his own music at a shattering decibel, the hour drive to meet his cohorts, anticipating the challenge of the steep hills MOB is going to climb today. Then she is slicing through the water, feeling herself moving at an inhuman speed, wondering whether, from above, it might look as if she is merely ambling along.

  She tries losing herself in the physical exertion, in the music, but she keeps thinking how Martin did not ask the hard questions she was expecting last night at dinner, after he heard her confession; how he did not interpret her secrecy in writing the book as nefarious, did not ask her to explain how she engaged in such a substantial undertaking for nine years without breathing a word. She would have absolutely asked him those questions, and more, if the situation had been reversed, would have wondered what it said about their marriage if she found he had kept such a secret from her. Instead, he ordered a very fine Malbec from the sommelier, and after asking, “Did you really write the novel on your antiquated typewriter?” said he thought the gardening shed was a perfect office for her, that he was going to buy her a new laptop and printer, and get her one of those small speakers she could plug in, listen to music when she wanted.

  She swims for nearly an hour, then stretches out on a chaise. The stalks of maiden grass she planted when the pool was built have grown tall, stand proud and silvery in the morning sun, making the glen feel enchanted, as if this is a place where fairies or sprites might reside once again. She revels in the heat, in her nakedness, in the future that awaits, but when she closes her eyes, she sees herself last night in the restaurant, setting down the red-bowed box in front of Martin, hears again what he said: “I’m here for you. I’ll do anything you need me to do.” And Joan remembers what she thought, her instantaneous and unspoken response: Where were you the last seven years? I don’t need you now, not for this, this is mine.

  25

  She is dreaming about a middle-aged man who never married, whose last sexual congress was back when he still had hair. He is ferrying his elderly mother somewhere, and although he is a good driver, he can see his speed worries her, the way she braces herself against the door, communicating her displeasure, her wish that he slow down. She fiddles with the air vents because the car is too cold for her taste. Little puffs of exasperation from her tight mouth, her tics and sighs impossible to ignore, but he refuses to look over. He is thinking pills or poison most likely; he doesn’t want blood, and as much as he wants her gone, he does not need her to struggle. Disposing of her body will be the tricky part, and his daydream, on this quiet back road, is interrupted by a brace of luxury cars, empty and parked in a field. Where are the people who drove all the way out here? Then he sees, up ahead, a flock of cyclists in their bright electric plumage. He passes carefully as his shrunken mother says, “Look at all those stupid peacocks,” and he instantly wants her buried in unyielding ground, not even a tombstone atop her grave, and he, free of his filial obligations, astride one of those bikes, his stomach toned, his legs ropy with muscles, wearing the tight shorts and the helmet, joined in fraternal goodwill, connected by the shared act of biking in unison, flying over the road with men he could call his friends. When the cyclists fade from his rearview mirror, he thinks that out here, still far from town, from civilization, this might be the place to do the deed, wonders whether he would be able to handle the sloppy, guilty aftermath, if, by any chance, there might be a shovel in the trunk of his car.

  When Joan wakes, the sensation of hatred so close to the skin is still running through her. She understands the bike riders, considering what Martin is doing, but the matricide makes no sense.

  She presses a finger to her thigh, sees redness on top of her tan, and wishes she didn’t always forget to apply sunscreen before she swims. She wraps herself in the towel, gathers her clothes and her iPod, and walks up from the glen to the top of the knoll. She can smell the lilacs and the field of lavender from here. In early spring, without a word passing between them, Martin assumed Joan’s long-standing role as gardener, mulching, pruning, planting, fertilizing, and the flowers have risen up, undulant fields of intense colors. Her plots of staid vegetables are still in place, but Martin has expanded upon them, researching the unfamiliar, purchasing the seeds, planting them, tending to the shoots, yanking out encroaching weeds, feeding them his own mixture for their growth. The Ronde de Nice zucchinis, currant tomatoes, golden beets, Rat Tail radishes, and all the other difficult vegetables he is nurturing are growing with great success. Here is the other new plot he planted—fennel, chives, lime-basil, cilantro, and lemongrass—herbs he uses in the experimental meals he had been cooking for them since the start of the year. Had she known he had culinary talents, she would have put him to work after Fancy left, when making dinners for growing boys and sometimes a hungry husband had been a nightly chore she bore alone. She inhales the tangy aroma of the cilantro, crushes a blade of the lime-basil, breathes in its tart smell. Had Martin sensed the coming changes months ago, before she told him about the book last night?

  A ladybug lands on her finger, and she carries it with her through the gardens, until it flies away.

  The weeping willow is forty yards ahead and behind it is the gardening shed she intends to turn into her writing studio. When she stepped in there yesterday, the windows of wavy old glass reduced the sun’s glare, turned the light serene, transformed the gardens she built into pointillist paintings. She had thought of Fancy, the letters they traded for a few months after her departure, but they lost touch long ago, and she has no idea if Fancy and Trudy gave in to their love, raised children together, if their experiences have been easier than her own. Tomorrow, she’s going to move all the instruments of gardening labor into the garage.

  Up the bluestone tile path to the patio, with its outdoor table and chairs and Martin’s upgraded barbecue, and through the glass doors into the sunny kitchen. She makes a pot of coffee and pulls down her regular mug, finds a folded piece of paper inside. It is a note from Martin, his first in years: I love you. She knows he’s deluding himself, thinking little will change when she fully resumes her life as Joan Ashby.

  She fills the mug with coffee, takes a sip, and wonders what Daniel will say when she tells him about the book. Since Eric’s time in rehab, no longer do they ramble for forty-five minutes or an hour, their daily conversations falling away. Now he keeps their conversations short, asks if Eric is still doing all right, if he’s enjoying India, adroitly eludes her attempts to find out more about his mysterious project, says that he is finally following his creative heart, which she hopes is true. He came home only twice last year, and has not been here at all this year. Last year, when Eric was still running Solve from the house, Daniel showed up for a weekend in June, surprising her when he asked to read her collections, and then another weekend in November, when he hugged her and said he thought the stories were wonderful. Brief praise, when it had taken him all of the summer and nearly all of the fall to read and respond. But it was a sweet moment, and she had batted away the hurt because she owed Daniel for providing her with rare sweet moments these last years.

  She has let things be, simply enjoying the feeling of being carefree, but now she wants to hear what he is up to. She wants to know the details of his mystery project, how exactly he’s heeding his creative heart beyond his articles for Think Inc., if he’s received emails from Eric about the letters he’s writing to the Dalai Lama seeking a personal meeting. She wants mostly to tell Daniel about Words.

  The ring of the phone startles her, smashing into the eleven o’clock quiet of the kitchen, Martin’s new gadget calling out Daniel Manning, Daniel Manning, Daniel Manning. She was going to call him when she refilled her mug, but she’s so pleased he’s phoning.

  “Love,” Joan says when she answers.

  26

  When Joan hangs up the phone, her skin feels too tight, as if she might at any moment start shedding like a snake. Rubbing up against any rough surface, a rock, a tree trunk, until the old skin peels away. Sna
kes are said to be in the blue when they are about to shed, and all at once she is feeling that way too, a little blue that Daniel rushed off the phone, did not give her time to ask her questions, to tell him her news. Soon, she will have no further interest in mothering even him, and she would have liked fifteen minutes to talk about the coming changes. She has put in her time and more than paid her dues.

  In the study, the ergonomic chair fights her as it always does, resisting her adjustments, her pleas to submit to her will. She used to think Eric’s minions had screwed it up, but each time Martin demonstrates how the levers work, raising the height of the chair, firming up the supporting back, everything moves as it should, and he says, “You can tame this baby.” Defeated again, she props herself up on one bent leg and thinks she needs a booster seat.

  Annabelle Iger has sent her an email.

  Joan,

  Men: Many, as ever, and delighted that the years are behind me when every boudoir dalliance involved the thought: Do I want a kid or not? I never did, you know, but societal dictums and upbringings are hard to shake.

  Home: I bought the apartment next to mine, and the plans for combining the two should be finished in a couple of weeks. Work to start when building permits come through. In six months there will be plenty of space for you to come and stay, a wing, or something of the sort, of your own. You can come for a good long visit or the rest of our lives. Start writing again! Here’s hoping you’ve finally decided that marvelous Martin and married life and children are not worth it. Well, Eric’s troubles might have demonstrated that to you already. But how much fun we would have when you weren’t working away. Though I know you once were so intense and focused, and could be again, I’d stand over you with a whip, just for the fun of it.