by Lee Woodruff
But it wasn’t until after she hung up that she realized she had not gotten the full name of the woman who had called, or any information about how to reach her. She’d had a slight accent, Hispanic, Margaret thought. It had to be Julia, Roger’s whore, the woman whose loopy, girlish handwriting had substituted a heart for the dot over an I in that long-ago note to her husband.
Margaret closed her eyes against images of what the two of them might have been doing when this happened. She realized how much a part of her had believed Roger’s increasing presence at home, their recent intimacies, had allowed her to hope that his dalliances were in the past. Whatever they’d been doing, they’d most certainly been in each other’s company when he’d had this stroke. This brazen woman had most likely brought him to the hospital. The guilt in her voice had been palpable.
For a moment Margaret felt the surge of a fighter and then she stifled the urge to laugh. The situation was so absurd, so ridiculous. This was like those late-night made-for-TV movies when the philandering husband is discovered in bed with his mistress. But this was real life, her life, and this was her husband. After all of her efforts to build a close-knit, stable family life, to protect and burnish Roger’s respected image in the children’s eyes, now she was left with this sloppiness on his part, this tawdriness. She might be able to look the other way at Roger’s quiet out-of-town infidelities, but public humiliation was another story. She stiffened in the chair, seething, gripping the phone tightly as her thoughts collided.
Outside a breeze played through the blue spruce in the backyard, ruffling the branches like a skirt. Absentmindedly Margaret reached to rub her forehead. She had to call Stu and the girls, but for the moment this all seemed too complicated, too fraught with ugly details that might begin to unravel.
A stroke. Damn him. She knew enough to understand this wasn’t good. People recovered in vastly different ways. A kernel of panic began to bloom in the pit of her stomach, and she beat it back. She needed to call the kids, the airlines. She would need much more information, but the key was to remain calm. Margaret took another minute to collect her thoughts, to regain her composure and get control of the fury and the fear she now felt. Yes, that was it—fury—at Roger’s sexual avarice, his total disregard for all of them. And now, here she was, headed to Florida to assess the wrecked hull of his life. Of their life. He had done this to them all.
A small wren hung tightly to a branch in the crab apple tree. The bird riveted Margaret as it cocked its head, examining her with one eye and then the next. Breathe in through the nose and out through the mouth, she told herself. Calming breaths. When Margaret had regularly taken yoga at the YMCA, this is what she had learned. In … and out … she could feel some of her anxiety retreating as she exhaled. Slowly she bent at the waist to retrieve the dropped book, smoothing the pages where it had landed facedown. She sat for just one moment more, staring out the window and reaching for equanimity.
She was struck by the irrational thought that if she simply stayed in the chair, reopened the book on her lap, she could reverse time, pretend that none of this had ever happened. She could go back to life just the way it was before the phone call. Let Roger and his mistress figure this one out. In that moment, she was aware of being precisely in the center of a dividing line between her before and after.
When the girls were little, she had accompanied Roger on a business trip to London. One of the wives’ junkets had been to the Greenwich Royal Observatory, where the official Greenwich mean time clock was located, and the imaginary line of demarcation, the prime meridian of the world, was engraved on a plaque in the ground.
They had visited the museum on a gray English day; the earth was muddy, and she recalled that the main street of the town had been lined with the intricately painted signs of cozy British pubs. At the maritime museum, she had waited for her turn with the other spouses and then straddled the actual line near the clock where the planet’s hemispheres divide, posing for a picture. For those few moments in time, she’d had one foot in each half of the world. Although there’d been nothing physically special or magical about the plot on which she’d stood, she recalled the weight of the moment, the sensation of being in two worlds at once and the distinct but fleeting experience of time standing still.
Her life now hovered on the cusp of change. A terrible thing had happened to Roger, but at this precise intersection in time, contemplating both distant memories and the uncertainty of the future, she knew she was standing on the lip between past and future. She had not yet taken a step forward into her new unwritten life. Margaret let out her breath forcefully, and as if mirroring her, the wind outside her kitchen window blew a sharp staccato gust and the branch swung upward, startling the wren into flight. Margaret picked up the phone to call her son first. Next would be her travel agent.
29
Maura could almost feel the warm slant of the late afternoon sunlight in her dream. She was down at the beach, near Lake Michigan, not far from the Navy Pier, closer to the cramped apartment where she and Pete had lived when they were first married. James was little, toddling on unsteady legs, falling into the sand and then laughing and scrambling back up to his feet.
It was a Chicago summer day, a bold cobalt blue with a line of big, puffy clouds on the sill of the horizon where it met the lake. A steady breeze fluttered off the water, and the waves kept an even tempo in the humid midwestern air. Maura squatted in the sand. In the dream she could actually feel the granules between her toes, smell the almost iron, bracing tang of the Great Lake’s water. She stretched out her arms as wide as they would go, and James began to run toward her with that wobbling gait that little children adopt on an uneven surface.
Just as she was about to grab James, to hold him, he had shape-shifted from a healthy, happy child into the older, broken, injured boy that she had held in her arms on the road. A part of her knew that she shouldn’t move him, but still she had gone to comfort him. The mother part of her had responded instinctively, and now in her dream she was holding him up, supporting his head, as a dark stain spread over her jeans and onto her lap. Far in the background, she could hear a siren approaching, but James was simultaneously disappearing from her grasp, melting and dissolving into nothingness.
Maura awoke rattled and sweaty. She rolled over and looked out the window to clear her head. The dream had seemed so sharp featured, so real. And then the shocking news about her father invaded her train of thought with a whoosh. A stroke. It was inconceivable. Maura’s eyes filled with tears thinking about what her father would look like, unresponsive in a hospital bed. It was almost too much to bear; memories of James in the ICU less than a year ago sent her mind tumbling backward, the antiseptic smells, the bright lights and beeping machines. Too many hospitals, she thought morosely. It would take all of her strength to see her once vivacious and vital father today. But she would need to be strong for her mother. There was an infinite justice in being able to support her now, after the many months Margaret had worked to ease her own grief.
Maura wiped her eyes, slid out of the bed, and ventured into Ryan’s room. She craved the manner of reassurance that only her children could provide, and she bent to take in his sleeping smell, pulling up and adjusting his blankets.
Heading toward the shower, hoping that Pete would keep sleeping, Maura was not ready to lose the very real feeling in the dream of being close to her son, but the pictures were already a receding vapor trail.
She stood under the hot spray of water and forced herself to look ahead to the kids’ schedules and the babysitters she had patched together to get to Florida. Her mother-in-law and Erin had offered to pick up the slack while Pete was at work. Absentmindedly she rubbed her hands up her shins and reached for the razor to shave her legs. Something about that simple act made her feel more polished, more complete on the outside. She lingered one more minute in the shower’s stream, giving in to the heat, and tilting her head back to feel the pressure on her shoulder muscles. Turning the wa
ter off, she climbed out and twisted a towel deftly around her body.
Maura was spooning coffee into the filter when she heard the water from the shower upstairs splashing through the pipes in the kitchen wall, signaling that Pete was up. She was surprised Sarah was still asleep and took advantage of the time to quickly pack Ryan’s lunch, pulling a juice box out of the freezer and cutting an apple into small pieces.
The February school break officially began tomorrow, but she would leave today for the hospital in Tampa. Last year, as a family, they had all gone to Disney World, but in the aftermath of James’s death, neither she nor Pete had much enthusiasm for making vacation plans this year. In the end that had been a good thing. Her father’s stroke and the severity of his condition had stunned them all, rocked the foundations of the extended family. It was hardest on their mother, who was still living out of a hotel in Tampa, hoping to take her husband home as soon as they’d allow. Gradually, Roger was gaining strength, although they had all pruned back their expectations. The hope was that he would be more lucid and mobile soon.
Pete had really chipped in to help once they’d received the awful news, urging her to go to Florida right after it had happened, to accompany her mother, but she’d staggered the trips with her siblings. He was taking time off work to watch the kids and would spend the first few days of the break with them at her family’s cabin on Sister Bay in Door County. His parents would be joining them to help with the grandkids.
Maura wondered, for a second, if and how to raise the subject of Pete’s drinking on this trip. The pace of it had more or less remained the same, and she was relieved it hadn’t accelerated. She knew, or at least she was pretty sure, that he would never drive with the kids after a few beers, but Pete had never taken them both away alone before. And this was for three nights. But given the fragile peace between them, she was wary of bringing up the subject and insulting or demeaning him. He was being so responsive with the kids, so supportive of her need to get to her father’s bedside.
Maura knew that a person had to want to stop drinking. They had to want it deep inside themselves. And alcohol assuaged that place of loss that had been punched out when James died. He was not a sloppy drunk, but she knew the booze for now had become a blunting mechanism, something to take the edge off. Pete drank to forget, to fall asleep, and to quiet his mind. And the muzzled responsibility she felt for James’s death made it difficult to criticize him, yet she was worried for Ryan and Sarah too.
Erin had suggested they go to a therapist, which would at least provide them with a starting point, a way to acknowledge what was happening and throw a life preserver at the problem. But the effort required just to begin was enormous, hunting down the right person, talking Pete into it, making the appointment, sitting there, stiff limbed and noncommunicative at first. It seemed like a stretch. Pete didn’t put much stock in baring his soul, and she had a hard time envisioning him in talk therapy. But perhaps the real reason she resisted, the honest reason, was that she was afraid of exactly what might bubble up. Therapy carried the risk of releasing all of the feelings and the secrets she had worked so hard to stuff down. Her unarticulated sorrow, guilt, and love had become a dam. And the thought of disturbing that, of dismantling it, felt absolutely terrifying and insurmountable. But she knew they didn’t really have a choice at this point. Maura was determined to raise the subject of therapy when he returned from the camping trip.
Pete thumped down the stairs, reeking of aftershave, a drunk’s camouflage, she thought cynically. “I’ve got the sleeping bags out in the basement with some of the other supplies,” he called over his shoulder. “Would be great if you could deal with some of the food. You know, the basics that the kids need. I’m sure my mom will fill in the rest.” He opened the freezer and grabbed the box of toaster waffles.
“The cooler is in the garage, I think,” said Maura. “I can fill it with sodas and juice boxes for Sarah. And I’ll set out some of the things like their vitamins and Ryan’s favorite cereal.”
“That would be great.” Pete popped a frozen honeycombed waffle into the toaster.
“Pete?”
“Yeah.”
“Will you leave the beer at home for this one?” Her heart thumped wildly, and she couldn’t meet his eyes. She had gone out on a limb, but far too much was at stake. Did he even understand what a responsibility it would be to take two kids camping by himself, one of them only three? Pete looked at her for a moment, steely, and then his features softened.
“Pete,” she began in a conciliatory tone. She was braced to backtrack, to mitigate the blow.
“Maura, I get it. I promise. No alcohol. I’d never do that with the kids. I was going to pack a few beers for the cabin, when we get to Sister Bay. But I won’t if that makes you uncomfortable.” He pulled her close and held her gaze. Maura softened, surprised at how effortless it had been. She’d been braced for an explosion that hadn’t come.
For just a moment before Ryan bustled into the kitchen with his backpack, she laid her cheek against Pete’s chest. Maura felt the regularity of his heartbeat through his rib cage, and he wrapped his arm around her back as their son joined them.
“Group hug,” Ryan called out heartily, smiling, and they all laughed.
“Breakfast, Ry. I’ve got oatmeal,” she said.
“I’ve got to go to work, buddy,” said Pete. “Today is the big day, we leave for Door County after school. Special trip, just the kids and Daddy.” Ryan nodded somberly, as if entrusted with a secret.
“And you, Mama.” Pete turned to her playfully, animating his voice for his son’s benefit. “I hope you get some rest in between helping with your dad. You need to give Grandma a break, but you need one too.” She nodded.
“Erin’s going to take you to O’Hare later this morning, right?”
“Yup. After I get the kids to school. My flight is at noon.”
Pete filled a stainless steel travel mug with coffee and moved toward Maura, pulling her into his chest and then tilting her chin up toward his, studying her. He bent to kiss her and she relaxed into the embrace.
“I love you,” he said, giving her one last peck on top of her head. “Take care of yourself. And your dad,” he said solemnly. She reached to give him one last hug, suddenly unwilling to let the moment go.
That morning Maura gathered the kids’ snowsuits and clothes, and began to pack a suitcase for her own trip. Locating the cooler out in the garage, she emptied the refrigerator ice bin into it and then set the whole thing on the back deck, where it was cold enough to remain frozen.
She stood for a moment staring at the bleak landscape of her backyard. It was almost surreal to think that by the end of the day she would be in Florida. The weather had been hovering around the seventies and was sunny, according to her brother. But the temperature was the only facet of her trip that would resemble a vacation. She knew she would spend most of her day inside the hospital with her parents. Hopefully she could truly relieve her mother and convince her to take a break and get outside the building.
Looking at the cooler, Maura thought again about Pete and the kids at the cottage, and she let out her breath, watching the puffs evaporate in the frigid air. Pete might drink, parents would get older and fall ill, children would grow up and make their own decisions, create more distant orbits. Life was teaching her that so much of everything was out of her control. And she would have to be all right with that if she wanted to keep moving forward, enjoying the passage of time. Otherwise, what kind of life did she stand to have?
30
Roger was swimming up from something. Everything around him felt dim and aquatic, as if he were underwater. Ahead of him was an extremely bright light, and now it seemed to be everywhere, bright, pure white incandescent light. Was he dead? Dreaming? What the hell had happened, and where was he? Roger stopped struggling for a moment and decided this must surely be a dream. Now he could feel things brightening, like sunlight as you moved toward the water’s surface.
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He began to register a hum, a drone, like an airplane off in the distance, and he realized it was people murmuring, more distinct, many voices, some talking at once, and now he could isolate them. He heard Margaret’s voice, distinct but firm and then lower in tone, someone else, softer and farther away; someone unfamiliar spoke up next and the white light became more intense, the sheer celestial brilliance of it startled him. Someone was touching him now and he tried to groan, but he was uncertain a sound had escaped. Roger felt fuzzy and groggy, but with extreme effort he opened an eye.
That’s right, he remembered. He was in a hospital. Each time he woke he was disoriented like this all over again, as if he couldn’t fasten the thought that he was here. And now he remembered with crushing clarity that he’d had a stroke.
“Roger?” Margaret’s disembodied voice floated toward him. “Roger can you hear us?” He tried to lift his arm or raise a brow, but he found that he was terribly weak. He could hear them, but why couldn’t they hear him?
“He looks like he’s in pain.” Margaret’s voice again now, more crisp and clear. The authority in her tone relieved him.
“He shouldn’t be in pain,” said an unfamiliar voice. “He is on so many meds, he isn’t going to feel pain. But it’s time for more sedation, if you’ll let me move to his IV.” And then Roger felt a rush, a cold fluid flush through his veins. The tsunami of fear that had continued to mount in his chest began to dissipate as the medication took hold and a syrupy warmth invaded, a gooey nothingness that tamped down his mounting panic. Roger surrendered to a feeling of serenity as he melted back into the bottomless twilight.
For an indeterminate amount of time there were the dreams, dreams that floated through his mind and dissolved like Technicolor movies, but which he would never remember later as he toggled between sleep and a sluggish wakefulness in the days following the stroke. It was impossible for him to distinguish between night and day. Voices flitted in and out of the room as he swam up and back down into unconsciousness. He was certain he had heard Maura once, possibly even Julia, but in his present state he was incapable of separating out what was real and what was dream state.
