by Lee Woodruff
“I don’t want to linger,” added their friend Richard. “If I end up like my dad, in a hospital and riddled with cancer, just take me out back and shoot me.” The guests around the table had nodded knowingly, with the hypothetical mind-set that healthy, complacent people adopt at dinner parties to parse serious subjects.
They had moved on to the debate about which would be worse, to lose your mobility or your presence of mind. Although they were sixty-five, it was honestly the only time she ever remembered them both speaking about it. Margaret was keenly aware of Roger’s aversion to frailty and aging. He’d been somewhat disgusted at his own mother’s progressive senility and confusion, as if it were a communicable disease. Toward the end of her life, when she no longer recognized any of them, Roger had rarely visited her nursing home. He had been on a business trip to the West Coast when she had passed away, and it had been Margaret who had made the trek to Arizona to begin the arrangements.
Roger’s mouth twitched slightly in his medicated sleep, his face uninhabited. The nurses had told her to keep talking to him, even now that he was awake, despite the fact that his words were muddled and he was hard to understand. He was processing all of this, they said, taking it in as his brain healed incrementally.
And so she had talked and read the paper to him, although she had felt foolish after the first few days as she babbled along in a one-sided conversation. Margaret was reminded numerous times of that precarious week in the hospital with James, when they had read to him from some of his favorite books. She recalled one time, coming upon Maura by the bedside, reading get-well cards from her grandson’s class, the tone and messages innocently optimistic, as if he had merely had his tonsils out or his appendix removed. The juxtaposition between her grandson and her husband, hospitalized less than a year apart, was too much to wrap her mind around. It was an overload that threatened to short-circuit her, and she sealed those memories off in a separate mental compartment.
Margaret’s talking and chattering had tapered off once Roger awoke. There was so much now that he was supposed to be doing to start the rehabilitation process, but overall he seemed to lack motivation. Sometimes, she thought, he feigned sleep to avoid her and the basic physical therapy exercises that had been prescribed.
By the end of the first week in Tampa, Margaret had settled into the rhythm of the hospital, the regular checks of the nurses as they bustled in the room. She had grown accustomed to their individual greetings as they checked Roger’s vitals, changed his fluid bags, and emptied his waste. Once while he was in the coma, the trach tube had whooshed loose when the nurse was sponge bathing him. Margaret had been terrified by the sound of the air escaping, had yelped and jumped up as the nurse continued, calmly reattaching the breathing tube. In those moments she had realized how on edge she was, how close to unraveling from the yawning uncertainty.
Margaret had created a routine of going downstairs to the cafeteria and getting a cup of black coffee before lunch. She’d purchased a pack of cigarettes at the gift shop and allowed herself three each day, on breaks from the bedside. There was always a smattering of family members and the occasional nurse in scrubs clustered around the circular cement ashtrays in the designated outdoor smoking section. They made small talk and inquired politely about the progress of a loved one as they all stood flicking ashes in the fresh air and sunshine outside the hospital. Stepping back into the lobby after a cigarette, she always braced herself to feel the cool and over-air-conditioned interior.
Margaret became aware of a rustling behind her, presumably one of the nurses. But then it was too quiet. She felt the silent presence of someone and turned to look back. A woman stood rigid in Roger’s doorframe. She was tall, tanned, full figured in navy pants and a ruffled hot pink blouse; she was younger than Margaret, but not by many years. She seemed nervous and out of place in the ICU. Perhaps she had entered the wrong room, but Margaret sensed that there was something more. It was the way the woman was clutching her purse to her chest, as if it contained all of her valued possessions.
“Mrs. Munson?” The woman asked tentatively, and Margaret rose quickly from the chair.
“Yes.”
“I’m Julia Rolon.”
Almost before she said her name, Margaret knew who she was, placed the slightly accented voice on the phone, and her breath quickened, each evolutionary animal instinct on alert. Margaret stood awkwardly as she smoothed her tan slacks, fluffing her hair with her fingers and working it into place at her temples. Her mind was a complete blank. She moved out into the hallway and motioned for the woman to do so as well. She didn’t want to wake Roger, didn’t want this woman to see her husband incapacitated, or for her to see him at all, in fact. Margaret had wondered idly if Julia had come to visit her husband when she was back at the hotel. But she had kept the query to herself. She would not ask the nurses, would not debase herself or Roger by asking such an embarassing question.
“I … I was the one who called the ambulance for … for your husband.” Julia looked extremely ill at case, and she halted, almost snapping her jaw shut. Margaret wanted the woman to feel this discomfort, to experience just a fraction of the displacement she had felt for years now.
“I know exactly who you are,” Margaret said simply. “I suppose I should thank you for your actions.” Margaret wished she had showered, wished she had applied some lipstick. She must look awful. How should one look when meeting one’s husband’s mistress for the first time? she thought ironically.
The woman nodded and bowed her head. “I assumed you did.”
“You were with him,” said Margaret. She tried to keep her gaze even, her voice aloof, but she felt everything inside her tight and coiled. What in God’s name had this Julia person come for? To be alone with him? What had she hoped to achieve? The absolute gall of this woman. She would not avert her eyes.
Julia nodded her assent.
“What is your purpose in coming?” asked Margaret sharply, her eyes narrowed.
“I understand from the nurses that Roger is going home shortly … that he’s being transferred to a hospital near your home,” Julia continued nervously. Margaret blinked, said nothing.
“I just wanted … I guess I wanted to say good-bye. I’m sorry, I hoped to come when you weren’t here.” Julia looked over Margaret’s shoulder and into the room at Roger. For just a moment she took in the scene, his diminishment, the serene way he lay. Her eyes revealed nothing. Margaret crossed her arms over her chest. She was surprised how much a part of her was enjoying this.
“I’m so sorry that this happened.” Julia appeared to be fading, running out of steam. She seemed suddenly smaller, as if her spine had shrunk.
“I’m staying with him,” said Margaret.
“Of course. Of course you are. I just …”
“You just what?”
“I just wanted to see him,” said Julia softly. “Honestly, I thought you might not be here this late. I didn’t want to intrude on you. But if you have any questions, if there is anything you want to know … it must be awful to just get a call. I know … myself that it’s awful to just get a call out of the blue like that …” She seemed to wilt after this last sentence. The nerve of this woman, her assumptions. She was pleased to see that her earlier confidence and determination had abandoned her.
“I know all about you,” Margaret spat out with controlled fury. “And I know that you were just a dalliance to Roger. Some … distraction. A body he could hop into bed with. Nothing more.” Her heart was galloping.
The woman’s face crumpled as she absorbed Margaret’s well-placed barbs and backed away toward the nurses’ station. “I’m so sorry to have bothered you at all. I’m … I’m so sorry for your family.” Julia turned on her heel and strode briskly down the hall toward the elevator bank. Margaret heard the receding clack of her heels on the linoleum. The feeling of quicksilver and adrenaline that had coursed triumphantly through her veins in front of Julia had begun to retreat. She turned and reentered Ro
ger’s room, adjusting his blankets and tucking his sheet under the mattress. Margaret felt compelled to touch his face. Thank God he had not woken up while that woman was there. She would not have known how to endure that or what to do. She could not have witnessed the look on his face as he took in her presence. It would have told her things she didn’t need to know.
“I’m here, Roger,” she whispered to him in a maternal voice that evoked pleasant memories of talking, singing, and cooing to her babies. In those years she could touch them and possess them when they slept in a way you never could when a body was awake and in motion. Then she sat back in the aqua lounger and felt the first of a series of tight sobs hit her. Margaret reached for the small travel pack of Kleenex she kept in her handbag, aware that the nurses could enter at any time. She sat back in the lounger, crying silently, rocking back and forth in the chair to calm herself with the repetitive motion.
33
Maura was determined not to let him flee this time. It was a cool night in the fickle heart of March, and while there were small patches of snow here and there, it had mostly disappeared from the lawn. Alex was under the tree out front, his head leaning against the base of the trunk. She sucked in her breath and studied him once more from the window before moving to the front foyer. Impulsively Maura yanked open the front door, and with the reflexes of a deer, the boy crouched to run.
“Stop,” she called, with more urgency than she intended. He continued to rise, headed toward the road.
“Alex, please stop.” The boy froze like a statue at the sound of his name and turned slowly toward her. She noted his broad shoulders, the streamlined musculature of an athlete. She could just make out his features in the soft light from the house, the fair hair and darker brows, the frightened eyes. In her mind, Maura had built him up to be some kind of evil force, but the person in front of her now was just a kid, scared and tentative, nervously clenching and unclenching his hands. There was barely enough of a beard to shave on his face. What, exactly, would she say to him now that she had diverted him? Was she really ready for this? Maura had acted so spontaneously and now she felt momentarily unsure.
“Hey,” she offered, coming down the front porch steps to meet him, tugging her sweater tighter around her. “It’s freezing out here. Why don’t you come in?” Alex looked up at her uncertainly and she could see the trepidation in his eyes, the look of a child on the verge of being punished. He had gotten this far and now his fortitude seemed to be deserting him. She softened her voice. “I know you’ve been out there some nights. I watch you. I … I like to think of you as protecting us. Come on in. I’ll make some hot chocolate, but you’ve got to come in.” Maura smiled warmly in the threshold of the door.
“OK,” Alex said awkwardly, looking down at the porch floorboards. She wondered if he were fighting the urge to run.
“Um … I’m uh … Alex Hulburd.” He thrust out his hand.
“I know who you are.” She propped the door with her hip and gestured him in. She was afraid to make a sudden movement, that it might startle him.
“Come on in.”
Alex shoved his hands in his parka pockets, and she caught a faint whiff of smoke mixed with a vague minty smell as he stepped past her. In the front hall foyer the warmth of the house snaked around them when she closed the door, and Alex leaned against the staircase bannister, bending to untie his sneakers.
“You can keep them on,” Maura said quickly, but he had already removed them. “Why don’t you come into the kitchen? My daughter is asleep upstairs and Ryan is at a Boy Scout event. My husband, Pete, is out. But I think you knew that.” She smiled knowingly over her shoulder as she led him down the hall.
“How about that hot chocolate?” she offered. “It’s colder out there than I thought.”
Alex nodded. He stood next to a kitchen stool at the counter, hands still shoved in his pockets. He unzipped his coat and she saw his thin T-shirt with the words STOP GLOBAL WEIRDING stamped on it. His hair was long in front, almost swept over his forehead like a mushroom cap, and she had the urge to reach out and brush it back into place.
“Hand me your coat and, please, sit.” She drew her bulky white cable cardigan around her middle and took the kettle off the stove, leaning against the sink as she filled it with water, and then turned on the burner, her slippers scuffling on the wood floor. Maura folded her arms across her body, leaning against the counter, and then sat down on a stool across from him. Her mind was suddenly empty.
“I imagine all of this has been very hard for you,” Maura began somewhat formally.
“Probably not like you,” he murmured. She was afraid he was about to cry.
“What have you been doing? How are your parents?”
“They’re good. I think they’re pretty disappointed in me.” Alex choked back a sarcastic laugh as he said this.
“Your parents? Why?”
Alex hesitated for a moment. “I just told them I’m not going to college next year. I’m working part-time.”
“Yeah?” She waited for him to speak.
“College isn’t for me. Not right now. I got a part-time job at Lowe’s over in Skokie.” He looked down at his hands. “I want to make some money right now.” Maura nodded.
The teakettle began to whistle softly at first and then built to a crescendo. They both turned to look at the stove, grateful for the interruption, and Maura rose. She pulled two mugs out of the cupboard and shook out the hot chocolate packets, adding the hot water and a splash of milk to cool and thicken it.
“Will you go to college eventually?” She met his eyes.
“Maybe.”
“Why don’t you want to go?” she asked simply. She sponged up a milk spill on the stone counter.
“I just can’t see it.” He wrapped his hands around the mug of hot chocolate when she pushed it forward. “I can’t see myself carrying books around on one of those tree-lined campuses. My mom keeps sticking all of these brochures in my room with pictures of these smiling, happy people who all know what they want to be when they grow up.” He flashed a quick, wry smile. “I don’t … I don’t …” He bent down to blow into the mug, swirling the hot chocolate with the force of his breath.
“Deserve it?” she finished. And when he met her eyes, she was sitting down again, looking at him hard. He flicked his gaze back down to the mug, where his finger was absentmindedly tracing a raised logo on the ceramic exterior.
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Look, Alex. This right now … is hard. It’s as hard for me maybe as it is for you. I don’t know exactly why you’ve been out on my lawn some nights. You scared me at first, and then I figured out who you were. I know that you wanted to talk to me after James died and I wasn’t ready for a long time. I’m … I’m impressed that you came here … that you came inside. It was a very brave thing to do. But I don’t know if you want my forgiveness or for me to say that it isn’t your fault …” Her voice trailed off. “There are so many things I feel about that day.”
“I guess I don’t exactly know why I’m here either,” he said, somewhat gruffly.
“Alex.” She paused to select what to say next. “The truth is that you were driving the car. We can’t change that. You can’t change that. But you didn’t set out to kill James. You weren’t looking away or driving too fast or …” Her voice had dropped to little more than a whisper and she stopped.
“I’m sorry,” he said simply.
“Bad things happen.” She looked up at him, and her eyes were shining, tears collecting in the corners. “It was an accident. He dashed out. And you just couldn’t stop in time. And I couldn’t save him.” One big fat tear rolled down her cheek and splashed onto the counter. She quickly wiped it with her fingertip and stood to move to the sink, running her hands under the faucet for a moment. “James’s death was the result of a series of circumstances. The wrong place at the wrong time, me turning my attention away for just a second, you being on that stretch of road, the way those cars w
ere parked in the street.” Her voice faltered and then she steadied herself. “A day doesn’t go by, not one, when I don’t think about if I’d done something differently, just one little tweak, one moment changed. If I’d left five minutes earlier, if I hadn’t turned away, or been distracted by the baby in the stroller or …”
“I looked away for a second …,” Alex said abruptly, with knitted brows. He cut his gaze back to his mug. Maura’s head shot up suddenly at the admission. “I was reaching for an empty beer can from the night before, trying to grab it so my mom wouldn’t find it. I took my eyes off the road for a few seconds when I reached down … I haven’t told anyone else that.” A sob escaped out of Alex’s throat, low and achy.
Maura bent her head, her shoulders sagged slightly, and she looked down at her nails, picking the cuticle, looked up at him again and nodded. “You know, I looked away too, Alex. I … wasn’t watching him. Not the way I should have been.” Maura’s eyes were dry, but her voice quavered. “I was looking at a text.” She looked up with a forced smile, her own admission an olive branch.
“I didn’t know what to do. I wrote you that letter, and my family stopped by the house. It was really good that Mr. Corrigan came over that day. I think it helped me and my folks a lot. But then I didn’t know what else to do after that. I figured I would always be the last person you wanted to see.” He was quiet for a few beats. “I did something horrible, and I can’t fix it. And I guess I wanted you to know how bad that hurts.”
They passed the next few minutes in silence, neither one uncomfortable with the lack of conversation. She thought about James at Alex’s age, what it might be like to sit in this kitchen with her own son instead of a stranger. Maura had once believed she might be capable of hating Alex Hulburd forever, and yet the passage of time and her growing acceptance of loss had declawed her. In such proximity to the boy who had killed her son, she was instead drawn to his vulnerability, her maternal compass stirred. They were each nursing a hurt in similar ways, she understood, and for different reasons. A shadow flitted darkly over them both.
