by Lee Woodruff
This morning Margaret had simply picked up her clothes from the chair where she’d tossed them the night before. She’d had every intention of going to a stretch class at the Y, but her own inertia had kept her in the kitchen too long, and when she glanced up at the clock it was 9:35. She had already missed the beginning of class. She felt snappish and spent, although it wasn’t yet noon. For the last week there had been faint bluish smudges under her eyes. Instead of exercising, Margaret longed to smoke a cigarette, to walk back behind her fallow garden into the early spring air and locate the pack in the garden shed. She’d ratcheted up the number she allowed herself these days, and Maura had commented that she smelled smoke on her recently when she leaned in to hug her good-bye. Margaret had felt compelled to make up some line about being in a gas station, and her daughter had looked at her knowingly.
“Mmmmmmfffffpphhhhh.” Sitting upright in the lounger, Roger let out a gasp of air in his sleep that was part snore, part unintelligible, and she sighed, studying him. He had spontaneously clasped her fingers yesterday and held them, and Margaret had been surprised at how soft his hands were now, like a woman’s. The previous roughness, the natural calluses from simply being out in the world, had been smoothed away to a delicate peach flesh in his captivity.
“Maaaaargaret …” He was calling her ten minutes later, after his catnap. His yowling voice, with the slight slur, the inability to fully form the words with his lips, was grating at times. You never really thought about the cadence of speech or the crispness of language until that was tinkered with. Now the sound of his voice was a heartbreak to her, harsh and imperfect.
Margaret sighed and dried her hands on the tea towel by the sink. She was not herself today, something was off, and she was bristling at the sainted role of caregiver. Pouring a glass of juice for Roger, she headed toward the den, pausing in the threshold to view him. Even with all of these months of coming to terms with his stroke, she was still brought up short by the sight of his diminishment. A part of her half expected to see his old, robust self each time she rounded the corner. Despite his facial droop, the outline of his profile from this good side was still so handsome, his jaw strong and his eyes bright. Tears welled suddenly in the corners of her eyes. What if she had lost him the way they had lost James? That would have been more than one family could bear. What if Roger weren’t here right now? She’d had those thoughts so often lately, twinned with the cavernous sadness of James’s death. They bubbled up and intertwined at the oddest moments.
And then the opposite feeling. A backlash of bitterness; anger that this had happened to him, to them, the randomness of the stroke and the accident that caused her grandson’s death. Margaret felt an overall sensation of blackness and despair tug her down. She thought about all of the time Roger had squandered with Julia, how many days and nights he had chosen a stranger’s company instead. But it was larger that that. She had been harboring the growing feeling of being defeated, cheated out of this promised rich phase of life with Roger. She hated when these ugly feelings welled up inside of her and abnegated all of her mental progress and positive thoughts. And yet today, fatigued and churlish, she felt powerless to stop them.
Margaret entered the den to hand the juice cup to Roger, who brought it slowly and deliberately to his lips with both hands. He removed the straw to drink directly from the cup, and as he took a long sip, a dribble ran down his chin. The numbness on his face prevented him from feeling it, and Margaret moved to dab at his wet chin with the tea towel over her shoulder, swooping down to grab the almost empty glass.
“There you go,” said Margaret with forced gaiety.
“Thankssss.” Roger looked up at her standing beside him. “But I’m not done. You donnn’t have to wait.”
“You dropped two yesterday, Roger.” She could hear her schoolmarm tone.
“I cannn take care of myssself.” His expression was a combination of wounded and rebellious. Something stretched and brittle, deep inside of Margaret, shattered.
“Maybe you’d rather Julia do this for you,” she uttered with a sudden fury. “Julia Rolon.” The words were out of her mouth with an elastic snap before she could snatch them back.
Roger sat back slowly in his chair, stung. His face roiled with various emotions from surprise to fear before fixing into a glum glare. He dropped his head, which made the slack side of his face hang loosely. She had injured him, and she had certainly ambushed him. Still, he said nothing.
“I’m … I’m … sssorry. I’m sorry.” His tone was deferential and when he finally looked back up, his eyes were wet and pleading.
Margaret’s stance softened. She uncrossed her arms and moved to sit in the stuffed chair next to him.
“You thought I had no idea,” she said flatly. “That woman came to the hospital one night early on. Julia. She’s attractive, Roger. I’ll give you that. I understand what you saw in her.” Roger remained quiet, contrite. “She told me she was coming to say good-bye. She was obviously hoping to find you awake, and I told her to leave. You didn’t need anyone else.”
“I nnnever …”
“Roger.” Margaret raised her hand to silence him and closed her eyes. The bracelet with the engraved birthdate silhouette charms, representing each of her children and grandchildren, jangled at her wrist.
“I don’t want to rehash this. I don’t want to know right now how you met or how many times. The last thing I need is to torture myself with images and information. Maybe I’ll ask you to tell me everything at some point, but right now I take comfort in the fact that it’s over. I told Julia that you were through with her—that you won’t be contacting her again.” He nodded, and tears zigzagged through the stubble on his lower face. “I love you, Roger. I know I’m not perfect, not by any means. But we’ve built a life together and it’s supporting you now. We are all supporting you, everyone who loves you.”
“I looove you, Marrrhgret,” he choked, his upper body heaving now in irregular convulsions, and then he gradually calmed, as if something inside had broken and annealed. He looked up in anguish, and she bent to kiss him. Roger reached to cradle her head, and they stayed that way, not speaking or moving for a few moments. Then Margaret pulled away, patted his hand, and grabbed the juice glass, carrying it back to the kitchen wordlessly, as an almost imperceptible smile flitted across her lips.
35
The movie had been only mediocre. There were so many special effects and quick camera shots, some of the dialogue felt rushed and the jokes fell flat. But Maura had chosen an action adventure for Pete. In the multiplex lobby, Pete took her hand, and they filed out into the parking lot past the line of people waiting to purchase tickets. She thought for a moment about checking in with the sitter, but she figured no news was good news. They deserved this night out, and they’d be home soon enough. She was still adjusting to the unencumbered feeling of being alone with her husband without the kids. This was an official date.
“Where to for dinner?”
“How about some place easy? Pizza or a salad, something like that,” she answered.
After they’d ordered and discussed the movie’s convoluted thriller plot for all of five minutes, they settled into the usual patter of reviewing work, news, and the kids. Maura was pleased to see Pete taking his time nursing a single beer.
“So tell me more about the kid coming over. Alex. You only gave me the big details yesterday and I want to know more.”
“Well, I saw him out on the porch, maybe working up his nerve, and I just invited him in. I didn’t have any warning.” Maura took a sip of her wine. “I think I shocked myself. I had no idea what I was going to say, and for a few moments I couldn’t think of anything intelligent at all.” She still couldn’t bring herself to tell Pete about Alex’s previous visits to the lawn, his unofficial role for months as night watchman on the evenings she was home alone.
“What did you say?” asked Pete. “What did he want? The timing seems a little weird that he would wait all these
months.”
“I’m not sure exactly. To meet me I guess. We talked for a while, I asked him why he had come.”
“And what did he tell you?”
“He wanted to make it right, something like that. He wanted to tell me how badly he felt that this had happened. He’d said he had been wanting to do this for a while.” She paused. “I … I really liked him, Pete. I was so prepared to hate him, and I didn’t.” They both sat for a second, watching the votive candle flicker in the center of the table.
“Took some guts,” said Pete.
“Yeah.”
“So, it was good that he came? Were you OK after he left?” Pete tenderly probed.
“Obviously, I’ve thought about him over the months. But I didn’t ever want to think about how this affected him, you know? How it all wrecked his life too. I was relieved when you went over to meet him and his parents for both of us. Back then, that was enough for me, for us. In my mind he was just plain guilty, or evil, and he had hurt us.
“The last thing I wanted to think about was forgiveness or any of that. We were going through too much as a family. And then when he showed up on the door, it really hit me how much he was hurting too, that he was just a boy. I know that sounds silly, but you were right. He’s just a kid.”
Pete nodded and Maura slipped her foot out of her pump and hooked it around her husband’s ankle as he looked up in surprise. The remains of their pizza were cold, and the restaurant was thinning out. There were one or two tables left on their side of the room.
“He even looks young for his age,” said Maura. “Did I tell you he said he’s not going to college? He said he wants to enlist in the military.”
Pete looked up, his eyebrows raised. “That’s a big move. How old is he?”
“Eighteen. Nineteen maybe? I guess he doesn’t need his parents’ permission. I got the sense that he was trying it out on me. Sounds like he hasn’t made a final decision, I don’t know. There’s some guy where he works at Lowe’s who’s a veteran, and he’s been telling Alex stories, maybe giving him encouragement.”
“Hey, maybe it will be the best thing for him. I can’t imagine being him right now in a town like this, everyone talking about college and the future. And he’s had a rough year, all the neighbors staring at him, judging him for the accident. Maybe he just needs a clean break. He needs a shot at a place to define himself away from everything that he’s grown up with,” said Pete. “It might put his head back on straight.”
“I can’t imagine what his parents must feel. I wonder if they have any idea.”
“Not a lot of kids from this town enlist, that’s for sure,” said Pete. He raised his glass and drained the remains of his beer, signaling the waiter for the check.
“Do you think he’s punishing himself?” Maura asked.
Pete cocked his head, considering this. “He’s been through a lot,” said Pete. “Maybe this is how he feels he can pay some kind of debt, make it right. I don’t know all the psychological mumbo jumbo.” The check arrived and he pulled out his credit card, squinting at the figures on the bill and hastily scribbling a tip.
“Would you let Ryan go to war if he told you he wanted to be a soldier?” she asked idly.
“If he were an adult, I guess there wouldn’t be much we could really say, right?” Pete set the billfold back down on the table with the pen and pushed his chair back. “I imagine a parent has a choice to either get on board with your kid’s decision, and, if you chose not to, maybe you risk losing them twice.” They were both quiet, gathering their coats and her purse.
“Still, I can’t imagine,” said Maura. “All those years you raise a child and try to keep them safe, and then they volunteer to walk into a war zone. That’s hard stuff for any parent, no matter how patriotic you are.” Pete took her arm without comment as they stepped out into the street and toward their parked car.
The children were asleep when they returned home, and after Pete came back from driving the sitter, they made love in an unhurried, familiar way. Lying next to her husband before they drifted off, Maura had the satisfying sensation of a loop being drawn in, the sense of something gradually inching back together.
“Mom, you should try the crab cakes here,” Erin urged. “And then, of course, I can have a bite.”
“I was thinking about the pasta primavera,” mused Jen, studying the list of specials clipped to the Spartan menu. “Any good?”
“At a place called Caprice?” Maura joked. “You’d better be able to make pasta,” and they had all laughed. Looking around the table at her daughters and daughter-in-law, Margaret could almost believe for a moment that nothing had changed, as if they were enjoying a meal out on a random day in the time before their worlds had upended.
The girls in the family were treating her to lunch for her birthday at a trendy downtown restaurant. It was one of those austere foodie places that Margaret assumed Roger had regularly taken clients to, all chrome, glass, and muted grays. The walls held only black-and-white photographs, minimalist close-ups of industrial-looking machinery. Looking at the oversize white ceramic plates of the other diners, she was amused to note that the portions of the appetizers were the size of her thumb.
Margaret was touched that Jen had taken a day off teaching and driven over from Milwaukee. This was a day off in Erin’s part-time schedule and Maura had gotten a babysitter in the middle of the week, all to pry her out of the house. She had taken care with her appearance, choosing one of her bright silk shirtdresses, upgrading her handbag, and selecting a lipstick to match her red leather belt. At the last minute Margaret had impulsively plucked the ruby and gold bracelet Roger had given her for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary from her jewelry box. She’d even put in hot rollers this morning, and Roger had joked that she must be “looking for a new husband.” They had both laughed at that. Today, surrounded by the cheerful, attentive faces of her family, Margaret felt festive and loved.
She had to admit that her children were right. Getting out of the house more was the tonic she needed, a welcome break. It was good to see the girls’ smiling faces, especially Maura. She had gained back some of the weight, and there was color in her cheeks. She’d gotten a haircut recently, and Margaret admired how her thick dark hair fell in a blunt cut just below the collar of her white wool blazer. Two gold-knotted studs gleamed from her ears. She was making an effort again, caring enough to rifle through her closet for something other than jeans. The restaurant was on the top floor of one of the city’s skyscrapers, and the view of downtown Chicago and out across the Gold Coast and Lake Michigan in late spring was magnificent. Each of their eyes strayed continually to the window.
“I feel like I’m on top of the world,” said Erin, raising her glass for a toast. “Happy birthday, Mom.”
“Happy birthday,” they all echoed, and Margaret beamed, dipping her head modestly in acknowledgment.
“Next time you all need to come to Milwaukee for brats and beer,” joked Jen, with a sweeping gesture around her and out at the lake. “This is a little bit fancier than where I usually go with my girlfriends for birthday lunches,” and they had all laughed. Talk turned to the kids and summer vacation plans and then the waitress interrupted with the appetizers, refilling wineglasses all around.
“Dad seems better,” Maura offered tentatively, digging into a seafood salad. “Don’t you think, Mom?”
“I do. I really do think so,” Margaret answered somewhat tentatively. “It’s slow but gradual. You can probably track it better than me. I see him every day.” She wiped a smear of tartar sauce off her lips with her cloth napkin and then took a sip of her chardonnay. Grasping the long graceful stem of the wineglass made her feel elegant. Margaret thought to herself how much Roger would enjoy this restaurant, how little they had socialized since he had been home.
“What do his therapists say?” asked Erin. “About how he is doing?”
“Well. Just that, pretty much,” said Margaret. “They tell you that it�
�s slow but that progress is being made. The brain has the ability to rewire itself and find new routes for the parts that were damaged by the stroke.”
“He was walking pretty well without the cane when I was over the other day,” said Maura.
“Oh, I’m very proud of your father. There’s no doubt he’s coming along. But he’s much more sure of himself inside the house than outside.” She cut the crab cake with the tines of her fork, her expression guarded.
“How is his state of mind?” asked Erin. “How’s his mood?”
“Well, it’s all gradually improving, I guess. There was a while there I was a little worried about his spirits,” said Margaret with a forced lilt in her voice that belied her true emotion. She was aware of how important it was to be positive for the sake of her daughters. They were grown women, and yet she wondered if her instinct would forever be to protect them, to soften truths.
“What about his job?” asked Jen. Her skin was almost translucent, and she kept her chestnut hair short, almost boyish. Jen rarely wore makeup and favored large chunky jewelry.
“Well, you know they’ve given him a six-month leave. That happened instantly. And actually many of the partners have been over to visit since we’ve been back from Florida. But you know, your father had begun to talk about retirement before the stroke. He had been saying this deal in Tampa might be his last big one.”
“Really?” said Maura, arching her brows in surprise. “I thought Dad never wanted to retire. Wasn’t he the one always going on about how they would have to drag him out of there kicking and screaming?”
“Well, people’s perspectives change,” Margaret said demurely. “There are lots of other things your father wants to do in life.” She reached for a pumpernickel roll in the basket at the center of the table and then passed it to Jen.
