Those We Love Most

by Lee Woodruff

  Christ but this was hard. He could feel beads of sweat pricking his forehead, and he’d only just gotten on the machine. Walking … holy hell. Who could have imagined that was something he would have to learn again. But Roger could feel himself getting stronger in tiny increments. He was still worried about his speech. He could hear how garbled he sounded, how inarticulate at times.

  Now that he was living back at home, he didn’t feel quite so much like an invalid. He had hated being in the rehab hospital in Chicago. That was no place to get well, those pushy, zippy nurses always waking him to check vital signs, the goddamned tube in the back of his hand like some marionette. All of that had almost leached the spirit right out of him. He had felt, for a while there, as if he had lost the will to live.

  There were periods of acute frustration when he couldn’t accomplish simple tasks, like get the knife and fork to behave the way he wanted, and Margaret would cut his baked potato or slice his meat. In those moments, he had felt shame and anger, hair-trigger rage.

  “Come on now, just a few more laps,” the physical therapist called out. “You’re killing it!” Roger’s smile was more of a grimace. Truth was, he felt like he was going to collapse right on the treadmill. But he was not going to show any of what he felt to this young kid with the earring. He was going to make the distance, despite the grating tone. He was going to get better. He had so many things to get better for.

  At home, Margaret had set him up in the first-floor bedroom so he didn’t have to tackle the stairs. But he was getting better at stairs. Better, but not great. He loved it when he could sit in his kitchen chair and take meals because he could summon up his previous feelings of being master of his own domain. Despite his herky-jerky movements, he could walk out in the garden, hike to the end of the driveway, and get the paper in the morning. Some of the old routine was returning in thin slices.

  This week marked the end of his leave of absence from work, though no one had formally addressed it yet from the firm. He’d known early on that returning to work was a fiction. He was finished. And frankly, he didn’t have the desire to go back to that old life. He knew a call would have to be made, to make it all official, and he supposed Margaret and the partners were being generous by waiting for him to raise the subject.

  Friends and even some of his colleagues had visited him, and it had been uncomfortable, even painful. Everyone acted so solicitous, speaking to him slowly and loudly, as if he were the village idiot. He’d take the retirement. He’d been a smart and cautious investor over the years, and they had enough put away, even if his pension wasn’t fully vested.

  When he had imagined retiring it had always been with a big party, lots of lunches and a speech or two that reprised his career achievements. But the stroke had robbed him of all of that. It was anticlimactic, no, downright depressing for Roger to think about ending his work life by filling out forms from human resources. It was humiliating.

  Roger glanced up at the large numbers on the wall clock. Margaret would be picking him up in another hour. Margaret. He sighed and tried to focus on his breathing. There were times he couldn’t stand the look in her eyes. One minute it was loving and protective, watching him like a hawk, and other times cipher-like—it was hooded and then pitying. Occasionally, when she didn’t know he was looking, he saw naked fear lodged there.

  He was shocked at how, when she patronized him, used that pedantic tone, the occasional desire passed through his head to physically reach out and hit her with his fists. In those moments of vengeful rage, he imagined the satisfaction of connecting with her jawbone. Roger could envision the surprised look as she registered the fact that he wanted her to stop hovering, stop being so concerned, so damned good and saintly all of the time. At times her kindly smile resembled the knowing smirk of a jailer. Those feelings would be followed by extreme shame and self-loathing. He had done this to her, he thought bitterly. The desire to lash out was irrational, especially with Margaret waiting on him hand and foot. And then, Roger winced shamefully, what she’d told him about Julia. That she had run her off at the hospital and that, incredibly, his wife had known all this time and never uttered a word. He shook his head, causing his pace to momentarily falter on the treadmill. Another lap subtracted itself from the red numbers on the machine’s digital display, and he looked over at his therapist as he consulted a clipboard in front of a younger patient on the stationary bicycle.

  The boredom of the treadmill allowed his thoughts to wander further, and he was momentarily overwhelmed by an image of all the parts of his life colliding. He and Margaret had still not spoken in any detail about the exact circumstances of his stroke. He knew that Julia had called 911 and then driven to the hospital. Of all the times and places for this to happen. He had managed successfully, for all of these years, to keep that part of his life separate. Wasn’t it ironic that this would happen on an overnight to Florida?

  It was difficult to think about Julia and Margaret having met. They were such contrasts. He hadn’t contacted Julia himself. He couldn’t easily punch a number in the phone, and even if he did get her on the line, his speech was slurred. He didn’t want her to hear him like this or to effect a false bravado. It was better for them both to remember the way they had been together before the stroke.

  Though Roger had contemplated sending Julia an e-mail, he couldn’t determine what to write or where he would begin. Nothing he could put into words seemed adequate. Hell, he couldn’t really work a computer keyboard. He’d have to labor to hit the keys one by one.

  His cell phone was on the dresser, and in the first few weeks he was home, he had studied it hopefully, checking for a message or call from her. She had not reached out either, as far as he knew. It was best to let Julia go, neglect her like an atrophying limb that diminished in stature over time. Perhaps somewhere down the line, when his penmanship was better and his speech more crisp, he would contact her, put a final conclusion on it all. For now, they both needed to get on with life.

  Rivulets of sweat poured down Roger’s forehead, and his T-shirt was soaked. A few more laps; he could see the red illuminated picture on the console of the treadmill that told him where he was on the imaginary track.

  But here was the truth. And Roger knew it. He was never going to get back to who he was, the same person he had been. He was never going to be the Roger Munson who walked out on the putting green at the club and just sunk the ball, or who could shoot a few hoops with his grandkids on the driveway.

  He could recover many parts of his old self, the rehab doctor and the occupational therapist had explained patiently, but he should not expect to resume all of his previous activities. Life would be different. “The new normal” they all called it. The new goddamned normal. What was that? Well, he hadn’t wanted new. He liked the old Roger.

  One of the things he had thought long and hard about, especially in the hospital, was his Plan B. It gave him a measure of reassurance to know that he had something to fall back on. A man needed a backup plan, was what his father had always told him. And so he had secreted away some of the sleeping pills he had been given when he was discharged from the hospital. It hadn’t been easy because getting the tops off some of the bottles was a struggle. He’d once asked the cleaning lady to help him when Margaret was out, and she’d opened it readily without even glancing at the label.

  It felt good just to know the pills were there, stuffed in his golf socks in the top dresser drawer. Plan B made him feel both calmer and illicit. It gave him control. Margaret would have a fit if she knew, but really, what was the big deal? They did this kind of thing all the time in those progressive countries like Sweden. He was pretty sure even here some states had laws that allowed it. Whether or not he would really ever swallow the pills, his stash made him feel as if he had a say in his own destiny, a choice about whether or not his diminishment was an acceptable burden to his loved ones. Autonomy was one of those necessities, like oxygen or water, the very minimum a man needed to possess to keep
his dignity.

  Roger finished the last lap on the treadmill and the speed of the belt began to gradually slow. The therapist was back by his side, bracing his arm now for the cool down, urging him on. One step at a time, he thought. That was how he would beat this back. But a man ought to have control over how he lived and when he died, he thought. No one could take that away from him.

  38

  Pete was taking Ryan to Saturday baseball practice and bringing Sarah along. Maura needed to do some shopping, and then she had offered to stay with her father while Margaret got her hair done and ran some errands. Ryan needed a pair of new khakis and some jeans, and she wanted to find some elastic waist pants for her dad at the mall. He was still getting the hang of the buttons and zippers, his fine motor coordination coming back slowly. She had been teasing her parents that the series of old track suits he wore made him look like a mobster on The Sopranos. Maura was determined to find him something more dignified to wear now that he was getting out of the house more frequently.

  As she locked the minivan in the parking lot, it was the distinctive laugh, infectious and boyish, magnified and reverberating in the walls of the underground lot, that caused her to freeze. Without looking up she knew it was Art. Maura paused on the side of the vehicle, positioning her body so she could see but not be seen between the rows. Headed in her direction, Art came into view with his springy, up-on-the-toes walk. He was holding hands with a woman, maybe a little younger than she, and they moved briskly through the knot of people slowly exiting the movie theater. The woman was blond and fit, her body poured into fluorescent-colored athletic wear. Maura observed how she was looking at him, absorbing what he was saying without seeming to hang on every word. Studying Art’s profile she noticed that the goatee was gone, but the expression on his face was one of total ease and engagement. He looked as if he were telling her a story. And then suddenly, before reaching the row where she crouched, the couple doglegged at a right angle, and dropped out of sight.

  Maura felt rattled as she stood from her hunched position. The brief encounter left her with neither an acute sense of desire nor longing. It was such a strange feeling to have been spying on Art, resisting the opportunity for contact. It felt like studying an exotic animal through glass.

  Inside the mall she sped through her errands and found some respectable pants at a men’s chain in the sportswear section. By the time she pulled into her parents’ driveway, it had all taken barely two hours.

  “Dad,” she called out, entering the house. No answer.

  “Daaaad.” Maura’s concern grew slightly. Margaret had said he’d be home alone for a stretch, and she liked to make sure there was someone there when her absence was greater than three hours.

  Maura set the shopping bag on the kitchen table, and glancing out into the backyard, relieved, she spotted her father, standing over a golf ball with one of his putters; a look of determination gripped his face.

  “Get any hole-in-ones?” She breezed out the back porch door, startling him for a second, and then his expression relaxed into a half-grin. She was still adjusting to the way that one side of his mouth drooped slightly.

  “Maurrra. Hi, honey.”

  “Come inside, Dad, I got you some pants and I wanted to see if they fit right. I can take them back if they don’t work.” Roger nodded his head in assent and walked slowly to the patio table, leaning his golf club against one of the metal lawn chairs. He stretched out his arms to embrace her and she leaned in for a hug. Her father’s shape was changing in the wake of the stroke, his limbs thinner and his waist more thick. The contours of his face had filled back out, thankfully. He had been so gaunt when he’d first come home from the rehab hospital.

  Maura poured them each a Diet Pepsi, and she made him try on one of the pairs of pants to her satisfaction. Roger joked about how stylish he appeared, turning around in a circle in the kitchen to display the slacks, mugging like a model. His motions and facial expressions were slightly overexaggerated, as if he were determined to emphasize his present happiness and well-being.

  Her mother would be back any minute and Maura knew at this juncture she could easily leave and return home, but she relished her time alone in her father’s company. She could see how it cheered him as well. They moved into the den and settled comfortably into the overstuffed chairs. Maura observed the indent in her father’s cushion, the spot where he now spent so much time. On the side table next to him was a half-read newspaper, an empty glass on its side, and a granola bar wrapper. If her mother were present, the trash would already be whisked away. This mess was her father’s unspoken form of insurrection.

  There had been so many things tinkered with in the aftermath of the stroke. Their relationship, which once held such defined roles, had shifted in almost imperceptible but painful ways. His omnipotence had dimmed. They were both renegotiating their new positions, trying to gauge the boundaries and possibilities in the face of his diminishment. It was this confusion and vulnerability now that gave her the opening, and without much forethought, she began to speak, the question spilling from her.

  “Did you ever do something you totally regretted, Daddy, something you wished you could take back?” His head recoiled slightly, and she could tell that her question had surprised him. He leaned back against the blue and white floral upholstery of the chair with a thoughtful warniess.

  “Sure. There are thingsss we’ve all done that we aren’t proud of,” he said, slurring slightly. Maura nodded. “Why? What isss troubling you?”

  Maura sighed and cast her eyes up at the ceiling, unable for the moment to meet his gaze. Tears began to burn in her eyes and she let them come, her voice cracking. All at once she was the small girl again, looking for her father’s absolution.

  “When James got hit … I was doing something else. I was focused on other things.” She was crying openly now, and she could feel Roger studying her carefully, allowing her the release while working to intuit the hidden message in her words. He remained quiet as she lowered her face in her hands, her back heaving with the sobs.

  “Oh God, Daddy. I did this.” She moved from the chair and down onto her knees on the floor in front of him, crumpling her upper body into his lap as he reached over to rub her back in a rhythmic motion. “I can’t believe that this happened. I should have been right there … and not …” She sobbed harder, and he kept patting.

  “It’ssss OK, Maura. OK.” They sat that way, slightly rocking, as her outburst subsided. “You didn’t do thisss, honey. It’s OK.”

  “But, Daddy, I did something I’m not proud of,” Maura started and then stopped, drawing in a deep breath with a shudder. She could not see her father’s face, only the side of the chair, and this position gave her the feeling of a disembodied church confessional.

  “There was somebody I met. And for a little while that felt exciting and good.” Maura exhumed the facts and let them lie there. “I was … thinking about him, texting him, when the car hit James.” It was harder than she had thought it would be to form the words out loud, but she also felt a burgeoning sense of catharsis, a levity that she hadn’t totally anticipated. Maura adjusted her position and lifted her head, rubbing her eyes with balled hands. She teetered on her knees and then moved up to sit in the chair next to him, looking him full in the face with a weary smile. A spent calm began to settle over her, the clarity that could follow a tempest.

  “You’re going to have to move passst the guilt.” Roger smiled at her tenderly. They sat for a long stretch without speaking. She thought momentarily about the woman, Julia, whom she had met unexpectedly in the hospital in Tampa. She had practically run into her in the doorway one night as she was leaving her father’s room, headed back to her mother at the hotel. The woman had hastily introduced herself as a friend, but then she had hesitated nervously. Maura had gotten the distinct sense that she was something more, that she was omitting something important.

  “I know you’ve seen things with me and Pete over the years t
hat aren’t all good, especially since James died,” Maura began. “We haven’t always been our best selves.” It was refreshing to be sitting here alone with her father, without her mother’s constant presence at his elbow. Maura now felt their relationship seesaw back to her being the child again, and he the wiser parent. There was a goodness connected to confiding in the one person she knew might understand the complexity of the secrets with which she lived.

  “Life isss fuller than we sometimesss imagine, hmmm?” said Roger pensively. “Sssome people see life asss black and white, and they live it that way. But most of usss live in the gray areass. I think the older you get, the harder it iss to see absolutessss.” Roger drew out this last word, and a piece of saliva hung in the corner of his crooked mouth. “It takess an awful lot of energy to do that.”

  She nodded. “I wasn’t focusing my attention where it should have been, Dad. I sort of lost myself.”

  Roger shot her a look of understanding. “Honey, you need to ssstop beating yourself up. We all take our eye off the ball at sssome point in life. It doesn’t mean you are a bad person. And if you looked to other thingsss for a time, whatss important is that you are ssstill in the ring. Are you ssstill there, Maura? Innn the ring?” Roger wiped the spittle in the corner of his mouth with a handkerchief from his shirt pocket, and Maura looked at him quizzically. His eyes burned bright.

  “What do you mean, Dad?”

  “I mean as long as you are ssstill in there slogging it out every day, still showing up to give it your best shot with Pete, then you’re still in the game. Don’t spennnd time in the past, on what you should have done.” He paused for a moment, collecting himself. “It only hurtsss.”

  “You and Mom seem pretty good now,” Maura offered, ready to deflect the conversation. He looked up at her gratefully.