Going Home

by Danielle Steel

  “What stuff?”

  “Just stuff, now come on, get out of the car.” He’d been in a bad mood since the marriage license bureau. Stupid to let something like that bother you, but he was really upset.

  “Okay, see you later,” and as Sam and I walked into the house I wondered if Chris were going to see Marilyn. It was just a thought, there was no reason why I should think of it, and the last couple of days had been perfect, but the thought crept up on me and took hold. I wondered if I’d always worry about that, or distrust him. He had learned one thing, and that was that his old openness had cost him something. I doubted if he’d be as honest about it next time he pulled a stunt like that. So I worried all afternoon, and started getting mad, and then worried again, and by the time he came home I was so relieved to have him back I didn’t care where he’d been. I purposely didn’t ask him what he’d done because I was still pretty much convinced he’d been up to something I didn’t want to know about.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me where I’ve been?”

  “No. Should I?”

  “What’s with you?”

  “Nothing. Why?”

  “You look funny. Feel okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay,” but I was thinking about Marilyn again.

  “Come over here, you big dope. Do you think . . . ?” And I squirmed away because I knew what he was thinking, and I was thinking it, but I was ashamed of it. “Hey, Gillian, Jesus . . . don’t cry, there’s nothing to cry about, everything’s okay . . . hey . . . baby . . . ,” and there I was like a big fool, crying in his arms, admitting what I’d been thinking all afternoon.

  “I told you. It’s over. You don’t have to worry about it anymore. Now, come on out to the car.” He took my hand, led me down the steps, opened the car door, and started ripping newspapers off something in the back seat. It was a cradle, a beautiful, beautiful antique cradle, in dark burnished wood, with delicate carvings on it.

  “Oh Chris. . . .”

  “There was an auction in Stockton today. I wanted to surprise you. D’you like it?”

  “Oh Chris! . . .” and I was crying again.

  “Now what are you crying about?”

  “Oh Chris. . . .”

  “You’ve already said that, now come on you silly girl. Give us a smile. There. Much better.”

  “I’ll help you get it out of the car.”

  “No, ma’am. As long as you’re still carrying what goes in the cradle, I’ll carry the cradle. Just hold the doors open,” and he struggled up the steps holding the cradle.

  “Don’t hurt it,” and I held the doors open as wide as I could.

  “You’re too much,” and he grinned at me over his shoulder as he set it down in the hall.

  “Chris? . . . You know something? You’ve changed.”

  “So have you,” and we looked at each other for a long moment, and knew it was true.

  32

  The next couple of days were quiet. Sam was in school in the morning, and Chris was up in his studio most of the time, working on projects, busy with whatever it was he did up there. He’d come down for lunch and we’d have a quiet half-hour together before I picked Sam up at the playgroup. We were settling into a nice routine, and I felt as though I had never left, except for the fact that everything was better.

  On Thursday, I looked up at Chris at lunch and told him I wanted to go downtown, shopping.

  “What for?”

  “A wedding dress.”

  “You’re kidding. Gillian, you don’t mean it.”

  “Yes I do. I want to get something new to wear. You know, something old, something new. . . .”

  “You’ve got something new: the baby. Does the maternity department carry wedding dresses these days?”

  “Come on, Chris, be nice. I want to get something.”

  “Have you thought of a color? Like red maybe?”

  “Chris! I shouldn’t have told you.”

  “No. You can do it. It’s your business. It’s your wedding, after all.”

  “Well, it’s yours too. But I want to look nice, and I don’t have anything to wear.”

  “What do you want to look nice for? Have you invited someone?”

  “No, but I was going to talk to you about that too. . . .”

  “Oh no, Gillian, no way. You and I are going down to the justice of the peace, and we’re getting married. No tourists. You can wear anything you goddam please, but you’re not going to invite anybody. And I mean that.” And he looked as though he did. “Okay, love. Okay. Don’t get excited about it.”

  “I’m not excited,” but he looked irritated and went back up to his garret while I cleaned up the lunch dishes.

  After Sam was down for her nap in the afternoon I got dressed to go downtown and went up to the studio to tell Chris I was leaving.

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “What?”

  “What you’re wearing now?”

  “Chris, I can’t wear black to our wedding. It’d look like a bloody funeral for chrissake. Now come on . . . you said.”

  “I know, I know. Go ahead and get yourself a veil while you’re at it . . . with plastic cherries on it,” and I saw then that his good mood was back. He seemed to be finding the whole thing very funny. And as I closed the door behind me he started singing, “Here comes the bride,” at the top of his lungs.

  “Bug-off, Christopher,” but he just got louder.

  I decided to make a real trip of it, parked the car in the Union Square Garage, and then headed for I. Magnin’s. They were showing cruise clothes in all the windows, and once inside it felt more like New York than San Francisco. Everyone was all dressed up. It seemed a long way from Sacramento Street.

  I went up in the elevator looking for the card that said “Maternity” in the long line of descriptions of the different departments above the elevator doors. The elevator operator looked over at me, smiled, and said “Sixth.” I couldn’t resist, so I looked back and smiled at her, and said, “Bridal?” and her face froze. I laughed and said sixth would be fine.

  “For a minute, there, I thought you meant it.”

  I just laughed again as I stepped out. . . . Oh lady, I do mean it. Yes I do.

  The maternity department had as little charm as those places do, and I went through the racks finding nothing. The fabrics looked crummy, the colors were awful, everything had a bow just over the belly, or a high belt, or something that made me dislike it.

  “May I help you?”

  “I’m looking for something for my sister’s wedding. It’s an afternoon wedding, and it will be very small, so I don’t want anything too formal.” That just about told her all she needed to know.

  We looked and looked and came up with nothing. Black was out, white was out, red was out, and I was pretty much out by the time we’d tried everything else on. “How about a coat and dress? We got something in yesterday that would look very well on you. It’s very tailored and light gray.”

  Gray? For a wedding? And I really didn’t need another coat.

  But out came a marvelous soft gray dress with long sleeves and a perfectly straight shape, with buttons down the front, and a soft pointed collar, and wide cuffs; no belt, no bow over the belly, just two very large pockets set at a slant on either side. The buttons were covered in the same gray fabric, and the coat was perfectly plain and had the same straight, simple line, with a tiny gold chain belt in the back. It looked divine . . . with my grandmother’s pearls, and black shoes . . . and . . .

  “How much?”

  “One forty-five.” Ouch, but what the hell, it was my wedding, and I could always use it again. I was getting a coat out of it after all.

  “I’ll take it.”

  “Good. It looks wonderful on you. Your husband will like it.”

  “Yes, he will.” He might. But a hundred and forty-five? I still had quite a lot of money saved up, so I explained it to myself all the way home as being a reasonable thing to do.

  When
I got home Chris and Sam were eating ice cream in the kitchen.

  “What’d you buy, Mommy?”

  “A new dress.”

  “Let me see it.”

  “Not till Saturday. That’s in two days.” And Chris started humming “Here comes the bride” again. I went upstairs and hung it in the back of my closet, feeling very pleased with myself. It was beautiful. The same kind of luminous gray as the fog. My wedding dress.

  Early Friday morning, Chris jumped out of bed, gave me a shove and told me to get him some orange juice.

  “Now?”

  “Yes. Now! I have to be in Oakland by eight. We’re shooting a film and I have to be there on time. Come on, lady, move it!”

  “Okay,” and I rolled out of bed, not too pleased by the hour.

  Chris left with his arms full of all sorts of boxes, and notes, and odds and ends that didn’t look like much to me. He gave me a quick kiss and said he’d be home late and not to wait dinner for him. “Now go back to bed.”

  I hung out the door as he started the car, waved, and shouted a hearty “Love you!” wondering if the whole neighborhood was being awakened by my shouting, or his car coughing and gagging as it got started. Or his “Love you too,” as he drove away. I went back to bed then for a little bit before getting up to feed Sam and get her to school.

  The house seemed quiet without Chris when we left and Sam was in a grouchy mood. I thought she might be catching a cold, and decided to ask Chris to check on the heater in her bedroom. I didn’t think it was working too well.

  On the way back, I stopped off at the hardware store up the street from the house and decided to buy the paint for the baby’s room. A lovely bright yellow. I figured that if I didn’t buy it Chris would never get around to it. So I loaded it into the cab and headed home.

  When I got there the phone was ringing but it stopped before I opened the door. Probably a wrong number. Chris’ calls usually went through his answering service and nobody knew I was back yet.

  The house was in order, so I went back upstairs to our room, opened my closet, and looked at the dress again. It looked so perfect, and as I stood there looking at it I decided to try it on again.

  I whirled around in front of the mirror, wearing black shoes, my grandmother’s pearls, and my alligator bag. I pulled my hair up off my neck and felt just like a bride. It was a far cry from my first wedding . . . a far cry. And I giggled at myself in the mirror. “Gillian Forrester, my how you’ve changed!”

  The phone rang again as I was preening in front of the mirror, and this time I got there in time to answer it.

  “Mrs. Matthews?” I didn’t recognize the voice. Maybe someone from one of the shops looking for new customers. So I wound up my “sorry, we don’t need any” voice . . . “this is the cleaning lady,” etc.

  “Not till tomorrow. Yes?” I didn’t see any point in volunteering my name. It couldn’t be anyone we knew anyway.

  “This is Tom Bardi. I’m a friend of Chris.”

  “Yes?” I remembered hearing the name, but only vaguely.

  “Mrs. . . . uh . . . we were working on the same film over in Oakland this morning and . . .”

  “Yes?” My God, was something wrong? “Yes? Is anything wrong?”

  “Chris fell off a rig, trying to get a shot, and, I’m so sorry to tell you this, like this, but . . . he’s dead. He broke his neck when he hit. I’m calling you from St. Mary’s Hospital in Oakland. . . . Are you all right? . . . Are you there?”

  “Yes . . . I’m here.” I was leaden. There just wasn’t anything else for me to say.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Gillian.”

  “Gillian, are you all right? Are you sure? Look, can you come over here now?”

  “No. Chris has the car.”

  “All right, don’t move. You just sit there and have a cup of coffee. I’ll be over right away and I’ll drive you back here.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, they want to know what to do with the . . . body.” The body? The body? The body! Chris, not “the body.” Chris, Chris, and I started to whimper.

  “Now, you just hang on. I’ll be right over.”

  I just sat there, on my bed, not moving, not even able to move my head or turn around. I just sat there in my new gray dress, looking down at my shoes, whimpering. And then I heard footsteps coming up the stairs, strong man’s footsteps, taking the stairs two at a time. . . . Chris! . . . It was a lie, it was a crank call, and he’d hold me and tell me it was a bad joke. . . . Chris . . . and I looked up and there was a strange man in our room, looking down at me with a look of tenderness and embarrassment.

  “I’m Tom,” and I just nodded my head.

  “Are you all right?” and I nodded again, but I didn’t mean it.

  “Can I make you a cup of coffee?” I shook my head. I stood up, not remembering where I was supposed to go, or what I was supposed to do, but knowing this man was here for something.

  “My God, you’re pregnant. . . . Jesus. . . . Oh, I’m sorry.” I knew he was, he sounded as though he meant it, but I really didn’t give a damn. I stood up and saw myself in the mirror, with Tom Bardi standing behind me. I was still wearing my new dress, with all the tickets on it.

  “I’ve got to change. I’ll be ready in a minute,” and I started whimpering again. “It’s my wedding dress.” He looked at me for a minute as though he thought I was hysterical. He had a nervous, doubtful look about him like that was something he really couldn’t handle.

  “No, it’s all right, I mean it. We were going to get married tomorrow.” I had to pull myself together to explain.

  “Oh, I thought you were. I mean Chris said something about his wife . . . and a little boy named Sam. . . . He never said anything about the baby though.”

  “A little girl. Sam, I mean. Samantha. . . . Gee, what am I going to do? I have to pick her up at school in a little while.”

  “What school?”

  “The Thomas Ellis School.”

  “Okay, you get dressed and I’ll call the school, tell them to hold on to her for a while. We won’t be long. . . . I mean . . .” and he turned around to walk downstairs. “Where’s the phone?” he shouted back.

  “In the kitchen, behind the door.”

  I put on my jeans and Chris’s sweater again, grabbed my bag, and the dress lay on the unmade bed, half inside out, next to the T-shirt Chris had slept in. . . . Jesus, oh good God, sweet Jesus . . . what have You done?

  I clattered down the stairs in my wooden sandals and heard Tom hang up the phone.

  “It’s all set, they can keep her till four thirty. We’ll be back before that.” He looked uncomfortable again. “Do you know what you want to do? I mean they want to know over there. What’re you going to do with him?”

  I hadn’t thought of that. “I don’t know. Maybe I should call his mother. . . .” Where the hell did she live . . . ? Let me think a minute. . . . Chicago . . . ? No. . . . Detroit . . . ? No. . . . Denver. That was it. I had met her once when she came to see Chris on her way some place else. They weren’t very close, and his father was dead.

  I dialed long-distance. “Denver Information, please. “I’m sorry, you can dial that yourself. Dial 303, then 5, 5, 5. . . .”

  “Look, goddamit, will you please do it for me. My husband was just killed in an accident.”

  “Oh . . . yes. . . . Oh, I’m sorry. Just a moment, please.”

  “Directory. What city please? May I help you?”

  “Yes. Denver. Helen Matthews. I don’t know the address.”

  After a pause, she came back on the line. “That’s 663-7015.” I repeated it back to her. Why did I sound so calm, why did I sound so much like me? 663-7015 . . . 663-7015. . . . Now dial it, tell the nice lady, go ahead tell her, Chris Is Dead. That’s right, Mrs. Matthews, he’s dead. . . . Oh my God. . . . I flicked the button on the phone up and down a few times. “Operator? . . . Operator? . . .”

  “Yes, ma’am. Do you want me to get
that number for you now?”

  “Yes. Please.”

  “Station? Or person to person?”

  “Station. No, person . . . no, oh anything . . . I don’t care.”

  “I’m sorry, but I have to know which.”

  “Oh shit . . . make it person to person then. Helen Matthews, Mrs.”

  She dialed, and the phone rang twice.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello. We have a person to person call for Mrs. Helen Matthews.”

  “This is she.” She sounded a little like Chris.

  “Go ahead please.”

  “Hello . . . Jane?”

  “No, Mrs. Matthews. This is Gillian Forrester. I’m a friend of Chris’s. I don’t know if you remember me. I met you last summer when you were here . . . I . . .”

  “Yes, I remember. How are you?” She sounded a little puzzled.

  “Fine, thank you. How are you?” Oh Christ, I couldn’t get it out. And I looked over at Tom Bardi and knew how he had felt when he called me. I squeezed my eyes shut and sat down, holding the receiver with both hands to keep it from shaking.

  “If you’re looking for Chris, he isn’t here. He’s in San Francisco. Where are you? I’m afraid this is a very poor connection.” It was, and it wasn’t going to get any better in a few minutes.

  “I’m in San Francisco, too . . . that is . . . Mrs. Matthews, Chris just had an accident. He’s . . . dead. . . . I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. . . .” Oh Christ, don’t go falling apart now, don’t do that to her. “Mrs. Matthews, I’m sorry to do this to you, but the hospital wants to know what to do with, well . . . I thought I’d call and ask you what . . .” Oh God, she was crying. The nice old lady I met last summer was crying. “Mrs. Matthews? Are you all right?” Dumb question, and I looked up at Tom again. He was looking out the window, with his back to me, seeming to sag.

  “Yes, I’m all right,” and she pulled herself together. “I don’t know what to tell you. His father is buried in New Mexico, where we used to live, and his brother is buried in Washington. He was killed in Viet Nam.” Oh God, why did this have to happen to her? I had heard about the brother from Chris.