Skipping a Beat

by Sarah Pekkanen

  One evening a month or so after the prom I didn’t attend, I opened our front door and slipped through the house, intending to go right to my bedroom. I’d been avoiding my parents as much as possible. But I heard my mother’s voice in the living room, and something told me to stop and listen. “How much did we lose?” I heard her say.

  “It’s going to turn around for me,” Dad said. His voice was so tight and shrill I almost didn’t recognize it. “I swear to you, we’re going to be fine.”

  They were sitting side by side on the couch, not looking at each other. Neither of them had bothered to turn on a light, and the room was so shadowy I couldn’t see their faces.

  “How much?” my mother asked. “The store? Please tell me you didn’t borrow against the store.”

  “Eliza, I promise you I’m going to win it back,” Dad said.

  “The house?” Mom asked. Where his voice was shiny and anxious, hers was dull and worn, the flip side of a penny that was glinting in the sun but tarnished underneath.

  “I swear to you,” Dad repeated feverishly. “I’ve had a bad streak, but do you know how much I won last week? Two thousand dollars. In one night! I’m so close to turning it around. Baby, just hang on. We’ll get back to where we started, then I’ll quit.”

  “Oh, Steven,” my mother said, and the desolation in her gentle voice broke my heart.

  Nothing stopped him from gambling, not when the bank foreclosed on the general store that winter, not when our pickup was repossessed a few months later, not even when we were evicted from our house and had to move in with Dad’s brother and his wife during the summer before my senior year of high school.

  If I hadn’t met Michael a few months earlier, I don’t know what I would have done. Run away, maybe, or quit school and gotten a job so I could move out. Everyone was miserable; my aunt was so angry at our intrusion that she marched around with her mouth in a thin, tight line, barely speaking except when she and my uncle were fighting behind their closed bedroom door, and my mother just looked wan and colorless, as though she’d given up on life and was waiting for it to be over. All the joy had seeped out of us, and the worst part, the part I could never forgive him for, was that Dad didn’t stop. He tried to borrow from the neighbors, from his friends, even from the mechanic at the auto shop, a guy with tattoo sleeves on both arms. He put an oil-stained hand on Dad’s shoulder and I caught him whispering, “Get help … I’ve been there …,” while I stared at a blue-inked Marilyn Monroe flirting on his thin forearm and wondered when I’d started to feel so old.

  It felt as though our family had been ripped open and exposed for everyone to see, with our problems spilling out like the ugly gray stuffing of a once-smiling teddy bear. Sometimes Dad stayed away for more than a night, and I knew he’d found his way up to Atlantic City again, probably by hitchhiking. I could barely stand to be in the house at those times, knowing either Dad would come home all manic, trying to make up for a year’s worth of pain with gifts and glib charm that would quickly evaporate, or he’d be dark and withdrawn.

  Dad and I never went for a ride together again.

  So you see, the prenup was my way of trying to protect myself. When Michael and I got married, he was still struggling to get his new company off the ground, and he owed tens of thousands of dollars in loans from college and business school. I earned more money than he did at that point, and I had less debt. I had no doubt Michael would be successful, but as much as I loved him, as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t bring myself to gamble on him.

  Our prenup was so straightforward that a lawyer drew it up in an hour: We’d be married, but as far as money was concerned, we were essentially two separate people. Whatever each of us brought into the marriage and subsequently earned would remain divided, as though someone had built a brick wall between our finances.

  “I understand why you need it,” Michael said that day, putting the papers in his desk drawer before he changed into his nicest shirt for our civil ceremony in front of a judge at the courthouse. He knotted his tie, and I saw his Adam’s apple bob when he swallowed hard. His neck suddenly looked thin and vulnerable to me, and I felt horrible about starting our married life on this note.

  “Let’s not think about it again, okay?” he said, not meeting my eyes.

  And I didn’t, not until the day Michael looked up at me from his hospital bed and told me he wanted to give everything away.

  There’s an opera called Arabella by Richard Strauss, in which a father who has gambled himself into poverty tries to marry off his young daughter to a rich suitor. The daughter ends up with a different wealthy guy instead, but the result is the same—the daughter escapes her father’s legacy and gets everything she could ever want.

  I see the story of my father and Michael and me twisted up in that opera. But sometimes I wished Strauss had written a fourth act, because I’ve always wondered what happened after the curtain came down. Did money make her happy? Did Arabella and her husband grow old together, or did they grow far apart?

  How did their story end?

  * * *

  Nine

  * * *

  AT TEN O’CLOCK SHARP, I stepped across the threshold of a boutique in Chevy Chase, smiling my thanks at the saleswoman who’d rushed to hold open the heavy glass door for me. I knew I couldn’t focus on work today, so I’d asked my assistant to take messages and contact me only if something urgent came up. Instead, I was meeting Isabelle to help her pick out something to wear for her date with Norm, the guy she’d suspected of substituting rifles for a Viagra prescription. Turned out it had all been a misunderstanding: Norm’s grandfather had bequeathed him a single Civil War-era musket, and it had arrived by FedEx on the very day Norm met Isabelle, which was the only reason why it came up in conversation.

  “You thought I was a gun collector? No wonder you canceled on me! I’m surprised you didn’t change your phone number and leave town.” Norm had laughed when Isabelle called to thank him for the gorgeous flowers he’d sent.

  “He’s got potential. Most guys send roses after the date,” Isabelle said after we’d hugged hello. “Actually, scratch that, most guys don’t do that. But they should. Did they stop because of women’s lib? Should we be blaming this on Hillary Clinton?”

  “Either that, or you could subscribe to the theory that guys like women who don’t treat them well,” I said, holding up a delicate gold mesh tank top. “Why don’t you kick him in the groin tonight and see if he proposes?”

  Isabelle fingered the top and wrinkled her nose.

  “Fine, but you could get away with it,” I said, reluctantly putting it back. I’d never buy it—I was too wholesome-looking for something that exotic—but Isabelle’s cat-shaped eyes and angular body let her dress far more dramatically.

  “Anyway, so Norm isn’t compensating,” I said, eager to keep the conversation going so I wouldn’t have to think. This was exactly what I needed; some good girl talk to get my mind off what Michael was doing this morning.

  “As far as we know,” Isabelle allowed. “If I decide an investigation is warranted, I’ll give you a full report. We’re having dinner tonight. And I decided if he’s the kind of guy who sends flowers when I cancel at the last minute, the least I can do is show up wearing something new.”

  “Noble of you,” I said, waving a silky blue empire-waist dress in front of her. Isabelle held it up against her, and we both shook our heads.

  My cell phone buzzed in my pocket, and I started so violently that Isabelle grabbed my arm. “Are you okay?”

  “Of course,” I said, but my voice came out shaky and Isabelle looked at me carefully. It was no use; I couldn’t keep up the façade any longer.

  “I can’t believe Michael’s doing this,” I whispered, feeling my shoulders slump in defeat. Michael had been released from the hospital yesterday afternoon, and he’d left for his office at 7:00 sharp this morning, as usual. But for the first time, it wasn’t because he was itching to dive into work. He was going
to begin extricating himself from his company. He’d scheduled a 10:00 A.M., all-hands-on-deck meeting to announce it to his employees. I glanced at my watch: 10:15. He’d probably already given his speech and assured everyone that he’d do his best to ensure they’d still have jobs. To sweeten his announcement, he was giving every employee a piece of his personal company stock. I mean, why not? Why not throw around the money you’d practically killed yourself to earn like it was confetti at a Mardi Gras parade? His employees were probably hoisting him onto their shoulders and parading him around the office right now, maybe hoping he’d slip off and thunk his head again and decide to hand them the keys to his Maserati.

  “Take it!” I could almost see Michael yelling. “I’ll ride the bus home! No, take my bus fare, too. I’ll walk! But take my shoes first!”

  What had happened to him? Why wouldn’t he listen to me when I told him he was making a terrible, terrible mistake? I’d alternated between arguing and pleading during these past few days, but nothing I said swayed him. It was as if the old Michael had been replaced by a totally different man, one who wouldn’t listen to reason. Everything that had driven him forward in life, all the goals he’d nurtured for decades, had somehow been erased the moment his heart stopped beating.

  I picked up another dress and stared at it, but my vision blurred and I couldn’t even have said what color it was. I sighed and rubbed my hand across my forehead as exhaustion crashed down on me. I’d barely slept since Michael had announced his insane plan. My eyes felt gritty, and my jaw ached; I’d probably been grinding my teeth in my sleep.

  Isabelle was still watching me. “Let’s sit down for a minute.” She gestured toward the oversize chairs tucked in a corner of the boutique, then turned to the saleswoman who had been discreetly hovering nearby, waiting to whisk our clothing to a dressing room. “Would you mind bringing us two lattes?”

  I sank back into the velvety softness of the chair and sighed gratefully.

  “I still don’t know what I’m going to do,” I blurted, like Isabelle and I had been halfway through a conversation. In a sense we were; I knew we were both unable to stop thinking about what was happening. It was the same when my father’s gambling addiction became common knowledge. People would look at me, and chat about something innocuous—the weather, or our town’s upcoming Fourth of July parade—but I knew an undercurrent always veined through their thoughts, adding another, uglier dimension to their perception of me: The gambler’s daughter. The girl from the ruined family.

  My throat felt swollen and sore; maybe I was coming down with the flu. Or maybe it was from the effort of fighting back tears for so many days.

  “I keep turning it over and over in my mind, but it only gets more tangled,” I said. “I don’t know if I can bear to stay married to him.”

  “What would happen if you left?” Isabelle asked.

  “I could file for divorce, and get a judge to try to freeze his assets.” I shrugged. “Of course, that probably means I wouldn’t have any of them for a while either. I’d move to a new house, I guess.” A very different kind of house. I’d have to live there alone. No, not alone. I’d adopt a cat, a little stray who’d be so grateful that he’d curl up on the foot of my bed every night. I’d name him Ralph, and share cans of tuna fish with him for dinner. That wouldn’t be so bad, would it?

  “And if you stayed with Michael?” Isabelle asked.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t talked to him much about the future. I’m so mad at him I can barely stand to be around him. I have no idea what he’s planning.”

  “Ladies?” It was our saleswoman. She handed us each a delicate china cup.

  “Would you care for freshly ground cinnamon?” she asked me. “Or a blueberry scone? They’re warm.”

  Suddenly, in those simple sentences, everything Michael was making me give up became real: pretty little boutiques with saleswomen who brought me lattes or glasses of icy cold chardonnay in the afternoons. Vanilla-and-lavender-scented Jacuzzis under a sky full of stars. A new car that smelled like rich leather and gleamed from biweekly polishings. We’d had this glittering life for such a short time.

  I hadn’t even learned to embrace it yet; in some ways, I still felt like a fraud. In the mornings, when Naddy, our maid, came in through our kitchen door, I leapt up guiltily, hiding the evidence that I was reading the newspaper, and raced off to make our bed or wipe down my bathroom sink so she wouldn’t secretly think I was a lazy slob. I paid bills the moment they arrived, weeks before they were due, not because I was worried the money would disappear but for the sheer pleasure of writing those checks and knowing there was money to back them up. I still scrutinized the cost of everything I bought, even though I sometimes dared myself to walk into a store and grab something, even just a pair of gloves, without looking at the price tag.

  I’d barely dipped my toes into this incredible existence. We’d spent so many years working and planning and striving, and now it was all being snatched away by the very guy who’d made it possible. It was so unfair I wanted to scream. I had screamed yesterday while I was driving to the hospital, while I sped down the road so quickly that the trees lining it merged into one hazy, green blur.

  “Aah, that tastes good,” Isabelle said after she took a sip of latte. “C’mon, Julia. Have some.”

  I looked at my foam-topped latte, knowing if I asked for anything at all—salted Marcona almonds, a laptop to check my e-mail, a back rub by a strapping Norwegian named Sven who’d murmur in concern over the tension I carried in my shoulders—the saleswomen would all scramble to somehow make it happen.

  But never again. Not after today.

  I blinked hard and silently repeated the words: Never again. I stood up and walked over to a shoe display so I wouldn’t have to meet Isabelle’s eyes.

  “Julia?” Isabelle was up and by my side in one fluid motion. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look so pale.”

  “I … I just wanted to see these,” I told her, reaching for a pair of shoes. But they were farther away than I’d thought and my hand clutched at empty air. Isabelle said something else, but I couldn’t hear anything except the words pounding into my brain like a frantic drumbeat: Never again. Never again.

  Isabelle was still talking, but her words sounded as garbled as if she was speaking underwater. I gulped in shallow breaths; I couldn’t seem to push the oxygen all the way down into my lungs.

  “I’m … I’m …”

  I couldn’t get out any more words. Then I saw the worry etched across Isabelle’s face, and my knees buckled. I heard a saleswoman shriek, then Isabelle’s firm voice: “Please give us some privacy.” I felt something soft and warm against my cheek; it was as comforting as the blanket I’d loved as a child. I used to rub that threadbare old blanket against my cheek over and over again before falling asleep. I’d kept it for an embarrassingly long time, but my parents never made me feel babyish for wanting it. Now I rubbed my cheek into the softness again, then realized what it was: the rug on the floor. My face felt wet, and I knew I’d hit my nose when I’d fallen. I was bleeding all over this beautiful rug. I should get up, find some tissues, and clean the rug before it stained, but I didn’t want to move.

  I felt something against my back, as gentle as the touch of a bird’s fluttering wings: Isabelle’s hand. Then I realized the wetness dripping down my face was tears.

  “It’s going to be okay,” I heard her say, but her voice sounded like an echo from a great distance away. I heard Isabelle make a call on her cell phone, and in what seemed like no time at all, a pair of strong arms was lifting me up and carrying me outside, into the sunlight.

  * * *

  Ten

  * * *

  “IT’S FOR YOU,” MICHAEL said, handing me the phone. He patted me on the shoulder and his hand hovered in the air for a moment, as though it was unsure of where to go next. “I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.”

  I ignored him and lifted the phone to my ear to hear Isabelle’s worr
ied voice asking, “Are you better?”

  I stretched underneath my cool white silk sheet, flexing and arching my toes and feeling my calf muscles contract while images from yesterday morning flooded my mind: Isabelle’s driver scooping me up off the floor of the boutique and carrying me to the car; Isabelle with her arm wrapped around me as she made a few hushed phone calls in the backseat of her Bentley; the sharp brown eyes of Dr. Rushman looking at me from behind his wire-rimmed glasses while he pressed a stethoscope to my chest. Dr. Rushman had given me a little orange pill—Xanax, I thought, appreciating the irony—and I’d let its bitterness dissolve on my tongue before giving myself up to the blessed darkness. I’d slept through the whole day and woken at 1:00 A.M. to find Michael dozing beside me. It was one of the few times I’d ever been awake while he slept.

  I’d slipped out of bed and wandered downstairs and made myself a cup of coffee. I’d turned on my iPod and slipped in the earbuds and stepped onto our big stone back patio. As the hours passed and I stayed curled up on a chaise lounge, watching the first streaks of color lighten the sky, I began to realize I was feeling better. Maybe it was the lingering comfort of the Xanax, but I suspected it was something else, something stronger fighting its way past the fear and confusion: my survival instinct. I’d battled my way out of the dreary, sad life that had claimed my parents. I’d built my own little company from scratch, teaching myself how to incorporate it and advertise and decipher the various taxes. And I’d endured the stark loneliness of my marriage. I was stronger than I’d realized.