Don held up a finger. “One more day. I know exactly what ring I want to buy you. I’ll get it tomorrow and we’ll make this official.”
Antoinette tipped her head sideways. “Are you saying it isn’t official now?”
Don smiled. “I’m not getting anything right tonight, am I? It is definitely official, my dear Hannah. As official as the rest of our lives.”
With that, they were toppling off the sofa again. Mother was going to come up; she was sure of it . . .
The knock at the door startled Antoinette out of her reverie. She stayed in bed with her eyes closed and fingers twirling her engagement ring, hoping whoever was knocking would go away. The knock came again, this time more insistent. Why couldn’t people leave her alone? Why couldn’t they simply accept that she was where she wanted to be?
When the knock came a third time, Antoinette pulled her body out of her bed, put on her housecoat, and made her way on sagging legs to the door. Still angry, she pulled the door open with as much force as she could muster and scowled at the intruder.
“Mom, are you okay? You look like your head’s about to explode.”
SIX
Enmeshed in the Details
Mom turned and headed toward the couch as deliberately as her varicose-veined legs would carry her.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” she said, sitting heavily and twirling her engagement ring around on her finger.
Warren closed the apartment door and then sat across from her. “You don’t look fine, Mom. Did someone do something to get you angry? Did I do something to get you angry?”
Mom continued to watch the twirling ring for several additional seconds. When she finally looked up, she seemed more melancholy than angry. “Your father asked me to marry him.”
“Well, yeah, I kind of assumed that. Isn’t that the way it usually was back when you two were dating? I guess you could have asked him, but didn’t that kind of thing create a scandal?”
Anger seemed to flare up in Mom’s eyes again for a moment, but it dissipated quickly, replaced by consternation. “That’s not . . . never . . . never mind.”
Warren had no idea what his mother was trying to say to him. He knew his inability to understand her frustrated her, but when he’d tried to explore these conversations further in the past, he’d only managed to upset her more. The anger concerned him, though. Given the vast amount of spare time he had these days, he’d been doing some reading, both books and online, about what he was seeing in her condition. He knew it was possible that her rage might become a common thing, and he wasn’t sure how well he’d be able to handle that. He couldn’t think of a single time when his mother had gone off on him, even when he’d done incredibly stupid things as a kid. His friends regularly complained about enduring lectures and tongue-lashings. He’d never had to deal with that, and he appreciated it.
Her face had become more placid now, almost as though she were using some kind of stress-relief technique. Warren had attempted to get her to try meditation a few years ago, having heard that it could help with mental acuity, but she wouldn’t even consider it. Whatever she was doing now was certainly relaxing her, though. Maybe Jan or one of the other nurses had taught it to her. It seemed to take years from her.
“He’s worried that he fumbled it. He doesn’t have a ring. I don’t care about a ring – at least right now. I just wanted him to ask me.”
Mom’s talking about Dad was hardly new. A good third of every conversation they’d had since Dad died had centered on him in some way. Stories about their courtship, about their early married days, about the adventures they had after Warren moved out of the house, which always made him feel a little jealous even though he’d moved on to his own adventures. The difference here was that she was talking about this event as though it had just happened, as though she were telling a girlfriend about it on the phone.
This was a new wrinkle, and one with which Warren had some trouble contending. Did he engage her in this talk, pretending that they’d transported sixty years into the past (in which case, did he need to identify who she thought he was in this scenario)? Did he attempt to snap her out of it, which might be harmful on a number of levels? Did he simply sit here and let her keep talking, assuming that she’d step out of the past at some point? This last option was becoming more attractive as the moments passed.
Warren had never known his parents when they were in the blush of adulthood. They were in their early forties when they had him, having already been married for more than twenty years. There were photographs and reminiscences, of course, and these gave this period some semblance of substance for Warren. In the five years since Dad died, Mom had painted in the background even more, giving voice to the great joys and deep heartaches of those years with the enthusiasm of a professional biographer. She’d become so enmeshed in the details of a story that Warren sometimes thought he could put on his shoes, take a quick stroll through the neighborhood, chat up the guy that lived next door for a while, and come back to find his mother still recounting the same tale. He never wanted to do anything of the sort, though. The stories gave form to his family history. They answered questions he didn’t realize he should have asked. They made the long past that existed before he entered their world come alive for him.
He missed it when his mother’s recounting became far less voluble. It should have been a sign to him that something was happening to her mind when her storytelling became less florid. If he’d noticed it faster, could the doctors have been more effective in stemming her decline? The drugs they were trying now showed no impact, but they might have been more effective if physicians had started the treatment earlier.
The silence had extended for several minutes now. Warren had stopped watching his mother as he drifted into his own thoughts. When he looked at her now, though, he saw that she was staring behind him. At first, he thought she was looking at the photograph on the wall, but then he remembered that the picture was over his other shoulder. He turned to see what had captured her attention, but found nothing there.
When he turned back, her eyes were locked on his. This startled him, as though he hadn’t realized she was in the room with him, and he flinched. The motion seemed to generate some spark within his mother and the scowl with which she greeted him returned.
Then, just as quickly, it fell. This time, though, she didn’t seem to relax. Instead, she seemed to sag. Without a word, she stood, patted him gently on the cheek, and walked away from him. As Warren watched, she removed her housecoat, climbed into bed, and pulled the sheets around her.
Was that it? Was that the extent of their visit for the day? Should he leave? If he did, would she even remember that he’d been there?
For the second time in the last fifteen minutes, Warren felt stuck. Leaving seemed wrong, but staying seemed silly. He was still pondering this when he heard a knock at the door. Faced with an easy decision at last, he opened it to find Jan on the other side.
“Hey,” she said as she entered the room. “I need to check Antoinette’s blood pressure.”
“Checking her blood pressure requires touching her, right?”
Jan wrinkled her nose. “That or Vulcan mind meld.”
“Yeah, you might want to go with the latter.”
Jan put down the supplies she’d carried into the room. “Problem?”
Warren plopped onto the couch where his mother had sat only minutes earlier. “She’s been a little unpredictable since I got here. If you try to take her blood pressure, she might be as cooperative as usual. Or she might have your left hand for a snack.”
Jan sat on the arm of the chair across from him, exhibiting more concern than he would have liked her to exhibit at that moment. “Where is she?”
“She went back to bed a few minutes ago. I assume she’s sleeping, because I haven’t heard her move.”
“And you’re staying here?”
Warren chuckled softly and looked upward toward Jan’s eyes. “Pretend that you aren’t thinki
ng that I have absolutely nothing else to do with my life, okay?”
“What I was thinking was that you were the world’s greatest son.” Jan slid into the chair. She was wearing a blue, knee-length skirt and Warren couldn’t help but notice her calves as she sat.
“Sitting here while she sleeps is nothing. Watching game shows with her for two hours? That’s true selflessness.”
“Or a case of having nothing else to do with your life.”
Warren was surprised that Jan would tease him this way. Of course, he’d essentially invited her to do so. “Or that,” he said, grinning.
Jan tossed her head in the direction of his mother’s room. “She’s having mood swings?”
“Today her mood was all over the place. There haven’t been many days like this. Yet.”
Jan touched her fingertips together. “We should probably get some more tests.”
“Isn’t that a little bit like testing the ocean for wetness?”
Jan pressed her lips together, then brought her steepled fingers to her mouth. “Do you think this is rattling her?”
Warren leaned into the sofa, rubbing his left temple. “Less and less, I think. Which of course means it’s rattling me more and more.”
Jan leaned toward him, and for a moment Warren thought she was going to hug him. Instead, she just looked at him for a long beat. This had the potential to become uncomfortable, but before they reached that point, Jan put her hands on her knees, which he also couldn’t help noticing, and stood from the chair.
“I’m going to have to take my chances and get that blood pressure reading.”
“Can I have you sign a waiver first?”
“The facility has us covered.” She took a step toward Mom’s bedroom and then turned back to him. “We can talk about this anytime you want, you know. Unfortunately, I have quite a bit of experience with it.”
“Thanks. I’m going to take you up on that.”
Jan started moving toward the bedroom again. “That’s good.”
Warren watched Jan go through the doorway and listened to her gentle voice as she coaxed his mother into offering up her arm. A minute later, she was waving good-bye to him.
Alone, and with far more time on his hands than he should have, Warren turned on the Game Show Network.
SEVEN
Somewhat More Palpable
Three hours of highway driving had done nothing to bring a sense of direction to Joseph’s journey. The names of towns they passed had varying levels of familiarity, but Joseph didn’t know if this had something to do with his knowledge of the area, or with the generic sound of the names. Did every state in America have a Springfield? Had he actually spent time in Green Valley, Riverbend, or Hillsdale, or were the names just variations on Anywhere USA? Certainly, none of them inspired him to suggest that Will exit for a closer look.
The boy had been an entertaining traveling companion, though his references to sports and popular culture proved frustrating. None of the names meant anything to Joseph. He recognized some of the cities, not enough to identify with any of them, but enough to know that he’d heard of them before. He had a feeling that he’d been an avid baseball fan, but at gunpoint, he wouldn’t have been able to name the team that played in Chicago. It was as though his memory were playing an elaborate game of peek-a-boo with him, revealing part of itself for an instant before hiding away again.
Will turned up the car stereo to play a song that he seemed to enjoy. He had varied taste in music, some of which sounded better to Joseph than others. Music seemed to be something of a passion for the boy, and he moved while he drove, with as much grace as a seat belt and a steering wheel afforded. This latest tune had him playing bass guitar with the turn signal while he rocked his head in syncopation. Joseph grinned at the sight, and even found his right foot moving to the song’s insistent rhythm.
When the music ended, Will turned down the volume before the next song began. “Was that a great cut or what?”
“I liked it. It was one of the better ones you’ve played. Who was that performer?”
“Vampire Weekend.”
Joseph arched his eyebrows. “The band’s name is really Vampire Weekend?”
Will threw up his hands. “Hey, I don’t name ‘em; I just love ‘em.”
Joseph chuckled at the boy’s enthusiasm. He was a fascinating combination of cool and childish. “You’ll let me know if you’re getting tired, right?”
“I’m good.”
“Are you sure? We’ve been driving for a while now.”
Will glanced over at him with the lopsided grin that Joseph had quickly recognized as his signature. He guessed that girls recognized it as something else. “Are you telling me that you’re tired?”
“I wouldn’t mind stretching my legs for a little while.”
“Next rest stop we come to, okay?”
About fifteen minutes later, Will turned off the highway and up a long ramp to a stop marked “Frank Capra Memorial Rest Stop.” The name Frank Capra only rang the dimmest of bells in Joseph’s mind, but the rest stop dedicated to him had a remarkable folksy quality. They passed gas pumps on their way off the ramp, but the vicinity around the rest stop was like the main street of a very small town. Trees lined the curb and patrons milled from an ice cream shop to a dry goods store to a restaurant bearing a sign that promised homestyle cooking, the best coffee for miles, and “Bethy’s incomparable pies.”
“Are you hungry?” Joseph said to Will as they got out of the car.
“I could eat something.”
“Let’s go see what this ‘homestyle cooking’ is about.”
They entered a room with soft lighting and muted colors. Perhaps this was just further evidence of his failed memory, but Joseph had not envisioned this when he imagined going to a rest stop. The tables and chairs were maple with woven, amber-colored placemats at each setting. Moss green drapes hung from the windows, matching the moss and beige rug on the floor. If the cooking was as “homestyle” as the dining room decor, this meal was going to be far more of a treat than Joseph had expected. That would be good. The only time he’d felt truly comfortable since awakening in this place had been when he was eating, but he also hadn’t had a thoughtless meal yet.
The hostess seated them and handed them menus. A busboy brought them water as they sat and a waiter took Joseph’s order for coffee and Will’s for a Sprite. Joseph opened his menu and considered the options. Four-cheese pasta sounded appealing, as did the chicken-and-white-bean chili. A box on the righthand corner of the menu told the story of “Randy’s famous spice-rubbed smoked pork loin,” explaining how Randy (whoever he was) had spent years experimenting with spices, woodsmoke, and cooking temperatures before perfecting this dish.
“Hey, did you see this thing about the pork?” Joseph said to Will, who’d already closed his menu.
“Nah, I didn’t notice it.”
“It sounds very impressive. I think I hear it calling to me.”
Will looked down at the menu, but didn’t reopen it. “A turkey sandwich works for me.”
Joseph screwed his face into an expression of disbelief. “Really? With all the other interesting stuff they have here?”
Will shrugged. “Food’s not that big a deal to me.”
Joseph found that sentiment baffling. How could food not be a big deal? Everybody loved food, didn’t they? He could imagine this becoming a problem between the two of them if they stayed on the road for any length of time. Joseph decided right then that he’d take charge of every one of their meals while they were traveling. Life was far too short to eat badly.
Joseph ordered his smoked pork and Will his turkey sandwich, and the waiter promised to get their meals out to them as quickly as he could.
When the waiter left, Will took a sip of his drink and then leaned toward Joseph. “Okay, tell me everything about her.”
“About who?”
“Your wife.”
Joseph lowered his eyes. “You know as m
uch about her as I do.”
Will became more animated. “No, I don’t. You know tons about her. Dig down and pull something out.”
Joseph had no idea what the kid was getting at. Did Will think that Joseph had been holding out on him, that he’d been spinning some elaborate yarn about losing his memory? He threw an accusing glance across the table, but what came back at him wasn’t provocation. It was encouragement. Will was trying to goad him into figuring things out. The kid had some surprises in him.
Dig down? Okay, he’d try. Staring at his lap, Joseph tried to get his mind to cooperate with his desires. She was in there somewhere. Did he have the strength to bring her out?
He closed his eyes and tried to reach out for the wisp of her he knew was always there. As he did, she became somewhat more palpable. Flexing open his right hand, he felt the satin of her upper arm. The warmth and smoothness, colored by a tiny mole. The subtle contour of her upper bicep. The curve of her perfect shoulder that led to her long, regal neck whose skin was almost impossibly smoother.
He parted his lips slightly and felt hers. The way they yielded to and at the same time embraced his had been a breakthrough for him the first time they kissed. Before this, he had never known that a kiss could be both pillowy and firm. It drew him to a need to kiss her that extended far beyond attraction and passion. It was as though he had discovered something necessary to his welfare, some secret thing that allowed him to live his life at a higher and now completely essential level.
His chest warmed and he could feel her skin on his, molded with his as they lay in the night. Joseph knew he’d be able to sense her heartbeat if he were still enough, if he let himself melt into her. Yes, there it was, issuing its subtle throb into his own pulse. Joseph sank into the rhythm of it. This was something absolutely, uniquely hers. It bore her essence. It would take him to her.
But while he continued to feel her heartbeat, his journey toward his wife ended right there. He implored his mind to go deeper, to go beyond touch, to offer the same fullness of experience to his other senses. As he did so, though, the throbbing of her heart lessened. His skin grew cooler. His lips and his fingers touched nothing but air.
The Journey Home Page 4
