He took off his pants and pulled me on top of him on the bed. “Jen,” he whispered in my ear. “Jen. Jen.”
I felt him, so close, so warm, this rush of pleasure in my body, in my brain. There was this feeling of overwhelming desire; I’d been wanting him for so long that I couldn’t wait another second. I kissed him, and as I pulled him inside me, I heard him moan my name softly.
I’d forgotten how good he felt when we were together, really together, not the halfhearted attempts at getting pregnant, not the polite, him-on-top, me-still-half-asleep, six A.M. sex. But this, our bodies warm, flailing, melting against each other, the sheets.
Afterward I lay completely still on top of him, our sweaty skin blending into one set of flesh, our two selves blending into one. He wrapped his arms around me and kissed my hair. “Tell me one thing you want,” he whispered.
“You,” I whispered back, not hesitating at all this time but saying the first thing, the first word that popped into my head.
“I love you,” he whispered.
“I love you, too.” And I realized, lying there, that I’d never loved Will for what he did, but who he was, and how I felt when I was with him. That none of the rest of it mattered, if he was a lawyer or a judge or a seller of selective herbicides.
I was sitting inside a bar, my suit hanging heavy against my back. I swilled scotch in a highball glassand checked out the football game that played out overhead, on a TV that hung underneath a sign that read: “The Brew.” The Eagles fumbled. Idiots, I mumbled.
“That fucking McNabb.” The bartender shook his fist. I finished off my scotch and motioned for him to pour me another one. “You drinking alone?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “Not quite. “
I watched the door nervously, hoping that he wouldn’t show, that Jude Marris would’ve snorted one too many lines of coke and forgotten. But no such luck. Just after the Eagles gave up another touchdown, he walked in, carrying a briefcase close to his chest as he squeezed his way through the crowded bar.
“Will,” he said.
“Judge,” I corrected him.
“Yeah.” He snorted. “Judge.”
He put his briefcase on top of the bar and slid it toward me. I peeked inside; not legal briefs but cash, stacks of it, stacks like I would’ve seen only in a movie.
In the moment before panic hit me hard, gripped my chest as if it was squeezing it directly, I almost wanted to laugh at how cliché this was—cash in a briefcase, for Christ’s sake. “It’s half,” Marris said. “You’ll get the other half after.” He stood up, folded his hands in front of his chest in an attempt to look menacing, but he still looked like a little jerk-off. “Don’t fuck with us, Will.”
“Jen.” Will shook my shoulder lightly, then harder. “Jen, wake up.” I opened my eyes and saw his face, looming large above me, fading against the morning light, then illuminating, as if suddenly struck by sunlight. Then I saw the cash in the briefcase. Don’t fuck with us, Will. I shook my head, trying to clear it of the image, trying to make it disappear, not be real. It wasn’t. It couldn’t be.
I felt the sheets against my naked skin, which was warm and still a little tingly from the night before. That was real. That was real.
“Jen,” Will said again, and I noticed for the first time that he was holding my cell phone in his hand. “It’s your sister.”
“I—”
“You really need to talk to her this time,” he said, and he put the phone into my shaking hand.
Twenty-nine
Hearing Kelly’s voice, hearing it stretched and tight and muffled into tears, was almost more surreal than hearing Gary Adams that morning on the news, telling me that Will had been indicted. Hearing Kelly choke out that Dave was in the hospital, that Dave might be dying, felt like it could not be real, could not be happening.
“What do you mean?” I asked, flabbergasted, my brain still foggy from the dream. I could still smell the smoke and the beer from the inside of the bar, feel the thin, dirty paper of the money between my hands.
“He just collapsed in the kitchen,” she said. “And he wouldn’t get up.”
I took a deep breath. “Where are you now?”
“St. Francis Hospital. In the waiting room. The doctors haven’t come out. They haven’t told me anything.” She started sobbing into the phone. St. Francis. A hospital I hadn’t been in since our mother was there twenty years earlier: radiation, chemo, mastectomy, chemo again. All at St. Francis.
“Take a deep breath,” I said. “What can I do? Tell me what I can do.”
“Can you come here?” she asked.
“Of course. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“Oh, Jen,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I never should’ve said anything to Dad. I don’t know what I was thinking. I—”
“It doesn’t matter now,” I said, and none of it did. I felt a little guilty for not having called her back, for staying so mad for so long. And hearing her voice, hearing her panic and her worry for Dave, my heart ached for her. “Just stay calm,” I said. “Everything’s going to be fine. I’ll be there soon.” I snapped the phone shut, and I held it there against my cheek for a moment.
“What is it? What happened?” Will asked. “She called three times before I answered, and when I picked up she was crying.” He paused. “You were in such a sound sleep. I almost couldn’t wake you.”
To sleep, perchance to dream. But not this. Why this? I told Will what Kelly had said, and that I needed to rush to get to the hospital to be with her. “You go ahead to work, and I’ll call you,” I said, feeling newly awkward around him. I’d felt too much last night, then dreamed too much, and now I knew too much to really process or understand any of it.
He looked me solidly in the eye and said, “I’m coming with you. I’ll drive.” Then he wrapped me in a hug and whispered in my ear, “I’m sure Dave’s going to be fine.” He stood back, stared at me deeply, and he smiled. I knew what he was thinking, that last night had been amazing. He brushed my cheek with his thumb, and he leaned in and kissed me softly on the mouth.
It’s what I was thinking, too, and for a minute I kissed him back. But then I thought about the dream, the money. “I have to get dressed,” I said, pulling back. “I have to go.”
In the car on the way to the hospital, Will and I didn’t talk. The only sound was the roar of the heat trying to warm us in the chilly February air. I stared straight ahead and twisted the diamond stars that were still in my ears. How did you get the money to pay for these, Will?
Oblivious to my thoughts, he drove carefully and slowly through the slushy streets, keeping his eyes on the road.
When I walked into the waiting room, I didn’t notice Kelly at first, but I saw my father, his arm around Sharon, who was drinking what looked to be a cup of coffee, not a rum and Coke. He looked right at me, but as soon as he caught my eye, I looked away. Then I heard Beverly’s voice coming in the door behind us, the high-pitched sound of it, shrill like a wild animal, emitting something that was a cross between a cry and a scream. Kelly emerged from somewhere behind my father, still in the red sweatpants she’d probably slept in, her hair frizzy and piled on top of her head in a messy bun.
She saw me, and we walked toward each other. “Thanks for coming,” she said. I reached in to hug her. She was cold, and she smelled like coffee, and I held on to her tightly, almost afraid to let her go.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered, and I was. It had been stupid, childish, ignoring her calls, staying mad at her for so long. She stood back and squeezed my hand.
“Do you know anything?” Will asked her.
“No.” She shook her head, tears welling up in her eyes.
“He’s my whole life, Jen.” She looked at both of us as she said it. “I can’t live without him. I can’t.”
“He’s going to be fine.” I hugged her again, wishing I could really comfort her, that I could really make something better for her. I wished I could dream t
he future instead of the past, wished I could know for sure. Because I knew Kelly was right, she couldn’t live without him. Please God, let him be okay.
We sat down in a row of hard plastic chairs, Will on one side of me, Kelly on the other. Will put his arm around me, and I wondered for a moment what it would be like if it was Will who had collapsed instead of Dave. Tears instantly welled up in my eyes. I couldn’t lose him. Couldn’t lose Will. Couldn’t. I leaned my head on his shoulder, and I leaned in so close that for a few minutes, it was easy to forget about the dream, easy to remember the way he’d felt against my body last night.
My father paced nervously, while Sharon walked over and stared at me and Will. She started to say something to me, then stopped. Yes, I know, you’re engaged, I thought, surprised at her restraint, at her ability to check her good news, to understand that this was not the place nor the time. And yes, I missed your party.
“Where are the kids?” she finally said, to Kelly, not to me.
“They were still sleeping. My neighbor came over to the house to wait with them.”
“That old lady who lives next door?” I asked. She nodded. Her next-door neighbor was seriously something like ninety years old, wrinkly and hunched over. Caleb and Jack could probably literally plow her over with one of their monster trucks.
Will cleared his throat. “Do you want me to go over there and stay with them?” he asked.
Beverly coughed loudly from the row of chairs directly behind us. “Oh,” Kelly said. “I don’t know. I’m sure Alice will be okay for a little while.”
Will looked at me, and I pictured him holding the briefcase of money, and then dancing to The Wiggles with Sarah Lynne, carrying Ara on his shoulders. Whatever you did, I thought, staring at him now, you are not a monster.
Beverly stood up and shot Kelly a look. I thought about her demanding that Hannah needed to wear a dress and get her ears pierced, and I wanted to punch her.
And then a doctor walked out through the double doors. “Mrs. Kaplan.”
“Yes,” Kelly and Beverly said in unison. They both stood and moved toward the doctor, who rubbed his chin, seeming increasingly perplexed.
“I’m his wife,” Kelly said, as she approached the doctor.
“I’m his mother.” Beverly edged her way just slightly in front of Kelly. I was tempted to grab Beverly by the hair and pull her back toward the rest of us, but I suppressed the urge.
The doctor shook his head and kept talking. “Dave suffered a massive heart attack. He’s stable now, but we think he may have some blocked arteries. We’re still running some more tests, but I want to prepare you. He’s probably going to need bypass surgery.”
“He’s thirty-seven,” Kelly gasped. Will’s age. “That can’t be right.”
“Well,” the doctor said. “We see it more than you think. Early onset heart disease. Could be genetic or lifestyle-driven.” He paused. “I’ll come out when we know more.” I remembered that Dave’s father, Stan, had had a heart attack some years back, and it struck me, the way Dave had been the one who’d succumbed to his bad genes, not Kelly.
“Oh, my baby,” Beverly said. “Can I see him?”
The doctor nodded. “One at a time and not too long. He’s still groggy.”
Kelly blinked back tears and nodded resolutely. I put my arm around her. “He’s going to be okay,” I said. “The doctors are going to fix the problem, and then he’s going to be fine.”
“Kelly,” Beverly interrupted me. “I’m going back to see him first, and then you can go.”
“But I think I should—” Kelly started.
“Dear, I’m his mother. Someday when your children are grown, you’ll understand. I’ll come back out for you when I’m finished.” She walked toward the area the doctor had indicated, not even waiting for a response.
“Why do you let her walk all over you like that?” I asked.
“I don’t,” Kelly said. “She’s just upset, and …” I thought about the party dress, about Beverly’s insistence that Will shouldn’t be around the children.
“That’s your husband,” I said. “That’s your husband in there.”
“Oh, Jen, don’t you think I know that?” Tears welled up in her eyes again.
“You’re strong,” I said to her. “Be strong.” She sat back down in the chair and buried her head in her hands. “Kel,” I said, “Dave wants you in there, not his mother.”
I felt a tap on my shoulder, and looked up to see Sharon’s big nose, practically in my face. “Jennifer, when you’re done with your sister, your father has gone to the atrium and would like you to go speak with him.” I glared at her. “Well,” she huffed, holding her hands in the air. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”
Kelly looked up. “She’ll be there in a minute, Sharon.”
Sharon walked back to her seat, and I shot Kelly a look. “What?” She shrugged. “If I’m going to tell Beverly to go to hell, the least you can do is talk to Dad.”
“She’s right,” Will said, putting his hand on my shoulder. “Do you want me to go with you?”
“No.” I sighed. Because I knew having Will there would only make things worse.
As Kelly walked back to attempt to see Dave, I wandered toward the atrium.
I still remembered where it was, still remembered sitting on a long green couch sharing a yogurt with Kelly while our mother was in surgery, still remembered the feeling of dread, the sinking like a weight in my stomach, the sinking that came with knowing that life as we knew it would never be the same again.
The atrium had been updated in the past twenty years. The green couch had been replaced with two red velour armchairs, the cold white tile replaced with warm maple hardwoods, looking oddly similar to my living room. How strange, I thought, hardwoods in a hospital.
My father sat in one of the red armchairs, and other than him, the room was empty. I guessed it was too early in the morning for patients or visitors.
I tried to recall the last time I’d talked to him, the two of us in a room alone, and I couldn’t. It might have been just before I met Will and just before he met Sharon. I’d gone back to his house for dinner one night, and Kelly and Dave had canceled at the last minute. He’d made steak, and the two of us had sat in relative silence, knives clanking against the edge of my mother’s china. “How’s work?” he’d asked.
“Good,” I’d said. “You?”
“Good.” He’d nodded.
And now here my father was, sitting in a red chair, wanting to talk to me. “Jenny.” He stood up when he saw me. I tried not to look at him, tried not to meet his eyes, to see the disappointment that I knew would be there. “Why don’t we have a seat?”
“I’m fine,” I said, not wanting to give in, even the smallest bit.
“Okay,” he said. He wrung his hands together.
“Look, I know you and Sharon are getting married, okay. So if that’s all, I should get back.”
“Your sister told you?”
“Yeah,” I lied.
“You know I love Sharon,” he said. Good for you, I thought, but I didn’t say it out loud. “And I loved your mother, too. I did.”
“You had a funny way of showing it,” I said, my dry laugh coming out dangerously close to a sob.
“It was hard for me.” He closed his eyes. “Watching someone you love in so much pain. I couldn’t … Seeing your sister out there like this, it’s killing me.” I felt his words intensely, and turned my head so he wouldn’t notice the tears welling up in my eyes. I wished for a moment that I could dream about my father, that I could be him for a night, feel the sharpness of his pain the way he felt it twenty years earlier.
“Okay,” I said softly. “I really should get back.”
“You’ve made up with your sister?” I nodded. “Good.” He put his hand on my shoulder, and it was such an odd gesture coming from him. His hand was large, the skin wrinkled, dry, and cracked. The hand of a stranger, and yet the weight of it on my shoulder did not fe
el strange at all. “I just want you to know. I never cared that you were married to a lawyer or a judge or … I just wanted you to be happy. Are you happy, Jenny?” He didn’t pause long enough for me to answer; his words tumbled out, hastily, as if he’d been holding them in so long that, finally, now that they were escaping, there was no stopping them. “I know I could’ve been a better father. I know I’ve made mistakes. But I’ve always loved you and your sister.”
Love was a funny thing. That much I knew. “Okay,” I whispered, part of me believing it, the other part of me really wanting to.
“I’m sorry if I don’t always say it. If I haven’t been there as much as I should’ve been.” He sat down, as if suddenly it was too much for him to keep on standing, as if he was too old. When I looked at him, he did seem old. His hair and beard were nearly all white, his belly sagged out over his jeans, the skin under his eyes fell in folds. When had he gotten so old? “I know I handled everything all wrong with you girls after your mother died.” He paused. “It’s just you—you remind me so much of her. You always did. Your hair, eyes. Your expressions.” He put his head in his hands. “You have your mother’s smile.”
“I do?” I sat down next to him. I never thought of myself in terms of my mother, only in terms of what I’d lost when she’d left me. I never thought that I was like her in any way except for a genetic curse, and then I felt this new pain, this inability to remember her completely.
“She would’ve been so proud of you, both of you girls.”
“Do you really think so?” I whispered.
“I do,” he said.
“Thank you for telling me this,” I said, because this new information about my mother felt like a gift. He nodded and smiled, and I smiled back. My mother’s smile.
“I want you to come to my wedding. You and Will. July 20, down in Boca.”
Dave had just had a heart attack, and my father was thinking about his wedding? I wondered if Sharon had put him up to this, if she’d told him to get me when my defenses were down. I could just imagine her whiny little voice. What will everyone think if Jenny doesn’t come to the wedding? It was bad enough that she missed the engagement party.
The Transformation of Things Page 19
