A Watershed Year

by Susan Schoenberger

  Lucy turned on the television and played Mat’s favorite DVD about construction equipment, then she filled up the tub for a hot soak. She looked in the mirror and saw that her eyes—already red-rimmed from the cat allergies—were puffy and irritated from the playground dust. The aftermath of fear lingered there as well. Mat could have broken his neck. She would have to stay within three feet of him until he was old enough for college.

  Before getting into the tub, she ran downstairs to the kitchen and found some cucumbers in the vegetable drawer, grateful that Louis had stocked the fridge. She cut some thin slices, put them on a paper napkin, and brought them into the bathroom, resting the napkin on the side of the tub. She added some bubble bath, then sank into the warm water, slipping down until there was nothing above the water but the tip of her nose and her lips. She rested there, eyes closed, her muscles still recovering from gripping the tube.

  The discipline of preventive worry had always helped before. If you worried long and hard enough about unpleasant possibilities—dying in a car crash, losing a limb to frostbite, being trapped in a house fire—you stopped them from happening, because what were the chances that your worry would be justified? But with Mat, her capacity for worry wasn’t long or deep or broad enough to encompass the myriad ways he could put himself in permanently disabling or life-threatening situations. She could worry for eighteen years straight and never cover it all.

  She heard a noise and opened her eyes.

  Mat was sitting by the tub, munching on one of the slices of cucumber she had planned to use on her eyes. He reached for the other and treated her to a rare smile.

  “You like those?” she said. “I’ll get you some more when I get out of the tub.”

  He nodded. He seemed content just to sit there in the warm steam of the bathroom, letting her talk to him in her strange language. Nothing like a near-death experience to bind two human beings together, she thought, although she could never go back to that playground again.

  ROSALEE ARRIVED to babysit as Lucy was feeding Mat his dinner of macaroni and cheese with a hot dog. All her lofty ideas about buying only organic food had evaporated in the first week when she discovered he wouldn’t eat cooked vegetables except for potatoes. Most of what he liked had some relationship to pork or sugar.

  Rosalee placed a white cardboard box tied with string on the counter.

  “Butter cookies,” she whispered, “for after dinner.”

  “Nana,” Mat said when he saw Rosalee. She clapped her hand over her heart.

  “He’s a genius, this boy,” she said.

  “He’s picking up a dozen words a day,” Lucy told her. “I think it’s incredible.”

  “Nothing short of spectacular,” Rosalee said, opening the refrigerator to search for one of the diet sodas that Lucy kept in supply for her. “Have you heard about Cokie?”

  Mat got up and went straight to the cardboard box.

  “Cokies,” he said.

  “Cookies,” Lucy said. “What about Cokie?”

  “Cokies,” Mat said again.

  “No, hon, cookies,” Rosalee said. “She already has a publisher for her beauty book. She had a friend who knew someone in the publishing business, and she gave him the outline, and now she has a contract. Apparently she’s tapped into a very hot market.”

  Lucy cleared Mat’s plate as Rosalee cut the string on the box of cookies. The whole story reminded her of a long discussion she had had once with Harlan about the conflict women feel about being viewed as attractive.

  “It all boils down to how hard you want to try,” she had told him. “Pretty much anyone these days can have long blond hair. Thinness is tougher, but it’s attainable if you work hard enough. If you wear a short enough skirt, or a tight enough sweater, you can be noticed. But most women start to resent the effort. And what’s the point? Do you want that kind of attention from every male who passes by? At the same time, if you swing too far in the other direction—skip the makeup, wear sweats, tie your hair in a knot—people assume you’ve lost it completely.”

  “So very attractive women, in your opinion, are trying too hard?” Harlan had said.

  “Not necessarily. But we all have a limit, and it’s based on a complex formula of upbringing, financial status, natural resources, so to speak, self-esteem, and cultural pressure. Do the women in the African bush think they’re beautiful? Do they care if they’re not?”

  Harlan, as usual, had brought her back from her flights of abstract theory.

  “It’s different for men. We all think we’re attractive.”

  Rosalee rummaged through the box of cookies and pulled out one with a chocolate-coated bottom and handed it to Mat, who stuffed the entire cookie into his mouth.

  “So how’s Paul taking it?” Lucy asked. “Chew, Mat, chew.”

  “He’s trying to talk her into using the book money as a down payment on a T.G.I. Friday’s franchise. He’s seen the numbers, of course, and he says it’s a foolproof investment.”

  “Seriously?” and then to Mat, “Do you want some milk?” and back to her mother, “What does Cokie say?”

  “So far she’s resisting. He told me she went out and bought herself a Prada wallet the other day. Five hundred dollars. And when he asked her about it, she said she deserved it. She said it would keep its value better than the five hundred dollars’ worth of Legos in the basement. So I guess she does have a way with words.”

  THE PINK LINEN NAPKINS at the French restaurant were folded into the shape of swans. Lucy held one up and examined the folds, trying to figure out how it had been constructed.

  “See, this is the kind of thing I won’t be able to explain to Mat. Only Americans would use origami on napkins and try to pass it off as French.” She was nervous, or maybe just tired from the playground incident. Aside from the ridiculous swans, the restaurant had an unwelcome formality to it. She felt like a child trespassing in the adult world as she tilted her head to examine the crystal chandelier above their table. Why had Louis picked this place?

  Louis shook out his swan and put it on his lap. He had worn a tie and a jacket but still looked like the youngest person in the room, except for the teenage busboy who came to fill their water glasses. He looked uncomfortable as he glanced around.

  “Someone told me the food here was great,” he said in a low voice. “But this isn’t what I pictured.”

  “Who told you it was great?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Louis, who?”

  “Ellen,” he said. “But that was… before you and I… we never came here.”

  Lucy could picture Ellen in a place like this, ordering waiters to and from the table, sending back an undercooked entrée. Lucy had never sent anything back. It had always made her feel uncomfortable to be treated with the forced deference of the tip dependent. She wanted everyone to be friends, equal, right down to the guy at the car wash who took her money and put her antenna down. But Ellen would have enjoyed it. Of this, Lucy was somehow sure.

  As Louis scanned the wine list and ordered a bottle of merlot, she realized how little she knew about him—his family, his childhood, his politics. It felt as though their relationship had been thrown into reverse, and here they were on the awkward first date.

  “So tell me about your parents. Were they Republicans or Democrats?” She sipped the wine, which left a bitter taste on the back of her tongue. “I had one of each, which is kind of funny because—”

  “I thought we could talk about Mat.” He fiddled with his salad fork as the waiter placed a basket of French bread on the table.

  “Well, today I took him to a playground, and that was a disaster—”

  “No, about me and Mat. You let me stew for a whole week, Lucy. It wasn’t what I expected when you came back. I know we never really talked about it, but I thought you’d let me help.”

  She buttered a piece of bread, wondering herself why she didn’t want his help. If anything, she could use more help. She bit into the
bread, which was slightly stale.

  “Why do you think I adopted him?”

  “Why?”

  “I’d really like to know how it looks from your perspective.”

  “Because you wanted a child, because you’re a good person.”

  A good person. The words stuck in her throat along with the stale bread, which had formed itself into a large pill.

  “But see, that’s what I’m struggling with. I didn’t do it because I’m a good person, Louis. In fact, I’m still not sure why I did it. I mean, I wanted a child, but I think I did it more to stop up the holes—the holes in my life, not Mat’s. Does that make any sense?”

  “You’re being too hard on yourself. The end result is that you’re giving him a better future. That’s what matters.”

  She placed the half-eaten piece of baguette on her bread plate. Was the end result all that mattered? Was it really that important to understand her own motives? She pictured them as a tangled ball of yarn that might take years to unravel.

  “I still have this guilt that maybe I didn’t have my priorities straight. So that’s why I need to be so careful now. I can’t afford for Mat to get confused, because I think he’s finally starting to understand that we’re in this together. I’m trying to turn it around now, to fill in the holes in his life.”

  “So you’re saying I’ll confuse him.”

  “I’m saying I need a little time to figure it all out. It’s so new still. I don’t have a handle on him yet.”

  Louis paused as the waiter came over to take their orders. Neither of them had looked at the menu, so they asked for more time. The waiter filled their wine glasses and slipped away noiselessly.

  “I’m sorry,” Louis said. “I shouldn’t be pushing you. Take as much time as you need.”

  She was pleased at first, until she glanced up from the menu and saw the expression on his face, which didn’t match the generosity in his voice. He wanted to understand, but he didn’t. She could tell by the way he shifted in his chair and glanced back at the chandelier, as though patience were a virtue he could find among the winking crystals that dangled over their heads.

  She ordered the filet mignon, medium, and ate it anyway when it was served rare.

  LOUIS WALKED HER to the door after dinner. She stood on the small porch, feeling her second glass of merlot in an unpleasant tightening of her forehead. It was a warm night, the air slightly humid. The stars looked dim and unfocused, as though some gauzy material floated between earth and sky. “That was wonderful. Really wonderful,” she said. “Thanks for being so patient with me.”

  Louis said nothing, then kissed her with an urgency that told her he wanted something more. Slowly, he backed her up against the door and kissed her again. More. More. More. She could hear it in his breathing. Did it always have to be more? Was she the only one who sometimes wanted less, so she could hold what she had with two hands and examine it from all sides?

  “Let’s go inside,” he said.

  “My mother’s in there. And Mat. I think you should go.”

  She felt a little feverish now, weakened, her skin overly sensitive. She needed to sleep for at least two and a half days. He pushed her hair off her face and kissed her cheek, but it was a dismissive gesture, without kindness or affection.

  “Bye, Lucy.”

  As Louis turned and walked down the steps, she noticed in the glare of the porch light that the jacket he was wearing still had a transparent size sticker on the back. She went inside, past the couch where her mother was snoring with her mouth open. She climbed the stairs. As she passed Mat’s door, she peeked in and saw him sprawled across his bed, one arm thrown over his head.

  Inside her bedroom, with the door tightly closed, she unbuttoned her blouse and slipped out of her skirt, putting on a nightgown. She threw herself on the bed, without getting under the covers, and fell instantly asleep. She had no idea how much time had passed when she felt a tug on the comforter. Mat stood on her side of the bed, staring at her without saying anything. It was as if he was checking on her, making sure she was still there. She didn’t know what to make of it.

  She brought him back to his bed, returned to her room, blew her nose, rubbed her itchy eyes, and fell back into a restless sleep until Mat woke her up—again—at six thirty. She threw on a robe in a sleepy daze, followed him to the kitchen, and burned two slices of toast before she remembered to turn down the dial on the toaster. Her first sip of coffee brought her back into consciousness, and she thought of Louis and the sticker on his jacket, which made her sad. As Rosalee came into the kitchen, all showered and dressed for church, Lucy sneezed violently four times in a row.

  “That’s it. I’m taking the cat,” Rosalee said. “Mat can visit Bill at our house. You’ll have nothing left of your nose if he stays here.”

  When her mother left with Bill and his bag of supplies—a transition about which Mat said nothing—Lucy made a mental apology to Saint Gertrude of Nivelles, the seventh-century abbess who was the patron saint of cats. Gertrude, she suddenly recalled, had died at the age of thirty-three, which made her think of Harlan, and she found herself wondering what he would have thought of Louis. If she could ask him now, would he encourage their relationship as part of her mission to find joy? Or would he say that Louis was too young, or too impulsive, or too needy. She felt sure he would have an opinion.

  Mat yelled from the living room, but she couldn’t understand him. She walked in and found him trying to reach one of his small cars—a little black pickup with red-flame detailing—which had disappeared under the couch. She reached under the couch, pulled the truck out, and handed it to him, but he barely glanced at her.

  “We say ‘thank you,’ Mat, when someone helps us,” she said in a firm voice. The coffee had succeeded in waking her up but also in defining a headache of such intensity that she pictured it as a thick rubber band tightening around her skull every time she moved.

  Mat looked up with an expression of slight surprise.

  “My car,” he said, holding it up for her.

  Lucy noticed that his fingernails needed clipping. No one had told her how many small tasks would fall under the heading of “basic grooming,” for which a child had no awareness and took no responsibility. Bathing, hair combing, nose wiping, rear wiping, finger- and toe–nail clipping, earwax removing, eye-crust cleaning, tooth brushing… the list was endless. She felt a tiny pinch of resentment.

  “I know it’s your car, but I helped you get it from under the couch. So you should say thank you. Just two small words: ‘thank you.’”

  She could tell he understood the gist of what she was saying but hadn’t yet decided whether to cooperate. He stood there, the tops of his ears getting red, then fired the miniature pickup at the wall, where it left a black mark and small dent. Lucy grabbed his upper arm and marched him up the stairs to his room. She shut the door and spoke through it.

  “You can stay in there, mister, until you decide to cooperate. We do not throw cars against the wall.”

  She ran back down the stairs, her heart pounding, and poured herself another cup of coffee with a shaking hand. Then she called Angela and cried.

  “Honey, you did what you’re supposed to do,” Angela said. “You’re the parent, not his friend. You can’t worry so much about him liking you. Eventually, if you do your job and teach him how to survive in this world, he will love you for it. ‘Please and thank you’ are non-negotiable. Don’t you think you deserve that much?”

  Lucy saw, in that moment, what Harlan had been trying to say to her. It wasn’t just a matter of capitulating to the whims of a four-year-old for some momentary peace, but a decision to focus on eventual outcomes. She needed to move ahead of the obstacles, to see them for the temporary roadblocks they were, instead of letting them knock her off her feet. It required a toughness and a sureness of foot that she wasn’t sure she had. But then Mat came downstairs from his room. He stood in front of her, his face streaked with tears. The receiver fell o
ut of her hand as he spoke in the direction of her knees.

  “Thanks… you.”

  seventeen

  * * *

  My Lucy,

  It’s June now, when all teachers remember why they became teachers: to have the summer off. Ending an academic year has a way of resetting the clock, and I’m hoping you’ve reset yours, Lucy. I hope you’re barreling along now, full steam, because everything is ahead of you. You get to fill in the blank squares on your calendar, and it doesn’t matter if it’s jury duty or a root canal or bunion surgery; it’s life, and you get to live it.

  If you can bear with me, I have the need to get philosophical.

  What’s your average life span now? Seventy-five, eighty years? In your thirties, you’re still riding up that arc, reaching for something you hope to achieve. A few people manage to buck expectations and stay productive on the other side. Frank Lloyd Wright, if I remember correctly, designed some of his most impressive buildings in his seventies and eighties.

  The sad part of my way-below-average life span—other than the obvious—is knowing that everyone will look at what came before my illness and view it through that lens. Why did the poor guy bother with all that education? It’s too bad he didn’t get married and have kids early, leave something of himself behind. If he had known when his life would end, he never would have fill-in-the-blank.

  Why am I telling you this, other than to grovel in self-pity? It’s to make sure you know that you can’t take the arc for granted. And to tell someone—or maybe just to remind myself—that my shortened arc doesn’t erase or even alter what came before. I refuse to believe that.

  I often think about the time earlier this year, after my second brush with death, when I had a short remission and even allowed myself to imagine being well again. I truly enjoyed that trip we took to Hershey Park, when we rode that embarrassing little factory ride and ate chocolate and watched the kids on the roller coasters, and I pretended I was a normal person who had my calendar filled all the way through Christmas. It was a nice fantasy, and it’s those kinds of memories that sustain me now. I want you to have more memories like that, even if they’re with someone else.