Unstrung

by Laura Spinella

  “With pleasure. Despite what Rob has done,” she says, assigning him a modicum of blame, “do not allow impetuous tendencies to drive a permanent wedge between you. Don’t do anything irrevocable. Rob has only encouraged your gift.”

  I frown. “Maybe so, but I didn’t hear him screaming ‘Stop!’ when I auctioned the Amati.”

  Her matching expression inverts. “As if Rob had any real influence in the matter.” She holds up a hand, precious gems wrapped around her fingers. They highlight her bare wrist.

  I see what’s missing. “Where’s your watch?”

  “My—” She dead stops and glances at her wrinkled wrist.

  Her wrist hasn’t been watch-less in thirty years; it’s like her nose is missing. “Why aren’t you wearing it?”

  She appears confused, examining her bare wrist as if it belongs to someone else. Her gaze hardens, looking into mine. “Do not change the subject. Rob remains one of a few moments of clarity in your life. Don’t make your response to this the glaring takeaway. The thing that haunts us all years from now.”

  I stride to the secretary. With my back to her, I run my hand over Shep Stewart’s 9-11 article. I down a burning last gulp of gin. Turning back, I hear tapping rise from the pocket doors.

  “Uh, ladies?” Rob slides one side open. It’s a small room, and from the entry my glassy gaze meets his. “Your drink, Genie.” He holds it out, though his eyes never leave mine. “We didn’t have any cheese. Liv, what, um . . . what’s going on in here?”

  “Nothing,” I say, gripping tight to the empty glass. “Mother’s just come by to remind me that life can result in even more precarious choices than beating the shit out of a Porsche with a baseball bat.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Olivia

  Later that night we are in bed. I’ve sought refuge in a different book. Ten pages in and I can’t relate to this story either. Moody women’s fiction—emotionally charged prose with characters on a deep introspective journey. Fuck that. Catharsis isn’t always the answer. Why can’t the story ever be about fitting comfortably—or not—into what you’re handed? In my case it might be my own skin or a house in Wellesley. Journeys don’t interest me. At least not as they are reflected in moody women’s fiction.

  Rob closes his laptop and puts it aside; I close the book. Both overhead lights are on. Simultaneously turning them off seems like what should happen here. During the past year, turning things off has become more customary than talking them out. By the time Rob confessed that the previous investment deal had gone wrong—the one that caused me to forfeit the Amati—grave financial peril was not an exaggeration.

  While Rob went on to recover his investment business, the fallout has taken a toll on us. Perhaps this is because I have always equated Rob to stability, and I was shaken by the idea that I could be living on a fault line. Since then, arguments have escalated. Ironically, most have little to do with money, or they did until last Friday night.

  My knees are tucked to my chest, and Rob reaches over, his hand resting on one. I don’t pull away, though I wonder if my mother has affected my compliance. I run the Rob pluses through my mind. Despite or aside from money, Rob is steady; he is present. He gets me. In turn, I get that this is no easy task. His fingers squeeze my knee, and I place my hand over his, like I’m trying to recapture the moment, maybe a feeling.

  “I really am sorry, Liv. But I’ve made good headway—called in a few cash-heavy favors. Like I said, I’ll fix it.” I retract my hold, and he removes his hand, scrubbing it over his face. “I didn’t imagine Eugenia would come here to call you on the carpet.”

  “Your ability to underestimate one another is fascinating.”

  “What did she say that had you so upset? I knew better than to push it when she was here.”

  “If you’re worried that she’s thinking of stepping down from her presidency of the Rob Van Doren fan club, you needn’t be.”

  “I wasn’t thinking that at all. I was wondering what she said to you . . . about you. I’m not blind, Liv. I’m not entirely sure why I get a pass on Eugenia Klein scrutiny, but I know how hard she can be on a person.”

  “You get a pass because . . .” A swell rises in my throat; an attempt to swallow may be life threatening. “Eugenia just did what she always does—unearths the past, thinking it will ward off future mistakes.”

  “Whose past?”

  “Mine. More specifically my Sam Nash era.”

  He nods. We rarely speak of it; it was so brief. I think Rob sometimes forgets he’s husband number two.

  “And ancient history factors into this how?”

  “She wanted to remind me about stone casting and houses made of glass. While short-lived, Sam Nash did manage to bring out the worst in me.”

  He twists in my direction. “Worse than beating up a Porsche?”

  “The Porsche incident, while admittedly not smart, expressed a lot of anger. Sam was more of a slow burn.”

  “What made him so different?”

  I shift in the bed. My first husband is the last subject I anticipated discussing tonight. “A lot of things. Because of Sam . . . us, I chose to leave school, instead of being tossed out, like the Conservatory and MSM.” He cinches his waxed eyebrows. “Manhattan School of Music,” I clarify. He nods. “Sam gets the blame for that, and my mother isn’t completely wrong. I did run away to Phillip. When I came back . . . Well, when I came back I was probably in a worse place than when I left.” I clear my throat; Rob remains quiet. “I might not have cared for what she said tonight, but I can see how she got there.” I turn on the local news; the volume is low.

  “Okay, I understand that your first marriage was tumultuous . . . the car wreck, the miscarriage, but what does it have to do with us years later?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “It was more about bad choices, the places I end up when threatened or hurt—acting out in regrettable ways.”

  “With him or with me?”

  I glance at Rob. Sometimes I wish he weren’t quite so clever. “You, of course. I told you, Eugenia didn’t come to here to disenfranchise herself from your fan club. She came for the booster committee meeting.”

  Satisfied that he was not the cad in the conversation with my mother, Rob lets it go. I do not take thoughts of Sam Nash one step further; I even turn up the TV volume to signal, if anything, the topic is boring me. In truth, another word might undo a dam of well-guarded emotion.

  Rob takes the remote from my hand. He turns the volume up more. “Liv . . . are you seeing this?” He nudges my arm.

  I focus. A reporter is talking about a group of middle-grade kids from Boston Public Schools. They’re posed in front of Faneuil Hall—with instruments. They’ve won a local contest. I tip my chin upward and listen. It’s newsworthy because these kids are from lower-income schools. They’ve been brought together by a sizable anonymous endowment. The kind inherited money and surplus from the sale of a coveted Amati violin might buy, providing them with quality instruments and private lessons. If they win the next round, they’ll go on to the district competition. “Well, bully for them,” I murmur.

  “I won’t start, but you know what I want to say. Your mother could benefit from an earful of what, precisely, you have accomplished. She should know about a daughter who is responsible for something more than poor choices. She should know whose money—”

  “Stop,” I say softly, touching his leg. “It’s not going to happen . . . ever.” I grab the remote, listen for a few more seconds before shutting off the television. I serve up a corner-eyed glare. “Do it and I’ll only move down the list. After the Porsche, that’d be your laptop, LeCoultre watch . . . maybe your Concept2 rowing machine. Did the bat go with the tow truck to the junkyard?” Rob shakes his head, unsure if he should laugh or hide his possessions, but surely weighing my threat. “Proving myself to her isn’t the point. It’s not the reason I . . .” I reach over, touching his knee. “It’s not the reason we did it.”

  He’s quiet for a
moment. “Honestly, Liv? It’s not your mother’s perceptions or just opportunities for those kids I hoped we’d alter with the endowment.” Rob snaps off the light on his side of the bed. “I hoped it might change how you see yourself.” He punches his pillow and slides beneath the covers.

  I turn off my light but pick up the iPad. Like this morning, I want to escape today. I click on the online version of the Boston Ledger. It’s a quieter distraction as I read about the five other 9-11 children that are part of Shep Stewart’s annual update, perusing them reverently.

  Andrea Wakefield was barely a toddler when her father perished that day. She’s just started her senior year of high school in New Hampshire. Her mother and new husband moved there when she remarried. Andrea and her two half brothers are posed on the front porch of their handsome country house. I don’t anticipate any sense of loss in Andrea’s expression—and I don’t see one. She appears to be a well-adjusted young lady. She wants to be a social worker or a fashion designer. I envy her freedom of choice.

  The story is almost the same for Stacy Roche, who was three when her father died on Flight 77, the plane that hit the Pentagon. The article says she’s starting her sophomore year at Ball State University. She wants to join the Peace Corps—a dream inspired by the tragic start of her life.

  There’s a cursory mention of Joaquin Perez. His father, a Southie native, was a chef in the restaurant of the South Tower of the World Trade Center. Last year Shep reported that Joaquin had relocated to Canada. He no longer wanted to be a part of the chronicle. Learning this about Joaquin upsets me greatly. One will leave, and soon they’ll all go, including Theo. I’ll never know how his life turns out.

  The other updates continue. Tara DeMarco Randall and a memoriam mention of Andrew Vaughn. He became a firefighter, like his father, who was training with NYC firefighters on that fateful day. Doubly tragic, Andrew died in the line of duty two years ago. This hasn’t stopped Shep from keeping vigil, starting over with the Andrew’s son and daughter, a family that continues to spin in a never-ending cycle of grief.

  I finish reading and close out the Ledger webpage, placing the iPad on the nightstand. It doesn’t compare to their lives, but it’s been a nerve-racking few days. I hug my knees tight, wanting to squeeze into a tiny, unnoticeable ball—like dust. My mother’s not wrong. The girl who made bad choices, acted out, isn’t so different from the woman in bed with the tucked-tight knees. I’m still making bad decisions, everything from music to memories of Sam Nash. I know I am. Today’s community hours’ choice is only one more example. As if to confirm as much, the iPad lights up—a telltale glow of light. It’s an e-mail from Sasha. Subject line: Braemore and McAdams are a go. You start ASAP.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  SIX MONTHS EARLIER

  NEWPORT BEACH, CALIFORNIA

  Sam

  “Sorry to keep you waiting, Sam.” Bogey makes his way from the doorway of his office to a high-back leather chair. For every time Sam has sat there in the past year, it’s seemed like a mile walk. At first Sam thought it was Bogey’s age, the elderly oncologist having to take his time. In subsequent visits, his slackened pace seemed to imply more bad news. Sam would count the steps. It normally takes nine to get from the door to his chair. Today it takes eleven.

  That can’t be good.

  Sam stiffens his chin and prepares for another punch. He is unsure if his frail frame can do the same. “What’s the word, Bogey?” The need for small talk passed long ago. As he’s about to answer, there’s knock on the office door. It’s Maura, his office assistant. Bogey’s wife is on the phone. Sam points, insisting he take the call. He knows Dr. Bogart’s wife has been as ill as Sam. While he is anxious, he is not without compassion. He leans back in the chair and tries to relax.

  When Sam was initially diagnosed with myeloid leukemia, he spent most of the appointment not reeling from the news, but asking how someone had the balls to deliver it. Dr. Elias Bogart—Bogey to Sam—eventually confided that it was the most bizarre reaction he’d ever witnessed. Sam Nash asked every question but the ones that mattered. In different ways, both men were stunned.

  “Sam,” Bogey said that day, “I’m sorry to tell you that our initial findings were conclusive. The bloodwork and further bone marrow testing was positive. The prognosis of myeloid leukemia on its own can be dicey. But my ultimate goal for you is remission. I’m going to do everything I can to help you.”

  Sam slapped his back against the chair opposite Dr. Bogart. “How . . . how can you just sit across from someone and say that—like it’s fucking going to rain or you decided you’re out of here today because you want an earlier tee time in the California sun?”

  Sam always viewed himself as a straightforward man. But this was beyond his comprehension.

  That day, Dr. Bogart didn’t reply directly, not to Sam’s question. He only ran his fingers through the wispy white hairs on his head and added a grimacing nod. “I’ve put together some literature on your diagnosis. Naturally, we’ll discuss treatment options at length. But I want to be clear about what we’re facing in terms of—”

  “Now?” Sam said, dumbfounded. “I can’t be sick now. I’ve just accepted a coaching position with Cal State. I was planning on—”

  “I understand, Sam. Absorbing a difficult diagnosis is hard. And unfortunately, timing is one of those things we can’t control.”

  Timing. Aside from a multimillion-dollar fast ball, timing never was Sam’s forte. The future wasn’t something he dwelled on. In fact, Sam prided himself on his live in the moment attitude. There’d been some fatigue, bruises that wouldn’t heal, a couple of odd fevers—nothing that said, “Hey, dude. You’re dying.” Sam brushed it off as too much booze and middle age, maybe the idea of real employment at this point in his life. He hadn’t done that since . . . Well, ever. A successful career in major league baseball had ended a few years before, leaving Sam with more money than most people dreamed of. What Sam lacked was purpose. He’d decided a coaching job wouldn’t be the worst thing. Just as Sam accepted a sweet position at Cal State Fullerton, his life turned upside down. The pre-employment physical, the bloodwork, it was all routine—until it wasn’t.

  After receiving Bogey’s initial diagnosis, Sam went home and tossed the paperwork, which seemed like a death sentence, onto the hall table—a dumping ground for all the shit Sam didn’t want to deal with. But eventually he had to pay the electric bill and car insurance and open investment statements to see how long his money was going to last. Sam never imagined looking at the sum and saying, “I probably won’t need the interest . . .” Five days and four shots of tequila later, Sam found courage to read through Dr. Bogart’s options and assessment.

  Because he wasn’t a complete idiot and maybe the future was something he wanted to see, treatment began immediately. As Sam suspected, it wasn’t the dying part that bothered him so much. It was avoiding dying that proved incredibly intrusive. He was stunned by how fast chemotherapy swallowed his existence. It was the only course of treatment without a viable bone marrow donor.

  Sam never relied much on his family—a poor noun for the Bulls Gap, Tennessee, squalor and trailer in which he was raised. Regardless, his father was dead, his mother never a factor. Sam did have a few cousins who volunteered to be tested, though Dr. Bogart insisted they wouldn’t be a match. He was, of course, correct. Siblings were the most likely candidates for a match, and Sam did have a brother. But if Sam Nash lived life like one big day at an amusement park, Tate was the guy who never got off the ride. Sam hadn’t seen his brother in eight years. The last time he did, it was at their father’s funeral. The two brothers ended up in a blood-soaked fistfight.

  After the brawl and a trip to the ER to fix Tate’s nose, which Sam had broken, his brother returned to Texas. From there, time and a window for apologies passed. One brother had no use for the other—not until Sam did. Along with aggressive phases of chemo treatment, Sam went looking for Tate. He hired a private detective, Rex Simmons, who
tracked him to La Vernia, Texas. But like a thief on the run, Tate had taken his DNA and potentially lifesaving bone marrow and disappeared. He left behind a common-law wife and possibly a two-year-old daughter. It sounded like the kind of thing a Nash boy would get himself into and out of by changing his address. Wherever Tate went after Texas, it was a lottery ticket question with Sam holding the losing stub. Randstad, the drilling company Tate worked for, sent his last paycheck to a post office box in Bellingham, Washington. The PI tracked the lead, hitting a dead end after learning no one had picked up the mail from there in over a year. It seemed as if Tate Nash simply vaporized. “Damn,” Sam said to the last of Rex’s bad news, which was months ago. “Dead end probably equals a dead man. That’s, um . . . that’s a bitch.”

  Sitting in the renowned oncologist’s office now, Sam mentally reviews recent months and the completed phases of chemotherapy treatment. In addition to this, the National Marrow Donor Program remains a hopeful avenue if need be. He hangs on to the backup fact, particularly since he has no idea what Bogey will report today. It is an ongoing effort to self-comfort. Sam has a foreboding sense that today’s news is not good. As an ace closing pitcher for the Los Angeles Angels—Anaheim Angels during his glory days—Sam guesses he had his turn at good fortune. He has money, fame, and a World Series ring. Though lately he only thinks of the ring in terms of whether they should bury it on him or off him. He’s tried to stay positive, the lowest point coming when his old agent called to tell him there was a chance he’d make it into the baseball Hall of Fame on next year’s round of balloting. Sam suspects it will be a moving posthumous acceptance.

  As Bogey ends the call and adjusts himself in his chair, Sam finds himself mirroring the doctor’s gestures. A wildly deep breath rattles through the chest of the usually sedate doctor. His head starts to shake, almost erratically. Sam wonders if Dr. Bogart’s heart is thrumming like a jackhammer. Sam’s is. Could be the prognosis has turned imminent. Instead of hope, there may be only half an inning left. Today Sam is there to get the results of extensive bone marrow tests and new bloodwork. Internally, Sam senses the innate wind up of being on the mound, the gut feel of knowing he’s about to put one right down the middle of the plate.