Unstrung

by Laura Spinella

  Back in the day, Chaz was one a hell of a pitching buddy, and maybe the one person who could party harder than Sam. They lost touch after Chaz was traded to Toronto toward the end of their careers. The start of the conversation proves they still have a lot in common. Chaz never married either, still enjoying the good life and a good party. Sam even learns that Chaz battled testicular cancer a few years ago. With this news, Sam feels the bond between him and Chaz strengthen and Charlene’s argument weaken. Sam is surprised to learn that Chaz is now residing in the Dominican Republic. His old buddy says he’s found paradise. Sam thinks this may be the ticket for him. After his bout with cancer, Chaz relocated to a luxury oceanfront community. He insists that Sam should visit right away. Sam is tempted, but something about Chaz’s nervous energy does not ring true. Still, talk of their past is vivid enough to fuel a conversation.

  Chaz understands how living a major league life is different than a regular one. Why a person simply can’t walk away and resume a pedestrian existence. It’s impossible, he insists, and Sam nods in strong agreement. While Andy and Eduardo’s stories are at extreme odds, Sam offers up their post-ball-playing days as supporting evidence. The two speak again that Friday; Chaz has called Sam. He is wildly insistent that Sam visit him in the Dominican Republic—right away. Sam considers it. No one but Chaz has called. If it weren’t for him, Charlene might be right. But enthusiasm wanes, and an inner alarm goes off when Chaz asks Sam if he would do him a solid before coming. On his way out of California, could he stop in Las Vegas and visit a deposit box he keeps at one of the larger casinos? He will FedEx Sam the key. Chaz has been unable to return stateside to collect what’s inside. He describes the box’s contents as stuff. Sam may be cavalier, but he’s not stupid. He presses Chaz for more information. After words that Sam hears as double talk, Chaz admits to unsavory gambling debts—including ones on baseball, a line that Sam would never cross. Chaz laughs at this and says, “For real, man?” He sobers, telling Sam that between gambling debts and ex-girlfriends, his life may not be worth much stateside.

  “And would I be putting my life at risk if I were caught on camera visiting your hotel deposit box?” Sam asks. Being as he just got his life back, Sam finds he has a renewed desire to protect it. When Chaz tries to laugh it off, Sam says he won’t do it unless his old buddy comes clean with the box’s contents. Chaz finally alludes to the drugs and illegal winnings Sam will find inside. A few moments later Sam ends the call, deciding he’s spent enough time tracking down old baseball friends.

  Sam stops by the cancer treatment center a few times. At first the staff is thrilled to see him, ecstatic over his news. Charm, even in the face of death, was easy enough for Sam. But by the third visit, Sam notices that the nurses are not as forthcoming. They are busy with sick people while Sam quietly observes from a corner, hat in hand and hair on his head. Their warm, caring demeanors are now being lavished on the patients in his old chair. But Sam does not perceive them as unfriendly or rude. In fact, he is struck by their seriously compassionate behaviors. He couldn’t see it before, as it’s decidedly different from this angle. Sam draws an unlikely conclusion: The medical personnel engage in dangerously intimate relationships—the kind he could never acknowledge, no less commit to. The nurses not only care for sick people, but they care greatly about people who may not be here tomorrow. It’s an incredible risk. Sam leaves with Charlene’s words ringing in his head and a glaring display of human emotion in front of him. He will go home to his sparkling-clean condo and oodles of memorabilia to sit alone until the sun sets. The phone will not ring. No one will come to the door. Unless Sam Nash changes something, his second chance at life will be worth no more than his first.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS

  Olivia

  While Holst’s The Planets is on this season’s schedule, I wish I were in another universe. I escape my morning with Theo by diving into a lengthy symphony rehearsal. I don’t stumble but stagger through the first and second movements. An hour in and we take a short break—union rules. Concertmaster Rolph Buhr shoots a nasty look over his shoulder to assistant concertmaster Renee Fisk. Conductor Manuel Gutierrez loudly blames Rolph for the egregious musical faux pas. In turn, Rolph blames Renee and she blames me. That’s how it works—Rolph is the concertmaster and responsible for all violins, as well as all instruments. Renee does the talking for the violin section. Naturally, I blame the stand behind me.

  When we continue, I bow the wrong way twice, irritating my stand partner, Mary Alice Porter. I am the outside chair, she is the inside. Bowing the wrong way, especially in more fervent sections, can result in an eyeless stand partner. But Mary Alice and I have a longtime partnership—she envies my musical talent, and I quietly note when she is half a beat behind. As the bow lunges toward her, she only ducks and furrows her mousy brow.

  I sit up straighter and navigate through “Mercury”—aptly defined as the “the Winged Messenger.” Its volatility suits my mood. But as we continue on our planetary tour, flowing into “Saturn,” the fifth movement, the music’s dark edges are foreshadowing. There is a cliché about music speaking to you. Right now it is screaming at me: “What have you done, Liv? What have you put in motion? All this time . . . all these years . . . It’s your worst decision yet, dropping in, in disguise, on Theo’s life . . . What the hell are you thinking?”

  The movement of “Saturn” enhances intense emotion, maybe the panic attack I am fending off. I bear down on my bow and the notes, the layers of foreign feelings. There is no rest; I keep going. What I’m feeling, it’s not the emotion that drives my relationship with Rob or my close comradery with Sasha. It’s not the cloak of inadequacy that my mother swings over me—or my father’s dead yet perennial disappointment. It’s not even the ancient devastation of Sam Nash after looking into his son’s eyes. It’s more about having opened Pandora’s box.

  I deserve shame; the ridiculous stinging aftereffect of knowing that Theo McAdams was not overcome by an intrinsic connection, whether it be blood or music. We did not spot each other on a mother-child level.

  The orchestra eases into “Neptune,” the culmination of The Planets. Mary Alice flips to the next page. It’s an easier section, which only allows my mind to wander. Like a clashing of symbols, anxiety hits on the beat—for being dishonest with Theo, for not thinking through the mother of all impulsive decisions, a willy-nilly choice that never should have been the fix for my court-ordered punishment.

  The music underscores the circumstance—a lonely conclusion of connected notes that drift, almost unnoticed, into the vacuum of space. It ends. I rest my violin in my lap. Rolph turns to Renee. Renee turns to tear into me for my continued sloppy performance. The sight of a damp-eyed Olivia Klein is enough to keep them both at bay. I hear generic excuses being passed forward, conveyed to Manuel. Mary Alice asks if I’m all right. I don’t answer. I stare at the last pages of Holst’s masterpiece. Really, he should have written something with more of a finite ending. Instead, all he has done is lead us into the abyss of the unknown.

  I don’t spend the walk home thinking about how I will deal with the sudden existence of Theo, but rather how I’ll avoid the tentacles of emotions our meeting has unfurled. With a lifetime of practice, I am crafty enough to do this. Eventually I will cut it off—one extra twist of the tourniquet. Navigating a purposefully orderly late afternoon helps. I buy fall flowers and the new wineglasses Crate & Barrel has on display and keep moving toward home. I slip into my evening feeling calmer in the safety of the brownstone. It’s not as if Theo will show up at my door.

  The ruse becomes more intricate during dinner, though if I were cleverer the meal might be a distraction. Among Rob’s less dangerous talents, he can cook and has made lamb chops. It’s a favorite that I’ve barely touched. He reads my silence as ongoing punishment. Enough silverware clinks to be mistaken for Morse code, and Rob’s knife makes piercing contact with his plate.

  “Liv, could you j
ust spell it out? Is this how it’s going to be until the Wellesley house situation is resolved, the rest of our lives . . . or what?”

  My usual comeback stalls. The one good perk in the day, I’d nearly forgotten about the house. But I can’t tell him what’s at the crux of my silence. Like everyone else, Rob knows I was briefly married to the man who eventually became baseball icon Sam Nash. He even knows there was a pregnancy. But like all the significant others in my life, with the exception of Phillip, Rob believes the pregnancy ended in a miscarriage. Years have gone on and the story hasn’t changed, only the number of people to which I’ve told it.

  Until today, their misinformation felt like the truth—at the very least something I simply chose not to share. That’s allowed. I consider it now, but see no benefit in coming clean. It would be like explaining the Earth’s climate to someone born and bred on one of Holst’s planets—maybe Mars. Unless you experienced it personally, you couldn’t possibly grasp the atmospheric conditions I faced all those years ago—Sam and my parents.

  “Liv?” he says as my silence lingers.

  “I wasn’t thinking about the house,” I say. “It was just an odd day.” I take another stab at the lamb chops. “These are delicious.”

  “How was your first day at Braemore? You haven’t said a word about it.”

  “It’s an interesting place.” I gulp a mouthful of red wine. “A lot of what you’d expect and a little of what you might not.”

  “How so?”

  “There’s some talent in the room, which was gratifying to see. And the instructor . . .” I can’t help myself. Theo has consumed my frontal lobe. “This Theo McAdams, he does a good job given the environment.”

  “Right. The 9-11 kid. What’s he like?”

  A forkful of lamb chop freezes in midair. “Why would you ask?”

  “I don’t know . . . making conversation.”

  “Bright. Thoughtful.” I take another drink of wine. “He wanted to know if I was living in a situation of domestic abuse.”

  Rob’s glass is midway to his mouth. He places it back on the table and pinot noir sloshes over the edge. “Why the hell would he ask—”

  “He jumped to a conclusion. I think maybe he thought I’d been railroaded by the judge or the system. Apparently, he knew my community service hours were connected to a domestic incident. But he didn’t have the details, so he assumed . . .”

  “Jesus, Liv, I hope you set him straight.”

  “No worries. I told him my husband, while a wild card with assets, bore me no serious threat—other than monetary.” Rob makes a face. “I didn’t even hint at that. You’re safe.” Rob appears relieved that I have not painted him in that unsavory light and returns to his meal.

  My husband is a master of introvert and extrovert, a trait I still find fascinating. He’s an expert at extremes. Rob can be aloof, often deeply lost in his own thoughts. Yet take him to a dinner party, and you’d swear he’s running for mayor. He grew up in a house that came with expectations, but nothing as resolute as the ones I faced. Because of this, he liked his lone-wolf lifestyle and claims he never came close to marrying until Sasha’s matchmaking effort. Beyond his personality tics, Rob is an animal lover and would like to have a dog—an on-again, off-again, lesser point of contention. Long hours go by in the house with no one at home. It’d be unfair to an animal. Often, it’s unfair to us. Above all, Rob is a pull-the-trigger kind of guy. His aim—like the Wellesley house proves—can be off. But anyone who knows him will insist he’s a man of action, a decision maker, who does not waver no matter the crisis or circumstance.

  Silence settles in again. I force my mouth to move, although it’s thoughts about Theo that dominate. “He was exactly what his parents . . . his mother raised him to be.” Rob looks at me as if he’s already forgotten the topic. “Theo McAdams, the 9-11 boy.” The light in Rob’s eyes comes back on. “It was only a couple of hours and a short conversation, but I can see he’s a wonderful young man, perfectly lovely.”

  Rob motions his glass toward me. “Here’s to recognizing that when it comes to parenting, leaving it alone was the way to go—our childless choice.”

  And for whatever his misses, Rob’s pinpoint accuracy plunges right into my skin. Early on in our relationship, both of us noted that neither of us wanted children. It was a bonus tidbit—most men do want to reproduce. Unbeknownst to Rob, our reasons for remaining childless have nothing in common. His is about an inability to see himself in that role. Mine have something to do with punishment—I surrendered my right to maternal instinct when I gave away Theo. I had no business asking for another chance.

  Conversation picks up and we talk about Sasha. I share her latest hope for Jeremy—that he may actually sell a novel. As I reminded Sasha, Rob feels that Jeremy is taking advantage of her generous nature. If not for a nudge or two from me under a table, he would have expressed his feelings, emphatically, ages ago.

  “If he doesn’t sell the book, Jeremy ‘the thinker’” he says mockingly, “won’t suffer, not with Sasha’s money covering incidentals, like food and rent.”

  I poke at my baby red potatoes. “I raised the point with her.”

  “But what can you do?” I look up. Rob is focused on me. “Sasha is hopelessly drawn to artsy romantics—be it musicians by default or novelists by claim.”

  Our smiles connect. “Funny. She said the same thing too.”

  Rob is also a wildly smooth talker. It’s as natural as it is genuine—something that also takes time to figure out. It’s different from the pseudo mayoral race he runs on occasion, more intimate. Pockets of Rob can make you feel like the only other human being on the planet—well, on his planet. A long-ago taste of that was like heroin to me; it has made Rob tempting and dangerous. From our start, his positive opinion of Olivia Klein was a high I craved, even if I could never make the feeling last.

  After dinner, we go into the living room. The blinds are drawn and the light is low. A bottle of wine has been split between us. It’s enough to make us comfortable, soothe our prickly week. Things start out as quiet sex on the sofa. I’ve never used sex as any sort of punishment with Rob. In fact, over the years, the best sex has often been the heated kind, where raw emotion spills over and into our bed. But that doesn’t happen here. I’m not angry with Rob—I’m too appalled by my own actions. I breathe hard at the reality of what I’ve done. I find myself clinging to Rob. In the whole of my life, he’s been the constant.

  It’s comforting and real. He feels it too—kissing me again, and again. He says my name in some airy way that’s been missing for a while now. Grasping for a physical fix, I dig my fingers into the muscles of Rob’s back and run them through his dark hair. The scene inches toward an intense climax for both of us—one where I almost blurt out who I am, what I’ve done, the imperfections Rob has not yet seen. But then it ends, abruptly. Sex and emotion go out of sync as Rob shudders into a release that has likely been building since I deconstructed his Porsche with a baseball bat. Breathlessly he asks, “So we’ll survive this?” I want more from his words. “I love you, Liv . . . You can tell me whatever’s on your mind . . . I’ll understand . . .” He doesn’t say it. It isn’t there because aloof Rob has invaded.

  “Don’t we always?” My arms, which were around his neck, push against his shoulders. I catch the defensive gesture and curl my hands into soft fists. “It’s a house . . . a car . . . stuff . . . In the end, they’re not the things that really matter, right?” He furrows his brow. I sound like a Hallmark card. My gaze rests on his perfected BMI chest. My eyes inch upward into cool blue irises. I’m distracted by genetics—any child of ours would have been fair eyed. Chunks of fallen sky and smoky green irises run in our families, every person I can think of. The color, the shape of Theo’s brown eyes came as a startling surprise. I haven’t seen them in years. I dislodge thoughts that don’t belong between Rob and me, never mind in my head.

  He stands, butt naked, in the brownstone living room. His phys
ique has only improved since we met—sinewy, his fair complexion almost snow white in contrast to his dark hair. Wisps of gray mingle with the smattering of black hair on his chest. Rob is five years younger than me, though grays intruded at his temple years ago. Then the hint of middle age vanished. At the time, I didn’t think much about it. A few months later, I found a box of hair color for men in a bathroom drawer I don’t use. Of course, this is nothing compared to the eyebrow waxing and alpha beta facial peels he schedules religiously. I ignore Rob’s vanity the way he disregards my dislike for small talk with strangers, often people we know. He pulls on his silky boxers, and I casually drag the cashmere throw across my bare midriff.

  My figure hasn’t changed much either, though it’s never been as toned as his—or Sasha’s. I do sometimes think if I were to get fat, Rob might use it as grounds for divorce. I am being facetious, and he’s not that shallow. But he might buy me a trip to a fat farm, disguised as a Christmas gift. Attention to physical fitness is another benefit of not having had children—well, not in this century. We have time to devote to heightened personal interests. Exercise routines are maintained, and diets have never been invaded by the temptation of junk food. Aside from my mother, the only things that come into this house are the ones we willingly invite.

  “You know,” Rob says, drawing my attention. “I feel like I could still burn some energy.” He picks up his clothes and exits toward the lower level where a treadmill, rowing machine, and his world, removed from ours, is located. Lying naked on the sofa, I stare at the fire. I remain there, covered in the throw, longing for the place that was once a fascinating hollow of belonging, where the nerve and desire to confide in Rob proved to be my saving grace.