Ruth was out of platitudes.
Con glared at her. Foolish girl. In another second, he would say it aloud and she wanted to speak before he did.
“I’m sorry,” she told Con. To Vince, “I can leave word to see about having some sort of family meeting this morning to bring everyone together. How does that sound?”
Con snorted. “You’ll forgive me if I take a pass on your family meeting. Not my scene. Bye-bye.” Without looking back, he headed out to the corridor and the elevators.
Vince blinked at her. And who exactly is going to come to this family meeting? Pop was it.
Ruth told Vince, “He needs time.”
Vince held his head in his hands. Time. “You’re the night nurse. You shouldn’t have even let him in.” Should have kept your mouth shut. What were you thinking?
Vince had wanted his father to know. Con had asked for the truth. This was certain. Con would have been the perfect advocate for Vince. It’s what a parent has to do, whether they want to or not.
“I can have the social worker come to a meeting. They can talk about services we can put in place and counseling that might be appropriate,” she offered weakly.
Services. Vince didn’t look up.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” she asked, leaving out the usual “else.” She prayed that there was.
He shook his head, looking at the empty visitor’s chair
Reserve me a quiet room at the far end of the hall.
Driving home she replayed the scene over and over, putting herself in each person’s head. Her single error had been letting Con onto the ward. After that, she had been responsive to the information she was given. But it had gone so badly. If the words she had been picking up weren’t some underground stream of truth, what were they?
The inner monologue had to be where truth resided. It was jabbering, but it was more authentic than what people said out loud. For Ruth, when her stray, unvoiced feelings bred hope in a hopeless situation, or when they drove a hole straight through something solid, she accepted that thought as her new reality. For the past twenty-four hours she’d been given access to this vein of honesty in others and she had accepted it as fact.
But it wasn’t. It was only more role-play—for an audience of one. Even the thoughts she was now having on the entire subject were suspect. As far from the truth as anything else.
These problems circled her so furiously that she was barely aware of having arrived home. From her parking place, she saw the light on in her kitchen and the top of Alek’s head. His hair had grown out in a jumpy mop that was bouncing across the room. Was she ready to hear what was going on underneath it?
She walked up the stairs slowly, almost in dread. She stopped outside her door with her key poised near the lock, so nobody would walk by and find her snooping in the hall.
What was on his mind?
Aniseed, anus, annual, manual, mammal.
He was associating, which he sometimes did out loud. Harmless.
Don’t stay past breakfast. Remember: only visiting. Don’t stay long enough to cause trouble.
She could accept that too, as long as he was safe and well. Only visiting, can’t stay long. That was practically his motto.
Ruth took a step back from the door and turned his thoughts down. This wasn’t the answer. If she heard more, she would give it too much weight, as she had done all day. Misinterpretation was inevitable. The family already had enough of that.
All she could do was restrict her thoughts to things that had happened. What did she know? Alek had broken in, taken the picture, and made the beef bourguignon. He came back, and he was zooming around the kitchen making something else. Whatever thoughts he kept to himself wouldn’t tell her much more about the world.
They would have a nice conversation over a warm meal. Words were not deeds, but they were another way people communicated. She would listen to his words and watch his eyes when he spoke. She promised herself she wouldn’t listen beyond what he said out loud.
Ruth walked over to Martin’s door, rapping softly until he opened up. He was dressed and smelled like deodorant. He was drinking a banana-colored milk shake. “Breakfast.”
With her shh finger in front of her lips, she led him inside to his kitchen.
“Alek’s next door.”
“I know. The music was on until two and started up again at six.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“No, I—I had a friend over. A good night, actually. The beginning hint of a possibility, I think. Alek was kind enough to play DJ.” Thank God Ruth wasn’t home with one of those silent evenings of hers. She would have heard it all.
Ruth didn’t know where to put that one.
“What do you want me to do?” Martin asked. “I can go over there with you if you’re nervous.”
“No. I want to watch him first, from here,” she said, pointing to his balcony.
“Help yourself,” he said, swigging down the last bit of milk shake.
She pushed the glass door open, crouched down, and padded out into the chilly morning air. The kitchen view was blocked by a bag of groceries on the counter. When she scooted to the far end of the balcony, she was able to see Alek.
It was like a glimpse of a rare bird. He had pulled down the alien-shaped juicer she hadn’t used in years and was working through a big bag of oranges, juicing them into a jug. Calm and confident in everything he did. She could have been watching Natalie.
From the corner of the balcony she saw the Klee hanging in its place on the wall. Whatever time it had seen with Alek was over and it was home.
The drabness of the rest of the room disturbed her. A coffee cup she’d left on a shelf. Stacks of framed pictures she hadn’t hung. She’d been there all these years and hadn’t moved in. Boxes of books she hadn’t read and wasn’t going to. Simon was right. It was depressing. The place looked like she’d never believed she was going to stay. Even the bland color of the walls.
Martin whispered from the doorway, “I’m heading off. You sure you’re okay about him?”
“Yes.”
“Then you let yourself out. It’ll lock after you.”
“Thanks,” Ruth said, “and congrats on your possibility.”
“We’ll see.”
Martin smiled as he left. Ruth wondered what she would have overheard the night before. No, leave it alone.
With a sick feeling she wondered if she had been too harsh with Simon. Why should someone have to think grammatically?
She looked at her apartment again and it made her sad. For her next contract, she would switch to days. That would force the question: What to do about all those silent evenings of hers?
Dah-dah, dah dah de dah-da. Ruth dropped to the ground in case Alek could hear. The phone in her bag eluded her hand and she didn’t manage to silence it until she had crawled back inside Martin’s kitchen.
It was the hospital; Bella’s daughter wanted to speak to her. Could they transfer?
The daughter blessed Ruth. She thanked her for all the good care she gave to the sick, for all her good work, for being with her mother at the end. Then she got around to the purpose of the call. “Please tell me, did she say anything?”
For an instant, Ruth had all the power. She could have told more, could have mentioned forgiveness, and could have mentioned the return to the place before birth.
She decided to answer the question. “No, I’m sorry. You saw how quiet she was those last few days. It meant she was comfortable. It was a peaceful morning for her and that’s all we could have hoped for.”
The conversation made the daughter break down anyway.
“We didn’t always understand each other,” she confessed.
Ruth listened to her sobs. Her eyes went glassy. The woman apologized for taking up important time with her crying. Ruth was trying to assure her that it wasn’t anything to be sorry about when the woman hung up, leaving Ruth holding a dead phone.
After absorbing the silence, Ru
th decided to take action. She fiddled with the keypad until she had switched to the Brandenburg ringtone. There, that was one job done. Another would be to call Simon later.
A peek outside—Alek was busy at her fridge. He knew her schedule. He was waiting for her.
It was still early. Natalie would be at home, getting herself ready for school. The phone didn’t have Natalie’s number programmed in, so Ruth had to work from memory to make the call. Not to tell her anything in particular, just to try.
“Hello?”
“Nat, it’s Ruth. Please stay on.”
Natalie stayed on.
Ruth didn’t try to listen too deeply. The morning news radio in Natalie’s kitchen would do. Steam rose from Ruth’s breath three times. She lowered herself to the floor. “Nat?”
“Yes. I’m thinking. Give me a second.”
Good. Thinking was good. Ruth slid herself across the tiles till her back rested against the refrigerator. Take your time, she thought, stretching her legs. Choose your words, don’t choose your words. It doesn’t matter. Ruth could wait all morning to hear what they were going to say.
Sasha
T minus five. Sasha ducked through the party to tell the queen of the cater waiters to kill all the lights at the magic moment.
A super-thin Goth, she was primping six lilies that leered out from an umbrella stand. “No can do. Fire regulations.” To answer him, she kept a hand on one stem for support.
“Seriously? This entire place is a death trap. It would be for five minutes. Till she gets here.”
“Can’t.”
“Pretty and please?” Sasha batted his eyes.
The chicklet batted hers back.
Sasha’s phone vibrated near his crotch.
“At least point me to the switch?”
She exhaled, turned, and glanced at the far wall. “Five minutes is all you get,” she said.
“You’re a legend.”
“We’ve never met.” She returned to the lilies.
Sasha opened his phone. It was Giordana. He dodged into the bathroom corridor to muffle the crowd.
“Where are you?” he asked, picturing her lost on a bus somewhere or, worse, still back at his apartment, jet-lagged.
“I’m outside of a place called The Lion and the Witch.”
“Brilliant.”
“But it looks like an antique shop.”
“It is. Giordy, trust me. Come inside. Look for the dusty-looking guy wandering around the furniture.”
“Okay, yes . . . I see him through the window.”
“Good. Then point yourself at the painted blue wardrobe near the back of the shop.”
“All right.”
“Tell Dusty you want to look inside it. He will ask you your name and you will tell him your name. He’ll check a piece of paper on his desk and, believe me, your name is on it.”
“Okay.”
“He’ll unlock the door to the wardrobe and let you in. Go in. There’s a spiral staircase and it’s a bit dark. Be careful on the way down. I’ll be there waiting for you.”
“Ace.”
“Ace yourself. See you in three,” and he ended the call.
Sasha pushed his way toward the light switch, plucking a sauvignon blanc from a passing tray. With respect for neither aroma nor integration of flavors, he downed it and took a quick stock of the room. The low rumble of conversation. The tink of other people’s wineglasses. The faint air from a cigarette that someone was daring to smoke. Everything was stellar.
No sign of Damon anywhere in the room. Would it have been such an inconvenience to show up?
Sasha cleared his throat.
“Everybody! She’s upstairs. Be quiet!” he said, and turned off the lights.
Cave silence. He was proud of himself for assembling such an obedient crowd on three weeks’ notice. Nothing to do but wait for Giordana to get up the nerve to ask to see inside the wardrobe.
Connor was in arm’s reach, near enough so that sandalwood was in the air. They hadn’t seen each other in two months, easily. This was how it was getting with his friends, no matter how close. Sasha came up from behind, slipped his hands into Connor’s front pockets, and pulled him back into a grind. Connor complied, relaxing against his chest.
“You don’t bring me flowers,” Sasha whispered into his neck.
Connor crooned back, “You don’t sing me love songs.”
“It’s inspirational really,” Sasha said. “When you think of Barbra’s fortitude, not getting her nose done, especially in that half of the seventies. The pressure from Hollywood must have been hideous.”
Connor agreed. “Is Damon coming?”
“He was invited, but—” Sasha detached.
“I’m sorry.”
“His loss,” Sasha said, moving on.
Light at the top of the stairs. He could hear Giordana thanking the proprietor. She started down.
“Sasha?”
This party would be good for her. A warm welcome back. Her colleagues, at least the ones Sasha had been able to track down, were wetting themselves already. Best of all, no family. Aside from him, of course.
He took two steps back to keep his fingers on the switch in case a fire did break out—which would have sucked.
Giordana was halfway down. “Sasha?”
Switch on.
“Surprise!”
The money shot: Giordana sputtered superbly. She didn’t turn thirty-five for another two months, but that’s what added to the stupefaction. Her friends yelped and surrounded her at the bottom of the stairs. It was done. They fell all over themselves, raving about the venue. The wardrobe! They had probably all done their theses on the Narnia books and were busy looking for Jesus in the umbrella stand.
Giordana made her way through the crowd, with sheepish hellos to Sasha’s friends. They were on message. They said all the enthusiastic things you say to someone’s cousin you’ve met about twice.
Finally, the trays started to fly out of the kitchen. The chef had made a lot of noise about his innovative spring rolls—chicken and sprouts, smoked salmon and horseradish cream, and so on. If that’s what was passing for cutting edge. As long as he kept to budget and everyone was smiling. The whole evening was a gentle kickback from the manager. It was intended for Sasha’s employer, but Sasha was fine about accepting it for himself. After all, he was the one who found the restaurant in the first place and had organized half of his agency’s functions down there when it first opened. He was their word of mouth.
Jonah, one of the dishiest clients Sasha’s group had taken on in recent months, was pacing in solitary circles on the outskirts of the room. He looked like he was pondering the paint job. Slinky otter build, an author. A thoughtful type, when he wasn’t fretting about his sales. Sasha had invited him as an offering to the birthday girl. Jonah would fit snugly into Giordana’s milieu. He hooked Jonah’s elbow, trajecting him back into the thick of the party. “My friend, you’re up-current from the servers and the ladies. Not remotely strategic.” Jonah smiled and accepted, as he did most of Sasha’s suggestions.
Giordana stumbled the gauntlet, amassing a shelf-load of book-shaped presents, three bouquets, and two bottles of champagne (from Sasha’s friends), each wrapped with bows. It had been a while. She’d stayed with him for the two nights before her flight a year and a half earlier. It was always two nights on either side of a trip. If he hadn’t happened to live near an international airport, he wouldn’t see her at all.
Truth was, she probably took him about as seriously as a reality show. They were different genres. Deep and narrow, meet broad and shallow. Alek was really her preferred cousin, with all of his drama and trauma. Even if he was tripping his balls off somewhere, he was the one she worried about. Whatever, the point of this party was fun. Sasha would score points with his parents and Ruth for having made the effort.
Giordana arrived in front of him and opened her arms, nearly dropping all the gifts. “Sasha. This is above and beyond.”
Giordana threw her arms around Sasha. That realness of her breath and body slowed him down. When she’d left for Hiroshima, it was the same hug. It hit him in two parts. The first was the surprise that such a serious person would show such tenderness. The second was a question: Where was this feeling in him? Her hugs always made him feel defective.
“Thank you so much for this. I normally let my birthday slide.”
“That’s why you needed it.”
Jonah tried to veer away from the love huddle, but Sasha kept one arm around Giordana’s waist while the other reeled him in. They were free, single, and straight. Why not?
“Giordana, this is my favorite author, Jonah. Jonah, this is my favorite cousin and professor, Giordana.”
“Hi, Jonah,” Giordana said with a minor expenditure of air. New people didn’t wow her. It was as if they still had to prove themselves relevant before she would pay any attention.
Fortunately, Jonah had come prepared. “I Googled you this morning. Your research is terrific. The rebuilt cities thing is—I know you’re working in an academic realm, entirely fact-based, but it has a poetry—”
“Thanks.”
Maybe it was from teaching for so many years, but she could telegraph both gracious and dismissive with one innocuous word. Like Damon. The incapacity to fake friendliness. Still, Jonah’s effort should earn him at least a soupçon of warmth.
Sasha dug a thumb into her side and grabbed Jonah by an elbow to make them squirm closer. He leaned toward Giordana’s ear and said, “Jonah is an extra-decent guy. Be civil a minute. You two will fall in absolute love.”
He pictured their wedding.
A static charge between them all—her woolen skirt?—and they slipped from Sasha’s grip. The oxygen in the room seemed to suck in and suck out.
Facing her intended, Giordana began to make friendly. “So, Jonah, what’s your book about?”
Sasha knew Jonah’s pitch—he had written it—so he unhooked himself from their conversation and left to go solve the mystery of the nonexistent drink in his hand.
What the Family Needed Page 12
