by Wendy Walker
I m sorry.
“Don’t be sorry. Just give me a task.”
Gayle nodded. “All right,” she said, mostly to herself. Then, looking at Paul, she said it again, this time with conviction. “All right. But you’ll have to let me do something for you. I’ll owe you a favor.”
“I’ll take a glass of wine.”
“Not exactly a favor, but OK!” she said.
Paul turned to descend the stairs, then looked back’expecting Gayle to be just behind him. Her hesitation was brief, part of her still hearing the pills calling from down the hall. In the end, it was the fear of having to explain herself that kept her from retreating.
“After you.” Paul stepped aside and let her pass. They walked silently, awkwardly, to the butler’s pantry and opened a bottle of Bordeaux. Gayle poured the glasses, then handed one to Paul.
“To the benefit,” Gayle said, lifting her glass.
“To the women who need the clinic.”
“Yes’and the hope that our efforts don’t get wasted on throw pillows.”
They finished the toast with a taste of the wine, then walked to the dining room where the flower bids had been carefully sorted and laid out on the table. On the breakfront were brochures and order forms for china, silver, glassware, serving plates, and the like. And spread out on the floor, because there was nowhere left for it to go, was the master floor plan for the backyard setup.
“So much muddle,” he said, taking it all in. “And all for one party.”
That was exactly what it was to Gayle. A huge muddle taking over her house, threatening the order she fought so hard to preserve’the order that made the rest of life possible. She could see on his face a slight smile, a mix of disapproval and amusement. Necessity had made her perceptive that way, able to see things through the eyes of another from just one look, and she saw through Paul that way now, at what all of this really was. Trivial. One party that would come and go. Guests who would approve or not. Life would go on, and this entire episode, this drama she had woven out of meaningless threads, would have no consequence at the end of the day. Why could she not see this on her own? When had her judgment, her reasoning, become so corrupted?
She had not always been so compliant. There was a time when her life had been a quiet mutiny, a series of subtle variations to her mother’s plans. An Ivy League college, yes, but Brown’the most liberal among them. Living in New York, yes, but in the Village, working as a cosmetics marketing executive’a job she had procured on her own merit. She’d gone to the club, learned to play tennis and golf, but done so without enthusiasm. And, finally, succumbing to the pressure to marry, she had chosen Troy Beck as her groom.
“What’s the biggest hurdle?” Paul asked, interrupting the sadness that was settling in.
Gayle picked up the floor plan and handed it to him.
“I’m trying to keep it out of the house as much as possible.”
Paul nodded, then took the sketches.
“Come on. Let’s go outside and try to see it.”
Gayle poured more wine, then brought the bottle to the wrought-iron bench at the edge of the patio. Looking out at the property, they talked about dining tables, buffets, and the flow of traffic as guests moved about. It was far less complicated than Gayle had imagined, and the decisions were made within an hour. Still, the conversation carried on, flowing from their shared dislike of the Hunting Ridge social minutiae, to the places they had traveled. Paul spoke again of his time as a drifter, working for families around the world, holding few possessions. He had never intended to spend his life this way, but here he was at fifty-two with no reason to change. Gayle, in turn, told more stories from her childhood, the outrageous incidents of the wealthy that cannot be perceived but from within.
“I forget sometimes that you come from that world,” Paul said, and like the chill of the night air on her skin, the waywardness of her actions was suddenly upon her. She had spoken to Paul about her life before, in brief snippets from across the counter. But this was different. This was social conversation, give and take, over a bottle of wine. Somewhere between the playroom and this bench, they had broken the rules.
“Can I bring you a jacket?” Paul asked, but Gayle refused. Running alongside the chill from the air, and the discomfort at roaming so far beyond the confines she had constructed for herself, there was a deep longing to stray even further’and a kind of exhilaration she hadn’t felt for years. With every story, every glimpse into this man’s thoughts, she felt the joy of unhindered human connection, which had been lost inside her. Only with her son had she held on to it, yet it was different with a child’a one-sided flow of understanding and reflection. Looking at this man now, she felt the desire to reach inside him for more.
“What world are you talking about?” she asked, engaging his eyes.
Paul thought for a moment, searching for a succinct description. “The world that doesn’t see.”
Gayle looked at the darkening sky, her face lit up with an unnerving sense of comfort. The world that doesn ’t see. She thought about her mother’s lifelong quest to mold her into a proper Haywood, the frivolous waste of life on appearances and the approval of others. She thought about her husband, his misplaced anger, and her own inability to tolerate life when she had everything. It had slowly infiltrated her, this world they were now discussing. And she could recall the moment it began with exacting detail’ the glorious summer day when Gayle Haywood first met Troy Beck. It was a day of sports and fine dining at the Hay woods’ country club just outside of the city, an annual perk for the firm’s executives. Gayle dragged herself there every year, mostly to frustrate her mother by rejecting her latest list of bachelors. That Troy Beck had never made that list, that he was consistently seen as the black sheep in the family firm’the one who was tolerated because he knew how to perform on Wall Street, but whose pedigree was less than par’had been the first thing to draw her in.
Looking back, it was so clear that she had misread him. They had shared many laughs about her stuffy family, teased each other about being the clan outcasts, the nonconformists. Their wedding had been on Martha’s Vineyard, a beautiful, exclusive island, but an island nonetheless. Getting there was a hassle, finding accommodations for the lengthy list of invitees an immense headache. The family pleaded for the club or the Plaza. There were close to five hundred people they needed to include, and it was insulting to expect so many of New York’s aristocracy to travel so far. Every roadblock they placed in her mother’s path had been a savory slice of payback for the years she had controlled Gayle’s life. Standing on the pier at Edgartown’s Lighthouse Beach, a mere fraction of her parents’ friends in attendance, Gayle had been certain she had found her soul mate in Troy Beck.
The glare of headlights shone through the gates. Gayle checked her watch, a panicked look gripping her face. It was after ten.
“Troy is home,” she said flatly, as if somehow Paul would know what that meant, as if the meager minutes of intimacy they had shared had given him a new window into her marriage.
But that was not the case. Catching a hint of despair in her eyes, Paul looked at her curiously, trying to make sense of the things about her that were still unknown. For a brief moment, he saw something akin to pleading in words that were otherwise benign. Troy is home.
A wall of resignation slowly washed over Gayle before she looked away.
“Thank you for tonight,” she said, standing to go.
Paul jumped from the bench and took her hand before she was out of reach. “Gayle?” he asked, still trying to understand what had happened’ why her husband’s presence had so transformed her.
But she broke away, moving quickly toward the house. When she got to the doorway, she looked back briefly.
“Good night,” she said. Then she disappeared.
THIRTEEN
DENIAL
“So THERE’S NOTHING WRONG?”
With Baby Will squirming in her lap and Jessica hiding under the l
oose flap of her hospital gown, Love tried to concentrate on the X-ray film.
Dr. Stallard shook her head as she waited to get Love’s full attention. “That’s not exactly what I said. The X-ray doesn’t show anything wrong with your spine, but…”
Love gave her a puzzled look as she interrupted. “Right. Nothing’s wrong.”
Dr. Stallard looked around Love to Jessica, who was now tearing pages from a magazine.
“Jessie!” Love reached down with her free arm and took hold of her daughter. “Come and sit up here with us.” Her face was gripped with pain as she helped her daughter climb onto the examining table.
“Love, this is not my area of expertise,” Dr. Stallard said as she reached out to help. Her voice was soft and equal parts empathy and frustration. Having delivered Love’s three babies, she knew her patient well. If she was here with the two little ones in tow, something was definitely wrong.
“How long did you say you’ve had the pain?”
“About a month.”
“And there’s no pattern to when it comes or how intense it is?”
Love shook her head and shrugged at the same time.
“This is just not a gynecological issue,” the doctor said, leaning back against a counter. “Look, I was happy to order the X-ray. And it is good that there’s nothing structural. But pain is pain, and I can tell that it’s pretty intense.”
Love nodded, though the relief remained on her face. There was no disc out of place. No giant tumor growing on her spine. That was all she needed to know.
“I’ll be fine. I probably just pulled a muscle.”
Dr. Stallard was still concerned. “Is there a reason you didn’t let Bill check you out?”
There it was, the question of the hour. Love had rehearsed her answer in the car coming over, but now after hearing the words spoken out loud by another human being, the truth weighed heavily upon her. She felt the blood rush to her face. Why haven’t I told my husband? She knew. Of course, she knew. Keeping Bill in the dark about her pain, about the letter, about the past’all of it felt imperative.
“He worries a lot,” Love said as she hopped off the table. Placing Baby Will on the floor with a rattle, she reached for her clothes, hoping to end the conversation.
Dr. Stallard got the hint and began to fold up Love’s chart. “You really should see an orthopedist. There’s a good one here in the hospital. Can I write his name down for you?”
“Sure,” Love answered cheerfully, though she had no intention of calling anyone else about this. She had come here out of responsibility to her children, to make sure she wasn’t dying. With that settled, she was certain she could push through it.
“Here.” Dr. Stallard handed her a piece of paper, and Love folded it up and slid it into her purse.
“So you’ll call?”
“Sure,” Love said again.
Dr. Stallard searched her face but found nothing she could decipher. “Take care, Love.”
Love said good-bye, then waited for the doctor to leave before letting the air out of her lungs. It was a risk, coming to Cliffton Hospital. Bill knew all the doctors here, and most of them knew Love. She’d dragged the kids out of the house, kept them entertained in the waiting room for half an hour, then again in the exam room while the X-ray was developed. Nothing about this visit had been easy.
She felt the surge of agony crawl through her shoulder blade and up her neck. It made her want to scream, and not just out of sheer pain. She had an alien living inside her and she wanted it gone. She had enough on her plate as it was. But the more she struggled against it, the worse it seemed to become. And at the moment, Love was certain it was incredibly pissed off at her latest attempt to find it. OK’I get the message! Love thought to herself. She had begun these internal dialogues with the alien last week, though the alien didn’t seem to be listening.
“Can we go now?” Jessica was restless, and Baby Will needed his nap.
“Yes! Let’s go.”
Gritting her teeth, Love finished zipping her jeans, then gathered her children and headed home.
FOURTEEN
FARRELL V. FARRELL
“CAN I GET YOU anything? Water, coffee?”
Marie looked at Carson Farrell from the other side of the small conference table. It was their third meeting, but each time he seemed different to her, almost a complete stranger. Dressed in the suburban uniform’khaki slacks and golf shirt’her client carried almost no expression, not on his face, in his body language, or anywhere else that was visible to the outside world. There was not a trace of anger or sadness or fear, emotions that Marie had become adept at recognizing even in their most subtle configurations. Yet that was not possible. His youngest child was dead. His marriage was ending. His wife wanted to keep him from the other children. Somewhere inside the man, the flames had to be burning. Still, there were no signs of smoke. As she watched him shake his head, his eyes averted, shoulders at ease, Marie had the distinct impression that she was watching a chameleon.
“Then let’s get started. We have a lot of ground to cover.”
With the air conditioner buzzing in the background, and the young Randy Matthews sitting quietly to her right, Marie covered the logistics first. As with any custody dispute, the process would be long, weaving its way through depositions, evaluations by court shrinks, hearings to cover the temporary arrangements. The financial affidavits would be picked apart, every expense, every variable source of income. The negotiations would seem endless, and for the most part, pointless as well.
“It’s going to be a long fight. And, unfortunately, it’s going to get personal. Are you ready for that?” Marie asked.
Carson Farrell looked up from the table where his eyes had been fixed. Barely into his forties, he seemed far older to her. And it was more than the receding hairline, the dull, sunken eyes, or even the mature definition around his cheekbones. He had a weathered look about him, which Marie decided was sadly appropriate under the circumstances.
Looking at her now with the same inhuman, ghostly absence of feeling, Farrell muttered a quiet yes. Marie took a deep breath to calm her nerves. It wasn’t exactly the watershed she’d been hoping for. But it was more than her client’s evasiveness that had her so frustrated at the moment. She was self-conscious, which wasn’t at all like her’to think about how she looked, or rehearse the clever lines that on every day before this one simply emerged with ease. On any other day she would be working on an internal autopilot, jumping from question to question almost without conscious thought. She was that good, that skilled at her job. And before yesterday morning, she had worked alone in her lawyer’s lair, lost in her cases, talking herself through a thousand mundane tasks all at the same time without a soul to hear. But now there was someone listening, watching, taking in her every move. She’d felt it from the moment he walked through the door, the young intern who said so little and did as he was told, all the while defying the submissiveness such behavior implied. And though she continued to fight the urge, it had proved impossible not to wonder what he made of her. Even now, she could not help but watch herself through his eyes.
“The first order of business is to prepare you for the deposition next week,” Marie said, trying to focus on the task before her. “This round is most likely going to be on the financial discovery and the issues germane to custody.”
Marie paused to let the message seep in. There was no way to get around it, yet this was new territory for her. Never before had she been faced with asking a client how his child had died.
“Tell me about the kids. Names, ages, personalities. Whatever comes to mind.”
Carson Farrell cleared his throat, and for the slightest second Marie discerned a tensing in his jaw line.
“Sam is nine,” he began. Then, with an incongruous detachment, he continued to describe the surviving children with the kind of intricacy that usually went unnoticed by fathers. Sam was like his mother, soft-spoken and fragile. Kara was seven, stubborn and bos
sy, and she had trouble making friends. The youngest was Michael. He was four now, and doing typical four-year-old things, with an emphasis on anything that involved transportation’cars, trucks, trains, and the like. From the broadest stroke to the finest pinpoint, Carson Farrell laid out a picture of each child that brought them to life. Marie could see each one clearly. She could picture them in their rooms, wearing their favorite clothes. Nothing about them had escaped their father, which was precisely why Marie knew the indifference in his demeanor was a lie.
“So there haven’t been any problems, no adjustment issues after the move? You lived outside Boston’is that right?”
Farrell nodded, and again there was a slight twinge in his jaw.
“They’ve done great. No problems.”
“Is that what their teachers will say?”
“I don’t know what they will say. Only what they should say.”
“But there have been no reports home, no discussions of any kind about adjustment issues?”
“Not that I can recall.”
Marie sat back in her chair, relieved that she was no longer as aware of the second pair of eyes upon her. The dance had begun, and she felt a sense of power that she was leading the steps.
“Carson, it seems evident to me that your memory is quite comprehensive. So if you say there have been no meetings to discuss issues about the children, then I will be confident that is the case, and I will proceed accordingly.”
“There have been no meetings. The kids have done just fine.”
Marie nodded and smiled as though she were letting the issue go.
“How about psychiatrists? Counselors? Have the children ever been in therapy?”
Had there been any doubt before, Marie’s question put it to rest. The kids, the move, it all paled next to the matter of the dead baby sister. One of them was going to have to bring it up, and Marie was relieved when Farrell took the cue.
