Give him a chance to do what? To hurt Lindsay again? To beat her to a pulp? And what about the baby? Is no one thinking about how he'll treat the baby? I could ask all these things, but it wouldn't matter. Right now, it doesn't matter how good my arguments are, how valid my concerns. I'm going to be perceived as the bad guy. I'm the one who won't give poor Ben a second chance.
I've got to get out of this room. "You know, I think all that driving is catching up with me. I'm going to go lie down."
As I leave the kitchen, Dad calls to me. "All your stuff is in Lindsay's old room."
"Lindsay's room? Why?"
Dad lowers himself back into the chair. "It's gotten difficult with your mother." He pauses, looking around the table as if weighing just how much he wants to share right now. "She's started sleeping in your old room. So you and Lindsay are going to have to share her room."
Perfect. Just perfect. If my poor father didn't look so defeated, I'd let him know how unhappy I am right now. Instead, I walk back to him and kiss him on top of the head. "Let me know when Mom wakes up."
When I get stressed, it comes out in my dreams. And this one's a doozy.
It's a game show, and I'm standing on a stage between two doors. Off to the side, behind brightly colored podiums, are Tony and Ben. And facing us all, wearing a bright blue, sequinencrusted suit, is Brad Pitt.
He speaks into a tall microphone. "Ben, which prize are you going to choose?"
Ben doesn't hesitate. "I'll take door number one, Brad."
The door swings open and out steps Lindsay, looking beautiful and petite, holding a cherubic baby in her arms. She runs to Ben, they kiss, then run off together. I have no idea where. They just sort of disappear into the strange, misty void at the edge of the stage.
Now Brad looks at Tony. "There are two prizes left: Natalie, your loving wife of eighteen years, or whatever's behind door number two."
I clench my hands together. He's got to pick me. How could he give me up not knowing what he's getting himself into?
"This is a tough one, Brad." Tony shakes his head. "I mean, I promised to stay with Natalie for the rest of our lives, no matter how tough things got. But darn it, I'm just so bored." He thrusts his fist into the air. "I'll take door number two!"
I can't breathe. The door opens, and there stands Erin. She's tall, perfectly proportioned, her blonde hair cascading down her back in perfect, silky strands. "I've got a surprise for you," she says. Then she slowly turns in a circle. Now she's holding the perfect baby. "It's a boy."
No.
"Are you happy with your choice?" Brad asks.
Tony is grinning like an idiot. "Absolutely. A man's got to worry about his own happiness, right? And this makes me happy." He comes up to the stage to get Erin and the baby. As they walk past me, he gives a sad little shrug. "Sorry about that."
I look at Brad. "What about me?"
"I guess that makes you the big loser. But thanks for playing."
Now I'm all alone.
Natalie.
Who's that calling me? It's a man. Could it be . . .
Natalie.
Where is he?
"Natalie."
I feel the hand on my shoulder and I recognize the voice. Dad.
Pushing myself up off the mattress, I squint at him. "Hey, Dad."
"You really were tired." He brushes a strand of hair from my face. "Maybe I should have let you sleep."
"No, it's okay." I yawn, covering my mouth to block my after-nap breath. "What's up?"
"Your Mom's awake. She's downstairs."
Maybe he should have let me sleep after all. As bad as that dream was, at least I got to look at Brad Pitt. The reality of facing my mother doesn't offer any such distractions. Only cold, hard fact.
I smile at Dad. "Great. Give me a second and I'll be right down."
He pats my leg, then leaves the room. A moment later, I head down the hall with my toiletry bag. I need time to brush my teeth. And to pray.
33
Mom looks . . . normal. I don't know why, but for some reason, I expected her to be unkempt, her hair matted, clothes wrinkled and stained from spilled food. That expectation is ridiculous, because even if she couldn't take care of herself, Dad would never let her live that way.
She and Lindsay are sitting on the couch, talking and laughing. When was the last time they seemed so at ease with each other? Never, not as far back as I can remember.
Dad stands off to the side, his face such a bittersweet mix of emotions, it nearly breaks my heart. "Meredith," he says. "Look who else is here to see you."
She turns her head and for a moment, I see confusion in her eyes. I see her trying to place me, force a remembrance of me to the forefront of her mind. Then there's a spark of recognition, a lift to her lips, and she's off the couch and headed for me with open arms.
"Natalie." She pulls me close, rocking me back and forth with her hug.
"Hey, Mom." Emotion nearly chokes me. She knows who I am. It may not last, but for now she knows. I'm not too late after all.
She steps back, holding me at arm's length. "Let me look at you. You are a sight for these tired, old eyes."
I laugh. Then I catch a glimpse of Lindsay, sitting by herself, watching our mother shower me with attention. "Let's sit down, Mom." We settle on the sofa, and I squeeze her shoulder. "So, have you and Lindsay been catching up?"
"Oh, yes. She's been telling me all about her fella. Such a sweet young woman." She pats Lindsay on the knee. "Your mother must be so proud."
A chill falls over the room, freezing the air around us. A second later, it shatters and a million icy shards of hurt and doubt rain down on my sister.
I look to Dad. How do we handle this? Should we tell her who Lindsay is? Or are we supposed to play along?
Dad kneels in front of Mom and takes her hand. "Honey, do you remember who Lindsay is?"
"Yes, she's a friend of Natalie's." Her words sound normal, but her smile has become too stiff, her eyes too wide.
"Mom," Lindsay says, "don't you remember me?"
Mom looks at her, but doesn't speak. Then she looks back at Dad. She leans forward and whispers, "Joel, why does this girl think I'm her mother?"
"Because you are," Lindsay insists.
I've heard you're never supposed to wake up a sleepwalker, and I'm starting to think this falls into that category. Correcting her delusion is probably the wrong approach. But Lindsay, God bless her, can only see one thing: her mother doesn't remember her.
Beside me, Mom closes her eyes, puts her head down, and starts rocking. She mutters to herself, her voice so low I can't understand what she's saying. Dad reaches out, strokes her hair, tries to calm her, but she just gets more agitated. Her voice gets louder.
"We have a dog. Her name is Peaches."
I named our mutt Peaches because of the color of her fur. We got her when I was eight. Now, she's buried in the back yard under the big tree.
"My husband is Joel. He teaches high school English. On Saturdays, he teaches driver's ed."
Dad used to teach, but he retired five years ago.
"I have one daughter. Her name is Natalie. She goes to Beaumont High School."
No, God. Please, no.
"She's a freshman."
Lindsay bursts into tears, which cuts off Mom's verbal torrent. But it doesn't evoke the sympathy you'd expect. Instead, Mom looks at Dad, her eyes almost completely blank, and says, "Is it time for Lucy?"
He doesn't bother to look at his watch and check the time. "Yes, dear. It certainly is. Come on." As he pulls her to her feet, he whispers to me, "Be right back." Then he leads her away.
I scoot closer to Lindsay and she falls sideways on the couch, head in my lap. "She doesn't remember me. Not at all."
I rub Lindsay's back and make shushing noises, but despite my comforting posture, I can't stop thinking about my own pain. Which is worse? Not having your mother remember you, or having her forget everything but the teenage version of you?
>
By the time Dad comes back in, Lindsay's sobs have turned to snuffles, and my shock has turned to anger.
"I've got her settled in the family room watching I Love Lucy. Thank heavens that show came out on DVD. It's one of the few things that always calms her down." He laughs, a sound totally devoid of actual joy. "Of course, she can't remember any of the episodes, so I only had to buy one season."
He wants to shrug it off. Act like this is no big deal. Maybe I have to play along with Mom's delusions, but I don't have to indulge his. "You should have warned us," I say.
He winces. "I told you she'd gotten worse."
"We expected her to be forgetful. To maybe even have moments of not recognizing us, but this? She doesn't even remember having a second child." Lindsay gasps, and I dial back my outburst before she falls apart again. "You should have told us how bad it's gotten."
"You're right. I should have."
"Then why didn't you?"
"Honestly, I didn't expect this to happen." Sitting in the chair beside the couch, he seems smaller than the man I know so well. His shoulders slump forward, his chin falls to his chest, his eyelids droop closed. "It came on so fast."
Lindsay sits up, and I see she managed to use the legs of my jeans as a Kleenex. Lovely. "How long has she been like this?" she asks.
"About a week and a half." He lifts his head and looks at me. "When I first called you, she was so much better. She was excited about you coming home." He turns to Lindsay. "Both of you."
I press a finger against my temple. "We should have gotten here faster."
Lindsay swipes the back of her hand across her nose. "You're the one who wanted to make so many stops."
"Well you're the one who refused to get on an airplane."
"Oh, so now it's my fault?"
"Girls!" Dad's voice cuts between us. "There's enough stress in this house already. The last thing I need to deal with is you two going at each other."
We both hang our heads. "Sorry, Dad," Lindsay says.
"Sorry."
He stands up and moves to the couch, sitting between us. "I understand this is hard for you. It's hard for all of us. The thing you have to remember is that your mother is sick. The love she has for you is still in her heart, even if she can't express it like she used to. That love will never change."
It's a sweet thought, but it reminds me of that old saying: if a tree falls in the woods and nobody hears, does it still make a sound?
If a mother loves you, but she doesn't remember she loves you, does that love still exist?
I don't have an answer. But one look at Lindsay and there's no doubt in my mind what her answer would be.
34
Are you asleep?"
Lindsay calls out to me from her bed. I roll over on the futon, making the wooden slats creak and moan. The contraption is surprisingly comfortable, but with the noises it makes, I'm afraid it's going to collapse beneath me every time I move.
"As asleep as you are."
"What are we going to do?"
That's the question of the day. "I don't know. You have any ideas?"
"I want to leave."
"And go where?"
It's a serious question. She has no job to go back to, and I assume her financial resources are limited. All things considered, this seems like the best place for her, at least until the baby comes.
She sighs. "Some place with a beach. Like Hawaii."
"Sounds nice. But after all my stress eating, there's no way I'm going near a bathing suit anytime soon."
She snorts. "Oh, yeah, no bathing suit for me, either. Okay, where do you want to go?"
With the moonlight coming through the window and my eyes adjusted to the dark, I can make out her shape across the room. She's propped up on one elbow, her head leaning against her hand.
We should probably be having a serious talk right now, but it looks like we've got more than enough serious stuff in our future. For tonight, I want to indulge in a little fantasy.
"I've always wanted to go to Denmark."
"Seriously?" she asks. "Why?"
"I wrote a report about it in junior high and it fascinated me. There are so many amazing things to see there."
"Like what?"
"Like the Little Mermaid statue in Copenhagen." In my mind, I see the picture of her, perched on a rock and gazing across the ocean, waiting for her prince. "And Tivoli Gardens."
"Mmm." She lies back on her pillow and sighs. "What does it look like?"
I shift onto my back, fingers locked together, and hands under my head. "They've got rides, but it's more than just an amusement park. It's beautiful. There are gardens with flowers in every color you can think of. And fountains. And little lights, thousands of them, strung everywhere. In fact, Walt Disney got some of his inspiration for Disneyland from Tivoli."
The more I talk, the more excited I get. Why have I never taken the time to go on a trip like this? It's the kind of thing I always thought Tony and I would do when we retired. That will obviously never happen. So what now? I could go by myself. But it would be more fun with someone else.
"You know," I say, "after the baby is born, if you feel like getting on a plane, maybe you and I could visit Tivoli together."
My offer is greeted by dead silence. "Lindsay?"
Nothing. Until the sound of a gentle snore drifts across the room.
With a smile, I turn over slowly, trying not to make the futon creak too much. It occurs to me that for the first time, I've told my sister a bedtime story and lulled her to sleep. It's a warm, cozy moment, utterly at odds with the cold weight that settles in my chest.
If only someone were here to do the same for me.
The flimsy curtains on the window above me did little to filter out last night's moonlight, and they're absolutely no match against the morning sun. I pull the covers over my head, but the stuffiness of being trapped with my own hot breath compels me to push them back off again. I lean over the side of the wooden frame and fumble on the floor for my watch. When I find it, I bring it close to my nose and squint at the face. Six a.m.
"Ugh."
I fall back on the mattress, arm flung over my eyes. It's too early. If I get up now, I'll be exhausted by dinnertime. I command myself to get some more sleep, but an image of Tony pops up behind my closed eyelids. And then the questions start. What's he doing now? It's 3:00 a.m. in California, so he must be in bed too. Only he's not alone. Erin is beside him. Or maybe they're spooned together, front to back, his arm flung over her waist, his hand resting protectively on her belly.
I bolt upright. It's no use. I can't go back to sleep. Propelling myself out of bed, I grab some clean clothes and head for the bathroom.
The area around the sink is already covered with stuff. Hairspray, lotion, deodorant, and saline solution, along with several mystery containers, all vie for valuable countertop real estate. We haven't even been here a day yet. I shudder to think what it will look like by the end of the week.
As I step in the shower, my mind goes back to last night and Lindsay's question: what are we going to do? In the beginning, when things were simpler, I expected this to be a visit, nothing more. We'd stay for a week, maybe two, and then we'd head back home. But that was before I discovered that Lindsay was pregnant, unemployed, and essentially homeless. She can't go back to that. At least here, Dad and I can keep an eye on her. Even with Ben hanging around, we can make sure they're not alone. And if they're not alone, he can't hurt her again. Not without getting hurt himself.
What about me? I squirt shampoo in my hand and lather up my hair, pondering my future. I've got to go back, if for no other reason than keeping Tony from selling the house out from under me. And I have a career to salvage. Or to bury.
The doorknob rattles and I jump. Shampoo burns my eyes, and I quickly turn my face to the spray of water.
"Who's in there?" My mother's voice calls out. She sounds mad.
"It's me." I turn off the faucet, stick my head around the sh
ower curtain, and grab a towel. "It's Natalie."
"Oh, good. Come on down. Breakfast is ready."
It's like someone flipped a switch on her. Now she sounds like the Happy Homemaker.
"Okay, Mom. I'll be right there."
Since I don't get an answer, I assume she's not outside the door anymore. I carefully step onto the bath mat and dry myself off. The towel is rough, like someone washed it but forgot to use fabric softener. Something about the abrasiveness of it against my skin feels right, and I rub harder, trying to get dry and dressed before my mother's mood changes again.
When I get to the kitchen, Dad is sitting at the table, his eyes glued to Mom, an untouched newspaper beside his plate. Mom is looking into the refrigerator. Lindsay is not there. Probably because it's barely 7:00 a.m. and she's still snug in her bed. But why didn't anyone bother to get her for breakfast?
Of course. Not only does Mom not remember Lindsay, she doesn't remember she's in the house. She probably wouldn't have remembered me, either, if she hadn't found me in the shower. I wonder if she's already forgotten about that. Just to be on the safe side, I stay in the doorway and call out, "Good morning."
Both my parents turn my way. Dad's smile is tight. Mom's smile is normal. Just the way I've seen it a thousand times before in this same kitchen. She walks toward me, a jug of orange juice in her hand, and kisses me on the cheek. "Good morning, sweetheart."
She goes to the table and sits by Dad. Then she waves me over. "Sit down. Eat."
Mom points at the same spot I always sat in as a girl. Is it because she's mentally out of sync, or just because it's the seat closest to her? I'm tempted to sit in the other open spot, just to see what would happen. But then I remember her meltdown last night and decide not to chance it.
"How did you sleep?" Dad asks.
"Great." It's not a lie. Not really. The three or four hours I was able to snatch did feel great. I ease myself down into my chair. Now that I'm at the table, I notice how it's set. Plastic bowls. Plastic cups. Boxes of cold cereal in the middle. Orange juice, but no milk, which is just as well, since there are only forks by our bowls.
The Mor Road Page 14
