Five Days Left
Page 32
Quickly, she tilted the bottle again, and as she swallowed, she fished in the pocket of her robe for the keys. A crinkling sound reminded her that she’d folded the haiku and put it there last night. Her fingers grazed the edges of the paper.
Her proud daughter. How proud would she be now? How strong would she think her mother was? There was no strength in escaping.
Mara snapped her hand out of her pocket and trapped it under her thigh, away from the poem. She put a handful of pills in her mouth, tilted the bottle and washed them down.
Then she started the car.
45.
Scott
Scott swiveled his head from Laurie to the office. The desk, filing cabinet, ironing board and plastic storage bins that had taken up most of the room were gone. In their place was a twin bed with a maize-and-blue comforter, an area rug that imitated the streets of a town. A low bookshelf ran under the window, Stuart Little propped on a book stand on top, alongside a small framed photograph: the one of Scott and Curtis reclining on the boy’s bed, reading about the mouse.
There was no Warm Ecru in sight—the walls were blue on the bottom half, maize on the top half, with a “Michigan! Go Blue!” border dividing top from bottom. Curtis’s toy basketball hoop hung on the wall near the window and a half dozen framed Michigan basketball posters leaned against the closet door, waiting to be hung. He looked at Laurie in confusion as she stepped toward him.
“Pete and half the boys tackled this room while Bray and I and the other half worked on the nursery,” she said. “We started the minute you pulled out and, taskmaster that I am, I didn’t let them take one break. They ate pizza while they worked. Thank God the season’s over—you have no idea how fast you can get things done with eight varsity athletes on hand.”
He looked at her, part thrilled about what he thought this meant, part terrified he was wrong. “For . . . ?”
She nodded. “For Curtis.”
“For when he comes to visit?” he whispered.
She smiled, shaking her head. “For when he goes to bed at night. Or wants to play with his toys. Or escape his little sister.”
Scott’s knees were liquid and he took a quick step into the room, sitting heavily on the bed. Leaning forward, he put his head in his hands and felt dampness from his cheeks cover his palms.
Laurie knelt in front of him, a hand on each of his knees. “The craft room looks pretty much the same. Minus the town rug and Stuart Little. And we didn’t get around to painting yet. But I took the money I saved on the cheaper crib and bought a bed—extra-long. Want to see?”
He spread his fingers and peered through them at her, confused.
“For when Bray comes home,” she said. “You know, for holidays, summer vacation, the NBA off-season. Whenever it is that grown kids go home to see their families.”
Gently, she moved his hands away from his face and kissed him. “I am not oblivious to the sacrifices you’ve made for me over the past however many years. Buying this wreck of a house and doing all the work ourselves all those evenings and weekends. Trying for a baby long after you were ready to accept our fate and move on. Spending all our money on IVF.
“After you went downstairs last night, I felt miserable about our argument. And I tried to make myself feel better by imagining what it would be like to walk into that room”—she pointed across the hall—“and pick our daughter up out of her crib. I tried to picture it—our house, with just that one room occupied, and the rest of this long hall empty while we wait for more babies. And I kept waiting for this feeling to kick in—this feeling of, I don’t know, contentment, I guess, or peace. This thing I’ve been waiting so long for would finally be happening. We’re going to have our own family, just the three of us. I should be the happiest woman alive.
“And I was imagining it, and I didn’t feel content at all, or peaceful. Or happy. All I felt was sad. Brokenhearted. Filled with regret. And it hit me that you would feel that way every day for the rest of your life if we didn’t do whatever we could to help these boys.”
She sniffed. “And I realized that no matter what I thought I wanted my life to be five days ago, all I know now is that whatever my life is, it won’t be anything if I know you’re not happy. And if I’m the one who kept you from being happy. So I started imagining something else.” She swept an arm around the room. “I started imagining this. And that’s when I felt the contentment and peace I’d been waiting to feel.”
He cleared his throat. “Are you sure? Do you think maybe you’re just feeling . . . sentimental, or something, because of what they’ve gone through? Do you think you’ll regret it the next time Curtis gets sent to the principal’s office or comes home with a bloody nose?”
“Of course I’m feeling sentimental because of what they’ve gone through. So are you. And I’ve thought about how I’ll feel when he messes up next, as kids do, and whether I’ll feel resentful when it happens. And I hope I’m right about this, but what I decided was that you were right about how it’s easy to focus on white picket fences and perfect children, like I’ve been doing all this time. But maybe that’s not what our life is supposed to be, after all. Maybe it’s supposed to be about broken chain-link fences—the ones at Franklin. And the imperfect kids who come with it.”
“Are you absolutely sure?”
“Sure we can handle him without wanting to tear our hair out sometimes? No. Not even close. I promise I’m going to look at you a hundred times a year and ask what the hell I was thinking. And you’ll have to remind me of this conversation. And then hand me a drink.”
She smiled, raised herself a little higher and kissed him again. “But I am sure I love him, and Bray. And I have never been more sure that I love you. And that’s all I need to be sure of.”
46.
The Forum
Sunday, April 10 @ 10:30 p.m.
MotorCity wrote:
I’m happy to announce I feel tired and am about to go to bed . . . and to sleep! You know you’re getting old when that’s news . . .
@Moms—I sent you some PMs about this already. Will jump over to PM again after this for a bedtime chat. I’m worried now about you resorting to juicer ads while I’m snoring away. ;)
Sunday, April 10 @ 10:32 p.m.
2boys wrote:
dude, you catch the highlights? pettitte’s healthy and strong and lookin’ to log a couple no hitters, starting in detroit . . . seriously though, glad you kicked the insomnia—that mean brother’s made a choice you’re happy with? do tell—inquiring minds wanna know
Sunday, April 10 @ 10:34 p.m.
flightpath wrote:
Yes, MotorC, do tell. I’ve been logging in all w/e—something I ordinarily don’t do, as you know—to see if you’ve had news to share. Has brother made a decision?
Sunday, April 10 @ 10:35 p.m.
MotorCity wrote:
If I didn’t love you all so much, I’d make you guess, take wagers, the whole bit. But I do, so . . . I’m adopting LMan. And brother. Well, you can’t adopt a 20-year-old, exactly, but I’m claiming him as my own. Have a room for him for when he comes home from mopping up the college courts with the fools who try to face him, then when he starts doing the same in the pros. Or in the boardroom . . . however it turns out for him.
And b/f 2boys can ask, my wife is all for it. You heard me: All. For. It. LMan and I came home from Monster Trucks today and damn if she hadn’t put brother and some of his teammates to work, along with Pete (who likely ate pizza, drank beer and delegated most of the day away). By the time we sauntered in, they’d fixed up permanent rooms for both boys, alerted the social worker, all of that.
I feel as if my life started again tonight. (Cue flightpath to tell me I’m way too sappy to be a coach.)
@Moms—I’ve got details for you that the rest won’t be as interested in. Can’t wait to hear your reaction.
Sunday, April
10 @ 10:37 p.m.
2boys wrote:
wow—great news on getting the kid AND the girl in the end, not to mention the tall guy who can clean the eaves every fall ;)
Sunday, April 10 @ 10:40 p.m.
SoNotWicked wrote:
WAHOO, MotorC! SO HAPPY! So glad I stayed up late enough to check and now, night all! See you in the morning. I’m gonna fall asleep thinking about NEW TOPICS to discuss. Something *LIGHT* is in order after the week we’ve had, don’t you think? SUGGESTIONS?
Sunday, April 10 @ 10:45 p.m.
2boys wrote:
sonotwicked—yankees. let’s have a whole week of chatter about the yankees. motorc’s in too good a mood to say no.
Sunday, April 10 @ 10:48 p.m.
MotorCity wrote:
@2boys—I’ll never be in that good a mood. Tigers alllll the way.
@Moms—You must be busy—still no answers to my PMs from earlier. I’ll check again in a little while, after I look in on the boys in their beds for the hundredth time.
Sunday, April 10 @ 11:32 p.m.
MotorCity sent this private message:
LaksMom, not to sound too dramatic, but is everything okay? I’ve kind of been waiting for you. I feel like this whole thing won’t really feel official until you know about it.
I’m starting to wish we’d traded real names and numbers at some point, so I could look you up and call. I feel certain you wouldn’t mind if I invaded your privacy for this. :)
Sunday, April 10 @ 11:55 p.m.
MotorCity sent this private message:
Hey LaksMama. Thought I’d check one last time, but looks like you’re still offline. I’m sure there must be some simple explanation on your end, like no Internet service or something, but man, I’m going crazy here, waiting to talk to you! I’m so psyched to tell you all the details about how today went down, and to hear what’s up on your end.
Are you there?
Epilogue: The Letters
My sweetest Laks,
I left this letter with Daddy, and asked him to give it to you when he thinks you are old enough to read it. The fact that he has given it to you now means he thinks you’re old enough, mature enough. Good for you for being so mature. I am so proud of you. I was always so proud of you. I always will be.
I honestly don’t know if there is a God, or a Heaven. We didn’t talk a lot about it, you and I. By now, Auntie Gina may have taken you with her to church a few times, and you may know more about all of it than I ever did. If you believe, then I do, too. Children are often able to understand things like this better than their parents are. And I hope it makes you feel better to know I am in Heaven, watching you, loving you. With you. But even if you don’t ever believe, I will always be with you. Just close your eyes and think of me. It doesn’t matter if you can’t remember what I look like—you just have to think, “Mama,” and I will be there.
And that leads me to a few important things I want you to know. The first is that I love you. More than anything in the world. And I don’t want you to ever think that if I’d loved you more, I’d have stayed. I couldn’t love you more.
The second thing is that it’s okay if you stop remembering what I look like. Or what my voice sounds like. That is totally normal. I don’t remember how my mother looked or sounded when I was five. You can look at my pictures if you want to see me. And if you don’t want to see me, that’s okay, too.
The third is that if Daddy remarries, it’s okay if you love your new mom as much as you loved me. Or more than you loved me. That’s normal, too, I promise. And I also promise that it’s what I want for you.
The fourth is that my dying is not your fault. It was Huntington’s fault. You know this. We talked about it many times, how Huntington’s made Mama sick, and how it couldn’t be stopped. I know Daddy will have already told you this. Your grandparents will tell you, too, and I know Those Ladies also will. Please believe them. Huntington’s is a very powerful disease that I couldn’t fight any longer. There was nothing you, or Daddy, or even the doctors could have done to save me.
The fifth is that if you ever need anything, Those Ladies are there for you. Daddy knows this, too. He also knows I believe he is the most amazing father in the world, and that he can help you with anything that comes up. But if there is ever a time when you think it would be helpful to talk to another woman, Daddy will not be upset if you tell him you’d like to speak with them. Or shop with them, or get your nails painted with them . . . or any of that girl stuff.
The sixth, and last, is that well-meaning people will probably tell you that now that your mother is gone, you must “be good” or “be brave” or “be strong” or “be a big girl” and that you need to do that for your father, or for your grandparents, or even for me. And I want you to know those well-meaning people are wrong. You don’t need to be good or brave or strong or big or anything you don’t feel like being. You need to be who you are, and act how you want to act, and feel what you want to feel.
And you need to do that for you, and not anyone else. And anyone who tells you different is wrong. Don’t tell them that—but you can think it. And when you do, think of me, and know that I will be nodding my head and saying, “You’re right.”
I love you, my sweetie, my Lakshmi. And I have loved every second of every minute of every day of being your mother.
Thank you. Thank you for making me the luckiest mama in the world. That’s what I was, because I had you for a daughter.
Love, Mama xo
Dear Tom,
My one true love, my darling, my heart, my everything.
Do you remember the first day you asked me out? We were standing in the foyer of Morrice Hall. I had run in there to escape the rain and you walked into the wrong building for an interview. We talked for a while, waiting for the rain to stop. And then you asked me out. I didn’t answer you for a long time and you thought it meant I wasn’t interested, and you apologized and turned to leave. I stopped you and explained that I’d thought I was about to sneeze and that’s why I delayed responding.
That was a lie. Do you know why it took me so long to answer?
Because I couldn’t breathe.
You were the most beautiful person I’d ever seen. And when you looked up and saw me there and struck up a conversation, I told myself you were only being polite. We were the only two people in the foyer—you had to talk to me. I told myself you likely had a line of gorgeous women standing outside your door every night, vying for your attention. If any of them had been around then, or if it hadn’t been raining, if you hadn’t been forced into that enclosed space with me, you’d never have given me a second look. So when you kept talking to me for ages, even after the rain stopped, I couldn’t believe my luck. And when you asked me if I’d go out with you, well, like I said, I couldn’t breathe.
I could have died happy that day. And yet, lucky me, I was given so many more days after that—so many more happy days with you. Some sad ones, too, as everyone has. But more happy than sad, without question. And more happy than I ever, in all my dreams, thought I would have.
I thought I was the luckiest girl in the world that day and I have thought that every day since—until Dr. Thiry came along. But no one can be so lucky for so long, I suppose. And I have come to think of it as a universal fairness that my glorious life with you has come to an end—it’s not fair for one person to corner all the happiness, or even as much of it as I have. It’s time to redistribute it again.
You are my dream come true. You are everything I ever wanted. Strike that—you are more than I ever wanted. More than I ever thought of wanting, more than I imagined I could want. And my life, since that first day I met you, has been so much more than I ever thought to plan for, or dream of.
Because of you.
I know you will be angry with me, my love, and I don’t blame you. And if one day you tell Laks how I really died, a
nd she asks if you were angry, or if you still are, I hope you will answer her honestly, so that if she is angry, too, she won’t feel alone.
But please don’t only be angry. Please be fond sometimes. And please remind Laks to be also.
Also, Tom, please allow yourself to be relieved, and let Laks know it’s okay if she is. You don’t have to admit it to her—I know you won’t ever let yourself say it out loud. But please admit it to yourself. And know that when you finally do, my soul will finally be freed (no, I don’t suddenly believe, but I’m allowing for the chance that you may, one day).
I want you to be relieved, my darling. I want that more than anything—to relieve you of me, and this horrible disease that’s turned me into someone so different from the girl whose breath you took away that day.
That’s why I’ve done this—to spare you and Laks. And the others, too, but mostly the two of you. You deserve all the happiness and adventure the world has to offer, and you would never get it with me around. I don’t want you saddled with a wife who can’t be taken out in public without humiliating herself; I don’t want Laks stuck with that kind of mother. Or tied to the house, feeding, bathing and changing a grown woman when you should be out, living. I can’t bear the thought of you wasting hours of your lives visiting some empty shell of your former lover, Laks’s former mother, in a nursing home.
I did this for me, too, yes—I could never fool you into thinking it wouldn’t have driven me insane to lose control of my life. But I did it, above all, for you, my dear, kind, altruistic husband, who would have spent the next however many years chained inside, to me, while the best years of your life drifted by outside the window without your noticing.