by Gail Mencini
April’s eyes followed the jumbo striped beach ball overhead, being volleyed down the beach by a group of laughing, screaming college kids. “I know. I wish we still lived in Chicago, with you. It took me a long time to understand why Dad moved us to Texas after Mom died.”
Meghan bit her tongue. She had given Ed the benefit of the doubt and imagined Chicago held too many memories of Karen for him to stay. Now she knew better. It was because he hated her. She had lived and Karen had died. It was as simple as that. That explained why Ed limited April’s visits with her to twice a year.
She would have gladly sold the store and moved to Texas with them if she could have been present in April’s life. But no. All Meghan could do was send April airplane tickets twice a year for visits preapproved by her father.
April’s face turned serious. She nodded at Meghan’s bikini top. “Have you talked to a doctor yet?”
Meghan pretended to mark her page in the paperback novel beside her. “No. But I do my breast self-exams religiously.” Something we both know that Karen didn’t do, she thought. “I’m fine. No lumps. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“One of my friends at school has breast cancer in her family, too.” April rushed on, as if afraid her courage would dwindle. “Her mother had a double mastectomy because she lost two sisters and her mother to the disease. She had reconstruction. I saw her before Christmas. You’d never guess.”
“Maybe, but it seems pretty radical to me. You never feel the same.” Meghan lathered sunscreen over the exposed curves of her breasts. “It’s hard enough being a single woman today. If I had the surgery, who’d take care of the store?”
“I would.” April reached out to touch Meghan’s arm. “I’d stay with you over the summer. I could drive you to the doctor’s appointments and manage the store. We’d have a blast.”
“I’ll think about it.” Meghan’s promise sounded hollow, even to herself. She knew Ed would never allow April to spend her summer in Chicago. Meghan shifted the conversation to plans for dinner that night at a dockside restaurant within walking distance of the hotel.
At dinner, April bantered about her series of boyfriends at school. The sweltering heat of the day drifted out to sea with the receding tide. Quick-moving clouds shadowed the sky by the time they walked out of the restaurant. Meghan gazed up and hoped they would reach the hotel before it started raining.
“Maybe we should get a cab,” she said. “It’s going to rain.”
April skipped ahead. “It’s only a couple of blocks. We’ll be there and in our jammies by the time a taxi gets here. It’s spring break, remember?”
Cars whizzed by on the two-lane road that led to their beachfront hotel. “Let’s walk single file. There’s more traffic now, and it’s dark. You go first.”
April stared at the dark sky. “Too bad we can’t see the stars. I hoped we could pick out constellations again, like we did in Chicago during the summers when I was a kid.”
Meghan pushed April forward, her palm against the girl’s back. “C’mon. No stalling. We can study the stars once we’re back at the hotel.”
April’s giggle reminded Meghan of how her niece had always managed to stall when bedtime came. As a little girl, she’d leave her bed and find Karen and Meghan, insisting that she wanted “girl talk” with them; she ate popcorn and giggled one minute, and then lay curled up asleep on the couch the next.
Meghan pulled her cotton shawl tighter around her shoulders. They walked on the shoulder with the flow of traffic, because the road was too busy to cross two lanes at night. The cars zoomed by. Meghan caught up to April and nudged her forward. “Let’s keep moving, honey. I want to get away from these cars.”
A massive bolt of lightning struck the lake on the other side of the road. The sky split with the shudder of thunder chasing the lightning a mere second behind. Rain—big, pelting drops of rain—sheeted down, soaking their thin cotton sundresses.
A car veered closer to them. April jumped to the side. She squeaked with fright, then jogged ahead, soon settling into a brisk race-walk speed. Meghan picked her way along the rain-slick shoulder as April widened the gap between them.
Suddenly, Meghan froze at the whine of squealing tires.
A car in the approaching lane had come up too fast on a motorcycle. The driver slammed on the brakes, then veered toward them.
Meghan’s eyes widened. She heard a car behind her and felt a splash of cold water hit her back as it sped past.
It seemed like a slow-motion blur. Meghan opened her mouth to scream. The word choked her as it came out. “April ...”
The screech of metal on metal split the air when the cars collided. They spun on the wet pavement and careened toward the ditch.
April’s body flew into the air when they struck her, ten feet in front of Meghan.
The two cars lay in a crumpled heap in a ditch alongside the road. One wheel of the closest car spun crazy circles in the air, around and around. Meghan scrambled and slipped down the embankment to the cars. Her ankle twisted beneath her. Hot pain shot up her leg. Tears burned her eyes. The rain blurred everything. She screamed April’s name, over and over.
At the bottom of the ditch, her knees buckled and Meghan fell to the wet clay.
One jackknifed human leg, partly covered by a cotton sundress, protruded beneath the twisted, steaming metal.
April.
The day of the Texas funeral dawned with low-slung clouds and, once again, the threat of rain. Meghan stood at her hotel window. The sight of the putty-gray clouds seemed appropriate. The rain had stolen April from them, and it was destined to carry her on her journey.
Hours and hours after the mangled remains of the beautiful child had been carted away, Meghan had found strength to string three words together. She had called Ed. Meghan’s words had cut her throat raw, yet she delivered them without emotion, the only way she could get to the end of the story. A freak accident. Couldn’t be helped. Blinding rainstorm. Chain reaction.
How could they bear this? First Karen. Now April. Ed didn’t speak.
Meghan had continued with the details.
When she had finished, dry, racking sobs took control. Soundless, jerking gasps shook her body.
Ed had hung up the phone without saying a word.
She would face him today. She knew he blamed her. Of course. She blamed herself. Spring break in Florida? Too crowded. Too many people. Too much drinking. Why hadn’t she taken April to the Caribbean, or the Bahamas, or Montana, or Tennessee, or Chicago? Why had she agreed to go where all the college students go? Why?
At the church, Meghan found Ed in a private room. He knelt by the closed casket. She walked up behind him, her eyes long since exhausted of tears. Wordless, Meghan rested one hand on the shoulder of his black suit. He didn’t speak.
A friend of April’s gave the eulogy. The girl spoke of April’s unabashed joy of life, her love for her friends, her mother, her aunt, and her father. The girl’s funny anecdotes prompted a dozen of April’s friends to walk to the front and share their memories, their love.
Through it all, Ed bowed his head. His hunched shoulders shook with silent sobs.
Meghan sat still, her hands clasped in her lap. She alternated between smiling—just a little—at the stories and pranks and offering silent, somber pleas to Karen for forgiveness.
Ed stood with difficulty. His white-knuckled hands gripped the front railing for support. He didn’t look at Meghan.
She climbed into the black limousine and sat next to Ed.
Neither one spoke.
At the graveside service, Meghan didn’t speak to anyone. She could cry no more. In her mind, she repeatedly asked herself the question, “Why wasn’t it me?”
After the burial, on the silent journey to the car, Ed raised one palm, signaling her to stop walking. “The next limousine will take you to your hotel,” he said. Then he sighed.
Meghan strained to hear the words.
“I want to be alone. Thanks t
o you, that’s what I am now. Alone.”
Meghan opened her mouth. She closed it. She knew he spoke the truth for them both.
“I want you to leave.” His head bowed.
Meghan watched him stumble to the door of the first limousine. He turned his head back to look at her.
“Ed, I’m—”
His hand rose to stop her. His eyes narrowed. A deep breath launched his words, and his solemn voice, like a poison-tipped sword, delivered her punishment. “I sold the store. The proceeds from your thirty percent share will be sent to you. Transfer happens next week. An independent firm is inventorying it today.” He tightened his lips into a grimace. “I don’t ever want to see you or speak to you again.”
Meghan’s legs quivered. An icy chill ran down her arms. Dull thunder sounded. The sky gave up its protection, and big drops of summer rain speckled her face and her black linen dress. Meghan didn’t shield herself. She stood with her arms hanging limp by her side and watched Ed’s limo drive away.
24
Durham, North Carolina
Lee, now forty-five and a physician specializing in reconstructive plastic surgery, hung up his lab coat and slipped his arms into the sleeves of his sport coat. Established in his position on the medical staff at Duke University, Lee didn’t feel guilty about ducking out early on occasion. Surgeries were scheduled for the morning hours, and he’d already rounded on his patients today. He was pleased that the tough congenital defect case from last week, a three-year-old girl, was healing well and would soon go home.
A traveling exhibit of Rodin’s smaller sculptures was ending its short visit to Duke’s Nasher Museum of Art today. He had reserved his spot on the guided tour as soon as it had been announced. The Nasher held a highly regarded medieval collection, which Lee visited whenever his schedule allowed. But his visits to the museum were never often enough, between his long hours, call schedule, and the seemingly endless activities of his two children.
He turned to lock the door to his tiny office, which he had rights to only because he used it to consult with patients before their surgeries. Damn. His phone was ringing. Should he answer it?
A glance at his watch revealed that he still had enough time to handle the call before his tour started. If a nurse monitoring one of his patients had a question, he’d rather answer it now than when he was enjoying the tour.
“This is Dr. Mostow.”
“Lee,” his wife, Merry, said, “thank goodness I caught you.” She explained that Anne, their fifteen-year-old daughter, had a soccer game that night. The statewide semifinal match had been rescheduled after a lightning storm cancellation earlier in the week. The game was in Charlotte, over two hours away. Merry and Anne were already on the outskirts of Charlotte.
Lee knew that if he went to the Rodin exhibit, he wouldn’t make the soccer game. His life had been a series of compromises, and Lee had always opted for choices made to appease someone else—first his mother, then his wife, and now his children. Not anymore.
Merry, a psychiatrist, was a pro at conversation. In one breath, she acknowledged how inconvenient it was for them both to drive all that distance; in the next breath, she reminded him how important it was that they support their children.
Why had he picked up the phone? Truth was, it didn’t matter. If she hadn’t reached him at the office, Merry would have redialed his cell until he had answered. It was one of the many things about his wife that made him crazy.
Lee took a deep breath and told her he couldn’t drive to Charlotte. “I wish I could,” he said, “but one of Duke’s VIPs wants me to meet his nephew tonight. The family’s visiting from out of state today, and apparently, the boy’s previous surgeries had poor results.”
“For once, can’t someone else do it?”
“He wants me, and you know how political it is here. Ignoring requests from the powers-that-be is a fast ticket out.” Lee pulled his Nasher tour ticket out of the breast pocket of his jacket. He rubbed circles on the glossy ticket with his thumb.
The crazy thing was that he didn’t feel guilty at all about lying to Merry. Maybe medicine had to be his life, but art—sculpture in particular—was his passion. It was time he did something for himself. Short of flying to Paris, this was his only chance to see these Rodin pieces.
“Please hand the phone to Anne, so that I can wish her good luck,” he said.
One lie after another.
Lee relayed his fabricated excuse to his daughter, and even her obvious disappointment did not alter his story. He wished her luck, and then he ended the call before Merry could return to the phone.
After the guided tour, Lee walked through the exhibit a second time, studying the sculptures, one by one. He marveled at the musculature of the male figures and sensuality of the women. Staring at each piece in succession, he tried to cement into memory the angles and curves that brought the figures to life.
When he finally walked to his car, he realized he was starving. He knew Merry and Anne would be gone for hours and his son, Max, a computer whiz, was spending the night with one of his eighth-grade friends. He didn’t want to go home, not because he’d be alone but so he could preserve the buoyant energy that had filled him at the museum for as long as he could.
Being in the presence of great art always reminded him of his semester abroad in Florence. Already on the pre-med track then, he hadn’t allowed himself to consider pursuing a career in art. His mother would have never allowed it.
Tonight, his dinner choice was obvious. Italian food. It was his favorite cuisine, but Merry had a way of reminding him that the carbs in pasta weren’t good for his waistline. She was right about that, but he suspected the truth behind her anti-pasta tirades. One night in a moment of blazing stupidity, having drunk more than a bottle of wine himself, he had told Merry that eating pasta reminded him of Meghan, his first love. What an idiot.
After enjoying his pasta dinner and responsibly drinking only one glass of wine, he drove home to finish the bottle there. He was dozing in front of the television when Merry and a very tired Anne got home. Anne, who volunteered that she had played only in the last three minutes of their losing game, stumbled up to bed.
“How was the VIP’s nephew?” Merry asked, after grabbing a glass of water for herself.
“Definitely a bad result, but I can improve it,” Lee said. “Not sure if they’ll schedule surgery, though. I guess they’re visiting a few places across the country before they make the final decision on who they want to handle it.”
Merry had an intent look on her face. “Do you want to tell me about his underlying problem?”
“Nah. I can fill you in if they decide to go with me.” Over dinner, Lee had come up with the story he’d tell Merry. Something enough to satisfy her polite questions, but nothing that would come back to bite him.
Merry bit her bottom lip and looked away. She stared at the television, which he had muted after Anne had awakened him on their return. “Right. Who can ever predict what someone like that will do?” She turned her head to face him and her eyes glared. “Cut the crap. How was the museum?”
Lee choked.
“I wanted to see how elaborate your lies would be,” she said.
“How did you find out?”
“I’ve been searching your pockets and car for clues to explain your behavior. You’ve been excited one moment and removed the next. I knew something was happening that you hadn’t told me.” She snorted and her nostrils flared. “I’m glad it was museum tickets I found in the glove box, rather than a pair of panties that don’t belong to me.”
“What’s the big deal?”
“The ‘big deal’ is that you made it one, by hiding it and lying to me. Not once, but twice.”
It was only a museum, for God’s sake, he thought. He shrugged.
“Let me guess, you had pasta tonight, didn’t you?” She looked venomous.
“So what if I did? You don’t approve of my choice of cuisine?”
She slamm
ed her hand against the coffee table. Her arm trembled as she leaned on the table. “Lee,” she said, her quiet, level voice rocking him harder than if she’d screamed, “these things are symptomatic of significant issues.” She was using her psychiatrist voice, the calm demeanor that enticed her patients to spill their life’s secrets and angst to her.
Lee’s chest heaved with rapid, deep breaths. “You wanna psychoanalyze me? Go right ahead. Tell me how fucked up I am.”
“No.” She shook her head. “You’re not ‘fucked up.’ You are, however, unhappy in your job, and maybe in your marriage, too, although I’m still trying to get a read on that one.”
She stood up and started pacing; her words increased in tempo to match her stride. “I know you often wonder about Meghan. Where is she? Is she married? Beyond the pedestal you’ll always place her on as your first love, she’s a symbol of all you sacrificed to follow your family’s behest and become a physician.” Merry stopped pacing and stood in front of him with her hands on her hips. “So, you tell me, Lee, what is it you truly want? Do you want to leave me? Leave, and go chase a dream?”
Lee wondered if the dream she referred to was Meghan or art. Either way, he was screwed. They depended on his salary to pay the mortgage, the car payments, the private school tuition, and, soon, college. Merry’s income paid for everything else. He couldn’t afford to chuck it all.
“Every day I pray this is a midlife crisis you’re going through. But know that in spite of everything, I still love you. I want you to stay. Yes, you deserve happiness, but I’ve seen it time and time again. Men and women get to a certain age, and they panic. Stay the course. Let’s get the kids through college and then, if you want to run off to Italy with an old or new girlfriend, so be it.”
She was asking him for eight years of being a good father and provider. Eight years, Lee thought. To him, it sounded like a life sentence.
