Faith cracked the same vertebrae that in Connor broke entirely. In Faith the spinal cord was flirted, an odd expression. In Connor it was bruised, abraded, and in one small crucial area something worse. His head under her chin, spines nestled together, his breaks. Hers bends and flirts.
Sometimes now she turns her head and a pain erases everything in a sheet of white. But she has things, elixirs, to wind that down, to give that shafting annihilating pain a shorter, blunter life. And that’s why she’s here, now that she can walk, and it’s funny because it’s a bit of a misunderstanding.
It was the night nurse at the hospital, the burly one with forearms you could sit on who’d done the deed. No one believed Faith. But she, the big heavy woman in the Hello Kitty nursing smock, tapped too many fixers into a fluted cup. She wants to kill me! Faith said. She called me a murderer! The nurse would be trial and jury all on her own.
No one believed any part of this story. No one thought Faith was a murderer, and no one thought the nurse—Hello Kitty?—even existed. And so here she was, thanks to Hadley, walking a curving gravel path through lawn scraped as short as a putting green, urns planted with impatiens in salmon pink, revolting, boring, safe. The gravel composed of round gray stones, no sharp edges, no jarring color. But there, a foot away: a sparrow, dead, its head mashed in and bright black bugs crawled in and out of its eyes, sunlight reflecting on the jittery movement.
Hey! she laughed and laughed again just to hear the word. But the liquid stopper sponge of pain started up in her head tamping it down, putting aside the sound of her own voice. She made a hiss, bending down, looking closer, the beak, a taupe, dulled thing half-open. Oh god, she thought and, dizzy, sat on the gravel. Warm and gritty through her sweatpants, she could feel it, as if she were reading about it happening to someone else in a large book, and the feeling of this gravel was important. Something big would happen next. Lots of the trees—she noticed from this low level—had crotches. Interesting.
Hello, Faith. Hello, dear. She knew just who that was, but the voice passed like an oil slick right over her head.
Here’s the truth as it was repeated over and over: the girl hit one thick trunk then backed into the other, not the white pines, but the cypress, both only slightly gouged but now removed, cut down to stumps. That was Owen. All that fresh sunlight was wrecking the lawn, burning the flower beds planted for shade. He said the girl had done so much damage to the trees they couldn’t survive. But they’d barely been touched. And Connor so snug in Faith’s arms, his dirty hair smelling like onion grass, salty like the ocean and sweet, too, a strawberry. Hey, this is fun, she said. This is fun. Lee-Ann is learning to drive. Tucked into place with a seat belt cradling them both, they were crawling along when the girl coasted into the trees, but the air bag, the thing meant to double protect them in extra-safe blankets of air, released on the first tap so fast it snapped his neck and cracked hers, too.
I could hear it, whispered the girl to the policeman. I could hear the bones break.
The liar.
Irene made a big impression on the staff in the Sunny Creek welcome pod. At the front desk, the athletic blond with green jewel bindi between her eyebrows scanned a clipboard and said that Faith had lawn time; she was taking part in a freedom and fresh-air module. Then tea at four in the healing zone. Irene was most welcome. The girl smiled up at Irene.
I see. This way? she asked, looking to the series of French doors just beyond the white slipcovered armchairs. The girl nodded and smiled. Not the best dentist, thought Irene and swiveled away. Irene had large wing-style white hair now and large blue-tinted sunglasses she never removed in public. Her skin was flawless and pale, stretched over bones that looked fragile and small around the eyes then expanded to a surprisingly heavy jaw. Almost as if it had been replaced and a wrong part had been installed. It gave her the look of a delicate pugilist. Her skirt was hemmed, hand stitched to just below the knee. She wore the sheerest stockings. Irene had come to believe in sling-backs.
One of the Shea brothers, Tom, drove her the long way up from Spring Lake to the little “sanctuary” off the Merritt Parkway in Connecticut. Nothing New Age, she’d insisted. Not that Owen had consulted her. No chanting, she’d said. It will never work. But here was her girl made to walk in pointless circles through shaved-down shrubbery searching for a soul that could hold her. Faith had married a fake man, a make-believe, a charlatan. Maybe when she was better, she’d begin to understand that. But Faith, even Irene suspected, might not be better for a very long time.
And here was Faith now, sitting on the gravel, looking like a lost toddler, not an attendant in sight. Irene was torn between going immediately to the head office and taking a strip off the imbecile in charge or going straight to Faith. With a sigh, she knew it might be more pleasant to beat the tar out of the administrator. Faith, at her best, could be impossible.
Hello? she repeated. Faith, love. Don’t sit on the ground. You’ll catch cold.
It’s August, said Faith. She splayed her ragged-looking hands on the gray gravel, skin puckered and sunburnt, nails a bitten-down mess. Certainly they could have taken better care of her than this. And what about her diet? Faith appeared, well, Irene wouldn’t even think the word. Faith’s belly was falling over the waistband of her spectacularly unflattering yellow sweatpants. She’d been recuperating here for a little over a month and her beautiful daughter had become a butterball rolling around on the ground.
Irene sighed and looked up all around her. Pretty, she had to admit it, old trees and good ones, none of those trashy maples that cause so many problems. The borders were tidy, already planted for fall, chrysanthemum perky and newly, thickly bedded. She liked to see that. Nothing so grim as a flopping cosmos in August. Strangled and spent, a nightmare. She pulled hers up right after the Fourth of July. Missus! cried Jose. The flowers have been stolen! He still worked for her. And she was grateful. He wasn’t skillful. He pruned with a heavy hand. But he’d found her husband’s pistol in the wishing well and had the good sense to bring it to her first. So as far as Irene was concerned, Jose had job security, even permanence. It had become a seasonal game for her to undo his damage.
No, these beds were fine, perfect really. These flowers faced a bright future. And the house was good, an old brick Federal, with graceful additions in the nineteenth century. A decent-size veranda, old marble steps led to the wide lawn, and there was something romantic and right proportioned about the glassed greenhouse at the end of a covered walk. But the veranda and the garden were in the main area. The residence where Faith actually lived was a punishment. And given all it was meant to do for her, disturbing. Cinder blocks showed in the hallways. The window wall in Faith’s room was painted black! Irene could scarcely believe it. And the communal bathroom. The stalls with the doors removed. She wouldn’t think about that at the moment. This had already triggered an ugly fight with Owen. And they all just needed to get along for now.
The place had been a boarding school for about three decades, from the thirties to the sixties. The cinder block confusion was the dormitory built in 1958, the year that Faith was born. Then the school promptly went bankrupt. Irene could imagine why. And all this was part of the pamphlet she’d been given by Owen, who seemed content to warehouse Faith here indefinitely. Very civilized, he’d said. One singing paragraph of history on good paper stock and lots of expensive photography. Elegant smiling women in long white palazzo pants batted blue tennis balls in the sun. But here was Faith in yellow sweats sorting gravel. She’d brought Faith a pair of cotton sundresses, but she’d left them in the car for later. And some ballet flats with festive ribbons. Faith on the veranda. Faith taking tea.
Faith, dear, I brought you some things. Come see. Come up to the porch and then we’ll go take a look.
That’s not a porch, Mom.
Well, you’re right, Irene said. But come on up to whatever it is, the veranda. They have some tea set ou
t and some cookies, but we’ll ignore those. Are you playing any tennis? The court looks very nice, though morning glories on the fence?
Mom?
Yes, sweetie.
Is Owen with you?
Owen?
You remember him.
No, he’s not. Come have some tea. Come, stand up, Faith. You’ll catch cold.
It’s boiling. These stones are boiling hot. I can barely touch them. Ouch!
You’re acting like a baby, Faith.
Well, that’s okay.
Did someone here tell you that? Did someone, I don’t know, some mental health professional with plastic glued to their forehead say go ahead and act as badly as you wish? You deserve it?
Of course not, Mom. Faith squinted up at her mother. Nice skirt.
Irene unclasped her white straw purse and looked inside. She closed the clasp, sighed, then blinked up at the sky. She realized this might be a very short visit.
Faith shielded her eyes and watched her mother. The tea looked good?
Yes, said Irene, a sudden smile, her big jaw wide like a banner of happiness. And I hear they do it every day. Every afternoon.
How did you get here?
Mr. Shea.
Oh. Well. Faith poured some gravel into her cupped hand then tossed it down. Okay, she said and edged herself off the ground, slowly as if her skeleton was half-fused in every joint. Oh, she said. I hurt all over.
That will pass.
Will it.
Faith.
Yes?
Let’s go have some tea. Then you can open your presents. All right?
Faith had her eye on something up ahead. And Irene looked her over as she’d been doing since the day she was born. Funny, she said.
What’s that, Mom? She turned for a moment with a half smile then back to whatever had her attention on the veranda. Irene followed her gaze but only saw a few slumped, pajamaed bodies on cushions and the pleasant shuffle of the serving women, easy and reassuring in pastel uniforms.
Oh, you know, Faith, I was talking to Dottie McMahon.
How’s Kenneth doing, Mom?
You remember him?
Of course I do. Don’t be silly.
Someone up there you’d like to avoid? Irene tipped her chin toward the veranda.
No, no, not a bit. I’m just wondering about Kenneth.
Well, Dottie is hopeless.
Why?
He’s been hospitalized for six weeks and still not a word about his release. And it’s not like they’ve been able to do anything.
Oh, poor Dottie, poor Kenneth. I’m sorry.
Are you?
On the top step, Faith nodded toward a dark-skinned man at the far corner table, who smiled at her. He wore a big loose pink shirt with a Nehru collar and the same yellow sweatpants as Faith. His black baseball cap said porn star in white letters. Faith waved, then turned back to Irene, saying, Kenneth has had a terrible time.
That’s right, Faith. He really has. And Dottie is just picking herself up every single morning and living for those kids.
I’m sure.
One of the uniformed women offered the man in the pink shirt some tea cakes. He seemed to be sniffing the various icings. He shooed away the tray, then grabbed the free hand of the woman and nipped her finger with his big front teeth. Oh! she cried out laughing. You stop your games now, Mr. Bud.
Let’s steer clear of Mr. Bud, whispered Irene.
Oh, he’s an angel. I wanted to introduce you.
Maybe later. Here’s a nice spot, shady.
I’d like some sun.
Don’t be silly, Faith.
They settled down into the wicker settee. Anyway, Irene said. Dottie is beside herself.
Faith didn’t seem to be paying attention. She was smoothing the heavy yellow cotton over her thighs as if it were chiffon. She still had a nice shape to her wrists, no puffiness there at least, but she hadn’t shaved her ankles in some time.
Dottie said she just doesn’t get it.
What’s that, Mom?
Well. You. I tried to explain that you just needed a rest.
Um.
And Dottie said, A rest? Kenneth hasn’t had a rest in years.
Faith frowned as if Irene were speaking a language she knew but hadn’t practiced in a while.
Kenneth can’t sleep? she said.
Kenneth is too sick to sleep, said Irene. Kenneth would love the luxury of being able to go someplace where avoiding life and the basics of grooming was considered a cure. The minute he can sit up without assistance, he’ll be straight home. Dottie said he won’t even stop to say goodbye to those hardworking doctors. But you know those two. Can’t get enough of each other.
Faith closed her eyes. She tipped over a bit toward the arm of the settee and sighed. In the shadow, it looked to Irene that Faith was the same girl who’d won the algebra prize then got German measles and missed the ceremony. Always missing the show, that was her girl all right. Faith opened her eyes and watched as the man in the Nehru shirt and porn star cap stood. He moved with an odd wriggle, like a very round snake charmer, and when Faith saw him moving in that slithery way, she laughed. He bowed, and then he skipped down the marble steps to the lawn.
He lives right across the hall from me, said Faith. His actual name is Coconut Bud. When he can’t sleep, he lets me sing to him. He’s taught me his childhood songs. So sweet!
That man sleeps across from you?
Mr. Bud on the lawn swirled his hips. Now he moved like a very young hula dancer—unsure, warming up—and Faith laughed with something close to delight.
Have you spoken to Owen today?
Owen?
Yes, Faith. Owen.
Only on Sundays. How about you?
I call to see how Cece is doing. He always tells me the same thing.
And what’s that?
Irene turned her whole torso toward her daughter. Why don’t you already know, Faith? What’s wrong with you?
Faith squeezed her eyes shut then opened them wide. She shook her head and yawned. I’m hungry. That’s all, she said.
Mr. Bud attempted a headstand right in the middle of the new bed of chrysanthemums. He lost his hat and tumbled over flat to collect it, ruining everything. Oh, look! cried Faith, laughing.
Yes, I see.
Honestly, he’s the best thing going here. Oh, Mr. Bud.
I see that, said Irene, nodding. I really do.
So, what did you bring, Mom? What’s my present?
Yes. That’s right. That’s right, Faith. Your present. And Irene found she’d already decided. Very fast for her, she usually liked to mull things over for weeks. See all sides. For instance, when Jose had appeared on her back doorstep with the pistol it took her a very long time to understand it was loaded. Really almost impossible to believe. Even when he showed her the bullets. First nestled in the chamber and then, like a magic trick, in the palm of his hand. But here in the healing zone she was operating faster than a jet plane. Transportation, she said.
No. Really?
Yes, Faith, yes. Finish your tea.
We can just do that? Have you asked?
Asked? Come now, Faith. Drink up. Then we’ll pack your things, quick as a bunny. Quick as a bunny!
I don’t know, Mom.
Mr. Bud was being escorted out of the flower beds directly back to the dormitory building for a reflective break by two unsmiling men in matching polo shirts. Faith watched Mr. Bud’s face to make sure he wasn’t crying, as he often did when his tricks went haywire. But he laughed at something instead. He laughed very loud, and then he waved at her: Goodbye! Goodbye, my friend. Goodbye! At least that’s what Faith believed he was doing. She knew Mr. Bud could be very intuitive. Goodbye, darling Faith! he might be saying, even advising. He’d taug
ht her more than one song to sing in the night. It’s important, he’d said, to know more than one.
Listen. You stay put, said Irene. And Faith watched her mother toddle off across the flagstones. Her sling-backs were taupe colored, just like the sparrow’s open beak. Faith’s sweatpants were yellow like, like nothing real. Stay put! She watched her mother coast through the French doors, then she accepted a whole plate of frosted cookies from the passing attendant. Seven cookies. A lucky number.
Faith was surprised she was allowed to wear the sweatpants home. They don’t need them. Believe me, said Irene. Then she settled deep into the back of the Sheas’ slightly better car and closed her eyes. She reached up and took off her blue sunglasses and placed them folded on her lap, as if taking off a defensive headgear. The victorious gesture or its equivalent Faith had been clocking and resisting forever. But she didn’t feel resistance now. She felt wonder at her mother. And surprise. And intense overwhelming sorrow that flooded in fast, then receded even faster. Faith and Irene, side by side, eyes closed.
Here You Are
In the few weeks between dropping Cece at college for her freshman year—a chaos best left in the past—and Parents Weekend in early October, Faith’s mother, Irene, had reverted to the patois of Faith’s early childhood. French conversation LPs playing on a portable record player in the kitchen while her mother cooked. Even as a child, Faith had understood these droning records as an act of self-reinvention. And now, driving up the Taconic to visit Cece, Irene was speaking only in those long-lost phrases. Je m’appelle Paul! Or she was silent. And when she was silent a feeling of thick sadness settled over Faith. Oh, Mom, she said, pleaded. Snap out of it.
Her mother wouldn’t snap out of it. Even as they reached the college gates, then followed cheerful red banners until they pulled into a circle drive near Cece’s “dorm,” one of several temporary modular constructions with the heating/cooling generators grinding away on elevated metal grids, drowning out the chitter of the squirrels. Coucou, said Irene. Bon soir.
The Ocean House Page 7
