Twenty

by Debra Landwehr Engle

  The night Joe left, I didn’t even cry, which shows how empty I felt inside.

  He wasn’t angry when he walked out. Neither of us slammed a door or threw a glass against the wall.

  At supper that night, I’d said these words: “I think I need some time alone.”

  He put his fork down, sat back in his chair, and nodded. Then he got up, went to the bedroom, and packed a suitcase.

  Fifteen minutes later, he kissed me on the forehead, said, “I hope you find what you’re looking for,” and walked through the door.

  I pulled my sweater tighter around me, went to bed, and didn’t get up for fourteen hours. Days passed before I cried, feeling the earth slip out from under me. He was the man I’d trusted for twenty years, the only one who knew Rose as I did, who shared my history with me. It was hard enough to accept that he’d left.

  It was so much harder to know I’d pushed him away.

  * * *

  Mama’s funeral five years ago took place on a warm day, not sweltering like this year. Joe flew out from California, and I saw him face-to-face for the first time in seven years.

  “How are Carol and the kids?” I asked, wanting him to say they were terrible and that he’d made a big mistake.

  “Good,” he said, looking around the room at all the faces from his past. And then he quickly changed the subject. “I think the whole town is here, don’t you?” he asked.

  They were. Everyone had turned out. All those people who had sat in our kitchen, enjoying a cup of coffee and Mama’s coconut cake, all the ones she’d stood beside, serving church suppers and making quilts. All her friends from childhood who still lived nearby, and some who had come from other states.

  It meant a lot to me that Joe came for the funeral. I certainly never asked him to. In fact, I wasn’t sure how he knew about Mama, until Holly confessed.

  “He e-mails me every once in a while,” she said. “Just checking in, a friendly hello. But he and Mama used to be so close, I knew he’d want to know. I hope you don’t mind,” she said.

  “No, you were right to tell him,” I said, studying him across the room as he talked with some of our old neighbors. His hair was grayer, but his eyes were still that oceanic blue. He had put on a few pounds, but in a navy-blue suit, he looked trim for his age.

  When I first saw him again after so long, my response took me by surprise. I felt butterflies, a lot like when we were dating. Whatever had been dead in me when he’d left seemed to have come alive again. But bad timing, as always. It sounded as if he and Carol and her girls had made a life for themselves. And how could I be angry? Didn’t he deserve happiness with someone else since he couldn’t have it with me?

  Today when I got his card about Mama, I noticed he has a new return address. He and Carol must have moved. Hard to believe it’s been five years since we lost her, he wrote. Hope you’re doing okay.

  We lost her, I thought. Funny that he still thinks of us as “we.”

  * * *

  I remember one November day when I was six years old, a year after we buried Daddy. I crossed the half-frozen creek to play with my friend Teresa after school. The sun set early, and when I came back home, the fluorescent light over the kitchen sink welcomed me, but Mama and Holly were gone.

  I looked out back. I ran to the shed and called their names. I went in the house and turned on the radio and the TV, just to feel less alone. But I was alone. I thought of the children’s book where the little boy comes home from school and finds that his family has moved away. No way to reach them, totally adrift. That’s how I felt.

  Ten minutes later Mama drove up with Holly standing in the backseat of the car, the way we did in those days. They’d run into town for groceries, and it took longer than Mama expected. She felt so bad she let me eat cereal straight out of the box for a week. But it didn’t erase how terrified I felt sitting in the kitchen, hearing the evening news, the Top 40 DJ, and the hum of the fluorescent light over the sink, not knowing if I’d see Mama and Holly again.

  That’s how I’ve been feeling. I keep thinking of the reasons I took the pearls, and this is one of them. I come home to an empty house, to an overwhelming presence of nothingness. I’m amazed how spirits inhabit a home. When Joe and Rose and I were together, the two of them could be gone for hours, but they still felt as present in the house as if they were sitting in front of the TV or curled up together reading a book on the porch. The house held their conversation and laughter in safekeeping, even if Joe traveled half a world away on a research trip or Rose spent a week at camp.

  That’s why I knew Rose wouldn’t survive her accident. Not because of anything the doctors said or how she looked when she lay so still with a tangle of tubes threaded into her. But because when I walked into the house the first night she was in the hospital, after Mama insisted that Joe and I go home for a while, the house felt empty. Her spirit had left it, as if a huge vacuum had sucked out the air, and I could tell she wasn’t coming back.

  * * *

  After Rose died, I went to a grief weekend at the monastery in Parkerville, two hours away. Joe didn’t go with me. He said he needed to grieve in his own way.

  By the time it was over, I wished I’d stayed home, too. I sat in the stone sanctuary where the monks sang lauds in the morning, in a circle with ten other people who had lost a loved one. All the others were grieving the loss of a spouse. I know how hard that is, but I couldn’t help thinking that my situation was different, and no one could truly understand.

  Especially Father Xavier. So small he was almost elflike, with a beatific smile and a bald head. What did a monk know about the loss of a child? Or the loss of a spouse, for that matter?

  I remember how heavy the air felt in that room, so stifling I sometimes couldn’t breathe. My sadness almost overwhelmed me. What had I been thinking to want to join my despair with others’?

  One woman with long fingernails and a silver cross necklace spoke up first. “It’s been ten years,” she said, kneading a tissue in her hands. She sounded angry, almost defiant. “I still miss my husband as much as ever. I cry for him every single day.”

  I understand her feelings now, but at the time it felt like a death sentence, being told I would never get over it, that the pain would linger like an open sore.

  The retreat was supposed to be about self-care. But how in the world could I tend to myself when I didn’t have my daughter to care for?

  Father Xavier had an assignment for us: “Write out your pain in letters to God,” he said. “Pour it out on paper. Don’t hold anything back.”

  I went to my room, a simple space with a bed and small writing desk and a sink with one towel. I sat down at the desk with paper and a pen and wrote for three hours. It did come pouring out—the anger, the hopelessness, the blame, the betrayal, the guilt. I wanted to scream but—and I know how ridiculous this sounds—the monastery had a policy of silence, and I didn’t want to break the rules.

  Twice I thought I might hurt myself to ease the suffering, but I thought about Joe and Mama, and I went back to the writing.

  I finished my letters by quoting the 23rd Psalm, all the pretty language that the minister had read at Daddy’s graveside years before. Peace. Love. Healing. I thought of the quote from Philippians about “the peace which passeth all understanding.” Like that would ever be possible.

  The last thing I wrote was this: I didn’t know until now that God is a vicious liar.

  I put that letter on top.

  I found those letters today, wrapped up in red string and buried in a box at the back of the bedroom closet.

  They certainly didn’t belong in the Donate pile. And somehow I wasn’t quite ready to Pitch them, either.

  DAY FOUR

  When I woke up this morning, I tried to remember the peace of the last few days—the energy and anticipation. But instead I felt a deep sense of dread, as though someone had pinned me to the bed with a knife. I lay frozen and stared at the ceiling, watching the fan blades circle
over and over.

  What have I done?

  I forced myself out of bed, even though I felt as if someone had run me over. Six thirty. Nothing ahead today but more heat. And more cleaning. Endless. It seems endless.

  I pulled on a pair of jean shorts and a T-shirt and tried to calm myself as I wound the mantel clock, started a pot of coffee, and put food out for the barn cats.

  The heat hit me as I opened the door. I haven’t felt this helpless since the ambulance delivered Rose to the hospital. But this is different. I did this. It wasn’t an accident; it was my own conscious decision. And now I feel like I’m in a cage and can’t get out.

  Back inside, I looked at the calendar on the wall, fixated on those glaring red Xs. And then I looked at all the days after. The days I won’t see—not if those pearls actually work.

  Maybe there’s an antidote.

  There’s an antidote for everything, right? Maybe I can still save myself. But here’s the reality: I’ve taken a substance that’s known to be deadly, developed and given to me in secret. I don’t know its source, no one is going to want to talk about it, and I’m not supposed to have it. Plus, I could ruin Dr. Edelman’s life if I were to reveal the secret, and I don’t even know whether the stuff works or if it expired years ago.

  Even the bottle—the only physical evidence—is gone. I set it out yesterday with the trash, and it’s in a landfill by now.

  But finding an antidote was worth a try. In that moment, I decided, I had to try.

  I found Dr. Edelman’s number in Mama’s address book, which I keep in the drawer by her bed, along with three of her old handkerchiefs and one of her favorite brooches. I figured he might be retired, but at least the office could put me in touch with him.

  “Dr. Edelman, please,” I said into the phone, trying to control my voice.

  “Dr. Edelman?” the receptionist asked on the other end of the phone. “Do you mean Dr. Marvin Edelman?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I’m sorry,” the voice said, “but Dr. Edelman passed away three years ago.”

  I swallowed hard and took a breath. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know.”

  I paused as I tried to think of some other tactic, but what would I ask? I couldn’t share his secret. Surely he wouldn’t have any records.

  “Thank you,” I said, and hung up the phone.

  I sat down at the computer and Googled him. I Googled his name and 20, Twenty, 2.0, Vietnam, lethal agent, hoping something might come up. Maybe Dr. Edelman had made a deathbed confession. Maybe he’d explained what the stuff was, where he’d gotten it, how it could be reversed.

  But all I found was his obituary.

  Dr. Marvin Edelman was born May 7, 1941, in Lorimor, Iowa. He attended the University of Iowa College of Medicine and served as a medic in the Vietnam War from 1971 to 1973. Specializing in gerontology, he cared for his patients in family practice for nearly four decades. He retired earlier this year and is survived by his wife, Lucille; three children; and seven grandchildren. Dr. Edelman died peacefully in his sleep after a battle with cancer.

  “Died peacefully in his sleep.” Had he taken the pearls, too?

  They have no idea, I thought as I closed the computer. I sat back and stared out the window at the curling brown leaves on the trees, stunned. I had no idea where to go from here.

  Who could I talk to? How would I pose the question? Maybe you can help me. I’ve heard of a substance—military, top secret—that will kill you in twenty days. Can you tell me anything about it?

  Who would I call with those questions?

  No one. But maybe there was a different way. Maybe the pearls had left a marker within me somehow. Maybe if I had blood drawn, it would show something. At least I might know if the pearls were working or not.

  I paused for a moment to get my story straight, then called my doctor’s office.

  “This is Carla,” the nurse said. “May I help you?”

  “Yes,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. “I came in for a physical back in June, but we didn’t do a full blood workup at the time. Could I come in and have blood drawn for that?”

  “Certainly. Are you having symptoms, or do you just want this as a follow-up for your records?”

  “Just as a follow-up,” I said, grateful she was giving me the right words.

  “Sure. Since you don’t need to see the doctor, you can come in anytime and I can take care of that for you.”

  “How about this morning?” I said, feeling a sense of urgency rising in me. “I have some errands to run, so I could stop in.”

  “Yes, that’s fine,” she said. “Just ask for me when you get here.”

  Until I hung up the phone, I didn’t realize I was shaking.

  * * *

  I’d calmed down a bit by the time I got to the clinic. Carla greeted me with a clipboard in hand, led me back to an exam room, and closed the door. I looked at the examining table and remembered how many times I’d lain on that table or one like it, hearing the crinkle of the paper beneath me whenever I made the slightest move.

  Joe was there for the appointments that confirmed I was pregnant. And he was there for the appointments that confirmed I wasn’t any longer. With my fourth pregnancy, he tried to lighten the mood when we went in for my first trimester exam. “You’ve probably had your feet in more stirrups than Annie Oakley,” he said.

  Today, I was grateful I wouldn’t need the exam table or paper gown. I sat in the chair in the exam room while Carla washed her hands and put on gloves.

  “So we’re doing a full panel of blood work, right?” she said, applying the tourniquet to my arm.

  “Right,” I said, feeling the pressure.

  “And you’re not having any symptoms?”

  “Right,” I said again, thinking of everything I wasn’t saying.

  I took some stuff that’s supposed to kill me in a few days, but there’s no evidence that it ever existed, and I don’t know what it was or what’s in it.

  That would likely get me thrown in a locked unit for observation and suicide watch. If it’s between that and dying, for all the reasons I took the stuff in the first place, I’ll stick with my original plan.

  “Okay,” she said as she unwrapped the needle. “You’ll feel a little pinch.”

  I looked away, thinking of all the times I’d given blood with no concern about what was in it. But this blood could be tainted, couldn’t it? I have no idea if the lab tests will show anything—or what will happen if they do—but I have to find out.

  “How long will it take to get the results?” I said.

  “Not long,” Carla said. “Let’s see. This is Friday. They should be mailed to you early next week.”

  Can I wait that long? Then again, what choice do I have?

  “Let us know if you have any questions when you get the results,” Carla said as she walked me out to the waiting area. “They’ll tell you if the doctor sees any red flags.”

  “Thanks,” I said, feeling a little light-headed.

  Before I left, I stopped in the restroom to splash cold water on my face. That was when I noticed. The age spot under my left eye—the one I’ve covered up for the last three years—is gone.

  * * *

  Mama always made things look so easy. She put together a meal like magic when people dropped in. She didn’t stress over things. Didn’t raise a fuss when Holly and I made a mess. A couple of years before she died, I asked her about it while we were doing a jigsaw puzzle, one of her favorite pastimes.

  “I learned what was important and what wasn’t after your dad died,” she said.

  “But why haven’t I learned it since Rose died?” I said.

  “Because losing a spouse is different from losing a child,” she said. “When a spouse dies, you lose a partner and your future together. But when a child dies, you lose your trust that the world operates the way it’s supposed to.”

  She searched the puzzle to find where her next piece belonged. “R
ose’s death defied the laws of nature,” she said. “Children aren’t supposed to die before their parents.”

  I kept studying the puzzle pieces for something that might fit.

  “The grief process is different because there’s so much anger, confusion, and guilt,” she said. “When you have a child, you accept an unspoken contract to help that child live and thrive. You’d lay down your life for that child. When your child dies first, there’s so much guilt that you didn’t fulfill the contract, that it was somehow your fault.”

  We both kept our eyes on the puzzle.

  “But it was my fault,” I said.

  “No, it wasn’t,” she said. “Remember, I was here when it happened. You did nothing wrong. There’s no explanation that will ever satisfy either of us. But it happened. Why, we don’t know.”

  I moved in with Mama when her dementia took hold, and while I despised the thievery of the disease, I loved taking care of her. Even Romeo, who had kept her company out in the barn all those years when she had her antiques business, had passed away of old age—or maybe from a broken heart. Mama needed me. We needed each other.

  Each morning I tiptoed into her bedroom, leaned over the bed to breathe in her smell, as familiar to me as childhood, and sat quietly by her bed for a few moments to watch her sleep. I traced the wrinkles around her eyes, the cascade of hair that had once been so full and stylish. Still surprisingly shiny despite the gray.

  Mama used to put it up in a bun or wear it loose around her shoulders. I thought we should cut it to make it easier to care for, but she protested, and I didn’t fight her on it. “It’s still the part of me I love the most,” she said one day, sitting at the kitchen table. “I don’t care if it gets in my way.”

  She used to tell me, “You’re young, you should be out having fun with a man. Hell, I’m young. If it weren’t for my memory, I’d be out on a date.”

  But I preferred to stay home and take care of her. I’d come home after work, tired of trying to make customers happy at the shop all day. I got to the point where I didn’t return phone calls because chatting about nothing exhausted me. I found all the companionship I needed in the flowers and Mama.