It’s more important than ever that he reveal the truth to her about him not being a widower. He has to do it tonight.
Just after they are settled out on the porch with their glasses of wine, Amy suddenly sits up straighter in her chair. “John. I have a confession to make.”
He laughs. “Funny you should say that. I do, too.”
“Can I go first?”
He gestures expansively: Be my guest.
She looks down at her lap, tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, speaks softly. “This is about my husband, about when he died. I think I told you he died at home.” She looks quickly over at John, and he nods.
“Well, on the last day, I was sitting beside him and I had been up all night—again—and I was so exhausted, all the way down to my bones. And he was such a mess by then. I’m sorry to say it that way, but he was a mess—that’s the way he described himself, too. We even laughed about it one day. He’d asked for a mirror, and he looked at himself in it, and he got real still; and then he just started laughing, and I did, too. Oh, that was such an odd and dear moment.
“But anyway. He looked nothing like himself. And the room reeked from him. It did, it just reeked all the time, nothing I did helped. But that day I was sitting there with him, and he all of a sudden started having trouble breathing, he was gasping and snorting and …” She pauses, gathers herself. “He wasn’t able to talk at that point, but I knew he was having trouble breathing. And I knew what to do to help him; I’d done it before. I’d readjusted him, I’d suctioned him a million times. But that time, I didn’t do anything. I just sat there. And he died.”
She looks over at him, her eyes full of tears. “The doctor had told me he didn’t have much longer, maybe another few days, but I let him die then. I never told anyone this. But in those last moments, he looked over at me, needing help, and I did nothing. I think he was aware that I was choosing to do nothing. And all that was in his eyes …” She swallows hugely. “All that was in his eyes was love.
“I was wrong to do that. I was so wrong. And I see that day over and over. I wish I’d helped him. But I didn’t. You must think I’m a terrible person. I killed him.”
“Amy.”
“I did!”
“Cancer killed him.”
She says nothing, wipes a tear from beneath one eye, then the other.
“I wonder if he wasn’t grateful to you.”
“I don’t think he was grateful.” Her torso jerks, holding back a sob.
“Well, want me to tell you what I think?”
She nods.
“I think the last thing he saw was a wife who loved him and did not want him to suffer any longer. He knew he was going to die. I suppose one way he might have died is after having become unconscious. Or alone, after having suffered more. Instead, he died looking into the face of the person who loved him best, the one he loved best. To me, that’s a good death.”
“But it was about me not suffering any longer!”
John waits to speak, weighing the silence between them. Then he says, “You know, a few years back, I read a story in the paper that I’ll never forget. It was about a man who shot his wife in the back of the head. They were old, almost ninety, and she had Alzheimer’s; he’d been caring for her for years. I imagine it was beyond difficult. One day, she had a moment of absolute clarity. And it was in that moment that he shot her. He confessed immediately, called the cops over right away. At his trial, all his children were there. All of them in full support of him. At first I thought it was because in that moment of lucidity, she must have asked him to let her go. But then I decided it might have been a lot more complicated than that, she might not have asked him at all. It might have been that seeing his wife as herself again sent him over the edge because he knew it would not last, and he couldn’t bear losing her again. Or it might have been that he wanted her to be aware of what he saw as his final gift to her. In any case, it seemed clear to me that what he did was an act of mercy and not of malevolence. And I think his children thought that, too.”
Amy is quiet. Then she says, “Well, I just needed to say that to someone. I know it doesn’t absolve me of anything, but … I just needed to say it to someone. To you. I needed for you to know it about me.”
“I’m glad you told me.”
She leans back in her chair, sighs. “So. What’s your confession?”
He hesitates. Is it a terrible time to tell her? Or will it add some welcome levity to the situation? He’s not sure.
“Never mind,” he says. “Not now.”
“Oh, no,” she says. “You have to tell me. It can’t be as bad as what I told you.”
“I’ll tell you another time.”
“Tell me now.”
“Oh, all right,” he says. “Okay, I’ll tell you. So, what it is … Well, I kind of met you under false pretenses. Not false. Accidental. I’m not a widower, Amy. I’m divorced.”
Her brow furrows. “What?”
“I’m not a widower. I’m divorced. My ex-wife is in San Francisco. Irene is her name. I came to the church that night looking for the divorced parents group. But I saw you, and—”
“Oh, my gosh. That’s why you never talked! You were just … cruising!”
“No, it’s not like that. I mean, I didn’t follow you knowing you were going to that meeting. I followed you thinking you were going to the divorce group.”
“But you must have realized right away that you were in the wrong place!”
“Well, yes. But by then, I … Well, I was very interested in you. So I just stayed. I meant to tell you right away, but—”
She stands. “I have to go.”
He gets out of his chair, moves to stand before her. He starts to put his arms around her, but she steps away from him.
“Amy. Look, I know it must seem like I’m—”
“I have to think about this. I just really have to go home now.”
“Okay, but please understand. I was so attracted to you. It was such a surprise, I hadn’t felt like that for so long, and I didn’t know what to do. And the time to tell you the truth never seemed to come.”
“You listened to so many people talk about such private things!”
He hangs his head.
“They trusted you!”
“I know.”
She goes into the house—for her purse and sweater, he suspects. Yes. Here she comes again, her car keys in her hand.
“I wish you wouldn’t go.”
“I have to.”
“Let me walk you to your car.”
“It’s right in front.”
“I know, but let me anyway.”
“I’ll be fine.” She descends the steps, walks quickly down the sidewalk.
“How about I call you later?”
No answer.
“Amy?”
She turns around. “I just need some time, John. Okay? I’ll call you, if … I’ll call you.”
She disappears into her car, drives quickly away.
He looks over at the chair where she was sitting. At her wineglass, still half full. He drinks the wine, overly aware of the lipstick stain on the glass. Aware too, now, that the Twins should still be on, and hateful of himself for having that thought even occur to him. But. There you go.
He goes into the house and turns on the television. Damn it. She could have been a contender. He looks at his watch, as though gauging how long this one lasted. Damn it.
He turns his attention to the screen. “Low,” he says. “Out.”
8
On Saturday morning, Irene rises early to make Sadie breakfast before her daughter takes off for rock climbing. She prepares oatmeal with raisins and dried apricots and walnuts, wheat toast spread with peanut butter, a bowl of cut-up cantaloupe, strawberries, and bananas. When Sadie comes into the kitchen, clumsy with sleep, she stops dead at the sight of the feast.
“Never mind,” Irene says. “You’ll need to be well nourished, making that climb.”
“Yeah, but I don’t need—”
“If you don’t want it all, don’t eat it all.”
Sadie slides into the banquette, pushes her hair off her forehead. “Don’t get all pissed off.”
“I’m not pissed off.”
Sadie blows on the oatmeal, spoons a bite into her mouth. “Are too.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”
“Don’t be so pissed off!”
Irene sits down at the table. “I’m sorry.” She reaches over and pulls a strawberry off the top of Sadie’s bowl of fruit and eats it. I have a bad feeling about this, she wants to say. I feel so strongly that something bad is going to happen. Instead, she says, “I guess I’m just nervous about your doing this.”
“You think?”
“It is dangerous, Sadie.”
“It really isn’t. We’re climbing up a little rock, we’re camping out overnight, the next day, we’re climbing down the rock.”
“Who’s going, again?”
“Kids from my class, Mom. You don’t know them. What’s the point in my reciting their names again?”
“Okay.” Irene goes over to the stove and begins scrubbing it. For a while, there is only the sound of that and the clinking of Sadie’s spoon.
Finally, Irene comes back to the table and sits down. “I know I’m overprotective,” she says.
“Yeah, you should have had more kids. Ten or eleven. Kind of spread out the anxiety.”
Irene smiles. “Maybe so.”
“I’ll be fine. Honestly.”
“Okay, but just … Will you please call me, and let me know you’re okay? Just a quick call when you get up there, and one when you get down. You don’t even have to talk. Just call and say ‘Me,’ and hang up. Whenever you can. How’s that? If I don’t answer, leave me a message.”
“Are you working today?”
“Dinner party today at some mansion; tomorrow we have a brunch over on Sea Cliff.”
“Wow. I think movie stars live over there. Is it a movie star’s house? Do you get to serve canapés to a prima donna?”
“It’s some executive. The only prima donna will be Henry Bliss.”
“Poor Henry,” Sadie says, popping a piece of cantaloupe into her mouth.
“Poor Henry?”
Sadie shrugs. “He’s an artiste. He’s only annoying because he cares so much about his work. Anyway, you love him, you just won’t admit it.” She stands and arches her back, stretching. “Okay, thanks for breakfast.”
Irene looks at the nearly full bowl of oatmeal, the untouched toast. “What, that’s it?”
“You know I’m never hungry first thing. You do know that, right? I mean, thanks for making this, but I’m just not hungry yet.”
Irene nods. Don’t get all pissed off. “Do you want to take some PowerBars with you?”
“I have one in my backpack.” She looks up at the kitchen clock. “I’m going to take a shower and get ready. Don’t take anything away; maybe I’ll eat more when I come out.”
The oatmeal will be cold by then, Irene thinks. And Sadie, reading her mind in the way she sometimes does, turns around to say, “Microwave.”
Irene goes to stand at the kitchen window and look out at the day. A lot of fog today. Just here or everywhere? It will burn off. Please let it all burn off. Sadie in a heap, someone saying, I don’t know; I guess she couldn’t see.
The phone rings, and when Irene answers, Henry sighs and says, “I knew it. Why are you still there? Why aren’t you out shopping? All the good produce will be gone.”
“Henry,” Irene says. “It’s eight o’clock in the morning.”
“My point.”
“I’m feeding my daughter breakfast.”
“She doesn’t feed herself?”
“Ha, ha.” She hears Sadie turning off the shower. Shortest shower in the world. She just can’t wait to fall off that rock.
“So when are you leaving?” Henry asks.
“In about fifteen minutes.”
“Well, add something to the list.”
Irene goes over to the junk drawer and takes out a pencil. “Okay. Go ahead.”
“Do you have a pencil?”
“Yes, Henry, I have a pencil. Also, it’s in my hand.”
“Okay, so write this down.”
Irene rolls her eyes.
“Marcona almonds. Get a pound.”
“Got it. See you soon.”
“Wait a minute. That’s not all.”
“What else?”
“Piment d’Espelette.”
Oh, God. She hates it when she has to ask. Before she met Henry, she considered herself a pretty sophisticated cook. No more. “What’s that?”
He sighs.
“Just tell me, Henry.”
“It’s a chili powder, very coarse, made from Espelette peppers. You’ve honestly never heard of it?”
“Shocking, I know.” What she does not add is that she has no idea what Marcona almonds are, either, but at least she knows they’re almonds. And now that she thinks of it, she remembers that they are Spanish almonds, very tender, and she knows exactly where they are in the store.
“What are we making with almonds and chili powder?” she asks.
“Popcorn.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No, Irene, I am not kidding you.” She can see just him standing there, a little Napoleon wearing a perfectly executed bow tie, a shirt so white it hurts your eyes, knife-pressed black jeans, a black-and-white striped apron, and his chic black bifocals. “It happens to be fabulous.”
“I’m sure.”
She hears Sadie calling her and tells Henry she has to go.
“Wear your hair up,” Henry says.
“Don’t I always?”
“Well,” he says, in his snotty voice. “Sort of.”
“All right,” Irene says. “I’m on my way.”
“Well, wait, since you’re already late, you might as well go over to the cheese shop and get some washed-rind Gorgonzola, five pounds of that, and then just two pounds of Ubriaco. Oh, and a new Girolle.”
“How many pounds of New Girolle?”
He speaks slowly. “A Girolle is a tool, Irene. Used with the tête de moine Swiss cheese, to make those little rosettes. Remember?”
“Oh! Yes. So … one Girolle.”
“Yes. All right, I’m going over to the house. I’ll see you there. Go to the back door. The kitchen door.”
“What, I shouldn’t ring the front bell and say, ‘Gollllly! This here sure is a big house! What all do y’all do in such a big house? Sheeeit!’”
“Remind me to yell at you when you get here; I don’t have time now.”
“Oh, you won’t need me to remind you.”
“Kisses and hugs!”
She hangs up.
9
Sadie stands shivering at the corner where she is to meet Ron. He’s late, and Sadie is pissed. It isn’t a good sign, she’s thinking. This is the kind of carelessness Meghan’s boyfriend displayed before he dumped her: showing up late, not calling as often. And Meghan just took it. Later, she said she wished she’d done something back to him: gone out with another guy, not shown up somewhere they’d agreed to meet. She thought she’d been too nice, a doormat, in fact, and that that had been a major turnoff, inviting abuse. “You can’t let them take you for granted,” she said.
When Sadie tries Ron’s phone, all she gets is his voice mail; she has also texted him twice with no response. She’s hoping his not being there on time has to do with the surprise he said he’d have for her; maybe when he presents her with that, whatever it is, she’ll forget all about him being late.
She checks the time, and sees that she’s been waiting twenty-seven minutes. Almost half an hour she’s been standing there! She looks up and down the street; no sign of his car, or of any car, for that matter; they purposely chose a quiet street. And it was on this corner they were to meet, she’s sure of that. She supposes it’s possible that he won
’t come at all. And then what? Going back home would be lame, and anyway, what if, for some reason, her mother is still there? She doesn’t want to have to come up with excuses for why she is home. And she can’t go rock climbing as she had said she was going to do—by the time she got there, it would be too late to join the group, they’d already have started up. She stands there shivering, trying to think of what to do.
A car pulls up, and Sadie sees the driver inside gesturing to her. She steps closer, and he rolls down the passenger-side window. “Am I anywhere near Sally Ann’s Breakfast? The address I was given was wrong.”
“You’re about six blocks away.” She gives him directions, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. “Get the stuffed French toast,” she tells the man. “It’s got raspberries and cream cheese, and it’s really good.”
“Oh, I’m not going to eat; I just want to look at the place. I’m a location scout.”
“Oh. Cool.” She nods, shivers harder, and looks up and down the street again for Ron. Nothing.
“Thanks!” the man says and starts to pull away. But then he stops, rolls down the window again, and says, “Excuse me, but … You okay?”
Once Upon a Time, There Was You Page 7