by Mark Rader
On the morning of the third day, however, within minutes of waking up, she felt the momentum she’d created go totally slack: she sat up on the pullout couch, looked at her brother’s now immaculate kitchen, the low hum of the refrigerator the only sound, and felt hopeless. Almost a month now she’d been with him, and what was there to show for it? Back in May, when she’d decided to leave St. Louis for a few months to be with him through all this, she’d had such high hopes—absurd, considering the situation, but so be it. Don had died suddenly—a massive heart attack in his den; by the time she’d gotten there, he was slumped forward on his desk, gone. With Paul, she would have the chance to do something. Give him comfort as he deteriorated. Be there at the very end. But also, she’d wanted to come because she hoped the experience would make her feel like a good, loving person again and help her avoid doing what she’d done last summer, which was to spend most of every day diligently getting drunk.
So far, on that front, she’d been doing neither horrible nor great. She’d been heeding the rule she tried to keep during the school year: no more than a bottle a night on school nights. Then a big glass of water before bed, and coffee and two ibuprofens the next morning, to recover. Most people, she knew, would still consider this having a problem. And it probably was. But considering the stress she was under, what with Paul and Maura’s troubles always on her mind, on top of everything else, the escape felt necessary. Deserved, even. Though of course it was exactly this attitude that got her in trouble.
The previous two days had been the only ones since she’d arrived in Wisconsin in which she hadn’t gotten the slightest bit drunk, but that was only because there was no wine in the house when they’d returned and she hadn’t gone to the store to get any yet. If she simply didn’t get more wine, then, she thought, as she got up to make coffee, there wouldn’t be a problem. No temptation, no sin. But it was already too late: thinking about not driving to the store to buy wine was no different really from thinking about actually driving to the store to buy wine, and with both shame and relief, as she dumped the coffee grounds into its frilly white filter, she realized that was exactly what she was going to do.
She didn’t want Paul to wake to an empty house, so she called Jean over from the church office, to sit in the living room until he woke up. At the store, she bought a case of Pinot Grigio and three cartons of orange juice: when she drank early in the day, it felt less wrong to drink mimosas, with wine instead of champagne. By noon, she’d had three glasses and felt much better. Half a bottle: that was probably her sweet spot. The invisible little weights fastened to her shoulders fell away, her forehead smoothed, and the world narrowed to a simple, attainable goal: to keep on drinking. Buzzed, as Shade called it, she could retreat to the center of herself, a tiny warm spot cushioned from pain, and when she moved from one room to the next, or even sat at a table scrolling through Facebook, she felt fluid, like a surfer probably felt riding an easy wave. The problem was it was impossible to stay a little drunk.
The afternoon passed as so many had passed last summer: as she drank she did whatever she felt like the moment she felt like it, like a child following her whims. An hour with a John le Carré novel from Paul’s library, then some Facebook, then some judge show on TV, a full bag of chips and veggie dip, four or five cigarette breaks outside—and then, seeing she needed one, a nap. When Paul finally emerged from his room around five thirty for something to eat, she felt self-conscious of how drunk she was; this sometimes happened when the FedEx guy showed up at her front door back home, often with boxes full of things she didn’t remember buying, deep in her cups, a few nights before. She said hi to Paul and Paul said hi back, but she was safe: he was so in his own head he didn’t notice anything different about her. As he stood at the microwave, heating his soup, she wanted to cry: he looked like a person who’d been unplugged. Eyes without light in them; cheeks rough with white stubble. He still wore the sweatshirt he’d put on three days ago and stunk strongly of old sweat. Maybe, she thought for a moment, if he just threw caution to the wind and drank some wine too—we could get drunk together! But the idea was beyond idiotic, she realized: the man had liver cancer. What could possibly be worse?
“How are you feeling?” she asked, once he was eating his soup. It occurred to her that in all their time together, he hadn’t said grace before eating once. Usually he took a few moments of silence, head bowed—the silence a form of deference to her. She wondered if he’d stopped praying in private too.
“The same,” he said, and lifted his spoon to his mouth.
After grimly rinsing out his bowl and setting it to dry on a towel by the sink, Paul winced a smile at her, then walked stiffly back to his room. For a moment, the evening and its many mindless hours to fill loomed large, and she felt unsure what to do. To help her figure it out, she began what was now her third bottle, the pop of the cork the lively announcement of the start of another round. The feeling now was less like surfing and more like jogging down an endless hill. For a while, she sat on the front stoop and pretended she was back at the beach in Sister Bay, seagulls squawking, her eyes closed against the blazing evening sun. For dinner, she ate most of an eggplant casserole one of the altar society women had put in the freezer for them, then she got the idea to look through Paul’s photo albums, all lined up on the lowest shelf of the living room bookcase.
The first album she looked at was the one she was most familiar with: the leather-bound memento made by their mother for Paul to take with him to seminary, the year he was thirteen. All the pictures but for the last three pages’ worth were black and whites faded to sepia brown. Bald little Paul in his baptismal gown. Toddler Paul, uncomfortable in a tiny winter hat with earflaps, slouched on a sled, frowning. Proud Paul at his First Communion, wearing his first pair of many hornrimmed glasses, standing stiffly in a tight dark suit in front of their mother and father, their father holding the baby that was her. Glued to some of the pages was a spelling test (the only mistake was “hlep,” his misspelling of “help”), a whale he’d made out of cardboard, holy cards he’d won for good behavior. Jesus with his exposed pink heart, arms out. The Virgin Mary with her starry halo, cradling Baby Jesus in her arms. Saint Francis with hands pressed together in the woods, surrounded by birds, squirrels, and a deer, like Snow White. Paul looked so serious in the pictures, which was a shame. In her memories, he was more expressive—laughing at something in a book or throwing their old, falling-apart baseball to Shep, their dog, or him feeding her shelled peanuts out of his hand, like she was a chicken, mischief in his eyes. What the album was, Britta knew, was a carefully curated exhibit, created by their mother. A document befitting her chosen one, the future priest.
There were eight other albums, in rough chronological order, and though she was sure she’d gone through them before, she wanted to do it again. There was the album that began with his seminary years and ended with pictures from his ordination—Paul bookended proudly by their parents, a few pictures of her and him together too: her, at nineteen, with her wavy, shoulder-length hair, a sensible green dress—only two summers away from going full hippie. His Rome album she lingered over carefully, looking for the places they’d just seen, looking for signs of Luca (there were none). The two albums that covered his years preaching with Tim at St. Matthew’s and the first decade or so at St. Iggy’s she flipped through quickly—most of the pictures were of Paul standing with strangers, his hair progressively graying, his sideburns shrinking. The Holy Land album, the India album, an album mostly devoted to the harvest fest fund-raisers at St. Iggy’s over the years. And then, finally, the album he’d devoted to her and her family—the one Shade and Maura always pored over when they visited as kids. When she and Ray, the kids’ father, were still together there had been pictures of her and Ray holding the kids as babies, pictures from their first apartment; but sometime after Ray left them after years of cheating, the year Maura was four, Paul had removed all evidence of him, as if trying to write him out of her story co
mpletely. The album began with photos of her holding baby Maura, with her little swirl of chestnut hair, and then, two year later, her holding Shade, Maura peeking over her arm, her hair at chin length, to see her baby brother. In the pictures of thirtysomething Paul holding them as babies, his upper body and arms were very stiff; he was so worried he would drop them. The picture Maura and Shade had loved to find and giggle at was the one of them both sitting naked and furious in the plastic pool she set in the backyard of her apartment in Madison, Maura maybe five, Shade, three. When she found it, she laughed again too. But the picture they’d liked the best was the first one with Don in it—the photograph that signaled the start of the life they knew: in it, Maura sat in his lap, ripping apart a big red package, and Shade sat in his lap as well, frowning at the big red bow stuck to his fingers. Don’s face was turned to Britta, about to say something, but she was looking right at the camera and beaming. Look, Maura had once said, pointing. Mommy’s smiling because she found Daddy.
By the time she reached the end of the album—marked by the kids’ high school graduations—the sun had set, and she was very drunk, and she missed her kids very much. She knew that Maura hadn’t been in touch, but she didn’t care: she pulled out her phone. But after ringing four times, an automated voice said the mailbox was full. When she called Shade, he picked up, but he was in the middle of some gaming thing and said he’d call her back tomorrow.
Minutes later somehow, she was swaying in the backyard so much it was hard to light her cigarette. The wave she’d been riding had crashed. Rarely did she throw up; her head and stomach had learned to absorb the punishment she inflicted on it and carry on. But she knew that tonight she wouldn’t be able to avoid it. Slowly, careful not to fall, she walked inside and sat on the sofa, crouched forward, her head in her hands. If Don were here, she would have called for him by now and told him she was going to puke. He would have appeared with the tealgreen bucket from under their sink and told her to wedge it between her knees, the way he had when she got food poisoning on their tenth anniversary trip to San Padre Island. He would be sitting beside her, not a memory but a real man, rubbing her back, alternating between smooth circles and up and down. His big right thigh would press against hers. He would smell faintly of his cologne—cedar and mint. Just let it out, Britty, he’d say. As soon as it’s out of you, you’ll feel better.
When it was no longer possible to hold it off, Britta remembered that she didn’t have a real bucket in her lap and rushed too late to the toilet. She threw up on the bathroom floor and a little bit in the sink, which seemed slightly better. A big one, a smaller one, and a horrible, eye-watering one that was mostly liquid. When she raised her head to the mirror she was beyond pathetic: pale, the hair on her temples dark with sweat, eyes red and teary, a glob of yellow spit hanging from her bottom lip. She poured water into her cupped hand and washed out her mouth. In the kitchen she sought a roll of paper towels, with the intention of cleaning up. But at the door to the bathroom, when she surveyed the mess she’d made, the idea of cleaning it up made her very tired, and plus she didn’t know where she’d put the towels when she was done, so she just set the roll on the floor under the sink, for later, and sank down into the hallway carpet. She would sleep here tonight, she decided—this was comfortable enough. And she did for a while, until there was a tug on her arm. It was Paul above her, saying her name, telling her to get up. His eyes were worried, but he also seemed to have a plan for her she trusted. With him holding her arm, she rose to her knees, then to her legs. The bathroom, she saw with a glance, had already been cleaned. Also, it smelled like lemon. She wondered, as she staggered with him to the living room, what time it was exactly, so she asked him, and all he said was that it was late. Once she was on the sofa, with the sheet over her and the Tupperware that that night’s casserole had come in placed below her head on the floor, he said, “Use this if you need to. And get some sleep.”
When she woke, light poured through the front window, and she had a headache so intense it made it difficult for her to see. The sheets were a tangle around her legs; there was a faint taste of bile in her mouth. She remembered what Paul had done and wanted to thank him and apologize immediately, to purge her gratitude too. But he was probably still sleeping, recovering from his late night with her. So she walked to the sink and sipped water until the foul taste in her mouth was mostly gone, took four ibuprofen, and fell back asleep.
The blind on the window was drawn when she woke back up, which meant Paul was awake now too. She pushed herself up to sitting, her headache dimmer now, and there he was: sitting at the kitchen table, still in the same gray sweat suit, sipping from a Gatorade, watching her.
“She lives,” he said.
“What time is it?” she managed.
“Almost noon.”
“Jesus. Really?”
“Yes.”
He had something to say to her, she could tell by the way his lips were slightly parted. He was deciding whether to say it. His eyes were liquid, but not lost.
“I’m sorry about last night,” she said first. “I guess I overdid it.”
“I would say so.”
“I appreciate you cleaning everything up.”
“Sure.”
“That never happens to me,” she said. “Never.”
“Well,” Paul said, “maybe it should happen more often. Maybe you’d stop drinking so much.”
There was a clarity in his eyes she recognized: the old Paul.
“I know I should cut down,” she said.
He nodded. “Do you think there’s a part of you that’s trying to kill yourself? I’m asking in all sincerity.”
She frowned, then recoiled at the thought. “Of course not!” she said. “I’m surprised you’d even ask me that.”
“Well,” he said, “that’s what it seems like, whether you’re trying to or not.” He remained perfectly still. “And if you don’t get help, I worry you’ll end up like Don.”
It was a harsh thing to say, but fair: at the time of his death, Don had been more than 325 pounds. Diabetes. High blood pressure. Cholesterol through the roof. She’d had problems in those areas too, even before he died. And now? Worse, probably. But she didn’t know for sure because she hadn’t gone for a checkup the past three years, afraid to find out. Afraid of more bad news.
“It’s been really hard,” she said.
“I know it has.”
“I know I should be getting over it. But I can’t.”
“I know.”
Her whole face winced, and when she began to cry, Paul set down his Gatorade and walked over to the couch, sat, and put his arm around her. And as she shook, his arm didn’t move.
For the rest of the morning and early afternoon, Paul stayed close by. Available, it felt, if she needed him. When she put on one of her stupid judge shows, he sat with her, and when she told him she was going to take another nap, he checked email quietly at the kitchen table, and when she woke again some romaine lettuce and tomatoes from his garden were draining in a strainer in the sink. She didn’t want to jinx things by making too big a deal out of this small reversal, or ruining it with conversation, so they agreed without saying so to keep a warm distance. Around three, Paul excused himself to the basement to look through some boxes as she settled into what had become her armchair to read, calmly pushing away the hope that kept surging inside her, to spare herself disappointment. Around five, she started to feel hungry and decided to make dinner from scratch, as a thank-you to him, for helping her, for listening. Spaghetti carbonara—what he always made her family when they visited him. She would make him that.
When she walked down the stairs to the basement to let him know she needed to go get a few groceries, Paul was sitting on a metal folding chair, a thick black binder open on his knees. He turned and smiled faintly, as he might have done if interrupted in his office, at the church.
“Fine by me,” he said. “I don’t expect I’ll be going anywhere.”
T
he air-conditioning at the grocery store was so incredibly cold—so much better than the window units at Paul’s place—she took her time moving through the aisles. She got the bell peppers and bacon the recipe required, then a small tiramisu, two cannoli from the bakery, and a bottle of Chianti, to complete the theme. How nice it was, she thought, to be out in the world like this, to have a delicious dinner to look forward to. But as she set her bags down on the passenger seat of Paul’s car, she had an awful thought: What if he’d been waiting for her to leave, all this time, and now was going to kill himself? This would be an ideal time; he was down in the basement, alone. She’d once read that, after they had decided to go through with suicide, some depressed people would experience a surge of relief unmistakable from joy: maybe that’s what she’d seen. It was a crazy thought, she knew, but as she drove the eight miles back, her heart pounded in her neck. As she put the key into the lock of his front door, she prayed for the first time in years: Don’t let him be dead. But when the door gave way, Paul was sitting in the middle of the sofa, watching Wheel of Fortune. He was in exactly the same pose he’d been in when she left him, except he’d changed out of his sweat suit and into a light blue polo and khakis and black socks. He’d combed his hair and looked freshly washed. And the white stubble was gone from his cheeks.
“You shaved!”
He smiled faintly. “I thought it was time I cleaned myself up a little.”
She set down the grocery bags where she was at the door and walked over and sat beside him. She wanted to hug him until he burst, but he was delicate. So instead she just held his hand.
That night, after dinner, Paul told her he might finally be up for having visitors, and by the next morning, Jean had sent an email to the whole parish letting them know. For the next few weeks, people appeared at the door nearly every day: single people, couples, families, most of them bearing gifts—rosaries blessed in Medjugorje, peanut M&Ms (his favorite), flowers to brighten things up. Britta made sure to always have snacks on hand and coffee brewing, though rarely did anyone accept anything but coffee. At first, she wasn’t sure whether to give Paul and his visitors privacy, to excuse herself to his bedroom or outside for a smoke. But Paul insisted she join him on the couch and meet everybody who came in. He wanted her to understand this part of his life too.