by Mark Rader
“I’m so glad you came,” she said into his right ear, like he was a boxer and she, his coach. He pulled away from this quickly. She saw in his face a reserve that wasn’t normally there.
“It’s good to see you,” he said. But something was off: usually he called her Mom.
They ordered in pizza, and Shade drove to the gas station near the highway for beer. As they ate, Maura asked about the service and Britta told her what she knew: overflow seating in the back and basement, and even then it might be standing room only; a big meal in the fellowship hall after. For dessert, they shared a frozen key lime pie one of the altar society ladies had brought over, and Shade thankfully did most of the talking—just as Don would have done if he were here, to relieve the burden for everyone else. He told stories about the idiots he worked with and got everyone to laugh, even Harden, who looked so uncomfortable. Evan showed off what he could do with his ten-sided Rubik’s Cube, and Shade made paper airplanes out of white paper from Paul’s printer and flew them in the front yard with Ella. When Maura started a pot of decaf, Shade slyly produced a bottle of Chivas Regal he’d picked up for himself along with the beer—and everyone decided, yes, they’d have some. Just a little.
At quarter past eight, Harden looked at his watch and said it was time they went to Father Tim’s place. But Maura said she’d like to stay a little longer. Britta’s heart leapt.
“Does that mean I’m supposed to come back to get you?” Harden asked.
“No, it’s okay,” Shade jumped in. “I’ll drop her off later. Don’t worry about that.”
“Okay, well,” Harden said, “I guess we’ll see you tomorrow then.”
He glanced at Maura, then Britta, making sure this wasn’t some sort of conspiracy against him. Britta felt bad for him, but her sympathy for him only went so far: her love for her children trumped all.
“I think I’ll have another jab of that booze,” Shade said, a little while later, when it was just the three of them at the kitchen table. “Any takers?”
“Yeah, I’ll have some more,” Maura said, offering her empty mug. Shade poured a little and raised his eyebrows at Britta.
“I’ll pass, but thanks,” Britta said. If she had more right now, she would want even more later, and the last thing she needed in the morning was a headache.
“So,” Shade said, swirling his booze and looking at his sister, “Mom said you and Harden are having some issues or something? What’s going on?”
Maura looked at her. “Is that all you told him?”
“I wasn’t sure how much to tell.”
“How much to tell me what?” Shade looked at them back and forth.
Maura inhaled deeply and looked at him abstractly. “I got involved with someone for a while. And Harden found out. And now we’re trying to work it all out.”
Shade bugged out his eyes. “You mean like an affair?”
“More an emotional affair than a real affair. But yeah, I guess it was an affair.”
Shade stopped swirling his drink. “Who was the guy? It was a guy, right?”
Maura shot him a look. “Yes, it was a guy. I met him at that art retreat I went to last fall.” She hesitated, unsure of how much more to say. “His name was David. Is David.”
“So emotional affair means no fucking, right?”
“Shade, for Chrissake,” said Britta.
“What?” he said.
He could be such a child, so guileless and direct. But actually, Britta was curious to know. She hadn’t dared ask, though she wondered, presumed the answer was yes.
Maura hesitated, then said, “Right. No sex.”
But she was lying: Britta knew from the set of her mouth and the way she’d flared her nostrils. This was her tell forever. Britta took a big, exhausted breath. Oh, Maura, she thought.
“Does he have a ponytail?” Shade asked.
“What?” Maura replied.
“That’s what I picture an art retreat guy looking like. Ponytail. Black turtleneck. Vest. Maybe some skinny jeans.”
“Please stop,” Britta said.
“Sorry,” Shade said. He nervously drummed his fingers against the tabletop and took another swig. “So what did Harden say when he found out?”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking. Should I not even be asking questions?”
“He was upset. Let’s just say that.”
Shade nodded, biting his tongue.
“And now I’m fucked,” Maura added.
“Oh, stop,” Britta said. “You are not fucked.” She looked at Shade. “They’re in counseling now.” Then back to Maura. “That’s not confidential, right?”
“I mean, I guess not, since you just shared it.”
Blood rose to Britta’s face. “How am I supposed to know what I can say or not, Maura? You haven’t talked to me for four months.”
Maura looked at her, more sad than irritated. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I don’t know why I’m being so bitchy. I just—I don’t know how to talk about it yet, I guess. It’s all so new.”
“Fine,” Britta said. “I get that. Just don’t take it out on me.”
“Okay. I’m sorry.”
If Don were here right now, Britta thought, he would already be pushing them past this awkwardness with some practical advice. Sympathetic but firm. You’re paying the piper now, Maur, but that’s good. That’s a start. It’s going to feel shitty at first. But you have to keep at it. Just keep plugging. She could hear his voice so clearly, even now. His confidence.
“Anyway,” said Shade, “I’m sorry to hear about all this stuff. I hope it works out. Harden’s a good guy.”
Maura looked at him and smiled weakly.
“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll keep you posted.”
Soon after, they were all watching Anderson Cooper. Shade sat in the BarcaLounger and Maura sat beside Britta, an afghan wrapped around her legs. Some togetherness, but only thin comfort: the tension from earlier still hung in the air. Finally, Maura yawned and said she should probably get going.
“Why don’t you just stay here tonight?” Britta asked. “You’d be waking people up at this point anyway.”
“Yeah?” Maura said.
“Of course.”
“Where would I sleep?”
“With me, if you want. In Paul’s room. There’s room for two.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“Don’t worry. He was in a hospital bed for weeks,” Britta said. “Everything’s clean. Promise.”
“I don’t know,” Maura said. “I don’t want to make Harden upset.”
“Oh, I’m sure he can spare you for one night,” Britta said. “And if he makes a big fuss, just tell him I wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
Maura brushed her teeth in the bathroom, then paused in the hallway to announce she was hitting the sack. And after a few minutes of watching baseball highlights with Shade, Britta decided to do the same.
Britta’s makeshift pajamas—gray sweatpants and a huge Cardinals T-shirt—were sloppily folded inside the suitcase she’d set, open like a clamshell, in the closet, and her first instinct was to gather them and change in the bathroom. But that was silly. With her back to Maura, facing the closet, she changed out of her blouse and slacks, but kept on her bra until she had her pajamas on. Twenty pounds lighter or not, she still felt slightly embarrassed to be half dressed around her daughter—Maura, who was so thin.
The bed creaked dramatically when she sat with care on the edge of the bed and rolled over on her right side, and Britta had a vision of the slats underneath the mattress busting in half, like a gag in a movie. But of course that didn’t happen. Beside her, Maura lay on her back, holding a pillow tight, like it was a life preserver, just above the edge of a thin gray blanket.
“Let me know if you want the blanket off,” Britta said. “I’m always cold.”
“No,” Maura said. “I’m good.”
Britta watched her daughter close her eyes,
and for a while they said nothing, though it felt to Britta as though they should. Was she actually trying to sleep? Or was this just her way of avoiding awkward mother-daughter conversation? Britta considered what she might say to Maura if her eyes opened—a place from which to begin. There was so much she didn’t know: about David, the past few months, where things stood now. They needed a real talk soon. When Maura was ready. But maybe she wasn’t yet. Maybe that was what the closed eyes meant: I know we should talk, but if you love me, let me be.
“I never called him,” Maura said now, eyes still closed. “I never even said goodbye.”
At first, Britta thought she meant David. “You’ve been going through a hard time. I think he understood that.”
Maura opened her eyes and looked at the ceiling. “That’s no excuse. I mean, I didn’t even send him an email. Even Shade probably did that.”
It was hard to excuse it, that was true. Paul hadn’t said directly that he was disappointed not to hear from Maura, but she could tell it hurt him. If he in his terrible state could write her a note, Maura certainly could have at least picked up the phone. Emailed. Like Shade had done, yes. Many times, in fact. But she hadn’t. It was testament, Britta supposed, to how carried away her daughter had been.
“There was part of me that wondered if you didn’t call him just because I’d asked you to.”
“What do you mean? Like out of spite?”
“Not spite. Anger. I thought you were still mad at me. For not being more supportive.”
“Come on, Mom. You think I’d really do that?”
“No, I guess not.”
“I didn’t call because I was afraid that if I did talk to you or Paul you guys would talk me out of it. And I didn’t want that to happen.”
Britta felt like putting a hand on Maura’s shoulder.
“It’s a really stupid excuse,” Maura said. “I realize that.”
“Well,” Britta said, “no point in beating yourself up over it. He knew you loved him, and he loved you back. That’s all that really matters.”
“I’m not sure about that,” Maura said, “but thanks for saying so.”
They grew quiet again, but the silence wasn’t tense this time. It was like a long, necessary exhalation, in which Britta knew Maura was beating herself up. Always, she’d been tough on herself, a perfectionist. So rarely pleased with the art she made, so sensitive to the slightest criticism. So eager, at the end of high school, to shed her dissatisfaction with suburban St. Louis and fly away from home, to some bigger, better life. Harden had curbed some of Maura’s severest tendencies. With him by her side, steady person that he was, Britta had felt she could stop worrying about her. Maura was safe. Then motherhood, which grounded her even more. But, Britta thought now, thinking about Maura and this David, there was more to life than being safe, wasn’t there? There had been something missing from her daughter’s life all along.
Now, almost coquettishly, Maura tilted her head to meet Britta’s eyes. “I have to say, Mom…you seem better. As weird as that sounds with, you know, what’s happening.”
“Well,” she said, “I suppose I am. I’ve been a little healthier lately. Actually, since Rome I’ve lost twenty pounds.”
“What? Mom! That’s so great! I thought maybe you had.”
“Yeah, well, we’ll see how it goes. It’s not even been three months.”
“Sure,” Maura said. “But it feels like a good first step.”
Her daughter’s gaze narrowed and grew softer. The intimacy was almost too much to take.
“We’ve been worried about you, you know.”
“I’ve been worried about me too.”
“Yeah?” Maura said. “I guess I couldn’t tell.”
“When you’re a control freak like me it’s hard to admit you’re not doing great,” Britta said. “Bad for my reputation.”
“Well, I hope you keep at it,” Maura said. “I want you around for a long time.”
“Thank you,” Britta said, “for not wanting me to die.”
There were tears in Maura’s eyes as she turned to Britta, chuckling, and Britta couldn’t help laughing too, tears in her eyes. When Britta reached out her hand, Maura took it, first squeezing all her fingers together, then slipping her fingers between her mother’s, interlaced; it reminded Britta of the way she and Don had sometimes held hands after sex or just watching TV on the couch. She hadn’t cared enough about herself—that much was true. She hadn’t wanted to die, exactly. But her life had stopped mattering to her. She’d kept teaching, she’d remained a functioning human being. But in all the important ways, she’d given up.
Right now, though—whether it was just the passing of more time, or being with someone who really was dying, or the care she’d taken with herself lately—that bitterness and apathy had left her. Reading through the obituaries the other day, she’d noted the ages under all the headshots and thought, I’m only sixty-four, I may have twenty years left. And for the first time in ages, the thought hadn’t filled her with dread.
Maura slowly moved their clasped hands to a spot just below her breastbone, as though claiming their bond for herself. “I’m sorry I was such a shit.”
“You were, but I’ve already forgiven you.”
Maura sniffed and smiled. “Thanks.”
“I will at some point be interested to know more about what’s going on, of course,” Britta said. “I have a lot of questions.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you do.”
“But for right now,” Britta said, pressing their hands into Maura’s chest, “I’m just happy to have you back.”
VI. Goodbyes
Maura and Evan are hiking in the Berkshires, except instead of pines and dusty rock, hovering over them are gigantic prehistoric plants, leaves the size of cars. The light breaking through the cover puddles on the forest floor in soft underwater shapes. There’s a sense that they’re lost, and if so, Maura understands that she’s to blame, because the hike was her idea and apparently they have no map.
She walks beside Evan, trying to hide that she’s afraid. She takes bold steps, points to a path ahead, pretending confidence. And then, just as she’s beginning to feel like maybe this confidence will pay off, they turn a corner and there’s David, standing in a clearing, staring at them. Stopped in his tracks like a deer, gripping the straps of his backpack tightly.
Her first instinct is to veer away for Evan’s sake, but David calls her name and is suddenly right there in front of them, as if launched by a gust of wind. He looks a little off, as people often do in dreams. His careful stubble is a pointy Van Dyke. He has a bit more hair.
Do you know this guy? Evan asks.
Yes, she replies. He’s a friend from work.
At this, David bugs his eyes. A friend? he roars. A friend? Do friends do this? And from his backpack he unfurls a poster. On it is one of the cell phone pictures she sent him: herself, topless, wearing her pajama pants, pretending to read a book.
She’s speechless.
Is that you? Evan asks.
There are her breasts and stomach. Her laptop with the St. Louis Cardinals sticker on it. Her unmistakable face. The look Evan gives her—mournful, shocked—makes her almost pass out.
Angry at being ambushed, she runs toward David, hoping to rip the poster away. But he sidesteps her like a bullfighter, and when she looks back over her shoulder, David and Evan are both staring at her, disgusted. Like she’s barely human. A thing.
It’s the worst feeling there is, this judgment. It’s too much to take. So Maura does the only thing she can think of. She runs deeper into the woods, like her hair’s on fire, all lungs and limbs. Like she used to do as a girl. And when the forest floor gives way to a cliff, she jumps, heart beating in her neck.
The granular darkness of the room around her takes a few moments to form into shapes. Up on her elbows, chest heaving, her mother snoring softly beside her, Maura remembers where she is and why she’s here. The nightmare slinks back into its hole.
But even as she understands the dream wasn’t real, the guilt remains. A thickness behind her eyes. A sickly swooning in her stomach that makes her short of breath. For weeks now, a constant companion, despite her choice.
During the almost ten months she and David were in love, back when she was texting every day, sneaking time to talk, exchanging photos, she didn’t feel guilty: that was what had felt so strange. She lied in order to make time for him, yes, which was wrong. But it served a higher purpose. He made her so happy. How could that be wrong?
It’s only since she called things off—three weeks ago now—that she’s felt retroactively guilty. Revisited the naughtiest bits, imagining the hidden camera footage a stranger would have seen. A thirty-eight-year-old woman with her hand down her pants, her breathing fogging up the windshield. On the sofa in the basement, holding her phone with a stiff, outstretched arm so he could see every inch of her the afternoon when Harden and the kids went apple picking and she stayed in, pretending to be sick. What they’d done on the hotel bed that day in Boston. All of it in the service of love, though the stranger wouldn’t understand that.
When Harden promised to keep her secret for her, at their first session with their couples’ therapist, she felt closer to him than she had in years. It felt like a step forward, a bread crumb dropped on the path that would lead them back. Since that first session, her job, as she’s come to see it, has been to seek out more bread crumbs. Maybe drop some herself. For the first time in years, her purpose has become crystal clear: to turn away from David and back toward her old life, such as it is. When the guilt threatens to overwhelm her, or when she’s tempted to take out her phone and text I miss you to David, she thinks of the goal and holds tight.
Now, still up on her elbows, she wishes she wasn’t fully awake, but she is. There’s no hope of falling back asleep. No point in even trying.
Paul’s house is quiet. Carefully, Maura slips out of bed without waking her mother and moves into the living room. On the pullout couch, Shade lies sideways in a T-shirt and plaid boxers, one arm extended, one at his side, like he’s Superman, flying nowhere. In the window above the sink, a bold band of light leaches into the darkness above the gray field of cornstalks. It reminds her of a Rothko painting: dark field below, pale gray field above, rose-gray field on top.