Before she abandoned him, his mother would criticize his daydreaming, snapping her fingers in front of his face, telling him to snap out of it. Their housekeeper, Bertha, would tell her to leave the boy alone, he’s just playing in his mind.
It was a working man’s diner, and at first, the regulars ignored him, bantering with Cookie or Tom back in the kitchen, casting doubtful glances at the man dressed casually elegant, when they were in their longshoreman or timber workers’ clothes. But when they did talk with him, at the counter or if seated at the same table due to crowding, his quiet presence, active listening, and non-judgmental attitude towards others won them over. The few women who frequented the diner watched him out of the corners of their eyes, his handsome face drawing them in. During the search for Devon, Cookie and Tom had closed the diner so everyone could help with the search. The men volunteered their boats, dogs, and sheer determination in the search and when the focus switched from rescue to recovery, they cried alongside Adam. Their wives sent casseroles and pies to the home. The small coastal community felt each loss to the ocean as a rip in the fabric of their lives.
He looked up from the book he had been reading, at her kind, soft, round face, hair cropped in a no-fuss cut. He noticed she had lost weight since he had seen her last. He didn’t know if she knew about Clair and all that had happened over the past few months. It was a small town and people talked. He couldn’t detect any pity or judgement on her face.
‘I know, been busy. You’re looking good, Cookie. Everything going well for you and Tom?’
‘Oh yeah, I had to lose weight. Damn those doctors. Diabetic. Have to walk and exercise now. And quit eating my own doughnuts and pies. Tom too. He isn’t diabetic but he joined me, out of sympathy, you know. We’re both doing it. And quit smoking. It’s about to kill me but if I can keep it up for another few months, we’re going to celebrate and go to Hawaii again, like on our honeymoon.’
Her voice rang out across the diner, years of cigarette smoking and breathing bacon grease had coated her vocal cords so that she sounded like a fog horn blasting a warning to ships coming into harbor. Patrons were used to it and didn’t bother to look up, unless she was aiming her blasts directly at them.
Adam sat back in the booth, smiling up at her.
‘That’s great, Cookie. Hawaii, huh? That will be a nice place to be around February.’
‘Don’t you know it,’ she laughed, and sauntered off, stopping to fill coffee cups, chat up a table, and deposit checks.
Adam thought maybe he and Clair could take a trip like that, once her treatments were over. Hawaii would be good in the dark days of February. Or Mexico again, that would be good too. Anywhere sunny and warm. Shake off winter and bring in spring and all its newness and possibilities. I won’t say anything now, he said to himself. I’ll wait. First, I have to win her trust back. Win her love back. And I will.
With his new resolve, Adam drove back to the cancer center, to Clair’s apartment, to get his coat, or that would be the reason he would give her. He still had a hard time referring to the residential housing as Clair’s home. To him, it was a temporary placement, a way station on their journey back to their shared, real home. He could wait. He had showered and shaved that morning, dashing his face with the aftershave cologne she had given him on his birthday, back in March. Clair had surprised him with dinner out. Their first in years, since Devon’s diagnosis. Dressed in a swirl of blues and greens, a shimmering fabric that had clung to her body like a second skin, she had been glowing, beautiful.
‘How did you manage to do this?’ he had asked, incredulously. ‘Who’s watching Devon?’
She had met him outside his office, with a dinner reservation and tickets to a film playing at the old, renovated Egyptian Theater. A black and white, with stars playing heroic roles.
‘Shelly,’ she said simply. ‘I found Shelly.’
‘OK, and who is this wonder woman Shelly?’
‘More girl than woman, but she is a caregiver who specializes in children with autism. Devon’s teacher gave me her contact information. And I called. She came over, met Devon, played with him for an hour or so, and I could tell he bonded with her. And she’ll come every day now, for a few hours after his school. Oh Adam, it means I can return to work!’
He remembered how her eyes glowed with hope and joy at the prospect of returning to her classroom. Of being in the space where learning happens and students, faculty, staff are all engaged in the active process of seeking and finding new knowledge and ways to apply it. She had been trying to keep up using the online learning management system, and it worked, but she missed the smells, the sounds, and energy of the classroom.
‘Just part-time you know, for now. But it’s a start, and it is so good to see Devon happy again. He’s doing much better now that he has a regular schedule, with his school, after school therapy sessions, and now structured play time with Shelly. I know it’s busy and leaves him little time to just be a free-range kid but I think that is what he needs most right now. His therapist thinks so too. He told me children with high functioning autism need to be challenged and stimulated, highly structured, or they feel anxious.’
‘Sounds like he thinks Devon’s a problem to be solved, rather than a kid to love.’ Adam said, frowning. ‘He is just four years old.’
‘Yes, but a very bright four-year-old with a neurological disorder. If he is going to have any chance of a normal life, he has to find ways to fit into mainstream education,’ Clair said, her glow fading in this replay of an argument she and Adam had on a regular basis.
He had wanted Devon to have more time to play and be creative, use his imagination. He thought that Clair wanted him tucked away in a neat little box, where he would fit into society. It caused angry words, sometimes tears, and always regret. He didn’t want that to happen tonight. He didn’t want to spoil their night out, a simple thing but for them, a step towards normalcy. Going out together, as a man and woman, husband and wife. Since Devon, they had either been living in denial, fear, or blind faith.
He had reached across and taken her hand.
‘And I am so glad to see you happy again. And if Devon is happy, then that’s a perfect solution.’
Clair had let the argument go, giving his hand a squeeze, then handing him the small, beautifully wrapped package containing the cologne. When he splashed some on before climbing into bed, she had straddled him, her hair falling into her face. She had begun licking the cologne off, starting at his cheeks, then his neck, and carried on down until he reached for her, pulled her to him, holding her so tightly, their skin felt merged, their hearts one beating organ. His knees weakened at the memory. It has been just before their fateful trip to the coast. Before everything changed. He fretted about leaving the scent on or washing it off. In the end, he left it on, thinking it might bring happier memories to Clair too. When he saw her again? And he would, he believed, always see her one more time.
He parked outside the residential unit, building up his nerve to knock on the door. He knew the common room was locked so that only those staying in the apartments could go in and out. While he waited, he saw Jet coming across the parking lot, her yellow dog prancing at her side. A stunning woman, he thought, not for the first time, but terrifying. It was like she could read his mind, know his every thought, and found him lacking. At least, that had been his impression the few times he had met with her to talk about Clair, during her hospitalization. He felt guilty so he thought others thought him guilty also. Even though he had been the one to be poisoned. He shook off the memory. Ancient history, he said to himself, nothing but future thinking now.
He continued watching as Jet and the dog walked up to the residence door, knocked twice, and then pushed the door open. To his surprise, a woman with long, red hair, tied back with a bright purple hairband walked back out with her after a few moments. The woman was tall, slender, and w
alked like Clair, head high, shoulders back, but this couldn’t be Clair. Then he noticed the coat, and knew it was. She was wearing his coat, the black cashmere falling to her ankles, the collar up shielding her face. The long red hair cascading down the back like a waterfall. A wig, of course. He felt a shiver of something, jealousy, at Jet’s closeness to Clair. He had never believed in therapy, thinking it theater but without the intention. Following their movement as they hiked across the parking lot, weaving around puddles left by yesterday’s storm, he wondered what stories Clair had shared, and what reality she had conveyed to Jet. Each person sees and knows only through their own personal lens. What visions of harm and affliction had Clair passed on, through her telling? And he felt something else, contrition perhaps, at being in a place to be misperceived. If in fact he was.
The dog walked between the two women, every few moments licking Clair’s hand when she reached down to pet its head. They disappeared into the cancer center’s main building. Adam wasn’t sure what to do. Part of him wanted to follow Clair, to be with her, in whatever situation she was about to experience. But he held back. He was overjoyed at seeing her wearing his coat. To him, this meant everything; that she loved him, that she wanted him and his scent, his energy wrapped around her. That she hadn’t given up on him, on them. It was enough. He started the car, backed out of the space, remembering how just yesterday he had made this same move, and how much had changed in so little time. Today, instead of hopeless and helpless, he felt magnetized, as though he could attract all he wanted to himself, just by being alive. He put the car in drive and, looking north, began the journey towards the rest of his life.
Chapter 24
Adam
Claudia was in the theater, working with lighting and stage crews for the upcoming winter showcase. Several young student actors were scattered about the audience seats, offering their feedback on set-ups. A few more lay about onstage, in dancer’s stretch poses, or reading scripts. It was a typical scene and Adam knew he would miss it. Their youth and vitality. The promise of magic on opening night. The shift from the mundane to looking at the world through a new lens. This was his calling, and his craft. And maybe he would return, with his own new story to tell. For now, he had to leave this one place where he had developed as a person and actor, in order to continue growing.
He took a seat in the back row, watching Claudia direct the activities. She had been a good friend to him, and he had known she wanted more. Had he played her along? Yes, probably, because that was who he was then. Even after marrying Clair, their enduring flirtation was a distraction for him, and for her, he wasn’t sure, but he thought it might have represented hope. Feeling bad about this, abashed at his insensitivity, he vowed to be straightforward from now on. Leaving acting for the stage, he would be fully present and honest in his actions in the real world. He laughed inwardly at this idea, knowing that Clair would have said, ‘but there is no real world’. Still, in a world where he and any other person mutually agreed on a reality, he would be honest and authentic.
Acting on his epiphany, he stood and walked down the aisle, smiling and nodding to students as they called out to him, the buzz always there. His pleasure at being liked, respected, noticed. Claudia looked up, watched him advance towards the stage.
‘Let’s take a break,’ she called out to the crews. ‘We’ll resume in an hour. It’s lunchtime.’
Adam bounded up onto the stage, feeling his muscles twinge from their work in the woods and on the beach yesterday. A good reminder of his new resolve.
‘The set’s looking good,’ he said, walking around the stage. ‘It will be a great performance.’ He turned to face her. ‘I’m sorry I won’t be there, Claudia. I need to take a leave.’
* * *
Two long hours later, he was locking the door to his office, not certain if or when he would return. He had been granted official family medical leave of absence, MLOA, for an indeterminate time, to care for his wife. As department chair, Claudia had to sign off on it. She had argued, offered him all the informal time he needed, and pleaded with him to remain on schedule. She just wanted, needed to know he was there, and that she could be with him, from time to time. Claudia had cried. Adam was appalled that he had brought this on. Easing his way out as best he could, he finally obtained her signature on the forms he had picked up at human resources. He felt like a prick. But that was that. It was done and now, he was free to be with Clair, if she would have him. No, he corrected himself. There was to be no if, he would be there, period.
The house was cold when he entered, smelling like old ashes. He opened windows, letting in sunlight and warmth. As he stood at the kitchen window, looking out on a rare spring-like day in late fall, the river running briskly through the fields next to the house, he could hear the neighbor’s sheep calling out, and geese flying overhead. A deer and her fawns stood still, watchful for an intruder, then in a few majestic leaps, bounded the riverbank, disappearing into the forest.
Their home, he thought. Our home.
After cleaning out the fireplace, he laid a fresh fire. He wouldn’t light it now, he decided. I’ll wait until Clair is here. We’ll light it together. It had been a favorite of Devon’s, and he would lay the fire just so, mouth tight with concentration, tiny pink tongue poking through his rosebud mouth. First paper, rolled up in tight sticks, and crisscrossed over the grate. Then the kindling, cedar and pine. He would smell the cedar, closing his eyes, and saying, ‘Smells like the forest, Daddy.’ Finally, the thick fir logs, piled high. At first, Adam was fearful of Devon striking a match. But his son persisted. Not whining, but using reason to muster his points.
‘The matches are long, see,’ he said, holding the long, thin matchstick in front of him. ‘My hands are big. I’ll hold the very tail end. I won’t look at the flame so smoke won’t get in my eyes. I won’t get hurt, Daddy.’
Looking over his shoulder to make sure Clair wasn’t watching, he held Devon’s tiny hands in his, helping him strike the match, put it to the paper, and then together, laughing, they jumped back as the flames took hold. Devon jumped up and down, so excited at his accomplishment.
‘I made a fire, I made a fire,’ he sang, leaping around the living room in his red cape. I’m the fire man.’
Clair had come in to see what the racket was all about, clapping her hands at Devon’s joy.
‘Let’s get some marshmallows,’ she said, hurrying back to the kitchen.
That had been one of their happier times, after the diagnosis. A time when they could forget for a while, roasting marshmallows on long straightened clothes hangers, that their beautiful boy was injured, that his brain was not normal, never would be, and that his life would be forever clouded by social expectations and barriers. But he and Clair had been together then. Parents devoted to the well-being of their son, unwilling to accept the limitations science and society placed on children with neurological disorders. Some of his new-found joy seeped out of him at this recollection, so he quickly stood, and began cleaning the house, vacuuming, dusting, clearing out the hungry ghosts of the past. He turned on music, playing his favorite arias from Puccini, singing along, gesticulating and posturing with dramatic flair.
The kitchen clean, living room orderly in the simple, elegant style Clair favored. Soft, welcoming couch and chairs, fluffy blankets available wherever one chose to sit, throw rugs and pillows scattered about, creating patterns of vibrant colors against the cool natural fibers. Everything accessible, nothing that was so dear a small child couldn’t be at home on or in. Adam stood for a moment, reliving those hectic times, remembering how he would disappear, out to the deck, or leaving all together to drive to town. He shook his head, casting out the memory. Don’t go back, he chanted to himself. We only go forward now.
Moving down the hall, he stopped outside Devon’s room, the door closed. The outside had been painted bright red, with the small boy’s handprints scul
pted into the drying paint. Specks scattered along the walls had left marks like spattered blood. He had ranted at this when he had come home, decrying the mess, demanding clean-up now, before it all dried. Devon had held up sticky fingers, smiled his gap-toothed grin, and told him that it was OK, Daddy, he would use his sharpest tool and scrape off every single speck of paint when he was done with his art activity. Clair had looked at him with a quizzical look, challenging him to respond to this logic. He had dropped onto his knees, hugging Devon to him, saying, ‘That’s great, buddy, let me help.’
He turned the door handle, slowly pushing it open. The cold air hit him like a force. His first reaction was that Devon would be freezing. Then thought took over. He swung the door wide open, feeling the warmer air from the hall sifting into the cooler space. The room was just as it had been those terrible months ago, the last morning of his son’s life. No matter what Clair believed, her theories on multiple universes, non-linear time, energies transmogrifying from one being to another, he knew Devon was dead. And that was that. He would leave it for Clair to pack up, if she wanted to. And if she didn’t, he would let it stand for as long as she wanted.
The Wave Page 16