by Kate Ledger
“No, I’ve never had the right stuff. Maybe my mother didn’t either. There was some stigma or something to getting too close. Look at my sister.”
“You can’t say you’re not a natural,” Will protested, rubbing her hands. “You are! Even back then. You knew something wasn’t right, that very night. Didn’t you hear yourself? That’s the instinct, don’t you see? You were tuned in. You’re the one who woke up in the night. That’s the essence of it. Not whether you’re tickled with joy.”
She didn’t respond. It felt good to be contradicted, even though she knew she was right.
“I’m bad for her.”
“For Jamie?”
“We went shopping for shoes, the two of us. This was about a year ago. She wanted some kind of Mary Janes so I took her. And all the way across the store a mother was yelling at her child, ‘Caleb! Caleb, get over here!’ I just pretended I didn’t hear it but I could feel Jamie freeze, watching me, but not quite watching me. She knows about what happened, but it’s not exactly dinner conversation. And then, she’s testing me, Jamie decides she wants a pair of two-hundred-dollar shoes. Of course, I said no and picked out two very reasonable alternatives. I started shaking, just my hands, but I couldn’t stop. And then, I was standing there insisting, almost yelling at her, ‘This pair or this pair? Which one? Just pick one!’ Completely irrational. And she wouldn’t choose, so we walked out. I had to get out of there.”
“Of course you did.”
“No, you don’t see. Jamie never even got her shoes. You’d think that a mother who”—the words had burrs, they caught in her throat, she couldn’t say them—“would figure out how to do it right, if she were lucky enough to get a second chance. I got that second chance, but somehow—” Will continued to hold her hands, but he didn’t speak. She wanted him to pull her close, to stroke her neck again. She wanted him to tell her he knew how to fix everything, but he didn’t offer that. She sighed. “Do you have any tea?”
“Want me to make you some?” He departed for the kitchen again. She closed her eyes, feeling the rocking of the room, nauseating and comforting at the same time. She heard the kitchen cabinet doors and then the microwave.
When Will put the warm mug down in front of her, he asked, “He’d be how old this year?”
“Fifteen. Um, yeah.” She did the math again. “Fifteen. Almost sixteen. Getting a driver’s permit, probably. I’m lucky,” she added, startled at the glibness she was capable of. “It might have been a very stressful year.”
He smiled sympathetically, and she sat forward and put her hands on both sides of the mug. She felt sober, but she could tell she wasn’t. Everything in her head was clear, but she suspected the alcohol was still working its way through her system because she was still talking. “I want to be better,” she said, not caring that she sounded pathetic. “I see you and Anne, and I don’t want my daughter to hate me. I want what you have. I need to be a better mother.”
He smiled again. “So do,” he said gently.
Easier said, she thought. Wasn’t she already trying? No matter what she did anymore, she was rebuffed. She had another vision of Jamie’s face, accusing eyes and tense mouth. She did not know the right words to say to steer in a new direction. She could not go back in time. She cried again, cried until her eyes felt like puffy slits, like cracks in risen dough, and it took effort to open them.
The morning came, showering her with a sense of newness. It came with the daylight, into Will’s bedroom window, on a slant like driven rain. She extended her hand into the shaft as if she could turn the light over, sifting it between her fingers. She was sober now with only the faintest hangover. Will was banging around in his little kitchen. He came in to say he’d made scrambled eggs and toast to soak up the end of the alcohol.
She ate at the table. He sat with her, rocking a fork, one finger on the tines.
“Do you mind?” she pleaded. “The noise?”
“Sorry. I was thinking about last night.”
She felt not shame but a twang that reminded her she had not acted like herself. She straightened in her chair. “I told a little too much, didn’t I?”
“No, not too much. I didn’t know.”
She nodded. “Sorry not to tell you sooner. About Caleb and everything. It’s where it is, in the past.”
Will was silent for a while. “Do you do anything to mourn him?”
“We’re quiet about it, I guess.”
“Ever go to the cemetery?” he asked.
“Oh no,” she replied. “I couldn’t.” In truth, it was the thing in her life of which she was most ashamed. Reckless abandonment was what it was, but the thought of going to the cemetery made her catch her breath. A person couldn’t be expected to go through that—it would be punishment all over again. Simon had suggested they go once, a long time ago, that same fall. The site wouldn’t even have been caked dry under their feet. She hadn’t even been able to conceive of the aching hardship of a graveside trip. No, she’d said. I can’t. What she couldn’t do—and it had made her bitter that it was expected of her—was share the grief. They’d left the hospital numb with exhaustion, tongue-tied with disbelief. Simon drove, and they didn’t speak. What Emily craved more than anything was the opportunity to hole up in the quiet of home. She wanted to crawl into the familiar crevices of her own bed and drag the covers up to her eyes. When they arrived home, the hush in the house was more terrible than anything she’d ever experienced. It was a silence that roared. There was no distant mewling tugging at them, insistent, urging them to action. At night, she woke listening for noise, and lay still, both grateful for and oppressed by the sound of Simon’s breathing.
The early days had the stickiness of a dream. Each moment she had the sense that there was something important to tend to, something that had just slipped her mind. Then, the reminder that, no, there was nothing to do. What she hated most was the sight of her own hands, holding a fork, reaching for soap in the shower. From every angle, they looked grotesque: the knobs of her knuckles, the webs between her fingers, her cuticles, fingertips, palms. They looked bony to her, and old, and confoundingly idle. She looked at Simon and she couldn’t even ask. There was no helpful answer to the question: Hey, look at my hands, don’t they look wrong?
Her breasts addressed the inattention with fury. Her flow had been low and she’d been using formula and pumping occasionally, and as soon as she stopped they became engorged with untapped milk, tough as footballs, unyielding. They itched and burned. Simon’s tenderness toward her was excruciating, as he padded around in slippers, bringing her tea in bed, shielding her from phone calls. Having heard that cool cabbage could draw out the heat from her breasts, he brought a plate of detached leaves, like jade bowls. He carried them into the bedroom on a tray. They laughed their first, stilted laugh as she took the leaves and lay in bed with a cabbage-leaf bra covering her aching breasts.
But she didn’t want to receive his attention. She knew he was hurting too—she wasn’t completely insensitive—and yet she couldn’t face returning the same comfort. She’d heard him crying in the shower, great, hacking sobs, and she wasn’t able to go into the bathroom. She listened, and she sat frozen in the bay window of the bedroom, unable to move. Depleted, she didn’t have it in her to be the source of help or understanding for anyone. And sharing the grief, she was certain, would allow it to take over like something living, like bacteria dividing itself and multiplying, becoming uncontainable.
Will tapped again pensively, until she reached out and took away the fork, grabbed it, the way one would from a child.
“Did your husband try to save him?” he asked. “I was thinking about it. Must’ve felt terrible. Being a doctor, losing his own kid.”
“Even the pediatricians missed it,” she contended.
Will said, “You must be a tremendously forgiving person. I think I’d have had expectations, if it happened to me. Even if I didn’t want to acknowledge them.”
“There was nothing to
forgive,” she insisted. “It wasn’t anybody’s fault. Caleb was sick in a way that nobody knew. It happened under the radar. There was no real fever or anything—none of the classic signs.”
“You won’t get mad at him for the one, most terrible thing he ever did to you. You’ve done a public relations job so good that even you believe your own spin.”
“Nobody knew,” she insisted with even more fervor. “The pediatricians, nobody. They didn’t even know at the hospital. Not at first. They did tests. Anyway, it wasn’t like he meant to. It could have happened to anybody.”
“But he’s a doctor, and he didn’t save your son.”
Emily raised her voice. “You don’t know anything about it. It could have happened to anybody.”
“Didn’t though,” Will persisted. His voice was gentle, but she still smarted. “It happened to him. And you.”
“It wasn’t his fault,” she stated again. It was then, under Will’s probing, that she felt for the first time that she had cheated on Simon. Cheated in a way that had really abused. It wasn’t the sex, or the lying, or the sneaking, or the pretending, or even the audacious creation of a new image of herself, or the other thousand and one violations she had committed over the last two months. The gravest moment of her infidelity had just occurred. It happened when she exposed herself and Simon at their weakest and most vulnerable, when she allowed another human a glimpse of that night and what had followed. And here was Will—wanting to analyze it. She felt raw all over again, that clawed-earth feeling, sick to her stomach, and she wondered whether she might throw up. She wasn’t seeing his face suddenly, just the bright-colored scar on his jaw where the dog had got him. It seemed to shine. “Are you trying to upset me?” she asked, frantic.
“No, but I’m understanding more. How come you’re so afraid to talk about it?”
She remembered what he’d said about Lindsay. Gut-wrenching honesty was what he’d demanded, and she’d run away. Emily wanted to be worthy of Will’s attention. She didn’t want to be a woman who couldn’t handle a conversation. But the words coming out of his mouth sliced at her. “I told you about it, didn’t I? I told you everything.” Her breath was hot.
“Not with me,” Will said intently, “with him.”
“There isn’t anything to say. What would I say?”
He shrugged. “What you felt, for starters.”
Will could pretend to comprehend them, but he couldn’t know. She said, “I wanted to move on. I knew what I was doing, and I knew how I needed to get through it. I don’t really want to talk about this anymore.” Her teeth were beginning to ache.
“Because you can’t.”
“Because I don’t want to.” They were throbbing.
“It’s just that I don’t think you’re being honest, Emily. You never closed a chapter of your life. You just walked off. And you can’t. Just walk off from stuff. It comes after you.”
She didn’t say anything. She stood up and took her plate and her silverware to the sink. He didn’t have a dishwasher, so she washed them by hand with one quick swipe. But she could not bring herself to sit down again. “I don’t blame him,” she protested, her back against the counter, her hand curled around the edge of the sink. “I don’t blame anybody.”
“You’re punishing him, though.”
“Me?” She was astounded. “He’s the one who always finds something hurtful to do. He’s the one who punishes me.”
“Then what are you doing here with me?”
“You’re insinuating I’m using you?” Her voice rose into a shriek. She shook her head as if he were crazy. “I’m here because I want to be here,” she insisted. Just then, her cell phone sounded in the next room, and she was relieved for the intrusion. She left the table to find her purse. It was Suzanne, her secretary: Could she take a meeting that afternoon with Jack Whitby? He wanted her to come by his office.
“Did he say what about?” she asked, suddenly worried. Whitby almost never arranged personal appearances, and certainly never scheduled them through a secretary. “Tell him I have a few developments in the Niccorps account. I’ll bring everything I have.” But Jack hadn’t left Suzanne with a topic. “I’m wanted,” she announced to Will—leaving him to wonder who wanted her—as she stood and began looking around for her things. He didn’t offer an apology, and she was glad for an excuse to leave. “I have to get back.”
Damn him. What right did he have to analyze her? He couldn’t possibly understand what it was like to endure Simon’s constant snubbing. With a shudder she recalled the face of the boy in the window, the hardened look of hatred as rigid as a mask. She wasn’t lashing out, for God’s sake—she was a victim. Her hands shook on the train from Philly to D.C., speeding south. She handed over her ticket, never looking into the conductor’s face.
Did she blame Simon for not saving Caleb’s life? She believed what she’d told Will: Nobody was at fault for the missed diagnosis. Even the pediatricians had missed it. Simon couldn’t have done more than he did. But Will was right about one thing: She and Simon had never discussed it. They’d never shared a single word about it, which had seemed safe and reasonable and a fact of life. And there was a price for the way she and Simon had maneuvered through their tragedy, two people pushing off rocks in the rapids with pokes of their oars. Now they were whirling out of control. The event had tainted everything that had come after it, all of their conversations, their arguments, every one of their plans. But she had not sought Will as some kind of revenge. Her feelings for Will were—what were they? She wasn’t sure, but it felt good to be with him, and didn’t she deserve to feel good finally? She wasn’t punishing Simon by seeing Will; she was taking care of herself.
The advice of a stranger, a loiterer in the supermarket from many years ago, came back to her. A woman in Eddie’s Gourmet Market had stopped her in the produce aisle. It was shortly after Caleb died, during the time when people she knew were either avoiding her or were recounting asinine stories about other dead babies or mourning parents they happened to know of. The woman had long braids, incorporating tiny gray hairs, and a doll-like face, seeming old and young at the same time. Emily was deciding between types of apples, organic or conventional, and the woman rolled her cart close. She didn’t introduce herself, but Emily immediately recognized her as someone who’d been pointed out to her, a woman from Roland Park whose teenage daughter had been killed years earlier in a car accident. “You’ll be surprised,” the woman said without so much as an introduction, “but the pain will pass. Someday you’ll think of your baby, and it’ll be like remembering a breakup. Your first boyfriend. It’ll be part of the fabric of your life, and you’ll remember how deeply you felt. It just won’t hurt quite as much.” Emily had said nothing, stunned to have been addressed with such directness by a stranger, a stranger who wanted her to know they had something in common. The woman merely smiled and steered her cart away, leaving Emily staring, an apple in her hand. The nerve, Emily had thought.
But fifteen years later, Emily wasn’t sure whether the woman had been right. Caleb was more than just a part of that long-stretching fabric, that quilt of experiences. He continued to haunt her. She still felt the pain of losing him, and she still suffered. She thought of Will, mopping his face in the restaurant, the way his eyelids, and his eyelashes, and all the creases around his eyes had shimmered with delight when he spotted Anne through the crowd in the gallery. Life, as he’d said. Losing Caleb had overshadowed her relationship with Jamie and imbued every moment that came after it with doubt. She didn’t have delusions—she never expected to become Jamie’s hero. Instincts or no instincts, she knew she didn’t have superstar maternal qualities, but she also knew that she could have done better. She could still do better yet.
She took a cab from Union Station, hurrying toward Bethesda, and began to worry. Jack was going to ask her where she’d been. She’d spent so much time out of the office in the last month; people must have begun to notice. He’d want to know why she’d been
attending so many conferences, seminars, speaking engagements, and she’d have to produce answers. Was it possible, she wondered, that he knew they were only excuses to be out and unobserved, to be having an affair? Had she been spotted somewhere, in a hotel lobby? Were people whispering about her behind her back? But maybe Jack would only mention her travel accounts on behalf of the bean counters, taking stock of her expenses, and she’d have to defend the talks she’d given for the benefit of the company. If he suggested that she obtain prior approval for her speaking engagements or her conferences or her travel, she’d—she’d—would she quit? No, of course not. She’d worked too hard and too long to get where she was. She wasn’t going to throw it all away for the sake of a relationship.
No, Will was wrong. She wasn’t angry. She didn’t blame Simon for what he hadn’t predicted or for what he didn’t know. And it was too late now. Rushing into her building she cruised past Elmer, or whatever his name was, who called after her to have a good day as the elevator door closed behind her. She was out of breath as she reached the corner office, and Jack’s secretary admitted her immediately. Jack was seated behind his desk. She had the thought that he looked better than he had in a long time. His cheeks looked hearty, even plummy. He was going to ask her where she’d been. She was prepared to act innocent. Why, Philadelphia. Wide blink. Speaking before one of the foundations. Didn’t we say at the last senior staff meeting that we’d like to enhance our nonprofit presence?
“Sorry, Jack. Terrible trip back. I just got in, you know. I was in Philly.” She hoped she wasn’t babbling.
“Emily.”
“In Philly,” she repeated, “as Suzanne must have mentioned. The meetings went over well. I was pleased.” She was determined to control the conversation. “You’re looking good, Jack. Are you tan? You look like you’ve gotten sun.”
“You think?” He stood up. “Tan, huh?”
“You look practically relaxed.”