Remedies

by Kate Ledger

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  “Inspector Gadget.”

  “Is this new? I’ve never heard of it.”

  Jamie shrugged, eyes glued to the set. She had wrapped the afghan around her shoulders. Her skin had a weird greenish cast, and there were dark patches under her eyes. Typical virus, she thought. No more than that. It was astounding how you got to know your child’s features, how you could see those color changes. “Feeling icky still?” Jamie shrugged again. “Dad left this morning for his conference. Did you hear him?” Jamie didn’t answer, and Emily reached deep, deep inside for resolve. She could do this. “Can I get you anything? Want orange juice? Juice would be good for you.”

  Another shrug.

  “You’re not talking to me?” This was going to be a helluva weekend.

  She watched the cartoon. Glancing at Jamie, she watched the girl’s slow blinking stare. “You have a fever?” No response. Simon always took care of illnesses, and she always hung back, letting him. “Should we take your temperature?” Nothing. She stood up, decided. “I’ll go look for a thermometer.”

  She rummaged through cabinets in two bathrooms before she located one. By the time she returned, Jamie had dozed off with her head on the arm of the sofa. The mug was on the coffee table, next to a water glass, and both were coasterless. Emily set the thermometer aside, found a soft, woven throw and covered Jamie’s shoulder. She placed the water glass on top of a magazine, turned off the television and settled on the other end of the sofa, wondering grimly how long she’d be able to sit and wait.

  Jamie slept for most of the day. Emily lingered and after a while busied herself, strolling through the house, taking mental inventory of their furniture. She found a small desk she wanted that she’d forgotten about. In the afternoon, she opened a can of tomato soup, heated it on the stove and set the bowl on a tray. Jamie had stretched out the length of the sofa, and Emily set the tray on the coffee table.

  “Jamie, want soup? You really should eat something. Sit up, Jamie, and have some soup.”

  Lethargically, with glassy, unfocused eyes, Jamie lifted herself to a seated position and managed a mouthful.

  “How’s that? Want another bite? Have another bite of soup, Jamie. Make yourself wake up, Jamie. That’s it. Open your eyes. You have to eat something. You have to drink. It’ll help you feel better. How’s that?”

  Two spoonfuls, and Jamie lay back down. “Ugh,” she grunted. “Not hungry.”

  Emily reached out and clamped a palm on Jamie’s forehead, which she found warm before Jamie wriggled away again. “That’s not enough soup, Jamie,” Emily said helplessly.

  “More sleep,” she mumbled and snuggled down into the sofa again.

  As night approached, Emily deliberated going upstairs to bed, but she thought Jamie might wake in the middle of the night. Instead of retreating, she kept Jamie company. She curled herself up in the leather lounger, feet up, head on the armrest. When she awoke in the morning, her back ached, and she gazed at the abandoned sofa, the afghan puddled on the floor. She heard noises coming from the kitchen. Jamie stood at the sink, downing a glass of water. Emily stared at the word “Angel” on her nightshirt, momentarily mesmerized by the glittery script.

  “Feel better?” she asked. Jamie’s cheeks were pinker, and Emily felt relief that she looked a little more alert.

  “I feel sick,” she said, sounding congested.

  Emily tried to remember what Judith had done when she and Aileen were sick with the flu. She remembered a heavily stocked chicken soup loaded with garlic—or maybe it was jalapeño—that was supposed to be good for a cold, unwrenching the sinuses. She didn’t have the recipe, and anyway, it would take too long to produce. She felt useless and despairing. She couldn’t remember the last time Jamie had been sick, and she wished Simon were there to consult. Like a bird’s flutter, some vibration under the skin made her wonder whether she should be more worried, whether this was something serious, and she quickly banished the thought. You had to let your kid have the flu without jumping out of your skin. “I have Motrin. You should take one.” She looked around for her purse. She knew she had some in her little pillbox.

  “I want to lie down.”

  Emily reached for the narrow patch of forehead and was relieved that Jamie stayed still long enough to let her head be felt. Under her palm, there was a palpable heat going. “I think you do have a fever.”

  “I just want to lie down.” She headed out of the kitchen.

  “Oh,” Emily said, “okay.” She knew she was being ridiculous, but she couldn’t help being disappointed. She still had hopes of spending normal time with Jamie over the weekend, not having the truth-telling session that would come sometime later, but cooperating in something that would feel not particularly tense. It hadn’t happened on Saturday, and it didn’t look like it was going to happen on Sunday. She hadn’t found her purse, and as she went to look for the Motrin, she realized that if she needed to, she could let herself into the clinic and look around for samples. Then, from the other room, she heard her cell phone ringing, and she hoped it was Will because suddenly she wanted advice from him. Not health advice, just support. Encouragement about how to handle her daughter: Just stick with it. But she knew better than to expect Will. He never called her cell phone when it was likely she’d be home. Instead, the call turned out to be Elegant Bed. Her new queen, said the dispatcher, was on its way to the Whitfield and would arrive by two in the afternoon.

  “That won’t do,” she said quickly. “I need to cancel.”

  “There’s a two-hundred-dollar cancellation fee, plus a fifteen percent restocking fee. Plus there’s charges, I don’t know what, to schedule a delivery the second time. You got to call the main number,” cautioned the dispatcher. “You down with that?”

  “But I’m not there,” she said emphatically. “I’m not even in town. This is unacceptable. Who delivers a bed on Sunday anyway?”

  “Can somebody else receive it? You got a building manager or something?”

  “I’ll call the manager,” she said. “I’ll call you back to confirm that someone’ll be there.”

  She dialed the number she had for Monique in the office.

  “Ah, I’ve been trying to reach you,” Monique said. Emily was immediately annoyed. She’d disliked the woman’s stilettos, the way her mouth had savored the word “upmarket,” and now the suggestion that Emily had been inconveniently out of touch. “Did you get my messages? We received a large box here for you—hand-delivered—that was placed inside your apartment. Our office closes at noon on Sundays, and we can’t be responsible for it. Policy, you know. We couldn’t do that for all the tenants. There just isn’t space.”

  Emily knew at once what it was, and she didn’t care that they’d been inside the apartment, even though its sparseness would have made anyone wonder what on earth she did there. She understood also that there would be no building manager to let the deliverymen in that afternoon. She asked what the office’s policy was, just in case, if someone, a friend, came to open the apartment for her. Would Monique hand over a key to such a friend before she closed? There was no one to ask, except Will, for such a favor. She remembered he was supposed to be in Alexandria over the weekend doing a photo shoot of some sort. Alexandria wasn’t tremendously far from Bethesda. Perhaps he could take a break. She called his cell phone.

  “I need help,” she said. “I have no one else I can ask.”

  Her voice must have sounded despairing because he wanted to know at once, “Y’okay?”

  Was she okay? She was trying to get a life in order. “I’m fine. I just need a favor. I remembered you’re in Alexandria this weekend. Any chance you could make it to Bethesda?”

  “Uh, this weekend?” he said, sounding surprised.

  “Not for that. A favor.” She whispered into the phone, turning her body away from the living room in case Jamie happened to be nearby. “I did it. I got my own place.”

  “Oh,” he said, s
urprised. “Wow.” The breathless catch in his voice gave her a tiny rush of pleasure. “That’s not what I expected to hear.”

  “I did it for myself,” she assured him, still in a whisper. “I wasn’t even going to say anything until—I want you to know I’m sincere about—about what’s happening between us. I’m not using you. You don’t really think that, do you?”

  “Emily—” he began.

  She cut him off. “It’s the right thing. It’s healthy.”

  “I’m just surprised.”

  “Don’t criticize,” she insisted. “It’s the only way. You have to believe me. It’s a very nice place. Just let me show you. It’s a very big step for me—after everything that’s happened. I just can’t get there today.”

  She explained that Simon was away and that Jamie had the flu and that she had no way to arrange to get the bed into the apartment because the office was going to close. Was there any chance he could make it to the Whitfield office before noon to get the key and then perhaps hang around to meet the truck? Three-hundred-plus dollars in fines and fees seemed like a colossal waste. And, she realized, now that she’d decided to move, she wanted the bed set up so she could move as soon as Simon came back. She was ready to occupy the space. She apologized for intruding on Will’s schedule and for interrupting his shoot. He stammered, but then he agreed. “I’ll do my best to get there by noon,” he said. She thanked him twice and gave him quick directions. It thrilled her that he would see the new space, empty and cocoonlike, and the collected fragments of her new experience, her odd lamp and her small table, her view of the arboretum leaves. They had hung up before she remembered about the package in the apartment, but she decided not to mention it.

  She went into the living room and sat down on the leather lounger. She watched TV with her daughter, an inane program where a number of postadolescents were forced to live together and get along. They’d obviously been prodded and primed by producers, because the interviews provided staged comments and the young people—they couldn’t have been more than twenty—were emotionally invested in every interaction. She managed not to utter any judgment or criticism of anything. Just being in the room and being silent as her daughter watched TV seemed like a small step toward a different kind of relationship. They watched two programs together without exchanging two words, and then she looked up and noticed that Jamie had fallen asleep again. She draped the woven blanket over her daughter again and muted the TV. She sat back and watched a cooking show where a long-haired woman was browning shrimp on toothpicks in a sauté pan. She jumped when her cell phone rang and answered in the kitchen.

  “It’s me,” Will said, and from the static she could tell he was in the car. “Hate to tell you, but I’ll never make it in time. I’m stuck in traffic.”

  “Now?” she asked. “It’s the middle of the weekend!” She looked at the clock on the wall. It was twenty minutes to twelve. And in a beat, she had weighed all the details at hand: The essential arrival of the bed. That Jamie could simply go on sleeping. That Jamie didn’t care whether Emily was home or not. What she had learned in her career was that it was often impossible to count on other people to perform eleventh-hour tasks as well as you wanted them done, and that ultimately you had to step up to the plate yourself. “I could still meet the truck,” she murmured. “I’ll make it work.”

  “I’m sorry. I did try.” There was a pause.

  “I would’ve liked for you to see the place,” she pouted.

  “Is there any chance I could see you?” She was reminded of the first day he’d bumped into her, when he couldn’t hold back, when he wanted to walk her to her car, and she was flooded with warmth. All that good, generous energy. “I’ve driven all this way.”

  But she was gauging time: forty-five minutes (at the speed she usually drove) to the Whitfield, forty-five back, half an hour for the delivery guys to assemble the bed. Already, it was long to be out. “I can’t,” she said. “I’m not going to stay. I told you, Jamie’s here and she’s not feeling well. I want this to be in and out.”

  “Even if it’s just briefly?”

  She imagined showing him the view in her living room—perhaps while the deliverymen were doing their work. He’d just get a sense of it, and then she’d come straight back to Baltimore. “Just a hello”—she lowered her voice—“no more than that.”

  “No, no,” he agreed, and she thought she heard him sigh. “I won’t stay long.”

  “I do want you to see it. It’s a great place.”

  “Okay,” he said. Traffic was changing then, he told her, and he had to hang up.

  She checked the clock again, refiguring the time. Jamie probably wouldn’t even notice she was gone. She went to look for her purse. The problem, she realized, was the truck. What if it arrived late, what if the men had trouble assembling the bed frame? What if Jamie woke and found herself alone in the house? It just didn’t feel right. She went into the living room where Jamie was curled on the sofa, the woven blanket under her chin. There was only one thing to do—and as she looked at her daughter, who was sleeping on her side, breathing strongly through her mouth, she decided she had to revise her plan. She’d take Jamie with her in the car. All Emily had to do, after all, was make sure the deliverymen could get into the apartment. Jamie could continue to sleep. And of course she’d tell Will not to come. She wouldn’t explain the trip to Jamie in any detail. (That she decided instantly.) They would drive to Bethesda, meet the delivery truck. But she would keep her promise to Simon, and they’d explain the future to Jamie together. It was only fair. She waited until one o’clock and then she rocked Jamie’s shoulder and whispered her name several times.

  “We have to go somewhere,” she said. “You have to get up. Can you put some clothes on? Sweetheart?”

  “Where?” Jamie whimpered. “I don’t want to.”

  “C’mon, I’ll help you. We’re going to do an errand. For a friend. You can sleep in the car if you want.”

  Jamie sat up and looked around. She blinked and her eyes were glassy. “Can’t I just stay here?”

  “I’m not leaving you.”

  Emily dug the Motrins out of her purse, and she handed Jamie the glass of water that had been on the coffee table. “We’re in a little bit of a rush,” she said, as Jamie downed the pills. “Ready now?” She stood and waited for Jamie, who just sat there, looking stupefied. “Can I help you?” She held out her hand. Already, she’d given up on the idea that Jamie would dress, or even change out of her pink slippers. “Here, put your arm over my shoulder,” Emily directed, finding Jamie so heavy to lift from the couch that Emily began to wonder if her daughter was faking the exhaustion. “We’ll get this done efficiently, but I won’t leave you here alone,” she said again. Jamie stood on her own finally, and Emily guided her down the front steps of the house and into the front seat of the Sebring, buckling the seat belt around her. Jamie, snuggled into the seat, was hot on the insides of her elbows and her back. There was no other way to do it, Emily reasoned, and wouldn’t a little fresh air do some good?

  “I’m cold,” Jamie complained. “I don’t want to go.” Clearly, she was going to make the trip as difficult as possible.

  “I’ll be right back.” Emily raced into the house and brought the woven blanket from the sofa. She put it over Jamie, who sat in her “Angel” nightshirt and slippers, looking glazed and apathetic. “Very quick errand. You just relax.” She began the drive to Bethesda. After a while, Jamie leaned her head toward the door. Emily couldn’t tell whether she was sleeping or just avoiding conversation. She trailed a truck, reading the sticker on the back door that said HOW’S MY DRIVING? with the company telephone number. Someone had responded to the question, plowing the answer with a finger through caked-on dirt: SUX. Her heart pounded as she drove. She flipped open her cell phone, dialing Will to let him know the plans had to change. Jamie was with her now, and Emily was not about to make an introduction. “Hi,” she said into his voice mail when he didn’t answer. She
chose the words of her message carefully, a kind of code, “I have Jamie with me. So. That’s what I’m doing. I’ll take care of this. I hope you understand. Yes, another time then. Okay,” and she was absolutely sure he would understand.

  It was a nonemergency last-minute trip, she fully acknowledged to herself as she headed south. It was indulgent and compulsive and slightly selfish, but this was a strange time, and she was caught this weekend in a strange limbo, having announced the end of her marriage and made provisions for her future and yet still having to hold back and pretend. She could have incurred the fees and the fines, but why? She began gripping and ungripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled fingers, and she was back to imagining the conversation that would take place when Simon returned. She glanced at her daughter, whose head had lolled drowsily toward the window, and in her head she rehearsed. Your father and I have had many difficulties over the years, more than we can even explain, and they’re the kind of subtle difficulties that only a couple can understand from the inside. Too much information? Maybe just the plainer detail: It’s not working out between the two of us. Hasn’t been for a long time. She imagined beginning: We respect each other, but we can’t live together any longer, which sounded, deplorably, like some press conference.

  Jamie continued to sleep even as they drew close. Poor sick girl. Emily pulled up at the Whitfield into one of the guest parking spots, and she let the car idle for a while. Then she turned it off. She remembered the first time she had met Simon, the rum and Coke dripping over his hand. She remembered delight in his face as he watched her open an imaginative birthday present he’d dreamed up. Losing Caleb had ruined them—there was no denying it, she thought, and had made it impossible to enjoy even the pleasant things they’d shared. After a while, she caught sight of the Elegant Bed delivery truck pulling into the parking lot. She got out of her car momentarily and waved to the truck. “It’s apartment 330,” she told them, handing the driver the keys and pointing toward the east door of the building. “I want the bed in the L-shaped room.” She gestured toward her vehicle. “I have to stay here. My daughter’s in the car. Sleeping. Don’t forget, the L-shaped room.” She went back to the car and watched as the truck parked and the men hoisted up the rear door and began to unload the bed. Beside her, Jamie gave a quick spluttering cough.