Without Jenny

by Mark Gunther

  Joy had called him from the park and he said that she should come. She could always come. She told him about the Other World and about escaping the museum and about what had happened to her on the bench.

  “I feel like the eternal battle between good and evil is going on inside me, like I can change the future of the universe. And I have to do the laundry?”

  She met his eyes accusingly. He remained silent.

  “She’s out there someplace, and I can go find her. But I lose everything.”

  “Jenny’s death ripped your world open,” Rabbi said. “It makes a lot of sense to me that you are feeling things you never felt before. Your vision might be true, or it might be false. That’s not for me to say. What I do know, though, is that you are alive in this world, here,” he rapped his knuckles on the table, “a very substantial place, inhabited by your husband and your son and your parents and a lot of other people who love you. Even if your vision is true, it doesn’t seem to me that you have the freedom to go off and pursue it.”

  She swept her hands in the air as though shaking muck off them. “Crap. If this is enlightenment, they can have it. I never asked for it.”

  “That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think? Maybe there’s something in between.”

  Is this my reality? Is this the world I’m going to live in? Always a foot in the world of the dead, spending my days babbling about god and truth and right, twisted by the lost right to my own child’s life?

  She pulled her hair.

  I could rip it out strand by strand and I wouldn’t even feel it. Why not throw myself off the cliff? Is God there? Is Jenny?

  “I guess that’s what I’m doing now,” she said, “living in between, but I can barely do the minimum here. The draw to there is strong.”

  “Joy, I’m a rabbi, so I’m inclined to take your experience at face value. You might be crazy, but you don’t have to be alone and crazy. Respect your vision, but stay connected to your family, and keep coming here, saying Kaddish, wrestling with your grief. What happened to you is terrible. Only time passing is going to get you someplace else.”

  This sounded reasonable to her, but the choice beckoned over and over again. Yield! Follow! Go! and maybe die. Stay, and maybe shrivel, become a crazy old woman cloistered in a dark room above a seedy bar, surrounded by dark, musty books in Latin, Greek, and Aramaic, veiled in black, wrapped in layers of purple organza and lace, forever seeking, needing only the right spell to find communion with the lost spirit of her dead daughter. She knew it was completely crazy. Yet it seemed equally crazy to become willfully deaf, dumb, and blind and live fifty more years with the question, the answer forever concealed by Joy’s belief that an answer existed.

  “I just don’t know if I can be patient enough. But now, I have to go pick up Jake.”

  He nodded.

  “Proves your point, I suppose,” she said.

  “You are his mother.”

  “Hers too,” said Joy.

  11.

  WHEN JOY APPROACHED the school on foot she stopped behind a tree she knew had a clear view of the front door. Fortunately, most of the other parents were as busy as she used to be, in their minivans and SUVs, dutifully lined up, on the phone, wrapping around the block, motors running, blocking traffic and killing the planet.

  Joy watched the choreography. The school doors flexed open and closed and, class by class, the kids came out, the littlest ones first, lined up against the building with both straps of their backpacks on their shoulders, some precious piece of art clutched in each hand. A small army of teachers’ aides with clipboards checked the cars, checked the list of approved guardians, took a signature, walked across the sidewalk, retrieved the appropriate child, opened the back door, tucked the child into the car seat, pulled the lap belt tight, signaled the driver, and moved on, repeating the procedure, car by car.

  The top of her son’s head appeared as Jake took his place in line. She looked in the other direction and saw the city bus two stops away. She became visible, cutting between two cars, offering a halfhearted wave to the barely recognized mother in the driver’s seat. Her back to the pick-up line, she took Jake’s hand. She signed him out with the teacher, was handed some form or another that, stuffed into her pocket, was promptly forgotten.

  The bus rolled up as they arrived at the stop. They got on.

  “What did you do in school today, Jakey?”

  “We saw a movie with Big Bird. He sang a song.”

  “What was the song about?”

  “Friends.”

  His best friend is dead, and they made him watch that video.

  But whatever damage it was causing had already been done. “Friends are important; they can help you a lot.”

  “I guess,” Jake said, staring at his fingers.

  She wouldn’t believe herself, either. She sat him in her lap and played a little counting game with their fingers, his little body’s warmth temporary insulation from the chill of her dread. Soon enough the bus arrived at Chestnut Street. They got off and went to the coffeehouse. She got him a cookie and milk and herself a latte, taking it to an outside table shaded from the late afternoon sun. She sat across from him. He seemed happy with his cookie. She flipped through the free SF Weekly.

  “Mommy, where’s Jenny?”

  Ah, she thought. “I wonder that all the time, honey. I don’t know. I wish I did.”

  He looked at her with a very serious expression.

  “Is she still my friend?”

  “She’s still your sister, and she loves you very much.”

  “I can’t play with her now.”

  How do you even talk about this with your child?

  “No, sweetie, you can’t play with her, but you can play with us.”

  Jake took another bite.

  “Will you play Sliders with me?”

  In Sliders the kids got into a sleeping bag at the top of the stairs and tobogganed down, screaming with joy, falling at the bottom into a giant heap of every pillow in the house.

  “Maybe you can play it with Bobby when he comes over. Or with Amanda when they come to visit.”

  Jake got quiet again. He wanted to play Sliders with Jenny. He wanted Joy be Jenny. She couldn’t be Jenny. She couldn’t make him be Jenny to her. How will this ever be okay?

  They walked three blocks and turned the corner. She remembered when she and Danny first came to see the house. Right size. Decent neighborhood. Close to the water and to the bridge. She loved how Alhambra Street’s gentle curve broke the monotony of the urban grid. And she had loved the house, in the middle of a short block, its brick parking spot and stairs and front porch, the garden from the building next door providing a bit of separation between their otherwise connected houses. They would be settled and peaceful and happy ever after.

  The house was quiet, as it always was, now. She sat down at the kitchen counter with Jake and opened his schoolbook.

  “Let’s see what you have for homework, Jake.” There was an assignment in the homework pocket—the front side of the page had letter recognition exercises, the back side numbers and shapes.

  “Which side first?”

  “Letters.”

  “Okay.” She watched him work through the page. He didn’t need any help. He really is reading already, Joy thought.

  “Ready for the math? How many triangles?”

  “One, two, three . . . ” They went through the worksheet together. Finished it. The silence began to extend.

  “Can I watch a movie?” Jake asked. There were rules about TV, once: Never in the daytime, an hour at night, movies on the weekends. Joy couldn’t think of anything else, right then.

  “What do you want to watch?”

  “Sword in the Stone. Can you watch with me?”

  “For a while. Daddy will be home soon. I should get dinner started before that.”

  Joy turned on the TV, put on The Sword in the Stone, got him Teddy and a blanket, sat down with him. He settled. She patted him
on the shoulder and kissed the top of his head. She went to her office and closed the door.

  Falling to her knees, Joy clapped both hands across her mouth and screamed and screamed. She squeezed every muscle she had into the tiniest possible space; a little ball rolling on the floor. She unsqueezed, writhing. She banged her head with her fist. The tears came now. She kicked the air. After a time she stopped the crying and rolled onto her back, body heavy, limbs flat on the floor. Shivasana, corpse pose. Joy was ready to lie there forever.

  The front door opened and closed. The metal studs of Danny’s briefcase hit the wooden floor of the entry with a chunk. Hinges squeaked as he hung his coat in the closet; his shoes clattered when he dropped them at the bottom of the stairs. His footsteps got louder and then quieter. He must have turned in to the den. She waited, wanting him to come and get her, to see her now. But the seconds creaked by and he didn’t and she was glad he couldn’t see her now.

  She lay on the floor, flirting with the Other World, but dinnertime forced itself upon her. She reached up to the surface of her desk and pulled herself to her feet. Her shoulders wanted to stay hunched. She let them. The reflection in the cold screen of her monitor was scary. Tight lips in a parallel line, red eyes, stringy hair . . . She tried to clean up a bit, gave up, then went to the kitchen and started making noise herself, tossing bags of vegetables onto the countertop.

  He came out of the den and closed the door behind him. “How many times has he seen that movie, do you think?”

  He was away from her, on the other side of the counter. She turned to him.

  “Look at your face,” he said, his voice cracking. His arms rose, as if he wanted to embrace her, but the counter blocked his way and seemed to stump him. She watched his face and wondered if his hell felt like hers did.

  “I didn’t know what else to do,” she said. “I picked him up, we went for coffee, he did his homework. He wanted to and I just said okay.”

  “No problem. Everyone gets a pass this year. How’d the rest of the day go?”

  “It sucked.”

  “I called; you didn’t pick up.”

  “I walked. I didn’t take my phone.”

  “I wanted to talk to you.” Danny picked up the newspapers scattered across the counter from breakfast and walked across the room to deposit them in the recycling bin. “Did you ride your bike today?”

  “No, I thought about it, though.”

  “That’s progress, I suppose.”

  “I suppose.”

  “I’d be happy to see you get that going again.”

  He used to complain that it took her away from the family on the weekends, but it didn’t, really, she was home by ten, or noon on the longer days, and then they would always do something together.

  “I guess I would too,” she replied.

  “You aren’t doing as badly as you think. Be nicer to yourself, please.”

  “Yes, sir.” She straightened and saluted.

  He stared at her with his you-must-be-an-alien-from-outer-space look. “Wrong thing to say?” he asked.

  Of course it was, she wanted to scream at him. Don’t tell me how to do this!

  “Sorry,” she said.

  He turned away. She heard the pop of a cork, the shallow gurgle of the pour, the splash of wine in the bottom of the glass. He handed her a glass and held his up to her. They clinked; a habit they had. He looked at the mail. Taking shape on the counter was a dinner for which she recently had recovered capacity—rice in the cooker, a pile of neatly cut vegetables, the wok on the stove, butter melting in the pan for cheese sauce.

  “How was work today?” she asked.

  “Marginally productive,” he said. “Sometimes, I can go for five whole minutes without remembering.” His hands lifted as if he were going to make some kind of an expressive gesture, but then fell limply to his sides. She saw his suffering again but the counter between them was still too wide. He took a sip of wine. The rice cooker dinged and shut itself off. Joy put two tablespoons of water in it for the rice to finish absorbing. The wok sizzled as she poured just a bit of water and soy sauce over the vegetables. The top went on to steam. She turned the heat off under the cheese sauce and gave it a few more stirs.

  “Looks like we’re going to buy that company in Chico,” he said.

  “Will it take you away?” She couldn’t keep the quavering from her voice.

  Am I scared of everything?

  “Probably some nights, but not two in a row, I hope.”

  He did the work this time, crossing the floor, hugging her with one arm. She was surprised.

  This once was something I expected. Something I earned.

  She pecked his cheek. “Can you set the table? We’re about ready.”

  He set three places. She watched him; her shoulder still resonated with his touch. She went into the den were Jake was curled up on the couch, Teddy gripped between his arms, the blanket twisted around his legs and up over his head and shoulders. He looked no bigger than a watermelon. She stared at him and he stared at the screen; the future King of England and founder of Camelot was a fish.

  “Dinner’s ready, Jake.”

  No answer or movement.

  “Let’s turn it off. I’ll come watch the rest with you after dinner.”

  “Daddy, too?”

  “Okay. Daddy too.”

  Danny came in.

  “I committed you to The Sword in the Stone. Not too much is left.”

  His face didn’t move and she was afraid, but he only said, “It’s fine, Joy, really.”

  He squeezed the same shoulder and stepped past.

  “Uppy!” Jake said, reaching up to him.

  Danny untangled his son from the blanket, lifting him and Teddy high in the air, hugging him close. Jake wrapped both arms around his father’s neck. Off the hook, she thought, and felt shame battering her heart.

  After dinner they watched the rest of the movie. Jake sat between them on the couch, Teddy in his lap. Joy and Danny had their arms entangled over the back of couch, behind Jake’s head. Joy watched her man. His face was hard. He did not look like her lover, like anyone’s lover, but more like the bust of a minor heroic figure placed in an isolated gallery of an out-of-the-way museum, to be discovered by accident, away from the popular works. A feeling washed through her, not love, really, maybe empathy, or maybe something only transactional, like the satisfaction she got when she received the check for a particularly complicated job, efficiently done. She patted his forearm; he squeezed her back. The movie ended the way it always did.

  Jake wanted Joy to put him to bed. She tried to gird herself against what she knew was coming, what had been played out many nights since Jenny died. She went upstairs with him. She laid out his pajamas. He put them on, then went into the bathroom to brush his teeth. She watched him, avoiding the mirror, the mother he had now. He got into bed. She sat next to him and picked up The Horse and his Boy, Book Six of the Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis. Jenny loved those stories.

  Joy thought of the game Jenny had played with her brother: Jake the haughty younger brother Edmund, and Jenny the elder sister Susan, the archer perched on the brink of womanhood; the one who stayed behind. Joy read a few pages, remembering Jenny’s joy at the boy Shasta’s constant discoveries under the gentle guidance of the talking horse Bree. She wondered if Jake would be able to take any risks, now that his guide was dead.

  “Time to sleep, Jakey,” she said.

  “Read me another chapter,” he said, wheedling, rustling fitfully against her, pressing against her legs and ribs, wrapping his arm inside hers, trying to crawl inside of her clothes.

  “No, honey. It’s bedtime. You have school tomorrow.”

  Jake grabbed at her arm, keeping close. Allowing him that part, she gently disentangled the rest of herself from him, turned out the light, leaned over to kiss him goodnight. He was holding on for dear life, reaching for her from the midst of her broken children.

  “Stay with me,”
Jake said.

  She sat on the bed. He held tightly onto her arm. She gently caressed his hair. Each time he seemed to settle she moved away, but he held more tightly.

  “Shh, Jakey, sleep,” she begged.

  “Sing to me.”

  “All right, one song, but you have to go to sleep then.”

  “Okay, Mommy.” He seemed satisfied with his victory.

  She followed the script, sliding off the bed onto the floor, her arm moving down his until she held just his hand. Playing his part, he allowed it. She knelt next to the bed, kissed him, then turned around and sat, his hand still in hers, blessedly facing away from him.

  “Bows and flows of angel hair, and ice cream castles in the air. . .”

  Joy sang all the verses. Jake vanished to her as she soldiered on, singing one-part harmony against the absent voice of her daughter. When his hand finally relaxed she gently let go of it, crawled across the floor, and pulled herself up on Jake’s doorknob. She stumbled into their bedroom and threw herself down on the bed, clenched fists shoving her pillow into her face.

  Footsteps on the stairs; a hand on her back.

  Danny caressed her shoulders. “Joy?”

  She didn’t move. She didn’t talk. She hated his kindness. The hand went away; footsteps receded.

  Footsteps returned, a rustling from his closet, the squeak of the door as he closed it, the exhale of the bedding as he lay down. She forgave him, rolled over, her face twisted into the shrew’s. He didn’t ask. She told him anyway. She hated that song now.

  Sorry, he said, and rolled away and turned out his light. She went to the bathroom.

  When she returned she lay on top of the covers. He was curled up under them, way over on his side of their king-size bed. His breathing was soft and even, but she knew he was still awake. Maybe she should say something, or try to touch him, but to lift and reach and roll? Such willfulness belonged to the living. Everything was dark. It didn’t feel like sleep, but she woke up later, shivering, and crawled under the covers. She tried to move closer to Danny, by infinite halves. Eventually, she slept.