Split-Level

by Sande Boritz Berger

  “Bell, Bell, oh yes. What a terrific thing that fellow did.” She flips through a Rolodex, while peering up at me suspiciously.

  “No, that’s 825 … Third floor is maternity. Here you go—you will need this pass. Are you the Mrs.?”

  Fearful I’ll be tossed out as an imposter, I tell the truth, and shake my head no. I back away from her and her elfish glance and head for the elevator bank. A door opens, and a beaming young man, pushing a wheelchair holding his wife and infant, moves past me. There’s a familiar striped receiving blanket, a simple pink skullcap atop the baby’s head, a bouquet of wilting flowers from the usual three-day stay, and bouncy balloons, but what is most visible is an aura of immeasurable bliss. I mumble a stranger’s good wishes, wishes they are too euphoric to hear. Beginnings, I think, are the most beautiful of blessings.

  The elevator is empty now and immobile. Many seconds pass until I realize I’ve forgotten to press the button. How can a person be hot and cold at the same time? I rush down the fluorescent hallway past abandoned trays of uneaten food lined up outside the rooms: JellO, unopened mini milk containers, remnants of peas and carrots, smears of brown gravy. All I’ve eaten are peanuts, and the saltiness has parched my throat. I stop at a water fountain and gather my thoughts. What do I hope to find, and what will I see? As soon as I step over the threshold of room 825, my brain stops its incessant buzzing to take its long overdue nap.

  Hunched in a huge vinyl chair, Charlie is dressed in gray sweat-pants paired with a white oxford shirt, half-unbuttoned. His left arm is in a sling, and he’s jotting notes on a yellow legal pad with his free hand. Before he notices me, I grab a tray from the doorway and prop a discarded daisy in a glass. If only I’d worn white—the un-color symbolizing purity, hope, and healing. But no, I’m dressed in jeans and a cherry-red blouse—a fiery reminder of our recklessness.

  I clear my throat, and he squints toward the doorway. I carry the tray to him and place it on the table.

  “You,” he says, dropping the pad to the floor.

  “Me.” I grin, thinking how primitive, how Tarzan and Jane. But soon, I’m absorbed in Charlie’s widening smile. Like a camera lens, he marks me as his shot, then motions for me to sit upon his lap. I shake my head no. He asks again, pleading, and I climb up, gingerly, afraid of hurting sore bones. Tears streak down his dark unshaven face. The wetness dampens my sleeve.

  “Shush, okay, okay.”

  “Beyond what you could ever imagine,” he murmurs. His lips graze my ear, sending chills down my spine. He pulls back to stare at me. I’m holding my breath, wanting to give him all of my air.

  “There was no time to think. Everything happened within seconds.”

  “What you did, Charlie, was unbelievably brave. Most people would think only of themselves, their own survival.”

  “No!” he yells, scaring me. “I could have done more. So many didn’t make it.”

  “But three people did because of you.” His sadness jolts me; I kiss his deeply etched forehead, realizing all traces of the young Charlie are gone. As we sit quietly, I feel him drifting away, perhaps reliving scenes only he can see—something that must occur daily, if not all the time.

  He looks puzzled when I explain I can’t stay and that I’m catching the last shuttle back tonight. Sounding like I’m on speed, I spill out the events of the last few weeks. Charlie’s eyes flutter and roam until he’s able to fix his gaze. He strokes my lips with his fingers, then tilts my face, halting my banter with his mouth. His lips are dry but his kiss is warm and soft. I’m reminded of our first kiss in the living room of my home, while Donny and Paula were alone together in the den, and I had cared, but not enough to stop them—to maybe stop us all. In an instant, I knew I had relinquished my safety—what I’d always believed to be safe.

  A young Indian doctor comes in to check Charlie’s blood pressure. Charlie jokes with him, saying, because of me, his pressure has probably surged. I wonder what this stranger knows, what Charlie has shared in the name of loneliness and vulnerability. Embarrassed, I climb from his lap and read a row of greeting cards propped above the air conditioner. We miss you, Daddy is scrawled in big yellow letters next to a crayon drawing of the sun. A beautiful floral arrangement sits among the cards. It is from Paula’s parents. We are so proud of you, son. I swallow hard. In the stark, spare message is a truth I guess I’d hidden from myself. Had I pictured Charlie stripped of his past life by the crash, a man who emerged from the river void of a history? I scan the room but can’t find any of the cards or letters I’d sent. I imagine them tucked in a drawer, sandwiched safely between sterile gauze and a cold metal bedpan—my existence under wraps.

  The doctor leaves, and Charlie motions for me to come to him, but I’m anxious about the lack of time. Fidgeting, I feel a whole new wave of despair. I try to remember my reason for coming here. It was for him, for Charlie, I tell myself again. We stare at each other for several seconds, holding hands, without words. Over the intercom a voice announces visiting hours will be over, shortly, and Charlie struggles to stand. He steadies himself by leaning in and grasping my shoulders. We are nose to nose, and I see tremendous strain spreading across his face, an indication of pain.

  “Listen to me,” he says, impatiently, like he’s about to scold.

  “No, please, let me talk, Charlie. I had to see you, to know that you’re going to be all right, that’s all.”

  “Really, that’s all?” He takes my face in both his hands—forcing me to look at him. I am surprised by his intensity, and a new sense of responsibility wraps around me like a shroud. “I’m not screwing around here, Alex. I want to be with you—but I’m twisted inside, pulled in a hundred different directions.”

  “That’s the point, Charlie. You don’t have to fix anything. I can take care of myself. Turns out I’ve been doing that for a very long time.”

  He strokes my chin. “Oh, I get it. You don’t want me to do anything I don’t want to do.”

  “No, it’s not about you, or Donny, or Paula.” I look away from those soft, dark eyes to gather my thoughts, not wanting to cause more hurt or confusion. “This is also about me. I’ve got to focus on what I want, but more than anything … what will be best for Becky and Lana. I won’t be pushed into a corner or corralled by anyone’s whims and desires.”

  “This is going to be tough, Alex. No one walks away from a marriage without serious problems.”

  “Charlie, please, you’re not hearing me.”

  “I’ve never felt this deeply about anyone. If I had, none of this could have happened,” he says, making me wonder if it’s the painkillers talking, dulling his ability to focus.

  “But you still love her, Charlie. I know you do.”

  “Alex, we met when we were so young—teenagers. I was still in school and overwhelmed by a hailstorm of responsibility at home. Yes, for a long time, marriage made my life feel normal. That is, until I met you, and knew what I’d wanted, maybe what she wanted as well. And what neither of us ever had. Night after night, it’s you who I dreamed about walking through that door, you I love.”

  “You sound really mad at me, Charlie. Why are you always mad when you talk about loving me?” Charlie places butterfly kisses along my neck, then moves to my shoulder. When he spots his silver chain clasped around my neck, he tugs at it carefully, as if reeling in a fish. For months I’d been afraid to take it off, superstitious that something bad might happen. I am, once and for all, done with superstition. I lift the swimming medal over my head and hand it over.

  “Please take this medal and put it in safekeeping for one of your children.”

  “So, does this mean you’re breaking up with me?” The corners of Charlie’s mouth quiver, yet he holds fast to a smile.

  The overhead speaker booms a final warning. I move sideways toward the door in small reluctant steps, avoiding Charlie’s face.

  “I really have to go now. Please take care of yourself.” I rush back and kiss his cheek, inhaling his reliable cit
rus aroma.

  “Alex,” Charlie yells, hobbling toward the door, but I can’t turn back. I saw what I had to see. He is, and has always been, extraordinarily strong. No matter what the future brings, one thing’s for sure: Charlie Bell, now a beloved national hero, will be just fine.

  Six Months Later

  I am sprawled across the linty shag rug, packing for Saturday’s move to Cresthaven Gardens, better known in neighboring communities as “Crestfallen Gardens.” Located just minutes down the road from Wheatley Heights, it’s a place for transition—targeted to singles, families in limbo, and people taking slow, cautious steps toward new lives.

  This change, undoubtedly, will be hardest on Becky and Lana, but here they can count on the consistency of the same school, enjoy former playmates, and depend on midweek visits with Donny. At least that’s what one of me keeps reminding the other. I try shooing the annoyance away, but here I am again circling outside myself, watching every move I make—a built-in security guard, perched to snag me at my own door.

  The phone rings, and I’m glad for the break—any distraction from the wind pummeling the glass doors. Donny’s on the line, asking how it’s going and if I would like some “extra” help. I chuckle, which is kinder than the sarcastic response itching to escape: Oh, so it must be pretty hectic over there at Paula’s house, huh? Not exactly a party since the baby boy arrived?

  This child, keeping with Paula’s affection for the R consonant, is named: Randy. Though, perhaps, a more appropriate name might have been Raunchy. I haven’t seen the baby yet; I mean, why would I? Though, I’ve heard from the girls that Randy has fuzzy sprouts of reddish hair and the palest skin: “Like pink tissues, Mommy,” Lana has mentioned.

  “Well, isn’t that something?” I answered. Any day I expect Donny to change his story. He might even lay claim to baby Randy, if perhaps at age three, the child suddenly banged out a Beethoven sonata.

  “Thanks, Don, but I prefer going this alone,” I answer. “Besides, I think it might be better if you keep the girls occupied for a while longer. I haven’t finished packing up their rooms yet.”

  “Okay, so I’ll bring them home after dinner like originally planned. Should I bathe them here? You know, since they have school tomorrow.”

  “No, Donny, I can bathe them. Our bathroom is fine. The soap and towels haven’t been packed away, but I appreciate the offer.”

  Since our legal separation, finalized on Valentine’s Day, sharing Becky and Lana has become my most difficult challenge. I had always looked forward to enjoying them with the people I loved and those who loved me back. But now the same exact people, Louise, Ben, and Donny, and most of their family, get to see and enjoy this blood of mine separate from me—my physical presence is no longer required. Because I still have deep feelings for these folks, this is by far the most painful adjustment. Yet, I am often touched by my children’s deep, intuitive caring—how both Becky and Lana seem to prop open an imaginary swinging gate, as if inviting me to tag along and peek inside. I’m hoping not because they worry about me, but because they love me.

  I try to remember what our den (still stuck on that pronoun) looked like before it became a warehouse of bubble wrap and cartons. Rushing now, I wrap the last of the picture frames from the mantel, ignoring the taunt to linger and reminisce, to make myself miserable. But misery is no longer affordable.

  What I am, however, is starving; my stomach a quartet of acidic sounds. There’s nothing to eat except a strawberry yogurt dated March ’75, exactly one year old, oh, and a frozen slice of my birthday cake, last week’s leftover from Carvel. Of course, I’ll eat it, having already emptied the fridge and scrubbed the fruit and vegetable bins of all seepage for the new owners so they won’t complain and say things like: Alex Pearl left her home like a pigpen. They seemed like a nice enough couple, the Murphys, in their twenties, and expecting their first child.

  So not to jeopardize the sale and fearing the mention of divorce a bad omen, the broker told the young couple that her clients, the Pearls, were moving to a bigger house across town. That’s when I remembered the Pittaros who we’d bought this house from just three years before—and how amiably they’d greeted us with a spectacular fire in the fireplace, then offered mugs of eggnog, the entire family dressed in identical red plaid robes.

  Soon after we’d settled in, Norm and Sue, our welcoming committee, enlightened us: The Pittaros were splitting up; Mrs. Pittaro was in the throes of a torrid affair with the middle-aged Sicilian hunk who’d built the cedar deck and barbecue pit, which became the number one selling point for us. Whoever this guy was, he’d done a meticulous job. How could I know that in a few short years, we, The Pearls, would be following a similar path?

  On a chilly, wintry day we filed into court, heads down like a couple of shy shorn sheep. Court has a knack for making the most upright citizen feel derelict. For me, the day telegraphed the one clear message I had avoided: how unlikely it was for Donny, his parents, and me to maintain an attachment beyond the boundaries of financial obligation. Of course, the Pearls’ loyalty would naturally belong to Donny and whoever shared his life, but it hurt to have to sell my house so soon—the reason being Donny’s income had decreased dramatically.

  However, the clincher was when the judge startled me with his inquiry about my personal savings account, its sum miraculously exceeding $10,000—the nest egg I’d begun as a young teen, and what became the precious pushke my grandmother had urged me to keep as a married woman. This, the only secret I’d shared over coffee with Paula Bell. The judge ordered the account be split in half, and though I was initially upset, I rationalized the money would go to good use, considering there were innocent children involved.

  I clear the shelves of the wall unit, which I’m leaving behind, and pack the last of the books, games, and assorted items—mostly hand-made gifts like heart-shaped doilies, and clay impressions of the girls’ hands. One drawer is jammed, and when I yank hard, out falls my copy of A Sensuous Life in 30 Days. Should I wrap it up and bring it along: helpful tips for what lay ahead? Maybe I should give the book to Rona. I bet she could handle it now, even surprise Hy once in a while. I glance through the dog-eared pages and cackle aloud. Almond oil massages, saltine crackers in bed? Nah …a bit too messy for Rona. I tuck the book in a slat above the drawer, hoping it will, one day, be discovered by the hopeful young woman who bought this house, who might actually think to herself: What an interesting woman, that Alex Pearl.

  Next, I gather my T-shirt supplies into one cardboard carton. It is filled to the brim with bottles of dyes, markers, rubber bands, and stencils, many of which I have duplicated dozens of times. I promised to help Becky and Lana create their own designs, so they can give gifts to all their friends, both old and new. “But can’t we sell them, Mommy?” Becky asked. “We need to make extra money now.”

  “Why’s that, honey?” I was surprised and proud of her seven-year-old entrepreneurial spirit.

  “So you and Daddy won’t have to work so hard.”

  “Oh, sweetie, thanks, but there’s nothing bad about working hard. Sometimes it’s the best thing a person can do.”

  Then, the same day the library called to inform me that an anonymous corporate client bought my painting Tangled, I had decided to make a call of my own. I gave Cleo four weeks’ notice, though she refused to hear me when I said I could no longer service her boutique. I shared the news: my artwork had been chosen for display at our town’s new million-dollar library, and when I sold just one painting (which I had already done), that equated to tie-dying, at least, thirty T-shirts. Besides, I would be making a contribution to the community by sharing my earnings.

  “Cleo,” I sang out, “there are soooo many women making these T-shirts now. You won’t have a problem replacing me. Not at all.”

  Though skeptical, I agree to meet him at four, before the sun goes down, and only in a public place.

  “I’m a lawyer, Alex, not a serial killer,” Charlie said, trying to disa
rm me, as always. I am hard to nudge these days, stony to frivolity in any shape or form. Last week, when he called, I was thrown off-balance; it seemed like a thousand years since I heard his voice, since I said I needed time. I hung up, aware of my heart banging around my chest like a finch trapped indoors.

  “Well, how much time is enough time?” he’d asked, over and over again, in phone messages and letters. But I had no answer, not really. All I knew was I yearned for the safety of distance—some vast open field to scatter the remnants of sadness and regret. Shouldn’t a beginning feel like a beginning: free of guilt and condemnation?

  After he and Paula split, Charlie made the decision to remain in DC, at least, until the end of his trial. Now, each weekend he picks up his kids, looks in on the new baby (a child he agreed to support through college), then drives back to the city where they all stay with his old Catskill’s buddy, Ivan—a devoted bachelor and terrific friend.

  Charlie has seen everyone else but me. When he comes for his children, he gets glimpses of Becky and Lana. Once he gave each of them an American Indian doll, and on Valentine’s Day, a box of heart candy for their mommy. I imagine him chatting with Donny, the two shaking hands, hard as it is to acknowledge Donny’s presence there—watching Ross and Ricki grow up. I am not surprised Donny seems to thrive in the role of conduit for Charlie and his former world. Overnight, it became a new course of study, something Donny strived for and hopefully he will continue to do well.

  I take a quick shower, letting my hair air-dry. My face is flushed from the tedium of packing, and some struggle going on inside me—a silent urging to hold on. I drag four bags of garbage to the curb before hopping in my car. Spotting me, Norm and Sue, with their three girls, wave wildly. How I will miss the consistency of their Father Knows Best existence—my favorite childhood show.