So Near

by Liza Gyllenhaal

  While we were kissing, she somehow managed to pull me inside and close the door. I held her against me the whole time, surprised by how substantial she actually is. She probably weighs as much as I do, but it’s all so soft and pliable. I pulled her sweater up and started to kiss her breasts. They were wedged together by a large black lacy bra. I fumbled around in the back for whatever it was that held the thing together. Jenny goes in for these little sports jobs that just lift up over her head. I couldn’t remember the last time I had to deal with wired cups and tiny little hooks.

  “Hold on,” she said finally, with a high, breathy laugh. “Let me do it.”

  It gave me a second or two to think. To come to my senses. Lori’s breasts, freed from their constraints, swung between us: milky white, enormous, a teenage boy’s fantasy come to life. But I’ve loved one woman for so many years now, my idea of what is beautiful and desirable has been utterly reshaped to fit her exact dimensions. The little hollow at the base of her throat. Those long, slim, slightly bowed legs. Her upturned breasts. Lori’s face was flushed, her lipstick smeared. She looked so pleased, expectant. I felt like a total asshole.

  “I’m sorry,” I told her, pulling her against me. “I’m really, really sorry. You’re very pretty. And very sweet. And I’m just feeling . . . so down. But I can’t do this, Lori—I’ve got to get home.”

  14

  Jenny

  “It’s so great to see you,” Kristin said as she hugged me.

  Then she held me at arm’s length and looked me over. “How are you doing?”

  “Okay,” I said. It seems that every other woman I’ve run into at the Horigan office Christmas party has felt the need to embrace me—and ask how I’m holding up. Without my baby daughter. A week before Christmas. It’s every mother’s nightmare. Terrible to even consider. They all know me and my family. I’m sure Betsy’s death sent a tremor through the lives of these women. I can see it in their eyes: thank God it didn’t happen to me!

  “How are you really, Jenny?” Kristin asked me again. Blonde and superthin, my sister-in-law always seems so burdened down and humorless to me. Though Edmund makes a lot of money, she still insists on raising the twins without the help of a nanny, tutoring underprivileged kids in Hudson, and taking on every school and community project that comes down the pike. And all in a martyrish, self-righteous kind of way. She once told Tessa and me when we asked her why she couldn’t cut herself a little more slack: I just think it’s so important to give back.

  But there’s another side to Kristin—one that seems at odds with her uptight public persona—that I’ve found myself increasingly drawn to since Betsy’s death. She studies the occult, believes in the presence of spirits in our lives, and has actually called me a couple of times since the tragedy to say that she wants me to know that Betsy is okay. A friend of hers named Harriet Elder is a new age medium, channeler, or something, and Kristin has been in her presence when she’s supposedly communicated with my daughter.

  “And what did Betsy say to her?” I’d asked. I was more than a little skeptical. For one thing, Betsy was still basically speaking baby talk when she died.

  “Oh, it was really more that Harriet felt her aura—and heard her laugh. You could come with me next time I see Harriet. I’m sure she’d be happy to try and contact Betsy for you again.”

  But I have no intention of going through Harriet Elder to reach Betsy. It’s not simply that I’m afraid Harriet might be a fraud, and Kristin her well-meaning dupe. Because a part of me does believe in the possibility of what someone like Harriet claims. It’s more that I resent the idea that strangers feel they have the right to contact my daughter. Betsy was always a little wary of people she didn’t know. She’d never let anyone but Cal or me pick her up without a struggle. I’m sure Harriet and Kristin believe they’re helping, but I also know that Betsy will come only to me.

  And throughout these first few weeks of December, I’ve actually felt closer to my daughter than I have in months.

  The season is so full of nostalgia and easy sentiment. You can’t turn on the radio or walk into a store right now without being bombarded by Christmas carols. Through the years we all will be together, if the fates allow. Just last week, I saw Betsy in the child’s seat of a shopping cart at Rite Aid: the mop of curls, the chubby little legs kicking. My heart raced as I walked toward her. I was five or six feet away when the child’s mother returned with an eight-pack of paper towels and wheeled my baby off. Though initially upset that I’d been mistaken, I’ve since allowed myself to imagine that Betsy is simply playing with me—that this is a kind of hide-and-seek—and she’s just pretending to be the child in the shopping cart, or the baby in that stroller, or the little girl waiting in line for Santa at Pellani’s Garden Center Christmas Fair.

  “Honestly?” I said to Kristin. She was obviously expecting something more from me. “It doesn’t ever stop hurting. But you do start to get used to the pain.” This was a response I’d heard from someone else who’d lost a child; was it Elizabeth Edwards? I’d admired the sound of it: tough-minded, frank, even though I knew it couldn’t possibly apply to me. Because the only way I will ever be able to get used to Betsy’s death is if I first somehow manage to forgive myself for it.

  “Well, listen, I think it’s so great you came to this,” Kristin told me, finally letting me go. “We’re all pulling for you.”

  “Thanks,” I said, though I felt exhausted by everyone’s well-intentioned concern. Tessa had hugged me so tight and for such a long time when I first ran into her that afternoon, I thought I was going to faint. And, if anything, I feel worse now than I did before I came. Being surrounded by so many family members and friends for the first time since Betsy’s funeral only reminds me how little right I have to their pity and love. What mother here would look at me the same way if she knew what I had done?

  Ever since I discovered the photos of the car seat and learned what Cal was up to, we’ve hardly been speaking to each other. I know Jude and my father both tried to talk him out of the lawsuit—but that just seems to have hardened his resolve. He was fuming on the telephone last week with Edmund, demanding to know what’s taking the lawyers so long. I live under the shadow of that return phone call—the one I know is coming any minute now—from the law firm.

  In fact, I would never have had the courage to show up this afternoon if I hadn’t managed to overhear Cal on a different phone call a few days ago. There was something about his voice—a little self-conscious and ingratiating—that made me suspect he was talking to Daniel.

  “I don’t know if you’re into this sort of thing. It’s really nothing fancy. But I thought it might be a good place for you to make some contacts. We’re tight with just about every major contractor and supplier in the area. Sure—it’s one of these open-house-type deals—feel free to drop by at any time if you’re around.”

  I could tell by Cal’s tone that he was hoping Daniel would show. But I’m desperate to see him again. The sense of relief I felt when I first told him my secret has been wearing off—replaced by a growing anxiety. It doesn’t help that I have so little to do around the house and yard. The gardens are dormant now. Though we’ve yet to have any real snow, the ground is rock hard, the trees bare, the perennials skeletons of their former selves. I can no longer take comfort wandering through Daniel’s garden. The pathways and steps are buried in leaves. His presence—which I once felt so strongly—seems to have been swept away with the wind.

  I scanned the crowd as Kristin moved away, but Daniel had obviously decided to skip the party. It was nearly six o’clock and the two long buffet tables had already been cleared of their warming trays. The caterers were bringing out platters of cookies and coffee things. As they do every year, the Horigan staff had temporarily moved shelving and showcases so that the main floor of the store was open in the front, easily accommodating the fifty or so people who had gathered there. Holiday lights and evergreen swags hung along the countertops. My father-in-la
w, his gauntness accentuated by a loose-fitting green Horigan Lumber baseball cap, mounted the little platform next to the Christmas tree decorations display and stepped up to the microphone.

  “Hello, everyone,” he began. “And welcome. It’s great to see you all here. Old friends and new friends. Family and employees—although in our case, I know it’s sometimes a little hard to tell the difference . . .”

  Jay tends to deliver the same speech every year, though it seemed to me his tone was a little different today. Slower. More subdued. He’d made his usual rounds through the crowd all afternoon, shaking hands and slapping shoulders, but I noticed him sitting down at one point, gazing out across the room at nothing.

  “It hasn’t been an easy year for most of you, I know. A lot of things hit hard all at one time, didn’t they? In my own family, we—we had our—” I saw Edmund and Cal exchange a look when their father’s voice broke, but then he managed to regain his composure and go on. “We had our problems, too. But life has a way of throwing curves, no matter how careful you try to be, right? I think the trick is to . . .”

  Daniel must have arrived sometime during my father-in-law’s speech. Though I’d been keeping my eye on the door most of the afternoon, I hadn’t seen him come in. But there he was suddenly by the drinks table, applauding with the others as Jay stepped down from the dais. A good-looking fortysomething redhead in a fur parka stood next to him, sipping wine, not even pretending to pay attention to the proceedings. I watched my husband hurry over and shake hands with them. Cal was smiling and nodding at whatever Daniel was saying, obviously delighted that his friend had finally shown up. It looked to me as if they had dropped in on their way to or from some other party. Daniel was wearing a sports jacket and turtleneck. It had been more than five months since I’d seen him. He looked different again. Was he starting to dye his hair? It seemed darker for some reason, accentuating the gray streaks at his temples. I saw him looking around the crowded showroom. I glanced away when his gaze fell on me. But I’m sure he caught me staring at him.

  I busied myself talking with a group of wives I know from the baseball league, but I was secretly tracking Daniel the whole time. Cal had walked him and the redhead over to meet Edmund and Jay. My father-in-law launched into some anecdote that seemed to go on and on. The party was beginning to thin out. When I looked over again, Daniel and the redhead were gone. Cal and Edmund stood alone, heads together, talking. My father-in-law had made his way over to the front door and was saying good-bye to folks as they left.

  “Hello, stranger,” Daniel said from right behind me. A shiver went down my spine.

  “Oh, hi,” I said, turning around.

  “I hoped you’d be here,” he said. “How are you doing?”

  “Not so great,” I said, though, in fact, just being near him again lifted my spirits. “I’ve been going through a rough patch.”

  “I heard you came by Ernie’s—and were asking for me.”

  “I was—” I still didn’t know how to explain my urge to talk to him that night. Or why seeing him now made me feel so much better. “I just stopped in on a whim—I was in the area.”

  “Really?” he said. “Well, I’ve missed our interesting talks.”

  “So have I,” I said, meeting his gaze. I knew he wasn’t thinking of Betsy when he looked at me. He probably hadn’t given my confession another thought during these long, dark months when I’ve thought of little else. He didn’t care what I had done. His indifference to Betsy’s death and my role in it acted on me as a kind of balm, relieving me of my guilt and shame.

  “Let’s have lunch, then,” he said, smiling. “I’ve been in the city a lot on business, but I’ll be around for the next few weeks. I would have asked you sooner, but I wasn’t sure you wanted to see me again. But now I think you do.”

  I was about to ask how he could tell, but I saw Cal break off his conversation with Edmund and start across the room toward us.

  “You’re right,” I said. “When?”

  “I’ll be at the Clear Lake Inn in Lansbury next Wednesday at one o’clock. Do you know it?”

  “Yes,” I said as my husband approached. He looked so pleased to see me and Daniel together, engaged in what appeared to be a friendly conversation. It seems like years ago now that he first told me about Daniel—how he felt that he already knew this stranger from somewhere. That they seemed to share a bond he couldn’t explain. Perhaps the Harriet Elders of this world are right, and we live alongside spirits and other dimensions every day. And we’re influenced and moved by forces we can neither see nor understand. I still feel that way about Betsy. That powerful belief that she’s right there—right here—just out of sight. That’s what I was feeling now—that sense of mysterious possibility. Connection. I only had to reach out. A second before Cal joined us, I added, under my breath:

  “I’ll be there.”

  Two days later, the day before Christmas Eve, Cal came home from work around five o’clock. I was wrapping presents. I’d decided to give everyone photos of Betsy. I’d put together a little collage of her—newborn with that downy halo of hair, grinning and gap-toothed in front of her first birthday cake, seated in a high chair next to Jamie last Christmas at the Horigan family party—and had five-by-seven prints made, which I was in the process of framing. The table in the great room was strewn with packaging from the frames I’d bought, wrapping paper, ribbons, scissors, tape. It’s the only evidence in the entire house that Christmas is the day after tomorrow. Cal and I didn’t get a tree this year. We didn’t bring the lights and decorations down from the attic. We didn’t even talk about it. Forgoing all the usual holiday trappings is one of the few things we seem to agree on right now.

  “Hey there,” Cal called from the kitchen. I heard him popping a beer. He walked over to the table where I was working and stood there, looking over my shoulder at what I was doing. I hadn’t told him about the collage. We were living like estranged roommates at this point. Eating at different times. Sleeping separately. Leaving notes for each other rather than talking.

  “Hi,” I said, not looking up. He didn’t usually bother to greet me these days when he got back from work.

  “Eddie finally heard from Stephens, Stokes this afternoon.”

  I put down the photo of Betsy I’d been trimming. She beamed up at me, the first of her baby teeth pushing through her gums, her eyes brimming with excitement. Though I’d been dreading this moment for months, now that it had finally come I felt an almost surreal calm. I’ve already endured the worst thing a mother can bear. I’d lost my baby. I’d lost her—and I had only myself to blame. Could Cal’s fury really be any more terrible than my own?

  “They’re ready to file.”

  “To file?” I asked, turning to face him.

  “They’re ready to officially file the complaint against Gannon,” he replied, then went on in a rush: “They’ve run a lot of tests. Not just on the car seat itself, but they actually did a series of these things they call ‘sled tests,’ where they recreate the accident somehow. Same conditions, Jeep, rollover, everything—the whole exact scenario. And each time, it turns out that the car seat should not have malfunctioned the way ours did. The seat should have kept Betsy safe. It was designed to protect her—and totally failed. Something was wrong with it—”

  “What?” I asked. “What was wrong?”

  “They’re not absolutely sure. There are a couple of possibilities. But they think it was the probably something in the fastener mechanism. The way Betsy came out of the seat, it looks like that top part came loose or broke apart somehow and—”

  “I guess I don’t understand how this works. Don’t they need to present one definite explanation?” I asked. “Won’t the jury want to know exactly what went wrong?”

  “The way Stephens, Stokes is talking, I don’t think there’s going to be any jury. They’re saying Gannon will want to settle this thing out of court as quickly as they can.”

  “No,” I said. “No, they
won’t.” What I saw—and what Cal couldn’t see—was that if Stephens, Stokes hoped to mount any kind of a case, of course they had to blame the manufacturer. They’d already spent how much time and money running tests on the car seat, re-creating this accident? Did they really think that my single thoughtless moment could be overwritten and eventually erased by their “sled tests” and theories, by their endless billable hours? Maybe Stephens, Stokes thought they could get away with it, but I was damned sure Gannon wouldn’t. Gannon would point out the one thing that I bet Cal’s lawyers must have already considered—the obvious explanation: my baby was killed because she hadn’t been strapped into the seat correctly. It wasn’t the car seat that failed. It was the mother.

  “Well, it’s not up to you to say no, Jenny,” Cal said. “We are doing this. The law firm is filing the complaint the day after Christmas. They’re going to hold a press conference—and they want us both to be there. This thing is going to make headlines. It’s that important.”

  I couldn’t imagine a worse nightmare.

  “You’re not listening to me, Cal!” I said, panic rising in my throat. “I don’t want to go ahead with this. I don’t think it’s right. I don’t think—”

  “You know what?” Cal said. “I believe I know exactly what you think. I know what’s going on with you. Why you really don’t want anything to do with this.”

  “You do?”

  “Of course I do,” Cal said, draining the last of his beer. He crumpled the can up and threw it across the room. It hit one of the French doors and then rolled crookedly across the floor. “You blame me. You blame me for drinking. For driving too fast. For letting the Jeep roll over.”