Accidents of Marriage

by Randy Susan Meyers

  “Then don’t eat them,” Emma said. “You can’t ask because we’ll look retarded.” They were sitting at a small table in the corner. Everywhere people hugged and kissed.

  “Don’t say retarded,” Gracie said. “It’s disrespectful.”

  “That’s right. Mommy says it’s disrespectful,” Caleb repeated.

  Emma’s eyes filled. She hoped everyone stayed near the tables piled with bagels and bowls of cream cheese and didn’t come near them.

  “Don’t cry.” Caleb sounded panicked. “I’ll eat the cookie.”

  Gracie took Emma’s hand. “You can say retarded. It doesn’t matter. We know you’re good.” Gracie’s eyes welled. “Why are you crying?”

  Emma blinked until her tears disappeared. “I’m okay,” she whispered. “Let’s go.”

  “But that woman said we could talk to her.”

  “Please, Caleb. We don’t belong here.”

  “Because we’re only half?” Gracie asked.

  “We just don’t belong.” Emma emphasized each word.

  People greeted one another with shrieks of delight. The woman who’d sat in front of them put her hands on the bat mitzvah girl’s shoulders, holding her at arm’s length, smiling. Emma smoothed her denim skirt.

  “I thought we were going to pray for Mommy.” Caleb laced his hands in a prayerful position. “What happens if we don’t?”

  Emma shrugged. “Maybe it doesn’t matter.”

  “Yes, it does. You said so. It has to matter.” His voice rose. “Mommy will die otherwise. You said!”

  The rabbi walked toward them from across the room. Emma pulled her brother close. “Caleb, you need to stop right now. Mommy will be okay. This was just like . . . This was just like going to a prayer store.”

  The rabbi got closer. A little throw-up came to her throat.

  “Emma?” Despite his gray hair, he had a young face.

  “Who are you?” Caleb asked.

  The rabbi placed a hand on Caleb’s shoulder. “I’m Rabbi Berger. And you?”

  “Caleb.” His voice shook. “Are you in charge? Are we in trouble?”

  The rabbi smiled and knelt to Caleb’s level. “Yes, I’m in charge. Moreover, no, you are not in trouble. I’m the one who answered your sister’s email. We’re happy to have you here, though it’s unusual to have young people come without a parent or grandparent.”

  “Our Jewish parent is our mother, and she’s in the hospital,” Gracie said.

  “I’m so sorry.” The rabbi wrinkled his forehead and then stood. “Why don’t you three come to my office?”

  Emma shrugged and nodded to her brother and sister. They followed him to a cozier-looking part of the building, the rabbi speaking about nothing in particular as he pointed out this painting and that sculpture, as though they were in a museum.

  “Ah, home at last.” He stopped in front of a glass door, which he opened with a key. “Welcome.”

  His office had a desk area and a section with a leather couch and soft chairs. Piled next to the tightly packed bookshelves were stacks of more books. Chairs were lined up in front of his desk, and he gestured for them to sit.

  The rabbi folded his hands on his desk. “Perhaps you can tell me what brings you here today.”

  Gracie covered the tiny angel pinned to her shirt. “We’re praying for our mother to wake up. She’s in a coma.”

  “I’m so very sorry,” he said again. He reached over and gently touched Gracie’s hand. “Does the angel provide comfort?”

  Gracie uncovered the angel. “My grandmother gave it to me.”

  “The Catholic one,” Caleb said.

  “Seems like you have all bases covered,” the rabbi said. “It’s okay—it’s not as though we’re competing baseball teams.”

  He sounded like Emma’s crappy teachers did when they shared some joke that only they knew.

  “They never make us, um, take sides,” Emma said.

  The rabbi shook his head. “I’m just teasing a little. Many of our families are of mixed faith. So—it’s your mother that brings you here today. Are you seeking solace from God?”

  “What’s solace?” Caleb asked.

  “It means comfort,” the rabbi said.

  “Is that what a synagogue offers? Comfort?” Emma asked.

  “What do you think?” the rabbi asked. “What do you expect?”

  Emma looked to the ceiling, uncomfortable with the rabbi’s intense stare. How much could he care what she thought? He was playing a game with her. She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Why did you come?” he asked.

  Emma crossed her arms, tired of the rabbi’s quizzing. Just tell us what to do. “People always talk about God. Thanks, God. God forbid. God only knows. Leave it in the hands of God.” She took a deep breath. “Or they get mad. God damn it.”

  “God damn it to hell,” Caleb said in a perfect imitation of their father.

  Gracie smiled and held tight to the angel. “Holy Mary, Mother of God,” she said in imitation of Grandma Frances’s high voice.

  “Sounds like you children get quite a few voices of God.” The rabbi placed an ankle on one knee and tapped it as though summoning wisdom. “People search for God when they’re in pain. Sometimes when they’re seeking joy. It sounds like you’re searching for a healing.”

  “Will God hear us better if we pray from here?” Gracie gripped the edge of the rabbi’s desk.

  The rabbi placed his hand on his heart. “God will hear you wherever you speak.” He turned to Emma. “Sometimes, in the act of seeking God, we learn what else we are looking for. Like love. Do we seek God when we are actually seeking love? On the other hand, do we seek love when we are really seeking God? It is also like that with prayer and help.”

  “Right.” Emma nodded, understanding nothing except her sudden hatred of this man.

  The rabbi smiled. “There are no fast answers. It’s a question of what we want from our faith. And how we find faith. And in whom we place our trust.”

  “My father almost killed my mother,” Caleb blurted.

  “What?” The rabbi straightened from his know-it-all lecture position.

  “It’s not what you think!” Emma said quickly, imagining the rabbi calling the police. “It was an accident. They had a car accident. It was raining.”

  “My grandfather thinks my father was driving too fast. And maybe he was mad,” Caleb said.

  Gracie, who sat closest to the rabbi, leaned over and placed her hand on his. “Don’t worry—it was just a terrible accident. Everyone knows that.”

  “Perhaps I should call someone,” the rabbi said. “Do you feel safe at home? You sound troubled. We have a wonderful, kind social worker on staff here who I’m certain can help you all. I’d like you to speak with her.”

  A social worker? Her mother was a social worker—Emma knew the message he was sending with his prayerful words. They’d come home to someone questioning their father. She had to get them out of there. “We’re fine. Our father is at work. We just came here to pray for our mother to get better. That’s all we wanted. We have a large family. Everyone’s pitching in.”

  Complications came no matter what Emma tried to do. She couldn’t fix anything. “We better get home.” She stood and then reached out a hand for her brother and another for her sister, squeezing hard the moment they touched, sending them the message to keep their mouths shut. “And we already have someone—a social worker from the hospital that we speak to. Her name is Olivia.”

  • • •

  Later that day, Emma sat on the floor behind her mother’s desk, opening up drawers, looking through files, reading old bills and bank statements. Emma found a blue folder with pictures of her sixth birthday party. After spreading them on the floor, she got on her knees and studied them. Her mother looked a little fat; she must have been pregnant with Caleb—not like now: bones sticking out, pinched and taped, wires slithering all over her.

  That rabbi had let her and Gracie and
Caleb simply walk out after hearing their story. She’d fooled him just fine. Her mother would never do that if three kids wandered into her office.

  Emma pushed the pictures away and grabbed books from the bottom shelves until she found The Merck Manual—the book her mother consulted when anyone in the family showed signs of illness. She opened to the index and scanned the Cs for coma. Diabetic coma. Hepatic coma. Myxedema coma. Nothing fit; nothing made sense. She threw the book on the floor on top of an old copy of The Joy of Cooking she’d pulled out. Yeah. Big joy. If she made one more sandwich she’d scream her head off.

  Emma began stacking books back on the shelves. As she put back The Family of Man, a letter fell out of the book, a long passage in her father’s writing.

  Dear Maddy,

  In one month, we’ll become a family of three (and then maybe four, or five?).

  I know, I know. You don’t want to talk about it yet. Get this one out first, right?

  (See, I do listen sometimes!)

  Happy Anniversary, sweetheart. The bracelet’s to complement your beauty (which I should compliment more—I know, I know), and the book is to complement your heart. (And compliment it.) I want you to know that I don’t ever forget for one day how big it is. (Bigger even than your belly. ) You complement me. Forgive me the days it seems I forget. Perhaps at those times, you can bring out this book, read this, and remember . . .

  “Emma?”

  She looked up. Her father stood in the doorway. She shoved the book back in the case and kicked the files and photographs under the desk.

  “What’re you doing, honey? How were the kids?” He sank into the leather club chair and let his head fall back. “Sorry about being so late. I spent a little extra time with Mommy. How about I take us out for Chinese food? Or maybe order in?”

  Emma scrambled up from behind the desk. “You never do what you’re supposed to. Never. Not Mommy either. And you never do what you promise.”

  “What are you talking about? What’s wrong?” Her father’s voice sounded scratchy. His suit was crumpled, and there was a big stain on his tie. Part of her wanted to shut up and hug him, but instead a hot stream of angry words poured out.

  “I didn’t even get a bat mitzvah. Nothing. You and Mommy just . . . You . . .” Emma began screaming so loud her throat hurt. “You probably drove like an asshole and you were probably yelling at her. Right? How could you do that, Daddy? How could you be so stupid?”

  “Emma, it wasn’t—”

  “I hate everything. I hate this house the way it is. I hate having to do everything. I hate you both.” She slammed out of the study, tears streaming, shaking, and wanting nothing else in the world so much as for her mother to be upstairs, ready to ask her what was wrong.

  CHAPTER 18

  Maddy

  She blinked.

  Sticky eyes.

  Turning her head, bending iron.

  “Do you think she’s awake?”

  Voices cut through the murk, but weights tied her arms and legs. Gulliver on his travels.

  “Maddy, wake up. Wake up.”

  She tried to pry her pasted eyes apart. They obeyed for an instant. A woman’s face came over her. Too close.

  “Buh.” Her mouth wouldn’t obey.

  “Maddy, can you hear me?”

  Who are you? Where’s Ben?

  “She opened her eyes.”

  “Maddy? Maddy? Can you hear me?”

  “I think she tried to talk. Did she appear sentient when her eyes opened?”

  “It looked that way to me. Her blood pressure’s up. Brain activity measures higher.”

  “Call her husband.”

  Ben. Ben. Ben. Where’s Ben?

  Something tugged at the top of her mind. Her brain pulled up and then pushed down. Like the taffy machine in Provincetown. The kids shouldn’t eat taffy. They’d get cavities.

  Need sleep. Tired.

  “Take my hand, Maddy. Here.”

  Skin against skin. Scraping.

  Stop.

  She wanted to shake it off, but her arm wouldn’t comply.

  “Is she squeezing?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “Should we page her neurologist?”

  “Jesus, yes.”

  “He’ll kill us if it’s nothing. He’s such a bastard.”

  “Her father will kill us if we don’t.”

  Kill a neurologist? Daddy? Neurologist? The word neurologist haunted her. She chewed, almost tasted the meaning, and then it disappeared. Sleep.

  “Squeeze, Maddy, squeeze. Squeeze.”

  Push, Maddy, push, push, push. Come on. You can do it. Oh, my God. Look. She’s here! Maddy, look. Our baby. Oh, I love you.

  “Is she smiling? It looks like she’s smiling.”

  The light went out. Blocked. Someone leaned over. Face almost kissing hers, smothering her.

  Go away.

  CHAPTER 19

  Ben

  Ben shuffled through the piles of papers on his desk, not caring about any of them. Add it to his list of fuckups: ignoring work.

  A fuckup? Elizabeth is on your list of “fuckups”? Try sin, buddy boy.

  He could list both his fuckups and his sins all too quickly. Ben Illica, master of sin. Venial. Mortal. Get ’em here.

  Sin: Throwing a bottle of Tide against the wall. Watching the viscous fluid run down the gray basement wall. Maddy cowering. Why had he been so angry?

  Sin: Refusing to accompany Maddy to her fifteenth high school reunion because she’d bought five-year-old Emma an expensive doll.

  Sin: Grabbing Caleb and shaking him until Maddy tackled him from behind.

  Sin: Driving like a fucking lunatic.

  And now.

  There wasn’t a help sheet in the world Maddy could give him now.

  He’d broken their vows.

  His membership in the thirty percent club was over.

  On the computer screen, an endless email from Aaron Manning scrolled, looking for help with some of the trial work with which Ben had stuck him. Aaron could plead out B-bird’s case, but B-bird’s mother insisted on a trial. Could you talk to her? Aaron wrote.

  What Ben wanted to write was: Dear Aaron: Who gives a fuck? Lock him up. Protect the city. Thanks! Good work, buddy.

  But what he actually typed was: Aaron, I am confident of your ability to handle the conversation. Too overloaded to speak to mother. Appreciate you handling this. He pressed send. Being the boss made it easier not to give a damn.

  According to the catechism drummed in and chanted back at Our Lady of Life Sucks, mortal sin must be of a grave matter. It must be committed with full knowledge that it is a mortal sin. It must be committed with full consent. Thus, sleeping with Elizabeth constituted a worse sin than almost killing Maddy.

  No wonder he hated church.

  He dug out a Maddy folder and opened it at random, praying that pretending it would all be okay would bring that miracle. Masses of information had been cited, categorized, and then underlined where Olivia thought he had the greatest chances of screwing up.

  Stages of Recovery: Fatigue is a primary problem. Insight is v.v. poor. Maddy might deny there are problems and rebel against her need for rehabilitation. She may endanger others with her actions. You must be vigilant at all times and enlist “minders” when you’re not there.

  Finding “minders” for Maddy would be Christmas compared to his nightly hospital visit. He skimmed paragraphs, stopping at Amnesia.

  At the moment of injury, the brain stops storing memories. This is why it’s pointless for the patient to waste energy trying to remember the accident. You don’t need to worry about the accident’s emotional effects if she does not get this memory back. Things that happened immediately before and at the time of the impact did not have time to be changed into memories, so they can never be remembered.

  Ben studied the words until a knock on his half-open door interrupted.

  “What are you up to?” Elizabeth leaned against the doorjamb i
n a manner designed to seem casual. She twirled a strand of loose hair.

  “Just clearing the decks before lunch,” Ben answered.

  Elizabeth sat across from him. She reached over the desk and briefly touched the dark hair above his wrist. “Are we okay?”

  Captured. He’d managed to avoid being alone with her during the ten days since they’d slept together. Were they okay? Sure. As long as she knew there was no “we.” Elizabeth looked at him with the soft melting eyes women had in the early throes of crushes—before rage and pain joined the party.

  When he didn’t answer, she walked behind him and leaned ever so lightly against the back of his chair. Ben felt her long white fingers brush his neck, so swiftly he could have imagined it, smelled her understated perfume. Some combination of low-pressure flowers.

  “Are we? Okay?” she asked. “Are you?”

  “For Christ’s sake, Elizabeth.” He reached up and removed her hands from his shoulders. “The door is open.”

  She walked over, shut it, and returned. She stared at him with all those questions in her eyes.

  The first time he’d seen Maddy, she’d burned his eyes right out of his head. Orange stained glass windows made the sun flare outside the old courtroom where they met. Her skin, her eyes, her hair, all shades of drowning black and gold, outlined by light as though God had created her just for him. A month later, when Ben brought Maddy to his office Christmas party, she’d worn blackberry velvet, the soft fabric cut low in the back. As they danced, her bare flesh warmed his hand.

  “Don’t,” he told Elizabeth, now in his guest chair.

  “Don’t what?” Elizabeth twined her fingers into a tight ball.

  “Don’t anything.” Ben held up his left hand, visible proof of why not. The nurses had removed Maddy’s rings. To avoid germs. And comas made fluid settle—Maddy’s fingers had swollen.

  “It meant something to me. Our night together.”

  Ben stifled a sigh. “I’m sorry about . . . about confusing you.”

  “You felt something, right?” She leaned toward him. “It wasn’t just . . . a thing?”