“Mommy wants us to leave,” Caleb told Emma.
“I heard.” Emma wrapped her arms around Caleb.
“She’s not upset with you,” Ben said. “It’s just the recovery. She needs to sleep when she needs to sleep.” He put a hand on Caleb’s head.
“But she didn’t say please or thank you,” Caleb said.
Please. Thank you please thank you please.
• • •
Morning sun made a pattern on her hand.
Where was she?
Not prison.
Not hospital.
Ben lay next to her.
Home.
She smiled. Touched him.
How strange, sleeping with another person. Did they wake covered with bits of each other? Is that how they become family? Maybe it was just that. That’s why they drifted apart when they were separated. People reconnected with cell matter! If she nestled right up against Gracie, Emma, and Caleb, would they get closer quicker?
Sleeping soothed her. Tired, her thoughts became soup. First morning thoughts were her best.
“What . . . day?” she asked.
Ben opened his eyes, his waking gestures familiar. Rub left, then right eye. Stretch face out with a series of movements she’d copyrighted to him. Jaw in, jaw out, Ben woke his face.
“It’s Sunday.” He yawned. “Are you okay? Are you hungry? Want to shower first?”
She could only hold on to one question. Yes, she wanted hot water running over her body, but without bars to hold and buttons to push for nurses, she might slip and hit her head and lose more brain. She didn’t know how to tell him all these things one word at a time.
“Coffee?” he asked.
“Yes! Coffee.”
“Okay, give me five minutes and I’ll go down and make it.” He turned over, offering his warm back, shoving the pillow under his head. Rain spattered on the windows. The cloudy room felt like a safe cave.
She stayed on her side, watching Ben. What did they used to do on Sunday? She scrunched up her face trying to remember. Envision it, Zelda told her in rehab. If you can’t remember, imagine.
Lying in bed with all the kids, watching cartoons on their bedroom television. When they were oh-so-little that even Emma liked being part of the pack.
Hazy thoughts of mornings after angry nights. She and Ben each rolled to the edge of their own side of the bed. Why had they fought?
She squeezed and pressed, trying to remember things Zelda had told her might be gone forever. Her mind had washed away memories. Some might roll back.
She kept asking Ben to tell her how it happened until he seemed angry. He didn’t want to say it over and over, he told her. Didn’t like going to the place where she got hurt. No one liked to tell the accident story. For her it didn’t matter. Not really real since she couldn’t remember. Just a scary story but her scary story, and she wanted to hear it so she could find her way out of the fog.
Once upon a time Maddy and Ben drove on the Jamaicaway. A Ford forced them away from the right spot. The Ford ran into them. She fell out of the car. The end. Oh. Rain fell.
Cold. She turned to Ben’s body. She stroked his back, tracing the indented line, the spine, pressing her nose to his shoulder. Taking in Ben—the soap he used. What was the name? Brown soap flecked with gritty bits. His arm smelled like sleep-Ben.
She turned him on his back. Touched him.
“Wait. Let me lock the door,” he said, climbing out of bed. “The kids.” He walked awkwardly, his erection leading him.
“You . . . fun.”
“I’m funny?” he repeated as he climbed back into the bed.
She stood and stripped off her thin white nightgown. “Like. This.” She walked toward the door, tipping out her pelvis as though it forced her to swing forward one hip at a time. When she reached the door, she pivoted on one foot to head back to Ben.
Arms out, she walked toward him slowly. He pulled her to him. The length of his stiffness pressed into her stomach. She buried her face in the sweet spot of his neck.
He pulled her close.
His embrace crushed her. His breath smothered.
Off off off.
She needed to get away.
“Stah,” she whispered. “Stah. No breathe.”
Ben let go. She rolled away. He followed, placing a hand on her hip.
“Can’t breathe? You can’t breathe, Maddy?”
She shook her head. He jumped up and pulled at her until she sat at the edge of the bed. He patted her back. “It’s okay, baby. This is what all the books say: Sometimes you’ll want it like crazy, and then you can change your mind in a flash.”
“Whah. Do I. Do?” she asked.
“With what? Do with what, Mad? You don’t have to do anything. It’s okay. It doesn’t bother me.”
“Not. That!” She stood and looked around. She walked to the bookshelf and grabbed the first book her hand hit. “Can’t read.”
“You can read, Mad. It’s just slow coming back.”
“No!” She pulled out volume after volume, throwing them to the floor. “Can’t.”
She stopped. They stared at each other. “My . . .” She couldn’t catch her breath. Her chest pumped up and down. “Life. Whah about. My life?”
CHAPTER 25
Emma
Emma scrubbed at the white gunk stuck on the table, working so hard she thought the wood would crack, determined to erase the lump of solidified sugar adhered to the counter. Did Caleb twirl when he sugared his cereal and then deliberately splatter milk to ensure that the drippings turned to resin? Dried bits of it stuck to the side of the sink. Grandma had attempted to clean the kitchen the previous night, but her father forbade it. Those were his exact stupid words: “I forbid it, Anne. You and Jake have done more than enough for today. Get some sleep.”
Once she’d loosened the worst of the crap, she sprayed water over the pile of dishes and pots and started pulling things out to stack in the dishwasher. Clearly her father didn’t think that she had done more than enough. Oh, no. Always more for Emma to do. No forbidding Emma against housework!
Caro probably was snuggling into her comforter while Caro’s mother readied a bowl of low-fat oatmeal with sliced bananas and pretend brown sugar. Zach’s mother no doubt had made whole-wheat apple pancakes for everyone, as his father read the Sunday New York Times aloud to her.
She wanted to get out of here. She wanted to run, do cartwheels, leap on and off the balance beam at the community center, or swim a million miles—anything as long as she moved—but if she tried to go anywhere, her father would flip out. Her mother probably wouldn’t even know. She’d just stare at her, empty-eyed. Scary puppet eyes that made Emma want to knock on her mother’s forehead and ask, Anyone home? But then it changed—just as she got used to having a zombie for a mother, the next moment she examined Emma so intently, it was as though her mother possessed X-ray vision.
Emma peeked into the living room to check on Caleb and Gracie. Their whole family had become so frigging creepy. Gracie wrapped herself in her red bathrobe as if it were the Shroud of Turin—that was a Catholic relic, right? At least Gracie’s robe was clean. Grandma Frances had told Gracie cleanliness was next to godliness, and if she wanted God to let Mommy come home from rehab, she had to let Emma wash it. Then Grandma Frances gave Gracie the set of ivory rosary beads that she’d been given by her own grandmother. Wait until Mom saw Gracie on the couch, fingering the holy white beads as she read the Sunday comics.
Shivering sadness overcame Emma as she realized that her mother probably wouldn’t even notice. Not that any of it mattered. From Emma’s point of view, Gracie might as well be fingering jelly beans. Crosses, Stars of David—none of it meant anything except phony promises.
Caleb sat at the other end of the couch, chewing on the top of his knees through his flannel pajama bottoms, racing miniature cars down his legs, stinking like dried-up pee again. His pajamas were clean, but his body still carried the smell from the previous
night’s bed-wetting. Soon the whole house would smell like Caleb pee. Emma had started sniffing herself before she left the house—afraid that she, all of them, carried the odor.
Her father’s footsteps sounded upstairs. The toilet flushed. A lock snapped open. Muffled voices drifted from upstairs. What could they talk about? Her mother barely made sense.
Emma couldn’t recognize her mother’s tread. Before the coma, her mother flew down the stairs, light and fast. Now she clomped one stair at a time. Like Frankenstein. Her father matched his step to hers, both of them sounding tentative and old. Emma wanted to hear her father’s usual impatient hurrying, sounding as though he’d soar if he could.
Her mother looked haunted as she entered the kitchen.
“Good morning, Mom.” Emma’s attempt to hug her brought an awful gasping sound from her mother, flinching as though Emma were trying to strangle her.
“Mom’s feeling a little unstable this morning, honey.” Her father’s hand hovered above her mother’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Mad. Let’s have breakfast. Then you can have a pill. You’ll feel better.”
“What’s the pill for?” Emma asked.
“Anxiety,” her father answered, while her mother gave Emma that chilling smile where her mouth turned up but the rest of her face forgot to follow. Emma tried not to stare at her mother’s hair sticking up in all directions.
“ ’Kay,” her mother said.
What did her mother’s flat whispery okay mean?
Okay, I don’t mind Dad answering all the questions?
Okay, I’m going to get better?
Okay, I’m here but gone?
Emma turned to get mugs from the cabinet.
“Look, Mom. Your favorite mug!” Emma held up a red mug with World’s Best Mother written in clumsy white script.
“Cup,” her mother said. “Don’t . . . remember.”
Grandma Anne had tried to prepare Emma for the way her mother would blurt out whatever was on her mind, but still the words brought a jolt of hurt.
“I made it for you.” Emma tried to sound matter-of-fact and mature.
“Mom shouldn’t have coffee right now,” her father said. “Caffeine can bring on more anxiety, and she just had a bit of a panic attack. I better check with the doctor.”
“I . . . decide,” her mother said. “Me. Me. Me.” With each repetition of me, her mother jabbed herself in the chest.
Her father took a box of cereal from the cabinet and shook it. “Honey, it’s not a good idea. Let’s wait till we talk to the doctor.”
Her mother looked as though she were trying to scream no, but she only succeeded in making a painful-sounding bark. She tried again, but seemed unable to form the words. Appearing invaded—as though the zombie in her had taken over—she grabbed the sugar bowl and hurled it toward the cabinets. Glass shards and sugar sprayed in a wide arc as it shattered.
“Maddy, baby.” Her father rushed to her mother, who sat slamming her hand on the table, sobbing as though her world had imploded.
Her mother stood. “I. Want. Coffee.” She glared at Emma and her father.
Emma stared from one to the other. “What should I do, Daddy?” she asked.
“Coffee,” her mother repeated in a strangled voice: cuf . . . eee.
“Right after you take your pill,” her father said.
“Should I get her pills?” Emma asked. “Want me to make some tea? Want chamomile, Mom?”
“For God’s sake, Emma,” he said. “Can’t you just be quiet for a minute?”
CHAPTER 26
Ben
Ben could barely remember normal, that fairy tale from another world, a world where people did things like sleep and smile. Maddy had been home for two weeks, and it seemed that long since he’d slept through an entire night. Or truly smiled.
Normal was for people who hadn’t fucked up their families. Normal wasn’t for men who raced around in a car built for thugs and assholes.
Tonight he’d have traded ten years of his life for an evening watching the Red Sox, but the devil didn’t show up to make the trade, so he stumbled in exhaustion through Caleb peppering him with questions as he tried to get him to sleep.
“What’s temporary love syndrome, Daddy?” Caleb asked.
“Temporary love syndrome? Where’d you hear that?”
He could be asleep in less than thirty seconds and say screw it to the hours of tasks still ahead.
“Grandma said it on the phone.” Caleb kicked his tucked blanket out, undoing his grandmother’s hospital corners. Ben had thought about telling Anne not to bother making Caleb’s bed so carefully, but then decided it would sound ungrateful. Only Anne stood between his family and total chaos.
“She said Mommy has temporary love syndrome,” Caleb said. “Is Mommy going to fall out of love with us?”
After a confused moment, Ben got it. He put a hand on Caleb’s jiggling leg. “No. That could never happen. It’s not temporary love syndrome—you heard it wrong. It’s temporal lobe syndrome.”
He tried to think of a way to explain it to Caleb. “Temporary does mean limited. Good work. What Mommy has is temporary, but temporal lobe means a part of the brain. Up here.” Ben poked his own temple and then Caleb’s. “And syndrome means a condition—something that is happening in someone’s body, or a pattern of things happening that mean there is a condition in place. Like a dirty syndrome would mean someone had a syndrome of not cleaning himself or his stuff.”
“Do I have a peeing syndrome?” Caleb asked.
“Sort of, I guess. But you’ll be over that soon.” Ben pressed a hand into his temples where another tension headache was growing. Maybe he had buried-in-shit syndrome. “Temporal lobe syndrome is the name of Mommy’s brain injury. What she hurt when she . . . when she bumped her head.”
“Will she get better?”
“Of course. Absolutely.”
“All better?”
Ben considered all the things he should say, reassurances mixed with not-too-frightening honesty, and took the lazy way out. “Yes, Caleb. She’ll get all better.”
He kissed Caleb good night before his son could ask any more questions, turned off the light, and headed downstairs. Gracie’s lamp was off—had he even said good night to her?
Anne was in the kitchen, wrapping sandwiches for lunch. He lined up apples on the counter. Granny Smith for him, McIntosh for the kids.
“I can finish up here.” The dull knife he’d grabbed hacked more than sliced the apples. Where did Maddy take them for sharpening? Asking Anne meant she’d take care of it within a day, and adding to her workload would be shameful.
“It’s okay. I’m just about done. All that’s left is putting the right lunch in the right bag.” She smiled at him, her grin reminding him of Maddy’s. “Imagine Emma’s face if she ended up with Caleb’s Fluffernutter?”
“You know that we’d be lost without you, right?” This was so true it terrified him.
Her dismissive gesture was classic Anne. “Family. It’s what we do.”
“Perhaps. In a perfect world.” Ben wished he had the ease to give her a spontaneous hug. The sort Maddy would bestow without thought. “I’m grateful it’s true in your world.”
Anne rested her hands on the counter. “Any news about the case?”
Ben clenched his fist over the dull knife. “The wheels of justice turn slow but grind exceedingly fine, Anne. When it grinds over our way, we’ll get it dismissed. Trust me. They haven’t a thing to go on. They know that. This case is low on their list. Barely a blip. If, by some stupidity, they charge me, we’ll get it dismissed,” he repeated. “Trust me.”
“That’s good, Ben. And that’s what you keep telling us. But really, is that the point?” She looked down and wrapped the last sandwich. “I mean, of course it’s important that it get dismissed. But either way, eventually you have to tell Maddy what happened. She’s going to find out. You can’t bury your head in the sand forever.”
“Why not?”
As though it made a fuck’s worth of difference how it happened. What was, was, right? Did they want him drowning in the past or taking care of the future? He’d deal with the case if and when it came up. Burying his head in the sand sounded fine right now. “What is so important about her knowing?”
“This accident didn’t come out of the blue. Face it, Ben. Whatever the law says—guilty, not guilty, charged or dismissed—it’s not like you were simply driving along like a law-abiding citizen and got smacked in the rear. Right?”
Answers eluded him. He sagged in defeat.
“Look.” Anne took the knife from his hand and held it tight. “This is your decision. Jake and I, Vanessa, we all agreed. And we’ll keep our promise. But Maddy deserves the truth. From you. About everything.”
• • •
The moment Anne left, he headed to the study, hoping to read at least the front page of the Boston Globe before going to bed. Instead, he found Emma curled in his leather chair, surrounded by books, bobbing her head in time to whatever played through her earphones.
“Isn’t it time for bed, honey?” He raised his voice so she’d hear him above her music.
“Not yet.” She didn’t look up.
“Homework?” When she didn’t answer, he tipped her book down, forcing her to look in his eyes.
“What?”
He removed her white earplugs. “Don’t shout at me. I’m not shouting.”
“Right.” Now Emma was barely audible.
“What did you say?”
She looked up at her father, tugging her book back up. “I said right. As in, you were right. You weren’t shouting. I’m agreeing with you.”
“Please, no sarcasm. And we need to be quiet so we don’t wake Mom.”
Emma rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry. If there’s one thing Mom does really well now, it’s sleeping.”
“That’s enough,” Ben said. “If you can’t keep a civil tongue in your head, go upstairs.”
Emma slammed her book against her knees. “Don’t take your junk out on me. You’re not the only one picking up all the extra work around here.”
Accidents of Marriage Page 21