Thursdays At Eight

by Debbie Macomber

  Silence.

  “You’re really sick, you know that? If this is Jeff, then you already know what I think. If this is someone else, all I can say is get a life.” With that, she banged down the receiver emphatically enough to make the person on the other end regret phoning.

  Glen Trnavski arrived five minutes early with a bouquet of pink carnations.

  Karen instantly felt guilty for wanting to cancel.

  “How thoughtful,” she said, holding the flowers to her nose. Pink carnations might not be original, but it’d been a long time since any man had done anything so sweet and, yes, traditional. Karen was touched, although she reminded herself that this first date was supposed to be a non-date, more of an outing between two friends.

  “Have you decided on a movie?” he asked, following her inside the studio apartment.

  “You’re letting me choose?” Other guys she dated generally decided in advance what movie they’d see. Or it was a decision they made together. “There’s a new Julia Roberts film I wouldn’t mind going to,” she suggested. A “chick flick.” Most guys were more interested in high adventure, blood and guts, gasoline explosions.

  “Fine with me.” He was so agreeable; she liked that and she didn’t. This was not a man who was likely to argue anything to the wall. Or generate any fireworks.

  After setting the carnations inside an empty mayonnaise bottle, one she’d saved for just such an occasion, Karen reached for her jacket and purse. Just as they were about to leave, the phone rang again.

  “I’d better get that,” she said hurrying across the room to pick up the receiver. She wasn’t expecting to hear from her agent on a Saturday night, but she didn’t want to miss anything important, either. Her cheap answering machine wasn’t always reliable.

  “Hello?”

  Nothing.

  Impatient, she slammed the receiver down and complained, “That happened earlier. I answer the phone and there’s no one there. Well, there is, but they aren’t speaking.”

  “Do you have any idea who it might be?”

  “Not a clue.” She certainly wasn’t going to mention Jeff.

  “What about caller ID?” Glen asked.

  “Don’t have it.” She hated to admit she pinched her pennies to the point that she’d never enjoyed the luxury of caller ID. It was difficult enough paying her phone bill without all the extras. Her one extravagance was call waiting. Heaven forbid she miss a call from her agent because she was chatting with a friend. Of course, she could always punch star 69. She decided to try that now. Naturally, the number was unlisted and she groaned in frustration.

  “If they call again, you simply won’t be here,” Glen said with such perfect logic she had no comeback. “They can leave a message—or not.”

  He was right, of course; there was no reason to worry about it. She turned on the machine, and with a lighter heart, grabbed a woolen cape she sometimes liked to wear. Glen took it from her and placed it around her shoulders. He was being traditional again, and she decided she rather liked it. This wasn’t a gesture she was personally familiar with—except in old movies and period plays.

  The movie was delightful, and they both laughed their way through it. Afterward they shared a gourmet veggie pizza and glasses of red wine at a popular Italian restaurant in the area. Despite her reservations about the wisdom of seeing Glen, Karen enjoyed herself and their time together. Her one disappointment was that she was home by eleven. When she invited him in for coffee, Glen politely declined.

  As she entered her apartment, she couldn’t help wondering if she’d passed muster. The first thing she noticed was the flashing light of her answering machine. In replaying the tape, she discovered there were no less than six hang-ups. One she could understand, even two, but six?

  Whoever had called earlier and said nothing had obviously continued phoning. Karen was tempted to unplug the phone and be done with it.

  She turned on the television for company, then stripped out of her jeans and vest. She’d just pulled on her pajamas when the phone rang again. Karen stared at it, certain that her caller was the jokester. The best thing to do was let the answering machine pick up, she told herself. However, seconds before the machine kicked in, Karen impulsively grabbed the receiver. She wasn’t sure why, hadn’t even known she was going to do it. One second she was staring at the phone, willing it to stop ringing, and the next she had the receiver in her hand.

  “Hello,” she yelled, furious with herself as much as the anonymous fruitcake on the other end.

  Silence.

  Karen was about to slam down the receiver and unplug her phone when she heard a soft, unrecognizable female voice say her name.

  “Hello,” Karen tried again. “Who is this?

  “It’s me.”

  Karen strained to make out the voice, but couldn’t. “Who?” she demanded.

  “It’s Victoria.”

  “What’s the matter with you?” Karen asked aggressively. “Are you the one who’s been calling and hanging up? Why? You scared me, dammit!”

  “I…I can’t talk any louder, Roger might hear me.”

  Roger the twit, her brother-in-law. “You don’t want him to know you’re on the phone?”

  “No…”

  Karen thought she heard a soft intake of breath that might have been a sob. “What’s wrong?” she asked more gently.

  No response.

  “Victoria? Are you still there?” The line hadn’t been disconnected, but there was no further sound.

  “I’m here,” Victoria finally whispered.

  Karen guessed her sister was in some kind of trouble, otherwise she wouldn’t be phoning her, especially this late. And all those hangups… A sense of urgency filled Karen. The kind that required action. Something was terribly wrong. “I’m coming for you and Bryce.”

  “No.” Her sister’s response was sharp and immediate.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  Victoria hesitated, sobbed once, then spoke again, her voice so low Karen had to concentrate in order to make out the words. “Roger and I had an argument.”

  Karen couldn’t understand why her sister was calling her. What did Victoria need her to do? Sympathize? Give advice?

  That seemed unlikely, but just as she was about to ask, Victoria explained. “You were always so brave…” she said in a quavering voice. “You never let people get away with anything. I—I’ve always admired that. I…wanted to talk to you, tell you…” The words trailed off.

  “Is everything all right between you and Roger now?” Karen asked.

  Again the hesitation. “No.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to come and get you?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help you?” Karen asked, sitting down on the sofa and folding her legs beneath her. “Do you want to get away, talk, whatever?” She couldn’t remember the last time she’d talked to her sister—really talked. Years ago, she guessed. Long before Karen had graduated from high school. Victoria was two years older, and Karen had looked up to her sister. Their real troubles had started when Victoria was away at college and Karen had gotten involved in the school acting ensemble.

  “I don’t think there’s anything anyone can do,” Victoria whispered.

  Her sister was sobbing quietly and trying not to let Karen know. Karen’s heart went out to her. “Did I ever tell you I think Roger’s a total twit?”

  Victoria responded with a hiccuping sound that was half laugh and half sob. “No, but I guessed. And…he knows.”

  “Good.” Karen was glad to hear it.

  “Oh, Sis, sometimes I think…” She didn’t finish.

  “Think what?” Karen probed.

  “Nothing,” Victoria said after a moment.

  “Do you want to tell me about the argument?”

  “It…. it isn’t important. The reasons never are.”

  “Victoria, listen. People don’t always agree. We fought enough as kids, didn’t
we? It doesn’t mean we don’t love each other. We all say and do things we regret.” Karen wasn’t taking sides, nor did she want to put herself in the middle of a disagreement between her sister and brother-in-law. What she wanted to do was present a mature option, and give them both some breathing room. “Why don’t you hop in the car and come on over here with Bryce? We can sit up all night and have a gabfest the way we did when we were kids.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Sure you can. If you prefer, I could drive over to your place.”

  “No…no, that wouldn’t work.”

  Karen’s hand tightened around the receiver as a horrifying thought occurred to her. “Is there a reason you don’t want me to see you?”

  A soft sob, then, “Yes.”

  A chill ran down her spine. “The son of a bitch hit you, didn’t he?”

  “We’re all in this alone.”

  —Lily Tomlin

  Chapter 18

  CLARE CRAIG

  March 9th

  Most of my day was spent with Michael. Not with him as in the same room or even the same vicinity. But I thought about him constantly. He was back in the hospital for his second bout of chemotherapy and Alex was scheduled to pick him up at the same time as before.

  Apparently Miranda can’t be bothered. Her excuse is that she’s building her customer base and can’t be dragged away from the nail clinic without missing appointments. I can’t stand the way Michael defends her!

  Alex knows better than to discuss the little darling with me, although I doubt he would, anyway. He finds the subject of Michael’s live-in lover as distasteful as I do.

  I know it’s hard for Alex to see his father this ill. It is for me, too. I can sympathize with my son; Michael’s his father, after all. My own reaction is harder to understand. Why should I care so much? But I do, especially since Michael’s condition appears to be fairly serious. He’s avoided my questions so far, but from what I’ve been able to learn, it’s some form of liver cancer. Alex doesn’t know any more details than I do, but this can’t be good.

  While we were going through the divorce, I thought I’d enjoy seeing Michael suffer, but surprisingly I don’t. Twenty-three years of marriage, most of them good, two children plus a successful business we built together—we shared all that. I think this is why I can’t remain unaffected by his illness. If ever I needed proof of the thin line between love and hate, here it is. The line’s so thin, in fact, that sometimes it’s transparent.

  Michael’s chemotherapy, and apparently he’s being given one of the more aggressive drug combinations, takes nearly all day. He’s at the hospital for almost eight hours and so weak he can barely walk when he’s finished. For four consecutive days he receives the drug cocktail, then he doesn’t get it again for three weeks. I don’t know how many treatments he’ll require, but Alex mentioned four sessions. Four months of this seems like a very long time.

  Twice now, because of Alex’s schedule at school and my part-time hours, I’ve been the one to chauffeur Michael home from the hospital. My friends in the Thursday morning group fear I shouldn’t be doing this. As they pointed out, Michael does have other options that don’t need to involve me. I understand their concerns and yet I still find myself volunteering.

  I’m confused about my feelings for Michael right now. Love, hate. Compassion, anger. It’s all there.

  And apparently I’m not the only one who’s confused. Michael doesn’t know what to think about me, either. We talk more, but never about her or the divorce. The ride between the hospital and his place takes about thirty minutes, depending on traffic. So I guess it’s only natural that we talk. After all, we spent more than two decades talking to each other.

  The first time, our conversation was stilted and uncomfortable. More recently Michael described the side effects of chemotherapy. The weakness and nausea, the continuing weight loss, the depression. He’s losing his hair but that seems too insignificant to mention. (Although it probably bothers his girlfriend.)

  I was forced to stop the second time I drove him, too. I pulled off to the side of the road and just as before, Michael stumbled out of the car and immediately vomited. Then he did the oddest thing. He reached down and touched his vomit. Touched it. I had to know why. Michael would never do anything like that under normal circumstances.

  After he’d rinsed his mouth, he explained. It’s the fire, he said. It feels as though his entire body is burning from the inside out. The reason he touched the vomit was to see if it was boiling. That’s the way it felt coming up from his stomach and through his throat. Like molten lava.

  I gave him a few minutes to regroup and breathe in the fresh air. He leaned against the bumper, too weak to stand upright.

  I had to help him back into the car and I know he found it embarrassing. Once he was settled and we were on our way again, he casually asked about Mick. Apparently our oldest son remains unwilling to speak to his father. He knows about the cancer; I told him myself. But Mick is as stubborn and unforgiving as I am. It gives me no pleasure to write this.

  Michael isn’t the only one Mick isn’t speaking to these days. I wonder if he knows that his sons are estranged from each other because of him. Alex and Mick haven’t talked in weeks. It hurts me to see it, knowing how close they once were. The boys and I clung to one another all through the divorce, and now Mick can’t forgive his brother for reconciling with their father. He was upset with me too when he learned I’d driven Michael home from the hospital. I guess I should count my blessings that he’s still speaking to me. It’s probably just as well that Mick’s at college and not living at home right now, much as I hate to say that.

  When we reached the place Michael’s renting, he told me how much he regrets what’s happening between him and his sons. Even though he sees Alex every week, Michael realizes their relationship will never be what it was. And Mick, of course, won’t have anything to do with him.

  Michael wanted me to know how much he loves them and how sorry he is, how he’d do anything to repair the damage. He looked sad and broken as he climbed out of the car and headed toward the small, dumpy rental house.

  Not until he disappeared inside did I realize something important. When he talked about his remorse over everything that’s happened, my name was missing.

  “See into life—don’t just look at it.”

  —Anne Baxter

  Chapter 19

  LIZ KENYON

  March 13th

  Annie wrote me, and her sweet, precious letter was waiting when I arrived home from work. It thrilled me to hear from my granddaughter, but I felt restless and sad for the rest of the evening. Just a few months ago she lived here in Willow Grove and we had all the time in the world to be together. I miss our tea parties and baking muffins and snuggling up together in bed.

  I read the letter twice, then wandered into the bedroom. The big fancy hats and white gloves we used for our tea parties are on the top shelf of my closet, gathering dust. What fun Annie and I had as we sipped tea—hers cooled with milk—from delicate china cups, the ones I inherited from Steve’s mother. We’d nibble on cookies, having silly conversations with lots of laughter. It’s a memory that brings tears to my eyes.

  Amy and the kids and I chat every week, but it’s not the same. I miss Annie and Andrew so much. They’re my only grandchildren, an extension of my children, an extension of Steve and me and the wonderful years we shared.

  My appetite was nil tonight, but I forced myself to eat dinner, although I didn’t put any effort into cooking nor did I experience any pleasure when I sat down at the kitchen table to eat. When Steve was alive, our dinners were an occasion, always served in the dining room with good linen and china, usually accompanied by a glass of wine. I took pride in cooking. Now dinner is simply a necessity, a chore.

  As soon as I finished eating and feeling sorry for myself, I wrote Annie, holding Tinkerbell in my lap, making a rash promise. I told her I’d visit her this summer. The thought lightened my mo
od and then on a wild impulse, I made the decision to drive from California to Oklahoma. I hate flying. I detest being cramped in a narrow seat, breathing recycled air. Invariably I’m stuck with an inconsiderate jerk who rams the back of his seat into my nose. Why should I fly when I have the time and the desire to drive?

  I can already hear Amy and Brian’s objections. My children are going to remind me that it’s not safe for a woman to drive a distance of that length alone. They’ll want to know why I’d take the risk when air travel is so convenient. And I can almost guarantee they won’t like my answer.

  Over the years, Steve and I took a number of driving trips, with the kids and without them. We always enjoyed our time on the road. Like so much else in my marriage, I’ve missed that. Spending all those days in the car is far from a hardship when you’re with a person you love, a person you know so well. It’s a distinct pleasure and definitely my favorite way to travel. However, it’s just not a possibility now; there’s no one like that in my life. But I can still enjoy my vacation. With three weeks due me, I can drive leisurely, stop when I feel like it, tour where I want to and still spend plenty of time with Amy and the kids.

  I don’t intend to be stupid about it, but if something dreadful happens, an accident of some kind, then so be it. I refuse to live the rest of my life in fear. I enjoy driving, I miss my grandchildren and I’m heading for Tulsa.

  Only I won’t mention my plans to the family. Not yet. No need to stir up their concerns this early. Besides, it won’t matter; I’ve made up my mind. First thing tomorrow morning, I’ll book the time off. I feel better already, just knowing I’ll be with Annie and Andrew this summer.

  Karen phoned just before I got ready for bed. She asked several questions about reporting spousal abuse. It didn’t take me long to figure out who she was talking about, although she didn’t actually mention her sister by name.