But sleep was hard to come by. I turned off the light, clutched the pillow close to me, smelled the astringent bleach that Dad’s very old-fashioned housekeeper used on the sheets (who else uses bleach these days?), and waited for unconsciousness to hit. Half an hour later I sat up, turned on the bedside light, and returned to Updike’s limpid reflections on adolescent longings during football season.
Two hours went by. I got up and went downstairs to make myself a mug of herbal tea, in the hope that it might act as a soporific and grant me a few hours of unconsciousness. When I reached the kitchen, I found Dad sitting at the table, reading this month’s edition of The Atlantic.
“I was wondering if you’d make it through the night unscathed,” he said with a smile, also remembering the other white nights I’d suffered while staying here.
“Well, glad to see I’ve got someone else to share the worry with me until dawn,” I said.
“Oh, even when I’ve not got something on my mind,” Dad said, “I don’t sleep much these days. It’s the thing about getting older. The body doesn’t need as much sleep as it used to—because it knows it’s going to die.”
“That’s a real upbeat late-night thought.”
“Well, when you’ve crossed into your ninth decade, blah, blah, blah. Funny, isn’t it, how all the big thoughts about life and death are fundamentally banal. The thing is, even though I know it’s coming sooner than later, I still can’t imagine being dead. Not being here or anywhere—simply no longer existing.”
“Remind me never to sit up with you at this hour again.”
He smiled.
“I’ll tell you one thing, I do envy Christian folk like my grandson: when the end comes for someone you love, their faith must provide a great deal of comfort.”
“And meanwhile, before you shuffle off to your eternal reward, you can fill up your time on Planet Earth telling other people how to live their lives.”
“Don’t be too hard on Jeff . . .”
“Hang on, he’s the one who’s always hard on you.”
“It’s very difficult, figuring out somebody else’s political anger. I often wonder what I’ve done to that boy—bar having a somewhat radical past that he seems to be ashamed of.”
“I’d like to say something comforting and corny like, ‘I know he still loves you,’ but—and this is a real late-night admission—I don’t even know if he loves me anymore. And you know what really disappoints me more than anything? The fact that his intolerance is bound up in such unkindness. He’s so terribly judgmental and pitiless. I still love him, of course—but I’ve actually stopped liking him . . . as horrible as it is to admit that.”
“Do you think Miss Shannon is to blame for his newfound reactionism?”
“She certainly ‘brought him to Jesus’—which, as you may remember, were the exact words he used to describe his religious awakening. And you know all about her militant pro-life stance, not to mention the fact that her father is some bigwig evangelical. And Jeff’s so totally bought into their born-again thinking that I sense he’ll never be free of their clutches.”
“Maybe we can arrange to get him caught with a prostitute on a business trip . . .”
“Dad!”
“We’d make it a very upscale call girl, of course—and someone who would show him a very good time, to let him know what he’s missing with Shannon.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, and stared wide-eyed at my father. He went on.
“Now we wouldn’t want him to lose his job or anything over this, so we’d have the call girl admit that she was paid by ‘an unknown party’ to seduce him—make it seem like some prank thought up by a couple of his colleagues—and also say that she slipped something in his drink which made him lose all judgment and succumb to her charms. His firm would keep him on—from what you’ve told me, he makes them too much money to be dismissed for some minor sexual transgression. But with any luck, Shannon will throw him out. And though it will be hard on the kids, Jeff will come to his senses, renounce his insane fundamentalism, quit the corporate jungle, move to Paris, rent a garret in some seedy arrondissement, and start writing pornographic novels for a living . . .”
“Will you shut up, please,” I said, resisting the temptation to laugh.
“Don’t tell me you disapprove of my fanciful imagination?”
“I simply don’t know if I should be appalled or amused.”
“I did have you thinking I was on the level, didn’t I?”
My dad was beaming with pleasure. And I couldn’t help but think: Bless him for still being so profoundly subversive and mischievous.
We staggered off to our respective bedrooms just before five. Finally, exhaustion kicked in and I blacked out. The next thing I knew, a high-pitched beep was invading my unconsciousness. I jolted awake. Light was seeping through the thin bedroom curtains and my cell phone was ringing. I reached for it.
“Hello,” I said, sounding full of sleep.
“Did I wake you, Mom?”
Lizzie. Thank God.
“No,” I lied. “I was just dozing.” I glanced at my watch. It was seven-twenty. “How did it go with Mark, hon?”
“That’s what I’m calling about,” she said, sounding incredibly upbeat. “I have the most fantastic news.”
I tensed. “And what’s that?”
“Mark asked me to marry him last night.”
Now I was completely awake.
“Well, that’s a surprise,” I said, adopting a careful tone.
“You don’t sound pleased for me.”
“Naturally I’m pleased, Lizzie. I’m just also a little . . . amazed, I guess, considering that yesterday he seemed to want to end things.”
“I knew he’d change his mind once I spoke with him.”
“And, if you don’t mind me asking, what did you say to Mark that made him change his mind?”
She giggled—the sort of high-pitched giggle I’d usually associate with a teenage girl in the throes of first love.
“That’s between me and my guy,” she said, sounding coy. When she giggled again, my BS meter suddenly entered the deep red zone—and a chill caught me between the shoulders. She was making all this up.
“Lizzie, hon, I still don’t get it.”
“Get what?”
“Get how you managed to talk Mark around.”
“Are you saying you don’t believe me?”
“Of course I believe you. I’m just . . . impressed by your powers of persuasion and I wondered how you managed to . . .”
“Mark hasn’t been happy with his wife for years. In fact, he’s often said that the marriage was one huge mistake. But he felt guilty about abandoning his kids. So . . . and I really shouldn’t be telling you this, but as you insist . . . what I said to him last night is that there’s no problem by me if the kids want to live with us, especially as Ruth, that’s his wife, keeps talking about wanting to go to Ireland and be a writer. So what we’re going to do is sublet my loft, find a big house for the four of us, and live happily ever after.”
Then, as an afterthought, she added, “Joke!”
I quickly felt huge relief.
“So you are pulling my leg,” I said.
“No!” she replied, all petulant. “The joke was the happily-ever-after bit. I’m not that naive to think that life with two young stepchildren will be easy. Still, I know I’ll do my best with Bobby and Ariel . . .”
He has a daughter named Ariel?
“. . . and with my own baby on the way . . .”
Now I really did feel as if I were in free fall.
“Did you just say . . . ?”
“Yes, I’m pregnant.”
“Since when?”
“Since last night. It was all planned, of course. Like, I’m right in the middle of my cycle—and as it’s something we’ve both so wanted for so long, what better time to make a baby than on the night when we’ve reconciled and realized that our destiny is to be together . . .”
“Now that all sounds very wonderful, hon . . .”
“So you are pleased for me, Mom?”
“Completely pleased. But the thing is: you do know that, just because you’re in the middle of your cycle, the chances of getting pregnant . . . though good . . . aren’t a hundred percent certain.”
“Oh, I know I’m pregnant. Because the sex we had last night—”
She broke off for a moment, then giggled again.
“Mom, can I ask you something? Have you ever been so intensely fucked that you actually thought you were having an out-of-body experience? Well, that’s what it was like last night with Mark. It was as if we were both fused together. It was so pure, so beyond the realm of any sensation I’ve ever experienced with him or any other man in the past. And that’s why I’m so certain that I’m pregnant. Because when he came in me, I could feel his seed . . .”
“Hon—”
I broke off, unable to complete the sentence.
“Sorry, Mom, I didn’t mean to get graphic,” she said with another giggle. “It’s just . . . I can’t tell you how happy I am right now. Like, this is a once-in-a-lifetime moment. And I know when the baby I’m carrying is old enough to understand these things, I’m going to tell him or her about how he or she was made in a moment of pure passion, pure love, pure . . .”
I had tears in my eyes—and they were not because of the romantic drivel she was currently spouting.
“Lizzie, hon, where are you right now?”
“On my way to work.”
“You feel up to working today?”
“You mean, after all that fabulous sex last night?” she asked, giggling again. “Like, I haven’t slept much, but with a kid on the way, I better keep the money coming in.”
“And have you got anything planned for tonight?”
“I’m going to really need to sleep.”
“Well, here’s an idea. I’m at your grandfather’s now . . .”
“Hey, can I talk to him? Haven’t told you this, but I have been talking with Granddad quite a bit about Mark and stuff—and I know he’s going to be so pleased to hear that it’s all worked out.”
“Granddad’s still in bed right now. But here’s the thing: why don’t I drive down tonight and take you out for a celebration dinner?”
“Like I said, Mom, I’m kind of operating on no sleep . . .”
“But I’m sure you can catch a little nap after work. And anyway, how often do I get the chance to toast the arrival of another grandchild?”
“That’s true, but you know I won’t be able to drink any alcohol, now that I’m expecting.”
“Well, I’ll do the drinking for the two of us. So how about it?”
“You really want to drive all the way down here just to toast my baby?”
“You’re my daughter, Lizzie . . .” As I said that, I felt a burning in the back of my throat. My eyes filled up with tears. I had to pull the phone away so Lizzie couldn’t hear me stifle a sob. My poor little girl. “And there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. So come on, let’s do that dinner tonight.”
“Well . . . I don’t know . . . I’m kind of—”
She broke off. Then, “No, I’d better not, Mom.”
“I could come tomorrow, then.”
Another pause . . . and I knew that she couldn’t face me right now; that all the fantastical bluster about her miraculous reconciliation with the doctor was just a fragile veneer which would crack when we came face-to-face.
“I’ve got a lot going on tomorrow, Mom.”
“Say I called you later today?”
Silence.
“Okay,” she said, sounding hesitant. “I should be home after seven.”
“Hon, you really sound exhausted. Why don’t you just call in sick today, go home, and . . .”
“Mom, I’ve got three big client things happening before three. So call me tonight, okay? Got to go now.”
And she hung up.
I put down the phone. I put my head in my hands. My mind was reeling. I tried to think clearly. I glanced again at my watch. Seven twenty-eight. I phoned Dan at home. No answer. I called his cell phone. No answer. He must have had an early-morning surgery scheduled for today. I left a message, asking him to call me back asap. Then I got out of bed and walked down the hall. Dad’s bedroom door was still closed. It was pointless waking him with disturbing news that was best chewed over after some sleep. So I went down to the kitchen, filled the old-fashioned percolator with coffee, and put it on the stove. As I waited for it to percolate, I fought off the urge to panic, telling myself that what I needed now was a clear plan of action to stop Lizzie from . . .
No, I didn’t want to go there yet. Or, at least, not until I was certain that what she had told me was complete tripe. There was a part of me—an irrationally hopeful part of me—that wanted to believe she was telling the truth. But there was only one way to verify such a fact—so I went back upstairs, dug out a business card from my wallet, and called Dr. Mark McQueen on his cell phone.
He answered on the second ring—and his tone indicated that this was a man who was not in a particularly happy place right now. After hearing my voice he said, “It’s not even eight yet, and you’re already calling me.”
I ignored that comment and said, “I’ve just been on the phone with Lizzie and—”
“You’re trying to plead her case with me . . . or tell me that, after what she pulled last night . . .”
“What did she pull last night?”
“You mean she didn’t say?”
“No, she didn’t.”
“Well, what did she tell you?”
“Just that you met and . . .”
“Yeah?”
I chose my words with care.
“That you seemed to have reconciled.”
“She said that?”
“Yes, she did.”
“Anything else?”
“She seemed very happy, that’s all.”
“Happy? Happy?” His voice was raised. “That’s un-fucking-believable. Beyond crazy. And let me tell you this: I don’t know what you or your husband did to that kid while she was growing up, but she has turned out to be one crazy bitch . . .”
I wanted to tear into him, but I held back—because I needed information.
“What did she do last night, Doctor?”
“You really want to know? I’ll tell you. I agreed to meet her in the bar of the Four Seasons Hotel, right off the Common. When she walked in, she had this completely beatific, loony smile on her face, and gave me this big deep kiss in front of everyone, and started going on about how she knew things were going to work out between us, how she knew I was her one and only, how she wanted to get pregnant by me and suggested we go straight out to the reception desk, get a room upstairs, and make a baby there and then.
“Well, as you can imagine—or maybe you can’t imagine it, because you consider me the heavy in this story, the big bad married man who fucked up your precious little daughter . . .”
“I just want to hear the story, Doctor.”
“I tried, very patiently, to explain to Lizzie that I was a man with responsibilities—toward my wife and my kids. And yeah, I know that sounds like major married man cliché stuff, but that was the truth of the matter. And yes, I had once said that I saw my future being with her—and maybe it led her to believe that I would leave my family to be with her—but now, sadly, I saw that I had to do the right thing, blah, blah, blah. Believe me, I said all this in as gentle a way as possible. I even rehearsed it with . . .”
He stopped himself—and I was certain that the sentence was going to finish with the words my shrink. He continued.
“Well, Lizzie didn’t exactly take this news very well. In fact, she pulled a complete crazy number, in which she started to cry, telling me that I just had to reconsider. Once again, I patiently tried to explain that my position was f
inal: I was staying with my family. And that’s when she went ballistic. She started screaming, yelling, threatening me. I tried to calm her down, but that only seemed to enrage her. She threw a glass of wine in my face, overturned our table, and went completely out of control. It got so bad that hotel security was called. But as soon as they showed up, she went all calm again and agreed to be escorted out, hissing at me that I was going to pay big-time for . . .”
He stopped, almost losing it himself. “Do you know what your crazy daughter did next? She drove straight out to my house in Brookline, pounded on the door, pushed past my wife, stormed straight into my den, where my kids were watching TV, and started telling them that she was going to be their new mommy . . . that their daddy loved her, not their mommy, and that they would be moving in with us in some new home that . . .”
He stopped again, his voice cracking. I didn’t know what to say, I was so thrown by what he was telling me.
“Ruth . . . my wife . . . handled things as best she could—and told Lizzie that she should leave immediately or she’d call the police. When she refused—”
“She refused . . . ?”
“Yeah, the demented bitch refused. So Ruth did call the cops. Right before they arrived, Lizzie actually tried to get my kids to leave with her. Understandably, they were hysterical—and Ruth had to restrain your daughter physically and get the kids into another part of the house, away from her. Just before the cops showed up, she fled and—”
“Do you have any idea where she is now?”
“You can’t be serious . . .”
“She needs help!”
“Fucking sure she does. Because the police are looking for her now. And my lawyer is working on a restraining order while we speak. And my wife has vowed that if Lizzie ever comes near our kids again—”
“That won’t happen. You have my word on—”
“I don’t want your fucking word. I just never want to see your insane daughter again. And I don’t want to hear from you again either. Got that?”
The line went dead. I stood up. I raced down the hall to where Dad was sleeping. I banged on the door.
“Daddy . . .” I shouted.
Daddy. When I was a kid, I only used that term when I was frightened.
The Douglas Kennedy Collection #1 Page 141