Evening News

by Marly Swick

  “But we already have someone, a psychologist,” Giselle said.

  He patted her shoulder and left her in the waiting room.

  She had been so focused on the pills themselves, on making sure he was going to live, that she hadn’t really taken in the larger implications of how the pills had ended up in Teddy’s stomach. Now it hit her that her nine-year-old son had tried to kill himself. Her nine-year-old son, whose birthday was next month, July 4, had tried to commit suicide. She had managed not to cry all night, but now she couldn’t help herself. She had been thinking she could go call Ed now and tell him that everything was fine. No need to worry. She had thought about not telling him at all, but she was worried that Teddy would tell him; then Ed would be angry with her, demanding to know what was going on “out there.” But now it hit her just what she would be telling him. As if only now that she knew Teddy was going to be okay, at least physically, could she begin to think about the rest of it. It occurred to her at that point that she should call Hannah Cole. For all she was worth, with her Stanford diploma. Giselle’s anger suddenly flared up and raged toward the therapist. Her perfect hair and clothes and tastefully decorated office with its Haitian paintings. Giselle had felt all along in her gut that Hannah was too young, too inexperienced, but Dan had been impressed by her credentials. And after all these weeks, what had she accomplished with Teddy? Obviously not a whole fucking lot. Incensed, Giselle fumbled in her purse for a quarter and marched over to a pay phone. She tried to insert the quarter into the slot but dropped it. Her hands were trembling. The quarter rolled away, under the vending machine. “Shit!” She was on her hands and knees, cursing, when the psychiatrist walked up. “Mrs. Trias?” he asked tentatively. If he had slapped a straitjacket on her and thrown her into a locked ward, she would have been grateful. Instead, he led her to a tiny neutral office, not much larger than a confessional. As she babbled on, he listened quietly, his hands folded the way they did when they were kids — Here’s the church and here’s the steeple; open the door and see the people! — his chin balanced precariously on the tip of the steeple. Giselle hated to think what he must be thinking.

  ***

  The divorce agreement stipulated that Teddy spend a month each summer with his father. So when Ed demanded that Teddy come to Nebraska immediately, Giselle said okay, “since he would be going soon anyway — there was only a week of school left.” She was trying to save face. In fact, she was eager to get Teddy away from home, into a new environment, but she didn’t want to admit to Ed just how bad things were. How helpless she felt. How hopeless. She continued to blame Dr. Cole, who kept leaving messages. But Giselle refused to talk to her or let Teddy talk to her. It felt good at last to have a target for her anger, someone to blame. Dan said she was being irrational. Even the psychiatrist at the hospital, Dr. Krings, said Hannah couldn’t be held responsible. But Giselle didn’t care; she didn’t want to hear it.

  It had been only two days. Thursday and Friday. Dan was staying at his mother’s place. Giselle was furious with him as well. She didn’t want to lay eyes on him. At the hospital she had called a cab to take her and Teddy home. Then she had called Dan at the office, told him about Teddy, and suggested that he stay with his mother for a while, to give them both a break, a little time to cool off. He hadn’t offered any resistance. He seemed relieved to be out of the house. Teddy was leaving on Saturday morning. Giselle had wanted a couple of days with him before he took off. A couple of days to mend or bond or whatever. To talk heart to heart. But although Teddy was uncharacteristically agreeable, almost cheerful — visibly relieved to be going fifteen hundred miles away — he remained politely remote. Like a guest. His suitcase sat in his room, already packed. Seeing him so upbeat, she wanted to shake him. It hit her that maybe he had orchestrated this whole thing, manipulated her into sending him away. Away from the scene of his crime. And then she felt guilt-stricken for thinking such a thing. After all, he had tried to kill himself. He was just a kid.

  Lately it occurred to her more and more that maybe she was just a kid, too — only older. Maybe you never really grew up at all. Maybe adulthood was a myth, except for those few obvious exceptions like Mother Teresa and Ralph Nader. The rest of us were all a bunch of scared, desperate imposters. Children in adults’ clothing. Although, more and more, especially in California, she had noticed that adults didn’t even bother to dress like adults. You saw fifty-year-old women in skimpy sunsuits, sixty-year-old men in T-shirts and dungarees. Her father wore a suit and tie to work every day, and to restaurants, school plays, cocktail parties. Her mother wore nylons and heels. They at least acted the part. They had always managed to convince her that they were adults and that one day she, too, would be an adult like them — like it or not. Even if maybe inside they felt confused or needy. There was a lot to be said for just dressing the part.

  It was odd, but her marriage to Ed had felt somehow more real or adult, despite the stupidity of it, than her marriage to Dan. Every day she woke up knowing that she was a wife and mother, even if she hadn’t chosen to be, whereas with Dan it had always felt a little like playing house. She didn’t know why exactly. She had always felt a bit like the ingenue. With Ed, even though they were both barely drinking age, she used to brood about growing old together. She could see it all too clearly, like time-lapse photography. Ed would be on his third or fourth La-Z-Boy, replaced every few years during a blowout sale at Nebraska Furniture Mart. He would look exactly like his father with a thatch of white hair and a face as lined, leathery, and all-American as an old baseball mitt. Somehow she had never pictured Dan grown old, maybe because he was older when she met him, already in his mid-thirties. Or maybe because she had never met his father. Or maybe because some part of her knew that he would already be long gone. Till death do us part. Well, Trina was dead and now they were apart.

  ***

  The night before Teddy left for Nebraska, they went to the movies, just the two of them — the way they used to, before Dan. Giselle hated sitting in a movie theater alone, even though she knew it was silly — she didn’t like for anyone to talk to her during movies anyway — but there was something about being in the dark in public. She wanted a familiar body next to her. And she loved the movies, ever since she was a kid. She still felt guilty about the way she used to drag Teddy out into the frigid winter when he was a baby, bundled up in blankets, and shush him when he started to fuss during the movie. Or the times he had to sit through boring and inappropriate movies as her “date.” “Let’s go on a date,” she’d say, and bribe him with popcorn and huge, overpriced boxes of candy. Junior Mints, Raisinets, Good & Plenty. The poor kid would sit there squirming or napping — ruining his teeth — through The House of the Spirits or Sommersby.

  But this time it was Teddy’s choice. Even he knew what she was up to, trying to ingratiate herself before he went back to his dad, so he would say nice things about her, think nice thoughts. Maybe even miss her. One last desperate attempt to make things right.

  At the food court of the mall, next to the movie theaters, she bought him pizza and an Oreo Blizzard. They had time to kill before the movie started. A new Star Trek movie. She couldn’t even remember the title. Teddy was kicking his feet under the table, anxious to get going. He had already kicked her in the shins twice, and she’d told him to quit it. Since the sleeping pill incident — she flinched whenever Ed referred to it as the “suicide attempt” — Teddy’s listlessness had been replaced by this restless, manic energy. Yesterday she had stood at the window as he raced his bike around the block in circles, peddling like a person possessed. After a couple of laps she had started counting, and finally after his tenth time around the same block, she had gone out and ordered him to come inside the house. She had attempted to talk with him about the pill incident, but he clammed up whenever she mentioned it. When she’d asked him to promise her he’d never do anything like that again, he had shrugged and said, “Okay, I promise,” in a tone of voice she hadn’t found the least
bit reassuring.

  At the next table there was a little dark-haired girl in a high chair eating lo mein with her fingers. She was Asian but from the back looked just like Trina. The mother and sister were deftly shoveling away their noodles with chopsticks, smiling and chatting. The brother was eating a hamburger and fries. Every so often he would feed his little sister a french fry, dangling it just above her mouth, and she’d leap for it like a fish taking the bait. It struck Giselle as slightly sadistic, but the mother seemed oblivious. Giselle watched Teddy watching them. She couldn’t read the look on his face. She was about to suggest that they go, “in case there’s a line at the theater,” when Teddy looked at her and said, “You never talk about Trina.” It sounded like an accusation. “If you think that makes me feel better, it doesn’t. ’Cause I know you’re thinking about her all the time.”

  Giselle didn’t know what to say. He’d caught her by surprise. She was struck dumb by the truth and perspicacity of his statement. She took a sip of her coffee. He seemed to be waiting, expecting her to say something adult. She shrugged and nodded her head. “That’s true,” she said. “You’re right, you’re absolutely right.”

  Her response seemed to mollify him. He sucked on his straw, raucously draining the dregs of his Blizzard. She wanted to keep him talking. She leaned across the table and said, “When you come back, things will be better.”

  “Why?” He looked dubious.

  “Because these things take time. They say time heals all wounds. Like when you cut your finger. It takes time to heal. The deeper the cut, the longer it takes.”

  “I don’t think so,” he said.

  “What do you mean, you don’t think so?” The Asian family scraped their chairs back and stood up. The mother pointed, and the boy obediently carried their trays to the waste receptacle.

  Teddy shrugged. “I don’t really want to talk about it. Okay?”

  She sighed and looked at her watch. “We might as well go.”

  They walked down the mall to the theater complex. As she was paying for their tickets — she still couldn’t believe the price of movies in California — he tugged on her purse and asked, “Can I get popcorn?”

  “You just ate,” she said.

  “But it’s my last night.” He stood stubbornly in front of the popcorn machine.

  She knew that he knew she didn’t want to get into a fight with him, that she didn’t want anything to ruin their last night together. The little blackmailer. She shook her head. “Come on, let’s get a seat.”

  “No.”

  The smug look on his face infuriated her. Her hand whipped out and smacked his cheek. Right there in the bright lights of the concession stand in the midst of a small throng of people. He looked more shocked than hurt. She couldn’t believe what she had done. Mortified, she dropped to her knees and kissed him and mumbled how sorry she was, she didn’t mean it. They were creating a scene. She was aware of the murmur of voices surrounding them, but she didn’t care. She had never struck him before, except maybe once or twice on the butt, a tap really, when he was small.

  “Mom,” he said, “Mom” — he was tugging on her jacket sleeve — “it’s all right. Get up. It’s okay.”

  A couple of older women clucked and shook their heads, glaring at her as they walked by. Giselle could feel the hot blood scalding her cheeks. Teddy took her hand. She couldn’t remember the last time he had voluntarily slipped his hand into hers. “It’s not her fault,” he announced to the clucking, glaring women. “You don’t know what I did.”

  ***

  At the airport the next morning Giselle was surprised that she passed through the security checkpoint without a second glance from the guard. She felt like a crazy woman. A domestic terrorist. Racing pulse, sweaty palms, dry mouth. A fanatic of some sort. A seeker of vengeance. She had not slept all night, tortured with shame and remorse over her violent outburst at the movie theater, even though Teddy seemed to harbor no grudge. He seemed almost grateful for the slap. These days she could only guess at what was going on inside that head of his. Maybe he felt it evened the score between them. The ledger of guilt and blame. Maybe he craved some sort of tangible punishment. It must seem odd to him how you got punished for the minor infractions. A “time out” for talking back. No Popsicle for coming home late. No TV for breaking your sister’s busy box. But for the major crimes, there was no punishment. How much “time out” for shooting your little sister?

  At the gate Teddy stood by the large windows, watching the jets take off and land. He did not seem the least bit nervous about the prospect of flying alone for the first time. He was wearing his red backpack loaded with stuff to do on the plane — books, puzzles, gum, M&Ms, Life Savers, raisins. She had insisted on the raisins even though he didn’t want them. “I don’t want your father to think you only eat junk,” she’d said. Ed was going to meet Teddy at the gate in Omaha since you couldn’t fly directly to Lincoln, then the two of them would drive back to Lincoln, an hour away. As she looked out at the tarmac, she wished she were going, too. She had thought about it but knew she would be a third wheel. Teddy needed to get away from her, and from Dan, who had surprised her by calling while they were at the movies. He had left a message asking whether they needed a ride to the airport and offering his services if they did. When Giselle called him back to say it was okay, the car was out of the shop, she ended up talking to his mother. A quick and cool conversation. She knew that Luisa blamed her for everything. Maybe she should have taken Dan up on the offer. She dreaded going back to an empty house. An empty weekend. She couldn’t even remember the last time she had spent a weekend alone.

  What she couldn’t help remembering was the last time they were at the airport. She had arrived early to give Teddy time to watch the planes and to give herself time to get lost, since she had never driven to LAX before. She was still intimidated by the California freeways. Dan had gone to the Modern Language Association convention in New York, and they were picking him up. Trina was fussy and feverish from teething. Giselle was exhausted from four days alone with the kids, but she had showered and changed and put on makeup. She could still remember the feeling of happy anticipation as his plane landed and passengers started flooding through the gate. It was their first family reunion. Teddy spotted him. “There he is!” They were all smiling and waving. Trina squealed and lurched forward, nearly somersaulting out of Giselle’s arms. Dan caught her just in time. “How’s my main man?” He slapped Teddy’s palm in a high five. “And my best gals.” He squeezed his wife and daughter in a big bear hug. “God, I missed you guys,” he said as they joined the stampede to the baggage claim. “Mi familia. I’m never going away again.”

  On the way home they ran out of gas. Dan didn’t yell at her, but she knew it was her fault. She burst into tears. “What are you crying for?” he said. “I can see the gas station from here.” Fortunately, they were near an exit ramp. But she knew her carelessness had ruined the perfect reunion. She would have preferred that he cuss her out the way Ed would have done. How could you be so damn dumb, Ed would have blustered, shaking his head. And she would have shot back, “Yeah, why don’t you try taking care of two kids for four days. See what happens to your brain.” But instead, she kept apologizing and Dan kept assuring her it was all right. In that voice he reserved for his densest students, the hopeless cases, the ones he had diagnosed as lost causes. The Flatliners, he called them. He liked to shock people by saying he believed in pedagogical triage: “You can’t save everyone from their own stupidity,” he would say. “You’ve got to save your energy for the ones who can be saved.”

  Teddy walked over to Giselle and asked her how much longer. The gate was crowded now. A large, extended Indian family had seated themselves all around her, urgently conferring with one another in Parsi or Urdu or whatever. They had enough carry-on baggage for a platoon. A curry-scented cloud seemed to envelop them. Giselle’s stomach rumbled. She hadn’t eaten anything. Teddy made a funny face at a little girl sitting
on her grandmother’s lap. She stopped sucking her thumb and broke into a huge smile. The little girl had glossy black ringlets and dark eyes like Trina’s. Giselle shut her eyes and sighed. Another reason to go back to Nebraska, the Aryan nation, headquarters of the American Nazi Party, a place where all the children were blond and blue-eyed and looked nothing like her daughter. Little latter-day Vikings.

  The loudspeaker crackled. Flight 482 is now ready for early boarding. First-class passengers and children traveling alone . . .

  “That’s me,” Teddy said.

  Giselle nodded and followed him over to the line of early boarders, old and young. She wanted to say something important, to take advantage of this last chance to wipe the slate clean. But all she could think to say was “Don’t forget to call me when you get there.” Teddy wasn’t paying attention anyway. He was telling the ticket agent that his father was going to meet him at the airport in Omaha. “She’s not going with me,” he told the woman, referring to Giselle. His voice clearly did not contain the faintest pang of regret. The ticket agent smiled at Giselle and said, “We’ll take good care of him. Don’t worry.”

  He lines up his peanuts in straight rows on the fold-down tray in front of him and pops them into his mouth, one by one, left to right, as if he is eating words on a page. The nice blond stewardess gave him an extra packet and some pilot wings that she pinned to his sweatshirt. He already has a bunch of them at home from his uncle Todd, who is always flying to New York or Japan, but he didn’t tell her that. At his sixth birthday party a kid from school had given him a Don’t Spill the Beans game he already had. When he ripped off the wrapping paper, Teddy had said, “Thanks. This is a cool game. I’ve already got one.” He thought he was being polite. But later his mother told him you shouldn’t say if you already have something, because it makes the person feel bad. “I was just being honest,” he’d protested. “You always say to tell the truth.” And his mother had said it was okay to tell “little white lies” to make someone feel better. For days after that he had gone around thinking up sample lies and asking if they were black or white. If I say I brushed my teeth and I didn’t, is that a white lie? How about if I say I can’t eat vegetables because I’m an alien from Mars?