by Marly Swick
“I read that Kübler-Ross book, the one about when someone dies,” he continued. “I can’t believe I’d never read it.” She nodded to show that she knew what he was talking about and to encourage him, even though inside she was thinking, “Oh no, here we go, more goddamned books.” His voice was uncharacteristically tentative, halting. “My mother had it, you know, from when my father passed away.” Giselle noted the euphemism. In class he had always instructed them to avoid such euphemistic phrases. “Anyway, it would appear I’ve still got a ways to go. I can’t accept it. At least not yet. I’m sorry.”
She was following him, nodding, but suddenly his apology set off an alarm. An internal warning light blinked on inside her brain: “Caution! Go Slow! Dangerous Curve Ahead!”
She points to her empty glass; the waiter whisks it away with the flourish of a matador.
“Excuse me,” she said. “I think I’ll go to the ladies’ room. Back in a minute.” She had to do something. Maybe if she interrupted his train of thought, he would forget it. It happens sometimes. You are on the verge of saying something, even something important, and then there’s an interruption of some sort and the moment passes and it’s gone for good.
He looked surprised but didn’t comment as she slid to the end of the red tufted booth and stood up. In the ladies’ room she stalled for as long as she could — washing her hands, brushing her hair, applying fresh lipstick, picking at a spot of salsa on her new peach dress — all while trying to avoid her reflection in the mirror. She didn’t want to see the fear in her own eyes. It would only scare her more. Why was she acting like such a scared rabbit? That was one of her mother’s favorite expressions: “You look like a scared rabbit.” She had been planning to confront him about the book proposal, to find out whether he had really dropped the project, but now somehow she didn’t have the courage to issue an ultimatum. She didn’t want either of them to say anything that couldn’t be unsaid. Maybe it was being back in this familiar place where they’d had so many good times, where they had actually chosen their daughter’s name. She couldn’t believe they couldn’t work things out if they gave themselves enough time.
When she got back to the table, her second margarita was waiting for her. She slid into the booth across from him, smiled, and took a sip — concentrating on holding her hand steady.
The waiter brings them their food. “Be careful, the plates are hot,” he cautions them.
***
Later that night she lay in bed trying to remember exactly what he had said. Not the gist of it, which left room for misinterpretation, but his actual words. But the four margaritas that she had downed in quick succession had blurred the sharp edges, diffused her focus. She had cried steadily on the ride home, clutching her damp, shredded napkin in her hand. Instead of fighting back, Dan had mumbled a series of lame apologies and retreated into his shell. In the dark interior of the car, his shoulders hunched with tension, his head poked forward to see the road, he looked like a large, silent turtle. The gist of it was that although he wants to make it work, he doesn’t think he can. Although he tells himself that it was just an accident — he knows it was just an accident — he can’t help feeling this resentment. Toward Teddy. The fact that he is still alive. Toward her. The fact that she still has a child. He hates himself for feeling this way, but this is what he feels. Moreover, sometimes when he’s alone, he can sort of scroll back, erase the past three years — Giselle, Trina, the whole shebang — and feel almost okay. Almost as if his life isn’t over. But when he’s around them, Giselle and Teddy, it’s always there. He can’t get beyond it. He can’t accept it. At least for now. Maybe, after some time, who knows? He can’t predict how he is going to feel a month or a year from now. For the time being, he thinks he needs to be alone. He knows this isn’t much help in the present. He’s sorry.
Or words to that effect.
At 4 A.M. she was still lying there wide awake, playing the evening over and over again in her mind. She hated this time of night. She had come to think of it as the Earthquake Hour. They had been sound asleep when the earthquake hit. The first tremors jolted them awake, and they waited for a split second — to make sure it was real, not some dream — and then all hell broke loose. It sounded like the end of the world. Teddy was already out of bed, crawling toward the door. Dan scooped him up and handed him to her. The three of them huddled together, crouched, under the doorframe. The floor was shaking as though it were going to crack apart and send them crashing into the ground-floor apartment. She was relieved that there was no one above them. It seemed to go on forever. The noise was deafening. Like all the glass in the world being shattered at once. Like bullet trains colliding head-on.
When it was over, the worst of it, they had surveyed the apartment in a daze, shell-shocked. They were in the process of moving to the house on Buena Vista, and all their stuff was packed in boxes. The walls were bare. As luck would have it, Dan had just moved a carload of pictures, dishes, and lamps over to the new house the evening before, so they didn’t have pictures crashing down or books flying off shelves. Everything was still just sitting there in boxes. It was almost as if they’d hallucinated the whole thing. Until Teddy said, “Look!” and pointed to a huge crack spreading down the dining room wall. They watched in amazement as a chunk fell out of the ceiling, sprinkling them with plaster dust. Dan walked over and turned on the TV, which didn’t work. There was no electricity. A fact that somehow brought home the extent of the disaster. Giselle was five months pregnant. Dan walked back over to where she was standing, knelt down, and pressed his ear to her big belly. “Everything okay in there?”
The next day the electricity was still out. Desperate for news, they drove around the streets and saw for themselves the crushed cars, caved-in buildings, buckled pavement, the fires and floods from the broken mains. There was a postapocalyptic friendliness in the air. Everyone waved and greeted one another, stunned and elated by the mere fact of their survival. She and Teddy had just moved into Dan’s fourplex in Sherman Oaks a couple of months earlier, after the wedding. Otherwise, they would have still been living in their little apartment just off of Balboa Boulevard, a few blocks from the Northridge Apartments that collapsed, killing sixteen people. When Giselle finally saw the news footage, she couldn’t believe it. They might have been killed! As it turned out, after looking through all their cartons, the only damage that she could see was a box of cheap, shiny Christmas ornaments with a couple of shattered balls. She couldn’t believe how lucky they were.
In the aftermath, Teddy became obsessed with earthquakes. They went to the library to check out books on earthquakes, but they were too late. They were already checked out to other frightened kids. Dan scouted around and found one lone copy of Volcanoes and Earthquakes at a used-book store. Teddy insisted upon reading the book so often that she could still, two and a half years later, recite the facts from memory — the various types of faults: reverse faults, thrust faults, transcurrent faults, strike-slip faults, dip-slip faults, oblique faults, and normal faults. Teddy could match each type of fault with its illustration. The San Andreas was a strike-slip fault, whereas the Sierra Madre was a thrust fault. Teddy was particularly anxious about hidden faults; the Northridge earthquake had been the result of a hidden thrust fault, only discovered after the fact.
The term fault line suddenly struck her as odd. She had never before thought of it in terms of “fault,” as in someone’s “fault,” pointing the finger of blame. Lying there staring at the ceiling, she wondered what sort of fault line had been lurking underneath the surface of their lives. Oblique? Reverse? Normal?
***
Every morning as soon as the sun was out, she flopped into the chaise and lay there until the sun disappeared. By the end of Teddy’s first week in Nebraska, she looked like a piece of bread that someone had forgotten to flip over in the toaster oven. Her back was a sickly white with deep ridges from the plastic webbing that was unraveling further every day, her butt sinking lower and l
ower toward the burned, unkempt grass. Before Teddy left, she had made out a list of projects. But now she didn’t have the energy. She couldn’t even remember what they were. Or where she’d put the list. Yesterday she had unearthed a video from underneath a stack of unread newspapers. The Indian in the Cupboard. They had rented it two nights before Teddy left for Nebraska. Without her kids, without her husband, her life had no structure. It was as if her skeleton had dissolved, leaving only an empty bag of skin.
Sometimes Lois joined her in the backyard. Two emotional cripples. Although Lois wasn’t quite so bad off. An emotional quadriplegic and an emotional paraplegic. Lois still had Eric to keep her going. She had to get up in the morning to prepare his lunch and get him off to school. Dentist appointments to keep track of, chauffeur duties. Lois still had enough energy or vanity to roll over onto her stomach and get an even tan.
In a week’s time they had graduated from beer to orange blossoms and Bloody Marys. Lois was cleaning out Bill’s liquor cabinet. Giselle had taken to bumming Carletons from Lois, who had started smoking again now that Bill was gone. They were like two unsupervised teenagers run amok.
She had received two postcards from Teddy. One of the Huskers’ stadium and the other of a field full of hogs. Neither particularly informative. The gist of his pithy, block-printed messages seemed to be Having a swell time, don’t wish you were here. Talking to him on the phone was even worse, like a game of Twenty Questions punctuated with monosyllabic grunts. Usually Ed would get on the phone afterward and fill her in on what they’d been doing. He sounded happier than she could ever remember him. His grandmother had moved into a retirement home and left Ed the old farm off Old Cheney Road. Ed was turning it into a kennel. He had always dreamed of being a veterinarian, and she supposed that this was the next-best thing. He was busy building the dog kennels; he wanted the place to be the best one in the area. A five-star hotel for your pet. His brother Brice was working on the advertising. He was calling it Ed’s Animal Farm. What did she think? She said it sounded great. Last night he had invited her to visit: “We’re having our grand opening July fourth, Teddy’s birthday,” Ed told her.
She bit her lip. They hadn’t yet discussed a return date for Teddy’s visit, but she had anticipated having him back by his birthday. She didn’t say anything, since she knew that Teddy was listening in on the extension.
“It’s going to be really neat, Mom,” Teddy had broken in, as if sensing trouble on her end. “There’s going to be free pony rides, and Aunt Lou is going to bake this giant Milk-Bone — how big’s it gonna be again, Dad?” For a minute he sounded like his old self. A kid again. It broke her heart.
“Ten feet,” Ed said. “I don’t know how she’s going to do it, but I’ve got faith.”
Aunt Lou had baked their wedding cake. Even though it was just a small affair, she’d gone all-out. Five layers. An architectural wonder.
“Why don’t you come?” Ed said, catching her by surprise. “It’s going to be a real blast.”
“I don’t think I —”
“We’d love to have you. Right, Ted-head?”
“Ummhm,” Teddy said without much conviction. That mechanical Talkboy voice she recognized from the past two months.
“Well, you think about it,” Ed said.
She had made some excuse and hung up, then walked into the kitchen and fixed herself a fresh gin and tonic. Two days ago she had run out of limes and hadn’t made it to the market yet, although it was on the top of her short list of things to do.
Dan had left a couple of messages on the machine saying he wanted to come pick up some books he needed. She had been there — she had barely left the house since their dinner at Arturo’s — but she hadn’t picked up the receiver. She vacillated between anger and pain, between fantasies of revenge and reconciliation. Out the kitchen window the gray, overcast sky seemed to mirror the fog in her brain. She walked out into the backyard and stared disconsolately at the mass of dull clouds that didn’t show any sign of breaking up anytime soon. From her kitchen window Lois waved at Giselle and motioned her to come over. The dog jumped up as she opened the gate, wagging and groveling. Lois hurried out and dragged him off by the collar. “How about some coffee?” she asked. Giselle nodded and followed her inside. Coffee was also on her short list of things to buy.
“Shitty day,” Lois said as she handed Giselle a mug of steaming coffee that smelled wonderful. She ground her own beans fresh every morning, some gourmet blend she bought at a coffeehouse. “Any news from Teddy?”
Giselle nodded. “I talked to him last night. He sounds good.” She poured a splash of milk into her coffee. “They invited me to visit. Ed’s having a grand opening party for the kennel on Teddy’s birthday.”
“Are you thinking of going?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?” Lois shoved a pile of Eric’s Goosebumps books aside to clear a spot on the table for their coffee mugs.
Giselle shrugged. “It was Ed’s idea. He feels sorry for me. It’s not like Teddy’s dying to see me. May I?” She plucked a cigarette from the pack on the counter.
Lois handed her a cloisonné lighter from a trip to China. “You talk to Dan yet?”
Giselle shook her head and sputtered out a cough as the first drag of smoke hit her lungs. She knew that Lois thought she should be more aggressive about trying to save her marriage. “It’s not like Bill and me,” she’d told Giselle a couple of days ago. “You had a good marriage. You love each other. You’re just going through a terrible time.” She was right about the terrible time; Giselle wasn’t so sure anymore about the rest of it.
“Well, I think you should call him,” Lois said. “He’s like a cat who can’t make up his mind to go in or out. You’ve just got to give him a push in the right direction.”
Giselle was standing by the window looking out into her own backyard. She could still detect a faint circular depression where Trina’s wading pool had sat. Shutting her eyes, she saw Trina splashing in the water, her plump tummy protruding over her ruffled plastic pants. “Buddha belly,” Dan would call her, kissing her belly button and making loud “belly farts,” as Teddy called them. She set her mug down on the counter and said, “I’m not feeling too well. I better go.” As if sensing her mood, the dog left her alone as she cut back across the yard.
***
The days blurred by. She told herself she was just waiting for Teddy to come back. A month at the most. She told herself she deserved a month to vegetate, to wallow in self-pity, if that’s what she felt like doing. She had lost a daughter. She seemed to have lost a husband. She was entitled to a nervous breakdown. She wasn’t ready to think about the future. She didn’t want to have a future; she wanted to have the past back. Once Teddy returned, she would snap out of it.
More often than not, it seemed, the weather was bad. On those days, she lay on the couch with the television on — mostly talk shows — alternating between fascination and boredom. She couldn’t believe such people existed; she couldn’t believe the things they said on national television. One night she had a dream — a nightmare, really — that she was on Sally Jessy Raphäel with Teddy sitting next to her. He was holding a gun, demonstrating how he shot his sister. She woke up sweating. It was 2 A.M. An eternity until daylight. Since Teddy took the pills, she couldn’t bring herself to buy any more Nytol or Sominex. She dragged herself into the kitchen to look for something, anything that might help her get back to sleep. She had finished off the gin earlier in the evening. In the back of the cupboard she found a half-full bottle of rum, but she was out of Coke. And some crème de menthe that Luisa had brought over. The sight of it turned Giselle’s stomach. In high school she and Laura had made themselves violently ill on Grasshoppers one summer night when Laura’s parents were away. Giselle stuffed the crème de menthe in the trash can, which she hadn’t bothered to empty in days, and opened the refrigerator. No wine or beer, but there was a bottle of champagne hidden in the back. What the hell,
she thought. They had bought it last New Year’s Eve and then ended up nodding off before midnight, exhausted from a day with the kids, both of whom were sick — Teddy with strep throat and Trina with an ear infection. After the kids were finally asleep, they had set the champagne out in an ice bucket — a wedding gift from Harvey — along with some brie and crackers and strawberries. They had fallen asleep watching David Letterman.
She twisted off the little wire contraption holding the cork in place. It seemed, for an instant, that nothing happened — and then the next thing she knew, it felt as if a bullet had struck her in the eye. She let out a startled yelp and dropped the bottle. Half the champagne fizzed over the linoleum before she grabbed it and set it on the counter. Then she ran to the bathroom and examined her eye in the mirror. Fortunately, the cork had just missed. There was a livid mark below her eyebrow. The tender skin already seemed to be swelling. And throbbing. She wet a washcloth and folded it into a neat square. Pressing the cold compress to her eye, she walked back to the kitchen for the champagne. Some celebration, she thought grimly as she carried it into the living room and turned on the television. And it wasn’t the cheap stuff either, like Eden Roc or Tott’s. They had splurged on real French champagne to start the New Year off right. There was an infomercial for something called a Fitness Flyer. Giselle had never seen anything like it. You put your feet in these suspended stirrups and swung your legs back and forth. Some former astronaut was saying it was the next-best thing to walking on the moon.
That night she dreamed that she and Trina were astronauts, the first mother-daughter team to be sent into space. A mission to Mars. The interior of their spaceship looked like a cross between their living room and a beauty parlor. Cindi was part of the crew, dressed in a silvery bodysuit. The mission director, Tom Brokaw, told them it was time to step outside onto the surface of the planet and collect dirt samples. Everyone back home on Earth was watching them on the evening news. Giselle held up Trina to the camera, and together they waved to Dan and Teddy. Teddy had been so mad because he didn’t get to go along, but NASA wanted only mothers and daughters. They said that boys were too rambunctious. Giselle and Trina climbed the silver ladder, like a swimming pool ladder, and floated out into the atmosphere. They were attached by an umbilical-like cord wrapped around Giselle’s waist and Trina’s wrist, like the ID bracelets babies wear in the hospital. Trina was turning somersaults in the air and giggling. “Look, Mommy, watch me!” Giselle smiled and waved. Trina squatted down and started digging in the powdery white dirt. She had her pink plastic pail and shovel with her, as if it were a day at the beach. Giselle was reading the mission manual, attempting to comprehend the technical instructions, when she heard Trina shout, “Mommy, help!” The cord had snapped. Giselle looked up to see Trina floating away, floating off into space.