Don't Cry Now

by Joy Fielding

  “Anal intercourse, multiple partners, sex with someone who’s infected,” he rhymed off with disconcerting nonchalance. “Are you in a monogamous relationship, Mrs. Wheeler?”

  “I’ve never been unfaithful to my husband,” Bonnie answered.

  “And your husband?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted, after a pause. Dear God, what was she saying?

  “Then why don’t we do the test? That way, you won’t have to worry.” Dr. Kline patted her hand, then squeezed her trembling fingers.

  Bonnie nodded, watching as he drew one final vial of blood from her vein. How could she have told the doctor she wasn’t sure whether or not she was in a monogamous relationship? Could she really believe that Rod was having an affair? Did she trust her husband so little? If so, why had she insisted he go off with Marla? Why was she anxiously waiting his return? Was she turning into one of those women she’d always felt vaguely sorry for, the kind who stood by her man, no matter what indignities he threw her way? The kind who buried her frustrations and disappointments so deep, it made her literally sick?

  Like her mother.

  Bonnie thanked Dr. Kline for his time, got dressed, then found a nearby drugstore and filled the prescription, finding a water fountain and taking two pills right away, as directed. Ever the good girl, she thought ruefully, returning to her car, sitting behind the wheel, not moving.

  Where to now? she wondered, in no hurry to return home. She could go to school, she thought, but what was the point? They’d already hired a substitute for today, and besides, the day was half over. She could go shopping, but she wasn’t really in the mood. Nor was she up for walking, reading, exercising, or even a movie, simple pleasures she’d taken for granted a few short weeks ago.

  Maybe the antibiotics would work. Maybe by tomorrow, she’d start to feel better. Or maybe they wouldn’t work. Maybe nothing would work because nothing was the matter. Not with her body anyway. Maybe she wouldn’t start to feel better until—until what? Until she dealt with her long-repressed feelings of hostility toward her family of origin?

  Give me a break, she thought, starting the car, pulling away from the curb. So much psychobabble, so much mumbo-jumbo. Two hundred dollars for a piece of advice any first-year psychology student would have given her for the sheer pleasure of hearing himself talk. What a waste. And what lousy advice. What possible good could come from confronting her father? He’d never understand. She doubted he’d even listen.

  You’re not doing it for him, Dr. Greenspoon had said.

  “I’m not doing it at all,” Bonnie said out loud, stepping on the accelerator, turning up the radio full volume, letting the Rolling Stones block out all traces of conscious thought.

  It was almost an hour later when she pulled up in front of the house at 422 Maple Road in Easton. “Now what?” she asked her reflection in the rearview mirror. “What are you doing here? You drove all the way out here against your better judgment, and just what is it you think you’re going to accomplish? Is your father going to apologize? Is that what you want? Is he going to explain? As if you’d believe anything he said. Why are you here?” she asked again.

  You’re here to take control of your life, her reflection answered silently, as Bonnie pushed open the car door, her feet unsteady as they felt for the ground. You’re here so that you can reclaim your future, and the only way you can do that is by confronting your past.

  Joan’s death had thrown her into a kind of limbo, reintroduced her to a family she’d tried to leave behind. Now they were standing in front of her, blocking her path, not allowing her to move forward with her life. All she had to do was confront them, say her piece and leave. She never had to see them again. It was simple, she told herself, wobbling up the front path, trying to organize all the things she wanted to say, her thoughts scattering as soon as her hand touched the doorknob.

  The door opened and Steve Lonergan stood before her, wearing dark blue pants and a blue-and-red-checked shirt, his broad face void of all expression, his eyes reflecting neither surprise nor curiosity. He stepped back to let her come in. Wordlessly, Bonnie stepped over the threshold, hearing the door close behind her, like a prison gate clanging shut.

  “Who’s here, Steve?” Adeline Lonergan stepped out of the kitchen into the front hall. She was wearing an old-fashioned apron over a bright yellow dress. “Oh,” she said, stopping as soon as she saw Bonnie. “My goodness, Bonnie. I almost didn’t recognize you. What have you done to your hair?”

  “I’m sorry, Adeline, would you mind if I had a few minutes alone with my father? Please?” Bonnie asked, temporarily blinded by the whiteness of the walls.

  “There’s nothing we have to say to each other that Adeline can’t hear,” her father said stubbornly, hands folding across his chest, like Mr. Clean, Bonnie thought, trying to reduce him to manageable size.

  “That’s all right, Steve. I have things to do. You talk to your daughter. I’ll be in the kitchen, if you need anything.”

  Father and daughter said nothing.

  “Why don’t the two of you go into the living room?” Adeline ventured. “I think you’ll be more comfortable there. Would either of you like something to drink?” she continued when no one moved.

  Steve Lonergan shook his head, walked slowly into the living room.

  “Nothing for me, thank you,” Bonnie concurred, following after him. Why had she come? What did she hope to accomplish? What in God’s name was she planning to say?

  “I understand you saw your brother,” her father said, facing her in the middle of the room.

  Bonnie turned away, pretending to study the interior, but the abundance of soft greens, whites, and yellows was too much for her brain to absorb, and she reluctantly brought her gaze back to her father. “Yes, he dropped over unexpectedly.” And uninvited, she almost added, but didn’t.

  “He treated you to some of his famous spaghetti sauce, did he?”

  “Infamous is the word I believe he used.”

  “Whatever it is, it’s damn good.”

  “Yes, it was,” Bonnie agreed. Except that I’ve been sick ever since, she added silently.

  “He says that my granddaughter is a regular little doll.”

  “Yes, she is.”

  “I don’t suppose you have any pictures of her,” her father said, then looked to the window as if he hadn’t spoken at all.

  Bonnie hesitated, reluctant to share even this much of her child with her father. “Actually, I do have a couple of pictures in my purse,” she relented, fishing inside her beige leather handbag and pulling out a small red leather case, holding it toward her father. He took the case immediately, pulling out a pair of reading glasses from the front pocket of his shirt and balancing them across the bridge of his nose. “The picture on the left is when she was four months old,” Bonnie explained. “The one on the right was taken last year. She’s changed a lot since then. Her hair’s longer. Her face is a bit thinner.”

  “Looks like her mother,” Steve Lonergan said.

  Bonnie quickly returned the photographs to her purse, dropped her hands to her sides. “Actually, everyone says she looks more like Rod.”

  “And how is your husband?”

  “He’s well. He’s in Florida right now, at a convention.”

  “Left you to look after his kids, did he?”

  Bonnie looked at the floor, her brown shoes sinking into the pale green broadloom. Like quicksand, she thought, wondering how long she could keep her head above ground. “I didn’t come here to talk about Rod,” she said.

  “Why did you come?”

  “I’m not sure,” she admitted after a pause. “There were some things I felt needed to be said.”

  “Say them,” her father directed.

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “You’ve had over three years to prepare.”

  Bonnie took a deep breath, tried to speak, couldn’t.

  “What are you doing here, Bonnie?” her father asked sim
ply.

  “What are you doing here?” Bonnie snapped in return, pouncing on his question. “What right do you have to be in this house? How dare you come back here! How dare you make a mockery of my mother’s memory!” Bonnie stepped back, stunned by the ferocity of her outburst.

  “You think that’s what I’m doing?”

  “I think you have no business being here. You hated this house. You couldn’t wait to leave it.”

  “I always loved this place,” he corrected her, “although I hated that damned floral wallpaper, I’ll admit that. But after your mother and I agreed to a divorce….”

  “You walked out. You gave her no choice.”

  “She never really liked this house, you know. I had to talk her into moving out here. She preferred the city. But she insisted on keeping the house as part of the terms of our divorce, probably to spite me more than anything.”

  “Probably to keep from disrupting the family any more than necessary,” Bonnie said. “Maybe she felt we’d gone through enough changes.”

  “Maybe. Guess we’ll never know now.” Steve Lonergan paused, swallowed, looked toward the window. “At any rate, after she died and left the place to Nick, he asked me if I was interested in buying it from him. He needed the cash more than he needed a big house, and Adeline and I agreed to help him out.”

  “Everyone’s always trying to help out old Nick.” Bonnie shook her head in amazement.

  “Maybe he’s not as strong as you are, Bonnie.”

  “And the meek shall inherit the earth,” Bonnie said, noting the presence of the Bible still on the coffee table.

  “Who is it you’re really angry at, Bonnie?” her father asked.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’m not the one who died and left the house to your brother,” her father reminded her.

  Bonnie started pacing between the sofa and the wing chair. “If you’re trying to tell me the person I’m really angry at is my mother, you’re absolutely wrong. I know who I’m angry at. He’s standing right in front of me.”

  “Why are you angry?”

  “Why?” Bonnie parroted.

  “Why?” he repeated.

  “Why do you think?” Bonnie yelled. “You walked out on your family.”

  “I walked out on an intolerable situation.”

  “Intolerable for whom? It wasn’t my mother who was out every night gallivanting around.”

  “No, your mother was home in bed every night.”

  “She was sick.”

  “She was always sick, damnit.”

  “Are you blaming her?”

  “No. I’m just saying that I couldn’t live that way any longer.” He brushed his hand along the top of his scalp. “I’m not trying to make excuses for myself, Bonnie. I know I took the coward’s way out. But if you could try to understand for a few minutes what it was like for me. I was still a relatively young man. There were things I wanted to do. Your mother never wanted to go anywhere. She never wanted to do anything. She had no interest in making friends, or traveling, or even making love.”

  “She was sick,” Bonnie repeated.

  “So was I,” her father shot back. “Sick of living that way, of feeling like my life was already over, of sleeping every night beside someone who recoiled whenever I tried to touch her. Bonnie, you were a child then, I didn’t expect you to understand. But you’re an adult now. I was hoping you’d have a little compassion.”

  “Where was your compassion?”

  “I tried, Bonnie. I tried for years.”

  “Then you walked out. She was never the same after you left.”

  “She was exactly the same and you know it.”

  “You walked out and you never came back.”

  “It was what she wanted.”

  “She didn’t know what she wanted. She was sick….”

  “I was suffocating. I couldn’t breathe. Her sickness was infecting us all.”

  “So you left two children alone to look after her?”

  “I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “You could have taken us with you!” Bonnie shouted, stunned by the words coming out of her mouth. She burst into tears, then collapsed on the sofa. “You could have taken us with you,” she sobbed.

  For a long while, nobody spoke. After several minutes, Bonnie felt her father at her side, his hand on her shoulder.

  “Don’t,” she said, shrugging off his hand. “It’s too late.”

  “Why is it too late?”

  “Because I’m not a little girl anymore.”

  “You’ll always be my little girl,” he told her.

  “You have no idea,” she told him, refusing to look at him. “You have no idea how much I cried, how every night I prayed that you’d come back for us. One night, I even walked in my sleep, packed a suitcase, and waited for you in the front hall. But it wasn’t you who found me. It wasn’t you who woke me up.”

  “I’m so sorry, Bonnie. I tried to reach out to you on numerous occasions. You know that.”

  “Yes, you were always very good about introducing us to your new wives.”

  “You made it very clear whose side you were on, that you didn’t want anything to do with me.”

  “I was a child, for God’s sake. What did you expect?”

  “I expected you to grow up.”

  “You abandoned us. You abandoned me.” A fresh onslaught of tears racked through Bonnie’s body.

  “I’m so sorry,” her father said. “I wish there was something I could say or do.” His voice drifted to a halt. He walked to the window, stared out onto the street.

  “Are you happy?” Bonnie asked, eyes on the gradual slope of his back. “Does Adeline make you happy?”

  “She’s a wonderful woman,” her father said, turning around to face Bonnie. “I’m very happy.”

  “And Nick? You think he’s really getting his act together?”

  “I think he is, yes. Why don’t you give him a chance?”

  “I don’t trust him.”

  “He’s your brother.”

  “He broke our mother’s heart.”

  “He’s not to blame for her death, Bonnie,” her father said.

  Bonnie swallowed, brushed the tears impatiently from her eyes, said nothing. “I should get going.” She stood up, walked into the hall, feeling her father behind her.

  “Is everything all right?” Adeline asked, coming out of the kitchen, one hand clutching a large wooden spoon.

  “Everything’s fine,” her husband told her, looking to Bonnie for confirmation. Bonnie nodded, eyes wandering to the stairs.

  “I’m making apple pies,” Adeline said. “There’s already one in the oven. It should be ready any minute, if you’d like a piece.”

  “I really have to get going,” Bonnie said absently, drawn toward the stairs, as if by a magnet.

  “Would you like to see how we’ve changed the bedrooms?” Adeline asked.

  Bonnie’s right foot was already on the first step, her left hand on the wall. Something was pulling her up the stairs, beckoning her forward. What was she doing? she wondered, slowly mounting each step, watching the white walls bleed and darken, then fill with flowers, their odor swirling through her head, making her dizzy. Don’t be silly, she told herself, looking toward the bedroom at the top of the stairs. It’s just the apple pies in the oven. There’s no odor. There are no flowers.

  Just like there’s no one waiting in the upstairs bedroom, Bonnie told herself, reaching the top of the landing and crossing the hall, pushing open the door to what was once her mother’s bedroom.

  The woman was sitting in the middle of the bed, her face in shadows.

  “We’ve changed everything, as you can see,” Adeline was saying from somewhere beside Bonnie. “We thought blue was pretty for a bedroom, and I’ve always been partial to mirrors.”

  “Could I have a few minutes alone?” Bonnie asked, eyes on the shadowy figure in the middle of the bed.

  “Certai
nly,” Adeline said, confusion causing the word to waver in the air. “We’ll be downstairs.”

  Bonnie heard the door close behind her. It was only then that the figure in the bed leaned out of the shadows and beckoned Bonnie forward.

  25

  “Come closer so I can see you,” the figure said, the voice surprisingly strong.

  Bonnie pushed her feet toward the bed, catching her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror behind the light wood headboard, seeing it rebound in the smaller mirror on top of the dresser on the opposite wall. Except that instead of a woman in a shapeless ecru-colored shift, she saw a young girl of eleven, wearing a pale white cotton dress, her shoulder-length brown hair pulled into a ponytail by a shiny pink ribbon.

  “How are you feeling today?” the young girl asked the woman in the bed, approaching cautiously.

  Shadows danced across the woman’s face, like waves. “Not very well, I’m afraid.”

  “I brought you some breakfast.” The girl lifted a heavy plastic tray for the woman’s perusal.

  “I couldn’t eat anything.”

  “Couldn’t you try? I made it myself. Two eggs over easy, just the way you like them.”

  “I couldn’t eat any eggs.”

  “Some orange juice then.” The child lowered the tray on the night table and lifted the glass toward the bed.

  “You’re a good girl,” the woman said, falling back against her pillows, ignoring the tall glass of juice in the girl’s hand.

  The child drew closer, brought the glass to the woman’s lips. “Are you having a bad day?” she asked.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Headaches?”

  “Migraines,” the woman qualified, bringing her hands to the sides of her temples, closing her eyes.

  The waves washed over the woman’s face, then disappeared, taking with them any signs of life, leaving only a pale, vaguely bloated mask, its pain evident, even in repose. Lost somewhere in all that pain was a beautiful woman, the child liked to imagine, a woman with sparkling blue eyes and a bright, expansive smile.

  The child lowered the glass to the tray on the night table and brought her small hands to the woman’s face, smoothing her thick brown hair away from her forehead, and gently massaging the area around her high cheekbones.