Come With Me

by Helen Schulman

  She reached out her hand. She smoothed back his hair.

  “I am so sorry, darling,” said Maryam. “I know what it is to love someone who is in so much pain they cannot think of you, they can only think of how to stop it. For better or for worse in that final moment, Kevin needed his pain to end. This is what you must impart to Jack. What Kevin did was not about Jack, or Kevin’s parents, or anyone else who loved him, it was about Kevin.”

  Dan looked at her. Kevin had his whole life ahead of him. He could have gotten over this hurdle, this bump. Plenty of kids went through rough patches. They needed help. Kevin needed help. The irony of course was that there were a million people eager to help him. His parents loved him. All the Reed-Messingers loved him. He was popular at school.

  Dan and Maryam, they barely knew each other. They were so different from one another. Still they had found each other. A miracle. As he looked at her, angry, baffled, besotted, it began to dawn on him, just a little, what she was referring to.

  “Your mother,” he said.

  “My mother,” said Maryam. “She took her own life. For a long time I was very angry at her. Worse, I felt that she didn’t love me, I thought if she’d loved me she wouldn’t have left me. At times, I thought it was the truth about who I was, who I am, that made her leave. But that is not what it was, Dan. Her life was ceaseless agony; I know that now. It took courage for her to last as long as she did. It took a mother’s love and courage to last that long.”

  Dan looked at Maryam. He thought about the struggle that had taken her to become the woman she was now, and he thought about Amy, and what she might say if the two women were ever to meet. Because for Amy, being a woman, a wife, a mother, in many ways robbed her of her sovereignty, and for Maryam being a woman set her free.

  He reached out his arms and he embraced her, and they held each other, giving and receiving comfort, a constant loop of energy, deeper and more satisfying and less complex than any conversation. Fuck the singularity, Dan was grateful for his body. Holding Maryam like this, he did not know where he ended and she began again.

  “But look at me now,” said Maryam. Stepping back, her hands running up and down her sides, in her nightie, in her robe. Her long black hair tousled and wild from a night of sleep and sex.

  “I had to fight hard, I had many years of agony, I lost my mother, I had this serious medical condition, I was in the wrong body, Dan, until my treatment, I could think of nothing else, but now I have a glorious life. This, too, can be true for Jack; it can be true for Kevin’s family.”

  “I’m not so sure,” said Dan. “I’m not sure attachment works that way.”

  “Attachment? Your definition, please?” said Maryam.

  “Need, entanglement, intimacy, reliance, what stands between us and the abyss, the way an infant requires a parent, the way caring for a child makes one feel whole, the way partners share responsibilities, one taking over when the other one can’t. Habit. Habituation. One’s view of oneself. Who we are in the world.”

  “Well, then,” said Maryam sadly, “that does not bode well for us. Because I love you, Dan. But I am not attached to you. I can never again afford to be.”

  The bus pulled up. It had bright pink trim, and when the door opened he could see that the seats were also bright pink and sort of compartmentalized. Some of the passengers had bright pink awnings hanging over their heads, he guessed to block the overhead light so they could sleep. It was as if he were entering a vehicle that would soon take him to a theme park. Very Hello Kitty.

  Maryam stepped back, reached down, and handed Dan his bag. She leaned over and lightly kissed him on the lips.

  “I’m sorry I have to go,” said Dan. “I love you, too. And I’m afraid that I am also attached to you.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” said Maryam. “It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault, really, except cheating on your wife and lying to her. Besides, it’s good to talk. Talking is almost always good. Now have a safe flight, habib albi. I will finish reporting and email you the pictures and my notes. You will fashion it into a story and then we will get it in print or throw it up online. I’m thinking atlantic.com? Longreads? Mother Jones?”

  “Habib albi?”

  “Love of my heart,” said Maryam. She gave him a little push then, and Dan stumbled two steps back, and then turned around and climbed up onto the bus.

  By the time he took his pink seat, and looked out the window, Maryam had her arms wrapped tightly in front of her and was trotting toward the hotel, away from him. She didn’t swivel to wave.

  Dan settled back in his seat and took out his phone and began to text his sins to his wife, beginning with his confessions and jump-starting his self-flagellation and contrition from thousands of miles away in the safe confines of a Japanese bus. It was cowardly, he knew, but he was a coward.

  The house was quiet when Dan got home. He entered through the back door, took off his shoes and put down his bag, and walked into the kitchen. Squidward was napping in his crate, the door wide open. A creature of habit, thought Dan. He was reminded of his grandfather’s story, one told to him by his own father, because Dan’s grandfather had died before he was born. As a young man, before he emigrated from Russia, Dan’s grandfather had worked at a grain mill. Eight horses were harnessed to the mill and all day long they walked in a circle around and around the mill, turning it, grinding the wheat down to flour. On Sundays, the horses were given the day off along with their owners, and were set free in the surrounding pasture to graze and run. But they just ambled back to the mill and took their spots in their circle and walked around and around untethered. Work was all those poor creatures knew.

  Dan walked quietly past him and into the family room. Miles was sitting on the couch reading a book. His Dark Materials by Philip Pullman. Dan had never read it.

  “Hey, bud,” said Dan.

  Miles looked up. “Hey, Dad,” said Miles.

  “Whatcha reading?” said Dan. “Any good?”

  “I like the part when the two universes link up,” said Miles.

  “What are you doing home?” said Dan.

  “What are you doing home?” said Miles. “We thought you moved out.”

  “Did your mother say that?” said Dan.

  “Nope,” said Miles. “It just seemed obvious. Especially on Tuesday when you never picked me up. Ms. Zhang had to drive me here. It was embarrassing. Her car was full of Mentos candy wrappers, but she didn’t offer me any.”

  “I didn’t move out,” said Dan. “I just went away for a few days.”

  “You were in Japan.”

  “Yes. Who told you that? Never mind. Why aren’t you in school?”

  “I’m suspended,” said Miles.

  “Zhang drove you home?”

  “Yep,” said Miles. “Everybody forgot about me.”

  “What about Theo?”

  “He had a playdate with Blossom.”

  “Where’s he now?”

  “At school. And then he has another playdate with Blossom. I told you, I got suspended. He didn’t. I don’t want to talk anymore. I want to read.”

  Dan didn’t know what to say. He wanted to know why Miles got suspended but he didn’t. He’d never heard Miles say anything like that before, that he wanted to continue reading, and Dan didn’t want to mess with it. Books were a better babysitter than video games.

  “One more thing, bud, where’s your mom?”

  “She and Jack are getting ready for the funeral. It’s private. I’m too young to go.”

  “So she’s leaving you home alone?”

  “Beats me,” said Miles. “Now please shut your pie hole, Dad.”

  “Okay,” said Dan. “I’ll shut my pie hole.”

  Then he left the room and went upstairs.

  The door to their bedroom was open. Amy came out of the bathroom just as Dan entered; she was putting on her gold watch bangle bracelet. It was a gift he had given her for her birthday about ten years ago and she wore it only on
special occasions. She had a black shift dress on, drop-waist, bare shoulders. Amy had beautiful shoulders. Her hair was swept in a French twist. She glanced up from her watch and faced him. She was wearing no makeup, which made her look pale and young and soulful and luminous. Beneath her eyes were purple satin circles, bruised by tears.

  “What are you doing here?” she said.

  “I live here,” said Dan. “This is my home.”

  “Um, I really don’t think so,” said Amy.

  She walked across the room to her dresser and opened one of her top drawers. She pulled out a brand-new pair of black stockings still in their white cardboard envelope. She sat down on the unmade bed, ripped open the packaging, and rolled one of the legs up into a little black roll, like a nylon bagel. She pointed her foot and slipped it inside, and guided the hose up over her knee and then repeated the same on the other side. She had runner’s legs, strong and striated, the calves curvy like the legs of a grand piano, thick thighs. She stood and turned away from him and pulled the remaining tights up under the skirt of her dress and over her panties. She smoothed her outfit out. Her hands were shaking the whole time and she looked like she’d lost five pounds in the handful of days that he’d been gone.

  “Where’s Jack?” said Dan.

  “I think he’s still taking his shower.”

  “I’m going to do the same,” said Dan. “What time is the service?”

  “It’s in a half an hour,” said Amy.

  “Where?”

  “Mem Chu,” said Amy.

  “Mem Chu?” said Dan. The campus church was enormous. It was as ornate as they came. “Built with a Victorian aversion to blank space.” He’d heard that somewhere, but where in the hash in his head had it come from? “A Victorian aversion to blank space.” Was it on a tour? The goddamn website? Wikipedia? Dan needed a docent of his own mind. The building’s shape was cruciform and full of foliate carvings with detailed mosaics inside. The stained-glass windows were ravishing.

  “How did they get Mem Chu?”

  “They both went there, Dan, remember?” Amy said, clearly exasperated. “Marilyn works at Stanford Hospital. They were married there. And they have no other church, no affiliation, they’re heathens, like us. Her chief of staff arranged for the space.”

  “Miles said it was a private ceremony,” said Dan. He sat on the bed and started to take off his shoes and socks.

  “You’ve spoken to Miles?” said Amy, the timbre of her voice rising higher. “Now you take his calls?”

  “I saw him downstairs,” said Dan.

  He was winging it. He had no idea what to do or say to her. He’d texted her about all he could stand to tell her from the bus that night, he had not gone to Boston, he’d gone to Japan with a Knight fellow for a story, he’d been afraid to tell her about it because of the cost, but it was an exciting story, one he couldn’t wait to talk to her about. But in the headiness of the endeavor his professional relationship with this Knight fellow had crossed inappropriate boundaries, it was a one-night discrepancy in their long marriage, but because they had always been honest with one another before, he wanted to come clean.

  Do you love her? Amy had texted him.

  He’d hesitated and wrote back: I can’t say that I don’t.

  He was chickenshit, an asshole, Amy wrote back, and once she let him know Jack was safely home from the ER, she’d ghosted him. No matter how many texts or emails he sent in transit, she did not respond. She’d learned this technique, he suspected, from Dan himself. He’d treated her the same awful way most of the last week, the days of his affirmation and her abandonment.

  Dan stood up. Now he was back where he’d started. If he closed his eyes he felt like he could transport himself into a world where none of this had happened, not Japan, not Maryam, not Kevin. It could be like any other time spent in his house in his bedroom with his wife. He headed toward the bathroom.

  “I’m going to take a quick shower and then we can drive over together.”

  “Are you kidding?” said Amy, her voice about to break. In a minute, she’d be screaming. She’d have a heavy object in her hands and she’d be bashing his brains in.

  Just then Jack walked into their bedroom. He was wearing Dan’s blue suit, but the arms were too short for him and his wrists hung out. He was holding Dan’s turquoise Armani tie in his hands, a tie Amy had bought for Dan for some awards ceremony back when his work sometimes won one. Jack’s hair was freshly washed and looked about two shades lighter, and it was tied back in a neat ponytail. His face was clean-shaven but nicked. There were some angry red scrapes on his throat.

  Better buy him an electric razor, Dan thought.

  “Dad?” said Jack. He looked at Dan like he couldn’t believe his eyes.

  That look nearly killed Dan.

  “Jack,” said Dan. “Honey. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, son.”

  In that minute Jack flew into his arms, just like he used to do when he was a little boy and Dan came home from work, back when Dan had an office to go to.

  Jack cried into his father’s shoulder. Dan wrapped his arms around him and patted him up and down his back, kissed his wet head, his wet cheeks.

  “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here to help you. I came home as quickly as I could. I love you so much, Jack. I couldn’t love you more than I do.”

  Jack tried to pull away. “Um, Dad, you smell pretty ripe,” Jack said.

  Dan laughed and stood back. He wiped the tears from his eyes. “Now, that’s the pot calling the kettle black.”

  “You better take a shower, Dad,” said Jack. “I promised Marilyn I’d sit up front with them, next to Josie and Suz.”

  “Okay,” said Dan. “I’ll take the fastest shower of my life.” Dan started to walk to the bathroom.

  “Use soap,” said Jack, mimicking his father. Then he turned to Amy. She’d been staring at them the whole time, thoughts clearly forming and re-forming. “Mom, who invented ties anyway? Can you help?”

  As always, she turned to help him.

  Dan entered the bathroom and closed the door.

  As it happened, Donny was coming over to stay with Miles.

  Of course, Amy wouldn’t leave him home alone—that was Dan’s job.

  Dan gave Amy a look when Donny came in through the back door, but Amy said, “Donny owes me,” and “Miles loves Donny.”

  “Well, I like Donny,” said Miles, calling out from the other room. “I love you and Magic cards,” he yelled to Amy.

  “I effed up big-time with Amy,” said Donny. “I want to make it up to her.”

  “You, too?” said Dan, trying to be funny, but nobody laughed.

  “You effed up,” said Amy to Donny. “But you also set me free.”

  “I want to talk to you later about that,” said Donny.

  “Oh, goody,” said Amy, but she nodded.

  “Come on,” said Jack. “There’s only family and, like, us. Coach. The team. The Chois’ babysitters. We gotta go.”

  “I’m sorry Kevin threw himself in front of a train,” Miles yelled from the family room.

  Jack startled, and then yelled: “Thanks, Thing One.”

  “Don’t call me that,” yelled Miles.

  “Walk, but don’t lose, the dog,” Amy said to Donny. His head had already disappeared inside their refrigerator, so Dan wasn’t sure if he heard her.

  “All right, we’re off,” said Dan. The shower had done him a world of good and even though he dreaded the next couple of hours, he had a second wind. He was wearing his other suit, which was black and fit him better. He only had two these days. He didn’t need a suit for custom publishing. He didn’t need a suit to freelance. He couldn’t believe Jack’s arms were longer than his. He was probably taller now, too. Maybe Jack could take him in a fight. So much had happened in the short time Dan had been away. Jack was bigger; Amy was smaller. His house was no longer his house, according to the woman who used to be his wife. It was as if he’d fallen down a rabbit hole and ente
red a planet that only looked like the one he’d left behind.

  They took the car to visitor’s parking and then hustled over to Stanford Memorial Church. The facade was both Romanesque and Byzantine, rococo even; it was certainly over-the-top, but awfully pretty, made of sandstone, with a dusty bloodred roof of terra-cotta tiles. Because of all that clay, the church always looked Spanish or Mexican to Dan, California-mission style, but various Googles and tours had told him different. Out front there were three arched doorways with three bronze doors, now closed, decorated with angels. Dan pulled open the heavy center door and let Jack and Amy enter; Jack suddenly a baby giraffe, all spindly legs and height, little balance.

  “Beam me up, Scotty,” Jack whispered in Dan’s ear. “Dad, I don’t know if I can do this.”

  “You can, honey,” Dan said. “Mom and I are here.”

  Dan put his hand on Jack’s shoulder as they stood in the heavily mosaicked entrance hall beneath the organ balcony. He wanted to steady him, to reassure him, even as the action itself felt hollow. Maybe they could find some comfort here, Dan wondered, although he had never found comfort himself in a house of worship. That said, Dan had always loved this church; it was lavish with its gemstone colors and opulent textures, so unlike the awkward midcentury, flimsy synagogues of suburban New Jersey that he had grown up on. All that pine and cement and brick, weird angles. Ahead of them at the nave they could see the chancel, with its three luscious stained-glass windows and an upper porthole of circular white light. It shot down in a single, thick beam the way shafts of light sometimes do in the woods and often in Renaissance paintings. Amy called it the “light of God” when they encountered that bolt of incandescence while hiking, but he’d never heard anyone else refer to it that way. It looked like a stake of illumination cutting through ignorance, Dan supposed; it was a metaphorical architectural device. Bathed in all that radiance was the sanctuary, where truth and goodness were supposed to lie.

  It took a moment for Dan’s eyes to focus, the daylight he’d just escaped was dazzling and the church itself dark, except for what was streaming through the central glass aperture so brightly. And those windows, which were almost blinding in their kaleidoscopic hues. Up ahead in the first two rows of pews, mourners clumped together, except for those who seemed to want moats around them. Suddenly down the dark aisles there was a streak of pink running. Suz! Barreling straight into Jack’s arms.