“I participate in sports, sure, but I’m really an artist,” Byron said.
Ivy actually perked up at that. “No kidding? I was a theater major. I used to volunteer for set-design duty every time. I just loved it. Especially the painting.”
“Theater major?” Graham said, smiling adoringly at her. “I had no idea. So you were an actress?” He took her hand and Byron hated her for taking his dad’s attention.
“Oh, god, no!” She laughed. “I was a playwright.”
“Fascinating!” Graham said. “Can I read one sometime?”
“Can we go home?” Byron said. “I don’t think Abby’s feeling well. Not that you noticed.” Abby snapped her head and glared at Byron. “What? You’d rather endure more of this crap, or be back home where you can stare at the walls in peace?”
“Nobody’s staring at any walls, or heading home,” Graham said. His voice was very soft, the anger nearly hidden beneath it, but Byron could feel it there, and it stirred rage in him. Graham wasn’t a father. Just some guy who clocked his time with Byron and Abby like they were a second job. “We’re having a nice dinner with my friend Ivy.”
“You’re having a nice dinner with Ivy. Abby and I are just sitting here,” Byron said. “We haven’t seen you in weeks. Has it been weeks since Ivy’s seen you? Or do you always have time for her?” Byron didn’t know why he was making such a big deal out of not seeing his dad more. It wasn’t like he even missed him.
“Byron, I’m here now. Let’s not make an issue of it, shall we?”
“No,” Byron said. “Let’s make an issue of it. I want to quit swim team and track and focus on parkour and art. And if you’d seen me more than a half hour at a time in the last month, you’d know that. And if you cared what makes me happy you’d want to see my art. And if you had any sense of talent at all you’d realize I’m good. Better at art than I am at sports.” Byron wasn’t sure if it was true, but he wanted it to be.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Graham said. “You’re just testing me, and I get it. Tax season occupies a lot of my time. It’s almost over. And I know the separation has been hard on you kids . . .”
“It’s not hard on us. We have Mom. We have the best parent. Ivy can have you.” Byron got up and walked out, furious to the brink of tears. He sat on the curb out front, breathing hard and wanting to hit something. But there was nothing he could do about any of it. His dad was an ass who no longer wanted the job of being a husband, a father, a decent guy. Byron called Lana and asked her to pick him up. She made it there in record time, stepped out of the car looking panicked. She calmed when she saw Byron, placed her hand on her chest and sighed, then sat next to him.
“Bad?” she asked. Byron nodded. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“It’s not your fault.”
“I know. But I still feel bad. Like maybe if I’d done something different or been better somehow. Maybe my expectations were too high or I was too passive-aggressive . . .”
“You’re not the problem,” Byron said. “He doesn’t even see me, you know? Or Abby. I can’t imagine how you put up with him as long as you did.”
“Byron, he loves you. In his own way. He really does.”
“His way sucks.”
Byron felt a presence behind him and braced for another round with Graham, but when he turned around it was Abby standing there. She sat on the curb next to Lana and they just watched traffic for a while. Until the boom of Graham’s voice interrupted them.
“Of course,” Graham said behind them.
Lana sighed and stood, waved Graham over to the side of the restaurant, as if putting a few feet between them and the kids would keep Abby and Byron from hearing every word.
“Don’t,” Graham said, and Lana laughed. Not a happy laugh, but a bitter one. “You’re the one putting these ideas in his head, right? About the art? Quitting track and swimming? We talked about this. How else can we afford college for him?”
Byron clenched his fists and Abby touched his shoulder. He nodded and relaxed his hands. He was okay. His mom was on his side. Abby was on his side. He had Betsy.
“It wasn’t my idea,” Lana said. “It’s who he is. You need to see him and love him for who he is.”
“He’s a child,” Graham said. “He doesn’t know who he is. It’s our job to point him in the right direction.”
“Because we turned out so goddamn happy? He should follow in our footsteps?”
Ivy stepped out of the restaurant’s glass front door, took one look at the action unfolding, and ducked back inside. Abby snorted.
“You always do this, Lana. You can’t baby everyone.”
“And you can’t bully everyone, Graham!” Lana’s voice was shrill with emotion. “Stop trying to control everyone. Let go. Focus on yourself more than everything around you. Figure out what makes you happy and leave the rest of us out of it.” Byron had never heard her yell at his dad before. Not like this. It made him uncomfortable, but he was also proud of her.
“I left so we wouldn’t have to have this fight anymore,” Graham said. “You don’t need to fix me. I’m fine. I know my responsibilities and I meet them.”
“And yet you’re still miserable. You stress yourself out and everyone around you suffers for it. I get that you left so you wouldn’t have to deal with me anymore, except guess what? We’re raising two kids together, so we have to deal with each other. We had this broken dynamic in our marriage, and now that we’re separated, we still have that same broken dynamic. Nothing’s changed! You still blame me for everything that doesn’t go your way. I’m not apologizing to you anymore. I let you be in charge of everything because I loved you and I wanted you to love me. But you still left. I don’t need your approval anymore. I don’t need you to like me now. I’m taking my children home with me. And if you ever try to break their spirits again, you will never see them again. You don’t deserve me. And you don’t deserve them.”
Abby and Byron followed Lana to her car and Graham stormed back inside the restaurant. Lana started the car but couldn’t seem to remember how to drive it. She tried to pull out of the parking spot but the car wouldn’t budge because her parking brake was still on. Her hands were shaking.
“Can I drive?” Byron asked.
“Oh, yes, please,” Lana said, getting out. While they were switching drivers, Graham and Ivy came out of the restaurant. Ivy and Lana stopped about ten feet apart. They did this old-time Western movie stare-down and Byron waited for the duel to start. Lana just sighed.
“I wish you the best of luck,” Lana said to Ivy. “You’ll need it.”
Byron drove home with Lana and Abby in the backseat, like a chauffeur. When he looked in the rearview mirror at them, Abby was lying down with her head in Lana’s lap and Lana was stroking Abby’s hair. It was a tender scene, perfect for a painting. Byron felt the overwhelming urge to capture the moment on canvas as soon as he got home.
25
* * *
Lana
Nick was not easily deterred. He either called or stopped by almost every day. Which on the one hand Lana liked. She’d always liked being pursued, wanted. But on the other hand it reminded her of the early days with Graham. Graham had wanted to win her like a prize, cherish her like a valued possession, and had ended up owning her for nearly two decades, holding on to her long after the sense of pride in catching her had worn off. She wanted a different kind of love next time around.
Mitch still brought her breakfast and coffee at school, still asked if she wanted to get a drink after yoga sometimes. And still flirted with every hardbody girl in class. He was a butterfly, flitting from flower to flower. Lana appreciated his attention—warily.
Which left Abbot. Handsome, easygoing Abbot. A man with grown children, though. Free of the daily responsibilities Lana still structured her life around.
She filled Camilla in on their next walk: the Graham fight, the sting of seeing his girlfriend in the flesh, the wonderful confusion of having three new suitors af
ter nearly a year of being single. And then, when she’d run out of means to avoid the biggest issue, she told Camilla about her bad cervical cells and their pending removal.
Camilla broke her relentless stride to give Lana a hard hug, tight enough to squeeze a gust of air from her lungs.
“That’s not sympathy, because you’re fine,” Camilla said, releasing her and continuing walking. “That’s sisterly solidarity. I’ve been there. Terrifying post-mammogram biopsy of suspicious calcifications. It was frightening as hell. But it all turned out fine. And you’ll be fine, too. Got it?”
“Got it,” Lana said.
She walked hard, feeling the unease slough off as she strode. For most of her life she’d thought being strong meant taking on life’s hard issues with somber determination, internalizing fear and stress with a smile on her face. But sharing her anxieties was liberating. She was forty-four years old, and just learning this.
“Thank you for these walks,” Lana said.
“Oh, don’t go getting all sentimental on me,” Camilla said. “So what about this Abbot fellow? Seems to me he’s the only one you aren’t apprehensive about.”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t seem like I’m in a good place to start something new.”
“Funny,” Camilla said. “It seems to me that’s exactly where you are. Why not throw in some good new stuff to offset all of this not-so-great new stuff?”
Lana chewed on that thought for an hour. Then called Abbot and rescheduled their coffee date. Because of the three men who had recently entered her life, he was the only one who had not once made her doubt herself. And because of this comfort with him, she was only mildly surprised to find herself telling Abbot about her upcoming LEEP procedure over coffee. He had just filled her in on the full scope of his years of back problems, his surgery, his ongoing recovery. She knew he would understand.
“Oh, Lana,” Abbot said, coffee cup between his hands. “That’s the pits.”
“Yes,” she said, laughing. “That’s exactly what it is.”
“Well, as someone recovering from his own health ordeal, I have two words of unsolicited advice,” he told her, raising his eyebrows and widening his hazel eyes.
“Bring it on.”
“One, stock up on chocolate. That helps everything. Two, let’s get out of here. Drive across the border and shop for kitschy nonsense and colorful, scratchy Mexican blankets that we’ll never use.”
Lana laughed and tried to think of a reason to refuse. She hadn’t been called in to work, Emily’s mother was picking up Abby after soccer, and Matt was picking up Byron for another driving lesson after school. She had a free day, and an invitation from a kind, handsome man to spend the day enjoying herself.
“I’m in,” she said before she could overthink it.
“Great,” he said. “Are you wearing good walking shoes?” He leaned around the table to check Lana’s feet, and the gesture soothed and warmed her, the simple act of feeling cared for. She held up her tennis-shoed foot and smiled.
Tijuana was a battle against a tide of humanity: vendors, shoppers, college students getting drunk before noon, small kids yanking on her shirt as they waved candy for sale, men in serapes and sombreros calling tourists over for photos with their well-dressed burros. It was brimming with music, food smells, animal scents, exhaust fumes, and every color imaginable embroidered on bags, blankets, dresses, ponchos. Lana and Abbot browsed the open markets, ate small soft tacos, drank Cokes in glass bottles, and laughed in the chaos and sun. Abbot insisted on buying Lana a silver bangle bracelet inlaid with turquoise. It was beautiful, but it seemed too much for a first date.
“I remember the plight of the freshly single parent,” he said. “Survival mode, right? Reward yourself, just this once. Please.”
Lana nodded and Abbot slid the bracelet onto her arm, then took her hand. They strolled along the street, through the crush of people and noise, but were no longer part of that world. Lana floated in a dream as Abbot’s thumb stroked the back of her hand. He bought her a box of Mexican chocolate, fed her a piece, and kissed her cheek. For a couple of hours the assault to every one of Lana’s senses left her unable to think about anything other than the here and now. The vibrant colors, the warm day, the taste of cinnamon in the chocolate, and Abbot’s warm hand in hers. It was a perfect escape.
Abbot offered to come with her to Dr. Tucker’s office for the LEEP procedure. Camilla had planned to join her, but a conflict had come up. Accepting Abbot’s offer would alleviate Camilla’s guilt at having to cancel. But Abbot was a strange choice for company. A man, for one, joining her for a trip to her gynecologist. A man she only knew from yoga and coffee and one Mexico outing.
Abbot shrugged and said, “Sometimes people just want to feel useful. How can you deny a man that?”
Lana definitely understood that feeling. Finding ways to be useful was her security as well. Lana accepted his offer. She was going to need a distraction in the waiting room.
Abbot was on partial disability, recovering from his back surgery, slowly easing back into a full-time workday. He was anxious to get back to his normal routine, but reluctant to give up his extra hours off.
“Is yoga part of your physical therapy?” Lana asked as they settled into Dr. Tucker’s crowded waiting room.
“No, it’s my mental therapy. Physical therapy is when sweet little Marianne, who is all of ninety pounds but a lot stronger than she looks, bends me until I’m crying in pain, then tells me how good it is for me.”
Abbot was a sales manager for an advertising firm, buying and selling time slots for clients. It was an interesting thought: buying time. Lana tried not to think of her worst-case scenario, and what it would mean: limited time with her children, Matt, herself. Not enough time for more walks with Camilla. Not enough time for Becca’s spiritual advice. Not enough time to win her father over again. Not enough time to get to know Abbot.
“I know it’s an impossible suggestion, but really, you need to stop worrying so much,” Abbot said. Lana laughed. Abbot held his hand out and Lana placed hers into his broad palm. “Because here’s the thing. You’re going to go in there and have this taken care of. And then life is going to keep right on going. Today. Tomorrow. Weeks. Months. Years. We have time. None of us know how much, but we know we have today. Let’s use it wisely. Let’s make travel plans and eat good food and walk on the beach and listen to live music and laugh hysterically at absolutely nothing.”
He squeezed Lana’s hand and she smiled at his gentle eyes. Where had he come from? Abbot had been divorced for four years. His ex-wife was engaged. His children were grown. He was at a point in his life when he could focus primarily on himself. He was learning the truths that Lana had been putting off. But why? She’d figured once her children were grown, once Matt was safe, once everyone else was accounted for, she’d make time for herself. But here was her body sending her a different message, one of urgency, one of warning. Time was limited. The time was now.
“You’re a wise man,” she said.
“I’m a broken man. I have pins in my back to fix what I ignored for too long, so busy working and managing my stress that I forgot to live. It cost me my marriage and my health. That was my wake-up call. Maybe this is yours.”
Lana wasn’t a big believer in fate, but having Abbot next to her, holding her hand and telling her exactly what she needed to hear, that felt a lot like destiny.
“I haven’t told my kids or my brother about this,” she confessed. She felt like a fraud, keeping it from them. But she also felt the need to protect them from this big, scary thing.
“Will you?” he asked. His tone was free of judgment.
“If I have to, yes. But . . .” The tears built, as she knew they would, and she cleared her throat to force them back inside her body. “I had a brother who died of cancer. He was young and strong and smart and beautiful. He got sick and then it was like we all had cancer, as a family. It grew in him and it grew in us, until that’s all we were.
Just doctor’s appointments and worrying about him and trying to stay out of my parents’ way, because they only had time and energy for him. Years lost, on hold, waiting and watching Stephen instead of living each day like it mattered, like it was a gift. I missed so much of my childhood because he was sick, and he left us anyway. The hole was even bigger when he died, because he’d become the focus of our whole existence. Without him we had nothing to unite us anymore. My parents never recovered. Matt needed help and they had nothing left for him. I won’t do that. I won’t let cancer define my kids’ childhood the way it consumed mine. I won’t let it take what Matt needs from him again.”
Abbot stroked her cheek with his knuckle, trailed his fingers down to her chin, turned her face toward him. She worried she’d start crying if she looked at him, so she closed her eyes. She felt his lips on hers. He kissed her very gently, and for that moment Lana forgot every worry she had.
“Lana Foster?” a voice said. Lana startled at the sound of her own name. A purple-smocked nurse, holding a chart against her hip, smiled at her. Lana rose on nervous legs and turned toward Abbot.
He stood and hugged her. “You’ve got this. You’ll be fine,” he said.
“You really don’t have to wait,” she said, trying to sound strong.
“I’m not leaving you,” he told her.
The procedure, as Dr. Tucker had promised, wasn’t painful, but it was uncomfortable and terrifying in a nonspecific way. It began much like a pap smear, with Lana on her back, feet in stirrups, vulnerable and exposed and desperate for it to be over. After the pinch and burn of the anesthesia, Lana felt a strange flush come over her body. Her breathing picked up. Nothing had even happened yet, but she was on the verge of a panic attack. She didn’t want to give in to it, didn’t want to admit to Dr. Tucker that she was losing it. Lana focused on her breathing, using the same peaceful visuals they taught in yoga to abate the panicky feeling in her belly, each thought a mere cloud against the backdrop of a perfect blue sky. She exhaled slowly, created a little breeze to blow the clouds away, and it actually helped. After a few minutes Dr. Tucker put away her tools with a definitive cold clang of metal and helped Lana sit up.
The Art of Adapting Page 24