by Nancy Geary
But the beach was empty. The landing was, too.
She scanned the shore again and then the edge of the dunes. Why did it have to be tonight of all nights that Prissy had finished early and gone home?
She’d avoided the beach the last six weeks since Ferris’s death. She had plenty of excuses—she was in mourning for her brother; she was readying the house for sale—but if she was honest, she just hadn’t known what to say. Prissy was entitled to make a choice, and Ferris hadn’t been what she’d wanted. Still, Grace had somehow expected that Prissy would call or write or offer something by way of condolence or explanation. It was her responsibility. But there’d been no word.
Now she felt angry. Maybe it was learning of her own mortality, or maybe it was something simpler—being stuck in horrible traffic—but she wanted to confront her friend and wanted to know why. She wanted to understand, if such a thing were possible. Even more than that, even more than her anger and sorrow and confusion, she wanted life to be like it was before . . . before Ferris was dead . . . before she was sick . . . before her home was gone . . . before she’d known the truth. She wanted her tidy existence back. She wanted to be able to sit with the friend she’d had and confess how very scared she was.
“Where are you?” she called into the wind.
A seagull squawked. Turning, she saw it lift off from the beach, flap its wings several times, and then coast across the river to disappear in the sea grass on the other side. Another followed close behind.
She grabbed handfuls of sand and buried her face in her palms. The granules scraped her skin.
“I don’t want to be sick!”
She tore at her blouse, pulling it over her head only half unbuttoned, and stumbled out of her pants as well as out of her more-than-six-months-old underwear and bra. The cool breeze on her naked body made her shiver. Her nipples were erect from the cold, and goose bumps dotted her thighs. Her hair blew in her face, and then stuck to her wet cheeks, blocking her vision. She started to run, kicking sand as she went. Slipping on a clump of seaweed, she struggled to maintain her balance without halting her progress.
Finally she felt the frigid water on her calves and hurled herself out into the black tide, belly flopping into the channel. The shock made her muscles ache. She dipped her head under and felt the salt burn her cheeks. Resurfacing, she gulped air.
Rolling onto her back, she treaded water and stared up at the sky, then twisted around to face the salty blackness again. Swallowing a mouthful, she coughed and sputtered.
She swam out a few strokes. The middle of the channel—midway between the shore she’d left behind and the spit of Hardings Beach on the other side—was where she’d be sure she couldn’t reach down and touch the sandy bottom with her toes.
She wanted to let the sea envelop her. This was the place she loved. This was where she’d sought solace before. It made sense for this water, the same water that had baptized Erin and swallowed Ferris’s ashes, to take her diseased body and deliver her to peace.
Perhaps she should have done this long ago. A part of her had never survived Sarah’s death.
The sun had set and the sky was dark. She could see nothing on shore but a single light. Judging from its location, it could be her bedroom. She hoped she wouldn’t wash ashore to be discovered puffy and bloated and blue. Bain didn’t need that. It would be better for everyone if she sank to the bottom and never returned.
Eleanor and then Sarah and now Ferris were gone. Would they all be reunited in the hereafter? It would be a welcome consolation for the loss of their presence that she’d suffered during her lifetime.
Then she thought of Hank and Erin. She wondered how they would take the news of her death. Maybe they’d look after their father; maybe they could be supportive and loving, or maybe not. Everyone always said it was much better to have a daughter during a tragedy.
Now was the moment. She gulped again, struggling to get the thick seawater down her throat. Having the ocean in her as well as around her was what she wanted. And yet even as she swallowed she knew this couldn’t be the end. She couldn’t follow in Ferris’s footsteps. As much as this seemed an appropriate place and an appropriate moment for her death, with the smell of the sea, the feel of the cold wetness, and the sound of the wind, she’d never, ever felt more alive.
The telephone was ringing as she opened the front door. Either Bain had not yet returned or he was upstairs in the bath and had decided not to get out. The ringing persisted.
She reached for the receiver and instantly regretted her decision.
“Mom, it’s Hank. I can’t believe that you’re selling our home.”
Our home. She knew his choice of words was deliberate, but the house hadn’t felt collective since the boys had been children. They’d been gone for so long and, despite the summer visits with their families, never did anything to indicate they cared about the place. She couldn’t remember a time that either of the boys had pulled a weed or fixed a broken screen.
Hank was babbling about his industry. She focused.
“You’ve got it on the Multiple Listing Service. Did you honestly think I wouldn’t find out?”
A puddle had formed underneath her feet. She could feel cold water running from her hair down her back. She felt silly standing naked and wet holding the telephone, and wished she hadn’t abandoned her clothes at the beach. What if the propane company or the UPS truck made a late-night delivery? It had been known to happen.
“Real estate listings are computerized. I can access everything. I could be looking at property in California. When did you do this?” Hank was yelling now.
She shrugged and closed her eyes. She and Bain hadn’t wanted to tell the boys, hadn’t wanted to have any discussion about finances or reasons. It was none of their business.
Keeping her voice steady and controlled, she announced, “We put the house on the market in March. There hasn’t been an offer. We recently lowered the price, and allowed the broker to list it on MLS,” she said matter-of-factly. Lowered the price was an understatement for a five-hundred-thousand-dollar reduction, but Hank didn’t need to know details. “I think there will be some advertising, too, so don’t be surprised.”
“Gee, thanks for telling me. Now I won’t be.” His sarcasm was obvious.
“It’s quite possible the right family won’t come along. This is a quirky house. We’ve loved it, but it’s not for everyone.”
There was a pause before Hank asked, “March? We were there for Easter.”
Bain had been adamant about maintaining secrecy, and they’d blocked out the holiday weekend with the Realtor. No showings. No calls. If someone was truly interested, they could come back after the family departed. As it was, there hadn’t been a nibble.
He continued. “Have you had a lot of showings?”
“No, not really. A few. There is one tomorrow,” she said, remembering. She glanced around the room. Where was Bain?
“Did it occur to you to ask how I felt about it? We were just making plans for the summer. I was thinking we’d come down for the first two weeks of August.”
Hank seemed awfully young for two weeks’ vacation. Bain would never have dreamed of such a prolonged period away from the office at his age. He hadn’t been gone that long even when Sarah died. Wasn’t there work to do? A career to advance?
“Susan was thinking of staying for an extra week after I leave. She loves the beach.”
We all do, Grace thought. Instead she just mumbled, “Oh.”
“But apparently now our home may not still be in the family. What are we supposed to do?”
She hated his snide tone of voice. Perhaps you should purchase this house yourself and we can come as your guests, she wanted to say. Then Susan can make sure the sheets are clean, there’s fresh soap in the linen closet, and ripe peaches and plums for snacks. And you can pay the real estate taxes and come up with the cost of a new roof. But she knew such thoughts were absurd. Her two sons could no more buy out their
parents than run for president.
“Maybe you should think about Maine. I hear rentals are more reasonable.”
“This is my profession,” he said, ignoring her. “I might have been able to give you some advice.”
Hadn’t he abandoned the Wellesley rental market and become a mortgage broker several years before? Obviously, her information was outdated. Then again, she was only his mother.
“The least you could have done is talked to me before you listed it. It was both embarrassing and awkward at the office. Try explaining why your parents don’t give you the listing for your own house.”
Again the collective possession. Then she understood. He was upset because he wanted the brokerage commission. Even though his office wasn’t on the Cape, local brokers could show it and he’d still be entitled to 2.5 percent with little or no effort. First free rent. Then free cash. It had absolutely nothing to do with nostalgia about the family home. Money. It was all about money. He wanted some more from his parents.
“When exactly were you planning on telling me?”
She wasn’t sure how to answer. She and Bain had avoided that subject. “When we moved out, I suppose,” she replied. At least she was honest. She had expected to give them a forwarding address.
There was silence on the other end.
She wiggled her toes in the puddle. The edge of the area rug was wet, too. “I’m going to have to go. I’ve made a bit of a mess here. Do send Susan my best! Little Henry, too,” she said with a forced cheeriness. “I’ll tell your father you called. Bye-bye.” Before he had a chance to respond, she replaced the receiver. She could justify a quick good-bye. It was different from an actual hang-up on her son.
She stared at the telephone, wondering whether it would ring again. He hadn’t asked why, or where they planned to go.
Hearing footsteps, she turned to see Bain. In his arms, he held her bundle of clothes and a plastic bag from the liquor store. He eyed her naked body, then the puddle.
“It’s not what you think. I went for a swim,” she said. Her tone sounded apologetic. Although incontinence might come, it hadn’t happened yet.
He dropped the clothes and bag onto a chair. “It’s June. The water can’t be above fifty-eight.”
There had been so many times in their life together that his precision, his attention to the smallest detail, had been a source of tremendous comfort to her. Hearing him now estimate late-spring water temperature made her smile.
He removed his sweater and draped it over her shoulders. Then he rested his hands on her shoulders. “You’re going to get yourself sick. And that’s the last thing we need right now.”
She leaned her body against his and breathed in his familiar scent. “How did you know to go to the beach?” she whispered.
“The gate on the stairway was open. I just had a feeling I’d find you there. Instead I found your underwear.” He patted her bare behind. “Go take a hot shower. And I’ll make you some soup. I saw a can of that escarole flavor you like in the pantry.”
She looked into his eyes, wanting to speak, but words didn’t come. She nodded.
“And I assume at dinner you’ll let me know what happened to your car.” He smiled. “With the way you’ve been acting today, I fear I may be in for quite a story.”
The gray light of the full moon illuminated the bedroom. Even though she had pushed off the covers and wore only a thin nightgown, Grace felt weighted down. Her breathing labored with each inhalation. She wasn’t getting enough air. Beside her, Bain lay on his back, his mouth agape, faintly snoring. She rearranged the pillows and flopped against them. When sleep still didn’t come, she rolled back and stared at the spiderweb of cracks that covered the ceiling.
“We’ll need a biopsy,” Dr. Preston had said as he pointed to what appeared to be her right lung. The dark shadows of the X-ray made it difficult to see exactly what he meant, but he’d already explained that there was a lump in her breast. It was the size of a grapefruit, although in medical jargon every lump seemed to be grapefruit-size, that particular citrus the universal standard of measurement. She’d never heard someone say that a tumor had the diameter of an orange or the dimensions of a lemon, the weight of a pomegranate or a small avocado.
He’d consulted his prescription pad. “You’ve got an appointment scheduled on Wednesday with a doctor named Belafonte—like the singer.”
She pictured a man in a white coat with tan skin, white teeth, and graying hair. Steel drum music would be piped into the operating room.
“He’s terrific. We’ve known each other for years. You’re going to like him.”
She didn’t need more friends. In fact, if the doctor was stern and rigid and scientific, it might be easier. She could subject her body to whatever probing and cutting he needed to do, listen to his diagnosis and prognosis, and then go about her business. A kind doctor, a hopeful man, was harder to dismiss.
“He’s over at Dana Farber.”
Dana Farber. Cancer. The terms were synonymous.
It was the same place that her mother had died.
Dr. Preston had leaned forward, rested his elbows on his desk, and given her an earnest look. “I know this comes at a particularly difficult time. But as I explained before, we shouldn’t rush to conclusions. It could still be nothing. However, you do need to talk to Bain.”
“If it might be nothing, let’s wait until you tell me for certain,” she’d replied. Her voice sounded foreign and far away, as though it were emanating from a tape recorder in the back of the room. “I don’t want him to worry. He has a lot on his mind right now.” She stared behind him. A blond woman with glossy lips and a red-and-white-checked blouse smiled from the five-by-seven silver frame on his credenza. The Mrs. Doctor Preston was attractive. There were no cancerous fruits growing in her breasts. That kind of woman didn’t even have a pimple. She wondered if they were happy. “How long have you been married?” she asked. It was the first personal question she’d ever put to Dr. Preston.
He looked confused, glanced over his shoulder to the photograph, and then nodded in recognition. Yes, he did have a wife. There she was on his credenza. “Brook and I married in ’94.” He turned his attention back to Grace. “Bain needs to be involved. There may be decisions to make.”
Decisions. They were Bain’s forte. She dabbled in decision making—after all, she did go to the grocery store and choose what to cook for supper—but she’d spent fifty-eight years without having to make any momentous choice. She’d gone along with his decisions, endorsed them and supported them without expending too much intellectual energy wondering whether she actually agreed. To render a decision meant she had to have an opinion of her own. Suddenly she liked that idea and wanted to tumble it around in her mind until it came out smooth and shiny.
“Now’s the time,” Dr. Preston had prodded.
She’d nodded.
When she’d left the hospital that afternoon, she’d vowed not to return. That would be her first major choice, and it had seemed a good one. To coin Ferris’s phrase, she’d had a good run. Other than a few weeks in bed with Lyme disease, she’d experienced fine health. Now she didn’t want more days driving back and forth to Boston, sitting on a plastic chair watching nurses shuttle up and down the hall checking clipboards, tying and untying hospital gowns, waiting for the X-ray, wondering what was wrong, imagining the worst, listening to Dr. Preston’s feeble efforts to be optimistic.
Lying in bed, she made small circles on Bain’s chest with her palm. This evening had been the first and only time she’d had a suicidal moment, a brief indulgence that had been as transitory as the changeover airport on a one-stop flight. And tonight had ended as many had before it: with soup and a slice of toast on a tray in front of the news, Bain half reading The Wall Street Journal and half listening to the parade of horrors that filled the broadcast, and her shutting off the light behind them both when they went up to bed.
She glanced at the clock on her nightstand. Four A.M. The sh
owing was only a few hours away.
As she’d stepped from a hot shower earlier in the evening, feeling relaxed for the first time she could remember, Kay had called. Her voice had seemed more abrasive than usual. “I’d say they’re definitely interested,” she’d announced as though the tea leaves were a challenge to read. “They already had me fax a copy of the survey to their attorneys in Manhattan. That’s a very good sign. And they prequalified for something much more substantial, so you don’t have to worry on that end.”
Grace reached over and ran her finger along Bain’s cheek. He twitched but didn’t awaken. The lines in his forehead deepened.
Thirty-six years they’d been married. She’d never been with anyone else, and, as far as she knew, he’d been faithful, too. She welcomed his familiarity—the comfort of his body and the predictability of his character. Those feelings were real whether or not she was dying.
She thought of a story Bain had told her years before. A colleague of his at the Bank of Boston was diagnosed with prostate cancer. His wife, a professor at Boston College, had resigned from her position to care for him and tend to his every need. After six long years in and out of hospitals, traveling the country in search of the best care, he met with his doctors. He was disease-free. His prognosis was excellent. He’d beaten it. His wife and he went out for a five-star dinner to celebrate and splurged on a bottle of Cristal champagne. The next day he filed for divorce. No one could believe it. “If I was going to die, it didn’t matter,” he’d explained. “But since I’m going to live, the last thing I want is to be with her.”
Grace couldn’t imagine a life without her husband, and for a moment she felt selfishly relieved that she would be gone first. Never before had the order of death occurred to her. Now she understood why people wanted spouses who were substantially younger. It was as close to a guarantee as possible. Nobody wanted to be left behind.