by Nancy Geary
“Grace, Bain, this is what you wanted. Who knows when another buyer might come along, if ever,” Kay pleaded.
“The money is there. We’re talking about a twenty-four-hour delay.” Chad’s voice bordered on shrill.
“Then I’ll take a check drawn on this firm’s account.”
“What?” Chad exclaimed.
“No doubt you have more than adequate funds to cover it. And I’m sure Mr. Marx here is a very valuable client.” Bain almost seemed amused. His eyes twinkled.
Chad cleared his throat. Grace thought his face looked flushed, but perhaps they were all overheating. “Uh . . . um . . . That’s not possible. You’re talking about a check for more than a million dollars. That would have to get approval from our management committee. It could never happen today.”
No lawyer could look at Jay.
“What the fuck!” Jay shouted at Chad. “I give you shit-for-brains more business than you know what to do with. Let me tell you. There’ll be none. There isn’t a firm in town who wouldn’t do this for me.”
“Jay, please, let’s be rational. You know I would if I could, but I can’t authorize it—not for this sum and not on such short notice.”
“Then find someone who can.”
Chad slouched forward and held on to the edge of the conference table.
“It’s a management decision,” Emma parroted. “It’s really beyond our control, as much as we’d love to help.”
The blood had drained from Mark’s face. He excused himself, exiting quickly.
“The condition of closing was a certified check. Now. At eleven A.M. The time you specified. Not sometime in the future. And certainly not sometime after we have transferred title to our house,” Bain announced. “We did everything you asked. We even drove all the way up here when a closing in Chatham would have been substantially more convenient for both Mr. Chadwick and myself. All you had to do is make the money available, and it’s not. Although under the circumstances I am quite sure you’re not entitled to a return of your deposit, I’m instructing Kay to release the escrow back to you. I don’t want your money. The deal is off.”
Bob rose and reached for his briefcase. He’d known Bain long enough to know he wasn’t likely to threaten and not follow through.
“Wait a moment,” Robin said. “I don’t understand. We’re all set. I’ve got a decorator and a contractor and a landscaper meeting me this afternoon.” She looked at her husband. “Who owns the house?”
“We do,” Bain said without missing a beat. “And we plan to keep it that way.”
They stood by the elevator staring at the mahogany veneer and the marble plaque engraved with the name of the law firm. Other than Bob and a maintenance man polishing the brass on the doorknobs, they were alone.
Grace wondered if she were dreaming. Reaching into her pocket, she fumbled with her key chain. The house key was still there. Horizons was still home.
The ding of a bell announced the arrival of the elevator. It was empty. The three of them stepped inside.
“What will we do?” she asked. “We needed the sale.”
Bain took her palms in his. “Let me tell you a little story,” he replied. His voice was calm and gentle. “Many years back, in the fifties it was, there was a quarterback for the Detroit Lions, a man called Bobby Layne. He had a glorious career, was beloved by many, but alcohol and infidelities eventually tarnished his character and left him in some degree of disgrace. After he’d fallen into disrepute, he was interviewed. I remember reading it at the time. How was he going to get by? How was he going to manage? He was asked those questions again and again. He wasn’t bitter or angry at how the crowds had turned on him. Instead he remarked that the goal of life was to run out of money and air at the same time.” He rubbed the tops of her hands. “Maybe that’s our goal, too, Gracie. All we need is enough to see us through.”
Bob chuckled.
Then Bain leaned toward her and whispered, “Don’t you worry. I’m going to keep you in your home forever.”
Ten Days Later
Chapter Twenty-seven
From her bed Grace could see the first gray light of morning through the crack in the steely blue institutional curtains. The numbers of the digital clock showed 5:21. She pushed the button by her right hand, waited a moment, and then heard a groan and felt her head elevating as the metal frame shifted into position. She strained to hear traffic on the street below—even the sound of a siren would have been comforting, or a dog barking—but it was deathly quiet.
Her gaze shifted to the Naugahyde armchair next to the bed railing. Bain had fallen asleep there earlier in the evening, his fingers steepled in his lap and his chin resting on his chest. She’d been relieved to see him finally steal a moment of peace in what had been an arduous day in a very long week. Only when the nurse came in at nine to check her vital signs had he awoken, disoriented, and finally acquiesced to return to the hotel room for a few hours. “You can’t sleep in a chair,” she’d said, urging him to leave. “And you’ll need a change of clothes. Please don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”
“As long as you’ll promise to call if you need anything,” he’d instructed. He’d bent over and lowered his voice. “You can’t be stoic anymore, Gracie.” Then he’d kissed her, but barely. They’d brushed lips. He’d applied no pressure, as though she might break under even his gentle touch. “I’ll be back,” he assured her. “First thing.”
He would return early. She fully expected that. Her surgery was scheduled for seven thirty.
For the last week, that period before she’d been admitted when blood work, X-rays, sonograms, and bone and lymph-node biopsies had been done, she’d stayed with him at the Ritz-Carlton, in the room he now occupied alone. It had windows overlooking Commonwealth Avenue, a cheery floral print on the bedspread and curtains, and a plush neutral carpet. In the drawer of the bedside table, she’d found several scenic postcards of Boston in a faux-leather folder along with some stationery and a ticket for the hotel’s laundry service. She’d sat at the glass-topped desk and addressed them to her Chatham neighbors, her messages upbeat, as though she were taking a brief vacation before returning to her home on Sears Point. “We’ve decided not to sell,” she’d written, “and are enjoying a few days in Boston. It has been a bit of a stressful time after all.” The words gave her strength. Then she’d left her correspondence with the concierge on her way to the hospital. She liked that postage could be added to their room charge.
She would have preferred to be home from the moment they walked out of International Place, but Bain had insisted they find a hotel. Their furniture and possessions were en route to Florida. It would take a while to get them back. And he didn’t want Grace to unpack, to set up house, not now. She needed to save her strength. They had bigger decisions to make.
So they’d said good-bye to Bob and checked into the Ritz with their overnight bags. They’d changed into the plush terry robes that they found in the closet, ordered supper early, and watched a movie. They’d spoken of nothing important, but laughed together at the romantic comedy. When it was over, they made love to each other, gently, tenderly, with the street lamps casting a glow across the room. She’d fallen asleep in his arms.
At her insistence, Bain had driven her to the Cape the next afternoon. She’d felt excited, rolling down her window as they drove across the Sagamore Bridge to breathe in the salty air and hear the distant sound of a motorboat speeding through the channel. The house was untouched. She’d walked through the empty rooms, comforted by every crack and imperfection, and relieved—overwhelmingly relieved—to be back. It was there, standing in her kitchen, watching the water seep from a leaky gasket on the faucet, that she’d finally agreed to proceed with Dr. Preston’s recommendations and get the necessary tests performed immediately. She’d get to Dana Farber as soon as the arrangements could be made.
“I’m proud of you,” Bain had said.
From then on, time had been a blur. Dr. Belafonte had
been nothing like his name suggested. A pudgy man with thick folds under his chin, wire-rimmed glasses, and a black mustache, he wore a long white coat over his plaid pants and wedge-soled Earth shoes. Although he spoke in a slightly abrasive, nasal voice, he’d held her hand when he confirmed the diagnosis she’d known all along. Then he’d brought her a Dixie cup half filled with water. She’d studied the floral design stenciled around the cup as he’d explained what options she had. Bain hadn’t said a word.
“I know it’s a lot to process for both of you, and I also know that I’m unable to give you the assurances you want. But what do you think?” Dr. Belafonte had asked.
“It’s Grace’s decision,” Bain had said, his voice cracking. “It has to be Grace’s decision.”
Sitting beside him, watching him fight back tears, she’d agreed to surgery. “I’d welcome it at this stage,” she remembered herself saying. As she faced the doctor and listened to his explanation of what lay ahead, it struck her that the authority to act on her own was meaningless. Her life was in reference to Bain, as his was to her, and that degree of entanglement wasn’t bad. She wasn’t weak; she loved her husband. And he needed more than anything to believe they stood a chance. If she’d chosen to do nothing, she would force him to abandon his hope. Neither of them was ready for that.
Erin and the children drove down from Vermont, and Bain got them a room with a crib two floors below. India and Deshawn shared the bed, while their father slept on a pull-out couch. They went to the sea lion show at the aquarium, took a ride on the Swan Boats, feeding the ducks that swam alongside, and had tea at the Four Seasons with chocolate éclairs and strawberry shortcake. It might have been perfect—she might even have forgotten why they were all there—except that each moment felt so precious, so packed with activity and deliberate joy.
The last night they had dinner together at a pizza restaurant on Dartmouth Street. Grace nibbled on a bread stick and watched her grandchildren delight over the wood-burning stove and the Shirley Temples with maraschino cherries and twisted stirrers. Hank, Susan, and Henry had been invited to join them, but Susan had declined, promising to come to the hospital when the surgery was over. “We’re all thinking of you,” she’d said before hanging up. Hank hadn’t come on the line.
Now the gray of dawn changed to the glory of early-morning sunshine. 6:23. 6:24. Grace watched the minute digit flip.
Slowly, she swung her legs to one side, stood up, and shuffled to the bathroom in the corner. The smell of Lysol greeted her as she opened the heavy door. The room had a safety railing, a sink with a mirror and fluorescent lights, and a toilet with a loud suction flush that reminded her of an airplane. What did happen to the urine—or worse—that was released into the atmosphere? It was one of many questions to which she had no answer.
She thought of the previous morning. Her last day of freedom, of wholeness. Only twenty-four hours had passed since her admission, but it seemed longer. She’d crossed the great chasm and couldn’t retreat.
She thought of the moment she’d left the Ritz, wondering if she’d ever be well enough to return. She and Bain had ridden the elevator down to the well-appointed lobby. He’d carried her overnight bag. She’d clutched her purse to her chest, shivering beneath two layers of sweaters despite the warmth of July. Behind her two ladies had discussed their hair appointment at a nearby salon.
As the metal gates opened and she stepped out, she’d thought her heart would stop. Instead it had raced.
A tall, athletic woman in a long white skirt and a mustard-colored crochet top stood in the lobby. The figure was unmistakable even without a bucket or a rake or a floppy hat.
“Emily contacted me,” Prissy had said. “Erin told her you were here.”
“It’s nice of you to come,” Grace had replied.
Bain had offered to fetch the taxi, leaving them alone.
“We have a lot to talk about,” Prissy had said.
“I suppose.”
She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Kody left me.”
“I’m sorry.” Then she added, “Truly.”
Prissy didn’t react to the sentiment. “We made it to Florida, Key West, I don’t know if Emily told you that.”
Grace shook her head.
“We’d been there about a month when I told him about Ferris. That was my mistake, but I felt he had to know. That was it. He said he didn’t want anyone to feel sorry for him, especially me. I’m not sure I ever did, but that’s what he thought, that he’d been my charity case. It wasn’t fair of him—to dismiss me like that, to dismiss everything we shared together—but he was adamant. I asked him to forgive me.” Prissy paused, brushing a stray hair behind her ear. “Anyway, I wanted you to know that I’d been punished, too.”
Grace pictured Ferris, wondering for a moment what he would think of her announcement. If Prissy had been honest with Kody sooner, and their marriage had ended, might Ferris still be alive? No, she told herself. It wouldn’t have made a difference. That wouldn’t have made Ferris happy. He’d wanted Prissy to choose him, actively and affirmatively, not because her first choice was unavailable. He’d wanted Prissy to make him feel special. Instead, she’d been selfish.
From the backseat of the taxi, she’d watched as Prissy, standing under the awning, got smaller and smaller in the distance.
Had she wanted to punish her? Probably so. Over the days and weeks, she’d felt hurt, betrayed, angry. Her dearest friend had stolen her brother. But at this moment of uncertainty in her life, all the conversations she’d expected to have before seemed pointless. Prissy had to live with herself and the consequences of her actions, her own private nightmare.
Now Grace shut the bathroom door behind her and turned the lock. In her trembling hand, she held a small paper bag.
Standing on the sterile tile floor, she took out the pair of red panties, snapped off the tag, and stepped into them. The fabric felt odd, unfamiliar. In the mirror she noticed that her pubic hair poked through the lace in the front. Was that supposed to happen? Even so, the underwear looked good, sexy. If she died on the operating table, she liked the idea that she would leave behind a surprise.
Grace lay on a gurney, covered by a thin white blanket. The nurse insisted that Bain not push the stretcher to the pre-operating room, and so they were forced to wait in the hallway for transport to arrive. Nurses and doctors, orderlies and volunteers hurried past them, checking charts and pagers. Their rubber-soled shoes squeaked on the linoleum floor. She appreciated the commotion.
“It was supposed to be me,” Bain said in a quiet voice. “I was supposed to go first, if we couldn’t go together. That was how I’d organized the universe.” He sniffled. “You’re the one with the courage. You’re the one with the strength. You have so many qualities I love, but I’ve admired you for that, for always being strong enough to go on regardless of what happened, for that inner fortitude more than anything else.” He wiped his eyes with his free hand.
She’d never known. She hadn’t thought of herself that way. She closed her eyes, thought of Sarah, then Erin and Hank. Her three children. “Do you think we learn too late?”
He looked confused. “To exploit my vulnerabilities?” He winked.
She knew his effort to seem lighthearted was herculean. “No, not that. I mean, do we learn when it’s too late to change? I want to believe that even if we just have wisdom or insight for a fleeting moment, it’s not a waste.”
There was no opportunity for Bain to reply. At that moment, the orderly arrived, a young man in a blue cargo suit who looked as though he were part of a NASCAR pit crew. His nameplate read HAL. He smiled, his white teeth flashing from his dark skin. “All set?”
“Yes,” she said.
Bain leaned over her and kissed her once and then again. Then he wrapped his arms under her, lifted her torso away from the gurney, and held her in an embrace.
As she tucked her hands beneath the blanket and allowed Hal to tighten the safety straps across her c
hest and legs, she thought of the smooth satin of her underwear. For a moment, she wanted to jump off the stretcher, pull up her hospital gown, and show Bain. Imagining the expression on his face, his shock perhaps, then his naughty grin of delight, made her laugh.
How much she wanted the time, that joy, another good run.
Hal glanced over at her. “You okay, ma’am?”
“Yes,” she mumbled.
He unlocked the brakes and positioned the gurney toward the elevator. Ahead of her, a collection of people waited for its arrival. She stared at their backs, the white doctors’ coats, green scrubs, street clothes. No one wore a blue-and-white oxford shirt or a blue blazer.
Panic gripped her. Bain wasn’t among them. He was gone. He’d left his embrace in place of any parting words. She closed her eyes, trying to hold back the tears, and listened to the mumble of voices, the bits of disjointed conversation about a patient who had been discharged, a nurses’ meeting, a lunch special.
The elevator doors opened, revealing a cavernous space inside. The crowd shuffled forward.
A bald patient pushing a bag of intravenous fluid on a metal pole bumped into the end of her stretcher. Turning toward her with a vacant stare, he muttered, “Excuse me.” His complexion was yellowish gray.
“After you, sir,” Hal replied.
The gurney shifted slightly.
If she’d been able to jump off at that moment, she would have, but the straps held her down. She couldn’t get in, not now, not without Bain. Her heart pounded. Her hospital gown was clammy and matted against her chest.
Just then, she felt a hand on her shoulder. Even through the fabric, she could feel the heat of his palm, the strength of his fingers, his familiar touch.
Bain leaned forward. She smelled his skin, his breath. And then he whispered, so softly for a moment she thought she hadn’t heard. But she didn’t need the words. She knew what he was saying.