A Thing of Beauty

by Lisa Samson

  Jack can handle this no other way. If he could, I’d have lost all respect for him.

  “Good night,” he says, leaving the bedroom and closing the door behind him.

  Sixteen

  It’s only six thirty. The sun has not yet gained the horizon, but the sky begins to hold on to its light, pulling itself up from indigo to the hushed pearl gray of early morning.

  Baltimore is beginning to stir, the black streets increasing their usefulness, clocking in for the commuter traffic. Some of the nearby residents walk their dogs by the water. Others jog or clip along at a stiff walk, oblivious, or so it seems, to the calm water of the harbor.

  I’m sitting on Jack’s rooftop deck, snuggled in an ivory robe, my leg throbbing in time to every car that rolls by below with the volume pumped up on its stereo. But even with this, I realize for the first time in years I’m exactly where I want to be. Not even where I’m supposed to be, but where I’d choose to be if given a choice in the matter.

  The men are asleep, and my conversation with Jack keeps rolling around in my thoughts and, I suspect, deeper down. As I gained and lost consciousness throughout the night, I could only think about Brandon, and what it must have been like to be married to Jessica all those years.

  I hear the doors open behind me and cross my fingers, still gazing outward.

  Jack sits down next to me. Good.

  I look at him and smile as he hands me a cup of coffee. He returns the grin, but we say nothing, sitting together in our matching bathrobes. We watch as the sky continues to lighten, each new shade snipping at the time left until Brandon will stir. Despite his lifestyle back in the old days, he never slept in past eight. And even so, he was all bathrobes, smoothies, brisk swims, and catching up on the news at that time of day.

  “What are you thinking about?” he asks.

  “My father.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “It’s like this, Jack. I’m not going to rewrite history and pretend he was the world’s greatest dad. He sucked. He was never home. But who would want to hang around a woman like Jessica? A woman who thought, because of her beauty and prestige, she was laying a privilege on you if she deigned to breathe the same air as you?”

  “A father whose daughter needs him there?”

  “I see your point. But I know I don’t want to be around that. To this day.”

  We sip our coffees halfway down as the streets below continue to heat up.

  “Is there a place deep down that can learn to love my dad a little bit?” I continue. “He’s adventurous and generous these days, respected and adored, despite what he says. And there’s a reason for that.”

  “Can you trust him?” Jack asks.

  “I just don’t know.”

  “Maybe that’s what all of this is for, Fi. You know?”

  I laugh. “You sound like Randi at the coffee shop!”

  “Just thinking out loud.”

  “Jack?”

  “Yes?”

  “You know those movies about noble people, or rich people, or even movie stars, where the mother and father pawn their kids off on a nanny and a kind domestic staff?”

  “Like The Great Gatsby?”

  “Yes, exactly. And they have certain times of the day where their gorgeous parents visit them and fawn over them for a little bit. They sing a little song or play patty-cake, and then they leave the nursery to enjoy a fabulous dinner in their glittering dining room, or go out to whatever beautiful, glittering activity they have planned?”

  “Yes,” he says. “And the children always seem so well adjusted and happy.”

  “Amazingly so.” I sink my hands in the pockets of my robe. “Well, it isn’t like that. Because the times in between seem so long, and they don’t show how the kids look upon their parents as foreign objects to their real world. They don’t show that after a while, the children grow further and further away, forgetting the umbilical cord completely. They resent that they are at their parents’ convenience, their schedules revolving around that brief time of interaction that becomes more and more meaningless, more pointless, as the years roll on.”

  “I can see that. It sounds horrible.”

  “Soon enough, the child, most likely around puberty, begins to suspect something is not only highly amiss, but deeply wrong with the arrangement because they watch enough television to realize most parents don’t interact with their children that way.”

  “I can see that too.” He swings his legs to the side of his chaise and takes my hand.

  I want to pull away, but his hand feels so warm and comforting. The feel of his fingers entwining with my own sets off a great honking alarm at the base camp of my skull, but still I cannot pull away. He only wants me, Fia. All of me, yes, but nothing more than that, and nothing less.

  “Go on, Fi,” he says.

  “Well, the parents figure it’s finally time to step in and assert authority they didn’t care to develop along the way. They demand respect and obedience, thinking it’s a right they automatically have, not a privilege they’ve earned because they were there for that child all along.”

  I pause, remembering the screaming fights with Jessica from thirteen until the final decree of divorce three years later. She’d always cry, “How can you do this to me, Fiona?”

  “Brandon, to his credit, stayed away.” I finish the thought out loud. “That was the decree of the courts.”

  “An apology might have been nice,” he says, squeezing my hand. And wow, yes, the man is on my side. Not because I’m right or have a just cause, but because he decided to be there.

  I’m not used to this kind of person. Clearly.

  I shrug. “It’s hard to know if that would have made any difference by that point.”

  “I think it might have,” he says.

  “You’re probably right. After the divorce, Brandon settled down a little bit, but he threw himself even more into his work and tried to hide the fact that he was so wounded by the entire situation.”

  “I remember. Your mom was a piece of work for a while there too.”

  “ ‘The lady doth protest too much.’ ”

  “It didn’t matter, though, Fia. There isn’t a person alive who sees a divorce situation like that and fails to blame the parents. They were the parents, for God’s sake.”

  “It’s true. But you know what, Jack? Even when all is said and done, you still don’t have a mom and dad.”

  “Fia, I’m sorry. Can I sit next to you on your chair?”

  The simple question brings tears to my eyes, and I slide over with a wince. He sits on the side of my lounger, reaches forward, and tucks my hair behind my ear. “But you’re here now,” he says. “And your father’s in there, and you’ve kinda been thrown together for the next few days.”

  “Believe me. I know.”

  “What’s your gut telling you to do with this?”

  “Nothing. It’s telling me to just roll with whatever comes along.”

  “Is that even possible?” he asks. “With that leg and all?” His eyes twinkle.

  “I don’t know. But I’m willing to see.”

  He leans forward and kisses me on the cheek. “I’ll get you some juice.”

  After I give myself a sponge bath, Jack checks on my leg and changes the dressing. I feel like I’ve been on a shoot for twelve hours, every scene consisting of nothing but running down a long corridor or across an airplane hangar. Still no word from Jessica, although Jack told me he heard Brandon talking to her last night after I went to bed, doing nothing but placating her. He probably knows all the right things to say at this point without using up any emotion whatsoever. I’m sure she’s all over Twitter asking for prayers and “good thoughts” for me and the family. And as bad as this leg feels, I’m reasonably sure she’s making it seem far worse. I’m probably in danger of losing it, according to social media. And I ran into that rake because I was either falling down drunk or tripping my ass off, for sure. Not that she’ll tweet that. But she won�
��t say anything to the contrary. Substance abuse makes for a much more exciting story, and exciting stories, even though they’re unacknowledged by the supposed players, sell movie tickets.

  And copies of books.

  She’s got to be giving herself multiple high fives at the timing of all this.

  Jack walks into the bedroom to check on me. “You doing okay? You look nice.”

  “Thanks.” I grip my gray wool skirt. “You know what? People are always searching for the truth, and I’m wondering if all that even matters anymore.”

  “Wow. I leave you for fifteen minutes and look what happens.” He laughs.

  “Seriously, Jack.” I pat the spot next to me on the bed and he sits down.

  “So what brought this on?” he asks.

  “Social media.”

  “You didn’t go checking, did you?”

  “I don’t have to.”

  “That’s the truth.” He hmms. “So that’s what brought about these thoughts?”

  “Yes! Nowadays people formulate truth; they don’t find it. I’m sure people have opinions about what happened to me even though none of them have heard about it from me. And you know what’s even sicker?”

  “They’re so sure about it?”

  “Right! So I ask you. If this is what happens with the situation of someone who is, truly, as insignificant as I am, how can we possibly know, really and truly know, what is going on with what really matters?”

  “We can’t. Not about all the big stuff. Halls of Congress, international affairs. Is that what you mean?”

  “Exactly. The everyday Joes, like you and me, a lot of them know nothing firsthand and think they know everything. And they talk-talk-talk-talk and post their opinions all over the Internet and it’s loud and ridiculous. It’s like we’re all in this ship of fools and nobody knows if the boat is even real.”

  Jack looks at me. Really looks at me.

  “What we have, Fia, is right now. And the job we have before us, and the people in front of us. That’s all we can hope is real. And even then . . .”

  “You don’t even know what those people are really thinking.”

  He nods. “And sometimes for the best of reasons.”

  “And then there’s my mom.”

  “Yep.”

  I start to stand and he helps me to my feet. “So, bearing what you said in mind, I guess the overall answer is to find what you love to do and do it, and hold close and be good to the people you love?”

  He tucks my arm in his. “And let them love you in return.”

  “Why does that sound so hard?”

  Placing his hand over mine, he says, “Because you have to be honest with yourself to do it.”

  Seventeen

  Brandon, chipper and concerned, seems to have had a good night’s sleep, if looking like a leading man in a pair of old boxers and a ratty JHU T-shirt is any indication.

  He sits at the dinette and pours himself a glass of juice. “Well, I’ve officially turned off my phone. I told my agent and manager that we’re all doing fine, nobody’s dying, and they’d better damn well handle it because I’m not only paying them for the good times.”

  “Well done,” says Jack. He offers to make us breakfast but both Brandon and I refuse. I get my weak morning stomach from him.

  “So what’s on the agenda for today?” Jack asks Brandon, refreshing my coffee, no space-age crystals included.

  “I have the benefit luncheon at noon, a cocktail photo op session at four, a little schmoozing afterward with the really big donors, and then I’ll be back.”

  “And I’m useless now,” I say, pointing to my leg, not stating the obvious fact that I’m thrilled I don’t have to appear in public. Terrible way to get there, but since I’m here, might as well appreciate at least one of the outcomes.

  Brandon winces. “Never useless, Fia. Think of how much better it will all be knowing I can come back and hang with you.”

  I smile. I can’t help it. So does Jack.

  “We’ll plan a nice time. Right here,” he says. “Because I have a feeling you won’t be going anywhere today, Fia.”

  “I have a feeling you’re right about that.” What in the world am I going to do with myself all day?

  An hour later Brandon is off in a rented Saab and Jack has left to run out to the country for some meeting with clients trying to make their next factory as close to zero emissions as possible. Not only do I not have the Schwinn, but even if I did, I only have one usable leg to power it with.

  Oh, boo-hoo, Fiona.

  I decide the upper deck is still the best option, and so I grab a book—speaking of The Great Gatsby—and a bottle of water and plant my bottom on what now feels like my own lounge chair.

  At eleven my phone rings.

  Oh joy! Jessica.

  I knew it had to happen; I could feel it coming like rain in the tropics, but some spark of hope that it wouldn’t nevertheless had remained ignited. Until this drowning moment.

  There’s no help for it. She’ll keep calling over and over until I answer her. That’s her way.

  So much for divorce. While Brandon crept away, Jessica still did her best to pounce.

  “Hi, Mother.”

  “Well, you picked a fine time to have an accident, Fiona. I’ve been doing damage control ever since, but I think you’ll end up looking all right.”

  I’m actually stunned. I mean, Jessica, being an utter narcissist, is the queen of the turnaround, and I only know all this due to hours and hours of therapy and reading. But this has got to be her greatest one yet.

  “Are you there?” she says. “Did you not hear what I said?”

  I bolster myself with one of those cleansing breaths you see on yoga shows. “I think so. But let me repeat it back to you just so I’m sure I’ve got it. I accidently ripped my thigh open on a rusty rake, called a cab and made it to the emergency room, got my picture snapped by a bystander who then sent it to a blogger who got it out on the Internet, and assumptions were made. And since you have a movie set to release, not to mention your little tell-all, you used it to the fullest to get your name out there and garner all kinds of sympathy without calling me once personally to see how I was doing, and I’m supposed to be falling down at your feet in gratitude? Is that right?”

  She doesn’t miss a beat. “I figured you’d have this kind of reaction. You have no idea what I go through because of you. For sixteen years I’ve had to bear the stigma of you divorcing us. I will always be seen as an inept mother because of you. The fact that I care at all, much less call you, is amazing forgiveness on my part, and you just refuse to see it.”

  I lost all hope of Jessica ever changing years ago. “Well, I’m sorry for the inconvenience I’ve caused you. But I’m in a lot of pain right now.”

  “Surely they gave you pain meds, Fiona.”

  “Mom, I’m not going to take them. I can’t afford to risk it.”

  “Well, at least Brandon is there. Although the timing was nothing more than sheer luck on his part.”

  She’s a one-woman show in the theater of the absurd, isn’t she?

  As for my dad’s timing, maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. I’m starting to wonder if there isn’t a bigger picture of things at play all around us that I’ve never really been aware of before now.

  “Whatever the reason, he’s here and it’s going pretty well, so I’m glad.” That should have hit the mark, whatever the mark even is with her. I’ve stopped trying to make so much as a guess at that one. “Anyway, I’d better go. I’m really tired.”

  “Well, I’m thinking about coming soon. To help you with your recovery.”

  And without waiting for my good-bye, she immediately ends the call.

  Oh no! Oh, hell no, she is not coming to Baltimore. She is not coming to my town.

  I immediately dial Josia.

  “I thought you might want an update,” I say after his greeting washes over me like a fountain of peace. How does he do that?

&nbs
p; “You thought right,” he says, his voice coming through more clearly than usual.

  “Everything okay at the house?”

  “It’s good. Good. Now, are you sure you’re fine about the kitchen?”

  “Absolutely. Do whatever you want.”

  “Carte blanche? You’re certain?”

  “I am. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking these past twenty-four hours. What you did with your space is more than beautiful, and you work with what you’ve got on hand.”

  “I’ve always found that for the most part, what’s on hand is usually enough. Sometimes more than enough. You provided it, Fia. The crib ends, the books, the toys. Don’t you see?”

  “See? That’s what I’m talking about, Josia. And I’m sure there’s definitely more than enough at our house.”

  “How are you holding up?”

  “I’m in a lot of pain, but I’m just sitting around for the most part so it’s okay.”

  “No, Fia. I was talking about the publicity.”

  “You know?”

  “Of course.”

  “But I thought you had no idea.”

  “Who you are?” He chuckles. “No. I recognized you right away. You were a fine actress, probably still are if you want to know and accept the truth of the matter. I’m sure it’s like any other innate talent.”

  Thankfully there are no paparazzi on this deck to snap a picture of my open mouth. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “Your past makes no difference to me.”

  The matter-of-factness of his tone implies nothing but sincerity.

  “And why should it?” I respond. “I mean, you’re right. It really doesn’t make a difference. You live your life, go about your day, run your forge, fix up the house, and I used to be a pill-head nympho, and never the twain shall meet.”