The Wally Lamb Fiction Collection: The Hour I First Believed, I Know This Much is True, We Are Water, and Wishin' and Hopin'

by Lamb, Wally

  “Yeah, he was such a sweet old guy. I talked to him and Joe for quite a while that day at the wedding until . . . well, you know. I was going to try and fly back for the funeral myself. For Joe’s sake, you know? But I can’t because of the shooting schedule. So I sent him and Shel this awesome food basket from Zingerman’s. Bread, cheese, imported chocolates.”

  “And Shel is . . . ?”

  “Joe’s partner.”

  “Ah. Hey, speaking of your character’s parentage, aren’t Bianca and Dr. Amos both pretty WASP-ish? How is it that they have an almond-eyed daughter?”

  “That’s come up, actually. Makeup’s been experimenting with me—de-emphasizing my Asian looks a little. And the writers will probably deal with it in some way. But come on, dude. Six months from now, I could find out that someone else is my father. Anything’s possible in soap opera land.”

  “Apparently. So anyway, not to change the subject, but how’s therapy going? You still thinking about quitting?”

  “No. You know how you said I should stick with it a while longer? Well, I’m glad I did because at my last appointment, I had a kind of breakthrough.” I ask her if it’s anything she wants to tell me about. “Yeah, sure. It’s about Mom. My unexpressed anger toward her, you know? Like, when she left you and hooked up with Viveca.”

  “Really? I knew that Andrew was angry about that. And Ariane at first. But I never realized you were.”

  “Because I was kind of burying it, I guess. I mean, Viveca was so nice to me. Taking me places, buying me things. And my drinking: I was burying it that way, too. But Dr. Klein helped me realize that when Mom left you, it triggered my own abandonment issues. That I was like projecting or something. It has to do with my childhood stuff.”

  “So you’re saying you felt abandoned as a kid?” I know how that feels.

  “Well, Andrew and Ariane always had that special twin thing, you know? That bond or whatever,” Marissa says. “So I used to feel like the odd kid out sometimes. But it was really more about Mom than them.”

  “How so?”

  “Because she was always so much about her work. Out on her scavenging trips. Down in the basement making art out of them. I’d call down the basement stairs, ask her to come up and make me my lunch, or come up and play a game with me or something. And she’d be like, ‘Okay. Just give me ten more minutes.’ And then it would be like an hour or more.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t give me a free pass. I was just as much of a workaholic as she was.”

  “Yeah, Dr. Klein asked me about that. But you were away at your job, so that never bothered me. But Mom was at home, you know? All she had to do was come upstairs. And this one time? She told me about how Ari and Andrew were a planned pregnancy, but I was an accident.”

  “A happy accident,” I tell her. “You were her baby, Marissa. She was just as crazy about you as she was with your sister and brother.”

  “Yeah, I know. But it was like I had to compete with her art. I’m just saying it was something I felt. Not all the time. Just sometimes. But hey, I made out better than her first kid. Right? The one she miscarried.” Annie’s first pregnancy was another of the secrets she’d kept from me. That one didn’t come out until last year, during one of those family sessions we had over the phone with Annie and her shrink. It was the roughest of those conference calls, especially after Marissa disclosed in tears that she’d had an abortion, too. “So yeah,” she says now. “I’m still seeing Dr. Klein. He says I’m making progress.”

  “Sounds like it. Well, good. Keep up the good work. And what about your recovery. How’s that going?”

  “Great! I’m getting my three-month chip next week.”

  “Hey, that’s wonderful, honey. I’m proud of you.”

  “Yeah, thanks. Kieran’s going to try to rearrange his schedule so he can give it to me. Because he was the one who got me to my first meeting.”

  “And how’s everything going on the Kieran front?”

  “Awesome, Daddy. God, if someone had told me a year ago that I’d be going out with an actor, I would have laughed in their face. But Kieran’s like the total opposite of most of those narcissistic jerks. His sobriety date’s coming up pretty soon, too. He’ll have four years. We’ve been talking lately about my moving in with him when my lease is up in November.”

  “Really? Big step. You sure you’re ready?”

  “Pretty sure. Not totally sure yet. We’ll see. But we’re good together, you know? This is the longest relationship I’ve ever been in.”

  “Well, that says something. I liked him that weekend you guys came to visit. But proceed with caution. Okay?”

  When I look up, the ghost is standing in the doorway again, a sandwich in one hand, a Diet Coke in the other. I point to my desk and she brings them in, puts them down. There’s a Post-it on the plate along with the sandwich, reminding me that the transport van is picking me up in another forty minutes. I nod. She nods back and leaves, quiet as a cat. She’s nice enough, this new one, but something of an enigma. Well, it’s only been a week. I’m sure we’ll get to know each other. When I refocus on what Marissa’s saying, she’s talking about Annie and Viveca’s trip to Greece.

  “Yeah, they finally get to go on that wedding trip they’ve been postponing for three years, thanks to me. I’ve always felt bad about that.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t, Daddy. Mom wanted to be there for you. One thing I’ve learned in my program is that guilt is a wasted emotion, you know? Look back on the past but don’t stare.” She speaks in these recovery aphorisms all the time now, I’ve noticed. Day by day. You can’t breathe the past or the future, only the present. And as long as she lives by them, fine. But it’s like she said the last time we talked: all this newfound happiness of hers rests on a single shot glass that she could pick up in a weak moment. Sabotage herself. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s done that.

  “So what’s new with you, dude?” she asks.

  “Me? Same old same old: writing, physical therapy. Oh, I’ve got a new home health care aide. That’s new.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t think that was Carmen who answered the phone.”

  “Carla, you mean? No, she gave her notice a few weeks ago. Moving down to Georgia where her daughter lives. Can’t believe how quiet it’s been around here since she left.”

  “Yeah, she was a talker, huh? How’s the new one working out?”

  “So far so good. She’s reserved. Kind of shy, I guess.”

  “Oh. You know, Mom and Viveca are losing their housekeeper, too.”

  “Are they?” I grab my soda. Take a sip. Take a bite of my sandwich.

  Marissa says there was a shooting at their housekeeper’s building—that the victim was an eighteen-year-old boy who used to babysit for her son. Got mixed up with a gang, Rissa says. “So Minnie and Africa are moving out of Newark. She has a grown son in Massachusetts and they’re going to live with him and his family.” The sandwich is liverwurst and Swiss. Mayonnaise instead of the mustard I asked for, but hey. Everyone’s got a learning curve. “So, dude, how’s your book coming?”

  I take another sip of my soda. Swallow. “Good, thanks. I’ve got all the chapters of the first part outlined. Now I’m starting to flesh them out. I’m waiting for something I ordered on Amazon to get here. A book of oral histories from Chinese immigrants back during that period. I’m looking for specifics. It’s all in the details, you know? I was going to tell it chronologically at first. Start with my grandfather’s childhood. But now I think the first chapter’s going to be about his voyage over here. His misconceptions about where he’s headed, his fears of the unknown. And then I’ll have him flash back to all that earlier stuff. The backstory, as we authors call it.” We authors: I’m being ironic because I’m such a rookie at this, but Marissa doesn’t pick up on it.

  “Cool,” she says. “Hey, dude? I better get off now. Kieran’s coming over to help me run my lines for tomorrow’s taping and I’m not even dressed yet.”

 
“Yeah, I have to go, too. I’ve got a one thirty appointment over at the rehab place. Say hi to Kieran for me. And hey, congrats again on your good news. Love you, kiddo.”

  “Love you, too, Daddy. Hey, tell Ari to call me. I’d ask you to tell Andrew, too, but it would be wasted breath. I finally got him on Twitter, but half the time he doesn’t even answer my tweets.”

  “Well, he’s pretty busy at work.”

  “No one’s that busy, Dad. Okay, bye.”

  I turn off the phone and sit there, smiling. Marissa had us worried for a while, but she seems to be doing so well these days. Three months sober, a contract extension, a steady boyfriend who’s not a jerk. I just hope it lasts. That it’s not just a house of cards. I think about my last appointment with poor Seamus, how upbeat he sounded just before he ended his life. But Marissa seems much more mature lately. Annie and I have both noticed it. Why worry about something that might not ever happen?

  Half an hour later, I’ve eaten, moved my bowels and emptied my bladder, gotten rediapered. The toilet stuff’s still a little awkward with this new aide, but that will pass. By the time the transport van honks out in the driveway, I’m in my chair and ready to go. She comes up behind me, releases the brake, and wheels me out the door and down the ramp.

  Ah, Larry’s driving today—the retired cop. Good. He’s got a lot more personality than the other, younger ones. “New girl, Doc?” he says. Then to her, “I can take him from here. What’s your name, sweetheart?” I can’t see her face, but she’s probably blushing. Between her shyness and the fact that she’s white-haired and fifty or sixty pounds overweight, I’m guessing she hasn’t been called “sweetheart” for a while. She tells him her name and he takes hold of the chair. “Just like that old movie, huh? Johnny Belinda. That was just on this past weekend. The wife and I watched it. I forget the name of the gal who played her. The one who was married to Ronald Reagan.”

  “Jane Wyman,” she says.

  “Yeah, there you go. Jane Wyman. You an old movie fan, too?”

  “Yes.” That’s all he gets out of her. Just a yes.

  Larry wheels me onto the lowered ramp and hits the switch. It beeps, I rise. He rolls me into the van, locks the chair in place, and gets back in front. We’re off. In another twenty minutes, I’ll be doing my arm crank ergometry and resistance training exercises. Not much fun but necessary for my arterial functioning, as Paula reminds me whenever I complain.

  “So I was telling the wife about you last time I drove you,” Larry tells me, glancing in the rearview mirror. “She said she remembered when it was on the news about your assault. Asked me if they ever caught the son of a bitch who clobbered you. I told her I didn’t know but that I’d ask you.”

  “Yeah, they got him and the girlfriend a couple of months after it happened. They had tried pulling the same deal in Boston, up on Beacon Hill. That was their specialty: preying on temporary residents, people who’d sublet. They’d pass themselves off as brother-and-sister housecleaners helping out their sick mother. But the couple in Boston was smarter than I was. Got suspicious and notified the cops. They caught them in the act, hauling out antiques.”

  “Put them away, I hope.”

  “Yeah, he just got sentenced a few months ago. She made a deal with the prosecutor. Testified against him and got off with a lighter sentence. He was the one they really wanted to nail, which they did. He got twenty-five years.”

  “And you get the rest of your life to live with what he did to you, huh? They should have put the son of a bitch away for good.”

  “Yeah, well . . .”

  “You testify?” I tell him I did. “And how’d that go?”

  “It was . . . challenging. Having to face him in court.”

  “Couldn’t they have videotaped you instead?”

  “Nope. Law says he had the right to face his accuser.”

  “Was the bastard able to look you in the eye?”

  “On and off, yeah.” Jesus, Larry, keep your eyes on the road, will you? “Not when the prosecutor had me describe my ordeal after the attack. The fact that they had to put me in a medical-induced coma until the cranial swelling went down. Open up my back so they could get the bone fragments out. They delayed the trial for over two years because I couldn’t remember a lot of it at first. But as time went by, more and more of it came back. So between my testimony and the girlfriend’s . . .”

  “And what about your paralysis? They think the rehab’s going to help you get the hell out of that chair eventually?”

  “Afraid not. The blow I took injured me above the ninth thoracic vertebra. T-nine, they call it. So that left me with what they call a ‘complete’ SCI.”

  “What’s an SCI?”

  “Spinal cord injury.” I forget that not everyone’s as well versed in the lingo as I’ve gotten to be. “There was an outside chance during the first several months that I might regain some of what I lost. But as time went on, it became less and less likely. So what you see is what I got. There are some experimental treatments that they’re trying to develop—stem cell transplants, something called ‘spine cooling.’ So maybe somewhere down the line.”

  “Yeah, especially with Obama at the wheel. Right? Wasn’t Bush against stem cell research?”

  “Uh-huh. But federal funding’s still pretty limited from what I’ve read. I haven’t given up hope, but I’m not holding my breath either.”

  “Well, I got to hand it to you, Doc. If it was me, I doubt I’d be as good-natured about it as you are.”

  I chuckle. “Yeah, well, you should have seen me the first year or so. Nobody accused me of being good-natured back then. And not just about the paralysis, either. Brain injuries can land you in some pretty dark places. Mine sure as hell did.”

  “Huh.” He stops talking after that. It’s something I’ve noticed since the paralysis: you mention depression and it’s a conversation killer. Not like when I was in practice. The college kids I saw were always talking about how depressed they were—wallowing in it, some of them. Well, I’ve done a fair amount of wallowing, too. That first year, especially. I think back to those early tests they did to see if there was any chance that my bladder and bowel function, sexual function, might be coming back. Those pinprick tests to see if I had any feeling in my anus, my penis. Feel anything just then?

  No.

  How about now?

  No, nothing.

  God, that first year—the worst year of my life. The headaches, the mood swings. My speech was slurred, my memory was compromised. I’d get frustrated because of the disorientation, so then I’d get depressed. Combative. The medical staff, the rehab folks, even the poor janitors who’d come in to mop the floor: whoever would show up in my room wouldn’t know from one hour to the next if they were going to have to deal with an ogre or a sad sack. Or Rip Van Winkle. I’d go into deep sleeps sometimes that they’d have to wake me up out of. Then I’d get pissed when they did. Tell them to get the hell out of my room. Leave me alone so that I could get back to sleep. Dream that I could still walk, still run even. I haven’t had those kind of dreams for a while now, come to think of it. Guess you’d call that resignation.

  But I was lucky, in a way. When they did those initial CT scans up in Boston, they found out that when he clobbered me over the head, my brain had collided with the wall of my skull, but there were no bone fragments floating around in there. If there had been, they would have had to crack open my noggin to get them out. So I caught a break there. . . .

  Still, those dark, ugly depressions I kept falling into: that was tough. And not just for me, either. Poor Annie. She was the one who took the brunt of those moods of mine. Just married, and instead of being in New York with Viveca on the weekends, she’d drive up to Boston and stay with me. And not just weekends, either. Sometimes she’d come up on a Wednesday or a Thursday and stay until the following Monday. When the kids visited, I’d try and fake it for their sake. Act positive. But it was taxing, putting on those performances. And after th
ey left, I’d take it out on their mother. Let her have it with both barrels sometimes, as if she was the one who had come at me with that goddamned vacuum cleaner.

  I think back to the worst time, the one I’m most ashamed of. It was before Ariane had decided to move back and have the baby here. Before Andrew had made the decision not to re-up. Thanks to Annie, the house had been made handicap-accessible so that I could finally leave that goddamned rehab place I hated and move back home. The ramp outside, the bathroom and kitchen rails, the chair lift so that I could get upstairs, sleep in my room again. Annie’d let her own work go. Had lived back at the house for weeks while she researched equipment, got estimates, hired a contractor and supervised the installations. She was doing my bills, too. Dealing with those arrogant insurance pricks so that I wouldn’t have to. Sometimes she’d be on the phone with them for an hour or more. Cajoling them, demanding that they cover this or that, writing letters when they said they wouldn’t. Those first two years, she was more like my wife again than my ex-wife. She was great to do all that. You’d have thought I’d be grateful. And I was grateful when my head was clear. When those dark clouds of gloom would part for an hour or an afternoon and I’d show her a little appreciation. . . .

  The fight started the afternoon she got back from dropping Andrew off at the airport. He had come in from Fort Hood for a long weekend. Had called me earlier that week and said he needed to talk to me. I know you’re dealing with all of your own shit, Dad, but if I don’t talk to someone, my head’s going to explode. But then, once he was here, he kept not telling me and I kept waiting. In fairness, others were around: his mother, my aide, a couple of my old colleagues from the college who had stopped by to see how I was doing. I could tell that something was seriously wrong with Andrew. He’d lost weight. He seemed distracted, edgy. Had trouble making eye contact with both Annie and me. I thought it was odd that he kept going out to the backyard, wandering down the path. . . .

  And then, the day he was going back—a couple of hours before it was time for him to head to the airport, time was running out. Carla had left for the day, Ariane was at work, and Annie had gone off to pick up some groceries. It was finally just the two of us. He was sitting slumped in front of the TV, staring at a Celtics game. I told him to turn it off and tell me what the hell was going on—to say what he had flown across the country to say. He looked at me for the next several seconds. Then he aimed the remote and turned off the TV. “When Mom was a little girl?” he began. “After she lost her mother and sister in that flood they were in? You know that cousin who saved her?”