by Jean Stone
The ache grabbed her again. She set down the carry-on and the suitcase and tried to remind herself how much she’d been through and how far she’d come. But even in her sickness, even through all her troubles and, yes, her success, too, one thing in her life was as yet unresolved.
Faye stood in the doorway of the apartment that she hated and wondered if she should make peace with the past now that her future was uncertain.
It was an easy drive across the bridge to Cambridge, to the old Tudor that belonged to R.J. Browne, the investigative agency Faye had retained prior to her divorce. It was not surprising that she knew the way.
Mouser would not like being alone in the car, so Faye took him out of the carry-on and brought him in with her.
The receptionist in half-glasses, whom Faye remembered as Suzanne, did a quick double take. “Ms. Randolph,” she said. “My goodness, it’s been a long time.”
Faye wondered if Suzanne recalled the eight-by-ten black-and-white photos that R.J. had taken of a naked woman who had sat with legs secured around Faye’s similarly naked husband. Faye had seen one photo, but had not looked at the rest. One was all the ammunition needed to finally rid herself of him, the man who’d cheated on her for years as if she hadn’t known.
“How have you been?” Faye asked, slow-petting Mouser.
Suzanne stood up and eyed the cat. “Fine,” she said. “He’s gorgeous.”
“I’d have left him in the car, but …”
With a wave of her hand, Suzanne said, “No problem. Is R.J. expecting you?”
“No. I took a chance.”
Suzanne smiled. “He’s here. He’s available.” She leaned over her desk and whispered with a wink, “And he’s not drinking.”
Faye laughed to think Suzanne remembered the joke they’d shared the first day Faye had gone to R.J. Browne. She’d expected a pulp fiction private detective: a man who swigged whiskey in the morning, ate beef jerky and greasy donuts, and paid the rent by taking divorce cases between chasing ambulances.
The clichéd joke had been on her. When Suzanne had opened the door to R.J.’s private office, he was helping himself to a glass of freshly-made carrot juice, having just finished pumping God-knew-how-much iron. He had biceps and triceps the size of Mount Rushmore, and if Faye had been ten years younger and not so, well, not so Boston, she might have made a play for him right then and there. Then he mentioned that he was a private eye now and a former Congregationalist minister.
A minister? Not an active alcoholic? She’d hoped her embarrassment had not been as obvious as his muscles.
That had been five years ago. She wondered if, in that time, R.J. had changed as much as she had.
“As long as he’s not drinking,” she replied to Suzanne and smiled another smile, then wondered why she kept smiling when what she really wanted was a good, healthy cry.
He kissed her cheek as if she were a long-lost friend. Faye kissed him back, grateful for the gesture of attention.
“You look wonderful,” R.J. exclaimed. He did not say that the divorce must have agreed with her. He would never be so crass; he was not her former husband. He led her to a damask sofa, then sat in the chair placed cozily beside it. “What brings you to my side of town?”
She glanced down at Mouser, who peered at R.J. over the crook of her arm. She was glad the cat couldn’t speak; he might reveal that Faye’s heartbeat thumped a little faster since they’d walked into the room. “I need you to find someone,” she stated. As an afterthought, she smiled again. “In California, I think. Could you handle that?”
The muscled ex-minister tented his fingers. “The state doesn’t matter. What does matter is whether or not the person wants to be found.”
Faye frowned. “I don’t know the answer to that.”
“Is he or she in hiding?”
“From what?”
He shrugged. “The law? An old lover?” He grinned. “You?”
She glanced back at Mouser. His fur swallowed her palm. “No, I don’t think he’s hiding.”
R.J. waited for her to continue. She remembered his technique of listening patiently.
“Greg left a decade ago,” she said. “We had one postcard from San Francisco saying he was all right. We had none after that.” She was surprised at the tears that clogged her throat. Hadn’t she come to terms with his departure, years ago? Hadn’t she moved on with her life, hopeful, always hopeful, that someday he’d return, that someday he’d come home?
But it had been ten years and he hadn’t come home.
“Greg is your son?” R.J. asked.
Faye blinked. Hadn’t she mentioned that?
“Yes,” she said.
“How old was he when he left?”
“Nineteen.” Nineteen years old and three days, she could have added, but she did not. There had been no birthday party for her son that year.
“Did he go alone?”
Faye shrugged. “I think so.” She was suddenly too tired to continue, too weary to recall the anger and the shouts between Greg and his father, or the way that she’d retreated to her room with her overflowing briefcase, as if she planned to work late, as if nothing had happened to forever change their lives.
By the time morning had arrived, Greg had left the house.
R.J. leaned toward her. “If you have his Social Security number, I can start looking.”
For years Faye had wanted this. She had stayed awake many long nights, but had not searched for him. At first she could not; she was too angry, too hurt. Then weeks turned into months and work conveniently took over, and then there was the breast cancer, and then the divorce, but, oh, God, he was her son. Why had anything else ever mattered?
She drew in a breath. Her lower lip began to quiver. “Please find him,” she said. “Once I know where he is, I’ll decide what to do next.”
He nodded and she gave him Greg’s Social Security number. Then she stood up and held Mouser more tightly. “It’s time for Greg and me to work on some forgiveness.”
R.J. stood up quickly. “Forgiveness,” he replied, “was once my specialty.”
FOUR
APRIL
“My name is Rita. I’m not a teacher and I’m not a nurse and I don’t have breast cancer. At least, not that I know of.” She waited for them to laugh. They didn’t.
She groped through her bag, then handed each of them a card with her phone number printed on it. “If you ever need me,” she said, “well, feel free to call.”
She sat on one of the remaining plastic chairs and tried to keep her thoughts off Katie Gillette. Wouldn’t Mindy love to know that Rita had been in the same room, breathed the same air, as her idol?
“I’m here because Doc Hastings asked me,” Rita said. “We have a chance to get funding for a full-blown Women’s Wellness Center. Doc thought a support group would help convince our benefactor of the commitment and the need.” She looked around the room and quickly added, “And help you, too, of course.”
She did not say that her mother, Hazel, had said “poppycock” when Rita told her about it. “The world actually existed before support groups, Rita Mae,” Hazel had said. “Now nobody pees without one.” Hazel might have been right, but Rita had been startled because she couldn’t recall her mother ever questioning something that Doc said.
“We have a need.” The voice came from the teacher with the songbirds on her purse. “Personally, I think we’re fine, but a women’s center would improve perceptions.”
It was music to Rita’s ears, not Katie’s flashy music, but something deep and soothing, like Joleen’s “Goin’ Home,” the song that had been number one for more weeks than most people could count. Rita sat up straight and waited for other comments that did not come. She tapped her toes, she chewed an annoying hangnail on her little finger. Then she reached into her bag and held up a small notebook. “I’ve read that it helps to write a daily journal. Put down your thoughts. Stuff that you feel: good stuff, bad stuff, not just about breast cancer, but ab
out your ‘other’ life.”
They looked at her.
“No offense,” the singer said, “but what makes you so qualified to lead a support group?”
Well, there it was: Rita’s own self-doubt now smack out in the open. “Not many women live here off-season,” she replied. “I guess Doc had a lack of choice. And he knew I’d care.”
The teacher smiled. “How about if we go around the room and introduce ourselves?” she asked. “Tell one another who we are. Whatever else we want to share.”
Rita was grateful for the change of subject. Besides, she knew the exercise. They did it each September at the Parent–Teachers group. Of course, most everyone at school knew everyone else, and Rita ordinarily would have balked at such, well, “poppycock,” but after becoming an instant, fifth-grade parent two years ago, she’d found it oddly reassuring. She hoped Katie Gillette wouldn’t think it, too, reeked of small-town, unsophisticated ways.
“I’ll go first,” Katie quickly announced. “Everyone probably knows who I am anyway.”
The teacher folded her hands and waited patiently. The silver lady stared at Rita and did not seem to blink. Rita tried to pay attention and not obsess about what time it was and how much longer it would be until she had fulfilled her obligation and could, in good conscience, go home.
“I’m Katie Gillette and I’m a singer.” The girl’s speech was flat and toneless. She fixed her gaze onto the scrubbed, white tile floor. “I have Stage One breast cancer, which is pretty weird for someone as young as me. One in two thousand five hundred chances, or so I’m told.” She blinked and looked up at the others, as if surprised she hadn’t beaten those odds. “Anyway,” she continued, “I had a lumpectomy. I’m putting off radiation until my baby’s born.”
Rita’s eyes fell to Katie’s belly. Yes, it was apparent that a BABY was ON BOARD. Rita didn’t know how breast cancer mixed with babies, but doubted if being rich and famous would give Katie an extra edge.
“I haven’t made any of this public,” Katie added. “I hope you will respect my privacy the way people on the island have always respected my mother’s.” She raised her head and tossed back her hair. A few strands fell across her face. “Speaking of my mother, she doesn’t know I’m here. I’m staying at an inn in Edgartown.”
For a moment no one spoke. Then Rita said, “Thanks, Katie. And, yes, everything is confidential; I hope you all know that.”
The silver lady crossed her legs and swung her foot. She continued to stare at Rita, but did not say a word. Rita had to make an effort not to squirm.
“Concentrate on getting well and having a healthy baby,” the teacher said, her pink cheeks lifting in a cheerful grin. “Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?”
Katie shook her head. “I want to be surprised.”
The teacher nodded, and Rita asked her to go next.
“Well,” she said, clasping her hands around her purse, “I’m Hannah Jackson. I’m married to Evan, the nurseryman in Vineyard Haven. We have three kids and I’m a seventh grade science teacher. I used to run every day, but lately I’ve been too tired.” She paused. “I have Stage Three, which isn’t real good, but it’s not terminal. The good news is it isn’t in my lymph nodes.”
“That’s great news,” Rita said. Wasn’t that what she was supposed to say?
“Unfortunately, my husband is one who thinks the medicine gods are up in Boston, even though he’s known Doc Hastings all his life. Heck, Doc taught Evan how to fish.” Rita didn’t know what that had to do with doctoring, but she did not interrupt. “I need a mastectomy,” Hannah continued. “Doc said not until the tumor shrinks, so I’m having chemo first. I’ve had two treatments already.” She reached up to her head. “I used to have such pretty hair. May I show you what’s happened?”
When the others nodded, Hannah pulled off her wig.
Her head was nearly bald, except for little tufts of light-colored fuzz. Rita’s stomach turned inside, then out. “The chemo’s not too bad,” Hannah continued, “but this is what I’m left with. I get up every morning and I look into the mirror … And I just don’t look like me.”
“I’ve heard it grows back more beautiful,” Rita said. She tried not to look too relieved when Hannah put the wig back on.
“I read about one lady whose hair was black but grew back red,” Katie interjected. “If I end up needing chemo, will my fans still love me if my hair turns red?” She wrung her hands and Rita noticed her fingernails were not long and painted metallic green or blue or black like in the pictures on Mindy’s wall. Instead, they were unpolished and bitten raggedly.
“There are worse things in the world than red hair,” Rita, the natural redhead, said, and Katie giggled embarrassedly and Hannah laughed out loud.
The silver lady neither giggled nor laughed, but scraped her chair against the floor as she stood up. “Ladies,” she said, her voice low and in control, “I wish you all the best, but I do not belong here.” Then, with one fluid, graceful gesture, her long legs carried her across the room and out the door.
Rita looked back at Hannah and at Katie and wondered if she had just kissed the Women’s Wellness Center one very firm good-bye.
Outside in the parking lot, Faye’s head ached so badly she thought that it might burst. As she fumbled, trying to fit the key to her Mercedes into the door lock, she realized she was trembling. Through eyes glazed thick with tears, she checked the car to make sure it was hers, that it did not belong to someone else. Someone like Rita Blair, for instance, who might think she could fool the others with her wit and with her charm, but Faye didn’t need a calling card to recognize that rag mop of red, unruly hair. It hadn’t been that many years since their lives had crashed together and Faye had paid the price.
“We hardly talked about the journals,” Rita lamented to her mother when she at last arrived home. “A woman walked out on me. I warned Doc I couldn’t handle this. I warned him I’d be no good.”
She wished her husband, Charlie, had not gone to Nantucket with Ben Niles for God-knew-how-long, to build a subdivision that year-round residents would be able to afford. Charlie could be counted on to agree with her in silence, to make her feel as if she wasn’t insane.
She wished her best friend, Jill, Ben’s wife, was not in England visiting her son and her new granddaughter. Jill would have offered Rita sound advice.
Hazel, on the other hand … well, Hazel had already made it clear what she thought about support groups.
“What kind of journals?” Hazel asked as she poured a cup of coffee and set it on the kitchen table in front of Rita, who pouted, plunked down, and shook her head.
“Diaries. It’s a form of therapy. I read about them in a pamphlet that Doc gave me.”
Hazel cocked a gray-white eyebrow.
Exasperated, Rita stood. “Never mind, Mother. Maybe you were right. Maybe this is a waste of time.”
“If Doc gets the Center, he’ll probably be able to afford a real instructor,” Hazel said. “Until then, it seems like you’re the only one he’s got.”
Rita spun around. “Careful, Mother. I might think you’ve changed your mind about the group.”
Hazel shook her head and padded over to the stove, placing the old-fashioned coffeepot squarely on the back burner. Her awkward movement revealed the slight hump of her spine—a touch of osteoporosis. Would her affliction have been prevented with a benefactor’s funds? “I learned long ago,” Hazel said, “that what’s right for one, isn’t always right for another.”
Folding her arms, Rita studied her mother. Was Rita going to be such a pain when she was eighty-and-a-half?
“Are the twins asleep?” Rita asked, because she didn’t want to talk about the women anymore.
Hazel nodded.
“Mindy?”
“She has a geography test tomorrow.”
“I should have helped her study.” Geography was not one of Mindy’s favorite classes, maybe because the girl’s real mother was tramping around th
e globe, having put her wanderlust before her flesh and blood, having agreed with social services that Mindy should be raised in a more stable environment, such as Rita and Charlie’s home.
“Don’t change the subject, Rita Mae,” Hazel said more sharply. “I wasn’t finished talking about the support group.”
“I was.”
The eyebrow shot up again. “You’re not too old to get a thrashing.” As if she ever had or would.
“Mother, thanks for your concern, but I sucked tonight. That woman who left might have held the purse strings for the Center, in which case I’ve wrecked that, too.”
Hazel muttered something, the way she’d taken to muttering in the last two or three years or so. Then she sat down. “When I was studying to be a nurse, they taught us that we can’t save everyone.”
Rita did not mention that times and attitudes and expectations had changed since then.
“Besides,” her mother added, “you weren’t so bad. Before you took your sweet time coming home, you had a call from Doc. He saw one of the women after your meeting. She said the group was great and she can’t wait to go next week.”
Katie cocooned herself in a warm blanket and sat in a rocking chair in front of the window that overlooked the strip of sand that led out to the lighthouse, which marked the harbor’s mouth and its afterthought of Chappaquiddick.
She thought about the meeting earlier that night. They were nice, Rita and Hannah, despite the fact they all had first-night jitters, much like performing in a new town with no familiar faces sitting in the front row.
“Oh, good,” Rita had said when the older woman left, “all the more stuff for us.” She’d dug into her bag and pulled out hats and scarves and wigs to try on, all of which were old and awful: hand-knit beanies and red bandanas and silky black tresses blunt-cut like Cleopatra’s. Hannah pretended to like a lime-colored turban that was rimmed with synthetic golden curls, then she tossed it in the air and laughed and said she’d hold out for something more grotesque, something, perhaps, in purple.