Stop Here

by Beverly Gologorsky

  “Are you worrying?” she asks.

  “Thankful not to hear and ashamed to admit it. I can’t bury my feelings anymore,” Dina asserts.

  “That’s wisdom.”

  “Yes . . . compensation for the insults of aging and . . .” Dina stops. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. You’ve nursed me through the whole rotten treatment. What would I have done without you?” Dina still shows up at ten every morning. Maybe she anticipates a time when Rosalyn won’t be able to get out of bed. If so, she hasn’t let on.

  “I’m glad I had the skills to help,” Dina says simply.

  “Oh shit. Let’s not talk about me. Your remarks about Tim . . . I understand. He’s a problem that can’t be solved easily.”

  “The guilt, the love . . . mixed together . . . that’s hard too.” Dina picks up the menu.

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Like what?” Again, Dina’s faintly challenging tone surprises her. The truth is she’s no longer curious about lives she needs to let go of.

  “I don’t know. It’s what friends say,” she offers.

  “I suppose. I’m having a tuna melt.” Dina closes the menu.

  The waiter steps up to the table, wipes his hands on a stained towel tucked in his waist. Messy hair, sullen expression, clearly he’d rather be elsewhere. “We’ll make your life easy. We’ll both have the tuna melt with a glass of merlot.”

  “Did you return this morning’s call from Jack?” Dina asks.

  “I spoke to him three times this week, four last week.”

  “Are you avoiding him?” Dina searches her face.

  “He’s after me to go abroad.”

  “So?” Dina’s chin lifts combatively.

  “It’s too far to travel.” She doesn’t say time has edges now. That there are things here she must do first.

  “You’re done with chemo for a while.”

  “I’m done with treatment, period. Anyway, Jack . . . it’s complex.”

  “You mean he cares about you but since you’re sick it’s a waste of time?” Dina’s serious eyes fasten on her.

  “Don’t be crude.”

  “Well, then, explain it better,” Dina says matter-of-factly.

  The waiter serves their drinks. “Foods still being prepared,” he mumbles.

  “Do you know how I met Jack?”

  “At a bar, I thought.”

  “Well, that’s true . . . I worked for an escort service. He paid for an arranged date with me.”

  “Oh.” Her friend attempts to sound casual.

  “I quit the service months ago,” she assures her.

  “Aren’t those one-night stands,” Dina’s voice low.

  “Jack was the guest who stayed. Why am I even telling you?”

  “You wanted me to know,” Dina says, her composure restored.

  “Probably.” Except it wasn’t her intention. Lately, it’s as if another person inside her decides what to say without her permission. It’s what she fears, isn’t it? Jack will hear what she isn’t ready to share.

  “Rosalyn, how you two met doesn’t explain why you won’t join him in Europe. Obviously he wants to show you around.”

  “You’re one persistent lady. Let’s say, I’m not in a vacation mood.”

  “What kind of mood is that?”

  “Drop it. Please.”

  “For now.” Dina takes a sip of merlot.

  • • •

  Glad to wave goodbye, she drives off. Dina’s chatter about Jack felt intrusive. She doesn’t want to think about him. He senses that but won’t accept it. He can be endearing yet exasperating. She stuffs a pillow behind her lower back to ease the muscle spasm. She passes a row of refurbished houses with freshly painted porches and non-leaking roofs, a hard sun ignites the front lawns. Her father could move into one of the houses. She offered to arrange it months ago but he refused. It’s been a few days since she saw him. It feels even more difficult to be with him. He stares at her like she might die in front of him, or else won’t look at her at all. The man doesn’t know how to be supportive. Simply doesn’t. At least he approves of the high school student she hired to help him. She finds the boy aggressive.

  She pulls into his driveway. Good, the student’s car isn’t there. She beeps to let her father know she’s arrived. To her surprise, he walks out carrying the new oxygen container, which has a handle and resembles a thermos. “Let’s go to the beach,” he says, sliding in slowly.

  “What?”

  “Forgot where it is?”

  She starts the car. “Why?”

  “I want to be outdoors while it’s warm.”

  The truth of that doesn’t sit right, but she never could figure out how he thinks. She glances at his strong, craggy profile; he’ll outlive her. She said as much to her brother, who reassured her that wasn’t so in words that held no weight. The rest of the relatives are equally Pollyanna. No doubt family members need to believe what they will for their own comfort.

  • • •

  They sit on a boardwalk bench facing the water. A few clouds play hide-and-seek with the sun. Blankets, towels, umbrellas arrayed on the sand; lifeguards in high white chairs, whistles at the ready. Parents watch their children cavorting in the water, the noise of it all distant. She and her brother played here winter and summer, though her mom wouldn’t allow them in the ocean even on the hottest days.

  Lotion and salt air, she smells both, but feels outside, a witness. Yesterday, too, in the supermarket, she felt at the far end of a tunnel. Snippets of conversations reverberated in her head. It’s as if what’s said matters less than the things in between she must still uncover.

  “Dad, do you know how to swim?”

  He nods.

  “Mom didn’t. She was afraid of drowning.”

  “She was afraid of a lot of things.”

  “Parents pass on their quirks. I can’t swim.”

  “Worse things have happened.”

  “When Mom took us here, she sat in a tiny canvas chair, her feet buried in the sand if it was warm. In the cold, we were all bundled up. She wore boots. You were never with us.”

  “The fire station didn’t believe in time off for the beach.”

  “Or weekends?”

  “What is this?”

  “Just mulling stuff over, remembering . . . Mom made us wash our feet with the hose because you hated sand in the house. In winter, we had to leave our boots outside. It was a rule. She always wanted to please you.”

  “What do you want, Rosalyn?” She hears him breathing.

  “Was Mom a happy person?”

  “Who’s happy?”

  “It’s a question I regret not asking her.”

  “That was a long time ago. Stop torturing yourself. And me.”

  He must’ve known what her mother felt; they lived together for god’s sake. “Did you love Mom?”

  “I was nineteen when we married.” He lifts the oxygen container from the ground to the bench.

  “Did you love us?” He spent more hours with his fire team than with them. The guys were his buddies, drinking mates, the ones he confided in if he confided at all.

  “I supported my family, took care of all of you. What else can I say? What else do you expect?”

  Is she stirring him up? Or will he switch on the TV as soon as he gets home to blot out the past hour? In third grade, she begged him to come talk to her class in his fireman’s uniform. He refused, said, what for? She cried bitterly. Her mother whispered he was too shy; he wouldn’t be comfortable. Comfort’s what he always craved.

  “I just want to understand you better,” she says.

  “Why?”

  “Dad, you’re exasperating.”

  He glances at her, then looks away. “Something I want to say .
. .” his voice a hoarse whisper. “I have a bit of money. If there’s a treatment out there your insurance won’t cover, I’ll pay for it.”

  “I have enough money.”

  “You never let me give you anything.”

  Is that true? She looks at him but he continues to face the water.

  “Okay. Thanks, Dad. If I come up against that, I’ll ask you for help.” It’s the best she can do.

  “I meant what I said a while back about meeting my grandchild.”

  “Don’t go there,” her voice rising in desperation.

  He inhales shakily. Then silence.

  She could ask about the student helper or if his pals have visited, the ball games he loves, anything to break the silence. But, suddenly, she’s weary of the ancient dance between parent and child. And she wonders, is it too soon to take him home? She mentioned a doctor’s appointment at three, which is a lie, but the truth would be impossible to share.

  He’s hunched over on the bench, still staring ahead. Whatever he sees out there has captured his attention or is simply easier to look at.

  • • •

  From the driver’s seat she watches him take small steps up the path. The maple tree in full leaf casts filigreed shadows, its thickly gnarled roots heaving the old lawn. She used to pray those roots would lift the house off its foundation so they’d have to move out. The prayer came back to her during the weeks of chemo. The intravenous bag was slowly deflating, her body exhausted, her mind, though, was wild with memories and fantasies. Faraway countries she’d visit, Zanzibar and Saint Kitts, names she heard somewhere but knew nothing about. Where’s Zanzibar? She composed letters in her head to lots of people, but sent only one.

  Her father reaches the door but doesn’t turn or wave goodbye. She beeps to let him know she’s leaving, glances at her watch. Nearly two. Arriving first is out of the question. If he’s a no-show . . . but his terse phone message was explicit. Three p.m., Friendly Fishermen’s Pub, Bridgton. He was never one for long phone conversations. What will be will be, she reminds herself, and refuses to give the next few hours form or content.

  She knows the pub, which is dark in the afternoon and well lit in the evening. She ate there several times with Mila. Poor woman can barely talk about Darla’s going to Afghanistan. Mila who will only step in a church to get out of the cold said she made a pact with God, promised not to complain if He brings her daughter back intact. On the other hand Mila talks nonstop about Jimmy, his gray hair, beard, handsome as ever, so recognizable, how each visit with him pleases her, his compliments about her youthful looks, how he loves seeing her and doesn’t take his eyes off her. She even jabbers to Murray about him.

  • • •

  At a minute to three, she slides out of the car, walks up the back ramp, pushes open the heavy door, and enters near the bar. She scans two customers’ faces, a muted TV screen, the bartender fiddling with a cranky A/C. Then she follows a long narrow corridor to the rear booths. She sees him in one, looking out the window. Is that buzz-cut marine, or army? Is he balding? His big shoulders the same as years ago, the chest broader, though. Wearing a white T-shirt, his muscular arms tanned, the short, flat fingers unchanged. She slips into the booth across from him. “Hey Carl.”

  “Rosalyn. Rosalyn. How the hell are you?” He grins; his wide black eyes no longer merry, his sun-weathered face creased. Years ago, his smooth skin was soft, no five-o’clock shadow either. Now the beginnings of a beard sprout under his chin.

  “Not sure how to answer.”

  “Yeah, your letter said . . . sorry about . . .”

  “Me too.”

  “Have a drink.” His shot glass empty, his beer stein nearly drained, he hails the waiter, who looks no older than they were when they met. “Beer or bourbon?” the waiter asks, indifferent to her presence. Carl orders both and wine for her. “A very long time,” he muses, taking her in.

  She nods. He used to tease that she had two words for each one of his. Now she’s strangely shy. “I heard you were in Iraq.”

  “Three stints. Reserves. I’m getting too old but I’d go again if they ask me.”

  “You don’t look old.”

  “Yeah, friends never do.”

  “Are you working?”

  “Helping my brother fix up a basement. I’ve only been back a few months. It feels forever. Can’t fit in . . . it’s like trying on an old jacket that won’t button. Everything’s too tight.”

  The waiter brings their drinks. Carl drains the last drops of beer and hands off the glass. “Last I heard you were at that diner.”

  “Who told you?”

  “I can’t remember. My memory’s shot and so is my hearing, so talk loud.”

  “Was it awful?”

  “Nothing good.”

  “Thank heavens you weren’t injured.”

  “Not where you can see.” He chuckles.

  “But you want to go back?” Easiness creeping in between them.

  “Funny, huh? The weird crap happens here. Bad sleep, jumping at sounds, drink like you know . . . but over there I know the sounds, sleep like a seal in the sun. Still drink like a . . . Hey, why talk about it? It comes out like a long whine.” He downs the bourbon, takes a sip of the beer. Some of his color is from the booze. “How’d you find me?”

  “I called some old friends . . . heard you were married.” All this banter with someone she hasn’t seen in too many years to count. Still, it’s what one does, she supposes, except these questions are not what she’s here for.

  He gazes at her a moment. “Katie left me after the last tour, took a job in Atlanta. Couldn’t get far enough away, I guess.” He finishes the beer and looks around for the waiter. “Hey,” he calls too loudly. “Another round.”

  The waiter frowns and the diner floats into her head. Murray barking at someone, customers impatient for service, Ava whirling from the counter to the tables. And Willy? She holds him there in his booth.

  “Sorry about you and Katie. It’s none of my business anyway.”

  His fingers drum the table, eager for his drinks. “You still have that terrific face. I’d know you anywhere.”

  Terrific face, unforgettable eyes . . . His husky voice comes back to her; so, too, the gentleness, how he cared for her. How could she forget? “That’s sweet.”

  “And you, babe? Married a few times or still with the same lucky guy?”

  “I never married. My aunts, my cousins, my father all point this out whenever they can. Not that any of their marriages are very inspiring either.”

  “Yeah, family. Best stay away from the bunch of them . . . or so I’ve learned. Anyway, if you never married I must’ve left an impression.” He tries for boyishness, but sounds sarcastic. Jack’s gentle, comforting, though persistent voice comes to mind. But Jack’s older, hasn’t been to war, his tragedy endured slowly over time, water on a rock.

  “An impression . . . absolutely,” she agrees. An impression she made sure to erase the way she managed to turn away from whatever needed tending. She won’t let that happen again. She can’t.

  As soon as the waiter serves the drinks, Carl downs the shot of bourbon.

  “You do that often?” She points to the empty glass.

  “As often as I can. Don’t worry. It takes a whole lot to knock me out. I’ll be right back, going to visit a man about a—”

  She watches him saunter to the restroom in his camouflage pants, a few bulging pockets with unbuttoned flaps. She remembers his tight jeans the night they broke up. She couldn’t fit into hers. Her stomach was puffy and stretched. The stitches hadn’t disappeared yet. Her breasts were still heavy. Her body felt unrecognizable, unlovable. His looked untouched, everything in place, without pain or scars.

  It was a summer night and they took a blanket to the beach. Other couples were scattered about. They found a space to themse
lves. She remembers the water lapping gently at the shore, occasional laughter from somewhere nearby, a sky invaded by stars. He tried to kiss her. She turned away. He began stroking her hair. She told him to stop, said he made her want to vomit. He kept asking what’s wrong, promising he could fix it. At first she didn’t respond, then a stream of invective she’s ashamed to recall burst from somewhere so deep inside and left her trembling. He drove her home without a word, didn’t call again. It was what she wanted. She’d just given up her baby.

  He slides in the booth and takes a long pull of the beer.

  “I was remembering our breakup.”

  “Oh yeah?” He doesn’t sound interested.

  “I owe you an apology.”

  “Yeah . . . right . . . okay, I accept.”

  “You’re not the least bit curious?”

  “Hey, I figured out why you didn’t want to see me anymore.”

  “Whew, that’s a load off.” She wipes her brow.

  He chuckles. “Why are we here, babe?”

  “I need to know about our daughter.” There it is, the pussyfooting finished.

  “What exactly?” She detects reluctance.

  “I need information. Your sister’s best friend took her.” She can still taste the weird mixture of emptiness and relief.

  “Rosalyn, Rosalyn . . . Why would she want you in her life now?” He finishes the beer and looks for the waiter.

  “I made a will. I’m leaving her my savings, my condo. The attorney needs to be able to contact her when the time comes.” Heat rushes to her cheeks as if she just spiked a fever. It’s all she can do to sit still. But she can’t take off, not yet.

  He leans forward. The bourbon’s worked itself into his face, sweating now. “I can’t help you. I have nothing to do with her.”

  “She doesn’t know you’re her father?” her voice rising. Why would she? They gave her up. They have no rights. It’s there again, the tunnel with him at the far end.

  “The girl knows she’s adopted. I hear the girl’s mother filled her in some about us, how young we were . . . so on.” His eyes are on her, but she’s not sure what he’s seeing. Suddenly his reticence, her powerlessness, the whole encounter pisses her off. And his drinking doesn’t thrill her either.