by Rice, Luanne
At the hospital, May stayed with Martin for as long as they would let her before he was taken down to surgery. They held hands as she huddled over his gurney, waiting till the last possible minute. He was covered with a white sheet, and his arms and shoulders looked so strong and powerful, the rest of the scene seemed like a ridiculous joke.
Two orderlies moved in to take him away. They both were Bruins fans, and they promised they’d take excellent care of him. May thanked them, but Martin asked them to wait for just a minute more. Respectfully, they backed off and gave the Cartiers a moment of privacy.
“I feel like I’m going to the firing squad,” Martin joked. “My mouth is so dry, I can’t talk.”
“Teddy’s the best. Everything will be fine,” May said, trying to believe it.
“No matter what happens,” Martin said, staring into her eyes with an intensity that made May tremble, “I’ve loved every minute with you.”
“And I with you,” she said, confused about his meaning. “Every minute.” He smoothed back her hair, as if he wanted to see every inch of her face so he could store the memory of it forever.
“There’ll be so many more,” she told him.
When he closed his eyes, she realized that he didn’t believe her.
“There will,” she said.
“I know,” he said without feeling. But suddenly he opened his eyes, and she saw that wonderful familiar glint. A smile started slowly and spread across his face. “I won, though. Didn’t I?”
She must have looked blank because his grin kept getting bigger.
“I beat Jorgensen.”
“And I was there,” she said, trying to grin back.
Serge read about his son’s eye surgery in the paper. Martin had suffered blunt trauma to the head and eyes, resulting in a detached retina and ophthalmia, leading to the operation he’d had on Tuesday.
“Jesus Christ,” Serge said under his breath.
He read about Dr. Theodora Collins, the distinguished ophthalmologist from Harvard and the Boston Eye Hospital. He read how, by using the most sophisticated microsurgical techniques, she had performed a vitrectomy.
“Results vary greatly,” she was quoted as saying. “Each case is different, and they cannot be generalized.”
The paper went on to say that despite advancements in the field, the success of the surgery was unlikely. A surgeon from New York, one of Dr. Collins’s former students, told reporters, “Many physicians would consider Martin Cartier’s to be a hopeless case. But Teddy Collins is an innovator in the field. And a Bruins fan to boot.”
The article concluded with a few quotes from Martin’s coach and teammates: “We’re praying for him,” Dafoe said. “We want him back as soon as he’s ready.”
“There’ll never be another Martin Cartier,” Alain Couture, a young wing, said.
“No comment,” said Ray Gardner.
“He was a great opponent, and I was looking forward to having him as my teammate,” said Nils Jorgensen.
Serge crumpled up the paper and threw it against his cell wall. He sat on his bunk with his head in his hands for a long time. When the bell rang to go outside, he filed through the bleak corridor with fear in his heart.
Outside, the air felt crisp and fresh. It smelled like apples, the sharp scent drifting up the hill from all the orchards in the valley. Serge drifted over to the wall. It was too thick and high to imagine getting past, but all he wanted was to escape and get to Martin. His son was suffering, and Serge couldn’t help. He had at least another three years to go in this place.
Hearing the thump of a ball, his attention was drawn to the young boy standing outside the wall. It was Ricky, Tino’s son, playing catch against the building. He wore his Yankees hat and dark blue jacket, and his face was streaked with mud. Serge noticed his grip, how he threw with a bend in his arm. Looking up at the sight of Serge, he smiled.
“You’re not supposed to talk to me,” Serge said gruffly.
“I know,” the boy said, his dirty face shining.
“You need to extend your arm when you throw.”
“Huh?”
“Like the pitchers do it,” Serge said. “Like this,” he said, demonstrating.
The boy did his best.
“One more time,” Serge said. “But straighter.”
Again the boy tried.
“Better,” Serge said.
Encouraged, the boy flew after the ball and brought it back. He tried again, and damned if his form hadn’t improved a little.
“Looking like a big-leaguer,” Serge said. “Like Tino Martinez.”
The boy grinned, and Serge went reeling back in years. He pictured Martin on the ice, beaming as Serge told him he’d be another Bobby Orr, Maurice Richard, Doug Harvey. Serge thought of his son now, and his chest tightened.
Ricky just kept playing, improving his throw with every try. Serge threw out comments and suggestions, keeping it up. He didn’t know why, but coaching Tino’s son was about as close as he could get to praying, to asking that Martin’s sight be spared, that his own boy would get the chance to play again.
“Looking good,” Serge said through the prison bars. “Looking real good, son.”
Chapter 28
WHEN THE BANDAGES CAME OFF, Martin discovered that he could see less than before. Teddy had warned them of the possibility, but the reality sent shock waves through their home. Martin held his feelings inside most of the time, unwilling or unable to share any of them with May, and she missed their connection more than she could believe.
They moved back into Boston in September, so Kylie could start school. Martin spent his days sitting in the dark, staring into space. Whenever May would suggest a walk along the Charles, he would tell her to go alone. When Kylie had a spelling bee, he told her he was too tired to attend. Thunder was his most constant companion, sitting at his feet most of the time.
When hockey season started, it was the first time in fourteen years that Martin hadn’t been playing professionally for one NHL team or another. He refused to listen to games or allow them on his TV. May offered to read him stories from the paper, but he shut her out. He told her hockey was part of his past, that she should know enough to leave it there.
The Gardners wanted to see him, but he said no. May would meet Genny for lunch or coffee, but always away from home. Martin didn’t want anyone to visit, and although he forbade May from discussing the details of his recovery, in one case she went against his wishes.
“There’s no improvement at all,” May said. Tobin had come into Boston one early November day, and they rode their bikes along the river. Brown leaves rustled along the sidewalk, and the college crew teams slipped through the dark steel water in their sleek white shells.
“None?”
“He can’t see us at all anymore. And he won’t talk to anyone—not even me. I can feel him wanting to drive me away.” As she began to talk, the truth came pouring out. “He won’t sleep with me. He stays in one room, I sleep in another. He tells me it’s because his eyes hurt, but I know that’s not it. It’s because he doesn’t want me.”
“He must be in shock,” Tobin said.
“So am I,” May told her.
“Don’t let him get away with it.”
“I’m trying not to,” May said. “But Martin’s will is incredible. When he wants something, he makes it happen.”
“So do you, May,” Tobin said. “I know you, remember?”
They had been best friends a long time, and May knew her friend’s words were true. Pedaling along, she reached out; they rode their bikes holding hands. The wind whipped up, making them pull their coats tighter around them.
“What do I do?” May asked.
“Make something happen,” Tobin urged.
One December night, as the snow covered Beacon Hill, angels came tapping at Kylie’s window, asking to be let inside. Kylie rubbed her eyes, thinking she was asleep. Thick snow blew across Louisburg Square—or was it something else?
“What are you saying?” she called frantically, wanting them to stop.
And then she saw Natalie.
Kylie drew a sharp breath, her forehead leaning on the glass. The little girl hovered just outside their house, right outside the window. Kylie hadn’t seen her in so long, but she would have known her anywhere. Natalie smiled and nodded, beckoning her to follow.
Feeling wide awake, Kylie watched all the angels disappear. They were there, and now they were gone. Had she been dreaming? Staring outside, she saw sparkles on the glass. It wasn’t ice or snow, but something else. Kylie thought of the glitter she’d found in the closet at Lac Vert…Natalie’s tears.
Which way had the angels been flying? Kylie looked across the slate roofs, past all the brick buildings and white steeples of Boston. She gazed toward the Old North Church, and there she saw a great white cloud. It might have been more snow, or it might have been a flight of angels flying north: over the church, out of Boston, north to the land of mountains and lakes. Home to Lac Vert.
“Mommy!” Kylie yelled, tearing down the hall.
May stared at the blue diary. After so many months of leaving it untouched, she had just finished filling it with pages of Kylie’s latest vision. Riffling through, May remembered how worried she had been at the beginning.
“The angels were flying to Lac Vert,” Kylie had told her, wild with excitement. “They want us to follow them! Something’s going to happen there.”
“What, honey?” May had asked.
“I don’t know,” she’d said. “But I think it has to do with helping Martin.”
It had taken a while for that to sink in. May remembered it now, along with the words Tobin had spoken on their bike ride in November: Make something happen.
For Christmas, the city of Boston was dressed in white lights. The Boston Bruins were having a mixed year, trying to recover from the loss of Martin Cartier. Mentally exhausted from the season so far, Ray had decided to take the family up to Lac Vert for the holiday. Usually the Cartiers remained in Boston until spring, but Kylie had gotten May thinking.
“Martin,” she said. “I want us to go away for Christmas.”
“Where?”
“Lac Vert.”
Stony silence filled the room.
“Did you hear me?” May asked.
“The answer is no.”
“But Martin—”
“No!” he shouted.
He sat in his chair by the window, doing what he did all day: nothing. Staring into the dark, growling at everyone who passed, banging into furniture as he tried to make his way to the bathroom.
Teddy had suggested that they hire a physical therapist, but Martin had refused. “No white cane, no dark glasses,” had been his promise, and he was keeping it with a vengeance.
“How much do you love me?” she asked on Christmas Eve day.
He didn’t reply. He lay still as their dog made a nest in the bunched-up bedclothes beside him. Thunder smelled of wet snow and the Charles River. He must have been dreaming of a good chase because he bayed in his sleep, one loud, long, and plaintive call. Waking himself up, Thunder looked from Martin to May.
“Tell me,” she said. “Tell me how much?”
“May,” he said. “Stop.”
Sunshine poured through the bedroom window. It flashed in the mirror and burnished the maple chest and carved bed. Hitting May’s diamond ring, it split into a million rainbows that danced across the ceiling. The dog watched the sparkles as if they were birds, as if he were considering chasing them.
Martin stroked the dog’s back with big, broad hands, and he didn’t blink when the sunlight hit him full in the face. May found that it hurt to talk.
“I can’t stop,” she said, taking Martin’s hand from Thunder’s back and holding it in her own. The dog ambled over to the window, and Martin’s expression revealed that he felt betrayed by his friend. “Answer me.”
“What’s the question?” he asked bitterly. “I can’t remember what you asked.”
You don’t listen to me anymore, May wanted to scream. You don’t care, you’ve given up on us, you’ve given up on yourself. Instead she took a deep breath and repeated her question. “How much do you love me?”
“You know I love you,” he said. “I love you enough.”
“Enough to keep your vows?”
“Vows?”
“…For richer, for poorer,” she said. “In sickness and in health.”
“May,” he said, the anger building like steam in a geyser. “I’m the one who’s blind. All right? I’m the one who’s ruined, not you. If I want to set you free, then feel grateful you don’t have to waste your life taking care of me. You must hate it; you’re going to hate me, if you don’t already. Leave, May.”
The sun was extra bright that winter day, with no leaves on the oak trees to block the rays. Light flooded every inch of the room, showing the lines and scars on Martin’s face. May glanced in the mirror and saw that she herself had aged: she saw starbursts of white lines around her eyes and mouth. They reminded her of how much time she had spent smiling in the sun with Martin. He had given her a life she’d never known existed, beyond her wildest dreams.
Stunningly bright, sitting on top of Martin’s bureau, was a big silver trophy. He had won many awards, cups, and trophies, but this particular one dated back to Martin’s childhood—his first hockey trophy, won his first season skating as right wing on a team that played on mountain lakes in the Canadian woods. Sunlight exploded off the trophy, right into Martin’s face.
“I want us to have Christmas at Lac Vert. Kylie needs it, and so do we. But I have to know. How much do you love me?”
Their bags were already packed, but Martin didn’t know. He couldn’t see. These weren’t idle questions. May waited.
“Tell me,” she said, her hands shaking.
He let out a sigh so violent, the dog exploded out of the room. “I will,” he said. “I’ll tell you. Are you sure you want to hear?”
“I’m positive,” she said through chattering teeth. “Tell me.”
“It’s more than you can take,” he said. “I’ll bleed you dry, May. I’ll take the life right out of you. I can’t walk on my own, can’t feed myself, can’t get to the bathroom to take a piss.”
“I don’t care.”
“You have to care! You didn’t fall in love with a cripple!”
“No, I fell in love with you.” May grabbed him and climbed onto his lap. Feeling his strong arms around her back was so unexpected—it had been so long—that she moaned into his neck.
“I’m not the same.”
“Yes, you are, Martin.”
He shook his head, and she could feel his sorrow and shame. “When I sit in here,” he said, “and I can’t see, I start thinking I don’t exist. I feel you holding me right now, and I want to tell you I’m just a ghost. A shadow—you’re holding air.”
“I’m holding you,” May said, kissing his neck, his forehead, his lips. “You’re right here. You’re real and alive, the same Martin Cartier you’ve always been. And you’re taking me to Lac Vert. Right now.”
“No,” he said, but she could tell he didn’t mean it. He wanted to go. She could almost hear the hope in his voice.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m making it happen.”
And so they went.
They arrived so late, Kylie had been asleep for hours. May had worried about deep snow, about how they would get up their long driveway in the Canadian woods, but her concerns were put to rest. Genny had anticipated May’s powers of persuasion, and Ray had plowed the drive and shoveled the walk.
Waking Kylie up, May had her walk inside on her own. It was little times like this—knowing that Martin would h
ave carried her sleeping into the house—that made May long for how things had been. But she felt Martin take her arm, and leading him up the snowy path, she reminded herself to be grateful.
The house was warm and cozy. Genny had hung a wreath on the door, set up a small Christmas tree. Good friend that she was, she had left it undecorated for Kylie to do later. She had also left a basket of fresh home-baked muffins and a jar of ginger jam for Christmas breakfast.
Snow had fallen during the last few days, covering everything outside with a thick mantle of white. May wished there was a moon, so she could see the mountains and lake, but all she could see was one bright star in the sky. It hovered just over the northern hills, glinting in the dark blue night.
Kylie peered out at the lake, scanning with purpose.
“Are they here?” she asked.
“Who?” Martin asked.
But Kylie didn’t reply. Still looking for the angels she’d followed north from Boston, she stepped off the path into deep snow, wanting to run down to the lake. May had to lift her up, carry her into the house.
“They didn’t come,” Kylie cried. “I was wrong.”
“Wait till morning,” May advised. “I’m so happy we’re here, and it was all your idea.”
“It was?”
“Yes.” May kissed her good night, tucking her under the warm winter quilt. May was exhausted from the long drive. She wanted to sit up, smell the evergreens Genny had left and feel the peace of their home, but she couldn’t keep her eyes open. Martin and Thunder were sitting downstairs in the living room.
“Who didn’t come?” Martin asked when he heard her enter. “What was Kylie talking about?”
“A dream she had last week,” May told him. “Of old ghosts.”
“Too many of those here,” Martin said bitterly. “We shouldn’t have come.”
“Maybe you’ll feel differently tomorrow,” May said.
He grunted. That might have been because he was still trying to drive May away, or it might have been weariness from the long drive. Kissing her husband hard on the lips, May chose to believe the latter. “Come to bed soon, okay?” she asked. He didn’t answer, and May didn’t press.