Promise Me

by Richard Paul Evans

  I couldn’t help but smile. It was good to see her happy again. Charlotte adored Marc and missed him terribly when he was gone, which was at least two weeks out of every month. To his credit, Marc always did his best to be with us. He called every night to ask about my day and say goodnight to Charlotte.

  “Did you eat dinner?”

  “Mommy made me chicken soup.”

  “Was it good?”

  She nodded.

  “I think I’m going to get myself some soup if you didn’t eat it all.” He raised his eyebrow. “Did you eat it all, you little piggy?”

  She laughed. “You said I was a monkey.”

  “That’s right. So you stay in your bed and don’t climb any more trees.”

  She giggled again. “I’m not a monkey!”

  “I’m just making sure.” Marc kissed her forehead, then got up and walked out of our bedroom, gently shutting the door behind him. “What’s wrong with her? She looks like she’s lost weight.”

  “I don’t know. She came down with a headache then threw up at school.”

  “Does she have a fever?”

  “No. It’s probably just a little migraine or something. It will probably be gone by tomorrow.” I put my arms around him. “I’m glad you’re home finally.”

  “Me too.” He kissed me. “More than you know.” Then he kissed me again. We kissed for several minutes.

  I pushed him back. “You did miss me,” I said playfully.

  “So, is the little one sleeping in our bed tonight?”

  I knew why he was asking and it made me happy. “No. She’ll be sleeping in her own bed.”

  “Good. I’ve missed you.”

  “I’ve missed you too,” I said. “I hate a cold bed.”

  “Me too.” He kissed me one more time, then stepped back. “So you made soup?”

  I brushed the hair back from my face. “Yes. It should be hot by now. Would you like some bread? I baked one of those frozen loaves.”

  “I would love some.”

  We walked back to the kitchen. Marc sat down at the table and I went to the stove. The soup was lightly bubbling. I turned the stove off, then ladled him a bowl. “So how was Phoenix? Or was it Tucson?”

  “Both. They were both good. The economy’s hot right now, so these hospitals are pretty loose with their budgets. And the weather in Arizona is fantastic, blue skies and in the seventies.”

  “I wish it was here. You shouldn’t have to breathe air you can see.”

  “Yeah, I had a coughing fit the moment I entered the valley. We need a good snowstorm to clear it out.”

  Around February the snow in Salt Lake is as dirty and gray as the underside of an automobile, and, too often, so is the air. The Salt Lake Valley is surrounded by the Rocky Mountains to the east and the Oquirrh Mountains to the west, so when a winter low-pressure front moves in, the pollution is caught inside until a big storm blows it out.

  “I wonder if I’m coming down with something like Charlotte. Yesterday I got up early to work out, but I didn’t have any energy. I ended up going back to bed.”

  “You’re probably not getting enough sleep. What time did you come in this morning?”

  “Around three.”

  “I really wish you wouldn’t drive so late. It’s not safe.” I set the bowl of soup and a thick slice of warm bread in front of Marc. “Do you want butter for your bread?”

  “Yes. And honey, please.”

  I fetched the butter dish and a plastic honey bear bottle from the cupboard and set them both on the table next to Marc, then I sat down next to him at the table, my elbows on the table and my chin in my hands. “If Charlotte’s sick tomorrow, can I leave her home with you?”

  “I can’t in the morning. We’ve got a company sales meeting at nine, then afterwards I’m meeting with Dean to try to keep him from cutting my territory.”

  “How about the afternoon?”

  “I can pull that off.” He squeezed some honey onto his buttered bread. “Do you think she’ll still be sick?”

  “Probably not. But just in case.”

  He took a bite of his bread, then followed it with a spoonful of soup.

  “How’s the soup?” I asked.

  “You make the best chicken noodle soup I know. It’s almost worth getting sick for.”

  I smiled at the compliment. “Thanks.”

  “So how are things going at the cleaners?”

  “Same-old same-old.”

  “Rox been committed yet?”

  “Not yet. But they’ll eventually catch up with her.”

  “You know, all this traveling isn’t getting any easier,” he said. “It’s lonely on the road. I really missed you this time.”

  “Me too. I hate the life of the wife of a traveling salesman.”

  “That sounds like a country song,” he said. “Or an Arthur Miller play.”

  “I hope not. At least the latter.”

  He smiled and took another bite of soup. “Me too. The latter.”

  Sufficient to the day is the evil thereof. I used to wonder what that meant. I wish I still did.

  Beth Cardall’s Diary

  The next morning Marc got up, kissed me on the cheek, rolled out of bed and was gone. About an hour later I pulled on my robe, then went to check on Charlotte. She was still sleeping. I opened her blinds halfway, then sat on the bed next to her. “Charlotte,” I said.

  She groaned as she rolled over. She put her hand on her head and started to cry.

  “Do you still hurt?”

  “My head hurts,” she said. I put my cheek on her forehead but she was cool.

  “How’s your tummy?”

  “It hurts too.”

  I rubbed her back. “Is it better or worse than yesterday?”

  “It’s more bad,” she said.

  I leaned over and kissed her head. “You go back to sleep, okay?” I pulled the covers back up to her chin, shut her blinds, then went to get ready for the day. I called our pediatrician, Dr. Benton, and made an appointment for a quarter to noon. Then I called Roxanne.

  “Hey, girl, I can’t come in this morning. Charlotte’s still really sick.”

  Roxanne grunted. “You know that nasty flu bug is going around. Yesterday, Jan stayed home from school with it.”

  “I don’t think it’s the flu. She doesn’t have a temperature. I’m taking her in to the doctor’s this morning.”

  “Let me know what he says. I’ll ask Teresa if she can come in early.”

  “Thanks. Marc says he’ll be home this afternoon, so if you want I can come in around two or so and work the evening shift.”

  “That’s better. I’m sure Teresa would love to switch shifts. She’s young and still has a night life.”

  Around ten-thirty I carried Charlotte into the kitchen and made her some breakfast—oatmeal with brown sugar. She didn’t want to eat, so I laid her on the couch, where she could watch Sesame Street while I got ready for the day. A little before noon I took Charlotte to our pediatrician, Dr. Dave Benton. We had been seeing Dr. Benton since Charlotte was only six weeks old and colicky, so we had a pretty good patient-doctor thing going.

  The clinic was packed. When the inversion settles into the valley, there’s always a lot of sickness, and the waiting room was as crowded as a Macy’s on Black Friday. It took us more than an hour to see the doctor, for which he was apologetic.

  “I’m sorry, Beth,” he said, looking a little run-down himself. “It’s like Grand Central Station around here. It seems like half the valley is sick, and the other half has a cough. So what’s up with our princess?”

  “She came home early from school yesterday with a headache and stomach pains. She’s thrown up three times.”

  He smiled at Charlotte as he reached out to feel her neck. “Well, let’s see if we can find out what’s going on.”

  “My dad says it’s because I eat too many bananas,” Charlotte said. “He says I’m a monkey.”

  He smiled. “You’re not as
hairy as most of the monkeys I’ve seen, but I’ll keep that in mind. Charlotte, could you take off your glasses for me so I can check your eyes?”

  Charlotte took off her pink-rimmed glasses and opened her eyes wide as the doctor shone a light into one, then the other. He then ran through the usual examination of her vitals.

  “Huh,” he said, rubbing his chin. “No cough, no swelling and no fever. I don’t know what to tell you, Beth. She’s dropped a couple pounds since her last visit, and her face looks a little puffy, like she’s been retaining water. But other than that and how she feels, everything seems to be fine.” He looked at Charlotte. “Does your head still hurt?”

  She nodded.

  He turned back to me. “Does she have any allergies?”

  “Not that I’ve noticed.”

  “It could be a little virus. For now, I’d give her some children’s Tylenol for her headache and keep her home. If she’s not doing any better in a few days, you might have to take her up to Primary Children’s Medical Center for some additional testing.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. “All right. Thanks.”

  “I wish I could tell you more.”

  “Maybe it’s nothing.” I looked down at Charlotte. She looked exhausted. “Ready to go, honey?”

  “Yes.”

  I took her in my arms. “Thanks again, Doctor.”

  “You’re welcome. Keep us informed.”

  As I drove home, a subtle dread settled over me. I’m not a hypochondriac—for me or my family—but something was wrong. I could feel it. Sometimes a mother just has a sense about these things. I honked as I pulled into our driveway. Marc met me at the front door and took Charlotte from me. She clung to him, burying her head in his neck.

  “What did the doctor say?” he asked.

  “He doesn’t know what’s wrong. He said if she’s still sick in a few days we should take her to the hospital for tests.”

  “The hospital?”

  “Just for tests. But we’ll wait until Saturday.”

  “Saturday is Valentine’s Day,” Marc said.

  I looked at him blankly. In seven years of marriage we’d never done anything on Valentine’s Day. Frankly, Marc was about as romantic as a tennis shoe, and called Valentine’s Day “a conspiracy by florists and candy makers to fatten their wallets.”

  “I made us dinner reservations at the Five Alls.”

  “How did you get us reservations on Valentine’s Day?”

  “I made them three months ago.”

  The Five Alls was my favorite restaurant. It’s also where Marc and I got engaged.

  “Should I cancel the reservation?”

  I rubbed Charlotte’s back. “Let’s see how she’s doing. When do you leave town next?”

  “I’m in Scottsdale next Tuesday. There’s a medical conference at the Phoenician resort. Want to come?”

  “I have a sick six-year-old and a job. In what fictional world would that be possible?”

  He grinned. “I know. Sometimes it’s just nice to be asked. So are you off to work now?”

  “Yes. I’ve missed too many days lately. I hope Arthur doesn’t decide to fire me.”

  “He can’t live without you.”

  “Yeah, right. He can’t even get my name right. Half the time he calls me Betty. I better go. See you.” I kissed him, then Charlotte. “See you, honey.”

  “Bye, Mommy.”

  As I stepped off the porch, Marc said, “Oh, would you mind taking in my laundry and dry cleaning? Everything’s in the back seat of my car. It’s unlocked.”

  “Sure.”

  “And tell Phil he used so much starch on my shirts last time I could slice bread with my sleeve.”

  “Phil doesn’t do the shirts,” I said. “I’ll tell the girls to back off a little. See you tonight.”

  “I’ll order some pizza. We can have a quiet night at home.”

  “I don’t think Charlotte’s stomach can handle pizza.”

  “I want pizza,” she said.

  I shook my head. “Of course you do.”

  “Sorry,” Marc said. “See you.”

  Marc carried Charlotte inside. I grabbed his laundry out of his car, threw it on my back seat, then drove into work.

  Prompt Dry Cleaners was housed in a cinder-block-walled, box-shaped yellow building off Highland Drive in Holladay, next to a Baskin-Robbins. It was a small, family-owned business established in 1944 by the Huish family, but the only Huish that still worked there—and I use the word ‘work’ loosely—was Arthur, the general manager, who looked like he was eighty or ninety and rarely came around the cleaners because in his words, the chemical smells made his sinuses “coagulate.”

  There were six employees in all—the serfs, we called ourselves—me, Roxanne, Teresa, Jillyn, Emily and Phil, the lone male, who ran the dry-cleaning machine. Our positions, with the exception of Phil’s, were interchangeable, though I usually worked the buck steam press in back, which gave me a little more flexibility with my hours.

  Roxanne was acting manager when Arthur wasn’t around, which was nearly always, so I considered her my boss. She was working the front counter when I walked in, my arms overflowing with Marc’s laundry.

  “You’re new here, aren’t you?” she said sardonically. “May I help you?”

  “I’m beyond help,” I said.

  “You got that right, sister. How’s my Char-baby?”

  “Still sick. Marc has her.” I dropped the laundry on the counter. “Thanks again for filling in.”

  “No problem-o.”

  I filled out a laundry slip then, as usual, started going through the pockets of Marc’s clothes, looking for pens and secretly hoping for money.

  “I’ll get it,” Roxanne said. “We’re a little backed up on the pressing, if you don’t mind.”

  “No problem-o,” I replied. “I’m on it.” I walked on back to the press.

  The back of the cleaners was as austere as a car wash—windowless, with painted cinder-block walls—and just as noisy; a symphony of steam and pneumatic blasts in a jungle of pipe and rails. (If you close your eyes, the noise of the presses resembles that of an amusement park ride.) We always kept a fan going in the back, even in winter, because the smell of perchloroethylene, the cleaning fluid used in the dry-cleaning machine, saturated the air. It took me a few weeks to get used to it, but after a while I began to like it.

  Phil had an ancient radio and as usual it was blaring country music. (We joked with him that his radio was so old it only got fifties music.) The steam press I usually operated was near the dry-cleaning machine where Phil was working. He turned down the music and waved at me. “How’s it goin’, Beth?”

  “Good. How are you, Phil?”

  “Can’t complain. Well, I could, but it wouldn’t do no good, would it?” He laughed.

  I smiled. “Probably not.”

  I liked Phil. He was a balding, soft-spoken, middle-aged man, and a Vietnam vet. My first day on the job Roxanne told me that he had been a POW for the last five months of the war, before Nixon negotiated the prisoners’ release. He was a hard worker and friendly, but kept very much to himself. I wondered what he was like before the war. He was always kind to me, and always had a Tootsie Pop for Charlotte whenever I brought her in. Every morning he welcomed me with the same greeting and laughed just as hard afterward as he had the first time he said it. I’d miss it if he didn’t.

  “Have a good day,” he said, disappearing back into the labyrinth of clothing.

  “You too, Phil,” I said.

  There were three full racks of suit coats and trousers at my station waiting to be pressed. I had pulled a rack close to the press and started pressing when Roxanne came toward me. She was walking quickly, shaking her head. “Honey, it’s not good,” she said as she neared, “not good.”

  I looked at her quizzically. “What’s not good?”

  “I found this in Marc’s suit.” She handed me a piece of paper—a handwritten note. The penm
anship was light and feminine.

  Hey, Gorgeous Man,

  I missed you while you were gone. It’s cold in Utah without you. Brrrr! You need to come warm me up! Thank you for the Valentine’s gift, you know we girls are like birds, we just love shiny things. Can’t wait to thank you properly in sunny Scottsdale. I’ll bring something tiny to wear just for you.

  Heart you,

  Ash

  There was a smudged crimson lipstick kiss at the bottom of the note.

  My heart, my lungs, the whole world, froze. Then I began to tremble. “He’s cheating on me.”

  “I’m sorry,” Roxanne said, looking pale. “Maybe it’s . . .” she stopped. There was no other explanation.

  “He’s going to Scottsdale on Tuesday.” I looked up at her blankly. “We’re so happy. Why would he . . .” My eyes filled with tears.

  “Baby.” She put her arms around me. “That stupid, boneheaded creep,” she said. “A gorgeous feast like you at home and he goes dumpster-diving.”

  My head was spinning and I felt light-headed, like I might faint.

  “Sit down,” Roxanne said. “Breathe.” She pushed a chair toward me. “Here, breathe, honey.”

  I sat as everything around me spun. After a while, I don’t know how long, I said, “I’ve got to go. I’m sorry. I’ve got to go.”

  “Honey, be careful. Let me drive you.”

  “I just need to go.” I stood and walked outside to my car. Roxanne followed me out. “Baby, don’t do anything crazy. What are you going to do? Tell me what you’re going to do.”

  “I’m going to talk to my husband.”

  The drive home was a blur. That stupid note lay open on the seat next to me. Every time I looked at it, the lipstick kiss seemed to jump off the paper at me, sharp as a slap. I felt so humiliated. So small. So stupid.

  At one red light I completely melted down, sobbing, until the car behind me laid on the horn.

  Five minutes later I screeched into our driveway. Shaking, I walked into the house. Maybe you’re supposed to rehearse these things, but I had no idea what I was going to say. Marc was sitting on the couch next to Charlotte reading her a book. He looked up at me as I entered the room. “Hey, you’re back early,” he said smiling. His expression changed when he saw my tear-swollen face. “What’s wrong?”