I was awake when Sam came in, but I pretended not to be. I could feel his eyes on me, and then I could feel the weight of him on the end of the bed, and I knew he was just sitting there, watching me. My thoughts were still fuzzy from the pill. They aren’t as much now, just a little fuzzy, but when Sam was here they were all jumbled together, still wrapped up in the tunnel dream. I said something to Sam—I can’t remember what it was, something about cigarettes? But that doesn’t make sense, because Sam doesn’t smoke anymore.
The glowing red digits from the clock on the nightstand tell me it’s just after 6:00 p.m. I’m in bed at six o’clock on a Monday evening. Or is it Tuesday? I’m not really sure, but then, it doesn’t really matter what day it is. Every day is the same. Every day is the same. Misery and pills and tears and screaming, and feeling like I’m missing a limb or a vital organ, some part of me that makes me whole, but it’s not a limb or an organ, it’s my son.
I know that I should push back the covers and get out of bed, do something useful, like make dinner for my family, something I used to do. But I’m not sure if I can remember how to use the oven or a frying pan or a knife.
The pill has worn off enough for me to understand my thoughts—at least most of them. And I’m aware, now, at this moment, that even as I choose to escape these every-day-is-the-same days, that I am also allowing myself to slip farther and farther away from my own life. I am being selfish. I have stopped being a mother to my daughter, when she likely needs me most. I’ve stopped being a wife to my husband, although I’m not sure he wants me to be his wife anymore. He wants another one.
No, wait, that’s Ruth. That’s what my ex-brother-in-law, Charlie, told Ruth. Not me. Charlie wanted another one.
The only thing I haven’t stopped being is the little sister in need. Ruth likes it. I think she missed taking care of me or thinking she needed to take care of me, all these years I’ve been with Sam. When we were kids, she acted like a second mother, always telling me what to do, how to behave, criticizing my outfits, my friends, my aspirations or lack thereof. She was there for me when I needed her. Yes, she was. But I think she secretly took great satisfaction in my screwups, which were plenty, like they made her feel better about herself. And then, after all, I ended up with the perfect life, the perfect husband and two perfect children. Maybe she started hating me a little bit for that.
Now, she can pity me. She can feel better about her own life by seeing the hell mine has become. And she can torture me by holding back my pills.
But she’s right, Rachel. You need to cut back.
A sharp phantom pain slices through me at the idea of being completely lucid and sober all the time. Always, every moment of every day, I’ll be totally cognizant of the fact that Jonah died, is dead, is never coming back, will never grow to be an adolescent or a man, never fall in love, have children, win the Nobel Peace Prize or a Pulitzer. He will always be a memory, ever fading. I just can’t bear it. Cannot bear it. But the alternative is for me to fade away until one day there will be no reason not to take the entire contents of the bottle and disappear.
But then you’d be with Jonah.
And my daughter will be motherless. And my life will have meant nothing.
I will myself into a seated position, swing my legs to the side of the bed. I grab the monkey and wrap his arms around my neck, then push myself to my feet. My knees buckle, and I sit down, hard. My head is spinning. I take a deep breath and wait until my vision clears. Then I try again. This time I manage to stand without falling back down. I still feel dizzy, but I ignore the sensation. My feet slide along the carpet—I can’t seem to lift them—but after a moment of hard labor and heavy breathing, I’m standing in front of my dresser and gazing at my reflection.
What I see is a horror.
I avert my eyes and my gaze lands on the closet door, which is open about six inches, revealing one of Sam’s sport coats, which is encased in the plastic wrapping from the dry cleaner. And as I gaze at that plastic wrapping, something stirs in my memory, a thought loosens, an idea or fact or scenario I should recall. Words collect themselves in my head—angry words, my husband’s voice, my own. And I’m just on the very border of knowing when I suddenly push the thoughts away because I know, with cold certainty, that I do not want to remember.
I call for Ruth, over and over again, drowning out the angry voices and colliding thoughts, grasping at the edge of the dresser to keep myself from falling over, wondering if I can make it back to the bed or whether I need to throw up, and if so, whether I can make it to the bathroom.
Ruth doesn’t come and doesn’t come. Why should she? I was awful to her. I said horrible things to her so she’d give me a goddamn pill.
Ruth. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean any of it.
The door opens, and blessed relief fills me until I see my daughter’s face peering in at me.
I let go of the dresser and fall to the floor.
SEVENTEEN
RUTH
I have to admit it, I’m glad to be home, even if home isn’t much, just a cramped one-bedroom apartment that I’m allowed to live in thanks to the guilt and shame of my ex-husband. My alimony includes the rent and a small monthly stipend, which is barely enough to cover my bills and groceries, and I try not to think about the sprawling estate on the outskirts of town in which he lives with the woman who was able to give him children. Three at last count, darling twin girls who were growing in his wife’s womb even before he left me, and an infant son who will hopefully have my ex-husband’s receding hairline, although I know it’s unkind to wish that on an innocent babe.
I put my purse down on the table by the door and glance at the pile of mail stacked there. I take three steps into the miniscule kitchen, with its outdated Formica counters, peeling laminate cupboards, and decades-old appliances, the tired peach curtains in the window, the ones I brought from my old house and promised myself I’d replace but still haven’t. After spending so much time at my sister’s house, I am struck by the stark contrast between this sad excuse for a kitchen and Rachel’s kitchen. I think of her gleaming blush-rose granite counters and dark cherrywood cupboards and Viking oven and Sub-Zero refrigerator. It would be perverse to envy my sister with what she’s going through, but I feel a tinge of jealousy nonetheless.
In the corner of the room sits a small round table with a single chair shoved beneath. I rarely eat at the table. Its diminutive size and the lone chair remind me of my solitary existence. Mostly I take my meals on the couch with my constant companion, the television.
My meds are in the cupboard next to the refrigerator. I keep them there because the fridge reminds me to eat something when I take a pill. I don’t have time for a meal. I need to get the drug into my bloodstream and soon. Every muscle in my body aches, the kind of ache that throbs in time with your heartbeat, expands with every passing moment until it crosses over to bright, excruciating pain. Right now, I’m at the precipice between throbbing ache and excruciating pain. I need to get off the ledge.
I reach for the new vial of pills on the second shelf of the cupboard and spend a few precious seconds trying to twist off the childproof cap. My fingers will not cooperate. Press down and twist, Ruth. That’s all. Press down and twist. Finally, I manage to pop the lid, and I shake out two of the tablets, one for the dose I missed this morning and one for this evening’s dose, which I usually don’t take until after dinner. But I need it now.
I yank open the fridge and grab the carton of milk, and then I do something I have never done in my entire life. I put the pills on my tongue, then open the milk and drink from the cardboard lip of the carton. This act is so foreign to me that I end up spraying milk onto the Formica counter, but not before I swallow down the pills.
The relief is instantaneous. I know that my reaction is completely psychological—there is no way the drug can possibly go to work that quickly. But knowing that the medicine is traveling toward my stomach is enough. My brain sends the signal to my body that h
elp is on the way, and slowly I feel all of my muscles uncoil.
I stand still for a few minutes, then put the milk carton back in the fridge and use a dish towel to wipe the errant milk from the counter. I grab a loaf of wheat bread and pull out a slice, then eat it greedily. I’m anxious to get the calories into my system, hoping the bread will stave off the nausea that sometimes comes when I don’t eat.
Walking with measured steps into the living room, I feel the push of the medication that might or might not have an actual, tangible effect on the pain. The drug is an antidepressant, which is ironic because I never thought of myself as depressed, not back then. The fact that my fibromyalgia reared its ugly, monstrous head the same month I found out I couldn’t conceive was something I compartmentalized and stripped of its importance. My doctor pointed the correlation out to me, and I remember shrugging my shoulders and telling her, in no uncertain terms, that regardless of the timing, my pain was very real, and was there something, anything, that might help?
I detest the woman I’ve become, the woman crippled by her physical challenges, who lives a solitary existence in a tiny apartment with no pets and no plants, whose sole joy is watching Dancing with the Stars every Monday night.
I was a teacher, a hundred years ago. My life had real purpose. I taught eighth grade and took pride in steering those awkward, self-loathing middle schoolers toward high school, giving them confidence to take their next steps toward adulthood. And then being a wife gave me purpose. And then I lost it. Right up until Jonah’s accident.
My stomach churns with the realization that I’ve felt more alive in this past month, when I’ve been holding my sister’s family together, than I have since Charlie left. My sister’s tragedy, the death of my beloved nephew, has actually made me more vibrant, more productive, more present. How awful I am. How sad and pathetic and awful I am.
I grab the stack of mail next to my purse and head for the couch. Before I sit down, there is a knock at my door. The sound is so unfamiliar to me I almost don’t recognize it. I set the mail on the coffee table, then cross to the door. I peer through the peephole and feel my chest tighten. On the other side of the door is my downstairs neighbor, Judd.
I open the door and stare at him.
“Hi, Ruth.” His eyes are kind, his closed-lipped smile genuine.
“Hi.”
“I don’t want to bother you. I just wanted to give you this.” He hands me a small, folded piece of paper. “It’s my cell number. Just in case you ever need anything. Or you want to talk. Or . . . anything. I’m here.” No mention of a certain bottle of wine. He probably drank it already. I shouldn’t care. I don’t care.
“Thank you,” I say. Nothing more. I close the door slowly and stand unmoving until I hear his footsteps retreat to the elevator. I press my forehead against the door. The wood is cool against my skin.
After a moment, I push myself away from the door. I shuffle to my purse and tuck the piece of paper into a side pocket, then return to the couch. I take a deep breath and pick up the mail and begin to riffle through the envelopes. Bills mostly, and advertisements. But at the bottom of the stack is a smallish envelope, cream, with my ex-husband’s company address. First Judd, and now this.
My hands shake, not with pain this time, but with anticipation. My heart beats rapidly; I can feel my pulse pat pat pat in my temples. I know there will be no declaration of love or regret for what he’s done or entreaties for me to take him back. My curiosity is equal to my trepidation. Perhaps he wants to renegotiate the settlement; perhaps he thinks he’s being too generous, or his newish wife thinks he’s being too generous and has demanded that he cut back on my monthly payments.
Before I allow my thoughts to run away with themselves, I carefully open the envelope and pull out the handwritten note, unfold it, and gaze down at Charlie’s familiar writing. I smile to myself, remembering the first time I got a note from him, back when he was courting me. In this technological age, I was surprised that he had taken the time to write to me longhand instead of just sending me an e-mail or composing the note in a word-processing program and printing it up. He’d grinned and told me he was old-fashioned, that printouts and e-mails seemed so impersonal. Handwritten notes were the only way he communicated with people he cared about. I remember how my face grew warm at his words as I realized that he was talking about me. He cared about me.
During the divorce, I received only e-mails and texts, as though he was making a point. I don’t care about you anymore, Ruth.
But now this, this note card. He still cares?
Oh, for heaven’s sake, just read it.
He begins with Dear Ruthie, and I swallow hard at his addressing me with the nickname he, and no one else, used. I keep reading.
I know this letter is long overdue. I just wanted to let you know that I have been thinking about you these last several weeks and that you are in my prayers, for whatever that’s worth. I’m not sure that God hears me anymore, based on my behavior, but he might when the prayers are for you. I was saddened to learn about Jonah, and I regret that I was unable to attend the services, although I’m not sure how you would have felt about me being there.
At the time, when it first happened, I was furious with Charlie, that he hadn’t called or sent me a card or sent flowers to the family. It was as though he was trying to erase his past, to extract himself from my life completely. But the days became longer and Rachel spiraled out of control, and when he didn’t make an appearance at the funeral, I was forced to accept the reality of divorce. Divorce is not just about the separation of two individuals. It’s the separation of families. A drawing of lines, never to be crossed. My family is now solely mine. Your family is yours. His family is his.
The family we were going to create together is gone forever. No, Ruth, it never was. It was a mirage. I keep reading.
I’m not trying to defend my absence, he continues.
But my father became gravely ill, and I was called to his side, as the doctors believed he might soon pass. You remember how William is—refuses to go along with anything the doctors say, and of course, he is still with us and probably will be for a long while. But those few weeks were chaotic.
I regret not being there for you. I regret that I was so consumed with my own challenges that I didn’t even think to send flowers or condolences. I hope you will accept my sincere apology and that you will not think worse of me (or worse than you already do, with good reason . . .).
I know how much Jonah meant to you, how much both your sister’s children mean to you, and I am so very sorry for your loss. Please let me know if there is anything I can do to be of service to you.
With affection, Charlie.
I reread the note, being mindful to not let my tears fall onto the cardstock and mar the ink of his words. Even now, after eighteen months, after he has created a new family that doesn’t include me, Charlie is the person who knows me best in the world. I hate him for that. I hate him because he was my soul mate, but since I couldn’t give him children, I was no longer his. I hate him for being a man, for having that need to procreate—to have his own biological offspring—in order to validate his existence in the universe. I hate him for not loving me enough to look past my graying roots and my useless uterus and ignore the shiny penny in front of him, she who practically gave him a gynecological report touting her fertility in order to steal him. I hate him for allowing himself to be stolen.
I hate him because I never trusted men, never opened myself up to them, always assumed the worst about them. Until Charlie. He came along and changed my mind, and I was happy, happier than I ever thought I could be, until he changed my mind back, irrevocably. And there will never be another Charlie, and possibly there will never be another man. I hate him because he doesn’t need me anymore.
I fold the note and slip it back into the envelope, then glance at my watch. I should get back to Rachel’s. They need me, I think. But I am suddenly so weary, I could fall asleep. I lean back against
the cushions and close my eyes.
Immediately, an image of Jonah comes to mind, a memory from—God, less than two months ago. (Is that possible?) We were on the front porch together, sitting side by side on the steps, which my joints disapproved of, but which delighted my nephew. Rachel’s children have always meant the world to me, not just because I love them, but also because they are the closest thing to me actually having kids of my own. I treasure our times together, even if I might not be the most fun or enjoyable company they have. I know they always prefer Taylor to babysit for them, the girl down the street who plays Twister and lets them eat whatever they want. But I would do anything in the world for those children and they know it, which was why Jonah forced me to sit down “Right on your bottom!” and I did. Of course I did.
He was gazing reverently at a bug on the concrete path, a caterpillar slowly making its way toward the side of the house. Jonah was pointing out the legs and the bristles on its back and the stripes of brown and white and explaining to me that this creature was trying to find a safe place to attach in order to make its chrysalis, which he pronounced “krisliss.”
“It’s gonna turn into a big beautiful butterfly, Auntie Ruth, with bright orange-and-black wings, and it’s gonna pol’nate Mommy’s flowers in the backyard.”
I’d chuckled sardonically and said, “Only if it doesn’t get eaten by some hungry bird.”
Now, in my head, I see his reaction anew. His expression grew troubled, as though he’d never considered that such a tragedy could occur, but now that I’d suggested the possibility, it was almost a certainty that the caterpillar was doomed. Tears squeezed out of the corners of his eyes. And instead of reassuring him, I’d said, “Honey, that’s just life. For little creatures like that guy, the odds aren’t good.”
What the hell was I thinking? How could I have been so thoughtless? Jonah was five years old, for goodness’ sake. Instead of allowing him to enjoy the wonders of nature, I’d managed to rob him of his awe. It isn’t the worst thing I’ve done, I know. But thinking of it now fills me with shame.
What Remains True Page 6