by Andrew Roe
And so, against the advice of several doctors and bearded specialists and pretty much everyone else she spoke with, from her husband and her sister Tammy to the mailman, they brought Anabelle home. Emptied her room. Redecorated with the machinery and equipment that would help prolong her life. John disassembled the special bed because it wouldn’t fit through the door to her room, and then reassembled it once the parts were inside, and they had to hire someone to add a few more electrical sockets and redo some of the wiring (more bills, more credit cards surpassing their laughably high maximums, which meant it was time to apply for more cards), while she consulted technicians and spoke to pharmaceutical companies and asshole sales reps and figured out the intricacies of the tube that went into her daughter’s stomach and through which she would get her nourishment. The great experiment began.
Even though she’d always known that Anabelle would come home, Karen, in her weaker moments, used to wonder what if—what if she had went along with the doctors and everyone else? What would her life have been like then? Would Anabelle’s supposed gift have remained hidden in such an environment? Had it taken her motherly love and devotion and unwavering belief in her daughter for it to flourish? When the reporters and media people ask her what’s her role in this amazing story, she usually says nothing, brushes off the question like a celebrity being probed about a recent love affair gone wrong. Because she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know what to believe. Still.
Friends, family—they all thought she’d blown a fuse for bringing her daughter home. John freaking out. Or well on his way toward freaking out. Not sleeping. Not working. He stayed up late and zoned out in front of the TV. She tried to convince him that it was the right thing to do, the only thing to do, despite the fact that she knew that he would ultimately yield because this involved their daughter, and up until then all decisions concerning Anabelle had been made by her and he wasn’t going to start getting all Father Knows Best now—nor was he entitled to, was Karen’s take. But he argued. Relentlessly. With a passion that surprised and sometimes silenced her.
He said: “I don’t think we can do this, I mean, I don’t think I can do this. Because think about it. We’re still young. I know it doesn’t feel that way, that it hasn’t felt that way in a long, long time. But I can’t. I can’t give my life over like this. It’s killing me. Selfish, I know. I guess this is the kind of thing you always wonder about, how if something like this were to happen—some disaster or something—and you wonder how would you react. Would you do the right thing or not. And I can’t do this. I admit it. I’m a selfish fucker. There. Is that what you wanted? Is that what you wanted me to admit? OK, I’m admitting. Full fucking confessional. Forgive me father for I have sinned. But Sweetie, think long term here. What if the doctors are wrong about six months or a year or whatever? Think ahead five, ten years. What then? How can we possibly take care of her? What can we really do for her? The doctors said. Wouldn’t she be better off? I understand what’s behind it, really I do. Totally. But look. Maybe it’s time to let go. Maybe it’s time. Things have been so crazy, even before all this. And I don’t think we’re in the right state of mind to be like making these kinds of decisions, these huge, this-is-going-to-affect-the-rest-of-our-lives decisions. We can always have her go to that place and then later change our minds, too. And shit. It hasn’t been that long, not really, since the accident. There’s still the after effects of that, like that one doctor said about how there’s these different periods of like shock and sadness and then disbelief and then what was it—something else I can’t remember but you get the point I’m making here. I don’t think either of us are in the kind of the condition to be caring for her like we’re going to need to be caring for her.”
Her mother, too, calling from Colorado (collect, like they could afford it), where she’d moved for a job that fell through and now was living with a man practically half her age and who worked part-time in a comic book store. Her mother: who once declared that she wouldn’t wish motherhood upon her worst enemy (true story) and who lately has become more bold about displaying her selective amnesia, now an official unapologetic revisionist of the past, arguing that’s not what happened, I never said that, did that, you were just kids, how could you possibly remember. Whenever they talked on the phone, Karen could hear in the background the forgotten TV, the restless tapping of her Lee Press-Ons, the metallic flick of the cigarette lighter signaling another smoke and a savored silence, inhaling. Her voice throaty and used up and resigned to the world’s disappointments. Yet always full of advice. Always transporting her back to her ten-year-old self.
She said: “This is crazy. This is just plain straitjacket-me crazy. Hold on, dear. One second while—Brian. Brian. No not that one. The other one. To the left. There. OK, I’m back. And don’t use too much like last time. You remember what happened then, don’t you. Now where was I? John. And with things between John and you being what they are? Believe me, dear. I know. I’ve been down that neck of the woods and it’s no day at the races. I know about relationships, there’s something to be said for experience and old age and being around the track a little, and I know we’ve had our . . . things. And Baby Doll I know sometimes we don’t see eye to eye on much besides the weather, and granted . . . I’m not exactly the role-model type of mother which I’m perfectly willing to plead guilty here to . . . but there’s one thing I do know about and that’s relationships and in particular men and even more in particular men like John because I’ve known my fair share, your father included, these men of excuses of ours, and it’s always something, because they’ve got that stupid idea stuck in their male brains that the world owes them something, and from the get-go you’ll have to at least admit that you and John . . . you and John have been, I don’t know, cursed. Brian! By the sink, underneath. Really think about what you’re getting yourselves into, commitment-wise. Really think about it. And the money. That’s a whole other bag of salami. I can come out and help for a little while, but I can’t be gone too long. I’ve got a few job leads and I signed up for this computer training course next month. Who’s your long-distance service by the way? I’ve got one of these referral deals where if I get people to sign up I get a discount and a tote bag.”
Others offered their unsolicited counsel as well. She pretended to listen and consider. But she didn’t give in, even though, yes, you bet, there were times when she wanted to, when she thought the lure of letting go would be too much. The sacrifice, sacrifices, that would be required. Her parenting skills probably never having been all that stellar anyway, and now this. Yes, she did pray. It had been years, since the summer when she suddenly had boobs and “Rhiannon” was her favorite song and she wanted to be Stevie Nicks. She got on her knees and prayed. No specific prayer or anything, just: Please help me, God. Please help me. Over and over, until the words dissolved in her mouth and it seemed like they no longer needed to be said.
And not only did her baby not die. She kept her at home, is keeping her at home. And perhaps that was another miracle, too.
SLEEP IS A luxury. Karen no longer believes in it. It comes in small, inadequate spurts, an hour here, an hour there, waking, checking on Anabelle, nodding off again, dreams that start and stop and never rightly conclude, always awake before dawn, and she’s gotten used to it, sort of, though sometimes that lurchy haze of being on a different tape speed is hard to shake.
Last night had passed similarly, and now this morning, more than a month after the Costco Quake (as Karen has internally labeled it), she’s up bright and early before the first pleas of daylight have begun to paw their way into Anabelle’s window. Slowly, geriatrically, she extracts herself from the chair she’s once again slept in and parts the lace curtains (made by a well-wisher, a homebound invalid who lives in Reno and also does award-winning needlepoint, according to the note enclosed with the package) and then she returns to Anabelle, caressing her daughter’s long, dark fairytale locks, which drape over the
side of the bed—like a princess waiting for a magical kiss from her prince, more than one visitor has remarked. The walls are painted a creamy, feminine pink. Next she removes the red bow from her daughter’s hair, replaces it with a fresh one, also red, and begins combing—the morning ritual in motion, her brain and thoughts fighting against the lack of sleep and gradually narrowing into focus. When Linda arrives later they will change Anabelle into a new nightgown, bathe her body with the care of priests presiding over mass. Yes, it’s holy work, this. But for now she combs, listens to the beautiful, gentle sound of hair gliding through the brush’s teeth, the rhythm and the faintest hint of static, she’s always appreciated this sound, as a daughter and now as a mother, how it consoled somehow, and layered behind that is the churn of the machinery, unvarying, monitoring her daughter’s heart rate, allowing her to breathe and live. Everything looks all right this morning. Everything stable, normal.
Moments like this, her panic subsides. Temporarily, at least, she can deal. Things will move forward in a way that she can understand and perhaps control. But she knows once the day is underway, once the people file in and release their prayers and weeping and burdens, it will return and her heart will race and she will feel like locking the door and shuttering the windows and turning off all the lights. See? Nobody home. It’s too much for her, too much for anyone.
Except wait—what’s this? Had Anabelle moved during the night? Looks like it, yes. There. The slightest shifting of her midsection to the left. Her arms, too: last night they were at her side (weren’t they?) and now they are more outstretched. And her lips: are they parted more than usual? With her open mouth, Anabelle appears always to be on the verge of speech, a cruel image that never fails to devastate Karen. (And sometimes, if she stares long enough, she swears she sees her daughter’s lips come to life, struggling to say something, to utter one simple word: Mom.) But maybe not. Maybe it’s all just a hallucination, a manifestation of her still-burning hopefulness, her motherly belief in her daughter’s eventual recovery. This happens periodically. And she has to remind herself to not get carried away. Take it day to day. Accept the present. Accept everything.
She finishes brushing, the same number of strokes on each side: twenty-five. Then she applies ChapStick, kisses the waxy, cherry-smelling lips, and squeezes her daughter’s hand—the last bit the final part of this particular morning ritual, a gesture telling Anabelle that the day is about to begin and that the people will soon be coming, that she should prepare herself for the flow of need about to enter her room.
It’s past six and it’s like the day has already slipped away. So much to do. She promised Bryce she’d spend some time getting more familiar with the computer and respond to a few posts on Anabelle’s website. Then later in the afternoon a phone interview with a newspaper in Mexico City. There’s probably more but she can’t think of anything else right now. And of course: the visitors. Of course. She leaves Anabelle’s room and commences turning on the lights, putting on the coffee, clearing space so people can sit, bringing the house to life. The temperature rising already, into December and no signs of the weather letting up. In the living room she opens the blinds only to quickly close them, releasing a frenzied clattering of plastic. Outside the people who have spent the night are stirring, waking up. They have noticed the lights. They are starting to emerge, sleepy and hopeful, from their tents and cars, a collective awakening, and again she feels bad for her neighbors: Debby next door, the black couple across the street (Morris was maybe the last name?), the mailman who lives on the corner, everyone who lives nearby, how they have to deal with this intrusion and inconvenience.
But she’s not ready. She needs a little more time. Five more minutes. She can’t help herself, though: she gets on her knees and takes a more covert peek through the blinds. She sees men and women and children. Scans the faces—and thinks there’s a guy, half-facing the street, hands on his hips, leaning forward as if inspecting something on the ground, who could be John. This also happens fairly regularly. Yes, she thinks it’s John, believes it’s John, the build is the same, the walk and slouch is the same, and then the face comes into better focus and she realizes no, it’s not him, this is a different face. John is still far, far away.
The question: What would she say if it ever was him, if he came back? What would he say? How long would they stare at each other before the words came? It’s a scene she’s played out in her mind many times, hundreds of times (and it’s the scene in the movie that you expect all along, you know it’s coming, the big moment of reconciliation, and yet you don’t mind it, the cliché of it, even though it’s obvious, because it feels right, it feels true, it feels earned), but it’s always different, sometimes warm and forgiving, sometimes angry and bitter, sometimes awkward and frosty, sometimes all of the above. There’s a soundtrack, too: soft piano music, accompanied by a swell of violins and other stringed instruments she’s forgotten the names of.
The answer: She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know what she’d say, what she’d do, how she’d react. It was going to be something that would happen in the moment, discovering your way as you go.
The guy she’s been watching, the one who isn’t John, catches her staring, stares back, starts walking toward the house, and Karen jumps backward and almost falls on her ass, the blinds rattling once again. It was like the accident took away Anabelle for the first time, and now it was happening a second time, in a much different way. She just wants her daughter back.
Karen withdraws to the kitchen, tries to convince herself to eat. But there’s nothing. The lack of food is daunting, a reflection on her character. She has fallen behind on condiments, salt, butter, the basics. So she sits at the table and cries. Again. The tears sudden and substantial. Why? Why is she crying? Because of nothing. Because she hasn’t managed to run out to the market. Because her nails are chipped and gnawed. Because she doesn’t know the answer. Because she doesn’t know where John is right now, right this second. Because of everything. She must be strong. She knows this. Five more minutes (and why is it always five more minutes, that magical span of time that makes a difference?) and then I’ll be better. There isn’t time for this kind of thing anymore. I should eat something, anything, before it gets too late, like it always does.
After she dries her eyes and semi-composes herself and does a final check in the bathroom mirror (the bags, the bags; what can you do?), she’s ready, or as ready as she has to be, for she’s learning, too, about appearances and performance and the actor’s credo about how the show must go on. They’re waiting. Always waiting. So she opens the front door and once again welcomes the world into her house, smiling.
12
| John |
THEY GIVE HIM his own cubicle, as well as a computer that’s ready to kick his ass and reduce him to a state of Cro-Magnon cluelessness. He really doesn’t know much about it . . . them . . . computers, other than indulging in an occasional round of Solitaire or Minesweeper, the Internet still something of an otherworldly mystery to him. But he figures he’ll be able to Lucy Ricardo his way around it all, at least for a week or two, or however long he’ll be here, his latest TempPeople gig, after finishing a forgettable month-long warehouse job, another Monday-morning first day, which are always the worst, having to memorize all the people’s names and system passwords and also learn the ins and outs and quirks of the copy machine, every time taking a deep breath as he begins the assignment and hoping this time will be better than the last.
After showing him where he’ll be sitting, Ron, the supervisor, in his bland forties, a prolific perspirer who reminds John of a suburbanized David Bowie (the same snaggletooth, the same junkie skinniness, the same intense, accusatory cheekbones, all countered with a white shirt and patterned tie and tan Dockers, very un-Bowie), ushers him into his office and before John even has a chance to sit down asks how up-to-speed his database and 10-key skills are, and John pauses mightily, deer-in-the-headlights dumb, and finally
says, way too late, Uh pretty good, pretty up to speed, wondering what the fuck is 10-key (database not exactly his area of expertise either). John remains standing while Ron rushes through his duties, what’s expected of him, the company’s policies on sexual harassment, affirmative action, personal hygiene, etc., John retaining nothing much except the overpowering brand-new smell of the office and Ron’s frequent use of the word copasetic.
According to Ron (“Please call me Ron. That’s just the kind of company this is.”), things are kind of on the quiet side right now, but he’d better enjoy it because relatively soon, once the new promos hit the major TV markets, which would strategically coincide with a rebranded print campaign and a slew of banner ads set to inundate websites large and small, both horizontal and vertical markets (John nodding, still standing, contorting his jaw into a position of what he hoped would be interpreted as understanding and approval), the phones would be ringing off the hook.
John receives the official welcome-aboard handshake from Ron, who then plays tour guide and introduces him to the wonders of his new workplace, pointing out the essentials (bathroom, kitchen, supply area, copy machine), emphasizing the user-friendly nature of the floor’s layout and design, finally circling back to John’s minimalist cube. During the time he’d been away in Ron’s office and taking the tour, someone had hung a plastic placard with his name in glaring caps, JOHN VINCENT, like an accusation, a wanted poster without the picture and fine-print details of his crimes. Attached by Velcro. Meaning that it can be easily removed, one effortless rip, nothing permanent like glue or screws.
“Any questions so far?” asks Ron.
John has about a hundred (horizontal markets? vertical markets? did he have to pay for parking?), but he answers the way he knows he’s supposed to: “No, not yet. So far so good.”