Sunday: Missed Calls: 22.
35.
In the waiting room, Richard paces, and Jake watches.
Lisa bows her head. Maybe she’s praying. Thad’s told Jake that as kids, she dragged him and Michael to church some weeks, though these days she’s less devout.
The waiting room is modest, the floor a laminate checkerboard, the ceiling low. A dozen orange chairs line the walls, and Jake and Lisa sit in two of them. In one corner, a mop handle rises from a yellow bucket of gray water. A plastic sign—Caution: Wet Floor—spreads its legs beside a hot-drink machine, the kind that trades quarters for bad coffee in flimsy paper cups.
No one else is in the waiting room. Small town, small hospital. The receptionist recognized Diane coming through the door. “How’s your husband’s head?” she asked before Lisa explained that they were here for Diane. The woman at the front desk picked up a phone. Who knows if there’s a doctor back there with her even now? Could be they’re waiting for one on call to arrive.
“What is it?” Richard asks at last. “Why is no one talking? What’s wrong with Diane?”
“She’s cramping,” Jake says.
“Cramping?” Richard says. “We’re here for cramps?”
Jake looks to Lisa. Lisa looks to Jake.
Richard catches all this looking. “What don’t I know?”
“Diane’s pregnant,” Lisa says. “She wasn’t telling people yet.”
Richard sits heavily, and Lisa rises from her chair to take a seat beside him.
“She wasn’t telling people yet,” Richard says, “but she told you.” Lisa nods. “And you.”
“Just now,” Jake says. “On the dock.”
“Am I the only one who didn’t know?” Richard lets the words unfurl with too much volume, and Lisa places a hand on the back of his neck.
“Honey,” she says, “the only thing that should concern you, right now, is whether Diane’s going to be okay.”
“Cramping,” Richard says. “That’s bad.”
“It’s not good,” Lisa says.
Jake steps outside. He hates hospitals, hates illness. This talk of Diane cramping, thoughts of miscarriage, it’s too much. He needs air.
Outside, night’s fallen, and the parking lot blacktop glitters under lamplight like licorice laced with glass.
Fuck. Michael should be here for Diane. Thad should be here for him. Lisa spoke to them. She says they’re on the way, but Jake wishes they would hurry. He can’t reenter that waiting room alone, can’t face the sorrow of Richard and Lisa being told they won’t be grandparents.
And what to say to Thad when he arrives? Assuming he asks where Jake’s been, what will Jake tell him? Assuming the ultimatum still stands, what will he say?
Is it so wrong Jake wants to have his cake, to eat it too: to have the love of one man and the excitement of many more? Must Thad really make him choose?
Jake’s fault. Thad never wanted this, and Jake’s known that all along.
Thad’s fault. He’s a grown man making grown-men decisions, and he signed up for this.
Or else they’re both to blame. But no. This is America. In America, somebody takes the blame.
At least today he painted. That’s something.
He checks his watch. He calls Frank.
“Jacob?” Frank’s voice is raspy, honeyed with sleep, though it’s not yet ten o’clock.
When Jake met the man, Frank intimidated him. He’s charismatic, a toucher, hand always on your arm. But his reputation’s sterling. He’s never fucked a customer, never made a pass at an artist he sells. In the gallery, he’s a tough negotiator, but with his painters, he’s a cheerleader, a confidant and friend.
“I’m sorry,” Jake says. “I’ll let you sleep.”
Frank coughs a cough like paintbrushes in a blender, the rattle of decades of cigarettes. The cancer, when it comes, will be vicious and unrelenting.
“It’s all right,” Frank says. “How’s my little rock star this evening?”
“Not great. A kid drowned, my boyfriend’s brother almost drowned trying to save him, and now his wife’s in the hospital. But look, that’s not why I called.”
“Jesus,” Frank says. “Where are you?”
“The mountains. It’s not important. You wouldn’t know the place.”
Frank’s quiet so long, Jake wonders if he’s fallen back to sleep.
“I have to come clean with you about something,” Jake says. “I haven’t painted in months. I mean, I painted a sunset, but that was a fluke. Point is, you should cancel my next show. I’m not sure I’ll ever paint again.”
Frank coughs a substantial, phlegm-filled cough. That or he’s laughing. Jake can’t tell.
“Listen, Jacob,” Frank says, and this is the voice Jake knows, the voice that sells millionaires on paintings they’d never otherwise buy. This voice is bayoneted, grooved for blood. “You just had a sellout show. You got a rave in the Times Of course you’re not painting. You shouldn’t be painting. You should be celebrating. You should be freaking out. You should be doubting everything you’ve ever done and wondering what could possibly come next. Angst! Tears! You’re twenty-five!”
“Twenty-six.”
“Twenty-six! This had to happen. You’re too much. You’re a goddamn machine. You’re overdue for a breakdown. Or a scandal. But stick with the breakdown. They’re easier to spin. I promise you, you’ll paint again.”
“What if I don’t?”
“You will. Everyone gets blocked and bounces back.”
“Everyone?”
“Well,” Frank says, “not everyone. Some crash and burn. But we don’t speak of them.”
“But what if—”
“Trust me. It’s nothing. Call me when you haven’t painted in a year.”
“But my next show.”
“Postponed.” Frank coughs. “Make them wait. Make them think you’re up to something special, which, soon enough, you will be.”
There’s quiet on the line, Jake unsure what to say.
“And, Jacob?” Frank’s voice is stern, chrome polished to a shine. “Just make sure the next show is something special.”
Jake really doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s dreaded this call for weeks, and in two minutes’ time, he’s moved from anxious to relieved to terrified.
Frank laugh-coughs. “I’m kidding! Next time, though, don’t call so late. Now go to bed. And give that boyfriend of yours a squeeze from me. He’s adorable.”
Frank hangs up. Jake pockets his phone, and here come Thad and Michael in Thad’s car. The car pulls into the nearest parking space, and Michael jumps out and runs past Jake. Thad is slower coming up the sidewalk.
“Hey,” Jake says, and Thad passes him and goes into the hospital.
He should have called. He shouldn’t have left Thad in the dark all day. Nothing to do now but step inside.
In the waiting room, Lisa scolds Thad. Where were you? Why don’t you boys ever answer your phones? Meanwhile, Michael’s already been led back.
Thad takes a seat, Jake sits next to him, and Thad scoots one seat down.
“Did you know?” Richard asks Thad from across the room, and Jake’s been wondering this too.
“Know what, Dad?” Thad asks.
“Diane,” Richard says. “She’s pregnant. Did you know?” His voice is too loud again, and again Lisa rubs the back of his neck.
“Michael told me half an hour ago.”
Richard shakes his head, stands, and lumbers to the coffee machine. He pushes the Caution sign aside and searches his pockets for coins. Then Lisa’s there with her purse, tucking quarters into his hand.
“I’m sure they were going to tell you next,” Lisa says, but Richard isn’t listening. He’s studying the display, selecting his drip and size.
Once, when Jake was a boy, his father rented a stump grinder from the hardware store. In place of wheels, the grinder had tank tread, and the blade, when it bit into the wood, made the most awful shri
eking noise Jake’s ever heard. It’s that noise Jake hears when Richard pushes a button and the coffee machine shudders and lets loose a coffee-percolating scream.
Lisa moves to the seat between Jake and Thad and puts an arm around each of them. Thad doesn’t lean into his mother’s embrace, which Jake finds odd. He knows Thad’s mad at him. He’s not sure why he’d be mad at Lisa too.
The coffee machine’s rattle is extinguished with a hiss, and Richard pulls a cup from the dispenser. The cup is small, the handle composed of two loops of hole-punched paper folded like butterfly wings. Richard sips the coffee, makes a face, and tips his cup into the mop bucket.
“Just to be clear,” Richard says. “You all knew?”
“Seriously?” Thad says. “You’re going to lecture me for keeping secrets?”
Then Thad’s up, and Jake follows him outside. They stand on the sidewalk just beyond the hospital doors.
“Nothing happened,” Jake says, but he’s talking to Thad’s back. “I went to Asheville, but nothing happened. No more Marco. That’s over. I love you.”
But Thad doesn’t say I love you back. He turns, and he’s crying.
“I have a sister,” he says.
“I’m sorry,” Jake says, “I don’t understand.”
“Mom told Diane. Diane told Michael. Michael told me. A sister, June, before Michael was born. She only lived a month.”
“Oh my God,” Jake says. He steps forward, and Thad lets Jake hold him in his arms. Then Thad straightens, clears his throat, and dries his face.
“I should go inside,” Thad says.
Thad’s still in Jake’s arms, and there’s so much Jake wants to say. He wants to tell Thad about Marco, about the birds, about the sunset and the painting and his phone call with Frank. And he wants to hear about Thad’s day, which is when he knows the love he says he feels for Thad is real. He is interested. He cares. He cares about this man more than himself. Hell, he even wants to read Thad’s poetry.
But he doesn’t say any of that. Instead, he says, “Be with your family,” and lets Thad go.
36.
Diane holds her husband’s hand.
The table beneath her is wide, and, through the paper gown, her back is cold. The lights in the little room are dimmed, the walls bathed gray, and a counter runs the length of one wall. A machine that reminds her of a grade school overhead projector squats by her head, and Michael stands at her middle.
He looks terrible. His hair hugs his skull, flattened as if from a downpour. His cheeks are stubble, jaw bruised. His forehead is swollen, the bandage unchanged all day. A pinstripe of vomit marks his shirtfront, and he smells like sour wine.
At Diane’s feet, a woman fills out papers on a clipboard. She wears a white coat but no stethoscope, and Diane can’t tell if she’s the doctor or a nurse. She wasn’t among the staff on Friday who attended to Michael’s head. She asks Diane questions and writes her answers down.
How far along is she? Ten weeks.
Is she on prenatal vitamins? She’s not.
Has she had an ultrasound before? She hasn’t.
Who is her family doctor in Texas? She doesn’t have one.
Who’s monitoring the pregnancy? Diane is.
A long silence follows.
The woman in the white coat thinks she’s stupid, or else she sees this all the time: unplanned pregnancies, the couple refusing to make a decision, supposing that if they wait long enough the problem will go away.
Perhaps the problem is going away, her body flushing the problem from her womb. Except, the problem’s not a problem, never was, not for Diane, and she doesn’t want to see it go.
The woman pulls a page from the clipboard, turns it over, and clips the page again. She crosses through something, then writes some more. All of which is excruciating to watch. There’s no urgency to her movements, no haste. What if time is of the essence? How can the woman in the white coat be in no hurry at all?
“Please,” Diane says at last, “could you go faster, please?”
“Oh, honey, there’s no rush,” the woman says. “Are you bleeding?” She’s not. “Are you cramping now?” She isn’t. The pain subsided sometime after she lay down.
“Pretty standard. Your uterus is expanding. It’s a sensation you’ve never felt before. Some mothers feel it more acutely than others. We’ll run the necessary tests, but chances are, you’re fine.”
Michael squeezes her hand.
“I’m ordering an ultrasound,” the woman in the white coat says. “I’ll be right back.”
She leaves, and Michael asks Diane what happened. His eyes are vacant. All the electricity’s gone out of them, whatever glimmer proves your soul is sound.
“Contractions,” she says. “Like my period’s about to start.”
“Does it hurt?” he asks, and she wants to ask just how genuine, on a scale of one to ten, his concern is. After all, isn’t this the Get Out of Jail Free card he’s been waiting for?
“I want my mom,” she says.
“I’ll call her,” Michael says, but Diane shakes her head.
If she loses the pregnancy, better her mother never knew. Her mother is fragile, well-intentioned but easily upset. Why didn’t you tell me sooner? she would ask, and Diane would have to defend herself. That isn’t comfort, even if it’s love. Right now, though, Diane needs both.
Michael lets go of her hand. He kneels, and his face is at her belly.
“I need you to tell me something,” she says. She doesn’t mean to whisper, but whispering makes it easier, what comes next. “Tell me you love me, or tell me that you don’t. But I need to know.”
Michael opens his mouth to speak, and she claps a hand across his face. He startles, but he lets her leave her hand. His breath is warm.
“Don’t answer,” she says, and she’s not whispering anymore. “Don’t tell me until you’re sure. Because this is it, the beginning or the end. I can’t live the way we’ve lived the last two months. I can’t live the way we’ve lived the last two years. I’ll love you forever, Michael, but I won’t stay with you if you treat me this way.”
His mouth opens behind her hand, wet lips and squeak of teeth, but she doesn’t let go. Her fingernails dig in, and Michael shuts his mouth.
“If this child is still in me, I’m having it. And you, either you’re all-in or all-out, no more lukewarm. I need to know if you’re in, if you love me and you’d like to come along.”
Her palm is wet with hot breath, fingers sandpapered by the stubble on his cheeks. She lets go, and his face sinks into her abdomen.
“I’m in,” he says, and it will have to do. It’s not as good as I love you, not the same as I’m not going anywhere, but he takes her hand in both of his and kisses it. She runs her other hand over his hair and finds her favorite square inch of his body, that secret indentation where spine intersects with neck, their first real intimacy in months.
“I went to jail today,” he says, speaking into her stomach.
Diane says nothing, but her hand goes still. He turns his head so she can see his face.
“I might have a drinking problem,” he says. “I do. I have a drinking problem. Sometimes I get up in the middle of the night and need a shot of vodka just to get back to sleep.”
“We don’t drink vodka.” She doesn’t know what else to say. She didn’t know this. She knew her husband liked to drink, but this, a dependency, she had no idea. “We don’t even keep vodka in the house.”
“Back closet, filing cabinet, bottom drawer: two bottles. Basement, under the stairs, with the Christmas decorations: three bottles. Garage, behind the water heater, one big bottle.”
She doesn’t cry. She’s too surprised to cry.
“How long has this been going on?”
“Three years.”
Three years? “I don’t know if I’m angrier at you for not telling me or at myself for not figuring it out.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” he says.
“Oh, don’t
worry. I blame you. But I blame myself too.” She takes his hand. She can listen. She can try. She says, “Tell me more.”
He does. He tells her how it started with drinks after work, then drinks after drinks after work. How this ballooned to drinks to get him through the day. He tells her about bars and how many he’s been kicked out of. He tells her that he’s driven drunk, though he’s never been caught until today. He tells her about jail, about a man who fell and broke his face, about Thad coming to his rescue.
“You have to tell your parents,” she says, but Michael isn’t keen on that idea. “You do. Beating this, you might have to quit work, at least take time off. You’re going to need help. We’re going to need money.”
“I can’t ask my father for more money.”
“Then I will.”
“Diane, please,” he says, and she can see that he’s humiliated. Worse, he’s ashamed.
“Okay,” she says. “I’ll leave it up to you. But you can’t be drunk when the baby comes. If you’re still drinking in six months, you’ll have to leave.”
Michael nods. It’s not the news he wants to hear, she can tell. It’s not the news she wants to give. But it’s the only way. She won’t raise a child around a man who has that in common with her father. She won’t do it.
“You can’t be a drunk and be a father to our kid,” Diane says.
“Okay,” he says.
“I won’t have it.”
“I understand.”
“There’s no compromising here. My mother raised me. I can raise a child. I’ll do it alone before I’ll let you fuck our kid up.”
“Jesus,” Michael says. “I love you so much.”
And here are the words she needs to hear. They arrive like rain to cool a sweltering day, and she pulls him to her and kisses him, their first kiss since some time before she showed Michael the little stick, the pink plus sign that meant she’d be a mom. The kiss is quick, abbreviated. Her husband smells like sickness and wine, and if he could hide this so well from her, she can’t help wondering how she’ll know if he’s hiding it again.
“Hey,” she says, “want to hear a joke?”
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