"Tell me one more thing."
I think for a moment. I see Artie in his tux, beaming at me from the altar. "Our wedding," I say.
"That's right," John says. "You never told me about your wedding."
"Artie started crying first and that got me going, but then I started to laugh, while crying, and he did, too." I take another breath. "And it became contagious until the whole church was filled with people laughing and crying. It was strange," I tell him, "to feel like laughing and crying all at the same time."
"It sounds like real life. Funny and tragic at the same time," John says. "Real sadness has to also include joy. Doesn't it? Someone famous said something like that once, the idea that there can't be sadness about an ending without having known real happiness along the way."
He's caught me off guard. I look up at him. He has a strong profile, but soft eyes, thick lashes.
"It's going to be okay, Lucy." He holds on to me tightly and it feels so good to be held with that kind of gentle strength. I realize how long it's been since I've had a man's arm wrapped around me like this. He kisses me on the forehead, and then his face is right there, right next to my face, still wet with tears. And I don't know how or why, but I lean in and kiss him softly on the mouth. It isn't a long kiss. It isn't heated or rapturous. But he has a wonderful mouth, and he doesn't shy away from the kiss. And although this kiss could almost pass for a peck—the kind you'd give a hostess at a cocktail party—it lingers just enough to become something else. And, I should say that it doesn't seem wrong—not in the moment, not within the kiss itself.
But then I pull away. I open my eyes and I'm calm. I know it won't last. I know I will have to deal with the consequences of this moment—the guilt that will surely follow— but right now I'm serene.
"We have to pretend we didn't kiss," I say.
"I don't like pretending."
I stand up. "But you will, for me. I need to pretend right now."
"Okay," he says. "I'll pretend, but it won't be easy."
"It wasn't a real kiss," I say, and it's almost true.
"What kiss?" John says, true to his word.
"Right," I say. "I'm going home."
"Are you okay to drive?"
"I'm fine." And I am. In fact, I'm strangely serene. I turn and walk to the door. I know that I'll go home and take my spot in the armchair, watching over Artie while he sleeps, that I might cry again, or I might not. Real sadness has to also include joy. It's all part of the bargain.
Before I head out, I ask John, "Did you wear a jean jacket in high school?"
"Yes, I did," he says. "All the time. Stonewashed denim."
"I thought so," I say. "I thought you did."
Chapter Twenty-six
At Some Point Each of Us Is Someone Else's Bad Guy
The kiss plays out in my mind like a reel of film caught in a loop, but with all its physicality. I can feel his lips on my mouth, and each time, heat starts in my chest and flares up into my cheeks. I can be washing the dishes at the sink, brushing my teeth, getting mail out of the mailbox, and then suddenly for no reason apparent to anyone but me, I'm blushing. And then there is the blush of—Artie's son? His very own son? And that's a different kind of heat in my chest, a different kind of flush. Can I look at this any other way but as punishing Artie—even if he doesn't know, even if he never knows? When I'm with Artie—even when he's asleep and I'm puttering around refolding blankets—I feel like a traitor. But I'm a traitor in the traitor's den, and so I rationalize quickly. I pretend Artie's found out and he's furious, but I just tell him in a calm (exhausted) voice, "I know how you feel."
The guilt is only part of it, of course. More pointedly, there's plenty of confusion. What did the kiss mean? Didn't it exist in a moment of kindness and sadness? Does it have to be wrapped up in all the stuff that comes with a kiss? Was it a real kiss or not? Basically, I isolate the kiss in my head, and I put it in a corner of my brain, and try to treat it like it's only a dustpan.
I make a few excuses on the phone with John in the morning attempting to avoid the Tour d'Artie. I find myself piling them on, each one less convincing than the one before. The third excuse has to do with shopping for shoes. John calls me out on it. "You're making things up. You're stalling," he says. "Are you quitting the Tour d'Artie?"
Doesn't he feel guilty? Do men lack the guilt gene? "Why do you always call him Artie?" I ask. "When are you going to call him your father?"
"You're not answering the question," John says. "You're tap-dancing."
"You're not answering my questions," I say. "You're tap-dancing." We're both tap-dancing.
"It's okay if you're quitting the tour. I just want you to know and I want you to know that I know."
"Okay," I tell him. "I know and now I know that you know."
"Okay."
"Okay, okay."
He's been coming over in the afternoons to spend time with Artie, and this afternoon is no different. I think that I've run errands long enough to avoid him, but when I walk into the house overloaded with grocery bags, I nearly walk right into his chest.
"You're here," I say.
"You missed dinner. Your mother invited me to stay." He grabs one of the bags. "Let me take this." He takes another and another until my hands are empty. I can see into the kitchen, which is bustling with women—Elspa, Eleanor, my mother.
I grab his arm. "I haven't really been avoiding you," I whisper. "I mean, I'm happy to see you. I've just been . . ."
"Avoiding me," he says. "It's okay. I get it. There's a lot going on."
He walks into the kitchen and I follow him. The women are wrapping up bowls of leftovers, doing dishes, talking all at once. He and the grocery bags are absorbed into the scene. I find myself standing in the doorway, watching all these people move around the kitchen with a certain ease—Elspa, Eleanor, my mother, John. And I should include Bogie in all this. He's found a quiet corner and flattened out on the floor, sound asleep. I don't know when the ease took over, but here it is. And even with John, since he's called me out on my excuses— twice now—I feel a certain ease, too—as much as possible with the dustpan kiss lurking in the corner of my brain.
I decide to join them. I get a wineglass out of the cupboard and pour myself a glass from the bottle that's already been uncorked.
Eleanor wants to discuss how Artie's demeanor is changing. "Do you think it's really working?" she says. "These women are sending him a message, aren't they? He's been a serial cheater. How much longer can he deny it?"
John asks, "What's your story with Artie, again? I don't know if I know it."
She waves him off. "I was just another woman to Artie. That's it. Nothing more to it."
The doctor was here earlier, reporting a slow downward spiral. My mother is still in a small dither, having spoken to the doctor, having at one point reached out and touched his hand—for no apparent reason. She is using her leftover frenetic energy to tend to us. Seeing John pull a glass from the dishwasher, she moves in and starts unloading it. "I think the doctor has a wonderful bedside manner. He's very calming."
All this business—the tending, the infatuation with the doctor—is not part of the plan I have for my mother. "You're supposed to be trying to be your own person. Remember?"
"Speak English, dear," she says to me. "No one knows what you're talking about when you say things like that."
"I do," Elspa says.
My mother sighs. "It's generational."
Elspa turns to John. "You tucked Artie in tonight. Was that strange? To tuck your father into bed?"
He isn't startled by the question. He says, "It was strange. I thought of him tucking me into bed many times as a kid. Imagined it."
"Interesting how things turn around in life," my mother says, and then she glances at me. "The child can become the parent at some point when you aren't paying attention."
"And the lover can become the enemy," Eleanor adds, almost under her breath.
"I'm still confused," J
ohn says, having poured himself a little Scotch, and sitting down. "When did you and Artie date?" he asks Eleanor. "Was it decades ago? Was it more recent?"
"Well, it wasn't like the situation with Elspa," she says, meaning, I suppose, that she wasn't one of the other women while Artie and I were married. It hits me that I've never even considered Eleanor as one of the women Artie cheated on me with—which isn't really fair, in a strange way. Is it because she doesn't strike me as a cheat or because she's older or, maybe even because of her leg, which is an awful thing to think? "No offense, Elspa, Lucy."
"None taken!" Elspa says, and she wholeheartedly means it. She's eating a bowl of ice cream, perched on a stool by the kitchen island, sitting cross-legged.
"None taken," I say, with a little less pep.
I walk up to my mother by the sink, deciding to get a bowl of ice cream myself. "Don't play dumb with me," I whisper, meaning be your own person. "You know exactly what I mean."
She looks at me a little startled and then she smiles and shrugs. "Me no speak your language!" She quacks one hand at me.
John says to Eleanor, "Have you gone in and had your heart-to-heart with Artie like the other women?"
"I wouldn't give him the satisfaction," she says gruffly, crossing her arms.
"If you did, though, what would you say?"
Everyone has stopped what they're doing. I'm holding my ice cream bowl and the Häagen-Dazs container. We've all turned to look at Eleanor. It dawns on me that I don't know the answer to any of John's questions—maybe because I never found Eleanor to be a real threat to me, which is an awful thing to even half admit to myself, but true nonetheless. Artie so clearly dislikes her. But now I wonder why she is so invested. When did her orthodontist husband die? How does she know Artie well enough to hate him so much? Honestly, I've admired her hatred of him. It's always struck me as so pure and honest—where mine is so complicated, like an enormous elaborate hedge maze.
Eleanor doesn't say anything for a moment. She glances at each of us, defensively, as if she's been accused of something. And then she says, "I was the woman—the widow—who Artie dumped when he met Lucy." She looks at me and then quickly away. She takes a seat at the breakfast nook. "So now you know."
It's quiet a moment. I'm not sure what to say. I had no idea Artie had been seeing someone when he met me. I had no idea that he'd dumped someone for me. "Eleanor," I say, "I'm so sorry."
"Sorry," John mumbles. "I didn't mean to . . ." He glances at me apologetically, and I think he may be saying sorry to me as much as to Eleanor. But just this small moment, our eyes catching, is unsettling. The kiss is there. It's stubborn. But right alongside it, there's the image of Eleanor and Artie—a couple—and oddly enough, I can see it clearly. All that fire they have for each other, now anger—once upon a time it was something else.
"It's okay," Eleanor says. "I don't blame you." She's wiping down the counter with a dish towel, and once again, I don't know who's apologizing to whom. She doesn't blame John Bessom for bringing it up? Or she doesn't blame me for stealing Artie away? "It was a long time ago. I should be over it."
"It must have been serious," my mother says, and I wish she hadn't.
"We'd talked about getting married," Eleanor says. "He called me his spitfire. He said that I was good for him. Someone his own age, who could understand him." She shrugs. "But then he changed his mind."
I'm stunned. I feel awful. It's not my fault. I know that. But, still, I'm the thief, the young thing Artie tossed her aside for. I shake my head. "Eleanor," I say again. It's all I can manage.
And then Elspa says, "This is all so good."
We turn in unison and stare at her like she's crazy.
"I mean, we're all bound together, some way or another. Like a real family. I've always wanted a family like this." And then she adds, as if this is an unexpected bonus, "And in all screwed up ways, too." She looks at us earnestly. "I think maybe each of us has wanted a real family for a long time—Artie, too."
She's right—each of us in our own way. We all have to agree. The room is quiet—a strained silence.
"I want you all to come with me and Lucy," Elspa says. "To help me get Rose back. My daughter. I want you all to come. So my family can see that I have a family."
"Are you sure?" I ask, a little panic in my voice.
Elspa says, "I know Artie can't come. But I want everyone else to. It would help give me courage. Will you all come?"
Eleanor says, "Yes, of course. I'll have to shuffle some of Artie's sweethearts, but Artie's sweethearts are used to being shuffled."
"I don't know about that. I mean, you have everything so scheduled," I say. She ignores me.
John says, "Are you sure you mean me, too?" He shoots me a sideward glance.
Elspa nods. "Yes, of course!"
"Wait," I say.
My mother smiles. "You need me, dear. Of course I'll come." She walks over to Elspa and squeezes her shoulders. "I wouldn't have it any other way."
"This might be overwhelming for you though. All of us? Are you sure that's what you want?" I ask Elspa, hoping she'll change her mind.
"Yes," she says. She takes a spoonful of ice cream and shoves it in her mouth, smiling. "I feel much better now. Much better."
Chapter Twenty-seven
One Can Only Plan So Much. Eventually, One Must Do
But I do not feel much better. My state of mind is troubled, maybe the most troubled it's been since this whole thing began, and I can't envision this family-style road trip helping in any way. It doesn't matter how I feel, however. Elspa, infused with this new strange confidence that I don't fully comprehend, calls her parents and gets all of us invited to their weekly family Sunday brunch in Baltimore.
I walk into the kitchen early that Sunday morning only two days later, carrying my overnight bag. Hopefully we'll only spend one night—and how will that work? Will I share a room with all the ladies? Or only my mother—and Bogie, whom she's insisted on bringing along? Will we all fit into the car? That fear pops up when my mother emerges from the bathroom wearing an enormous hat, as if she's off to the horse races, and when I spot Eleanor, who's sipping coffee in the breakfast nook with an enormous suitcase and an oversized handbag sitting at her feet.
John walks into the kitchen and pours himself a cup of coffee.
"So, ladies," he says. "We're about ready?"
My mother rearranges her hat. "Of course we are."
Then Elspa enters. She's wearing what she always wears—jeans and a black T-shirt, tattoos showing. The lip ring is even a little bigger and eyeliner darker—as if she dressed up for the special occasion. I look at John. He looks at me and back at Elspa. My mother sighs and Eleanor coughs—code for we have a problem. No one mentioned anything to her about sprucing up for the trip to reclaim her daughter, but obviously it was something that was understood—by everyone except Elspa.
"What?" Elspa says.
I say, "We'll just be a minute."
"What?" Elspa says to me.
"You have to look the part." I take her by the hand and lead her to the spare bedroom.
Once inside, I pull out some clean-cut business casual clothes. A button-down, a cardigan, khakis.
"Khakis? Isn't that a little cruel?" Elspa asks.
"What's wrong with khakis?"
"She'll know. My mother. There's no fooling her."
I wipe off some of the eyeliner, brush down her spiky hair, give her a pair of rectangular sunglasses. I tell her to take out the lip ring. She huffs but follows orders and puts it in her pocket.
I stand back to look at my creation. "Not bad."
Elspa looks at herself in the mirror. She isn't impressed. "I look constipated."
"You look dependable. That's what we're going for here."
Moments later, we're back in the kitchen, standing in front of John, Eleanor, and my mother. But there's no moment of transformation and awe, which I realize I was expecting. My mother and Eleanor are appeased, but John's a
little confused. He's staring at Elspa when he asks, "Where's Elspa?"
"She's in there," I say. "We're going to be late if we don't hurry up."
We head to the front door—Eleanor struggling with her overstuffed bags.
"I think she got eaten by the Gap," John says.
"Not funny," I say.
"Don't I look constipated?" Elspa asks.
*
We all move to the car quickly. Elspa takes her spot in the middle backseat, slumping a bit, but ready to go. Somehow Bogie has landed on her lap, wearing a green jockstrap today with crocheted trim on the back. Petting Bogie gives Elspa something to do. John hoists our bags into the trunk of my car. When I admitted that I had no sense of direction, he offered to drive and I've already thrown him my set of keys.
Eleanor and my mother are discussing who will take the front passenger's seat, a heated discussion that, in my mother's passive-aggressive style, never makes mention of the seating arrangements, but includes my mother elaborating on some bladder discomfort.
I'm the only one who's stalled in the yard. I'm the only one who hasn't said good-bye to Artie. I know that he wants me to go, that he's made me promise, but still I found I couldn't bear saying good-bye in person.
One of the nurses will be with him around the clock, just in case. (And, frankly, he never liked to be alone— no surprise there.) I look up at the house and see the nurse through the window in Artie's room. I know I should have stuck my head into his bedroom to say a quick see-you-later, but I couldn't. Every time I see him, I feel like I can barely breathe. But I have to talk to him before I go. I flip open my cell phone and call the house number.
The nurse answers. "The Shoreman residence."
"I want to speak to Artie. It's me. Lucy."
"Have you even left yet?" The nurse appears at the window, looks at me, and then waves.
I wave back. "Can you put Artie on?"
I hear the nurse explaining who it is.
Artie picks up. "You couldn't leave without saying good-bye."
"Don't die in the next two days," I tell him.
"I won't. Cross my failing heart." He's at the window now, one hand drawing back the curtain. It's been so long since I've seen him out of bed. "I'm too much of an awful person to die at this point."
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