by Lee Woodruff
She nodded, too close to tears to speak.
“It wasn’t real,” he said solemnly.
“What?” she asked automatically, before she could catch herself.
“Us.”
“We’re here right now,” Maura said with a false bravado, as if to lighten the severity of the moment. “That’s real.” Her smile faded when she saw his grim expression, and she felt a little gnawing kick up in her gut.
He smiled halfheartedly and arranged his silverware in a parallel position on one side of the plate and then folded his cloth napkin on the table.
Maura paused for a moment before speaking. “I guess … although we never talked much about it, that you must know things weren’t … aren’t so great at home. That had nothing to do with you.” Maura picked at the nail polish on her left hand, chipping it down by the cuticle. “My husband and I … well, I wonder sometimes if we were really meant to survive past college. Sometimes we feel like two different people connected by three kids.” This was the most Maura had ever said out loud about her marriage to him.
He was studying her closely. Was he surprised by her candor? Their conversations had only ever grazed over the topic of Pete. It would have been so easy, she could see now with the perfect clarity of hindsight, to have let Art steer them toward a gentle end, as he had tried to do in the diner that day. It would have been excruciating in the short run, like ripping a scab. But when Maura pulled back the curtain on all that would happen after that day, she would have given anything to have made that one simple choice, to not have teased him on to satisfy her vanity and her own needs. The level of pain involved in ending it that day seemed inconsequential in the face of everything that would come later.
Maura reached out impulsively for Art’s hand, resting on top of the table, a final act of apology and compassion, and he stiffened slightly.
“Maura,” Art said, and the previous edge in his voice had crept back in. “We’re not at that place anymore.” She nodded instantly, stung, and retracted her hand. He’d misinterpreted her actions, but she would not correct him. Art sat back against the banquette and raised one arm, flagging the waitress and motioning for the check.
“I’ve got to get back to the practice,” he said unapologetically. “There’ve been two emergencies today already. A black lab came in that ate a sock, and I have to do an extra abdominal surgery this afternoon.”
They were both silent for a moment, and Maura felt the need to fill the air, to resurrect herself somehow.
“Pete and I …,” Maura began. “We’re working on it …” Her voice trailed off. Sitting across from him now, trying to interpret his signals, was disorienting.
“I’ve met someone,” Art said abruptly.
Maura worked to keep her face even, not to register dismay. She raised her eyebrows in a gesture of interest, and yet the effort involved in remaining outwardly calm was far greater than she might have imagined.
“Well, of course you have,” she said slowly, measuring each word. “I would expect you would, would want that for you.” He looked up with a bemused smile, a shadow of the good-humored man she had fallen for. But they were both playing roles now, and his total neutrality made her wonder if there were any fraction of him that was still attracted to her. It was difficult to imagine them as two people who’d once been deeply connected in an emotional vortex, who had shared such intimate moments.
“We both needed to move on, I guess,” Art said as he signed the check and then rose, signaling his departure. Outside the restaurant, his hand on her shoulder felt fatherly, yet there was an undercurrent of leashed restraint. “You’ve been through a really huge thing. I’m not trying to minimize it. But you can’t let it rule you, and you shouldn’t let it destroy your family either. I don’t know exactly what you want for your marriage, but I hope, for your sake, that you get to a better place. You deserve that. And I hope, most of all, that you’ll be good to yourself.” As he prepared to walk away, he leaned over toward her and pecked her on the cheek, a blessing and a dismissal.
Back in the parking garage, Maura flipped down the visor mirror and swiped at the ring of mascara under her eyes. She let out a deep breath before fastening her seat belt and starting the car. Whatever she had hoped to achieve, seeing him had only raked up odd, angular sentiments that were too sharp to hold or smooth back into place. She was exhausted. And yet she needed a moment to organize her ricocheting thoughts.
It was hard to recall how she had once fixated constantly on being in his presence, how the vast stretches when she was apart from Art could feel constricting and monotonous, when held against the startling thrill of being with him. And when they had been together, Maura could still remember the heightened sense of an electric current flowing through her, as if she were a fuller, more alive version of herself. All the incremental steps that had taken her and Art to a place of intimacy, so innocent when each encounter was individually examined, now felt selfish and wrong in the wake of their lunch. And yet at the time, each of these single acts of being with him had somehow saved her. It was both comforting and disconcerting to realize Art now felt just like any other person from her past who had once meant something more. He was flawed and self-absorbed in intervals, not vastly different from the man she’d married. Maybe her theory that all of life was a series of random couplings was correct, that there was not just one soul mate but in fact any number of possible prospects with whom you could end up. The key was that all of it took work. Oddly, she thought of her mother and her garden, each season a labor of love, requiring patience, sweat equity, and the need to constantly shore up the perimeter against intruders. Maura realized with certainty that all of the emotion she had invested in Art, all the good and desirable parts of herself she’d illuminated for him, had been pieces she’d denied Pete.
With a sigh, she plucked the parking garage ticket from the car’s cup holder and backed out of the spot to head home. Up in her bedroom, she pulled the turtleneck sweater over her head in one swift motion and tossed it into a ball on the floor before climbing under the sheets and closing her eyes. The anticipation, the knots of emotion, and then the inexorable emptiness had spent her.
27
The bolt slid in the lock as Roger’s eyes flew open, and momentarily disoriented, he sat up on the couch. He must have dozed off. He’d arrived an hour early and used the hidden key to surprise Julia as she returned from work.
Surveying his surroundings, Roger blinked rapidly, his shoes propped on the glass coffee table, and he struggled to his feet, staggering as one knee gave out for a second and then caught.
The door swung open and a triangle of late afternoon sunlight knifed across the floor. Julia entered the room, a clump of grocery bags in each hand. For a moment Roger contemplated how to let her know he was there without startling her. He took a step forward, slightly, saying her name, and the movement registered in the corner of her eye.
“Aaiiiiiyah.” She flinched, recoiled actually, and dropped her purse. When she recognized him, seconds later, she crumpled with relief and let out her breath.
“Roger!” Her voice was admonishing, but he could see behind the receding surprise and fear that she was pleased. More than pleased.
“Julia,” he said simply, and he stepped forward toward her.
She was in his arms in seconds, practically launching herself toward him, and he fought the sensation to weep for some odd reason, a jumble of sentiments hitting him, from anticipation and joy to extreme sadness and apprehension. He was here to end it, and he felt like an assassin.
They embraced and kissed, her body rising up to meet his, readily.
“Why? What are you doing here so early …? Never mind,” she said slyly. “I don’t want to know. I only care that you’re here …” She flashed a brilliant smile and began to lead him toward the couch, tugging playfully on his arm. Something in his expression stopped her, and she slowed, her smile erasing as she detected reticence, a hesitation in his eyes.
&n
bsp; “What?” she said more gently.
“I just want to … to look at you …,” he said. “For a moment.” And her smile brightened again. There was a good ten years difference in their ages. It hadn’t meant anything when they’d first met, but he could see the gap now. Her face was tanned from her time outdoors, and despite the Florida climate, her mocha skin, while not youthful, looked healthy. She was a woman who cared for herself, not in an overly meticulous fashion, but who kept herself up.
“You can look, but it’s so much more fun to touch,” she said impishly. Julia steered him toward the bedroom, now meeting little resistance.
A short time later, spent, they lay side by side, in the final yellowed varnish of the sunset through the sheer curtains. Julia rolled toward him and spooned his back, tracing his breastbone blindly with her fingers.
“So why are you here again? That old deal?”
“Business. You. The deal here is done. Almost. It doesn’t really require much more corporate oversight.”
“So, did you come for me?”
“And for me …” He laughed, rolling toward her, breaking out of the armlock she had created.
“You haven’t made much of an effort to visit me.”
“It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see you …” His voice trailed off, his ardor cooling. “It’s just that it’s all so complicated. There is so much … so much need at home.”
Julia was silent.
“And your wife?”
“We don’t need to talk about Margaret,” Roger said evenly.
“You deserve—”
“I know.” Roger cut her off. “But I have my life. And it’s in Chicago. My children, the grandkids. My grandson’s death … it changed things. You can imagine. And I think we need to talk about that a little bit this weekend. I haven’t been what you’ve needed these last few months.”
Julia sighed, moved away slightly, and then rolled back. She wore a new expression, as if she had made a split-second decision to bring in reinforcements. He recalled the early days of their relationship when she used to coyly feign a pout, but later she had always been the one to give in and forgive, to come back. Roger absentmindedly stroked her bare shoulder. The light had shifted, projecting low and blood orange on the wall at the foot of the bed. Roger was suddenly aware of the traffic noises outside, the distant sound of cars on the highway.
“But you came for me?” Julia asked expectantly.
“Yes. For you,” he said, because it was simpler for now.
Julia lay on her back, smiling with satisfaction at the ceiling. For a moment Roger pictured his life back home and wondered briefly where in her schedule Margaret was. He would need to call her soon, perhaps when Julia was taking a shower. A small pang of guilt pierced his mood.
Julia’s fingertips grazed his temples and strayed down his cheek. He could tell she was studying him, searching his features in a manner that felt pleasing and slightly suffocating. He turned his thoughts back to the present as she rose to shower. This would be the last time with Julia. It had to be. He could feel his resolve strengthening again. But he would wait until tomorrow to tell her. They would have this one last night, limbs entwined, her soft, purring snores partially muffled by the white noise machine she favored.
Roger lay for a few minutes in the disappearing light. He too would get up and take a shower. Julia had plans to cook for them here tonight. She emerged from the bathroom, her hair damp and rolled into a towel that always made him think of Carmen Miranda, and he turned on the bedside lamp. She adjusted her robe as she bent to peck him on the cheek and then moved toward the doorway.
“I have this fabulous antipasto and I’m so glad I went to the farmers’ market early. I got some stinky cheese you will just die for.” She rubbed both hands together in delight. “I’ve already cut the fruit for the sangria,” she said over her shoulder. “And I’ll put away those groceries while you’re showering. Ooooh, that ice cream is probably soup by now,” she trilled as her voice receded into the kitchen.
Roger felt a slight dizziness for a moment when he rose too fast, the result of lying down for so long. Damned low blood pressure, he thought. Who had that at his age? Weren’t people supposed to be worried about sky-high numbers? Margaret was right. He needed to reschedule that physical. He felt momentarily unsure on his feet as he headed into the bathroom. The room righted itself and his face came into soft focus in the steamed-up mirror.
It was in the shower that he felt it, a burst of light, the explosive stab of an ice pick behind his right eye socket. He closed both eyes and pressed the palm of his hand over the spot, as if to physically block it out. The pain seemed to intensify and radiate through his brain, but still he felt frozen, moving sluggishly, not reacting or crying out. His left arm flopped jerkily to the side, and his other arm, which he had reached out to steady himself against the shower stall, refused to obey. The spray from the showerhead splashed over him, louder now, roaring like a waterfall, as if all of his auditory processing was on overload, his senses heightened in a dreamlike fugue state.
The lines between his physical body and his surroundings were beginning to blur. Propped against the shower wall, he could not feel precisely where his extremities ended and the tile began. As he tried to concentrate, Roger realized that his thoughts, his need to get help, were punctuated by periods of total silence in his brain—the hiccups of nothingness, as if his cognitive powers were shorting out and then blinking back on. Low-level alarm bells were being tripped in his mind.
And then he suddenly felt far away, sucked into a vacuum tube, as if he were watching it all through a telescope. He tried to make a sound that would bring help, but he was incapable, he was mute.
Roger’s legs buckled and went numb. And then he was falling, hitting the shower caddy, sending Julia’s soaps, shampoos, and razor tumbling to the shower floor. Summoning the last of his energy, Roger opened his mouth, and a low moan escaped his lips, its tenor indistinguishable between pleasure and pain. And in the matter of seconds during which all of this happened, the disconnected sense he’d felt was replaced with a bottomless terror and confusion. Before his head hit the tile wall, his right shoulder absorbed the first impact, and he crumpled to the tile floor in plush velvety unconsciousness. Roger Munson’s final, unconnected observation was that the water drops fell in perfect orbs and then froze for an instant, like diamonds, before they hit his face.
28
Absorbed by her novel, the sudden interruption of the phone startled Margaret in the armchair by the bay window that framed her garden view. Her heartbeat spiked, and then slowed as she placed the bookmark in the spine and rose, making an irritated clucking sound. Why was it the phone always rang just as she had settled into a book, or sat down to watch her favorite news program? She never seemed to remember to bring it with her. It was probably one of the kids, or Roger.
His trip to Florida seemed to have come up so suddenly. She supposed she should be somewhat relieved after all of his griping about wanting more of a role in the corporate deals. He had been closer to home lately, she mused, on the road less than usual. But he was headed back to Chicago tomorrow, and frankly, as much as she had enjoyed the break, she was looking forward to seeing him. She’d heat up a can of soup tonight for dinner and dispense with all the culinary effort required when Roger was at home.
If she didn’t get there in the next ring, it would click over to the answering machine. So what was the harm in that? She reached the receiver with seconds to spare.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Munson? Uh, Margaret?” an uncertain voice began.
“Yes? That’s me.”
“I’m calling from Florida. It’s … it’s about your husband, Roger.”
“Yes?” Margaret shifted her weight onto her left leg, feeling a rising panic. There was something about the nervousness in the woman’s voice that alarmed her.
“He’s in the hospital. Here in Florida. He fell. He might have had a stroke.”
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br /> Margaret took a step backward and her hand rose involuntarily to cover her mouth. Her grip on the book gave way, and it clunked to the floor.
“He what? Roger? How is he?” Margaret battled for control. She needed to concentrate.
“He’s in the ER now. That’s all I know.” The woman’s voice sounded tired now and sad. “I, I thought I should call the family.”
“And who are you? Are you a nurse?” Margaret demanded in a much sharper tone than she intended. Things were coming more clearly into focus. Something obdurate and flinty was coalescing inside of her. Good Lord, Florida, of all places.
“I’m a friend of Roger’s,” the woman said softly, and it was at that moment when Margaret’s suspicions congealed with certainty, the click of a padlock giving way. She understood exactly who this woman was.
“Oh. I see,” was all Margaret could muster, and she knew she would chide herself later, replay her missed opportunity with bolder and better responses. She felt her insides crumple, but she worked to keep her voice steady and strong. “Well, I’d like to speak to a doctor.” She sat down.
By the time Margaret had hung up with Dr. Stangland, she was numb. It appeared Roger had suffered a stroke. And there might be a brain bleed, he’d intimated. It was not a life-and-death situation, the doctor had assured her right away in an effort to calm her. He was stable, but it was serious, and she needed to come to Tampa as soon as she was able. Roger was about to undergo all kinds of tests and scans, things that would give them more information. During the fall, or whatever had happened to him, God only really knew, he had also broken his collarbone, and so they were going to need to get that set and pinned.
How fast could she get down there? the doctor had asked her. Roger was not conscious, was in a coma, or had he said they had put him in a coma to keep him sedated? Something like that. Thank God she had had enough of her wits about her to take the number and the name of the hospital.