Going Home

by Danielle Steel

  “United Airlines, Flight 402, from Denver, has arrived. Passengers will arrive at Gate 3. . . . Flight 402. . . .” She was one of the first people off and I recognized her right off, a smallish lady who must have been pretty once, with gray hair and a neat-looking black suit. She looked around, and past me. I don’t think she recognized me at first.

  “Mrs. Matthews?”

  “Gillian?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you for coming, dear. You needn’t have,” and she looked around me, and over my shoulder as I was telling her it was quite all right, and all the things one is supposed to say.

  “I don’t see Jane. She said she’d meet me.” And then, as I looked around with her, she waved, and I saw a tall girl walking toward us. . . . It was Chris transformed into a woman. It was the oddest feeling to look at that girl and see Chris, his walk, his shape, and, as she came closer, his eyes. It made me want to shudder, but I was fascinated, mesmerized by the apparition coming toward us. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She walked straight up to her mother and put her arms around her in a silent hug. And I was sorry I had come. I had no place with them. They needed each other, and I was a stranger there. I turned away, feeling awkward, and tried to think of what to say to Jane. “I’m sorry”? No, not from me. Not me too. As I looked back at her, staring at the resemblance again, she let go of her mother and took a step toward me. And hugged me too.

  “I know, Gillian. I know. I won’t tell you I’m sorry. I know how you feel. Chris wrote to me last week.”

  “He did? He didn’t tell me a thing.” I was so surprised I didn’t know what to say.

  “He wouldn’t have. Mom, why don’t we get your bags,” and the three of us walked slowly toward the escalator to the baggage claim area.

  We collected Mrs. Matthews’ things and I went to the parking lot to get the car.

  “I’m sorry, it’s not very roomy. Chris . . . I . . .

  well, we like it,” and there was an embarrassed silence.

  Driving into the city there was very little said. There was very little to say. And then, as though all at once all three of us felt we should be talking, we all started to talk at once, and then laughed nervously. We talked about San Francisco, the weather in Denver, flying, anything except Chris, and the accident.

  “When is the baby due, Gillian?” Wow, talk about openers. That from Jane.

  “Not for another two months. You have three, don’t you?” She nodded, and while I tried not to look at Mrs. Matthews, I hoped she hadn’t noticed. Because, what we all forget, with our free-thinking friends, is that they have parents, and the great, liberated Christopher Caldwell Matthews had a mother who might not think illegitimate children were so cool. Chris hadn’t thought so either, so I expected nothing short of horror from his mother. I could feel her looking at me than and chanced a quick glance and nervous smile in her direction. After all, I had only met her once.

  She looked back at me, just as nervously, with a tiny smile, and her big sad eyes. “I hope you won’t mind me saying this, but I’m glad. My other son wasn’t married either, and well, Chris, . . .” and she trailed off. I wanted to kiss her, but couldn’t while I was driving, so I looked back at her again, with a real smile this time.

  “Do you want to stop . . . there . . . on the way in?”

  “No, Mother, why don’t you wait till tomorrow? Let’s go straight to the hotel.”

  “No. I want to go tonight, Jane. I want to see him . . .” and the last part of her words trailed off again.

  “Ummmm . . . Mrs. Matthews, I had the . . . uh . . . I had it closed. . . . But it can be done the other way, if you like. . . .” The other way . . . the other way . . . with Chris lying there, so still . . . for all to see, until we buried him.

  “Oh.” It was such a small sound. “Does he . . . ? Was he very . . . ?”

  I cut her off; I didn’t want to hear the words. “No, he looks . . . fine.” I wanted to say “beautiful,” but I couldn’t. He did look beautiful, the sleeping boy I had watched so often late at night, or early in the morning. All peaceful, the soul of a boy in the body of a man.

  “I think Gillian was right, Mom. Let’s leave it like that,” and Mrs. Matthews just nodded.

  After that the conversation lagged. There was nothing left to say, and we all sat deep in our own thoughts until we got to Hobson’s. I pulled into their parking lot and parked the car. We all got out and I led the way in.

  There was a pale—ghostly?—looking girl at the desk in the lobby, and Mr. Ferrari was talking to a small group of people in a corner. He looked up as we walked in, nodded briefly, and looked as though he approved of my change of clothes. Schmuck.

  I stepped up to the girl at the desk and my voice sounded hoarse again. “Mr. Matthews, the Georgian Room. Which way?”

  “This way, please,” and she headed down the long hall, past other rooms, and I was afraid to look toward the open doors for fear that I’d see a body, and I didn’t want to see that. She stopped at the last door on the left and we went in. And there it was, the dark wooden box I had picked out a few hours ago, and the flowers I had bought on Sacramento Street. They looked beautiful. They were red, yellow, and blue, with baby’s breath spread through them. They looked so fresh and pretty, not heavy and dead. They were like Mozart, or Debussy. That was just what I had wanted.

  There were two huge candles in bronze candelabra at either end of the casket, and a small prie-dieu just in front of it. Two settees and a few chairs against the wall. The lighting was dim; it looked so solemn, like a church. It seemed like the wrong place for Chris. I could just hear him saying something like, “Oh fuck off, Gill, what the hell is this?” But it had to be, and his mother looked as though she thought it was right.

  “The flowers are lovely, Gillian. Did you do that?” And I nodded. She walked forward toward the casket then, and Jane squeezed my arm as Mrs. Matthews knelt at the prie-dieu, and we stood back watching her, this woman who had lost two sons and a husband, all her men.

  She got up after a moment and Jane took her place while Mrs. Matthews sat on one of the settees and looked at her feet. I didn’t have the courage to look at her anymore, I just couldn’t.

  Jane rose and came toward me, leading her mother gently off the settee on the way. “Come on, Mom, it’s been a long day, and I told the hotel we’d be there by ten.”

  As we walked down the hall I asked Jane where they were staying. “The Sir Francis Drake.”

  “I’ll drop you there.”

  In the car on the way over, Jane continued a normal conversation, while patting her mother’s shoulder and occasionally giving her a squeeze.

  “Mrs. Matthews, I hate to bring this up now, but when do you think we should have the . . . funeral?” There. I’d gotten it out.

  “Is Sunday too soon?”

  “No. I don’t think so. I think it might be better that way. Do you want to do it in church? I’m sorry to bring it up like this . . . so soon . . . but they want to know . . . at Hobson’s, I mean. . . .”

  “Bastards.” It was Jane, sounding so much like Chris.

  “Jane! They have a job to do just like everyone else.”

  Jane and I didn’t add anything to that, but our sentiments ran in the same vein, and bastards was a nice word for it.

  “Did Chris still go to church much?” Ouch.

  “Not too often.” Better to lie a little than to say “never.”

  “I’m a Presbyterian, and his father was a Methodist. I don’t think Christopher felt much one way or the other. He never leaned particularly to one side.” That was one way of putting it. In a way, it was the truth.

  “There’s a nice little Presbyterian church near our house. I could speak to the minister in the morning.”

  “May I come with you?”

  “Of course, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take over, I just thought. . . .”

  “Gillian, you’ve been wonderful. Don’t you worry about that.”

  �
�I’ll come and get you in the morning and we’ll all go and see him together.”

  Jane sounded as though she were grinding her teeth in the back seat. She really was like Chris. A church funeral for Chris. But it wasn’t for Chris. It was for his mother, and for us. That’s who funerals are for, a dirge for the living, not a celebration of the dead.

  In front of the hotel we all hugged again, and they disappeared into the lobby, the tall fair girl who walked like Chris and the small lady in the black suit. She was only a little smaller than I, but she looked tiny to me, somehow, maybe because she was Chris’s mother. I looked at my watch and decided to go back to Hobson’s. Just for a minute. To be alone with Chris. Mrs. Jaeger wouldn’t mind waiting just a little bit longer. She’d understand.

  I parked in the lot again and went in, relieved to see that Mr. Ferrari was gone. The pale-looking girl was still at the desk, drinking coffee out of a styrofoam cup. It reminded me of the coffee at Woman’s Life, and I walked down the hall thinking “to her, this is just a job,” and I couldn’t help wondering what kind of person would want a job like that. The magazine had been throbbing with life, and people, and color, and noise. Working in a place like this was as good as being dead yourself.

  I reached Chris’s room and walked in slowly. I sat in one of the chairs and thought for a while, leaning back and closing my eyes, resting, and thinking. Of little bits and pieces, short moments, and tiny words. . . . Fifteen hours ago, Chris went clattering down the steps of the house, and now here I was in this quiet room filled with bright flowers, with Chris lying there. . . . Maybe, maybe if I hold my breath and close my eyes, and count to 712, it will all go away, and I’ll wake up. But I didn’t. I gasped and opened my eyes, and it was all there, just the same except that I was out of breath, and the baby was kicking harder, infuriated by the momentary lack of oxygen.

  I walked slowly toward the prie-dieu then, and knelt looking toward where Chris’s head rested, though I couldn’t see it. Tears ran down my face slowly, making plopping noises as they hit the velvet on the top of the prie-dieu. I think I prayed, but I’m not sure, and then I got up and left. Slowly, alone, wishing that I could feel that Chris was with me, near me. That’s what you’re supposed to feel, but I didn’t. I felt as though Chris was shut up in that box. He was gone, and I was alone.

  Chris’s car was the only one left in Hobson’s parking lot, and I started it, remembering about the choke. I drove home through the fog and got to Sacramento Street just before midnight, a little worried about Mrs. Jaeger. I opened the door with my key and walked in, leaving my coat on the chair in the hall and heading toward the kitchen where I supposed she would be. The kitchen light was the only one that was on.

  “Mrs. Jaeger? . . . Mrs. Jaeger?” Maybe Sam had woken up and I went upstairs to see. When I reached the top of the stairs I saw that the light was on in our room, and I could see Peg through the open doorway, making my bed.

  “Oh, Peg, you’re a saint,” and I sagged in the doorway and just looked at her.

  “No talk. Just get into bed. Here, sit down. I’ll help.”

  “Oh, Peg, you must be exhausted. It’s three o’clock in the morning your time.”

  “It’s worse, your time, so no arguments. This is what I came out here for.”

  “God, Peg, what am I ever going to do if I grow up one day and you’re not around anymore?”

  “Oh shut up. None of that stuff.”

  “What about Mrs. Jaeger?”

  “She left just before you got here. I didn’t think she was going to trust me, but I talked so much, and so fast, and kept ushering her out the door at the same time, so she went. Where have you been?”

  “I picked up Mrs. Matthews at the airport, and then took them to Hobson’s, and after that I dropped them off at the hotel,, and then I . . . went back to Hobson’s.”

  “Went back to Hobson’s? Hobson’s being the local Frank Campbell’s, I take it. What are you trying to do? Kill yourself and the baby?”

  “Yes, I mean no. I mean yes, Hobson’s is the local Campbell’s, and no I’m not trying to kill myself or the baby. Peg, someone had to be there to pick her up.”

  “There was no one else?”

  “Chris’s sister, but . . . Hell, I wanted to.”

  “Good enough. Now, how about some hot chocolate, or something. And I brought you some pills from New York.”

  “What kind of pills?”

  “Cool-it pills. I called your obstetrician and he gave me a prescription for you.”

  “Christ, Peg. . . .”

  “Did you take any Librium today?”

  “Well, actually . . .” I shook my head.

  “I figured.”

  And I started looking around the room. Everything looked the way I had left it, except neater, and the stuff was cleared off the bed. The new gray dress was hanging on a hanger on the closet door.

  “Peg . . . would you put that away, please? I don’t want to see it.”

  “Sure,” and it vanished into the closet.

  “The funeral’s Sunday, so you’ll be able to get back to the office on Monday.”

  “You giving me the bum’s rush or something? I told them I’d be gone a week.”

  Peg . . . Peg . . . unbelievable Peg who had held my head the first time I got drunk, who had always, always been there. And here she was, a few hours after I called, having traveled three thousand miles to be with me, and making my bed within five minutes of walking in the door. She was treating me like a patient, and she was the night nurse, flown out direct from New York. Just for me. It was the kind of friendship Chris couldn’t understand, but thank God for Peg. There were one in ten million people like her, and I had been lucky enough to go to school with her.

  She gave me the pill, and the hot chocolate, and I sat there thinking about Chris at Hobson’s. “Peg . . .”

  “Try not to talk. Just tell me where you want me to sleep. Can I sleep in Sam’s room?”

  “Peg, you sleep here. I’ll sleep in Sam’s room.”

  “No way. If you so much as put a foot on the floor, I’ll give you one of my world-famous left hooks!”

  “You mean the one that almost got you kicked out of school?”

  “The same,” and we giggled.

  “Peg?”

  “Yes?”

  “You know . . . I . . . um . . .”

  “I know . . . ,” and she turned out the light and I began to fall asleep as she was picking up the empty chocolate cup. She just seemed to fade away, and for a minute I tried to keep awake thinking that that looked like Peg Richards standing over me. But no, it couldn’t be. Peg was in New York. . . . Must be Chris. . . . I’d have to remember to tell him in the morning. He’d think it was funny. . . .

  36

  The sun was streaming into the room and I could hear voices downstairs. . . . My God . . . what time is it? Eleven-forty-five. I jumped out of bed and went to the top of the stairs.

  “Chris? . . . Sam? . . . Why’d you let me sleep this late? Today is . . .” Oh no, oh God no. . . . I dropped back onto the top step and sat there with my face buried in my hands. Peg rushed up the steps, with Sam behind her, and she pulled me gently off the step and led me back to the bedroom.

  “Whatsa matter with Mommy, Aunt Peg?”

  “She’s just very tired, Sam. Why don’t you go back down and be a big girl and put the dishes in the sink? That’s a good girl,” and Sam clattered back downstairs. Peg sat me on the edge of the bed. And sat next to me, with an arm around my shoulders, while I started to sob and shake. “Ohhhh Peg . . . ohhh.” We sat like that until Sam came back, looking puzzled and a little worried. I looked over at her and tried to smile a little for her, which made me cry more. .

  “Oh, Peg . . . I can’t stop . . . I can’t. . . .”

  “That’s all right, Gill. You’ll be okay. Why don’t you go wash your face?”

  “I was supposed to call Mrs. Matthews. We have to go see the minister.”

  “Jane c
alled. She and her mother are coming by at one.”

  “I’ll pick them up.”

  “No, they can take a taxi. Stop being a hero. You’re being selfish, Gill. Think of the baby. You loved him, so take good care of his child.” It was kind of a harsh thing to say, but it was like a splash of cold water. Peg was right.

  “Peg . . . no more pills, please . . . huh?”

  “We’ll see. Listen, you’ve had a lot of calls. A guy named Tom Bardi. He wanted to know if there was anything he could do. I said we’d let him know. And Hilary Price, and Gordon Harte . . . and . . . let’s see, oh, John Templeton . . . and . . .”

  “How do they know?” I looked at Peg and knew. “You called them?”

  “Just Gordon and John Templeton. Before I left. And your mother called. I think Gordon must have called her.”

  “I don’t want to talk to any of them . . . please.” I saw Peg watching me. “I’ve got to call the minister. Where the hell is the phone book?” and I started scrambling around under the bed while the phone rang. I gave a horrible start as it rang next to me. “You get it.”

  Peg answered it and paused for a moment, listening. “I’ll have to see if she’s in, Operator,” and she looked over at me as I shook my head frantically from side to side and waved a hand . . . no . . . no . . . I can’t. . . . She put her hand over the mouthpiece and whispered, “It’s Gordon. Do you want to talk to him?” I started to shake my head and then looked up at Peg for a long two seconds and reached for the phone. She handed it to me and ushered Sam out of the room again, closing the door behind them.

  “Hello. . . . Yes, this is she. . . . Gordon? . . . Hello. . . . Thanks for calling. . . . Peg told me that. . . . What?”

  “I said I’d like to come out for a couple of days, if I can help.”

  “No . . . no . . . Gordon, thanks, but I’d rather you didn’t. It wouldn’t . . . well, I don’t think it’s such a good idea.”

  “How are you feeling, Gillian?”