East of the Sun, West of the Moon

by Carole Bellacera

  The screen door creaked. Leigh drew away from Erik and turned to see Mark stepping into the kitchen. Like his father, he looked only at Leigh, his face sober. “Tell me it's not true, Mom."

  Her vision blurred. “I can't do that, Mark."

  A closed expression settled over his face. His eyes moved to Erik, anger glimmering in their depths. “You were my friend,” he said. “And all the time you were screwing my mother."

  Leigh winced. Erik stood calmly beside her. He tightened a hand on her shoulder, eyeing Mark stoically.

  "It's a good thing you got that bump on your head last night,” Mark growled. “Because if you hadn't, I'd beat the shit out of you right now."

  Tears flowed down Leigh's face. She took a step toward her son. “Mark, please don't hate me."

  "I don't hate you,” Mark said, his face a mask of indifference. “But I sure as hell can never respect you."

  "No wonder you were always pushing me away from Erik!” Mel's caustic voice came from the doorway. She stood there, her blue eyes glittering with unshed tears. “You wanted him for yourself, didn't you, Mom? Or were you already sleeping with him?"

  "Oh, Mel, please...” Leigh said, her throat thick with tears. God, this was a nightmare. Would she ever awaken? “Try and understand—"

  "Understand? I only understand that my mother is a middle-aged woman who seduces younger men. You make me want to puke!"

  She twisted on her heel and ran out, her long blond hair flowing behind her. Mark gave Leigh one last cold glare and followed his sister.

  Leigh collapsed against Erik's chest. “God, what have I done?"

  * * * *

  Erik turned into the driveway and switched off the ignition. For a moment, he and Leigh sat silently, staring at the lovely Tudor home. Even now, it was hard for her to digest the fact that she would no longer be living here.

  "Kayleigh,” Erik said. “Do you want me to stay or go? I will do whatever is best for you."

  Leigh bit her lip. Of course she wanted him to stay. How could she not? But was that fair to him? When she couldn't promise him anything? Besides, she had the kids to think about. Bob had offered her a quiet divorce. If Erik stayed, the press would surely discover the truth, and the resulting scandal would destroy the kids. She couldn't risk that.

  "I think it would be best if you went home, Erik."

  He nodded. “I'll go make my reservation.” His hand reached out to lightly caress her hair, then abruptly, he opened the car door and got out. She followed him. As they stepped into the cool dimness of the living room, the musty smell of an unlived-in house assaulted her nostrils.

  "Let's open some windows,” she said. “I've always hated walking into this closed house after vacation.” A sob caught in her throat as she remembered this was the last time she'd ever have to do it.

  Erik disappeared down the hall toward the kitchen. Leigh assumed he was wasting no time in getting to the phone. An irrational anger washed over her. How like a man to cut out just when everything fell apart! Immediately, she felt ashamed of her thoughts. She'd told him that was what she wanted. How she wished she could tell him to stay, or that she would come with him. But they both knew it was impossible. No matter that the kids didn't want to see her right now, she still couldn't go off to a foreign country and leave them.

  She wandered around the living room, lovingly caressing the Hummel figurines on the cherry wood hutch. She'd bought one for every birthday she'd been married, a personal gift to herself. There were twenty now scattered throughout the house. She looked around the immaculate living room. So many memories. Good and bad. How could it have ended so suddenly? She shook her head. She'd asked for it, hadn't she? Now, there was only one thing to do. As soon as Erik was off the phone, she'd call Deanna.

  He walked into the living room, his face grim. “Well, it's done. I leave tomorrow afternoon."

  Leigh turned away; she couldn't bear to see the pain in his eyes. An overwhelming weariness swept over her. All she wanted to do was crawl into bed and give herself up to the tranquil world of sleep. She went into the kitchen, thinking if she put on a pot of coffee, it might help to motivate her. But first, the phone call.

  A few minutes later, she walked into Erik's room, two mugs of steaming coffee in her hands. He was on his knees on the floor, placing books and compact discs into a large cardboard box.

  "Want some coffee?"

  He looked up. “Ja, takk.” Settling back against the side of the bed, he took a sip and placed the coffee mug on the floor. “Did you get Deanna?"

  Leigh nodded. “She wants me to fly right up. I guess I'll leave the day after tomorrow."

  Erik reached over and drew a compact disc from the pile near him. “I want you to keep this."

  Leigh took the disc from him. Marillion—the CD with the song, “Kayleigh."

  "Oh, Erik...” she whispered. “How can I listen to this after you're gone?"

  He stood up and came to her, taking the hot mug of coffee out of her hands. After placing it on top of his desk, he took her into his arms and kissed her hungrily. He drew away, leaving her trembling.

  "Let's make love one more time,” he said. His hand stroked her rumpled hair as she buried her face into his chest. A muffled sob escaped her throat.

  She looked up at him. “I can't,” she said. “Erik, I just can't bear ... knowing it's the last time."

  "Then just sleep with me. Sleep in my arms tonight, Kayleigh. I just want to hold you."

  She would never have dreamed it was possible. But on Erik's last night in America, they slept in each other's arms without making love.

  The morning came too quickly.

  * * * *

  Outside the huge windows overlooking the skating rink in Central Park, slate gray clouds hovered low. Far below on the sidewalks, New Yorkers strode briskly, hunched over, faces down as they braved the frigid wind. Glitzy Christmas decorations danced forlornly from light poles, in an attempt to bring gaiety to the dismal December day.

  A false impression of warmth and happiness dwelled inside Deanna's luxurious penthouse. At least, it seemed that way to Leigh. A glowing gas fire crackled cheerfully in the huge stone fireplace at the end of the spacious living room while music of Tschaikowsky's “Nutcracker” flowed from hidden speakers throughout the apartment. In the corner, an elaborately decorated Christmas tree reigned, surrounded by countless professionally wrapped gifts from Cartier, Bloomingdales and Saks Fifth Avenue.

  Leigh couldn't help but compare the artificial scene with visions of past Christmases back home in Virginia. She loved Deanna dearly, but they were poles apart in the way they celebrated the holidays. Maybe it was because Deanna, having grown up in an orthodox Jewish household, hadn't celebrated Christmas until she was an adult. Or maybe it was simply because she was a city person whereas Leigh was born and bred in the cornfields of the midwest. It was the little things that Leigh couldn't get used to.

  Like the way she relished baking delicate butter cookies and chocolate frosted yule logs—and Deanna preferred to visit the gourmet bakery on Madison Avenue. Or how Leigh enjoyed taking the time to wrap each Christmas gift, sometimes more than once if it didn't look absolutely perfect by the time she was finished. Deanna, on the other hand, wouldn't dream of wrapping her own gifts.

  "Are you kidding?” She'd laughed when Leigh suggested an evening of gift wrapping. “They'd look like they were done by drunk chimpanzees!"

  Leigh loved quiet gatherings with close friends, drinking hot chocolate or buttered rum and listening to Christmas carols. Deanna felt it wasn't Christmas if she wasn't jockeying from party to party, dressed in her wildest holiday clothing and dangling reindeer earrings of 18k gold. Because of these small, but significant differences, Leigh found herself alone for many evenings this December. Tonight promised more long lonely hours to herself.

  With a sigh, Leigh turned from her contemplation of the bleak afternoon. It had been a long day, the first of a three-day break from her part-time job.
Deanna, who just happened to be friends with the owner of an art gallery in Soho, had helped her secure a position as salesclerk. Now, Leigh wondered how she could possibly get through two more days alone in the apartment. With Deanna's heavy social calendar, she'd be popping in and out just for a change of clothing.

  It was the 11th of December and she still hadn't heard a word from her children. Bob's hand at work, of course. Hard to believe he was being so vindictive. But she should've known he would be. He hadn't wasted any time in getting the divorce. A quick trip to Mexico had taken care of all the details. Funny, how easy it was to dissolve a marriage. And what had she gotten out of it? The Volvo, the beach house and her freedom. She'd immediately sold the Volvo. There was no need for it in her new life in New York. After thinking it over, she'd decided to hold onto the beach house. It would be an excellent source of income during the summer months. Washingtonians would pay big bucks for an oceanfront cottage, and since Bob had paid it off years ago, her only fees would be to the realty company to handle the rentals.

  Because it was a “no-fault” divorce, Leigh was sharing joint custody of the children with Bob. Only on paper, though, because they were living with Bob—Mark and Melissa because they'd chosen to live with him, and Aaron because Leigh felt it would be unfair to uproot him from the place he'd called home all his life. She'd taken the Amtrak down to spend the weekend with him three times, but each time she'd returned to New York, her heart broken all over again at leaving him behind. And she wasn't sure the visits were doing him any good, either.

  Almost five months had passed since the day Erik had left. A few days afterward, she'd received a telegram from him. “I miss you. E.” She'd wept when she read it. Two weeks later, a letter arrived from Norway. Since then, there had been one every week. As she read the long letters, she could almost see him, feel him next to her. It was uncanny. She would read his words slowly, savoring them. Then carefully, she'd fold them up and put them away. She'd forced herself not to write back.

  To what end? What purpose? In these months in New York, she'd taken a long look at herself, and she couldn't help wondering what Erik had possibly seen in her. Oh, sure. She was decent-looking for a forty-year-old, and her body hadn't yet given way to middle-aged flab. But that was just it. She was middle-aged. What had she been thinking? That a great looking young guy like Erik could really be in love with her? Oh, she didn't deny that he thought that. But that would change once he settled down at home and found someone closer to his own age. It had been a fairy-tale to think she could actually go to Norway and make a life with Erik. Completely unrealistic to think she could leave her children—even if they weren't speaking to her—and live halfway across the world. No, the whole idea was insane! So, she hadn't answered Erik's letters, knowing that sooner or later, he'd give up, quit writing ... and then, he would truly be in the past. She believed that point was near. His last letter had been furious. “Why are you such a fool? You are the most stubborn, impossible woman I've ever met! I know you are reading this. So answer, dammit!"

  He'd called twice. Once, Deanna had taken the call when Leigh had been at work. She'd dutifully written down his phone number and message. “Call me, Kayleigh. We need to talk.” With near boneless fingers, Leigh had taken the Post-It note and tucked it into the bottom of her lingerie drawer. She couldn't bring herself to throw it away; she wasn't sure why.

  The last call had come early one morning in October. Deanna was still in bed, and Jackson, her butler, had taken the day off. The phone rang, shattering the silence. Leigh, sitting at the table, reading the newspaper and drinking her morning coffee, ignored it and allowed the answering machine to pick up.

  Her hand clenched on her coffee cup as she recognized Erik's velvet-smooth voice. Her heart began to drum. “Deanna, this is Erik Haukeland, calling from Oslo. Could you please get a message to Kayleigh for me? I haven't heard from her, so I do not know if she is still living with you or not, but please, tell her she must call me. I've got to talk to her. Something has happened here and ... well ... I cannot go into it. Just tell her I need to ... oh, Kristus! Tell her it's imperative that I talk to her. My number is 011-47-2217..."

  Leigh almost toppled her chair as she jumped up and lunged for the phone on the wall. “Erik? Hello?” Her palm flattened over her pounding heart.

  It was too late. He'd hung up.

  With a trembling hand, she replaced the phone in its cradle. It's for the best, she told herself. Talking to him would only open old wounds. Moving stiffly, she walked to the answering machine and pressed the message button. Listened to his voice again. And then one more time. She swallowed hard, her finger resting on the erase button. Then, biting her lower lip, she pushed it. “Message erased,” announced the monotone voice. How she wished she could erase it from her mind so easily. He'd sounded so ... sad. Almost desperate.

  Thinking about it now, her eyes blurred with tears. From the foyer, she heard the front door slam. Quickly, she blinked the tears back and tried to compose herself before Deanna came in.

  "I wasn't expecting you home so early,” Leigh said, forcing a smile as Deanna walked into the room.

  Something was wrong. Deanna's brown eyes lacked their usual sparkle, but they were still sharp enough not to be fooled by Leigh's forced expression of well-being. “For God's sake, Leigh, why don't you quit feeling sorry for yourself and do something about it!"

  In astonishment, Leigh watched her turn and stomp into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her. She sat still, wondering what on earth was wrong. She'd seen Deanna through many moods since she'd moved in with her, but this was the first time she'd seemed so angry, so impatient with her. Still, she knew she deserved it. Deanna had put up with a lot from her lately. Maybe it was time to start seriously searching for an apartment. But every time she mentioned it, Deanna had begged her to stay.

  Darkness fell and Deanna stepped out of her room to put on a pot of tea. Leigh followed her to the kitchen, murmuring an apology. Yet, Deanna remained aloof. “Forget it,” she said curtly, refusing to meet her eyes.

  Leigh knew for sure something was terribly wrong when Deanna didn't go out to one of her parties that night. Instead, she retired to her room with her pot of tea. Leigh watched TV for a while, then at eleven o'clock, got up to go to the bathroom. As she made her way down the hallway, she passed Deanna's room and saw that her door was ajar. A sound inside made her hesitate. Was Deanna ... crying?

  Knowing she was risking a rebuff, Leigh tapped lightly on the door and pushed it open. “Dee? What's wrong?"

  Deanna was curled on her bed in a fetal position, sobbing into the pillow she hugged tightly to her mid-section. Leigh stood still, not knowing what to say or do. It was as if Deanna hadn't heard her.

  "Dee?” she said again, and this time, she saw Deanna's face move toward her. Gradually, Leigh's eyes adjusted to the darkness; she could just make out the novelist's features.

  Tears glistened on Deanna's high cheekbones and her tangled black hair fell around her shoulders in an unruly mass. Her brown eyes were huge as she gazed into Leigh's face. “I'm so scared,” she whispered.

  Leigh sat on the edge of the king-sized water-bed. “Why?"

  Deanna didn't answer. She buried her face into the pillow. Leigh waited, intuitively knowing Dee wanted to talk, but for some reason, she couldn't get the words out. When she finally spoke, Leigh wasn't prepared for what she had to say.

  "They want to cut my breasts off."

  Stunned, Leigh stared at her. Through her tears, Deanna attempted a smile, but it was more of a grimace. “Yes. Can you believe it? I had a biopsy today. Cancer. They say that a double radial mastectomy is my only hope. Shit! I can see it now ... introducing the great novelist, the boobless Deanna Harper! God, maybe I should give up writing and join a circus...” Her voice trailed away into sobs.

  Leigh tried to swallow her cold fear. Cancer. Oh, Jesus. She took Deanna into her arms, wishing she could come up with the right words of comfort. But her
mind remained a horrible blank. Cancer, it shrieked. On and off like a neon sign. Finally, Deanna's sobs subsided and she was quiet. When she spoke again, she sounded almost like the old Deanna.

  "Hell, some of the best of ‘em have had it. Ingrid Bergman, Eva Peron, Betty Ford. And Betty Ford is still alive! If she can lick the big C, I can..."

  "When did you find the lump?” Leigh asked.

  "A few months ago. I tried to ignore it, but I could tell it was getting bigger. So I went in two weeks ago. The doctor seemed pretty concerned and ordered a mammogram. The results were suspicious, so I had the biopsy today. It's in both breasts. Typical, isn't it? I can't do anything half-way."

  "Dee, why didn't you tell me?"

  Tears welled again in Deanna's eyes. She hugged her knees to her chest, shivering slightly. “God, I'm so fucking cold! What's the thermostat on?"

  "Come on.” Leigh stood up and grabbed Deanna's velvet robe. “Put this on. Come in the kitchen with me while I make some coffee."

  A few minutes later, they sat across from each other at the kitchen table. Listlessly, Deanna stirred her coffee and stared down into its murky depths. Her voice was uncharacteristically soft. “I didn't tell you because I kept hoping it would turn out to be nothing. Besides, you have enough problems. Your kids are giving you a hard time and...” She looked up and met Leigh's gaze, and for a moment, she looked like her old self. “You've been walking around like a goddamn ghost since that Viking left. Hell! You remind me of me fifteen years ago. So fucking stubborn."

  She fell silent, stirring her coffee, her eyes faraway. Leigh waited without speaking.

  "I never told you about my ex-husband, Carrie's old man,” Deanna went on softly. “Caught the son-of-a-bitch with our neighbor, a twenty-one-year-old tartlet. Didn't give him a chance to explain ... didn't want to hear it. I divorced his ass, even though Carrie was on the way. But I never stopped loving him. For years, he begged me to take him back. And I was tempted, but I always stopped myself. My pride, I guess.” She paused and took a sip of her coffee, then looked up at Leigh, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Billy was killed in that plane crash in Washington D.C. The one that hit the bridge. He was on his way to Florida to join a law firm down there. A few days before he left, I almost called him to tell him not to go. In fact, I'd dialed the number and let it ring twice before I hung up.” Deanna stopped and stared at the wall, a bleak expression on her face. “If I hadn't hung up that phone ... he might still be alive today."