Surface

by Stacy Robinson

  “I hadn’t heard from you in a while. How’ve you been?”

  “It’s been hectic, but—”

  “How’s Nicholas doing?”

  “He’s had a breakthrough, actually.” She walked over to the couch and, falling into the cushions, gave Cora the good news.

  “My goodness, Claire, what . . . a . . . relief.” Claire could hear her mother struggling with the words between her smoker’s hack. “That’s so . . . wonderful, sweetheart. What did Michael say? Is he warming up a little bit now?”

  Claire winced at the idea that she had shared this same thought with her mother who, as always, managed to elicit and dissect the entire conversation.

  “So, he seemed optimistic about Nicky’s progress?”

  “Sort of.”

  “And he didn’t bring up the accident?”

  “Not once.” Claire doodled flowers on a magazine page, picturing Cora’s Fanci-Tone White Minx curls and her soft, rouged cheeks pressed into the princess phone in the family room.

  “Well, that’s just the copper on the penny, dear. This is progress.”

  By the time Cora was finished, Claire found herself puffed up. She heard Cora’s excitement mount with each nuance of intimacy she’d unearthed from the phone call. And against her better judgment, she was infected by Cora’s optimism.

  “You work on that boy of yours when he comes out there,” Cora added. “You do what you need to do to get him back.”

  “Michael’s not a boy.”

  “They’re all boys. And they all have their childish ways of dealing with things. It sounds like he needs you. He misses you, even though he’s too stubborn and proud to admit it. But he’s given you an opening here, Claire. Now you take that and run with it. You fix this thing you did, for what reason I’ll never be able to fathom”—she exhaled loudly—“and you put your family back together.”

  “Mother, I’m trying.”

  “And I’m so thrilled about Nicholas,” Cora continued. “I was going to suggest a little visit, but I’ll wait until after you and Michael have your time together. You just grab that ball he’s offered you, honey, and you run with it.”

  The weather had shifted from gray to blue, and the first of the season’s Santa Ana winds blew fast and hot through the night. Claire closed her bedroom window against the dust, and fell asleep to tree branches scratching at the glass, thinking that on a night like that anything could happen. Good things, or earthquakes.

  CHAPTER 15

  The next morning, one of the clearest in memory, Claire sat waiting for Michael outside Nicholas’s room. She watched her husband approach from the elevator in a cornflower-blue dress shirt and dark suit pants, his face slimmer and with more than the usual amount of tired around his eyes. He carried a small gym bag over his shoulder. Claire ran her fingers through her hair and stood to greet him. She hoped Cora had been right. If Michael could keep this flicker of optimism lit, then there just might be room for some healing between them.

  Claire reached out to him, and he stuck his hands in his pockets. “How’ve you been?” she asked, keeping her voice upbeat.

  “I’m fine.” He cleared his throat. “Better now.”

  “Good flight?”

  “Yeah. I brought the plane.”

  “Oh? Just for you?” Claire looked away, unable to discourage the rush of nostalgia this news brought. The luxury of romantic birthday jaunts to New York or Aspen. Their privileged life as a couple. Their once beautiful life as a family. A patient with a walker approached, and Claire was forced to move in close to Michael to allow the man to make his arduous way past. A staleness lingered in the air behind him, and Claire smiled weakly. Their life now.

  “I flew out some of the Manhattan Beach Fund investors, too.”

  They stared at each other in silence for a few seconds, nodding like colleagues.

  Then Michael stepped forward, leaning in toward her, and Claire saw a softening of his body language, a warming in his eyes. Impulsively, she wrapped her arms around his waist, holding him and nestling her cheek into his neck in their old familiar way. She smelled Eau Sauvage and closed her eyes, waiting for him to return the embrace and celebrate their son’s triumph. But what she felt instead were the muscles of Michael’s neck tense against her just before he took her shoulders and gently eased her away. He stepped back and rubbed at the small damp spot where Claire’s face had rested. “I was just looking for Nicholas,” he said, indicating with his chin Nicholas’s empty room behind her. “I see he’s not there.”

  “Oh. I thought—” She pretended to wipe a stray lash from the corner of her eye, then smoothed the front of the pale jade sweater he had given her the previous Christmas, lost for a second in the collision of hope and reality. “They just took him to the therapy pool.” She pulled the soft sleeves over her knuckles. “I’ll walk you over,” she said quietly.

  When they arrived at the pool, Nicholas was finishing his balancing exercises with the therapist. Claire and Michael stood near the steps and watched him from behind. As the therapist held Nicholas’s arm, he moved forward with her assistance and the natural support of the water.

  “So he really is starting to walk again,” Michael said with a half smile.

  “Well, not yet on land. They’re working on his balance here first.” Claire watched the smile wane. “He’s made so much progress, Michael. Really, it’s amazing. Look at the difference since you were last here.”

  “Yeah.” Michael started to pace along the side of the pool, with Claire following behind. “I’m glad to see he’s out of bed and exercising. And not swearing at everyone in sight.”

  “He’s been asking for you all morning. And his strength is getting better.”

  The therapist let go of Nicholas and he continued walking forward with his arms in floaties, and outstretched on the surface of the water. After several seconds he teetered to the side, but managed to regain his balance for another few seconds before breaking to rest. The therapist high-fived Nicholas as she helped him over to the steps. Michael knelt down at the edge of the pool, still out of Nick’s line of sight, and Claire was afraid he was about to yell something to push Nicholas on, to keep him from quitting just yet. Little League, swim meets, and lacrosse matches flashed through her mind, and she cut Michael off before he could speak.

  “The pool’s been good for him, Michael. It’s really helped with his confidence. And the great news is that they removed his catheter last week.” Michael squinted at her and Claire struggled to make the words sound better. “I mean, he couldn’t work out in the pool until he was fully, you know . . . continent.”

  His squint turned into a glare as he stood and walked toward her. “That’s just great.”

  “For God’s sakes, Michael,” Claire hissed through clenched teeth, the smell of chlorine filling her head. “Everyone here is working very hard to help Nicholas. Can’t you see the positive?” She knew better than anyone how difficult that was, but she couldn’t risk letting his irritation spoil the reunion. She watched Michael turn away, watched his fingers swiping at his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose before he refocused on Nick. They waited until Nicholas was raised out of the water by the mechanical lift and then placed back into his wheelchair before greeting him. Claire nudged Michael forward, holding in the rest of her anger. Slowly he set down his gym bag, eyeing his son closely, warily, as if assessing his reaction to his arrival.

  “Dad!” Nicholas shouted. “Dad!”

  Michael moved in quickly then and wrapped his arms around Nick’s torso. Nicholas hugged back with his right arm, his left still resting on the side of the wheelchair.

  “I’m so glad to see you, pal.” Michael was on his knees now, kissing Nick’s cheek, clinging tightly to his son. “How’re you doing?” he asked, pushing up to a squat and searching Nick’s face for . . . something.

  “Did you . . . see me out there?” Nicholas asked with wide-open eyes.

  “I sure did. You’re going to be doing t
he hundred fly by next year, sport.”

  Nicholas’s expression wilted slightly.

  “Well maybe not quite that soon,” the therapist said as she finished toweling Nicholas off. “But your son is making some amazing strides, Mr. Montgomery.”

  “Did you see me . . . in . . . the water?” Nicholas asked again.

  Michael looked over to Claire. She nodded at him to answer again. “Yeah, Nicholas, I sure did. You’re doing a great job in the pool.”

  “So, Liz,” Claire asked in the rosiest voice she could muster, “what’s next on the schedule for today?”

  “Nick has group mat class with Amy in fifteen minutes, and you’re both welcome to watch.”

  Michael grasped Nicholas’s shoulders and smiled a broad smile before kissing and then hugging him again. “You look wonderful, Nicky. And I’m looking forward to seeing what you can do in the gym. I know you’re going to blow me away.” As he stood, he clapped Nicholas on the arm. “You knock ’em dead in there, champ.” Nick’s elbow flopped from the armrest into his lap.

  Claire dug her fingers into Michael’s wrist and hurried him out of the pool room, gazing back at Nicholas. When she opened the door into the empty hallway, she felt the rush of cool air on her damp neck. She turned and abruptly stopped, nearly tripping Michael. “Damn it,” she said, squaring herself to him, “I know you’re frustrated, but you can’t put pressure on him like that anymore. Some days are good and some aren’t so good. It’s a slow process, and he needs a lighter touch now. You’ve got to tone it down.”

  Michael pulled his hand free. “Don’t tell me how to treat my own son. Especially now,” he said, his voice thick with anger and, Claire was pretty sure, surprise at her reproach. “You think Nicholas got to be an all-star lacrosse and hockey player, or a nearly straight-A student with a light touch?” He ran both hands through his hair, tugging at the roots. “He needs the push. That’s what’s going to get him through this.”

  In her husband’s sunken expression, Claire saw the distillation of a childhood’s worth of disappointing Bs and you can do better backslaps. They stood staring at each other, numb with the venom of their words. After a moment the standoff abated with muted sorrys, and they continued on in silence to the therapy gym. As they passed patients with walkers or canes moving close to the railings on the wall, Claire watched Michael studying their strained efforts. Her stomach began to ache, and she worried that if Nicholas didn’t have a successful mat class, there would be no conversation with Michael over dinner later about their own situation. There would be no dinner at all. When they reached the entrance to the observation area, Michael held the door open, cradling Claire’s waist as she passed through, as had always been his habit. Claire turned to him and whispered her thanks.

  Michael and Claire stood behind the gym’s glass doors and watched a group of eight men, women, teenagers, and attendants assemble their wheelchairs into a circle. Nicholas was one of the youngest patients. He scanned the room until his eyes met Claire’s. She elbowed Michael, and he gave him a thumbs-up, as they both smiled at their son. Nicholas raised his right thumb back. Amy led the group through some stretching exercises and then produced a balloon, to the apparent dismay of the group.

  She tossed the balloon to a young man in a Mickey Mouse sweatshirt, who then swatted it over toward Nicholas’s end of the circle. Claire held her breath. Oh, God, please let him hit it. Nicholas looked up at them and grinned. When the balloon came his way he began to rock his torso back and forth in his wheelchair and raise his arm, as if preparing for his moment to shine. He made perfect contact, tapping the balloon forward to a woman with long black braids.

  Claire exhaled. “Look how much his coordination has improved.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a pack of gum, offering a stick in Michael’s direction. “Remember those great picnics on the Vineyard, how much Nicky loved the sand volleyball games with all the kids?”

  Michael remained focused on the gym. The balloon traveled straight to its target, but the woman opposite Nicholas made no effort to strike it. It drifted to the floor and came to rest in the center of the circle. Claire saw the subtle shift in Nicholas’s face, the downward cast of his eyes and mouth. He looked back up at Michael, his lips pursed into the same frustrated expression he’d have after making a brilliant assist on the ice, and then failing to lead the team to victory. Nick’s cheeks reddened and he glared at the braided woman who had decimated his moment. Amy set the balloon in motion again, and he began to flail his arm every time the balloon caught air. But he never made contact again.

  Michael smacked the frame of the door. “This is what you were so excited for me to see?” He pointed to the group of patients now rolling indiscriminately in a dance of minor frenzy. “This?”

  Claire tried to direct his attention to the weight room on their left. “I know it’s disappointing, but he really is getting stronger, and he’s meeting milestones.”

  Michael’s eyes were red and glassy, the veins at his temples throbbing like boiling oatmeal.

  “I mean, what did you expect after such a short time, relatively?” she continued. Nicholas’s shouting drew their attention back to the gym, and they both looked on as an attendant wheeled his thrashing body away from the group.

  Michael pressed his hands up against the glass and stared at the commotion. When he looked back at Claire, his face was wet with tears. He unzipped his gym bag and pulled out a football, turning it over and over in his hands. “Yeah, he’s made progress, but I can’t watch this.” He walked into the hallway, shoving the ball back into the bag.

  “Michael, I know it’s hard to manage expectations, but—”

  “I just wanted to toss a ball with him. I thought we’d at least be able to play catch, you know? He’s just seventeen. He was just on the verge of . . . everything promising.” He wiped his cheeks with the back of his free hand and repeated seventeen in his peculiarly anguished way. “I have so much to make up,” he said, his voice trailing off. “And you’ve taken that away.”

  “Please,” she shouted as she followed him to the elevator, “please don’t go like this.”

  Michael raised his arm in a gesture of dismissal and quickened his pace. “And this so-called progress is costing a goddamn fortune.” His voice had returned to full volume. “It’s ludicrous.”

  “What?” Michael rarely complained about the cost of things. “Wait. Maybe we could talk to the staff psychologist together,” Claire said, tripping as she tried to catch him. She was grabbing at straws, she knew, given his low esteem for the profession, but she was desperate to pin him down to some sort of meaningful dialogue, and to understand his progressively cryptic remarks.

  But he did not turn back, and Claire stopped in the center of the yawning hallway and closed her eyes, listening to his footsteps fall heavily on the linoleum. And with each step, her sense of loss and bewilderment grew more acute. The elevator doors closed. She walked to the wall of windows near the elevator bank and looked down. Seconds later she saw Michael push through the double glass doors three floors below, his head cast toward the gray cement. This was not at all how the day was supposed to go. They were supposed to be reprising their role as a team. Supporting their child and becoming a family again. She watched him wander in the small visitor’s garden near the exit, his lips moving as he paced circles around lush beds of begonias and birds of paradise. Finally he sat down on a bench and lurched forward, cradling his head in his palms. Claire saw his torso rise and fall in rapid, violent spasms. She felt her own body jerk against the window, tapping out their anguished beat.

  When Michael headed toward the parking garage, Claire realized they had completely abandoned Nicholas, and she rushed to his room.

  “Where’s Dad?” he asked sullenly, eyes focused on the TV.

  “He’ll be back a little later, hon.”

  “Where is he?”

  Claire handed him a water cup and straw. “He, um, had an appointment. But he was so proud of
you today, Nicholas. Really proud.”

  Nick’s jaw twitched. His eyes narrowed. “Sure,” he mumbled.

  “Honey, you did such a nice job in the pool.” Claire watched as he took the straw into the corner of his mouth and sucked water until it began to dribble from his lips and spill onto his chest. Saliva bubbled on his chin. She reached for a tissue, and Nick let the cup drop from his fingers like it was nothing, a scrap of paper.

  “I’m retarded,” he suddenly cried. A dark stain bled its way down to his legs. “Why . . . am I . . . retarded?”

  Claire snatched the cup from his lap and, gathering wads of tissue, pressed them onto his sweatpants, dabbing at the wet stain, her voice caught somewhere between her throat and her shock. Wiping her eyes, she bent over him and rested her cheek on his temple. His skin was warm and sticky. “Nicky, don’t ever think that. You’re not retarded,” she declared. “You had an accident with some drugs, which caused a blood vessel in your brain to burst. And it’s made things difficult for you, just like Dr. Adamson has explained. Remember?” she anxiously added. “But you’re recovering now. You are not retarded.”

  Nick stared at her, his face reddening with anger or possibly a struggle to parse her words. Or exhaustion. “Leave me . . . alone,” he said, rolling away from her and looking out the window. “It’s not true. None of that’s . . . true.”

  She gazed helplessly at the muted TV screen and reiterated the doctor’s explanation of brain injury and how it can make some memories difficult to access, how his brain had to heal and pathways had to regenerate—careful to balance Dr. Adamson’s optimism for an excellent recovery with his mantra of “no certainties.”

  After what seemed like minutes of nonresponsiveness, Nick suddenly blurted, “Taylor.”

  “What, honey?”

  “Who’s Taylor?” he demanded, turning back to face Claire.

  “I’m not sure who you’re talking about, Nicky. Is that another patient here?”