He stared at me. “Don’t have one. I was in a dark place, and I let that take me over. When I finally came out of it, Lou was gone. I’ll spend the rest of my life paying for that mistake.”
“From the looks of you, the only thing you’re paying for is luxury goods,” I said, sending a pointed look in the direction of his tasseled loafers, which appeared to have been handcrafted by a cobbler in Milan.
But as Longfellow said, every heart has its secret sorrows that the world knows not. “Yes, my life’s a frickin’ fairy tale,” said Rob. “I loathe my job, and that makes me increasingly mediocre at it. I don’t have a single friend who I don’t know through work. My colleagues’ second wives set me up with women who know my net worth down to the penny and have only agreed to date me because their most fertile years are behind them and they have to lower their standards if they want to procreate with someone who can cover their kids’ college tuition.”
“At least you’re not dying,” I noted.
“I was wondering how long you’d wait to pull that one out.”
We both broke into smiles.
“You’re an awful human being,” I said.
“You’re even awful-er. And don’t you dare correct my grammar, nerd wad,” he said.
I laughed, and this time I actually sounded like myself. “Nerd wad! Now there’s one I haven’t heard in ages.”
“Get used to it.”
The tension between us finally defused, and we sat at the table talking for a good long time. He and Lou had been emailing back and forth for months now. She had told him about my diagnosis, and he had debated how to react, if he did at all. He had flown to Michigan to see his parents; Bobby had had a hip replaced, and Nancy was beginning to show the early signs of dementia, though she swore she was as sharp as a tack. Visiting me had been a whim. He had only just called Lou that morning to make sure I would be here.
What else did we discuss? I don’t remember all of it. He told me he was thinking about quitting finance and trying to find a career that would actually bring him some sort of satisfaction, though he had no idea what that was. He spoke of leaving New York, maybe for Rhode Island or Tennessee. (Or Michigan, I thought.)
In turn, I told him about Nora and our wedding, and of course, my diagnosis and what had changed.
At some point, Lou wandered back into the kitchen. She was as lithe as the day we had met, and she looked calm and content; by that point, it had been years since she had suffered a bout of severe depression. But she, too, was beginning to gray around the temples, and her eyes were set deeper in her face. It was impossible for me not to wonder how much of her aging owed to the stress of my illness and how much was from everyday life.
“You guys doing okay?” she asked. “Nora should be getting Em from ballet any minute now. Rob, what do you think? You up for a meet and greet?”
“Yeah,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “That would be great.”
We heard you before we saw you; you were singing “Old MacDonald Had a Farm,” a song I myself learned when I was about your age. As soon as you spotted Rob, you stopped singing and hid behind Nora’s legs.
“It’s okay, love,” she said. “I’m guessing this is Rob, yes? I’m Nora.”
“Yes,” said Rob, rising. He held out a hand to Nora, who shook it firmly. “Really nice to meet you. James has been telling me all about you. Congratulations on your wedding.”
“Thank you,” she said. “And it’s nice to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you from James.”
Reluctantly, you peered your head out from behind Nora. “Wow,” you finally said to Rob. “You’re big.”
He laughed heartily. “I get that a lot. You must be the famous Emerson.”
You turned to me with a curious look. “Daddy? What’s ‘famous’ mean?”
“The opposite of Daddy. It means everyone knows about you.”
You scrunched up your nose, just like Lou. “That’s not me. What’s your name again?” you said to Rob.
“Rob.”
“Want to see my blanket fort?” you said, and he nodded, suddenly shy himself.
You took him by the hand and tugged him in the direction of the living room, narrating as you went: “This is our hallway, that’s the sofa—you can’t jump on it—that’s the lamp I broke, but Mommy glued it back together . . .”
Rob was so tall that he almost had to duck to get through the doorways, but he ambled along behind you.
“She appears to trust him,” Lou noted from behind me.
“She should,” I said.
And I meant it. While we were talking in the kitchen, I kept thinking about what he had done after my mother died. The day of her death, my father called me and simply said, “Your mother is gone.”
“What do you mean?” I asked him. “Gone where?”
“She’s dead,” he said flatly.
“What—what happened?”
“Her heart gave out. Service is being held in two days at Chester’s in Southfield. Funeral’s the following day. I’ll call you later.”
I stared at the phone, semiconvinced that the news I had just received was meant for someone else. My mother? Dead? She couldn’t be; I owed her a phone call. I had not seen her in two months, but I was going to, just as soon as I finished another chapter on my thesis. When was the last time I told her I loved her? I couldn’t remember.
I don’t know how long I sat there afterward. Eventually I found myself dialing Rob’s number. “My mother,” I said numbly. “She—she died.”
“Oh God, James. That’s horrible. Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I said, because I did not yet understand that this pain was not the fleeting kind; I would never have a mother again.
But Rob knew better. “Hold tight. I’ll be there tomorrow,” he said, and even though I knew he was in the middle of his hazing year—he had just been hired at his firm and had six months to demonstrate that he was competent and another six to prove he could rake in millions for the company—he showed up at my apartment the following morning and did not leave until the day after my mother was lowered into the ground.
This particular occasion stands out in my mind, but it’s one of many. Rob made many mistakes, as did I. They do not mean he isn’t a good man.
Yet when you and he returned to the kitchen—the two of you hand in hand, clearly enchanted with each other—a piece of me died right there. Because there was my oldest friend, yet again with a person I loved so deeply I could not explain it for the life of me, playing a role I could not.
But as soon as I acknowledged that odious jealousy—how deep it went, how very corrosive it was for all of us—it began to fade.
“Let me see you to the door,” I said when it was time for him to go.
“You sure?” he said.
“I’m not an invalid yet,” I said.
He gave me an amused look. “Good to know you haven’t lost your sense of humor, if it can be called that.”
“The brain remains as the body withers,” I said.
“And just as melodramatic as ever, I see.”
“Hmph. Will we see you again?” I asked.
“I’d like that. I’ll be back next month; maybe I could plan a longer visit or even swing by a few times. We could do dinner or something.”
A rush of emotion surged through my chest and rose in my neck, and I thought for a moment I would sob. I swallowed as well as I could and attempted to clear my throat. “That sounds good.”
Rob reached for the doorknob. “I’m glad we did this.”
Me, too, I thought as he began down the stairs.
He was already on the walk when I called his name. He spun around. “Yeah?”
A better man might have let it go. But I had to ask. “Why didn’t you fight to get Lou back?”
He shook his head. “I honestly don’t know. Maybe because she had already chosen you.”
“Chose me? Not quite,” I said. More like I had put her in a situation in wh
ich I was her only option, which was no choice at all. “Not unless you count one fated night back in 2008,” I added.
He looked around at the yard, at the house, then back at me. “You share a life, James. A child. It may not be everything you ever wanted, but it’s an awful lot.”
I stood on the porch and watched him drive away. I stayed there for a while, even though my legs were weak, thinking about what he had said. When I finally let myself back in the house, you, Nora, and Lou embraced me, as though I had been gone a very long time.
TWENTY-NINE
Early 2015
Snow whipped horizontally through the air, coating our world in white. Meteorologists had just upgraded the storm to blizzard status, and Nora, who had the misfortune to attend a meeting at her company’s Detroit office that morning, had decided it was safer to spend the night at a hotel in town than attempt to make the treacherous drive back.
“We’ll be fine,” I assured her when she second-guessed her decision to stay in the city. “Try to enjoy it. Take a long bath, order food in. You could use a break.” From me, I added mentally.
She sighed, like she knew what I was thinking; she hated when I pointed out that my condition was difficult for her, even though there was no way for it to be anything but. “Okay,” she relented. “Hopefully I’ll be home tomorrow afternoon, if not sooner.”
“No rush; be safe. Love you.”
“Love you, too. Tell Lou I say hi, and give Emmy a big smooch for me.”
I promised her I would and hung up.
It had been a long, cold winter, and my health was taking a toll on all of us. Lou worked at the bookstore while you were at school during the day, then cared for you and helped me until Nora came home around five. She had not said as much, but it was clear Nora had been granted some sort of arrangement at work that allowed her to maintain a partner-track pace but leave the office at a reasonable hour. She often worked after I went to bed and sometimes in the early hours of the morning, too.
During the workweek, I was usually alone from nine to four. In better weather, I didn’t mind so much; then, at least, I could go outside, if only to attempt to walk down the block. Every once in a while, Pascal would take me to lunch or the library.
But the snow and ice had been relentless since November. It was too easy for me to slip on the walkways, so I holed up and wrote as much as I was able. I video-chatted with Pascal, too, and read all the books I had never had time to get through. By midwinter, though, even reading became dull, as any activity repeated too often is wont to do. So on that frigid February morning, I was happy for a snow day, if only because it meant I had company.
“Daddy, let’s make a story,” you said, clapping your hands together with delight.
“Okay,” I said. “Like a book?”
“Well, we can just say it out loud, and then you can write it down later.”
“You going to take notes?” I asked Lou.
She was typing furiously—not poetry, I knew, because there wasn’t a notebook at her side, and anyway, her fingers never moved that fast when she was transcribing her poems. I wondered if she was talking to Rob. He emailed me every few weeks, and Lou chatted with him more frequently. He had come for dinner several times since his first visit, too, and even showed up at Christmas. It wasn’t romantic, Lou claimed—they were just getting to know each other again. But his hand lingered on her arm a beat longer than it would have if she were another person; she looked up at him across the table, then looked down, only to glance up again. It was clear that the old feelings were resurfacing for both of them, which in turn made me feel—well, if not absolved, then at least hopeful.
“Sure,” she said in a way that suggested she had no idea what she had just committed to.
“So what’s our story?” I asked you, shifting slightly in the recliner; as usual, I had been sitting in the same position too long.
You gave me a mischievous smile, and I wondered what sassy suggestion you were about to make. But then you said, “The story of a girl and her family. Mommy!”
“Yes, dear!” chirped Lou.
“We need you to make this story with us. Okay!” You clapped your hands together with authority. “So once upon a time, there was a family that was only sort of a family.”
“Okay . . . ,” I said, afraid of where this was going.
“And that’s because they weren’t really people! They were really stars that had fallen to the ground,” you declared. “Daddy? Your turn.”
I paused, took a deep breath, and prayed this wouldn’t be one of those times that my voice conked out on me. “All the members of this family knew the secret of the universe. And that was that everyone was secretly made of stars. And . . . Lou, you’re up!”
“This is your doing, isn’t it?” she said to me in a mock whisper. “Em told me all about you telling her what people are made out of.”
“I know nothing,” I said. At an earlier time in life, I would have held my hands up to demonstrate my innocence. Now I just gave her a lopsided smile.
Lou turned to you. “So . . . the secret was really hard for them to keep, but the family did it anyway . . . because they were good people.”
“Mommy,” you protested. “The secret has to give them some sort of superpower.”
“Um. So, their being stars meant that they would live forever,” Lou said. She smiled at this thought, then added, “As soon as their lives were over, they shot back up to the sky, leaving a trail of glittering light behind them. And now anyone who looks up at night can see them twinkling above.”
“Perfect!” you declared. “Mommy, Daddy, you got this?”
“We’ve got it,” Lou assured you, and I nodded compliantly.
As you ran off into the other room, Lou looked at me tenderly. “Jim?” she said.
“Yeah?”
“We did good.”
“Yes, Lou. We did.”
I pushed myself up, reached for the walker, then used it to move to the sofa where Lou was sitting. Through the windows, I saw that it had finally stopped snowing.
“Lou,” I said, and held my hand out to her. Our eyes met as she grasped my fingers in her palm. “Will you be okay without me?”
She squeezed my hand. I wondered if she was going to tell me it would all be fine, that I shouldn’t worry about her. “It’s going to be hard, Jim,” she said quietly. “So hard that I can’t even imagine it right now.”
Above us, you were running through the hallway like we were constantly telling you not to. Neither Lou nor I called out for you to stop.
“I know. I’m worried.” Here I was, ripping the stability rug out from under her feet yet again.
“In what regard?” she asked.
“In every regard. I worry you’ll be depressed again, and I won’t be there to help you. I worry about leaving you to raise a child on your own.”
“I won’t be alone. I have your dad, and Nora, and Victoria and Dan, and . . .” She looked up at me. “I’m not the same person I was after Em was born. Or even before. I’m stronger now, Jim.”
“But stability—”
She shook her head vigorously. “That doesn’t mean the same thing to me that it once did. Stability for me is a family that loves me. I have that, and that’s thanks to you.”
I clenched my jaw. “Do you regret it, at least a little?” I asked. “Your life could have been better without me. Or at the very least, easier.”
She moved closer to me on the sofa. I thought she was going to hug me, but then she leaned in and kissed me, lightly and tenderly. “I don’t regret a thing, Jim,” she said. “I just wish it could all last a little longer.”
Me, too, I thought. Me, too.
As winter turned to spring, things went downhill fast. Rapidly progressing, said Dr. Stevens, though she was quick to add that my disease progression could occur in fits and starts. My breathing was labored, and though I could still speak and swallow, I needed to use a breathing machine much of the day.
/> That March, I made the switch from a walker to a wheelchair. I didn’t have to use it all the time, said the occupational therapist who got me set up with my motorized rig.
Not yet was what he meant. I cried the first time I sat in it, grateful that the therapist was the only one to see me break down.
Nora picked me up from the therapist’s in the wheelchair-accessible minivan we had recently purchased. When she pulled into the driveway of our home, fresh tears pricked at the back of my lids. But as soon as I wheeled myself up the ramp that had just been affixed to the front of the house and through the front door, you perched yourself on my lap.
“Go, Daddy, go!” you said with delight. And when I began to move, you said, “Keep going! Keep going!”
Yes, I thought. I must keep going as long as I’m able.
Which brings us to now. Nora bought me a computer stand that attaches to my wheelchair, and I work on this book a few hours most days. Between pages, I look out the large picture windows of the family room, which is where I spend most of my time. I can see the flower beds and vegetable gardens Lou planted, and the weeping willow I put in the year you were born, which is already taller than you are—at least the six-year-old you that I know. And beyond the willow, there’s that damn black walnut tree that drops the golf ball–size walnuts that kill the grass and everything else they hit.
I have started sleeping more. Too much. Mostly I hate my dreams, which come at me more as fragments of scenes than actual narratives. Black holes, entrapment, suffocation. But running, biking, walking: these are actually worse than confinement or loss of control. Because when I open my eyes and remember again that my body is no longer in coordination with my mind, it is a fresh terror every time.
But the other night, I dreamed I was in a baseball field, one that looked a lot like the field at the far end of the elementary school I attended. Wisnewski was there, and Rob, too. We weren’t playing ball. Instead, Rob and I were looking for Wisnewski, who was hiding from us. He was not behind the benches; he was not in the trees at the perimeter of the outfield. Just when we were about to give up, he came bounding out from behind the dugout, where I had sworn I had just looked. “I was here the whole time, you idiots!” he said, giving us each a hug, and in typical Wisnewski style, a noogie. Laughing, we ran off; where we were headed, I never learned. All I know is that we were young, we were alive, and we were together. This dream—
Forever is the Worst Long Time: A Novel Page 23