by Austin,Robin
“A week,” my mother repeats. They pause, then bob their heads in agreement.
We leave Dr. Jamison’s office like robots. The rest of the day is spent doing paperwork, and getting my father settled at the only nursing home in town with an available bed. When the social worker told us it was the only bed, I pictured my father on a gurney in some dark hallway. I’m relieved that the bed also comes with a room, one nicer than Eunice’s, but nowhere near as nice as home.
My father isn’t happy, but at least he knows who we are and he doesn’t approve of either of us. He insists as he settles in that he has no intention of staying in this cockadoole doo place where we’re just dumping him off. He demands we give him the television’s remote control, while saying he’s getting the hell out of this monkey cage.
I’m numb seeing my mother tend to him as if she’s heard him like this time and time before. These words he’s never even used in telling jokes. He reaches for her breast and she pushes his hand away, oblivious to this foreign gesture.
“If you’re going to lock me away,” my father says, “at least bring me some decent books to read and a damn notepad. I have a few things to write down about you two no-gooders. And don’t think for a minute that I won’t publish it. Front page.”
I don’t know this man. This man who my mother has been hiding from me. His scrambled brain is raging, ripping both our hearts in two.
I close my eyes and I’m teetering. My mother’s strong hands pull me from my trance, yank me to the hallway. She’s sending me to collect some clothes and other personal items he’s demanded. I hug my mother and rush outside.
While my car is being repaired, I have a rental. All the buttons are in the wrong place, and I can’t get the seat adjusted correctly. It feels as alien to me as my father, as my own skin. Necessities I can’t live without, requiring too much attention, operating on borrowed time.
The highway to my parents’ home is high above the Atlantic. The curves are smooth, and due to good road design, effortless. All the while I’m driving, I’m thinking of the cliffs below. Of how one quick turn of the steering wheel would be so much easier, effortless.
I’m not suicidal, just tired. But I have to get some decent books and a damn notepad for a man I need more than oxygen. Maybe I’ll take this drive again next week or next month when my duties are far fewer.
I called Rick the day after he left me and told him I’d spent the night at the hospital with my father. It was a mean thing to do, and I wanted it to be. When I really needed him, he was with someone else. I’m sure someone younger and firmer. Some new secretary or someone he met in a bar on one of those nights he was working late. Now I regret my words because he’s home and that’s where I want him to be least of all.
Rick visited my father in the hospital that evening. According to my mother, my father greeted him like the loving son-in-law Rick loves to play. Five minutes later, my father was furious for reasons she claims not to know, but probably just doesn’t want to say. One second they were talking, the next my father was calling Rick a lying, cheating piece of macaroni.
He threw a plastic glass of water at Rick and tried to get out of bed to go after him, but an orderly and a nurse were at his side, pulling him back into his bed, putting a needle in his once strong arm. Retelling this scene had my mother in hysterics, rage strangled by mania.
The doctor told Rick it would be best if he didn’t visit again until my father was feeling better. I knew that visit would be the last time he would ever see my father alive.
I oversteer the rental into my parents’ driveway and wipe out a juniper bush before going in to pack a bag for my father. I take precious moments to wander around, smell hints of beef stew and perfume and laundry soap and love and tears.
Sitting in my father’s recliner, I smell the whiskey he drank at night. Just one glass every night for all the years I lived at home. But this is just a memory as the whiskey bottle is no more and this house was never my home. And the beef stew is really herb potions that some old hippy witch doctor sold my mother so my father’s synapses would send signals, smoke signals I guess.
While I’m putting my father’s demanded items in the car, my phone rings. I wonder how much longer my heart will keep beating when a single ring nearly tears it from my chest.
“Hello?” I say, not recognizing the caller ID– ARR. Of course, I think it’s the nursing home calling to say my father has killed not only an innocent nurse, but my mother as well and been carted off to jail.
“Ms. Jan?”
“Aljala?”
“Yes, it is I. Please forgive my calling, but I thought you must know that the little one, her funeral will be held this next Tuesday, here at the Christian Church. I know Ms. Eunice will want you here. I’m sure it would be a good thing for her.”
“I’m not so sure the good people of Ruston would agree with you.”
Aljala laughs that deep, throaty laugh that makes me feel so calm. “It is not for others that you come. It is for Ms. Eunice. Your friend.” More laughing, this time with a conspiratorial edge. “Do not let others ruin this time for your friend. Do not let others send you down a river when you do not wish to swim.”
“I’m sure the folks in Ruston would like me to drown in that river.” Aljala waits. “What time is the service?”
He says he and Ms. Eunice will see me at the Christian Church at eleven. “She tells me she has beautiful new things to wear to the church. A blue and yellow dress that she has been saving for this day. Things her friend Jan brought her.”
“She told you all that, did she?”
“I listen to her thoughts just as you told me to do.”
“I never told—”
“I must go now. Tuesday at the eleven o’clock hour. Promise me you will not forget. Ms. Eunice will be most disappointed if you do not come. It will be sad if you do not come. It is a day for her and for you. It is for both of you that you come.”
Aljala disconnects before I can respond. I’m certain I never gave him my phone number, and doubt anyone at Ashland would want him to have it so he could invite me. This isn’t a good time to leave town, I tell myself.
From the car, I call my mother to say I’m on my way back to the nursing home. She tells me I don’t need to announce myself, sounding as quarrelsome as my father. Then I call Rick and leave a message about my father, the nursing home, and my trip back to Ruston next week. I tell him that he doesn’t need to come home, other than to get his things whenever he needs to.
My words sound like he can piecemeal his way out of our home and my life. That doesn’t make me happy so I tell him I’m speaking with a couple of real estate agents about putting the house on the market. It’s the first time I’ve even thought of doing so.
“I’d like to get things cleaned out so it’s more presentable.” I disconnect without a goodbye. No more goodbyes are required.
The sun is shining and I turn the heat on high and roll down the window. The car seems to maneuver itself around the curves in the road, staying far from the cliffs as I listen to the waves below calling my name.
Chapter Thirty Three
§
I’ve told my mother that Rick’s moved out, and that I’m talking with real estate agents about the house, although this last part is still a lie. She acts like she knows it all. I wonder if she hears me anymore. My mother’s become a certifiable dart thrower. I’m not who she’s mad at, but she’s a dart thrower and no one is spared.
My father’s been at the nursing home for four days when she calls to say that she’s volunteered her time there. She tells me this news in a hostile tone, ready for an argument, over what I have no idea.
“Get over it.” She says this often now, her mantra. I know from her breathing that she’s pacing. Her inability to embrace stillness consumes her.
“I’m over everything, Mother. I think it’s good that you’re spending time with Dad. Why wouldn’t I? Just don’t overdo. I need you to stay strong.”
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With this request, she gives up and says she has things to do today. “Idle hands,” she warns, and I laugh but not until she hangs up.
I’ve moved beyond the restrictions of the fourth dimension– time. I sleep late or not at all. I do laundry at three in the morning and have breakfast at midnight. I need two alarms to wake me whenever my presence is required at a pre-determined time. Mostly, I reschedule or show up embarrassingly late. Time holds society together, I’ve elected to slip away.
Rick’s been home three times since I gave him my blessing not to come back. He’s called each time to make known his scheduled visits– what I call them now. I’ve assured him that he doesn’t need to call, but I’m glad he does and thank him.
He has yet to ask me about the sale of the house. He sees that I’m cleaning and sorting and tossing the treasures and trash of our lives. Each time, he reminds me to put his things in the den for sorting. Each time, he leaves without tossing or taking a thing.
I’m grateful for the distraction of these chores since no one is responding to my emails or returning my calls about assignments. I fear Matrix will be my last job, at least in my chosen field. Seems every journalistic avenue available to me is already paved with my blood and tears. Though my judgment is poor, self-pity is my constant companion despite my utter disdain for its company.
The attorney I hired for the Matrix lawsuit thinks they’re only bluffing. I think I need another attorney but don’t have the energy to look for one. Plus, I’ve already paid him an enormous retainer fee, which is non-refundable.
I make a habit of leaving the house every day, if only to go to the park. I force myself to shower, dress in clean clothes, and find other human beings to smile at, while trying to ignore them at the same time. Today, I’m going to the grocery store. This is big. Something that requires planning, a list, travel, decisions, interactions with those other humans. If I can do this today, tomorrow I can call a real estate agent, next week I can even meet with one and sign a listing agreement.
I’m in the produce section deciding on which package of salad mix I can’t live without or at least won’t let turn brown in the refrigerator. A woman brushes by me. She’s young and angry and animated on her phone, telling someone she calls Alex that he’s a bastard.
I want to rush after her and tell her to hang up, delete his number. I want to save her years of heartache, but this desire only brings embarrassing tears to my eyes. I dab at them to save my makeup, and shake my head to clear my mind of her, of me. Except when I do, I forget to stop walking and my cart bumps into someone.
“You okay?” he says.
I guess he’s asking because I’m hanging on to the cart like I’m on a wild roller coaster ride. Forget the fourth dimension; I’ve crossed over to where everything exists and everything that could happen really does. Or it could be that I’ve lost my mind for good this time. I know one of these is correct because Rick is standing in front of me. Not my husband, but the Rick I dated in high school. The one I somehow remember with the messy hair, the baby smooth face, athletic built, and soft gray eyes.
A do-over. A second chance to try and get it right. I look down at my hands, stark white from gripping the cart, my wrinkled skin, the bulging veins. No, this isn’t a do-over.
“Lady? You all right?”
“Rick?” I whisper.
“Jason.” Rick, who isn’t Rick, turns around and there stands my husband of thirty years next to what I cannot dare believe, but must assume is his son. I’m freefalling through the floor.
“Go get some milk, will you?” Rick, my husband, says. The kid looks at both of us and disappears down an aisle.
“I’m sorry,” Rick says, his voice trembles. He waits for me to respond, but I can’t and won’t.
“He’s my son, Jan.” This I hear like a foghorn over the ringing in my ears.
“How long?” I finally manage to ask.
“Long? He’s sixteen. Is that what you mean?”
“How long has… has he been in your life.”
Rick looks down and breathes a long, loud breath before looking up. “Sixteen years.”
“His mother?”
“She’s not here.”
“Where?”
“Home…” he says, and cringes.
Home, his real home. “I’ve got to go,” I say. I’m already walking away, leaving my cart behind with my groceries, my husband, and his son– to finish their shopping and go back to their home.
I’ve continued to have the dream where I’m running through the woods in my underwear, but the danger I felt before is gone. That I don’t feel fear disturbs me. That I can no longer decipher the dream disturbs me even more. Of course, I assume it’s about the woods behind Ashland. Now that the truth is exposed, I no longer fear the consequences.
My analysis would make my psychology professors proud, but I know it’s a load of textbook crap. Fear is the ultimate survival instinct, and I’m still running. Mostly though, it’s because in my dream, I can smell the pigs.
Rick’s left several phone messages and sent as many emails. He wants to give me space he says, but is worried about me. I finally email that I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m just very busy trying to find anything that makes sense anymore.
A sixteen year old son means a seventeen year old relationship. Probably longer. I can’t wrap my head around what kind of woman the other woman is… since I’m the other woman, and I don’t know who the hell I am.
I thought my husband was the town tramp, but its far worse. He’s a family man. Maybe with other children. Another house that’s a home with a garage where he keeps the lawnmower and sports equipment. No wonder he wanted me to have a successful career. This threesome of ours with a kid or more must cost a fortune.
I wonder how I failed to read the signs and wonder if he even tried to hide them from me. Who else knows? All of our so called friends must be his friends. My father knows of the lying, cheating macaroni, my mother knew I was running out of time. She was years too late figuring that one out, or maybe not.
I’m on my second gin and tonic when I hear the garage door open. I run upstairs like a child hiding from the boogie man, the one that didn’t call ahead. When the door opens, I go to the banister to wait for him. No way is he coming upstairs, getting near my private space.
“You didn’t need to come here,” I say, as soon as I see him.
“Please, let’s talk, Jan. I can’t stand it like this.”
“You mean you can’t stand having just one woman in your life?”
“Don’t. Don’t do this to yourself.”
“I didn’t!”
“It happened. I didn’t mean for it to happen but it did.”
“How long?”
“Please come down so we can talk like civilized people.”
“Is that what we are? Civilized? How long?”
“Twenty two years.”
I slide down to sit on the floor, hide between the railings. The refrigerator comes on and I jerk, barely able to stand much more than the sound of my own breath. “How– why didn’t you just leave me?”
“You’re my wife.”
“Your only one?” I say, pressing my forehead to one of the railings. “You came back from LA because my father called you?” It isn’t really a question, but I say it like one. He doesn’t answer. “You loved me once. When did you stop?”
“Don’t do this to yourself.”
“Again, I’m not the one who did this, whatever the hell this is. Why this, Rick? Why?”
“I came back because your father was concerned. He said you’d changed… after your injury.”
“Pity? Coming back because my father asked you to was bad enough. Are you saying the real reason was that you felt sorry for me?”
“I felt guilty….”
“Guilty about what? Wanting to live in LA?”
Rick is quiet for a long time or maybe it just feels long.
“You don’t remember do you?”
I have to look up because I don’t recognize his voice. I think for a moment that someone else is in the house. Someone… hollow.
“What? Remember what?”
“It was a long time ago. Let’s not do this.”
“Remember what? Damn it, tell me.”
“I wanted to stay in LA. I wanted you to stay with me. We could have had so much more there. But no, you wanted to come back to this do nothing, be nothing town so you could stay your father’s little girl…. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
He sits on the bottom step of the stairs, laces his fingers through his hair, and rests his head in his palms. The kitchen light is all that’s on in the house. Rick’s turning into one of the shadows.
“Remember what?”
He grabs his sweatshirt and rubs his eyes too hard. “We argued that day. The day we were moving things out of your dorm room. The day….”
“And you blame yourself? Because we were fighting?”
Rick has moved from the step and is pacing. He’s rubbing his forehead like he’s trying to rub away the memories I don’t have.
“You didn’t understand how important it was to me that you stay. You didn’t care. You weren’t as innocent as everyone thought.”
“Innocent?” The word sticks in my throat, is barely audible. “It was an accident. Rick? Wasn’t it?”
He doesn’t answer, just keeps pacing.
“Wasn’t it? Did you—”
“You said things you shouldn’t have. You’re not perfect either.”
“Perfect? I have a permanent brain injury, two failed careers, a sham of a marriage. I see shadows that look like people. Shadows that I actually think are real. I lie to the doctors so they don’t think I’m crazy. I lie to myself because I know I must be. All because I said some things that offended you? Well, I guess you showed me, didn’t you?”
“Don’t, Jan.”
“Don’t, Jan? Or what? You’ll come up here and push me down the stairs… again? Did that really happen? Did you really do that? Rick?” I wait, he doesn’t answer. “Does your other wife– I’m assuming she’s your wife. Does she know what you did to me? Maybe her and I should talk about our shared—”