The Remedy for Regret

by Susan Meissner

“Peace?”

  I cannot seem to stop myself from sounding like a parrot, repeating everything he says. I would laugh if I weren’t so stunned.

  “Tess, last night when… when I left the apartment, I walked around for a long time. I had maybe walked two or three miles when I suddenly knew that if I didn’t do something, the guilt I was feeling was going to kill me. I had to do something to try and make it right.”

  The face of Corinthia rises up before me, behind my closed eyes, as he says this. I can see her bending over a basket of wet laundry, picking up a limp dish towel and saying, “Well, you know what the remedy for regret is, don’t you?”

  I want to say now like I wanted to say then that there are limits. You cannot put a broken egg, or a broken mirror or a broken window back together again. You can’t. Some hardships cannot be made right, no matter how much you desire it.

  “I went to Brian Guthrie’s house last night,” Simon says, when I do not immediately respond.

  At this I am truly speechless. Brian Guthrie is the man whose wife and child died in the accident. Simon’s accident.

  “Tess, are you there?”

  “Y… yes. You went to his house? How did you… how did you know where he lives?”

  “He’s in the phone book. It wasn’t that hard. I hailed a taxi and just went over there.”

  “But, Simon,” I say. “Was that really wise? I mean, he might have hurt you.”

  “Well, I wanted him to,” Simon replies easily. “When I rang the doorbell, I wanted him to see that it was me. I wanted him to open the door with a shotgun in his hand. I wanted him to blast me to hell where I thought I belonged.”

  I taste bile in my throat. The roller coaster car is tumbling down a cold, cavernous valley, gathering speed as it rushes forward in the darkness. I cannot comprehend what I’m hearing.

  “Simon.” My voice doesn’t sound like my own. I can’t keep back the image of Simon lying on a Chicago porch with a chest full of lead. I can’t finish.

  “Tess, it’s what I thought I wanted to happen, but that’s not what happened.”

  I wait for the image to fade before asking him what did happen.

  “Well, he was surprised to see me and his first reaction was disgust.”

  I wait.

  “But he didn’t hurt me like I wanted him to, Tess. And when he didn’t hurt me physically, I wanted him to curse me to my face. I wanted him to damn me to the Devil. But he didn’t.”

  The ride seems to be slowing. I use the moment to catch my breath. “What did he do?”

  “The longer I stood there mumbling about how sorry I was, the more his face softened,” Simon replies. “The disgust faded away and what I saw instead was sadness. When I finally realized he wasn’t going to give me what I deserved, I began to weep right there on his doorstep. Right in front of him.”

  Simon’s voice is beginning to falter. To weaken. I, too, am feeling very weak. The ride has slowed to a steady creep.

  “What happened next?”

  “He invited me in. I refused at first, but he kept insisting, so I went in. He sat me down on his couch, got me a drink of water and then called his pastor.”

  “His pastor?” I said, immediately thinking of tall Samuel Mayhew.

  “Brian told me there was no way he could help me, but he knew someone who could,” Simon continues. “Brian said only God could heal a wound as big and deep as the one I carry—as big and deep as the wound he also carries.”

  Simon is not leaving me but I feel like he’s pulling away from me nonetheless. He is moving in a direction that is unfamiliar to me. I feel him edging away, toward a God I barely know and have never understood.

  “I think he’s right,” Simon is saying. “What Brian said is true. I can’t fix this on my own. It’s too big and deep, just like what you carry is too big and deep for you.”

  He gives me a moment to digest this but it is nowhere near enough time.

  “Tess, Brian’s pastor brought me over to his house. I talked with him and his wife until two a.m. His name is Jim. His wife’s name is Emily. We talked about everything; the accident, you and me, my whole life…”

  “You talked about me?” I feel a twinge of anger.

  “Yes, Tess, I did. I love you. I want to marry you. You can’t keep living with your open wound just like I can’t keep living with mine.”

  In my mind I hear Corinthia’s voice. She is standing above me, placing a clothespin on a dishtowel and hanging it on a clothesline.

  “Find a way to make it right,” she is saying.

  I am sitting on the grass next to her laundry basket.

  “What if there is no way I can make it right?” I am saying back to her.

  “Well, can you live with it?” she is saying, bending down to look at me.

  “No,” I am saying, because I don’t want to believe that I can.

  “Then find someone who can make it right,” she says, with her strong arms on my trembling shoulders.

  I let the voice fade away. It’s just not that simple.

  “Tess?” Simon is saying.

  “There is no way either one of us can make these things right,” I tell him and I cannot mask the anger in my voice.

  “That’s right, Tess,” Simon says boldly. “You and I can’t. But Jim told me God can put things to right, no matter how big they are. He can carry what we can’t carry.”

  “Even God has limitations,” I say softly, quoting my father though I don’t want to.

  “I used to think so, too,” Simon says in reply. “I think we’ve been wrong about that, Tess.”

  I am starting to get a headache.

  “I don’t see what this has to do with us,” I say, though I think I really do.

  “Because, Tess, you are just like me, only worse off. I have been struggling with this open wound for just two weeks. You’ve been suffering with yours for years.”

  I wince at this, not because it is news to me but because it hurts to hear the truth sometimes.

  “And it’s not even the wound you think it is, Tess.”

  Now he has thrown me for a loop. “What?”

  “Maybe we should continue this when you get home,” he says after a momentary pause.

  “What do you mean it’s not even the wound I think it is?”

  “Never mind, Tess. I shouldn’t have brought it up right now.”

  “Brought what up?”

  “It’s… it’s just your dad and I had an argument on the phone tonight, before you called. I got a little angry. I’d really rather talk about this when you get home.”

  “You talked to my dad?” I asked, thoroughly perplexed.

  “He wanted to make sure we got the message about Shelley’s surprise party because you hadn’t called him back.”

  “What did you argue about?” I am having a hard time picturing my dad and Simon having a conversation lasting more than ten minutes. They’ve seen each other maybe three times in three years. But Simon doesn’t answer my question.

  “Are you going to call him back tonight?” he says instead.

  “I don’t know,” I answer in a huff. “I haven’t had a minute to think about Shelley’s birthday and you and I haven’t even talked about it.”

  “If you call him tonight, see if he mentions talking with me, Tess,” Simon says and it’s obvious he’s confident my dad won’t mention it. I don’t know what to make of this. Something is going on and I don’t know what it is.

  “Didn’t you tell him where I was?” I say.

  “I did,” Simon assures me. “He’s not expecting you to call back tonight.”

  “Then I’ll call him tomorrow.”

  “Okay. But when you do, don’t mention that you know he and I talked. See if he brings it up first. Will you do that?”

  What on earth did you argue about? is all I can think of to say, but I know Simon will not tell me until I try his little experiment.

  “All right, I will,” I say wearily.

  “Te
ss?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m going back to work tomorrow.”

  For the first time since we began this conversation tonight I am starting to feel a little of the hope that his voice sounds saturated with.

  “You are?”

  “Yes. Just half-days at first. We’ll see how it goes.”

  “Simon, that’s… that’s wonderful.”

  “Yeah. The more I think about it the more I am feeling ready. Call me tomorrow night after you talk to your dad. But don’t call until after ten. I am going over to Jim and Emily’s for dinner.”

  “Oh, okay.” I wonder if he can sense my unease.

  “Give my condolences to Blair, would you?”

  “Sure,” I say.

  “Goodnight, Tess. I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” I reply. And I do. But I feel very alone.

  I lay my phone on the bedside table and rub my throbbing temples. I’d dreaded making that call for no reason, but I feel scared nonetheless. I decide a hot bath will ease some of the tension I am feeling.

  It does, but only while I am in it.

  Fifty minutes later when I am lying alone in bed, a gallery of images begin to parade around in my head—racing bulls, Brad lying dead on a hospital bed, Simon weeping on the porch of a stranger, Corinthia hanging up her laundry to dry. They vie for my attention and sleep eludes me until after midnight.

  Eight

  I’m seated in the lobby of the Holiday Inn by ten minutes to nine the next morning. I awoke early, after a restless night of sleep. I’m hesitant to see Blair and yet impatient for Peter Agnew to come for me. I wonder how she spent the night. Did she wake up this morning, like I did, forgetting for just a fraction of a moment that Brad is dead? I wonder if she’ll want me to stay for the memorial service. It occurs to me that I haven’t brought anything appropriate to wear to the funeral of a rich man. Antonia will chide me someday about this. She has told me repeatedly to never go on any trip of any kind without a little black dress.

  A few minutes after nine, a bronze Jaguar pulls up into the carport of the hotel’s parking lot. A man with graying hair and wearing an expensive suit of the same color steps out of it. This must be Peter Agnew.

  He steps in through the front doors and I rise, offering a tiny smile that lets him know I am the woman he is expecting.

  “Miss Longren?”

  “Please call me Tess.” I offer my hand.

  “And you must call me Peter.” He shakes my hand. “If you don’t mind, Blair would like you to stay with her for the rest of your time here. Is that all right? Do you mind getting your things and bringing them?”

  “No, of course not,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”

  It doesn’t take long to get my suitcase and return to the lobby. Peter tells me he has paid one of the hotel desk clerks to take my rental car back to the airport on her lunch hour. There are plenty of vehicles at Blair’s house if I need to use one, he says. I hand over the car key and my room key and he takes my suitcase.

  “Ready?” he says.

  I nod and we make our way outside to his car. In less than a minute we are on our way. Peter tells me the drive to Blair’s home in the bedroom community of Ladue will take less than twenty-five minutes.

  He looks tired and preoccupied but he makes an attempt to get to know me. He asks me what I do for a living and where I am from, of course, and I answer as best I can. Then he tells me that Blair asked about me right away when he came downstairs to breakfast this morning. She had apparently awakened before anyone else. Peter doesn’t know when she came downstairs but she was already sitting in the breakfast room with a cup of coffee when he joined her.

  “So, how is she?” I ask.

  “I don’t know.” He shrugs. “She was hysterical yesterday and this morning she just seems shell-shocked.”

  “Are her parents coming? Will they be able to help her with… with the details?”

  “They’re flying in this afternoon from Dallas, but they won’t have to do much on that end,” Peter answers. “Brad’s lawyers will take care of Blair’s interests when it comes to his estate. He has left her a wealthy woman. She won’t have to worry about keeping her home or putting the twins through college. Or anything financially, really.”

  “That’s something to be grateful for,” I say. “And Brad’s parents and his brother? They live here in St. Louis, too, right? And his sister, Annette?”

  “Yes. They were all at the house for a while last night, too. Except for Annette and the girls. Annette kept the girls at home with her. She was afraid for them to see Blair in the state she was in.”

  I think of Chloe and Leah, just three years old, most likely unaware of how much their lives have changed in just one day.

  “They won’t remember him,” I say rather absently.

  We ride the rest of the way in silence.

  Blair had sent me pictures of the house she and Brad had built two years ago. I knew it was spacious and elegant and I knew that it cost more than three million dollars to build. But I’ve never been in a home that boasts more than seven thousand square feet and I certainly never have had a housekeeper take my “things up to a guest suite” upon entering a tiled entryway crafted of Italian marble. It’s more impressive than I expected.

  Peter ushers me into a room off the main entry that is nearly wall-to-wall windows with no drapes or blinds of any kind. A set of wrought iron benches and chairs, adorned with black-and-white striped cushions, are placed around a glass table whose center is nearly covered with a huge arrangement of pale pink daylilies. An ebony baby grand piano fills one sunny corner; its black shiny top is up and is glistening in the morning sun. To the left of the piano is another seating area. Two fat white chairs sit on a small Persian rug and another glass-topped table separates them. On this one is a Lladro sculpture and three lead crystal candlesticks. The room looks empty of people. I almost miss Blair sitting on the piano bench. The open piano top nearly hides her.

  “I’ll leave you two alone,” Peter says softly.

  He walks quietly out of the room and I take two steps toward Blair and then stop. I’m afraid to be alone with her. She doesn’t know how to play the piano. I don’t know why she is sitting there.

  “I don’t know what to do, Tess,” she says, breaking the silence, inviting me to approach her.

  I walk to the piano and sink down beside her on the bench, wrapping an arm around her. She feels light and weightless.

  “I don’t either,” I say.

  She leans into me and rests her head in the crook of my neck and shoulder. I’m afraid she will start to weep and I don’t know what to say to her if she does, but she doesn’t.

  We sit there like that for maybe five minutes, not saying anything.

  “I don’t know what to do,” she says again.

  I am nervous about what to say in response. I came here to help her. She asked me here for support and encouragement. I can think of nothing wise and wonderful to say. Instead, I think of something wild and wholly inappropriate and before I can stop myself, it is out of my mouth.

  “Let’s go paint our toe nails.”

  She starts to shake and it is on the tip of my tongue to begin a lengthy apology but then I realize she is laughing. I start to laugh, too. Pretty soon we are laughing so hard, the tears that we had wanted to shed all along are streaming down our faces.

  I am so glad Peter shut the door behind him.

  The morning passes quietly. Blair and I did not stay long in the sunroom after gaining back our composure. When we emerged, looking puffy-eyed and red-faced, Peter had assumed we had been deep in grief for Brad. It was so much more than that. But I cannot explain it to him or anyone else.

  A little before noon, we decide to sip some tea on the patio in Blair’s expansive backyard. Peter’s wife, Shar, joined us for a little while, but she has left to go make lunch arrangements. After Shar goes back into the house, Blair tells me the doctors told her Brad had four bl
ocked arteries, probably a hereditary condition. No one knew anything about it. Not even Brad. The cholesterol levels in his blood were sky high. He would’ve been a good candidate for quadruple by-pass if his condition had been caught earlier, but Brad wasn’t in the habit of seeing a doctor regularly. He was fit and trim and hardly ever got sick so he never saw the need. He attributed recent dizzy spells to a busy schedule and lack of sleep. In the five years they were married, Blair never once took him to a doctor and he never went on his own.

  “He always ate and did whatever he wanted,” Blair tells me.

  She takes a breath after saying this, like she is going to say something else, but then she stops. She has changed her mind. She looks off in the distance, her thoughts far away.

  “Blair, what can I do for you?” I ask. “Are there any arrangements I can make? Do you want me to go get the girls?”

  She blinks long and hard.

  “Brad’s parents are taking care of all the arrangements. He is their son. Their heir.”

  Blair sounds almost aloof as she says this. I am not sure what she is thinking.

  “Well, do you want to pick out some flowers for yourself?” I ask.

  “Flowers?” she says, turning to me like I am suggesting something foreign.

  “Well, maybe you’d like to have a flower arrangement for the funeral that is special to just you and Brad,” I reply. “You know, like maybe the same flowers you had at your wedding.”

  “Is that what you would do?”

  Blair is looking at me with those big, liquid eyes of hers that all the boys loved when we were in middle school. They look too big today, wide-open and searching.

  “Who knows?” I say to her, dropping my eyes. “I am not even married.”

  “Yet,” she says, like she still has hope for me.

  After a few minutes of silence I ask her again if she would like me to get the girls for her.

  “No,” she says and again she sounds aloof. It is a side of grief I have never seen.

  After lunch, Peter heads over to the airport to get Blair’s parents and Shar returns to their home. When he leaves, I convince Blair to rest for a while. I head to my guest suite, as the housekeeper called it, and unpack my things. The closest thing I have to a black dress is a purple bolero jacket and gray skirt that Antonio says I look captivating in. I wonder if I will have a free moment to find something more appropriate to wear.