Acts of Love

by Judith Michael

  "When?"

  "When I have time."

  "No, that's no good, you have to be more definite. Oh, why do you make me go through this every time? I need you, Luke. You're the only one I can talk to, the only one who understands me. I need to know when I'll see you. If I know we'll have dinner on Tuesday or Monday or whatever, I feel better."

  "You have hundreds of friends. I've never known you to be without a string of men ready to take you wherever you want to go or do whatever you—"

  "I have acquaintances. Hundreds, thousands. This city is full of acquaintances who don't want to listen; they just want to talk and preen because they're with a beautiful woman. The Phelans are the only people who truly are friends, who really listen to me, and you don't want me to see them."

  "They're friends as long as you spend money at their gambling tables. Can't you understand that?"

  "They're friends because they care about me!"

  "Damn it, we go over the same things, time and again. Can't you look at them and see what they are?"

  "If I don't know when I'm going to see you, I'll look at them a lot!"

  94 ~ Judith Michael

  "Then you're on your own. You know how I feel." Angry and frustrated, he slammed down the telephone. What made her think he would find her childishness attractive or desirable.? Probably the fact that once he had married her and had stayed with her for five years. And still agreed to see her, still paid her gambling debts, still called now and then to see how she was. And as angry as he was now, he knew he would call her in the next few days and take her to dinner and listen to her complaints, and that he would do it as often as she demanded, because, though no one knew this, Constance had told him to.

  Not in so many words. But after listening sympathetically on the rare occasions when he brought his frustrations with Claudia to her, she nodded when he told her he was getting a divorce and then said, "So now you plan to shut the door in her face and walk off. Can you do that?"

  He had sat in silence, feeling like a boy again, wrapped round by that sense of being pinned down that boys have when they are on the verge of manhood and can no longer hide behind fecklessness. "Probably not. I'll do what I can for her."

  Forget it, Luke told himself. He tried to concentrate on Marilyn's drawings, but in a moment he knew he was too tired to analyze whatever it was that was bothering him about them. He went to his armchair. On the round table, Martin had arranged a thermos and a bottle of burgundy beside sandwiches under a bell-shaped cover, slices of chocolate cake, and a silver bowl of glazed apricots. Martin has an exaggerated sense of my appetite, Luke thought, but when he tasted an apricot he realized how hungry he was and remembered that he had not eaten dinner. He had canceled a date with Monte and Gladys to stay home and make notes for Kent on the last scene of the play and had told Martin to leave something for him. Well, here it was, and he was ravenous. He found a newscast on television, poured a glass of wine, and ate two sandwiches while his thoughts roamed from the newscast to the notes he had just finished, then to Claudia, then to his grandmother, and, from her, to Jessica.

  It had been a month since he had read one of her letters or even thought about her. A long month, Luke thought. Maybe it isn't the company of one or another woman that I've missed; maybe it's her letters.

  He had put a marker in the box where he had left off reading and he pulled out a few of the letters behind it. Folded inside the first was a piece of a column torn from a newspaper, and Luke found himself

  looking at Tricia's photograph and her name beneath the title "Behind Closed Doors." In the second item, it was Jessica's name, in boldface, that leaped out at him.

  Famed Broadway and Hollywood actress Jessica Fontaine is hospitalized with devastating injuries suffered in a train derailment in Canada. Insiders say she is an invalid who has lost the power of speech. Her agent has no comment.

  Written in the margin, in a shaky handwriting, were the words "This is not true."

  I missed that, Luke thought, but then I never read this stuff until I met Tricia. He opened the letter. It was written on the same blue stationery and in the same handwriting as the one he had read when he first found the box, telling Constance about the train wreck. That one had been dictated to a nurse and so, it seemed, was this one.

  Dearest Constance, I don't imagine you'll see tnis in Italy, but wno knows wnat papers reprint tnis garbage and maybe you did read it, so I'm sending a copy witn my commentary. It isn't true. I naven't lost tne power or speecn and I'm not an invalid and tne doctors say I won't be one. I nave some broken bones and torn tendons, and so on ... I guess that's not dramatic enougn for a gossip columnist. I can't imagine now someone can make a living putting rumors and outright lies into newspapers where readers will assume that they're true. Wnat an awrul way to live.

  Luke thought of all the times he had been amused and entertained by Tricia and had not bothered to ask her the source of her items. He felt ashamed and folded the letter and put it away, as if turning his back on Jessica's accusing voice. The next letter was still in the nurse's handwriting.

  My dear, dear Constance, I miss you, and it's only a tew days since you left my bedside. It was magical to see you, and of course totally unexpected since I had written you, quite firmly as I recall,

  96 ~ Judith Michael

  that you were not to come, tnat you weren't strong enougn ror suck a trip. But wnen dia you ever obey orders?

  Luke imagined the scene in his mind: two women in a room at twilight, one in a chair, leaning forward, holding the hand of a woman lying partially propped up, bandaged, her eyes closed, or perhaps just opening. Everything else fell away. All the conflicts and pleasures of his day in the theater, Tricia, Claudia, all of it vanished. He felt he was in that hospital room with his grandmother and Jessica, and when he took up the letter again, it was almost as if Jessica were talking to him, as well as to Constance.

  We talked a rair bit, didn't we? A lot or it I can't remember. I'm naving trouble remembering little day-to-day tnings . . . tney rloat through my mind lifce bits or conretti, here ror a drirting moment, then gone, then, maybe, bach in a day or two with other images swirling about, overlapping, blurring together . . . good heavens, I'm babbling. My nurse is writing this—or course you know that, rrom the handwriting—and she is so wonderruUy hind that she writes anything I say, even the words that wander in and out like people trying to rind their way through an unramiliar neighborhood. More babbling; rorgive me.

  Even though I miss you, I m glad you ve gone back to Italy; you looked so pale that last arternoon we were together, and one time when you thought I was asleep I watched you and I could see that your animation and vigor were an act—still acting, dearest Constance, and how good you are at it!—that you were in ract exhausted and needed to be home.

  So there were many things we never talked about and one or them was the train accident. It was strange and quite scary that whenever I tried to talk about it I started shaking. Yesterday, I don't know why, I brought it up and the nurse brought me newspapers with stories and photos or the derailment. I can't imagine surviving it. So many didn't, they say . . . more than rirty. I know I will never rathom the mystery or why I survived and others did not.

  There were other mysteries: how quickly the police and medics came, and hundreds or others I'll never know about; the kindness and concern and stubbornness or the doctors and nurses who kept try-

  A

  i

  C T S of LOVE ~ 97

  ing, tnrougn all my operations, to put back togetner—or try to—all my broken bones ana dislocations ana severea nerves (well, yes, tnere was more going on tban just tbose tbree rractures I tola you about in my otber letter). But everyone says I'll be all rignt—tney've said tnat over and over. Witn luck, tney say, I'll be absolutely all rigbt. I'm trying to believe tbem. Someday, wben I get back to tbe stage, I'll tnank all or tbem publicly, every doctor, every nurse, every nurse's aide. Until tben, I tnank tbem silently every day wben I a
wake and see tbe sunligbt. But ror now, I'm very tired, dear Constance, so I'll say good nigbt. I love you and tbank you so mucb ror coming bere; it meant tbe world to me, as I kept saying until you told me to stop, tbat you got tbe point. But it did . . . tbe world . . . Jessica.

  Luke looked up from the letter, repeating its phrases in his mind. He could almost hear Jessica's voice, an actor's voice. When I get bacl{ to the stage, I'll thanks all of them publicly . . . But she never got back to the stage. She was not forgotten—revivals of her films, and videotapes of many of her performances shown on public television, kept her brilliance alive and were still used in acting classes—but the world of the theater closed around the space she had left and after a period of shock and a sense of loss, they all, like Luke, went on with their lives. Jessica Fontaine was gone.

  Why.'' What had happened to her.' Everyone had asked that question six years ago, at the time of the accident. Luke had asked it himself. But now it seemed more important than ever that he fmd the answer.

  He opened the next letter in the cluster he had taken from the box. The stationery had the imprint of a condominium complex in Scottsdale, Arizona. The handwriting once again was Jessica's, though more slanted and slightly stiff, as if each stroke had been drawn with attentive care.

  Dearest Constance, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, rorgive me . . . you wrote and called, so many times, and I ignored you. I cried wben I read your letters, and wben tbey told me you were on tbe telepbone, but I couldn t talk, not to anyone, because I couldn t tbink or anything worth saying; it all seemed sucb a waste or time. I did wbat everyone in tbe hospital told me to do, I ate and slept, I went to physical therapy twice a day, seven days a week, but I never spoke

  98 ~ Judith Michael

  except wnen I aDsolutely naa to. All my lire I've aepenaea on words, and loved tnem, but in tne nospital tney seemed weak, stupid, all empty air.

  At rirst I tried to joke anout wnat nad nappened in tne accident, to make lignt or it, but tne more I did, tne darker everything got and finally tnere was no ligbt at all, no warmtn, and no nope, because it wasn't possible to deny wnat I nad become. I don't want to bore you witn medical jargon, but you've asked so many times tbat I'll tell you. I was in snock wnen I was rescued, witb a concussion and tnree fractures. One is a rracture/dislocation or my nip and so rar I've nad tnree operations to repair tne nip joint and lit everytbing togetner again. Tbe doctors say I'll probably need a nip replacement, because or degeneration or tne bones; tnat's one or tbe prospects I nave anead or me. Tbe otner two rractures are in my remur and upper arm, including a torn rotator curr, and tbey don't seem to be bealing properly, even alter two surgeries. I bad cuts on my race and body rrom rlying glass, and I lost a lot or blood. I'm so tbin I look like a refugee from a famine, and I know tbat my face sbows all tbe pain and tne painkillers I've been taking. I can't say for sure because I'm afraid to look in a mirror.

  I've been baving different kinds of tberapy; one of tbem is called passive tnerapy, wbere I lie on a table wnile a tnerapist lifts and bends and stretcbes my completely limp arm and leg. Tnis is supposed to keep everything from freezing up wbile tbe torn tendons beal. If I did tne exercises myself before tbey neal, "firing up " my muscles, tbe stitcbes could tear apart. So day after day I lie tbere and watcb my scrawny arm and leg being manipulated by a strong, beautiful young woman wno bas ber wbole lite abead of ber, wbile mine is over. I can t imagine wby sbe botners. Wby does anyone care about tbis snell or spend time on it? Wby do tbey pretend all tbis pusbing and pulling will make a difference?

  On, Constance, wbo am I? I always took suck joy and pride in my body—so strong and responsive—and my looks and my energy and my control of my life—I could do anything, I thought—and now I look at the flat shape of my body barely disturbing the sheet on my bed and I don't recognize it. I don't know whose boay it is. And I don't know where I belong. The world is so drab, with no colors or curves

  or angles, just a rlat smear or things . . . meaningless and a waste or time, rd run away, nut I can't run. I'd put myselr to sleep rorever, but I can't seem to do it. So every nignt wnen I go to bed ror tne two or three nours or sleep tnat I manage nerore pain or terrible dreams wake me up, I pray I won't wake up. But I always do. Wny does sucn a wreck or a body keep working?

  I'm doing my tnerapy at a place called tne Landor Clinic, tne best or its kind in tne world, people say, as ir I care, and I got nere by being pusned in a wbeelcnair to and rrom tne airplane and tnen to tbis townbouse, wbicb I bougbt sigbt unseen because it didn't matter wbere I lived. Tbe main tbing is tbat tne master bedroom is on tbe first floor so I don't bave to deal witb stairs.

  Tbe doctors are talking about two years of tberapy, and by tben I'm supposed to be recombined, renovated, restored, rebuilt, reba-bilitated, and retreaded . . . something like a tire, I suppose, ready to roll again. They're lying, of course, to keep me motivated—that's their big word—at therapy and eating and sleeping and all those important things. But nothing is important. I know that, even ir they don't.

  I'm sorry for dumping all this on you—I tried not to—but I don't have anyone else and I can't bear the loneliness and darkness without at least talking to you on paper. I look at the pen in my hand and feel it touching you. I need that so much; I hug it to me. I'll try to be more cheerful next time. All my love, Jessica.

  Luke looked up, shaken, almost in tears. He had grown so accustomed to her optimism, her exhilaration at being alive, her wry humor and sharp insights—in fact, he had almost come to depend upon them—that he could not believe this was the same woman. Devastated, he thought. Broken. And without friends or family to keep her from hitting bottom. No wonder she vanished from New York. But . . . what happened after the two years.-^ People recover, even from the worst of accidents, and pick up their lives. What kept her away.-^

  Dear Constance, I'm not ready to talk on the telephone, maybe soon, but not now. My nurse was too abrupt, and I've chastised her, but please don't insist. Can't we just have letters for a while, as we

  100 ~ Judith Michael

  aid long ago? I'll answer all your questions, tnougn I naven't any-tning interesting to write anout except my rigid routine—I'm as organized as ir I puncned a time clock every nour on tne nour.

  My nurse—Prudence Etneridge, a scuta diver rrom Sydney wno is working ner way around tne world, a year in every city—pusnes my wneelcnair to tne car twice a day and drives me to tnerapy, tnen brings me nome, stopping orr at tne supermarket, or tne pnarmacy for yet anotner prescription, or a nookstore. Sne wants to take me to movies, too, but tbe tbougbt or watcbing a movie makes me ill. Twice a day sbe bolds me up wbile I sburrle around tbe large room tbat is living room, dining room and kitcben, and wben sbe loosens ber grip 1 panic and grab ber, and sbe says, in ber broad Australian accent, "Miss Fontaine, you are inrinitely better tban you tbink you are. " Or course, sbe's trained to say tbat sort or tbing.

  Lately sbe's been prodding me to take an evening art class in a community center and last nigbt I let ber take me tbere. I did some sketcbing and began a watercolor—I did it as a bobby, you know, in anotber lire—and it was tbe rirst evening tbat tbe bours didn't seem to drag on endlessly. I did a watercolor at bome tbis morning, a cbild in a garden, and tbe time rlew by again. So I tbink I'll go back to tbe class, and keep going as long as it's interesting and rills tbe bours.

  One tbing I don't bave to worry about is money. I managed to put away a great deal in my years on tbe stage, all erriciently invested by a rund manager in stocks and bonds and real estate. And tbere's tbe money rrom tbe Canadian railroad, a buge amount. I wouldn't bave sued tbem in any case, but tbey made tbeir orrer and, over my lawyer's objections (be tbougbt I could get mucb more), I accepted it.

  But aside rrom money, wbat's gone is . . . everytbing. Tbe tbeater. New York, tbe long walks I loved, tbe people I knew, tbe bouse I just bougbt and fixed up so beautifully, tbe future. My life. I start sbak-ing wben I write tbat; I want to scream. Wbat am I doing bere? Tbis isn't me, tb
is isn't wbere I belong, tbis isn't bow I fill my days and nigbts. Where is my life?

  Prudence gave me a needlepoint, framed and ready for banging. It says, Tne only answer to "Why me?" is "Why not me?"

  Acts of Lo

  /

  V E ~ 101

  Do you believe that? I don't want to. A random world, incom-prekensible, bitter, cruelly indifferent . . . witk no pattern, ever, to tlie bad tilings tkat kappen to us, or tke good ones, eitker. Unless . . . Lately I've started wondering, in tke long nigkts wken I can't sleep, if my life kas been too easy. I never kad a bad review (even in tkat awful film tkat everyone kated); I never kad a time wken tkere was no work because no one wanted me. Maybe, wken everytking goes so well, sometking bad kappens, to even tke score, so to speak. Well, I'm even. Tkey've done tkeir worst, wkatever gods are interested in making us pay for kappiness, and now I suppose tkev 11 leave me alone. Now, wken it doesn t matter anvmore.

  One of tkese days I promise I'll pick up tke telepkone and call you; until tken, please don't call anymore. So muck is jumbled in my kead, anger and fear and confusion and rage, tkat Im afraid a scream will come out if I open my moutk to talk. But I will trv to write more often tkan I kave in tke past weeks. I kope vou're well. Wnen I was in tke kospital, I tkougkt of kiding in your maze, wkere no one could find me and I'd never leave it. Did you ever feel tkat way? I tkink of you, all tke time, and I love you. Jessica.

  Luke read the letter twice, then a third time, Jessica's despair flooding him with its bitterness. What's gone is . . . everything. Why.' Because she'd been told it would be two years before she could get back to the stage.'' There had to be something more. He picked up the next letter. It was different from all those that had gone before, the paper a soft ivory, subtly textured, with an embossed fountain in the upper left-hand corner and, beneath it, three embossed lines: "The Fountain, Lopez Island, Washington State."

  Lopez Island. Luke had never heard of it. But if it was Washington State, it was probably in Puget Sound. He took an atlas from the shelf and looked it up. Puget Sound. A broad waterway bounded by Washington State, "ancouver Island and British Columbia, with dozens of islands scattered across it like confetti. One cluster of islands north of Seattle was named the San Juans. And within that cluster was Lopez Island. A dot on a map, a tiny island three thousand miles from New York. It was as if she had gone as far west as she could—and then dropped off the edge of the continent.