Forty-two
FOR THE FIRST TIME SINCE MEETING VAL, CARSON WASN’T GLAD TO HEAR her voice on the phone. She called at lunchtime Friday, when the three movers were lounging with him in his kitchen, eating pizza he’d ordered. He went out onto the broad balcony to talk, stepping into hazy sunshine that made him squint. The sound gleamed more blue than gray, and was dotted with boats helmed by people reveling in the Seattle springtime—something he, too, would like to be doing but his enthusiasm for spring, for Val, for moving to Malibu was as boxed away as his belongings.
“It’s all over,” Val said, and Carson forgot for a split second that she would mean the Bali surfing competition. “I edged her out! You should see the water—I didn’t know if I could hang on, but I did!”
He forced himself to sound more enthused than he felt. “Hey, that’s great, congratulations!”
“Yeah, thanks. Wish you were here…. Oh, hell! I gotta go for now—I told this guy from ESPN I’d give him three minutes before the awards, and he’s coming this way. How’s the packing going? And here comes the ABC chick—sorry for the rush! Call ya later!”
Later. Later would have to be better; she wouldn’t be quite so wound up. Would he be more in the mood to talk to her even then? Everything in his world was dimmed by Meg’s bad news, and the longer he lived with it, the worse he felt.
What must she be going through? Had she told Hamilton? He’d spent some time on the Internet, reading about ALS—and just thinking about it horrified him. She’d sounded so calm…. Too calm. Too accepting. Why didn’t she fight it? He needed to talk to her again, encourage her to do something. She was a doctor, for God’s sake—she’d have to know of something more than what he’d been able to unearth. Some experimental cure, or if not a cure, something that could bring a remission. Losing her to Hamilton had been bad, but that paled next to the black hole he saw opening in his life if he were to lose her to this. He had to see her.
He stepped back inside. “Listen, guys,” he said to the movers, “something’s come up. I need you to take the rest of the day off.”
They looked at each other, seemed to shrug as one unit, and then Ernesto, the lead, said, “You’re gonna need to reschedule with the office, for us to finish. We got stuff lined up all next week.”
“Yeah, okay,” Carson said, boxing up the remaining pizza for them to take. From his fridge he took the last four beers and handed them over, hurrying the guys out. “Don’t drink and drive, now.”
As soon as they’d gone, he moved some boxes aside and sat down on his sofa, rubbing his mouth with one hand. He had no choice—he called his real estate agent and told her to delay the closing, even if it meant the buyers decided to take their offer off the table. “Tell them I had a family emergency.”
That wasn’t exactly a lie—Meg was like a distant…sister? Oh, right, he thought, a sister. She was more than a distant relative of any kind, certainly more than a sister, but what she was to him was not as easy to name as what she was not. She was not his girlfriend, fiancée, wife. She was not even his friend anymore. He thought of soul mate but shied away from the cliché—then thought about it further: his soul’s mate…. Was there such a thing? He wasn’t sure. His heart’s mate, though, he was sure she was that. Which didn’t mean he didn’t love Val. The feelings were completely different. Meg owned a piece of him Val would never see or reach or even comprehend. He should have fought for Meg, should have pushed through the pain of his wounded pride and showed her how wrong she was…. Ah, the genius of hindsight.
He called his travel agent. When a seat on an evening flight was arranged, he called his parents. His mom answered.
“Hey Ma, you know how when I left the other day you said you wished you could see more of me? I apologize for the short notice and all, but if one of you can stand staying up a little late tonight, I’ll join you for a nightcap.”
Silence. Then, “Carson, does this have anything to do with Meg? Because if it does, let me remind you how conveniently she left you for Brian Hamilton when he was the one with all the money.”
“It’s not like that, Ma.”
“Oh no? Wasn’t she calling to tell you she’s getting divorced?”
He closed his eyes. If only. He repeated what Meg had told him, then said, “I don’t know what I can do for her, if anything. I just…I just need to be there.”
He waited while his mom processed the news. She said, “Okay, I can understand that. What about Val? Does she know?”
“I’ll talk to her tomorrow. This…it doesn’t have to be a problem. She’s very understanding. We can keep things on schedule.”
“Oh, honey,” she said. “I’m so sorry about Meg. How awful for all of them…. Just give us a call after you land, so we’ll know about when to expect you.”
“Thanks, Mom,” he said, relieved to have her support. And then he decided, “You know, it’s gonna be late—I don’t want to disturb you guys. I can bunk in the shed.”
“Honey…I understand how you’re feeling, but you haven’t slept there in forever; I’m not sure the AC unit even works anymore. Use the guest room like always. If it makes you feel better, we won’t wait up.”
“I…I’ll feel better if I stay in the shed. If that’s okay.”
“You know we’ll just be glad to have you here,” she said.
Forty-three
ON FRIDAY IN THE SCHOOL’S SMALL CAFETERIA, SAVANNAH SAT WITH HER usual lunchmates: Rachel and Miriam, a slight, stunning girl whose father once played baseball for the Minnesota Twins. Talk was of whether they should go downtown to the Cinco de Mayo festival later, but Savannah’s mind refused to stay engaged. She kept drifting to the things Kyle said to her the night before, when she’d again lain in her bed talking to him late into the night. Sweet, intimate promises of what they’d do when he got back in town tonight.
With Kyle so much on her mind all week, she’d scored 72 on her trigonometry exam and 81 on her world history quiz, and fallen asleep during the movie they’d watched in art yesterday afternoon—but she was keeping it together. Only Aunt Beth seemed to notice she was making herself scarce at home; last night after she and her dad had gotten back from Dairy Queen, Beth had come up to her room and sat on the bed for a minute. “You’re like a mouse in a houseful of cats,” Beth said, smiling. “It’s a boy, right?”
Savannah was glad to admit she was seeing someone. She said, “Mom doesn’t know, though—the nerve thing has made her really distracted and all, so, you know, I didn’t tell her.” Beth’s face clouded at this. It was a lame excuse….
Beth said, “She does have a lot on her mind—but I think she’d be glad to hear your news.”
“It’s no big deal,” Savannah said. “You can tell her if you want.”
But Beth said no, she’d leave that to her. “Don’t be afraid to share stuff with your mom; you’re at the top of her list, you know.”
Savannah thought of this again. It sounded good, but as far as she could tell, the top of her mom’s list right now was Grandpa Spencer—which she had to admit made sense. His surgery went well, but he was in a lot of pain, and that made him cranky and demanding. Aunt Jules had remarked, “And he wonders why I was so ready to get out of the house at the first possible chance!”
She understood Aunt Jules perfectly. Not that her parents were so awful, but they were hardly around, and they hardly noticed when she was around. They had so little to do with the truth of her life, and she definitely didn’t feel central to theirs. If anything, she felt like a chore, always having to be taxied to and from school or practice or games or lessons…she could not wait to get her car.
Tonight Kyle was staying again at what she now thought of as “their” hotel. She wanted to take him out for dinner and then see a movie. “Great plan,” he’d said, “if I can, like, keep my hands off you long enough.” He said he couldn’t wait to taste her again.
“Sa-vannah. Where are you?” Rachel waved a tuna sandwich in front of her face.
&nbs
p; She pushed Rachel’s hand away. “No place. What?”
“Are you coming downtown with us or not?”
A few weeks ago she would’ve joined them at whatever, without question—and any girl who declined to hang with her friends because of a guy would’ve earned her derision. Before Kyle, she didn’t understand why a girl would choose a guy over her friends. Now she got it, though: some guys were worth it. None of the ones her friends had gone for, but that was the difference between her and them—she had higher standards.
“No, I can’t go; I have a date.”
Rachel whispered in her ear, “I told you I can’t cover for you again.” Her family was leaving first thing tomorrow for a wedding in Wales.
“I know. It’s cool. I’m not staying over.”
Miriam tossed a piece of bread crust at them, hitting Savannah’s shoulder. “No secrets,” she said.
“Yeah, Rachel,” Savannah said loudly. She told Miriam, “She was confessing how she prefers Michael Jackson’s body over Ashton Kutcher’s—so there, the secret is out.”
She laughed as Miriam squealed her disgust, and then she ducked Rachel’s mock punch.
Rachel said, “You think I’m bad—Savannah’s hot for Marilyn Manson.”
“Oh, baby!” Savannah said with faked passion, thinking that they had no idea what the real thing felt like—but she did.
Forty-four
ANNA POWELL’S VERY LAST DIARY ENTRY, MADE ON THE NIGHT BEFORE SHE died, came early in the twelfth notebook. Meg knew it was there and had avoided reading it, resisting the finality of her mother’s last words. For all that she hadn’t wanted to become ensnared in the past and the pain it could bring, the more she read, the more she didn’t want her visit with her mother to end. What she’d discovered, though, in creating her own journal, was that the end wasn’t final, not for the reader; she could go back to the first entry and visit her mother all over again.
And so on Friday night after her sisters’ tearful exits, with Savannah gone to the movies and Brian out to dinner with a client, she treated herself to Chinese takeout and white wine. Then, when she thought she could stand it, she braved the last entry.
September 10, 2005
Low: 64º high: 89º. Clear, breezy, and hot.
I have a headache tonight that just won’t quit. Must be the humidity, or maybe a storm’s brewing and I’m feeling the drop in barometric pressure.
Spencer was gone to that orchid show today, so I made plans to have lunch with Meggie, just the two of us. Call me crazy, but I’ve had the oddest feeling, like there’s been an angel on my shoulder bugging me to talk with my oldest, get things off my chest. For what good I don’t know, but I decided to just do it so that angel’d be happy.
Meggie picked me up, and I noticed how she drove slowly past the McKays’. “Word is that they’ve got a bumper grapefruit crop coming this winter,” I said, just making conversation. From the road, you can see gobs of ripening fruit, which is not always the case. Some years aren’t so favorable. Anyhow, she speeds up then, like I’ve caught her doing something bad.
So I start in with the little speech I’d been thinking up, even though I meant to wait till we were done eating. All I wanted her to know was how worried I am about her, how I just don’t feel right about the way we encouraged her to marry Brian. Oh, he’s a fine son-in-law, caring and polite and supportive and all, but he’s not the kind of man to make her happy. Something’s missing in him. I’ve given it a lot of thought, and if I had to pin down just what the thing is, I would call it passion. He’s got energy and dedication and ambition to spare, and some would say that’s what passion is, but no, I’m talking about the sort of energy that connects a person to the power of nature and life. Like Spencer has, and Savannah. Like Meggie used to when she was little. And Kara, bless her, with those four boys and all those ideas!
Spencer isn’t always sensible, it’s true. But in all my 64 years, for all the hardships I’ve endured because of his crazy ideas or wrong assessments or my own shortsightedness or what have you, I’ve always been glad to be his wife. Meggie and Brian, they live so well, but I know—we all know—something’s missing there. Brian stifles her, drains her. I think that whole way of life, fine as it looks, has disconnected her from everything she loved as a girl.
I started to tell her my worries—that she will turn out a depressed and lonely empty-nester if this all keeps up—but as soon as I said, “Honey, I’m a little worried about you these days,” she starts talking about how well Savannah’s doing in school and how they’re going to buy her a new car for her birthday next spring! Off track I went like a duck after a bug, putting in my two cents about all these kids getting everything given to them these days. Not accusing her and Brian, mind you—I do have one or two diplomatic bones in my body—but giving my opinion that a child who never has to work for anything is being deprived of important life lessons. Meggie didn’t disagree.
At the restaurant, I try to launch my little speech again, only I try to be more subtle. “Only a couple more years until you and Brian are on your own,” I say, “and won’t that be a change? You getting pregnant right away didn’t give you much time to just be a couple.” She agreed, which I thought meant we were making progress, but then she starts telling me about a fifteen-year-old patient of hers who’s pregnant, and married too! And I can’t seem to steer the subject back to her and Brian…. So I gave up. I figure maybe I have mistaken what the angel wants.
We had a nice time together, Meggie and me, which is worth a lot. I can’t think of the last time we spent an afternoon just talking, no real agenda (that she knew of, anyway). I suppose either I should mind my own business and let her mind hers, or wait for a time when she’s open to talking about her troubles.
If she ever is—with me anyway. Could be she blames Spencer and me for them, and I can’t fault her if she does. I need to work up the nerve to just ask her outright and tell her I’m sorry. But Mother Above, you know I don’t enjoy stirring pots! Right now, though, I’m going to see if I don’t still have some of those extra-strong pain pills from when Spencer had his double root canal. I need to be rid of this headache or I’ll never sleep, and heaven knows a good night’s rest would do me a world of good.
A long sigh shuddered through Meg.
She did blame her mother in part; it would have been good for her to do some pot-stirring; Meg would’ve said yes, Mom, you were wrong to encourage my marriage and so was Dad. And she would’ve said, but I understand, and it’s my fault too, and Brian’s. With the blame spread all around, neither she or her mother would have had to feel so burdened by it. If only she hadn’t been so determined to avoid talking about her marriage, if only her mother hadn’t given up so easily….
If only.
Were there sadder words than these?
Forty-five
SAVANNAH WAVED AS KYLE PULLED UP TO THE CURB IN FRONT OF THE MOVIE theater, where her dad had dropped her off minutes before.
“Sweet Savannah,” Kyle sang from the window of his car, a late-nineties Pontiac. The seats were gray cloth, threadbare and stained—he’d left the windows down in the rain too many times—but she hardly cared.
“Aren’t you gonna park?”
He grinned his dimpled grin. “How ’bout we skip the movie? I been waiting sooo long to see you and, you know, there’s just no way I can keep my attention on the screen.”
How could she refuse him when he smiled like that? She got in, and they left the theater, Kyle lighting up a joint as soon as they were on the road. “Here you go,” he said, passing it.
“I’m good,” she said. “You can go ahead, though.”
He held the joint in front of her. “C’mon—you can’t get addicted. You had fun last week, right?”
To protest would make her a hypocrite, after joining him the last time. And she didn’t want him thinking she was judging him, or that she was acting her age. “Yeah, okay, I guess I’ll have a toke.”
Handing it back to
him after, she said, “Now I have something for you.” She took a fat envelope from her purse and set it on his lap. “To help with summer class tuition. Did you register yet?”
“Babe! That’s so generous. How much is it?”
She leaned close and whispered against his ear, “A thousand.”
“No shit!” His excitement thrilled her, and she bit his ear playfully. He said, “But hey, can you really afford that?”
“Yeah, it’s from my savings, like before. I told you, I don’t need it for anything. Might as well use it for something worthwhile.” Like making him happy—and maybe grateful to her too. Make him think of her as a partner. By the time she was out of high school he’d be done with his undergrad work at Florida State, and they could get some really great apartment together in Tallahassee. Then she’d go to State too, while he worked on his master’s. Her parents might even help pay his way—they’d love him by that time, once they got past the age difference. And if not, oh well.
She and Kyle passed the joint back and forth as they crossed town, and when they arrived at the hotel she felt like she might have flown there. Kyle checked them in while she waited in the car, singing along to a No Doubt song and rifling through his glove box. Instead of the song lyrics, she sang, “Pen-cil, registration, tire gauge, tiny flashlight, tiny, flashlight, tiny flash-light…French fries, condoms!” At the bottom of the compartment were three condoms, packaged together in a crusty strip.
“Found the stash,” Kyle said when he got back to the car, startling her. Hadn’t he just gone inside? Time behaved so oddly when you were stoned.
She held up the strip. “You must be a Boy Scout or something—always prepared!” Except that last week he hadn’t bothered with condoms, saying it was just as fun to find alternate places to finish the deed. Well, either way, as long as she didn’t get pregnant, it was all good.
In the room, he set his canvas knapsack on the bed and dropped down next to it. “Like every good Boy Scout, I have one of these—got it in Miami.” He took out a digital camera. She started to sit down next to him, but he held up a hand like a stop sign. “Wait—photo op.” He turned on the power, focused on her, and took a picture.
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