Souvenir

by Therese Fowler

“Come here,” she said, reaching for him.

  Their joining was as simple as that. Far simpler than she’d expected, and more genuine too. She didn’t think about Carson, not for more than a moment when she acknowledged how differently she felt toward Brian. Protective. Sympathetic. Not passionate in the least. There had been a time, earlier in their marriage, when she’d made an effort to be an enthusiastic partner; her body had longed for the intensity she’d had with Carson. Brian, though, was uninspiring in bed. If she was attractive, clean, and willing to have straightforward sex, that was all he needed. Tonight was not so different from past nights, except that she knew—and maybe he did too—that it would be their last.

  After Brian was asleep, she sat on the edge of the marble tub using a swab and slide to prepare the DNA sample for the lab. Surprisingly, she felt much better about everything now. She hadn’t gone to Brian with a scheming spirit; she’d gone to him as a good friend saying good-bye. The DNA test, too, felt like a right move, a step taken toward the truth, whatever it might be. Finally.

  THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, MEG TUCKED BRIAN’S SAMPLE IN HER PURSE, then had Savannah drive them to the clinic for Savannah’s supposedly routine checkup. From there, they went on to the lab.

  “Why do I have to have blood work?” Savannah asked on the way. “I just had a checkup. I’m not sick.”

  “For the drug test, obviously,” Meg said, straight-faced.

  Savannah jumped as if she’d been jabbed. “What? That’s—I’m not—”

  “No? Good. Make sure that you don’t.” She smiled a little, to herself. It was good to shake up your kid every now and then. “Now, about Friday night…”

  With Savannah captive in the car, this was the best chance she’d had so far this week to bring up the subject of what had happened the other night. They went back and forth with the “nothing” versus “something” argument, and then Meg said, “Honey, I’m not as clueless as you might imagine. I’m not asking because I want to admonish you; I’m asking because I’m concerned. If you’ll stop pretending that I’m crazy, I’ll try to treat you like the young adult you’re trying to be. Oh—turn left up here.”

  After she turned, Savannah said, “Okay, fine. I’ll tell you. I have a boyfriend, and we had a fight.”

  Progress, at last. “A boyfriend?” Meg tried to sound surprised. “Anyone I know?”

  “No.”

  “Where does he go to school?”

  “You know what, Mom? I want to tell you, but I know you’ll be mad. You and Dad are just so…conservative. You’re all, like, so concerned about the right school, the right neighborhood, the right parents…”

  Meg frowned. Her? “No, that’s not true. I don’t care about that stuff, as long as the boy is, you know, a decent human being. He could be purple and from Saturn—”

  “Nothing can live on Saturn,” Savannah said, instantly becoming, in Meg’s eyes, nine years old again. If only.

  Meg blinked away the thought. “You get my meaning,” she said

  “Well, Dad’s like that. So even if you were cool with, with the guy, Dad would never be, and I just…I don’t know. I was going to tell you…eventually.”

  But eventually might be too late. Meg said, “Okay, well, I’m glad of that. I want—no, I need—you to know that I’m…that there’s more to me than it might seem, just like you. I’m not just a doctor and a mom and a wife. I’ve been busy being those things for as long as you can remember, I’m sure, but I’m as complex a human being as you—as anyone. You can talk to me, okay?”

  Savanna shrugged.

  “There’s the place,” Meg pointed with her left arm. The right, cradled today in a sling, she saved for the important tasks. It was weak all the time now, and, fearing worse was coming soon, she’d journaled a lot about her early life and the history of Powell’s Breeding and Boarding, the orchid effort before that, even a summary of what she remembered being told of her parents’ courtship. She’d also written Kara and Beth and Julianne’s phone numbers, addresses, birth dates, and the particulars of their husbands and kids, wondering when Beth would find the right man. It saddened Meg to see her alone, though Beth insisted she was content being single at thirty. Yesterday Beth had called to say she was moving to Ocala in six weeks, ready to keep tabs on their father, ready to do for Meg whatever needed done. Meg thought of Lana Mathew’s sister, Penny. She vowed to herself that, even though she’d done plenty of diaper-changing for Beth three decades ago, she would not under any circumstances permit Beth to return the favor. She would make her exit before it came to that, no matter what.

  They pulled into the lab’s parking lot. Inside the squat gray brick building, some anonymous man or woman would draw from Savannah’s arm the answer to a sixteen-year-old question, and another would mail it to Meg’s office after five business days. What would the test show? Right now, Savannah was likely thinking about whether to reveal her secrets, but the most substantial revelation the two of them might share would be much more dramatic than where Savannah’s boyfriend went to high school. Meg wished she could tell her so, as if to say, Whatever you’re worried about is nothing by comparison to my secrets, so how about you just tell?

  Savannah shut off the car. “So why am I doing this? You don’t need to check for drugs, Mom, I swear.”

  Maybe Savannah had something to hide, but Meg knew she also just hated needles; when Savannah was nine and cut her knee open, skate-boarding with her friend Jonathan, Meg and two ER nurses had to restrain her just so the doctor could get her prepped with anesthetic. Last year, when Savannah went for her tetanus booster, she’d come out of the exam room in tears.

  “Routine stuff. Anemia, the health of your blood cells, the function of certain glands. Just remember not to look, and it’ll be over before you know it.”

  “His name is Kyle.” Savannah opened the door.

  “Hold on—” Meg reached for her shirt, caught the hem. “What did you fight about?”

  Savannah paused. “Stupid stuff. Let’s just get this over with, okay?”

  For the moment, Meg let her go. But she watched how Savannah moved, walking inside; her posture hadn’t changed much since Friday night despite the apologetic resolution Meg had overheard. Yes, it might be needle dread, but she guessed it was more. The “stupid stuff” Savannah and this Kyle had supposedly fought over still weighed Savannah down.

  They signed in. Almost right away, the phlebotomist called Savannah back. Meg stayed behind long enough to drop off Brian’s sample, then followed.

  She sat across from Savannah and watched the dark blood fill the first of three vials, two of them intended for the tests she’d described to Savannah, the other bound for the more crucial purpose. Meg imagined she could see the twisting strands of DNA thick in the vial, eager to show that her last hours with Carson had resulted in the marvelous creation now seated in front of her. She might as well admit she wanted Savannah to be Carson’s—selfishly wanted this, it was true. Such a desire had little regard for what Savannah might feel when she learned such a truth, little regard for the confusion, anger, hurt, loss she would surely suffer. Savannah idolized Carson, but she didn’t know him as a man, let alone think of him as anyone’s dad. Brian, for good or bad, was her father de facto; no DNA test would dissolve the experience of their sixteen years of cohabitation.

  The wish was selfish, but grounded in the love Meg still had for Carson, love she hoped she could show Savannah, share with her somehow.

  Still…the risk of hurting Savannah made her nervous, protective. So okay, if Carson proved to be the one, she didn’t have to tell Savannah, or Carson, or Brian.

  Or maybe, like her daughter sitting here with her eyes squeezed shut, she was afraid to face what really wasn’t such an awful thing. Savannah might well benefit from the knowledge.

  Funny, Meg thought, how she could look into the abyss of mortality without fear but trembled at the prospect of harming her daughter. Watching Savannah, she reassured herself that the decisions
she’d been making these past many days were, ultimately, for Savannah’s own good.

  The technician laid aside the third vial and pressed a gauze square to Savannah’s arm. “There you go,” the woman said. “You can open your eyes.”

  Forty-nine

  FEELING LIKE A STALKER, CARSON SAT PARKED BEHIND A BLOOMING GARDENIA hedge, waiting for Meg and Savannah to emerge from the medical lab. He hoped their presence there, and at the clinic before that, meant Meg was pursuing some kind of treatment. He hoped she’d told her family about her illness and had been persuaded to try whatever there was to try. As long as the treatment wasn’t worse than the disease, that is—he couldn’t bear the thought of Meg suffering.

  Every day since his arrival he’d tailed her, as if by knowing her movements around the area he would be able to decide how—or even if—he should approach her. Since his conversation with Val on Saturday, he’d been swinging wildly from one emotional extreme to the other, a trapeze artist in a two-ring circus. Val was wounded but willing to stand by him while he worked through this thing with Meg—that’s what he’d called it, “this thing with Meg.” He felt bound to honor his commitment to Val, couldn’t see any logical reason not to. Then he’d swing the other way, toward what he thought of as his dark side, the place where Meg still held him captive and he was convinced that she always would.

  He was honor-bound to marry Val, and yet honor-bound not to.

  And so he drove around Ocala in his rental, a car that was too small and underpowered for his taste, feeling incapable even of turning the damn thing in for something better. He kept thinking he’d go see Meg, then return the car and get back to Seattle and finish packing up. But here it was, Wednesday afternoon, and he was no closer to a decision than when he’d arrived Friday night.

  She hadn’t been looking for him yesterday, he knew that much; she’d only been…looking. As he was now, as she and Savannah emerged from the gray building and walked, Meg limping and with her arm in a sling, toward what looked like a brand-new SUV. She’d come a long way since the days of having to share her parents’ old Ford wagon. And now she was facing the end of the path, the destination they were all bound for—regardless of what sort of car was in the garage—but which everyone studiously ignored. Death was for other people, always; wasn’t that the way of it?

  Impulsively, he got out of the car and waved. “Meg!” he called, loudly enough for them to hear him across the parking lot.

  As one, she and Savannah turned and spotted him there. He waved again and jogged over. “Hi. I thought that was you,” he said.

  Savannah, looking far more startled than Meg, said, “Hey, hi! Is some evil doctor forcing you to give up your blood, too?” She unfolded her arm, and he saw gauze taped inside her elbow. He felt deflated; so it wasn’t a visit on Meg’s behalf.

  He said, “No, I’m—I just had to stop in to, um…” An excuse failed him. “That is, well, I got sort of turned around—it’s been a long time since I drove through this side of town. I was just about to go in there,” he pointed to the oil-change shop at the other end of the lot, where he’d parked, “and ask for directions.” That sounded slightly plausible. From the way Meg looked at him, he could see she hadn’t bought it.

  Savannah apparently had. She said, “Where are you going? I pretty much know my way around now that I’ve been driving for a while. With my permit, I mean. I can’t get my license until Saturday.”

  “Monday,” Meg corrected, “when the testing center’s open. But Carson doesn’t need to hear every detail.” She looked amused. That was good; at least her sense of humor wasn’t lost already. To him she said, “She’s just relieved to have lived through the blood draw.”

  “Of course,” he nodded, looking at Savannah, so pretty, so much like her mom. “Doctors are evil. You’re lucky to still be alive.”

  The words were out before he realized how incredibly insensitive they sounded.

  “She is,” Meg said quickly, glossing over his gaffe. “Most of the time we have our henchmen just drain the person dry.”

  They all laughed, and then no one seemed to know what to say next. He groped for a topic, found a clue in Savannah’s comment about her license. “So, Saturday—you must be turning sixteen.”

  “Yeah, we’re having a party at the house…” Her tone suggested she wasn’t looking forward to it, and he wondered why not. She went on, “Hey, if you wanted, I bet it would be okay for you to come.”

  Obviously he had to thank her and decline. He knew this, and yet he wished desperately for it to be otherwise. He wanted to be a part of Meg’s life, spend a few hours in her company, just be where she was. But even if he could be there, he couldn’t imagine that Brian Hamilton would be too thrilled to have him around. He imagined the introduction Hamilton might make. Hey Preston, old boy, let me introduce Meg’s old flame, a guy who was Punk’d on MTV back in January…. Of course, Hamilton wouldn’t have had time to watch MTV when they were teens; he’d have been too busy reading the Wall Street Journal. He’d know about Punk’d only from channel-surfing during commercials on the Golf Channel.

  But more than the social and cultural differences separating Hamilton and himself, there would be the knowledge that Meg was once his, and that Brian had basically extorted her commitment. Men didn’t forget these things. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t even consider putting himself in the same space with Hamilton; too much temptation to maim the guy. Ordinarily, though, Meg wouldn’t be terminally ill.

  He said, “You know, I really appreciate your invitation, but I gotta pass. Other obligations.”

  “Oh, sure…that’s cool,” Savannah said, looking disappointed.

  “Carson’s wedding is Saturday,” Meg said.

  “You’re getting married on my birthday? Oh my god, that’s so great!”

  “I’ll expect you to remember to send anniversary cards,” he joked, though his heart was hardly in it.

  “Yeah, absolutely,” Savannah said, smiling.

  Meg, whose eyes were deep pools of thought he could only begin to guess at, said, “But maybe we’ll see you again before you head out of town.”

  An invitation. He felt it more than heard it. “Sure,” he nodded. “I’m not leaving until Friday.” Less than forty-eight hours from now, but he’d happily give all the remaining hours to Meg. Would Val begrudge him stepping out of their relationship that way—if such a thing could even happen? He would never tell her. She was giving him a lot of emotional leeway as it was. It couldn’t happen, though. Meg had a daughter to tend, a party to plan. She might give him a platonic hour or two, at best.

  He’d take it.

  “Well, we’re off to find a birthday outfit,” Meg said. “But here—Savannah, grab the notebook from my purse.”

  Savannah gave her the notebook and Meg held it so she could write with her slinged hand. “Here’s a map of how to get back on the main routes from here.” She wrote for a minute, then ripped the page off and handed it to him.

  In addition to the roughly drawn map was, in place of a street name she knew full well he was familiar with, a phone number and 10 PM. He looked up at her. “This is terrific, you’ve rescued me.” The look in her eyes—the relief that must match the look in his own—made his knees weak. He swallowed hard, conscious of Savannah’s presence, and added, “You know how guys are about directions. I would’ve been going in circles all evening.”

  They said their good-byes and then, when he was seated again in the little rental car, he stored the number in his cell phone and began to count the minutes until he could use it.

  Fifty

  MEG’S PHONE RANG AT A MINUTE BEFORE TEN. SHE WAS IN THE DEN, ALONE with the shadows that stretched across the waxed parquet, holding but not reading an article titled “How and Why to Live with ALS.” She’d read it before, more than once, in fact; it was only wise to do what she’d counseled an unfortunate few of her patients to do, when facing the sobering facts of their own incurable disease: make sure you know what you�
��re doing when you choose to ride it out, or not.

  She answered the phone, elated to see the name on the display. “Carson. I’m so glad you called. Sorry for the subterfuge earlier.”

  “No, I—of course.”

  “You must think I’m a crazy person.”

  “No crazier than a guy who supposedly got lost in the town he grew up in and visits periodically.”

  So she was right in suspecting that his appearance outside the lab was no coincidence. She wasn’t foolish enough, though, to imagine his motivation was anything more than concern for a dear old friend. Hopefully it wasn’t simply pity.

  “Where are you now?” she asked.

  “Home. At my folks’, that is. Usually I stay at the house, but I’ve reclaimed the shed for the week,” he said, his voice soft with memories. “Are you at home?”

  “In the den.” She thought of him there in the shed, surrounded by the details of their youthful dreams: the blue cupboards, the vines she’d stenciled over every downstairs window, the colorful rag rugs Beth and Julianne had braided one summer under Kara’s guidance—they’d all wanted to be involved in their big sister’s romantic future. She wished she was there again, in the innocent past.

  He said, “Can you talk?”

  “Nobody’s around.” Savannah was in her room on the phone. Brian was in Jacksonville for the night, due back tomorrow evening. “I was wondering, though, if you wanted to…that is, if you felt like coming by.”

  “Get reacquainted with you and Brian?” he said with a humorless laugh.

  “No, Carson, of course not. He’s out of town. And Savannah wouldn’t even know you’re here; she never comes out of her room this late. But if you’d rather not—”

  “I’m on my way—oh, directions would be good.”

  While she waited for him to arrive, Meg looked over the “How and Why” article once more. To the credit of its author, it didn’t sugarcoat the reality of ALS, and it didn’t use religion as an antisuicide stick. Under the “Why” column were “family events and milestones” and “opportunity to help advance research.” Nowhere did it say “because a cure is on the horizon.” Even the most optimistic medical advice wouldn’t make that claim. In essence, the pamphlet reminded the patient of things they might wish to experience, or witness, while waiting for the end. “Remember,” it said, “you have the right to live out whatever ambitions you feel you can accomplish.”