Which was all she was doing by inviting Carson over. And what a relief it was that he wanted to see her, that he didn’t hate her after all. She was glad he hadn’t asked what she hoped to accomplish with this meeting, because she had no answer for that. With the path ahead shrouded in fog, instinct was her only guide.
She checked on Savannah, whose door was closed but who was now singing softly and playing her guitar. For her birthday, Meg would give her a collection of Joni Mitchell CDs. The car was a wonderful gift, no question, but hardly personal. Brian hadn’t even let Savannah choose the color. He insisted they go with white, for its superior visibility. He wanted her to be as safe on the road as possible, which Meg couldn’t fault; if only he also gave that kind of attention to the things Savannah cared most about. When had he seen her play ball last? When had he listened to her sing, except by accident?
For that matter, when had she?
Thank God Beth was moving to Ocala soon; Savannah would have someone with far fewer distractions to tend her these next two years, and hopefully beyond. As Meg knew well, a girl didn’t stop needing to be guided just because she thought she did.
She went to the foyer where, with the lights off, she could see out to the road. Soon she saw headlights, the slow approach of a dark-colored car. As she headed outside to the driveway, her breath seized in her throat; now that Carson was here, she wasn’t sure what she would do, what she would say. Her invitation had been an impulse that she wasn’t sure, now, how to handle.
Too late to turn back, though. She looked down at her clothes, suddenly self-conscious. The outfit—silk-blend capris the color of a canyon sunset and a hand-embroidered white silk tee—was what she would have once called “rich bitch” clothes. At least she’d left her shoes off; being barefoot brought her a little closer to the young woman she’d been—plus, she walked more steadily without shoes, even her flattest sandals.
There was no disguising the sling she now wore; although he’d seen it earlier, she slipped it off and dropped it next to a camellia shrub.
Carson shut off the car and got out. She saw him gaze up at the house’s expertly lit stone exterior, saw him scan the copper light fixtures and gutters, the tiled roof, the patterned cobblestone driveway; when he looked at her, she expected him to make some comment about how upscale her life had become, how she’d done so well for herself. She was ready with a response about how he likely lived as well or better himself—but instead of saying anything, he walked over to her, put his hands on her shoulders, and pulled her into his arms.
She closed her eyes, pressed her cheek against his shoulder, so solid and warm beneath his shirt. His smell, his shape, the lean taper of his waist where her hands held onto him were a homecoming for her senses. He tightened his arms around her and buried his face in her hair, murmured something low and reassuring. That she couldn’t make out the words over the thump of his heart in her ear mattered not at all.
He released her slowly, until they stood apart again. “Well, that’s better,” he said.
“Definitely.” Her voice was husky. She cleared her throat. “Come on inside. I’ll buy you a drink.”
They went to the den and settled onto opposite ends of the velvet sofa, glasses of Amber rum in hand as props to bridge their awkwardness. Never would either of them have predicted that some day they’d sit together in a room like this, on brushed velvet, with damask-covered armchairs nearby, four layers of drapery covering the windows. A room where expensive liqueurs waited in antique crystal decanters. They were people who belonged someplace with thin cotton curtains and secondhand furniture—and by secondhand, she didn’t mean antique. They belonged in a room with plain pine floors, where barn cats wrapped around their ankles and the smell of orange blossoms drifted in through metal screens; a place with blue cabinets and rag rugs. This room felt like someone else’s life; she felt disoriented here, as if she’d taken a wrong turn somewhere around 1987 and kept going, missing the danger signs all along the way to now.
“Those decanters were Brian’s grandmother’s,” Meg said, to make conversation. She held up the cut-crystal highball glass in her left hand. “These, too. I tried to give them to my mom, but she wouldn’t take them. ‘Too fancy for our place,’ that’s what she said. They’re too fancy for me, too, but how can you not use something so beautiful? I’m going to give them to Beth when she gets here.”
“She’s coming to visit?”
“Moving back. To help with Dad—and me, though I hope to not need much help.”
Carson’s gaze slid away and he took a drink. “Good stuff,” he said.
She would let him avoid the subject, for now. “I got this rum on St. Bart’s, but I’m sure you can find it in St. Martin too, if you look. Rum’s like water in the islands.”
“That’s no exaggeration,” he said. “I had my share when we were there recently—though I do try to keep it reasonable these days.”
She recalled the newspaper feature about him leading the wild life, and her mother’s attempt to discuss it. “I’m glad to know that.”
This was a little better, not so awkward. He looked like he was relaxing some too, though he rubbed his chin the same way he’d done at the tailor shop. Even so, what a relief it was to know she hadn’t lost him entirely, that even in this surreal place she had access to him, for a little while anyway.
He said, “I’m glad Beth’s coming back. I don’t know quite how to ask this, but…I was reading about, about the ALS stuff, after you called me last week, and I saw that some people do pretty well for a long time.”
“Some do,” she said, glad to get on the subject rather than leave it like an unmentioned elephant in the room. “Though it’s subjective, the definition of ‘well.’”
“You seem to be doing all right,” he said cautiously.
“I’m functional. My right hand and arm are the worst. My left is weakening, but still okay. I can dress, I can drive, I can eat—and drink.” She took a sip. “I’m doing my damndest to get a journal written for Savannah. My father gave me some notebook diaries my mom kept, and I can’t tell you how much they mean to me.” She didn’t tell him that she’d begun to notice her speech was being affected—only an occasional mumbled word or dropped sound, but enough to show that things had taken a serious turn for the worse. She might accommodate the disease, she might even forget it for a few blissful minutes, but it was now certain that she wouldn’t be one of the “lucky” ALS patients.
Carson said, “Ah, Meg, I feel so awful about this….” His voice broke. “It just…it doesn’t seem real. Or fair. It’s not fair.”
She sighed. “What is? Nobody guaranteed us ‘fair.’ The way I see it, I’m just glad to have had my daughter,” or ours, she thought. “And my career. And…and the farm and groves and the lakes…. And you,” she added softly. “You know I’d do it all differently if I could do it over again—but I can’t. So…”
“So I’m glad you let me come spend a little time with you. I hope…well, it would help me a lot if you’ll let me see you now and then. If you want me to, that is.”
She didn’t answer right away, sure that he was anticipating a future where she remained mildly incapacitated for a long stretch of time, where he—and Val?—could come by to visit. How to tell him otherwise, when he was looking at her with so much hope in his eyes? Of course she wanted to see him, but he had to understand how she felt.
She said, “Carson…here’s the thing: I’m not the kind of person who’s willing to endure everything ALS dishes out just so I can live until my last possible breath. I’m not willing to be a prisoner left motionless inside my own body. My nerve sensation’s not going to go away. Clear thought won’t go away. I’ll feel, see, and hear everything but be completely unable to respond. I can’t do it, Car. I can’t…be that way.”
“No…no, I can see why—” He put a hand to his mouth for a second. “But there must be treatments you can try—”
“Other than for symptom management, no
thing’s been shown to have more than the smallest effect, not on the full-blown cases like mine.”
“What about experimental stuff? Other countries, or…?”
She shook her head. “It’s hard to believe, right? As advanced as medicine is—we expect to at least get a fighting chance. But the truth is, doctors are powerless in more areas than you want to know.”
“It’s so…” He sighed loudly. “Jesus. What will you do?”
She shrugged and turned her glass so that it caught the light and refracted it onto her lap, tiny slices of rainbow on her dark sienna pants. “I haven’t decided. But you know, I’m a doctor; I can put my hands on just about anything I need, if that’s the route I go.”
“What other—?”
“Possibilities? Methods? Nothing violent, I know that. No guns, no razor blades, nothing messy. I’m not crazy about blood.”
He laughed, in spite of the somber topic. “That figures. Me, I’m not crazy about flying, and I think I spend half my life on planes. That’s probably why I’m not crazy about it.”
“You’ve seen so much of the world, though, right? One thing I’m glad for is the traveling I’ve done. Not all of it was for pleasure, but I’ve been to Europe and Mexico and Canada—Banff is astonishing. Have you been there?”
“I haven’t. I always mean to go; it isn’t that far from Seattle, comparatively. But I’m always going somewhere else, you know?” He drained his glass, got up to refill it. “More?”
“No,” she said, concerned that her speech would get messy after more than one drink. Neither did she want to get sleepy while he was here. It was such a pleasure just to share space, to reacquaint herself with his motions, with the deep tenor of his voice, refined, now, from his years of performing. She wanted to appreciate every single sense of him, undulled even slightly.
Carson looked down at his hands, picked at a callus on one finger; she could tell he was thinking about how to ask the next obvious—but difficult—question. She waited, letting him take as much time as he needed, though she knew her answer wouldn’t satisfy him. Finally he said, “When? I mean, how will you know when you’re…ready?”
“I’m not sure. I suppose it’ll be when I feel like I’ve done what needs doing. I haven’t even told Savannah the whole truth yet. She thinks what I have is just a nuisance disease—that’s what I’ve led her to believe. I can’t put something so heavy on her so close to her birthday.”
“God, Meg. I don’t know how you’re keeping it together. I’d be a basket case.”
“Habit,” she said.
Until a few weeks ago, so much of what she did, how she lived, even what she thought was habit. It was easier to let routine take the place of conscious living—because she’d been afraid of what might happen if she looked too closely at herself, her life. A person could go too far, though, in trying to avoid facing the mistakes in her past. She could be so determined to clear an alternate path that she failed to see she was cutting a trail to nowhere.
Odd though it sounded, having ALS was beginning to feel like a free pass to ditch routine and do what she wanted. This attitude, she saw now, was what her father was trying to encourage in her; it was what her sisters were expecting when they waited for her answer to what she was going to do. They all imagined that she would be more self-centered with the end so near, that a little selfishness would be reasonable and right.
In the past, she would’ve called that attitude irresponsible; tonight, she understood.
“But I guess Brian’s been supportive,” Carson said, his tone saying he suspected otherwise.
“He’s baffled. This disease doesn’t fit his game plan. But I can’t be too hard on him, you know? He’s always had good luck. His strategies have always worked, but this time there is no winning strategy.”
“Hard for me to feel too sorry for him. He set you up, Meg—way back when, I mean.”
She nodded. “He needed an edge over you. Otherwise, why would I choose him? I’m not saying I approve, or that I’m happy about it, but I understand; he used the tools he had.”
“Wish he’d used them on somebody else.”
They sat silently for a long moment. “Africa,” Carson said suddenly. “Did you get to Africa yet?”
“No,” she said, smiling to think of him on the tire swing that long-ago day, “but I remember your promise—which I won’t hold you to. What about you? Have you been to Thailand?”
“A few years ago,” he said. “My last world tour included Bangkok.”
“Oh, that’s right, you said something about it at the show in Orlando.”
He nodded. “But it wasn’t…the experience wasn’t what I wanted it to be.”
“You didn’t like the lemongrass shrimp?”
He looked into her eyes. “You weren’t with me.”
He had never let go, just like her.
“I’m so sorry, Car,” she whispered.
The moment wrapped around them, timeless and forgiving, and then Carson stood up and reached into the pocket of his jeans. “I brought you something.”
In his hand was her gold chain.
“Oh,” she breathed.
He sat down close to her and hooked the chain around her neck, smoothing it over the ridge of her collarbones just like the first time. “There,” he said. “That looks right.”
Meg wiped her eyes on the edge of her shirt, not caring that mascara would stain the silk. As she did, a sound in the hall made her look up. Savannah, in a long loose T-shirt, came in the room, saying, “Hey, Mom—” then stopped dead. She looked at Meg, plainly astonished to see Carson there.
“Savannah! Hi, honey! I’m sorry, I should’ve told you Carson was coming by…”
Carson scooted over a little and Savannah pulled down the hem of her shirt to cover her thighs. “Hi, Carson. Um, Mom, I was just gonna ask you if Rachel can stay over after my party. Her mom says she can.”
“Okay, sure. I don’t see why not.”
Savannah continued to stare. “So…what are you guys doing?”
“Well, Carson had to—”
“I found something of your mom’s and thought I should return it before it got lost again.” He stood up as if to prove nothing inappropriate was going on.
“Wow, that’s really nice of you. What’d you lose?” she asked Meg.
“This necklace,” Meg said, touching it.
Carson said, “I found it a long time ago, but it’s taken a while to get it back to her. Looks good, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, it does. She never wears any necklaces—she’s pretty boring that way.”
Meg, surprised that Savannah paid any attention to what she wore or didn’t wear, just shrugged, but Carson smiled, and she knew by the sad curve of his lips that he understood what Savannah did not: she left her neck bare deliberately.
“It’s getting pretty late; you need to get to bed,” she said, and Savannah frowned her disappointment. “Besides, you’re not exactly dressed for company.”
“Mmm, guess I can’t argue with that,” Savannah said. She told them good night and backed out of the room. Meg went to the hall, listening until she heard the bedroom door shut.
Back in the den, Carson was sitting down again, on the edge of the sofa. “That didn’t look too good.”
“I suppose…but I’m not too worried. She’s going to know the truth about my history before long anyway—that I had a life before Brian, and particularly that you were an important part of it.” She sat down next to him, hip to hip, and marveled at how good it felt to do exactly what she felt like doing.
Touching the necklace again, she said, “Thank you for bringing this.”
“Meg…?”
“Hmmm?”
“I…listen, I’ve been thinking about what you said before—that you aren’t going to wait until, well, you know, you don’t want to become completely…and I want to…” He pushed his hands through his hair, its waviness made more obvious by the disarray. “I want to…I’m going
to postpone the wedding.”
She turned in alarm. “Car, no. That’s—you need to keep that on track. I’m not going to be responsible for any interruption of your plans. That’s not…that’s not what this is about.”
“You’re not doing anything, Meg. I’m doing it. It’s not just you—I’ve had some doubts for a while.”
“She adores you.”
He nodded. “I know. She deserves better, though. She deserves someone who returns her feelings a hundred percent. I’ve tried, honest to God, but the best I’ve been able to do is about seventy-five.”
“But—your wedding’s Saturday. You can’t call it off now. You’re just having cold feet.”
“And who wants to get into bed with a guy whose feet are icy, huh? No…I’m going to put it on hold.” He stood and paced the room. “No—no, hell, I’m just calling it off. Completely. I won’t string her along.”
Meg stared at him. He sounded very sure of his decision, and he looked…relieved. Even so, she feared he was making an emotional choice that, no matter how much it buoyed her—and to be sure, it made her so buoyant she felt lightheaded—might be a serious mistake for him.
“Carson, I don’t have a future, you know that. You’re feeling sorry for me, but that’s going to pass. I’ll be gone, and you’ll have practically another lifetime ahead of you. Don’t…don’t jeopardize your happiness.”
He sat again, hands on his knees, head down. “There is no happiness for me if I’m not giving my all. Do you understand, Meg?” He looked at her. “It’s you I want. For five minutes, five hours, five days—whatever it is, I’ll take it and be glad. Please. Let me.”
His words were an unexpected oasis. She looked into his eyes, so fond, so familiar—so much like Savannah’s—and smiled so broadly that she broke into laughter.
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