“Good. Well. Thank you. For checking. That was. Sweet of you.” We’re walking side by side past a pile of several dozen beanbag chairs, on which a couple kids are wrestling. I consider telling them to stop but one of their parents beats me to it.
“So what’s going on with Ash?” Daniel asks, keeping his eyes on the merchandise and off me.
“Um. Look, I should get back to the sale. It’s a long story, and I don’t have time—”
Daniel’s voice is hard as he says, “Alive? Dead? Can you at least spare me a couple seconds for the upshot?”
His reaction shames me into answering. “He’s in Tampa, but the guy he claimed to be staying with doesn’t seem to exist. I put him up in a cheap motel for now, and I’m trying to convince him to go back to rehab.”
Daniel nods, picking up a glass bowl and then setting it down. “That’s all I was asking.”
We continue walking in silence, and it strikes me that—for the first time in a long time—Daniel’s asking about Ash doesn’t feel like prying but, rather, something quite different. Something more along the lines of what I’d found missing with Niko, and it makes me realize how unfair I’ve been. “I’m sorry. It’s very considerate of you to ask about Ash.”
“It’s considerate of me? I’m not asking to be polite. I’m worried about him—I’ve been worried about him. I happen to love the kid.”
The word love irks me. Sure, maybe Daniel does care—I’m willing to admit I haven’t given him enough credit for that—but if he really loved Ash, wouldn’t he have stuck by him? By us? I’m not in the mood to let this one slide. “You sure had a funny way of showing it.”
He stops cold. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I distract myself pretending to look at a poncho on a clothes rack. “I mean the fact that as soon as things got tough, you took off. Tried to make me choose between Ash and you. Well, I chose my son. Of course I chose my son!”
Daniel grabs my arm, spinning me to face him. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Pulling myself from his grasp, I say, “When you broke up with me, I—”
“When I broke up with you …”
“Yes, as I was trying to say, when you broke up with me—”
“What the hell are you talking about ‘when I broke up with you’?” His voice is low and even, but he seemed to be shaking with a quiet rage.
“May I finish please?” I snap. “All I’m saying is that when you broke up with me—because I wouldn’t choose you over my son—I believe you demonstrated how deep your caring for him went.”
There! I finally said it, and, whew, it feels positively liberating to call Daniel on his bullshit.
He starts several times to respond, stops himself, then finally says, “I’ve always believed in you as a writer, only now it’s become clear to me that your talents were wasted writing that book on organization. You should write a novel. Because, Luce, what you said there was truly the most remarkable piece of fiction I’ve ever heard.”
“Excuse me?”
“I didn’t break up with you. You dumped me.”
“What—that’s insane. Why would I do that?”
“You tell me. You told me to get out of your house. You threw me out.”
“Sure, after you already said I had to choose between you and Ash.”
“I never said you had to choose. Ever! All I said is that I couldn’t stand by and watch you not doing anything—because I loved the both of you. I’d simply given you the hard truth, that Ash isn’t someone who does drugs. He’s an addict. The next thing I know, you’re screaming at me to go and pitching my albums into the yard like they’re fucking Frisbees.”
An elderly man reaches nonchalantly between us for a pewter candlestick, making me suddenly aware that while we’re having our lovers’ quarrel, we are doing so in the midst of a group of shoppers.
“There are people here,” I say. “And what you’re saying … it’s not what I remember.”
“Well, it’s what happened.”
The image of the Pretty in Pink sound track sailing through a blue sky tugs at my memory, but all I say to Daniel is “It doesn’t make sense that I’d react that way to you simply giving your opinion that Ash is an addict.”
“Sure it does. You shot the messenger.” He taps his heart, an indication as to where the bullet went. “It doesn’t matter, though. It’s ancient history. I’m over it, and I’m not mad—but do not tell me that I didn’t care.” He takes a step away from me. “You’ve got work to do, so I’ll leave you to it.”
Not until two o’clock do I have a chance to think as I sit down outside and eat a slice of the now room-temperature pizza Organize Me! brought in for the workers (dang, those people are good—they think of everything!), washing it down with a Diet Coke.
Marva has caught a ride home with Niko because, sadly, the truck was needed, as she had a change of heart about parting with the armoire she’d noticed earlier. Will is still inside working. My tiff with Daniel is playing in my head, and it’s forcing me to revisit the day we broke up, which isn’t easy. I’ve buried the memory so deeply that to dredge it up is on par with attempting the raising of the Titanic.
Did I really break up with him?
I thought I remembered clearly what happened—I’d tortured myself during enough sleepless nights. It was a Saturday afternoon, and I’d just told Daniel I couldn’t go with him to his brother’s birthday party. Ash had crawled home a few hours before in pretty bad shape. Although it wasn’t worth taking him to a hospital, I was on duty poking him every few minutes in case he was worse off than I thought. That’s when Daniel said it: I can’t take living here with Ash anymore. His drug problem is more than I can deal with. You have to choose—it’s either him or me.
But now that I’m forcing myself to look at it, is it possible that all this time I’ve conveniently edited what he said?
It’s either him or me.
An image of Daniel floats up, red-eyed, miserable, and he’s pleading with me, and now that I let myself really look at it, I realize he’s not saying, It’s either him or me. There was more to it.
It’s either keep pretending there’s not a problem with him or have the courage to listen to me. …
He’s an addict.
Luce, baby, I know this is hard to hear, but your son is an addict.
In desperation, doing anything I could to fight off the possibility that Daniel could be right, I grabbed on to what he said about Ash’s problem being more than he could deal with and used it to beat him senseless. “It’s too much for you?” I said, looking wildly about the room at anything other than Daniel’s eyes trying to catch mine, looking at me with a compassion I wasn’t willing to accept. “That’s too bad, because I already have enough to worry about with Ash. I don’t need to mollycoddle you, too.”
That’s when I did it. I tore into the living room, flipping madly through his collection of albums, grabbing the ones I knew would cause the most pain because I wanted him to hurt as much as I was, to feel as helpless as I felt. “You don’t want to look?” I shouted. “Then get out.” And I chucked the records into the yard, while Daniel stood mutely by, not stopping me, but simply watching them sail into the air, one by one at first, then handfuls at a time.
He’d only tried to tell me the truth, but I wasn’t ready to hear it. I’d pushed him out, then I changed the story—for myself more than for anyone else—so the truth couldn’t find me. It had taken a couple more months, and an irritated cabdriver, to shake me into reality. But by then, I’d already lost or thrown away everything that mattered.
You didn’t buy anything?” I joke to Will as we walk together to our cars. The sale is closed, and the storage room looks as picked over as a Thanksgiving turkey.
“Not a chance. I’d only planned to pop in, but turns out I was dressed for work,” he says sheepishly. “It felt great getting rid of so much of my mother’s junk. I’ve been wanting to roll up my sleeves and do that for year
s.”
“Whatever didn’t sell is going to charity, so you’ll never have to see it again. Nothing is coming back into that house unless it’s over my dead body.”
“I suggest you don’t give my mother that option unless your will is up-to-date.” We’re at my car, which is in dire need of a trip to the car wash, when he says, “Say, what’s with the paints and the canvas? I saw it in Marva’s office when I picked her up this morning, and she said you bought them. Why’d you do that? Isn’t the point to take things out?”
I tell him about my plan to inspire Marva, fully expecting he’ll make fun of me, but he says, “Interesting.”
“It hasn’t worked. She hasn’t so much as looked at the paints.”
He gives me a friendly pat on the back, which is such an un-Will-like gesture I’m tempted to feel his forehead for fever. “It’s not a terrible idea, getting my mother to paint. It certainly is the love of her life, her art. All she ever cared about.”
“That’s not true. She cares about you.”
He gives a wry laugh. “Anyway, nice job on the sale.”
A compliment? Now I am sure he’s ill.
“Will, have you talked to her yet? About … you know …”
“Wouldn’t do any good. Besides, I’m starting to wonder if we’ve misunderstood those notes you saw in the book. That they weren’t about suicide. Maybe it’s something else entirely—we’re misreading it.”
As much as he finds comfort in pretending nothing is wrong with Marva—if anyone understands how tempting that is, it’s me—he needs to face it. He won’t get a second chance if he doesn’t. “I found her suicide note.” His expression grows bleak as I continue, “She was working on it in her office, and I came across it.”
“What did it say?”
“Mostly that she was done living. She mentioned you in it. She kept crossing things out because she was trying to find the right words, but she said she was proud of you, of the man you are. So see? You do matter to her more than you know. You can get through to her.”
“You said it’s only a draft. Let’s see if I make it into the final,” he says with a sigh of resignation.
“Do you want to wait to find out? It can’t be easy having a mother like Marva, but she’s the mother you’ve got. You may find this hard to believe, but she’s tried to do what she feels is best by you. Maybe it’s not what you wanted, or needed, but it’s what she knew how to do. Parents make mistakes.” I pull open my car door, embarrassed in front of Will by the creaking noise it always makes. “It’ll ring true when you’re a dad. You do the best you can.”
I slide into the driver’s seat, looking forward to cruising around and being with my thoughts for a while.
I take the long route back to Marva’s, driving along the tree-lined streets, enjoying the signs of spring. As much as I wish I had the money to fix my car so I could be riding top down, that’s going to have to wait. As I told Will, there aren’t always second chances. I won’t forgive myself if I don’t do the best I can by Ash. As hard as it’s going to be, I know what I need to do now.
I’ve done so many hard things, what’s one more?
chapter nineteen
What’s that noise?” my mom says as soon as I tell her it’s me on the phone. She still doesn’t have caller ID; my dad doesn’t believe in it.
“Car wash.” I’m sitting on a plastic chair waiting for my car to make it through the wash. Between the whir of traffic on the nearby street and the car wash itself, I’m practically forced to shout.
“Any news on Ash?” my mom says.
“Sort of.” I’ve been keeping my parents updated with quick calls, but—not wanting to stress them out or admit the depths of my problems—I’ve candy-coated the situation when I could. Now is when that stops. Done hiding from the truth, I tell her about Ash. I don’t skip the gritty details—though I cringe when I confess he’s possibly using again, and how he claims he’s going to NA meetings but how even that’s probably a lie. “He already backslid once,” I say, “and I don’t dare risk it happening again. He won’t go back to the Willows so … I’m sending him to the Betty Ford.”
“In California? That’s the one where the celebrities go, isn’t it? Didn’t that one girl, the one who was in all those movies, you know who I mean, didn’t she go there?”
Strangely, I know precisely whom my mom means. “Yes, several times.”
“But, sweetheart, isn’t it expensive? Those people are rich. How are you going to afford this?”
“I’m counting on getting the bonus for this job. I’m almost finished, and it’ll just be enough.”
“But that’s your money for a house! Where will you live?”
“Funny you should ask.” Once I decided that I wasn’t going to risk having regrets about helping Ash, the plan fell easily into place. As of Friday I won’t have a job, I’ll be out of money again, and there’s nothing holding me to Chicago. I may as well move someplace where rent is free, and where I’ll be only a four-hour drive from my son. “How would you feel if I moved in with you and Dad for a while?”
“We’d love it!” She shouts away from the phone, “Roger, guess what? Lucy is going to move here and live with us!”
I hear him say, “Good.” From my dad, that’s practically gushing.
“So why Betty Ford?” my mom asks.
“It’s a place he’ll go.”
“Well, that’s a start, isn’t it?”
We talk for a few more minutes about the plan I’ve been working on all morning. I’ll book a flight for Ash to California, where a representative of Betty Ford will meet him at the airport. That’ll take a couple days. I called Ash’s motel room last night, and he’s excited, or as excited as Ash gets. As for me, after the job with Marva ends—barring the need to stick around for a funeral—I’ll pack everything into a trailer, including what’s in storage, and haul it to Arizona.
“By yourself?” my mom asks.
“I’ll be fine.”
“You’re not driving the Mustang, are you? I don’t like the idea of you driving so long a distance in such an old car.”
“I already thought of that. I’m selling it. That’s why I’m getting it washed.”
Already grieving the loss, I watch as a team of cloth-wielding men descend on my awesome, gleaming cherry-red Mustang to wipe it dry now that it’s been spewed from the mechanized wash. Niko knows a guy who’d kill to buy it off me and, more important, is willing to pay top Blue Book. I’ll use the cash I make from selling it to buy a boring, sensible car.
Fishing in my purse to find a dollar for a tip, I say, “We’ll get into the details later.”
“We’re going to have so much fun. What a wonderful Mother’s Day this has turned out to be.”
“It’s Mother’s Day? I completely forgot—and you let me get through the entire call without reminding me! Happy Mother’s Day!”
“You’ve got a lot on your mind, honey. And happy Mother’s Day to you, too. I know Ash is running you through the wringer. You’ve been so strong through all of this. He might not show it now, but someday he’ll appreciate everything you’re doing for him.”
“Thanks, Mom.” I hurry off the call because a car-wash worker is waving a rag to signal I’m done, and I don’t feel like crying in front of him.
It’s ten o’clock and I’m finishing up for the night at Marva’s. The deadline is Friday, and the X-filled calendar on my wall shows a mere five days left. I should really keep working, but Marva is cranky and has bandied about the term slave driver one too many times for my taste. As if I’m the one who came up with the strict deadline and then dragged her feet for weeks.
I’m leaning into the refrigerator, deciding whether Marva would notice one of her apples missing, when the door bangs open in the living room. In walks Will, carrying a large, brown-paper-wrapped package the size of a mirror or a frame.
“Where’s Marva?” he asks.
“Office. What’s that?”
�
�A gift. Do me a favor—go in there and take the canvas off the easel. Hurry—this thing is bulky.”
I give my customary knock that I do when I enter Marva’s office—even if the door is open, which it is. Will follows, setting the package on the easel as soon as I take the canvas down.
Marva looks up from where she’s sifting through a box of loose photos at her desk. “What’s this?”
“Happy Mother’s Day,” he says, and tears the paper off. Even before he steps aside, it’s apparent what he’s brought her.
“How on earth did you get Woman, Freshly Tossed?!” I exclaim, figuring somebody had better show excitement, because Marva’s expression is blank.
Luckily, Will isn’t noticing because he’s beaming as he says, “I still had the GPS coordinates to that house in Grosse Pointe, so I hopped in the car today and drove up there. Made them an offer they couldn’t refuse.”
“What’d you pay for it?” I ask. He had to have gotten it for a song since those people had no idea of its value.
“Didn’t your mother teach you manners? You don’t ask what a gift costs,” Will says. “But I paid a fair price. Apparently, my interest in it so soon after it caught the eye of a certain decorating-magazine writer tipped them off that it might be worth something. They did fast homework. Damn that Google.”
“What a thoughtful and generous gift.” I look leadingly at Marva. “Isn’t it?”
“It is,” she says evenly, getting up from her chair. “Whatever possessed you to do it, Will?”
“You’ve given up so much. You should have it. And … uh …” He pauses, and I quietly begin backing out of the room so he can be candid. This is his moment to finally open up to Marva in a way that will get through to her that she’s making a huge mistake. To tell her what he’s been holding in all these years. He clears his throat. “It’s a good investment.”
Ugh. Will.
“Thank you,” Marva says.
Hoping to prompt a more heartfelt conversation between them, I say, “I’ll get going so the two of you can talk further. Will, I’m sure Marva would love to hear more about what inspired this gift.”
Objects of My Affection Page 27