Facets

by Barbara Delinsky

  After two months, the doctors recommended that she be moved. “Why can’t she come home?” Pam asked John, when he told her their decision. They were eating dinner, just the two of them in the large dining room where John always insisted on taking his meals. He thought it was elegant. Pam thought it was empty.

  “Because she isn’t well.”

  “She’s not on any machines,” Pam argued. She felt she’d seen enough in the past few months to deserve a more substantial answer. “Some patients are hooked up to so many that you can hardly see them through the wires. Not Mom. There are no machines, and she isn’t in a body cast or anything. She doesn’t even take much medicine.”

  “Still, she’s not well.”

  “Then let her come home and we’ll get a nurse for her here.”

  “She needs more than just a nurse.”

  “Then we’ll hire whoever she does need.”

  “Pam,” he put down his fork to stare at her as though she were a half-wit, “this house isn’t designed for a paraplegic.”

  Pam resented his tone. She resented the way he talked down to her—and she resented the way he could eat as though everything were normal, when there’d just been another turn for the worse in a tragedy that seemed to go on and on. “Don’t call her that.”

  “It’s what she is. Isn’t it time you were honest with yourself? Your mother is paralyzed.”

  “I know that,” Pam said, sounding as calm and grown up as she could. She was going to have to be both if she hoped to fight John. “She won’t ever walk. But that doesn’t mean she can’t learn to use a wheelchair. The doctors said it. So did the physical therapist. And just because she can’t walk doesn’t mean she can’t come home. We’re not poor. We can afford to do what has to be done here so she can get around in a wheelchair. I was sitting right there when the physical therapist told her about it.”

  “And what did Patricia say?”

  Pam remembered that well. She had been so sure her mother would show some sort of excitement. “She was pretty tired. They’d been working with her legs for a while.”

  “Did she say anything?”

  After a minute, Pam quietly conceded. “No.”

  John began to eat again. “Um-hmm.”

  “But she’d be better at home. I know she would, John. She should be here with us and her own things. We could turn the library into a bedroom so that she wouldn’t have to do the stairs. Most of the doorways are already wide enough for a chair to pass through. So if we put up bars in the bathroom—”

  “Things aren’t that simple. There are other factors involved.”

  “What factors?”

  “Emotional ones.”

  “Her depression? But there are ways to fight that, too. She’s been seeing a psychiatrist at the hospital. She could see one here. If she sticks with it long enough—”

  “Pam, she doesn’t want to come home.”

  Pam refused to believe that. “Of course she does.”

  “Has she told you so?”

  “No, but that doesn’t mean anything. She doesn’t say much at all.”

  “Doesn’t that tell you something?” he asked archly.

  Pam’s stomach was twisting. She had to work harder to keep her thoughts straight. “It tells me that she’s still upset about the accident, but we already know that. She’s upset about Daddy and upset about herself, and she can’t talk with me until she deals with those things.” One of the nurses had suggested that to her, and it made sense. “So she’s been seeing the psychiatrist at the hospital.”

  “And what do you think she tells him?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not there.”

  “She tells him,” he said slowly and distinctly, “that she doesn’t want to come home. Why can’t you accept that?” He forked a large piece of tenderloin into his mouth.

  “How can you accept it?” she cried, throwing good intent to the winds. “And how can you eat that way, John? It’s disgusting. How can you eat at all? Aren’t you the least bit upset?” Tossing her linen napkin onto the table, she stood. “You aren’t. None of this bothers you. You got over Daddy’s death the minute he was in the ground, and now you’re in a rush to put my mother away somewhere.”

  “Sit down, Pam.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You need to eat. If you don’t stay healthy, you won’t be able to visit your mother.”

  As a threat, it was empty. “I won’t be able to visit her anyway. You’re sending her to some place in Wellesley. I can’t walk there.”

  “Marcy can drive you there.”

  “But not every day.”

  “Of course not every day. You shouldn’t be visiting her every day anyway. It’s not healthy.”

  “She’s my mother!”

  With that, John lost his patience. Planting his forearms on the table flanking his plate, he said, “Right now she doesn’t want to be your mother. Don’t you see that? She has serious physical and mental problems, and if she’s ever going to work them out, she needs time by herself. You’ve been there every day, and it’s not helping. So give it a rest, for God’s sake. Leave her alone.”

  Pam’s stomach churned harder. John always did have a way of making her sick. Lowering her head, she made for the door.

  “Where are you going?” he barked.

  “Upstairs. I don’t feel well.”

  “You don’t feel well because your stomach’s empty.”

  But she continued on, climbing the stairs to her room and curling up on her bed. She didn’t throw up. Neither, though, was she hungry when Marcy came up with a tray.

  “Come on, honey, you got to eat.”

  Pam stared straight ahead. “It won’t get better. This is it. It’s not going to change.”

  “Sure it is.”

  “No. They’re both gone now.”

  “Nuh-uh. Your mama’s right down the block, and when they move her she’ll be just a short drive off.”

  “She’s not interested, Marcy. She doesn’t care about being a mother anymore.”

  “Sure she—”

  “No. And it’s not just because of the accident. She hasn’t cared about it much for a long time. It didn’t matter when I had Daddy, but now that he’s gone it matters. She doesn’t care. How can a mother do that?”

  “She’s sick, honey. She’s not feelin’—”

  “She doesn’t even care about this house. She always loved this house. She loved it almost before she loved my father.”

  Marcy smoothed a lock of hair back from her face. “She’s grieving, Pammy. She’s grieving for your daddy, and that’s a hard thing to do sometimes.”

  Pam turned her head on the pillow and looked up. “But what about me? I’m not dead, and I need her. I keep telling her that, but she won’t listen. Doesn’t she know I miss Daddy, too? Doesn’t she know how lonely it is without either of them? The only one I have now is John, and he’s worse than ever. He likes it when I’m unhappy. I can’t believe that they left me here alone with him.”

  “You’re not alone. You have me. I won’t ever leave you.”

  Pam took her hand and held tight. She wanted to believe that, but so much of what she’d always believed had been torn away from her that she wasn’t sure what to trust. She knew that if Marcy had her way, she wouldn’t ever leave. But people didn’t always have their way. After all, Eugene hadn’t intended to leave either.

  She took Marcy’s offer of comfort, though, because she had nowhere else to turn. Patricia was moved to the small private hospital in Wellesley the following week. Pam visited her once, but she was received with such disinterest that she didn’t go again. It hurt too much.

  In time, the hurt spawned anger. Pam was angry at Patricia for rejecting her, for refusing to get well, for lying around in a semicatatonic state in a hospital when she had a daughter who needed her. She was angry at Eugene, too. He had betrayed her by driving his car into the path of a truck, then he’d compounded the betrayal by abandoning her. She was
angry at John for surviving the other two.

  John was, in essence, her guardian, which put her very much at his mercy. He ran not only the business but the house. He was civil to her, but she needed warmth and laughter. She needed someone to talk with, someone to hug her when she was feeling down. Marcy helped, but she wasn’t family.

  John was family, and she was desperate. She felt alone and frightened. So, for a time, she tried reaching out to him. She convinced herself that if she showed a little warmth, he might, too. She was her most pleasant, waiting for him when he came home from work the way Patricia always had. She showed interest in what he’d done with his day. She talked softly. She avoided riling him.

  It didn’t work. He seemed to know what she was doing and found it amusing, but when the amusement waned, he turned his back as he always had. He never asked how she was feeling or what she had done with her day, and he certainly never suggested that they spend time together.

  Burned once too often, Pam pulled back, but the hurt and the anger lingered. As an escape from those, she devoted herself to school. She went out for basketball to lengthen the day, and she did more with her friends. When she was invited out for a night or a weekend, she always accepted. Thirteen was a social age, and she was a social creature. Forcing other thoughts aside, she sat with her friends in their bedrooms and, for a little while at least, laughed about silly things, poked fun at teachers, plotted ear-piercing expeditions, and dreamed about dating the cutest boys in the upper school.

  The laughter died as soon as she came home. The townhouse was too big, too quiet, too empty. Seeing John was torture. He went about his business and seemed to thrive, while she was filled with a pain that swelled, then receded, only to return until she felt she’d explode from it.

  By early March she was longing for Maine. It represented all that was right in the world, and although she knew that it would be different without Eugene, she needed to be with the people and things that had meant so much to them both. She hadn’t been there since the funeral. It was the longest stretch in her life that she’d been away. John went up during the week while she was in school. She had asked to go many times, but he always put her off.

  “My vacation starts next Friday,” she told him one morning at breakfast. His only response was to turn a page of the Wall Street Journal. “I thought maybe Marcy and I could go up to Maine.” She waited through what seemed an interminable silence. “John?”

  “Marcy was up there last month, and before that at Christmas.” He continued to read the paper, clearly not considering the issue of Timiny Cove or Pam’s vacation worthy of his immediate attention.

  “Her mother’s having trouble, so she had to go up. But you wouldn’t let me go either time. I really want to go now, John.”

  “There’s nothing to do up there.”

  “There’s nothing to do down here. It’s a two-week vacation. Most of my friends are going away with their families.”

  That did draw a rise from him. Lowering the paper, he said, “I can’t take you away for two weeks.”

  “I’m not asking you to take me.” That was the last thing she wanted. “I know you’re busy. That’s why I said I’d go with Marcy.”

  He stared at her for a minute before returning to the paper. “I’ll think about it.”

  “I really want to go.”

  “I said I’ll think about it.”

  “It’ll be good for you, too. You won’t have to worry that I’m hanging around here with nothing to do.” As if he would. “I really want to go.”

  “Say it a few more times,” he informed her, “and the answer will be no.”

  She didn’t say it again, and in the days that followed, she hoped against hope that he’d say yes. He kept her in limbo until the Wednesday before her vacation was to begin, when she couldn’t hold back any longer. “Have you decided?”

  “About what?”

  “Timiny Cove. My vacation.”

  “Oh.” He was getting ready to go out, adjusting his bow tie in the gilt-edged mirror that stood in the front hall. He was in a good mood, looking forward to the evening. Pam had been hoping that might help. “I’ve decided,” he said. “I think you should stay here. Hettie wants some time off, so I’ll need Marcy around to cook.”

  Her heart sank. “Did Hettie say she had to go next week?”

  “I said she could go next week.”

  “Then let me go to Maine the week after.”

  “She’ll be gone for two weeks.”

  “She never takes two weeks.”

  “Well, she is this time, and don’t look at me that way. Your interests aren’t the only ones in this house. Hettie works hard—a lot harder than you do. She deserves the time. Do you honestly think that everyone’s schedule should revolve around yours?”

  “No, but Hettie is flexible. She doesn’t have family. When she takes a vacation, she usually takes a long bus ride to somewhere she’s never been. She wouldn’t care when she did it.”

  “Well, I do,” He reached for his topcoat. “And she’s doing it next week.” Opening the front door, he stepped out.

  Pam caught it before it shut and called after him, “Can I take a bus?”

  “No.” He trotted down the steps.

  “When will I get to Maine?”

  “When I say so,” he called and disappeared into a waiting taxi.

  That March vacation was the most miserable of Pam’s life. Her emotions were raw, made worse by memories of past March breaks. She tried to keep busy. She read a lot, doodled and sketched a lot, and several times she dragged Marcy to the movies with her. Once she went shopping with Hillary, who had been good enough to volunteer when Pam told John that last year’s spring clothes didn’t fit.

  It rained on and off through most of the vacation, so Pam couldn’t go out much. She did spend one day under an umbrella window-shopping on Newbury Street. But the best day was the one she spent at the museum. It was peaceful there. Thanks to Patricia’s attempts to make her a perfectly cultured young lady, she knew enough about the masters to appreciate their work. For a time, they diverted her mind.

  John was out often. Of the fourteen days Hettie was gone, he was home for dinner only five times. Knowing that he could as easily have eaten out those five nights and done without Marcy, Pam was livid. She avoided him when he was at home, fearing repercussions if she vented her anger on him. But the strain built up inside her. She was grateful when the vacation ended and she could immerse herself in school again. Being busy helped. But the pain was still there, deep down inside, and the longing for Timiny Cove went on.

  Then John threw a party. It was his first as master of the townhouse and was a coming-out party of sorts. At least, that was what Hillary told Pam in a moment of pique. “He’s invited everyone who’s anyone. It’s his way of announcing that he’s a big man now that he’s the head of St. George Mining. He’s out to impress. Even hired someone to make all the arrangements. I told him I could do it, but he said I didn’t know how. Is that fair, Pam? I have good taste, and I’m competent. So I haven’t had the experience planning parties. How will I ever get the experience if I don’t try it now and again?”

  Pam loved Hillary. She couldn’t understand why she wanted to hang around John in the first place, but given that she did, Pam hurt for how he treated her. “You’d arrange a great party. I liked what you did on Valentine’s Day.” Hillary had invited John and a few friends from the Globe to dinner at her small Back Bay apartment. Since one of those friends had asked to bring his daughter, Hillary had insisted that Pam come, too. The apartment looked adorable, the food was delicious, and the fresh flowers that filled the place were arranged with an eye for art—not that John appreciated that, but Pam did and was lavish with praise.

  What John had thought of the rest of the party, Pam didn’t know. He never shared his feelings about Hillary with her, although she put in good words as often as possible. She liked it when Hillary was around and wouldn’t have minded at all if John
decided to marry her.

  Marriage wasn’t the issue then, however. The issue was the party he was throwing, for which he had assigned Hillary the role of passing through the crowd making sure that everyone had access to the bar, the wine tray, and the caterer’s spread.

  Pam was beginning to wonder what her own role would be. She didn’t know if she was even invited. John hadn’t said anything about buying a new dress, and she would need one, she knew.

  A week before the party, he settled the matter in a way that instantly banished all thought of buying a new dress. “I want you and Marcy in Timiny Cove for the weekend. This place will be a madhouse before the party. You’ll only be in the way.”

  The fact that he didn’t want her at the party might have hurt if the alternative weren’t so welcome. She counted the days until she could leave, spent every free minute thinking of what she was going to do first, and second, and then after that. She didn’t share the extent of her excitement with John lest he realize how much it meant to her and cancel the trip out of pure malice. She tiptoed her way around him through the course of that week, trying to be invisible, not giving him the slightest cause for anger.

  Between the excitement and the fear, she barely made it through the week. She didn’t sleep well, didn’t do well in school. On Thursday night, when she felt certain he’d say something, he didn’t. He wasn’t home when she ran in from school on Friday afternoon, and within thirty minutes she and Marcy had the car packed and were off.

  Not until they were out of the city and on the highway headed north did Pam feel safe. She relaxed back in her seat. The excitement was there. Increasingly, though, it wasn’t the only feeling. She remembered the last time she’d been north, when they had buried Eugene. So much had happened since, and it all came back—the fear, the grieving, the anger, the worry, the loneliness. By the time she and Marcy arrived in Timiny Cove, she felt choked by it all.