In the morning, I check my list. Even though Tom’s sadness and anger masked as cruelty has left me undone, I still can’t help myself when it comes to packing for his trip. I’m a wife and mother. It’s in my job description. I’ve gone on the Internet to research the weather, how it could rain in Dublin at any time, how layering is his best bet. Aside from his work clothes, I’ve packed long-sleeved shirts, sweatshirts, jeans, socks and underwear, and two rain jackets (knowing that stupid Patrick would never think to bring one).
When Tom says good-bye, the boys cry and the girls issue dramatic statements of love and devotion, like their father’s shipping off to war.
“We’ll miss you so much!” Emily cries.
“We LOVE you so much!” Sally says, throwing herself into Tom’s arms.
There are hugs and kisses and more hugs and more hanging and more proclamations and declarations of the best and biggest love ever. Finally, Tom leans into me and gives me a friendly hug—one of those where two people don’t really touch, just hover around each other like scaffolding, patting each other quickly and briefly, as if the other has a skin disease.
“Good luck to you,” he says.
The kids may have gotten Tom’s undying pledge of love, his loyalty, a piece of his heart to squeeze tight like a security blanket, but me, I got a buddy’s pat on the back and a good luck!
“Dad,” Sally says in a hushed tone. Tom turns, looks at her. “You are coming back, right?”
Tom lifts her into his arms, as naturally as he did when she was a little girl, hugs her tightly and kisses her cheek, over and over again. “I love you, Sally,” he says. “And yes, I’m coming back.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Deserving of Love
THREE HOURS LATER, I FIGURE that Tom’s finally on the airplane, following a half-hour drive into DC, parking and security, and a two-hour wait to get onto the plane. I close my eyes and imagine that he and Patrick are settled in, Tom with his folded newspapers, Patrick with his jumbo coffee. With any luck, Tom remembered to buy them some snacks and maybe a sandwich. I can see Patrick staring out the window, his jittery leg bouncing. I’m certain Tom’s wearing the airplane headphones, listening to the pilots chat and navigate. I’m thinking all of this when the phone rings.
“Mary…It’s Colleen.”
“Hi,” I say carefully, because I haven’t spoken to Colleen since Tom and I went off our cliff. While Colleen has always treated me like a daughter, what I’ve done to her son is a game changer. One night, as Tom and I brawled, he went too far and used his mother as evidence against my wrongdoing. “Even my mother—my mother who loved you like a daughter, my mother who has forgiven more than her share of indiscretions—said that what you’ve done, and the fact that you’ve lied about it for so long, was inexcusable.”
“Mary, dear,” Colleen goes on.
I think I detect that Colleen is crying, and Colleen, who is always perfectly composed, never cries.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“I need to get ahold of Tom. Or Patrick. I tried Kathy…but she wasn’t home.”
“They’re on a plane, Colleen. What’s going on?” Now I’m sure. There’s no way there’s not something wrong with that voice.
“Honey, oh, Mary…” Colleen’s dam breaks, and all of a sudden she’s sobbing.
“It’s Sean. He’s in the hospital.”
“What happened?” Before she even answers, I think of Tom, locked on an airplane over the Atlantic.
“He was just here,” she cries in a frantic, shrill voice. “We were watching our programs. I had taped 60 Minutes from the other night. I went to get him another cup of coffee. When I came back, he was slumped in his recliner. Slumped! Oh dear, Mary. I only left the room for five minutes.” Colleen sobs, and I can’t even imagine the heavy tears pouring from her: perfectly put-together Colleen, my mother-in-law who toughed out breast cancer with a stiff upper lip and five miles of walking each day.
“What did you do?” I ask.
“I called 911. The ambulance was here in less than five minutes. They put him on a stretcher,” she cries. “Then they drove away.”
“How is he now?” I ask, reaching for a pen and a pad of paper.
“I don’t know. They just left a few minutes ago. He’s probably still in the ambulance.” Colleen releases a giant cry, and I can imagine her finely manicured hand covering her eyes as her shoulders bob up and down.
“Is there anyone there who can go with you to the hospital?”
“I’ll drive myself.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“I’ll be fine. It’s only a few miles.”
“Colleen,” I say as strongly as I can, “I’ll be there in four hours. I’m leaving right now.” I’m already slipping on my clogs and reaching for my keys and purse. “Your only job is to get yourself to the hospital safely and to be with Sean. I’m coming!”
“Oh, Mary. Thank you,” she cries. “I know you and Tom…”
“Don’t worry about that now,” I say. “I’m on my way.”
I’m in jeans and a T-shirt and haven’t yet brushed my teeth or hair for the day. I run upstairs to my bathroom and do the minimum: brush teeth, a swipe of deodorant, a hair band wrapped around my wrist for later. I grab a pair of undies from my drawer and an extra T-shirt, and in less than three minutes, with only my purse and cell phone, I’m in the car and heading toward the interstate. I call Mom and explain. She says she’ll coordinate with Dad to pick up all the kids. I’m rattling nonsense about the girls’ homework, how Emily needs for you to literally stand over her while she does her math. Whatever it takes, I tell Ma. Set a timer, reward her with mini-marshmallows, but don’t let her get away with not doing her multiplication. Sally, on the other hand, is Miss Efficient and Miss Cocky, so much so that she’ll do her work too quickly, making careless mistakes. She’s working long division. I tell Ma to make sure she multiplies them back to check her work.
Mom says yes to everything, but I know her. She’ll feed the girls tea and cannoli before homework and then sit with them for hours, making a fun game out of it. I go on: Whatever you do, don’t let Dom or Danny fall asleep on the way home from school or you’ll never get them to bed tonight. Again, Mom agrees, but I know her. Her adage is: never wake a sleeping baby. She’d rather slip into bed with them at three o’clock in the morning and sing them back to sleep than deprive them of their afternoon nap.
“What about Tom?” Mom asks.
“He’s on a plane for the next ten hours. I’ll call him as soon as he lands. Hopefully, we’ll know something by then.”
I fill up at the gas station and drive through McDonald’s. Other than that, I don’t stop, zipping my way south.
Thanks to a heavy foot on the gas pedal and the lucky absence of cops, I make it to Colleen in three and a half hours. I jog through the parking garage and the hallways until I reach the surgery waiting room. When I see Colleen, I stop short, because all of a sudden my self-confidence can be measured in ccs, barely enough to fill a syringe. Hi, Colleen, it’s me, the woman who ruined your son’s life.
“Colleen,” I say carefully.
“Oh, Mary!” She rises from the brown tweed chair and rushes to me. “Thank God you’re here!” She collapses into my arms, and any feelings of ill will she might be harboring against me are put at least temporarily on hold.
“How is he?” I ask.
“He’s in surgery,” she sobs into my chest. “Triple bypass!”
“A heart attack?”
Colleen pulls back, covers her mouth, nods.
“When’s the last time someone’s come out to talk to you?”
“About an hour ago. He’d already been in surgery for a couple of hours.”
“Did they say anything? About his prognosis?”
“I don’t know, dear. I don’t remember. It’s all such a blur.”
“Okay, okay,” I say, leading her back to the chair. I sit beside her, still holding he
r hand, stroking the soft, thin skin stretched across her delicate veins. “How about some coffee? Are you hungry?”
She shakes her head no, so I sit with her, pull her into me so that her cheek is on my shoulder. I check the clock, one thirty. Tom’s plane doesn’t land until seven o’clock tonight.
For the next two hours, Colleen and I avoid land mines as if we have metal detectors. The children are safe ground, so I tell Colleen everything: what the girls are reading, what the boys are learning, field trips and projects, upcoming events at school. I tell the least about Sally because all of a sudden I wonder if Colleen loves her first grandchild less now that she knows the truth. That can’t be true, but…
When the surgeon pushes through the double doors, he removes his glasses and rubs the lenses on the bottom of his scrubs.
“He’s out of surgery,” he says.
“How is he?” Colleen asks hesitantly, as if she assumes he’ll say, Not good.
“He did very well.”
“So what exactly did you do?” I ask. “What exactly happened?” I know Colleen is in no shape to take notes and that Tom will need to know every detail when I call him.
“The blood vessels that supply blood to the heart can become blocked, and that blockage prevents enough oxygen from reaching the heart. Thus, coronary artery disease. In your father’s situation, there were three vessels that were blocked. We were able to take vessels from his legs and graft them onto the heart, thus creating a detour for the blood flow.”
“So he’s going to be okay?” I ask, marveling at the doctor’s simple explanation: The road was closed, so we made a detour!
“He should be just fine,” the doctor says. “Of course, when he’s back to full speed, he’s going to want to make some lifestyle changes.”
“What about drinking?” I might be overstepping my boundaries as the daughter-in-law, but Colleen’s so spacey, she won’t remember.
“Drinking too much alcohol can definitely lead to a rise in triglycerides. It can also cause high blood pressure. Like anything,” the doctor says, “moderation.”
Two hours later, we’re called back to see Tom’s father. Colleen collapses into his bed rail. She wails his name, “Sean, Sean…,” like he’s a wounded soldier on a battlefield. He’s barely lucid, still groggy from the anesthesia. I close my eyes and think it through. Colleen has loved Sean throughout their entire marriage, throughout his infidelity, his excessive drinking. Here she is, nearly reduced to rubble at the sight of her ill husband. I can’t help but wonder where she puts it. Where does she put the anger and resentment and pure animosity she must feel for this man? Is it compartmentalized—still there, somewhere, tucked away, for her to pull out when the mood suits her? Or has her love, her devotion, her lifetime commitment to this man overwhelmed the bitter feelings, like a strong wave engulfs a sand castle or too much garlic overpowers the sweetness of basil, or confessing our wrongs and praying an Act of Contrition absolves us from sin? How can she be so undone by a man who has hurt her so deeply?
Would Tom even care if I was in the hospital? Would his former feelings of love for me supplant his seething anger? Would he ever find a place to tuck my indiscretion into? Does absolute forgiveness really, truly exist? Is there something higher, beyond “I forgive you, but…”? Is there a place in the heart that ends with “I forgive you, period”?
A few hours later, Sean wakes up slowly, blinks and coughs, struggles to sit up. He’s disoriented and confused. When Colleen smooths the hair on his forehead and tells him it’s okay, the furrow between his brow unknots itself. His gaze locks onto hers like an anchor, like her sapphire eyes alone have the power to buoy him in troubled waters.
“What…?” he croaks. “Where…what…?”
“You’re in the hospital,” Colleen says gently. She’s straightened herself, wiped her eyes, plastered on a smile. Her composure has come back before my eyes, like a Polaroid developing into focus. I’m astonished. She was able to let go with pure, uninhibited love and emotion when he was in surgery and after, still groggy, but now that Sean’s coming to, her strength is erected again. Is it that she feels he doesn’t deserve seeing her reduced to tears? She’ll cry for him, but she won’t let him know it. Hmm. The dignified lady she is has politely yet firmly kicked the frantic lady in the butt with a solid I’ll take it from here.
I’ll forgive you, but…That’s Colleen’s caveat, it seems. She forgives Sean, but she won’t let him see her vulnerable side. She won’t let him see how much she truly cares. That’s her armor, her protection. I’ll forgive you, but…
Sean looks at me, scans the room, baffled and worried. “Where’s Tom? Where am I?”
“You had a heart attack, Sean,” Colleen says. “A heart attack. The surgeon had to do a triple bypass on you.”
It takes a moment for Sean to process the enormity of this, like trying to get a good grip around an awkward piece of furniture. Then he begins to weep, jagged little gulps of sobs.
“I’ll be right out here,” I say to Colleen, and then step into the hallway. The doctor is walking by. “Excuse me!” I say. “Sean Morrissey, in this room.” I point. “Is he really going to be okay?”
“Your father should be better than he was before.”
“My father-in-law,” I say. “Not that it matters.”
“You’re right,” he says. “It doesn’t. When you’re married, it all gets thrown into the mix.”
I check my phone, call Mom, call Tom’s boss, Chuck. By the time I’m finished with the phone calls, I do the math and figure that Tom should have landed by now. I dread dumping this on him when he’s so far away. I know how helpless he’s going to feel. I dial.
Tom answers on the third ring. There’s the commotion of the airport in the background. I hear Patrick say something about getting something to eat.
“How was your flight?” I ask stupidly, trying to spare Tom for another minute.
“Long, very long,” Tom says. “You’d think there would be some more legroom on an overseas flight, but no luck.”
“Yeah,” I say, “did they feed you?”
“Just one of those boxed lunch things. It wasn’t too bad.”
“Probably anything tasted good on a flight that long.” I smile and realize that we’re having a conversation. I close my eyes and wish that we could just talk, have some inane conversation about legroom and airplane food, but I know that I need to tell him. “Listen, Tom, first let me say that the kids are fine. In fact, everything’s fine.” It’s in the parents’ code: Never start bad news without the reassurance that all of the kids are fine. A parent’s heart can only withstand a few seconds without air when there’s a possibility of harm to one’s child.
“What happened, Mary?” Tom says, his voice breaking.
“Your father, Tom. He had a heart attack.”
“What?”
“He had a heart attack, but he went through surgery—triple bypass—and the doctors say he’s going to be fine.”
“How’d this happen? Where’s Mom? What did she do? Is anyone with her? God, we’re both here! She’s all alone. Are her sisters coming?”
“Tom, stop!” I say. “I’m here. I’m with your mother. She’s fine. And yes, I’ve called her sisters and they’re coming the day after tomorrow. But I’m here and I’m going to stay for as long as they need me, so don’t worry.”
“You’re there?” he asks in a little boy’s voice. “You’re in Virginia Beach?”
“Of course, Tom. I left the second she called.”
“And the kids?”
“Mom and Dad have it covered.”
“And Dad is out of surgery and he’s doing okay?” Tom clarifies.
“That’s right. I just saw him.”
“He hasn’t been feeling well,” Tom says. “For a while.”
“I know,” I say, because it’s true: For months now Colleen has told us that Sean has been subpar.
I hear Tom sniff, clear his throat. “Well, thank you, Mary,
” he says in a very official voice, but I know better.
“Okay, then,” Tom says. “Let me make some calls and see if I can get on a plane back tonight. Maybe the plane I came on just refuels and heads home. I’ll have to go to the counter and ask. And I’ll have to call Chuck. Let me make some calls and I’ll get back to you.”
“Listen, Tom,” I say. “I know this is your dad and you’re going to do whatever you feel that you have to do, but I talked to Chuck and he said of course he’ll bring you home immediately, and that he would reschedule the presentation and send another guy. But I told Chuck to hold on. I told him that I’d try to convince you to stay, just for tomorrow, to do the presentation. Here’s the thing, Tom. Your father is in a hospital bed recuperating. He’s going to be here tomorrow and the next day and the next day. The heart attack is over. The surgery is over. So why don’t you at least stay and do the presentation? You’ve been working on it for a month and some other guy isn’t going to be able to do it as well as you. What do you think? Trust me, Tom. Everything is fine here. If it weren’t, I would tell you.”
I hear Tom take in a gigantic breath and exhale noisily. “I don’t know, Mary. I mean, my dad just had a heart attack. I should be there.”
“And you will be. All I’m saying is that I don’t think it matters whether it’s tomorrow or the next day. It’s up to you, honey.” I say honey before I’m aware it’s exiting my mouth. It’s been months since Tom and I have used any term of endearment for each other. We stick purely to our very formal Tom and Mary Show.
“Okay,” he says. “Let me think about it. I’ll call you back.”
We say good-bye, but neither of us hangs up.
“Mary,” Tom says finally.
“Yeah?”
“Nothing,” he says. “I’ll call you back.”
Acts of Contrition Page 20