She Poured Out Her Heart
Page 43
She visited the bathroom and got herself ready for bed and checked once again on her son and daughter, thankful that certain nightmares would not visit them, at least not tonight. Then she got into bed and turned on her small light and took up the pen and yellow legal tablet she kept within reach. She had filled several similar tablets with her neat, scratched handwriting. They were stacked along the wall next to her shoes and purse. They contained the poems and the odd thoughts that came to her, in no particular order. She had not yet gone back and read through them but she would do so as soon as she filled this latest tablet.
And then at some point she would spread all the pages she had written out before her and put one next to another and then another, and move the order around and write more pages to go in between. And the result would be a book, which against all odds would find someone to put it between two covers and send it out into the world, where it would claim a certain amount of unexpected, surprised attention. It would not make her a celebrity, oh no, nothing like that, but it would allow her to shed certain assumptions that might have been made of her.
All this came to her as a certainty but without fanfare, as her visions always did. She held the pen above the paper and then let it touch down. She wrote:
There was a game I used to play with my daughter when she was younger, one that we turned to at the end of a disappointing day when she needed cheering up. I’d tell her to close her eyes and imagine a door, any old kind of door, and she had to guess what was behind it. Sometimes she was sulky and didn’t want to play, but once she got going, her guesses, or wishes, turned enthusiastic. Behind the door might be a birthday cake, or a kitty, or someone from a favorite cartoon, come to life. Like all magic, it only works if you aren’t too greedy with your asking.
“What do you see behind the door, Mommy?” she’d ask me, and I would always say that she was behind the door, her and her brother and Daddy. And on some days they were. But there were other days, or perhaps other doors. Here was my own childhood and its paintbox green grass and blue skies. Here was sleep when you needed it most, and an ocean you had never seen. Behind one door was a lover who spun you round and round and who polished your skin like an apple.
And one door opened to what seemed like nothing at all, a space of white and tender light and buoyant joy, and only over time would you learn that this was love for all things within yourself and all things beyond it, and one name for that was heaven.
bonnie
They made it way too easy to jump out of an airplane. You’d think there would be more to it than watching a video and signing a waiver and hearing a pep talk. The pep talk was delivered by one of the jump instructors, who went by the name of Rocky and whose hair had been so bleached and skin so reddened by the desert sun and wind he resembled a photographic negative. Rocky told them that they should be proud of themselves for having the nerve to do something that most people never did. He said they were going to have an amazing experience. He said he wanted them to be excited about it, could he hear a little excitement? A little enthusiasm?
The room tried to oblige, but there were only five of them, and it was early for enthusiasm, not yet eight in the morning. Bonnie was sitting next to a young newlywed couple, Honey and Babe. They must have had other names, but this was how they addressed each other. Babe hooted, and Honey said Yay! The other two jumpers, a middle-aged man and his wife, said nothing. Bonnie settled for clapping politely.
“Now some things you’ll want to know,” Rocky continued, “because everybody wants to know them. First of all, is it safe? Well folks, it’s just about safer to jump out of a plane than to ride in one. When it comes to tandem jumps, the kind you’ll be doing today, the statistics say there are only three deaths per million jumps.”
No one seemed reassured by this. Whose statistics? When did they start counting? Bonnie imagined that like herself, the others were thinking that somebody had to be one of those three and there was no guarantee it wouldn’t be you. Then there was the problem of three, when you jumped in pairs. What had happened to the fourth jumper? Had they survived but smashed or smeared themselves into some tragic condition?
Rocky changed tactics. “Anybody want to guess how many dives I’ve done? Solo, tandem, exhibitions, the whole enchilada?” No one did. “Almost five thousand,” he said, raising his invisible eyebrows for emphasis. “And once I hit that number, I’ll start working on my next five thousand.”
Honey leaned in and whispered to Bonnie, “He’s kind of cute. I hope I get him for my jump partner.”
Bonnie thought she probably would, since Honey was young and cute and frisky, and perhaps it was just an excess of honeymoon high spirits that was making her giggle and roll her eyes, anyway, Babe didn’t seem too troubled by any of it. He was a hulking young man with a shaved, military-style haircut and a wrestler’s neck. Once Honey and Babe completed their jump, they were headed to Flagstaff and the Navajo Casino. They were having the best time!
The older couple were acting older. They drank coffee from styrofoam cups and paid attention to Rocky as he went on to talk about all the safety features and precautions, the many inspections and requirements, certifications, and so on that were in place. There were probably people who chickened out, although there was no doubt a point when you no longer got your money back.
Bonnie felt a little sick. She guessed she was going to do this thing. No one was making her. No one had made her put in for vacation time, scramble around looking for airfares and hotel deals, then come up with the notion of heading out to the desert because, why not? The Chicago winter was closing in with its usual sullen cold. She would go back home with stories of enormous pink sunsets and swimming in hot springs and riding a horse through a red rock landscape and, if she lived to tell about it, one minute of free fall at 120 miles an hour, followed by the blissful floating. Along the way, she might accidentally have a good time. A part of her always knew that she would end up taking such a trip alone.
The lights in the room dimmed. It was time for the instructional video, with its cheery music and ecstatic testimonials from newly minted survivors. Then there were the parts you had to pay attention to, having to do with the rigging of parachutes and how to secure the harness with its chest and hip straps. The procedures aboard the aircraft, which included, oddly enough, wearing seat belts. Above the guaranteed minimum altitude of ten thousand feet it was bombs away, although of course they did not say it like that. The instructors hooked themselves up to the clients, the jumping pairs positioned themselves in the specified fashion, the doors opened, and it was READY, SET, GO!
The parachutes billowed and blossomed. The music let out its breath. The lights came on again.
Rocky reappeared. “Any questions?” The middle-aged man raised his hand. “Yes sir.”
“Anybody ever try to commit suicide on one of these jumps?”
“What do you mean?” Rocky said after a moment.
“You know, not pull their chute, or cut the lines, something like that.”
“No. Some reason you’re asking?”
“Just curious,” the man said. His wife looked away, impassive.
Rocky steered them back to the script. “All right! Last thing, we have a little more paperwork for you to fill out.”
The paperwork was a waiver stating that you (or your estate) would not hold the company (or its employees, pilots, the maker of the aircraft, the maintenance personnel for the aircraft, the manufacturer of the parachutes, the riggers of the parachutes, and so on) responsible in the event of your injury, disability, dismemberment, or death. Bonnie signed it, since if you were already set on going through with this, you might as well renounce your rights in a fit of bravado. There was a place on the form for an emergency contact. Honey and Babe were having a mock-argument about whether they should each list the other as their contact. After a hesitation, Bonnie filled in the form with Jane’s name and phone number.
The family had recently acquired a golden retriever puppy which the children had named Stevie, for unclear reasons of their own. Bonnie should come out that weekend and experience puppy joy. She didn’t have to worry about Eric; he was on his way to some big deal conference.
Bonnie said yes before she thought too much about it. She guessed that Jane was right, and the two of them had traveled so long in the same orbit, there was no point in avoiding each other, even now. Besides, she missed Jane in the way you can miss a long friendship, even one with such difficulties. And she was curious, more than curious, to hear about Patrick, that is, hoping to hear any really bad news about him. Not to mention how in the world he and Jane had done . . . whatever it was they had done.
And so on a Saturday morning, Bonnie made a stop at a pet store and bought puppy treats and puppy toys of the sort that she hoped would not be immediately shredded and ingested. Then she headed out to the suburbs. The weather was bright and clear and cool. The sky was a thin blue and the breeze was fresh and it seemed possible to believe in new starts.
She took the Elmhurst exit and stopped at a traffic light. On the other side of the intersection she watched a BMW inch forward, waiting for the signal to change, and when it did and they passed each other she thought it might have been Eric and then she told herself it didn’t really matter.
When she arrived at the house, she heard the puppy and the children in the backyard and walked around to join them. Robbie and Grace were each calling the puppy from opposite sides of the yard, “Here Stevie, here Stevie,” and the excited puppy was racing from one to the other, or sometimes tearing round in a circle and tripping over its own feet.
Bonnie let herself in at the gate. “Hi guys, who’s this?”
“It’s Stevie, he’s our dog.”
“He’s mostly my dog,” Robbie said, but Grace wasn’t going to let him get away with that one.
“Can I pet him?” Bonnie squatted down and let the puppy mouth her hand. It was small but sturdy, a compact blond fuzzball with a black triangle nose and brown eyes. “This is the cutest puppy in the world,” she announced. “Where did he come from?”
“From the puppy farm. We picked him out.”
“Daddy’s going to take him to obedience school.”
“I’m thinking it’ll be more like Mommy,” Jane said from the back door. “Kids, Stevie needs a break. Make sure he pees, then bring him inside so he can rest for a while.”
Robbie said, “When you have a dog, you get to say pee and poop.”
“Yes, those are important vocabulary terms.” Bonnie started up the stairs to the back door.
“Want coffee?” Jane asked, and Bonnie said Sure.
Jane went back inside. When Bonnie reached the kitchen, she handed Jane the bag of dog items. “Things Stevie can chew on besides shoes and furniture.”
“Thanks. He likes houseplants too.” She set Bonnie’s coffee on the table and Bonnie, since she had not been invited to sit, drank it leaning against the counter.
“Stevie’s?” Bonnie said, pointing to the dog crate and the cushioning inside. She was glad there was a puppy to talk about. She thought maybe that was one reason he’d been acquired, as an occasion for marital discourse and family bonding.
“He has another crate and bed in the upstairs hall. We tried making him sleep in the kitchen. Big mistake. They’re just babies, they don’t want to be alone. And that way I can scoop him up and take him outside if he needs to go at night. And he does.”
“So you get stuck with the dirty work.”
“Oh I knew that would happen.” Jane looked out the window, checking on the children. She’d cut her hair, not to the punishing extent of some suburban moms, but chin length. And there was some evidence of professional gilding, as if she was trying to match the puppy. “Do you like it?” Jane asked, without turning around.
“Like what?”
“The hair.”
Bonnie was reminded all over again of Jane’s occasional weird intuitions. Or maybe she had just been staring. “I do. It’s subtle, but forward-looking.”
“That’s me.”
“So, listen—”
Jane faced her and held up her hand. “Let’s not do this. Not today. Baby steps.”
“All right,” Bonnie said. She was relieved not to have to take up the whole roiling business of accusation, apology, explanation quite yet. “But could I just ask you about Patrick?”
“What about him? He’s doing well. I guess Ireland’s full of big, big-talking characters just like him. It took him a little while to adjust and settle in, but he’s a hit over there, it’s like he went home. He sells lots of cars to lady buyers. And he’s joined a soccer league. As for your next question, I encouraged him to go. He really wasn’t happy here, you know that.”
“But—”
“And your question after that, I’m not going to answer.”
“Whatever,” Bonnie said. She guessed there were some things she would never understand.
“Don’t you miss him?”
Jane considered this. “Yes. But I knew it wasn’t going to last. Not the . . .” A very pretty flush colored Jane’s cheeks. “Not with Patrick, at least. I mean, he is who he is.”
Bonnie thought that even with her new introduction to blissful sex, there was still something detached and cautious and self-protecting about Jane, something that made her hold herself back, and that was one difference between them, and one Bonnie was glad for.
“Anyway,” Jane went on, “I knew he’d be happier if he left. If he made some changes. We can all work a little harder on ourselves, right? Well, maybe not Eric. He already thinks he’s perfect.”
“That’s kind of harsh.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to agree.” Jane crossed to the back door and opened it. “Kids! It’s time to come in!”
“Well I don’t think I’m perfect,” Bonnie said. “Duh. I guess I should . . .” Bonnie began, then stopped. There was probably a whole list of things.
“Should what?” The children rushed in then, the puppy running between their legs and yipping, and Jane had to raise her voice. “The one thing you could do for yourself? Try not to be so heartbroken all the time.”
The plane was a blue and white turboprop, distressingly undersized, but then, they were only going to jump out of it anyway. Bonnie waited as Honey and Babe were loaded in. Then it was her turn. The other, middle-aged couple were not coming, and everyone was OK with that. They had left the room with the rest of them when the orientation was done, but when they reached the hangar and the equipment locker, it was discovered that they had not followed. Through a glass door, Bonnie saw them out in the parking lot, standing next to their car, engaged in what looked like intense conversation.
Rocky said to Bonnie, “I was definitely not going to jump with that guy. No way. Pass.”
“Maybe he just wanted to scare her,” Bonnie said. “Or maybe he was showing off.”
“Isn’t it great that we’ll never have to know.” He was checking out Bonnie’s harness and his own gear with as much care as if they were astronauts. The harness straps were uncomfortably tight, like some sort of unsexy bondage gear. Rocky was going to be Bonnie’s tandem jump partner, which surprised her. She would have thought that all of Honey’s carrying on would have gotten results. Instead it was likely that they were paired off by weight class, since Babe was headed out with the largest of the instructors, and Honey the smallest while Bonnie and Rocky measured up in the midrange.
Rocky said, “Now tell me you’re not a suicide risk.”
“Not consciously.” And then, because he did not know her and was not familiar with her particular
kind of bleak humor, she said, “No.”
She was glad she was jumping with him. She didn’t care about cute; she wanted somebody like Rocky, a weatherbeaten veteran who shoved people out of airplanes all the time, like sacks of mail. The skin around his eyes was pale, from wearing goggles, probably. He was looking at her, sizing her up. “You’re pretty nervous,” he stated.
“If I throw up on you, it’s nothing personal.”
“Try not to do that. But really, you should relax. You’re paying good money for this, you need to enjoy it. Otherwise, why go to the trouble?”
“Because I’m trying to redirect my risk-taking behavior into less destructive activities.”
He thought she was joking. “Ha! I’ll have to remember that one. Now let’s go over the jump sequence again.”
The plane was loud, and already crowded enough, even without the missing couple and the instructors that would have gone with them. There wasn’t much point in talking, so Bonnie watched the desert beneath them, its vast brown expanses, receding as the plane rose. It looked pillowy, soft, like something you could bounce off of. The altimeter Rocky wore on his wrist was at three thousand feet and climbing. Three thousand seemed plenty high enough for her. Across the narrow aisle, Honey and Babe were holding hands. There was a GPS-equipped vehicle that was supposed to pick you up afterward. But what if the gadget didn’t work and you were stranded, how long could you last without water? What if Rocky had a heart attack and she had to figure out how to open the chute herself? What if her harness broke, or the chute didn’t open?
The altimeter went to five and then eight. Bonnie tried to steady herself, imagine herself safe on the ground, laughing with relief and amazement. But she was never any good at seeing into the future. That was Jane’s department. That morning in her hotel room, Bonnie had woken up early, showered, dressed in the recommended sweatshirt, jeans, sneakers. She tied her hair severely back and decided there was no point in makeup. When she checked her e-mail, one of the spam messages caught her eye, one of the endless ads for dubious potency drugs: Lift your lady to the heavens!