Wednesday's Child

by Alan Zendell

She must have been angry because her surgeon hadn’t revised his schedule for her convenience. Gayle could be quite a handful when her dander was up. It wasn’t uncommon to see people mouthing, “Bitch!” after she passed them in the hall.

  Personally, I liked Gayle just the way she was. I usually knew what to expect from her. I knew, for example, that her moods could persist long after whatever had caused them was no longer relevant. It would take her a while to come down from this one. She wouldn’t direct her petulance at me, but it would swirl around me until she was ready to let it go.

  The moment she saw me, however, her eyes took on the same softness I’d seen on Thursday when I brought her the proposal. When she held out her arms again, I took one of her hands and perched on the edge of her bed, which had been cranked into a sitting position.

  “Dylan.” I’d heard her say my name a hundred times, but never like that, and never with the disquieting effect she was causing now.

  “Your memory seems intact,” I quipped, pretending not to notice.

  Normally, that would have earned me a smirk. Today it got me a warm smile, and she continued to hold my hand, leaving me mystified. She was dressed in hospital garb, one brace-enclosed leg discreetly elevated this time. The hospital gown plainly outlined her breasts, and her prominent nipples made me acutely aware that there was nothing under it. In all the time I’d known her, even when we’d traveled together on business, I’d never seen her when she wasn’t fully dressed, and I wondered now if she was aware of the picture she presented.

  I didn’t know where this was going, but the longer it went on the more culpable it made me feel. It couldn’t lead to anything positive. I probably waited a little too long to extricate myself and wound up dropping her hand like it was sun-baked iron, rising awkwardly from the side of her bed, with nowhere to go in the crowded hospital room. Gayle looked startled, and then awareness seemed to set in.

  “I’m sor…” she began, her expression a mixture of misery and contrition.

  “Don’t, Gayle. It’s okay. We’re both having emotional weeks. I shouldn’t have over-reacted.”

  “You too? What’s going on?”

  “I’ve…” I almost blurted it all out. She must have gotten to me more than I realized. “Just stuff piling up. Nothing as serious as what you’ve been through.” I wanted to change the subject. “You sounded upset when I was coming down the hall, before. Your doctor keeping you waiting?”

  “No, he already signed the order to send me home. It’s Rod. God, he can be an asshole sometimes.”

  Oh. If it was her anger at Rod that made her reach out to me the way she had, I’d have to be careful not to be drawn into whatever was going on between them.

  She grimaced in the direction of her elevated leg. “I’m stuck here like this until he gets around to picking me up. I hate being dependent!” The last four words were almost a shout.

  “When do you expect him?”

  “He said he’d get here when he could. Another of his mysterious projects. They always come first.”

  Rod was employed by a think tank whose name was an acronym that’ll never appear on any stock exchange. He traveled half the time and worked from home when he was in town. I’d had only limited contact with him, but he always seemed surrounded by an air of mystery, helped in no small measure by his swarthy, brooding countenance. I had a knee-jerk aversion to his aloofness the first time we met. Still, I thought it best to play devil’s advocate.

  “I’m sure it must be something urgent,” I offered, lamely. “He knows how badly you want out of here.”

  If Gayle’s anger hadn’t been dowsed, most of her energy had. She looked defeated, and I felt a pang inside. We were friends. I cared about her and it hurt to see her so unhappy.

  I knew she hadn’t been seriously coming on to me, earlier. She wouldn’t behave that way with her friend’s husband and she wouldn’t allow such feelings to invade our professional lives. She was obviously embarrassed about the way she had been acting.

  My watch said 3:13. Ilene wouldn’t be home till at least 7:00. Gayle lived on the Jersey side of the river, about twenty miles northwest of us, near the New York State line.

  “Let’s call someone to help get your things together. I’m taking you home.”

  “But…”

  “But nothing. If they don’t let me sign you out I’ll put you in a wheelchair and we’ll just walk out on our own. What are they going to do, shoot us?”

  “We’ll have to take a cab thru the tunnel. I’m obviously not going anywhere by train today.”

  “We won’t need a cab. Jim arranged for a limo to take you into town and back once you get your walking cast. Let me see what I can come up with.”

  A nurse helped her dress while I made some calls from the visitors lounge. She left a message for Rod telling him she’d find her own way home from the hospital and I found a limo driver who was free until a late gig ferrying some execs out to the Hamptons for the weekend. He said he’d be outside the hospital at four. I reached Ilene, but could barely hear her over the background noise.

  “Sounds like a party.”

  “You know how lawyers like to celebrate big paydays. We’re all down at Monahan’s.” I waited through a slightly-too-long pause and she said, “You could come down and join us.”

  “I’d just be an extra wheel. This is your day to shine. Besides, Rod never showed up to take Gayle home and everyone in my place took off early, so I volunteered.”

  “I was feeling a little guilty partying while you were so distressed, but you seem to be doing fine.” If there was a dig in that I ignored it. Normally, it wouldn’t have troubled her that I went out of my way to help Gayle, as long as it wasn’t at her expense.

  “I am. Call me when you’re on your way home?”

  Dressed for the July heat in a tee shirt and a short culotte that Jim had picked up at Macy’s for her, Gayle signed the necessary releases and we were out of there. The Town Car was no problem, but the rigid brace covering her right leg to above her knee made getting her into my car a little tricky, even with the limo driver’s help. Helping support her weight as she struggled to get her injured leg into the car, my hand wound up under her bare thigh. It was accidental, and my hand didn’t linger any more than necessary.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  We engaged in office chatter as we drove north from the train station. Then there was a minute of silence, and she said, “I know I’ve been making you uncomfortable. I don’t know what got into me. It was just that…” Her voice trailed off.

  When we slowed to a crawl approaching a toll booth, I turned to her. “Just what, Gayle?”

  “It was everything. I know that’s no excuse, but sometimes…sometimes I dream about being rescued. I owe you an apology. I had no right to lay that on you. I felt like everything was coming apart and you were there like you always are. You know I’d never come between you and Ilene, don’t you?”

  I paused for a long breath. “I do. We all have our moments, Gayle. If I were prosecuted for every idle fantasy I ever had, I’d be in a lot of trouble.”

  We were more relaxed after that. Her twins were still at camp when we reached her house, and Rod still hadn’t been heard from. I got the crutches she’d borrowed out of the trunk, then opened Gayle’s door and looked down at her uncertainly.

  “How do we do this?” I said.

  “I can get myself out of the car, but I’ll need to lean on you. You’re going to have to catch me if I fall. Except for practicing with the nurse, I’ve never been on crutches before.” She saw the expression on my face and said, “C’mon, Dylan. How can I rely on you if you’re afraid to touch me?”

  When I still didn’t move, she said, “Give me your hand.” I helped her up and got one arm around her. Then, she used one of the crutches and leaned on my arm instead of the other one. We made it to her front door without falling, and once inside she hobbled to the living room and dropped gratefully onto her couch.

  �
�Could you do one more thing for me, please?” Gayle asked. “I’m not ready for the basement stairs. There’s a sealed brown folder filled with papers on my desk down there. Would you get them for me? My office is on the right off the staircase.”

  Ilene and I had been in Gayle’s house before, but the tour had always conspicuously omitted the basement. Gayle had brushed it off with, “It’s such a mess down there.”

  The stairs were narrow; Gayle wouldn’t have made it in her present condition. The basement had the same footprint as the main level of the house, at least fifteen hundred square feet. The stairs led into a playroom that occupied the front half. Behind the stairs was a laundry room, Gayle’s office, and what, from the layout, must have been a large room with a locked door all the way in the back. The door was obviously not an ordinary wood and composition construct like the others. It looked like oak, but when I rapped my knuckles against it, I realized it was steel, fit snugly into its frame with no airspace around it. It must be Rod’s office and he must be very paranoid about it.

  I commented on it as I handed Gayle her files and sat down beside her.

  “The kids call it the fort,” she said. “We’ve been in this house six years and I’ve only been inside twice, when he was having stuff moved in. He has a heavy-duty safe in there that would pass muster in a bank. He says it’s because he has to handle classified materials that have to be secured to Government specifications. He won’t discuss it, and I only know the safe exists because I was here when it was delivered.”

  That explained his secretiveness, but not his overall behavior. Still, I defended him again. “I used to have that kind of clearance. He has no choice, and believe me, the less you know about that room, the better.” That was what I said, but privately, I thought, why the hell doesn’t he find a secure place to work outside the house? He should be shielding Gayle and the kids from that stuff. The way I’ve always done.

  I’d tried to be subtle, but Gayle saw through it easily. She put her hand on my cheek. “You really are a good friend, Dylan. I don’t want to lose that.”

  With that, the front door burst open and two blonde-haired, nine-year-old whirlwinds exploded into the room. She hugged her boys and looked back at me. “Go home.”

  9.

  Ilene wasn’t home when I got there. She hadn’t called, either.

  Most days, I would have been glad she was enjoying herself. She’d worked hard to get where she was. Like me, she’d majored in science in college, but decided that spending her life in a laboratory wasn’t for her. She’d taken the long route through graduate school while Gregg and Marc were growing up. With both of them finally away at college, she dived into her dissertation in pharmacology. Now she was a highly-paid hired gun, much in demand by law firms and drug companies.

  She spent her days earning big fees for attorneys with huge egos, working and traveling with powerful men used to getting what they wanted. At first, I’d worried that one of the things they wanted might be Ilene, but she always came home happy to see me, and that was all I needed to know.

  Then why was I pouring myself a drink, wondering how many were being poured for her at Monahan’s, and by whom? Why pick now to feel anxious and jealous? Because Gayle had shown me how easily and unexpectedly people can slip?

  Feeling the alcohol-generated warmth flow toward my stomach, I suddenly had an urgent need for Ilene’s support and approval. I felt contrite over letting my fear that she’d laugh at me or think I was losing my mind stop me from sharing the last three days with her, though I’d nearly poured my heart out to Gayle.

  On the rare occasions when I drank, I always stopped at one, but that evening I carried a second greyhound into our family room and sat quietly in the slowly darkening space. I must have dozed. When the phone rang, the now-empty glass was in my lap, calmly resting in a cold pool of melting ice.

  “Shit!” I lunged for the phone, scattering ice chips across the coffee table. “Hello?” I sounded awful, even to me.

  “Dylan, you’re home! Would you come get me, please?”

  I was so disoriented, it took me a second to realize it was a slightly slurred version of Ilene I was hearing. “Sure. You still at Monahan’s?”

  “Yeah, I drank too much to drive home, and there are two or three guys awfully eager to share a cab with me. Please rescue me.”

  I was elated, my mood swing confirming how shaky I was. But damn, I’d had most of two drinks, too. What time was it? 10:45! My head ached, but I hadn’t drunk any alcohol in three hours.

  “Okay, Hon, be there in fifteen minutes.”

  I saw her waiting between the double doors, talking to a guy in a suit as I pulled into a parking space and headed for the entrance. Were they arguing? Ilene looked so happy to see me, my heart leaped.

  She turned her back on the suit, draped herself over my arm and kissed me. “Thanks, Dylan. Let’s go home.”

  She clung to me as we walked to the car. I looked closely at her for the first time as she was getting in. Her makeup was a mess, either from perspiration or tears. “What was that about?” I asked when I’d started the engine.

  “Everyone was into letting off a little steam. I drank with them and danced a little. The guys I work with were fine – they know the boundaries.” She really looked miserable. “But there were other people there, and a couple just wouldn’t take ‘No’ for an answer.”

  “That’s not so surprising. If I were in a bar and saw you partying and letting your hair down, I’d make a run at you myself.” That must have been the right answer, because she grinned and laid her head on my shoulder.

  As we approached our driveway, she sat up. Safe in our garage with the engine off, she pulled a sad face for me. “I’m sorry I abandoned you. I really meant to get home earlier. I knew something was bothering you, but I went off celebrating.”

  Tears welled in her eyes. I took her face in my hands and kissed her. “You’re here now. If you can stay awake, I have a story to tell you.”

  A shower and a cup of strong coffee later, Ilene got into bed and propped some pillows behind her. I told it all to her. Except for reminding me at each relevant juncture how incredibly stupid it was to use every excuse to avoid seeing a doctor, she listened quietly. Emotions washed over her face like cloud shadows on a windy day, finally settling on concerned incredulity.

  “You actually believe all this really happened exactly as you described it? You’re convinced it’s not some kind of delusion or hallucination?”

  “As much as I can be when all I have to go on is my own perceptions.”

  “At least you’re aware they could be wrong. That’s healthy.” She sounded so clinical. I felt her concern; there was no mocking now. “You feel good physically? No headaches or dizziness?”

  I shook my head. “I’m fine. I wish I could make you believe me.”

  “I do, but believing you and agreeing with you aren’t the same thing.”

  “So you think there’s something wrong with me.”

  “I didn’t say that. But I know too much about brain chemistry and psychotic dysfunction to ignore the possibility because you say you feel fine. Let me do some digging on the Internet and call some people I know.”

  “If you repeat all this, they’ll think I’m nuts.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be circumspect. I’ll be researching symptoms to look for to rule out serious disorders.”

  I didn’t have a problem admitting I needed help, but acknowledging that I couldn’t handle this on my own meant giving up the illusion that as long as I was the only one who knew, I retained some control over these events. I must have looked as crestfallen as I felt.

  “I know this is hard for you, Dylan, but ask yourself which outcome is more frightening. Would you rather live in a reality in which you never knew what day you were awakening to?”

  “Jesus, Ilene, I’m already there. You have no idea how terrifying and confusing the last few days have been. The implications are so enormous, my grasp of wh
at’s happening changes constantly. Take Thursday. I lived it two days ago, and I’ve identified a dozen ways in which your Thursday was different from mine. I have contradictory sets of memories, each of them valid from different points of view. And I don’t even know if I’m the cause of the changes.”

  “What? You mean if something really bad happened yesterday, like a tsunami that wasn’t there on your Thursday, you’d blame yourself?”

  “Of course not.” This wasn’t going well, but I couldn’t explain what I didn’t understand myself. I paused to gather my thoughts. “That’s not what I meant. Look, we’re all conditioned to relate to our experiences linearly, in the order in which they occur, right?”

  She thought about that. “Okay.”

  “That’s why I was relieved that Wilson had Wednesday’s version of the proposal. It felt right to me.”

  “I see that, but doesn’t it bother you that the one you remember writing on your Thursday morning doesn’t seem to exist any more?”

  “It doesn’t just bother me, it drives me crazy. The guys I studied physics with at Columbia would say I entered an alternate universe when I lived Wednesday out of order and the Thursday proposal still exists in the other one.”

  “Alternate universe? Implying there’s another you and another me in the one you left?” She rolled her eyes.

  “I feel the same way, but I’m living with two sets of memories for both Wednesday and Thursday. I spent today trying to determine how your Thursday, which, contrary to my linear conditioning I have to view as the real one, differs from mine.” She was fully engaged, so I went on. “I scoured the news media and learned what I could from the things I heard around the office. I spent the whole day worrying that I’d slip up because of not knowing something that happened on the Thursday I wasn’t there.

  “The worst part is knowing what I could have done better if my head had been clearer. The only proof I have that all this happened is the CyTech chart I printed. Next time…”

  “What do you mean next time? You think this is going to happen again?”