Crazy in Love

by Luanne Rice

  “What she says makes perfect sense, actually,” Clare said. I left Pem to watch the show, reasoning that she had so little scandal in her life, a few minutes of scathing commentary would do her good.

  “Think of it from Pem’s point of view,” Clare said. “Maybe the home will be good for her. Trained nurses to take care of her, people to play canasta with, aides to bathe her and change her when she wets herself.”

  “She would hate it. She should be allowed to grow old in her home, on Bennison Point. She’s the only Bennison left, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “Oh, get off your high horse,” Clare said.

  The phone rang. My heart skipped for a minute, thinking it might be Mark, and in that instant I knew Clare was right: I had done the right thing, declining dinner with him.

  “Hello,” came Honora’s voice, sounding stronger than I had heard it.

  “When are you coming home?” I asked. “We miss you.”

  “The doctor says I can leave next Thursday, if all continues to go well. Of course, there are setbacks for someone in my condition.”

  “Oh, of course,” I said in my best crooning tone. Covering the mouthpiece, I said to Clare, “Setbacks.” Clare tilted her head back and forth.

  “But God willing, I guess I’ll be home then. How’s Pem?”

  “Watching the Muppets. Furious because a few of them are doing a dance number.”

  “Just be grateful it’s not monkeys. The night before I had my heart attack she was having a fit over the National Geographic special, saying with all the poor starstruck young actors, how could they give the parts to baboons.”

  We laughed, and Clare laughed along, even though she had no idea of what Honora had said. Or perhaps she did. Such was the telepathy that went on among us. I suppose that is not uncommon among people who share the same ancestors, the same senses of humor, and a deep and abiding love. At that moment, hearing Honora’s voice, I could pretend all four of us were together, and I felt happy.

  12

  HONORA’S FIRST REQUEST, UPON RELEASE from Intensive Care, was for a roll of tape. Beside her bed in the semiprivate room, she attached the articles and editorial cartoon, which the Avery Foundation had sent to me. The foundation also forwarded mail generated by all the press. One day I received a manila envelope full of letters from people praising the Swift Observatory, volunteering to work for me. Letters came from all parts of the country and Canada; people sent contributions, which the Avery Foundation promised to add to my grant. I took the letters with me to the hospital and let Honora read them while I tried to reply to a few. Her poor roommate had to listen to her telling the nurses, technicians, doctors, and orderlies what an important person I was.

  “Listen to this,” she said, reading aloud from one letter. “‘This is an idea whose time has come. The observation of humanity will make the world a better place.’ Isn’t that so true?”

  “So true,” I said, concentrating on my note to a woman from Chesterton, Idaho, who had volunteered to send me regular updates on life in Chesterton. I was taking her up on it.

  “Ooh, here’s a nasty one,” Honora said, frowning. “‘Who do you think you are, setting yourself up as an authority on the family? I am a trained marriage counselor, and I found that piece on Mona Tuchman to be horrifying, the way you condone her violence. Do we want a nation of avengers?’ ” Honora lowered the page, an expression of ecstasy in her eyes. “I love that. You are striking terror into the small minds of the world. This person is so threatened by you! I mean, in his own covetous way, he’s acknowledging your influence—worrying that the world will turn violent if they read your reports.”

  I smiled at her pride, at her willingness to turn anything, even a poison-pen letter, to my advantage. I continued writing.

  “I mean, hasn’t he ever heard of illumination? People discover what’s good in life by looking at what’s evil in life.”

  “I don’t believe what Mona Tuchman did was evil,” I said, putting down my pen, wondering whether Nick would want to run me through with a butter knife when I told him about the kiss. Oddly, I was looking forward to the moment when I would tell him about it. It was Friday; I had decided to tell Nick that night, the evening I had originally scheduled for dinner with Mark.

  “Mona Tuchman,” Honora said after a minute. “We used to hear so much about her, and now nothing at all. Are you in touch with her?”

  “No,” I said. I felt a pang of guilt. I had encouraged friendship with her, then cut her off when she phoned me. The details of her life and crime were not simply facts to me, but issues too close to my own soul.

  “She was one of your first subjects,” Honora said. “It was such a thrill when you would come over to tell us about your conversations with her. Such a thrill.” Her gaze grew distant and troubled. When she spoke again her voice was thick. “I think that was our golden time. The early part of this summer, when you were establishing yourself as the Swift Observatory, and we were all happy and healthy.”

  “Mom, things will be good again. The doctor said it’s natural and very common for people to feel depressed after heart attacks.”

  She shook her head. Her full chestnut hair swept her thin shoulders. “I know that, and I suppose I do feel a little depressed. But this isn’t just a chemical reaction. Right now I am facing hard facts. I’m thinking about your grandmother.”

  “We can’t let her go into a home,” I said. “Clare and I can help take care of her. We can take turns having her stay at our houses. Every other week—”

  Honora held up her hand to stop me. “It’s too much responsibility for you. What happens when Nicky has to work late and you go to the city? Can you imagine Pem going along with you?”

  “Maybe I won’t be doing that so often,” I said, searching my mind for a subject to switch to, anything to keep Honora from giving me a lecture on how a wife should be with her husband.

  “Yes, I’ve sensed that that has become a problem,” she said, staring at me long and hard.

  “But I don’t want to talk about it now.”

  “No. Okay,” Honora said. Suddenly she seemed exhausted. Her head sunk into the pillow, and she began to cry. Tears rolled down her cheeks, into the corners of her mouth. Her shoulders shook. I tried to hug her, but the sides of the bed made it difficult.

  “What? What is it?” I asked, but I already knew. The same things that broke my heart broke my mother’s. Bennison Point was changing fast, and although I didn’t want to admit it, I agreed with her that our golden time had come and gone. We would treat Honora with a certain fragility; I mourned my strong, invulnerable mother whom I now considered gone forever. She couldn’t even control what would happen to Pem. My dear Pem, my grandmother, whom I had started calling Pem at the age of two when I couldn’t pronounce her real name, Penitance. I thought of her, and my shoulders began to shake. I pressed my cheek against my mother’s, crying. I thought of Nick and knew that things would never be the same between us. Even if we loved each other forever, the obstinance to stay together, the refusal to be separated, was gone. That had been our act of faith; it had made our lives complicated, but until this summer we had fought to resist the ease of status quo, one partner taking a trip while the other stayed home. We had refused to do what others did, to oblige when our careers demanded that we be apart. We had been so special. I sobbed.

  “This reminds me of when you were a baby,” Honora said in a shaky voice, patting the back of my head. “You never slept. Never. I would be up late into the night, walking you around the house, patting your head.”

  “Would I finally fall asleep?”

  “Well, after a while. But you never seemed to need as much sleep as other babies. So often I would check you in the middle of the night, and you would be wide awake. Not making a sound—you were quiet and vigilant. You had such wide blue eyes, and sometimes you scared me, you looked so alarmed. Sometimes I would walk into your nursery, just to stare at you—you were a wonderful baby. But some
times the look in your eyes would make the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I’d check the room to make sure no one was there. You were just a baby, but you were keeping watch.”

  I had done it even then. Was keeping watch over the ones I loved a trait I had been born with? Or had the eddies of sadness and discord between my parents stirred me into watchfulness? The feeling that something bad was going to happen had been with me a long time. Prickles circled my lips and raced along the nerves in my forehead.

  “Mom, I think I’m going to—”

  Faint. I did faint, banging my chin on the bed railing as I fell to the gleaming white floor. I’m not sure whether I lost consciousness; I was aware of my mother ringing her buzzer, yelling “Help, Nurse!”, of her roommate saying “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” of the sound of running feet, of nurses huddling around my inert body.

  “Hon, you okay?” one nurse asked, her brow furrowed.

  “How many fingers am I holding up?” asked an orderly who had heard Honora’s cries.

  “I’m all right,” I said, looking up at my mother, who was peering over the side of the bed.

  “Sweetie, you just keeled over,” she said. “Just like that. What happened?”

  “No breakfast,” I said.

  “Nurse, get her some orange juice,” Honora commanded.

  “No food or drink until a doctor sees her,” the nurse said, and I was touched by her concern until I heard the other nurse whisper, “Hospital liability.”

  Honora, looking frightened but determined to shore me up with a big smile, waved goodbye as the orderly pushed me away in a wheelchair. I closed my eyes, pressing my palm against my sore chin. People watched me pass. I considered the indignities of hospital patients, how everyone felt free to stare at them, perhaps thinking, “Thank heavens it’s her, not me.” The love I felt for my family was so strong, I wondered whether I was dying of it. I wept all the way down to the emergency room.

  Dr. Fern examined me. She was my age, slender and athletic with a halo of curly red hair. The questions she asked seemed kind and insightful.

  “Have you been under any unusual stress lately?” she asked.

  “You could say that,” I said, undamming another flood of tears. She passed me a tiny box of Kleenex.

  “Have you ever been anemic?”

  “Around my periods, sometimes.”

  “Have you had severe headaches?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever fainted before?”

  “Once.” I told her about the time in New York, omitting the part about the kiss. “It was hot, and I was experiencing extreme emotions,” I said.

  “Do you want to tell me what’s been causing the stress?”

  “Well, that was my mother I was visiting upstairs. She had a heart attack at the beginning of this week. She’s always been so healthy,” I said.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “And my grandmother, who has always lived with her, can’t take care of herself, and she’s quite senile, and my mother’s doctor says having Pem, that’s my grandmother, in the house, is a terrible strain, too much for my mother and her heart to handle.”

  “That’s really terrible. They’ve always been together?”

  “Practically. And my husband is in London, it’s the first time he’s ever taken a long trip without me, we were never the types to go away from each other, really, we would move mountains to be together. He has this seaplane. . . .” But then I felt too choked to talk.

  “That’s all very difficult, especially coming at the same time. I’m sure you’re just feeling the pressure, and that will explain why you fainted. But I’d like to run a few tests.”

  I nodded. She did an EKG, made me walk a straight line and hold my arms out like a sleepwalker, took blood tests, gave me an eye exam. When all the tests were done, I retired to my wheelchair. “Can I go upstairs?” I asked. “My mother will be so worried.”

  “Sure,” Dr. Fern said. “As long as we know where to find you.”

  “Georgie!” Honora exclaimed the instant I was pushed through the door. “Why are you still in that wheelchair? My God, I’ve been going crazy. No one seemed to know where you were.”

  “I’m okay. I told the doctor about everything that’s going on in the family, and she seemed to think fainting wasn’t an abnormal reaction.”

  “Did she say that?”

  “Not in so many words, but that was the jist.”

  “Georgie, if I teach you nothing else, never rely on the jist when it comes to medicine. It’s not unlike meteorology. With a given fact pattern a meteorologist might be tempted to predict several beautiful days of high pressure. But add another factor, just one, and you have a hurricane. Oh dear. Something else to worry about.”

  We returned to the letters, Honora continuing to read excerpts aloud and me continuing to try to write replies. I was lost in the work, planning a subsequent Swift Observatory study of the people who had responded in writing to the news accounts, when Dr. Fern walked into the room. Her expression seemed grave to me.

  “What?” I asked, my heart fluttering, my breath so short I thought I might faint again.

  “Perhaps we should step into the hall? I’d like to talk to you.”

  “This is my mother. You can tell me in front of her.”

  Dr. Fern began to smile. “You’re pregnant,” she said.

  I TRIED TO CALL Nick from the telephone beside Honora’s bed. The secretary at the client’s office told me he had left, and he wasn’t at the Savoy. I left messages at both places.

  “Oh, it would have been a great thrill to hear you tell Nicky about this,” Honora said, beaming.

  “I can’t believe I’m pregnant,” I said. “Nick and I have talked about it so often, and I wasn’t being very careful with my diaphragm, but I never thought it would happen so soon.” I felt dizzy with happiness, frantic to get in touch with Nick. I thought of the words I would say to him: We’re going to have a baby, you’re going to be a father, I love you so much.

  “Why don’t you go home and wait for his call?” Honora asked. “He’ll call you as soon as he gets that message.”

  “Maybe I will,” I said, kissing her. I couldn’t wait to get to my telephone.

  “Can we tell Clare?” Honora asked.

  “Not until Nick knows.”

  “You’re absolutely right, sweetie. Clare will kill me when she finds out I knew and didn’t tell her, but I don’t blame you one bit. I am so happy. I feel better than I have since my heart attack.”

  I kissed her again and left, proud of any credit I deserved for making her better, proud of myself for getting pregnant. None of the considerations Nick and I had endlessly discussed—his tough schedule, my determination to follow him into the city, the things we wanted to do before we had children—mattered now. We were having a baby; I was already thinking of names. Perhaps Bennison Symonds for a boy; we could call him Ben. For a girl, it would be harder. Maybe Penitence Symonds, in honor of Pem. We could call her Penny. Or Letitia Symonds, in honor of Pem’s mother, who had celebrated her ninth birthday on the boat from England. We would call her Tia. I could imagine holding Tia on my lap, telling her about her brave great-great-grandmother, for whom she was named, and about her great-grandmother Pem. About her grandmother Honora. Would she know Pem and Honora? Driving along, I was thinking of the baby in my womb as twins, Ben and Tia, and I was telling them family stories the whole way home.

  That day I called London fourteen times. The client’s office had long since closed for the day, and the sleepy night operator lost her patience with me: “I told you once, and I told you again, missus, there’s no one here and there’s no one likely to be here until Monday.”

  “Try that extension one more time,” I insisted. But there was no answer.

  “Where’s your mother?” Pem asked for the first time in several days. Her blue eyes glittered. She refused to sit down; she walked through the house, breaking leaves off houseplants, chasing flies with a swatte
r, making little sandwiches and then hiding them. She had the wanderlust; she could not rest. Late in the afternoon I found her in the garden, picking roses. Her hand bled from the thorns.

  “Pem!” I cried. “Let me see your hand.”

  She offered to me, and I examined, the shredded palm. I led her into the house, took hydrogen peroxide and cotton balls from the medicine chest, and settled her at the kitchen table.

  “Doesn’t it hurt?” I asked when she didn’t flinch.

  She shook her head. The spirit had left her again.

  “Tell me about the three steamers to Newport,” I said.

  She regarded me for a few seconds, then shrugged. “There used to be three steamers that left the dock in Providence for Newport, and if you weren’t there by nine o’clock, they’d be jammed.” She told the story with no expression in her voice; I had never heard it told with less than great drama, excitement, verve. Now there was nothing.

  “What were they called?” I asked.

  “I don’t remember,” she said.

  “Pem, you’re going to have another great-grandchild,” I said, hoping the news would give her something happy to think about. I knew Nick would forgive me for telling her before he knew. She looked at me as though she didn’t understand. “I’m having a baby,” I said.

  “Where’s your mother?” she asked.

  Then I felt angry. I had lived with this woman ever since I was small. We had lived together through all the good and bad times of each other’s life. I remembered sitting beside her at Granddamon’s funeral, letting her squeeze my hand when the choir sang “Ave Maria,” his favorite hymn. She had let me reminisce about my father, making him sound like a hero and martyr, without ever contradicting me, even though I was aware she had never really liked him. We had made apple pies, Christmas cookies, the Fourth of July cake, and many special family dishes. She had always asked me about the cute boys in my class, something Honora never did, and I had always told her.