How Lucky You Are (9781455518548)

by Kusek Lewis, Kristyn

  “He loves you. He’s an idiot for doing what he did to you, but I don’t doubt that he loves you.”

  She nods.

  “I called him,” she says. “Last night when I left the hospital.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah.” She hugs her knees to her chest. “After everything with Amy, being in the hospital yesterday…I guess I just decided that it was time to call a truce.” She shakes her head. “It suddenly seemed very silly to not even talk to him.”

  “So how did it go?”

  “Not horribly, actually,” she says. “I told him about Amy and he’s just as horrified by it as the rest of us. And surprised. We started talking about us, of course, and he said that despite my decision, he’s really grateful for the marriage that we had, especially in light of what I’d just told him. He said that he’s thankful for what I’ve done for us, which was nice for him to acknowledge, finally. He said that he was sorry that he hadn’t paid closer attention. He thought that I was happy.”

  “I thought you were, too. I mean, you complained a lot, but I thought you were basically happy.”

  “Well, what were you supposed to think? How could I not have been happy? When the Washington Post is running stories in the Metro section every other day about how fabulous you are, and the people who surround you all day are essentially paid to kiss your ass, I don’t think many people would see it as a hardship. And that’s what I kept telling myself: ‘Kate, you’re supposed to be happy. You’re supposed to be grateful for all of this.’ Meanwhile, Brendan and I had gotten to the point where we hardly spoke to each other unless it was about work, or about his wanting children—and even that wasn’t so much a talk as it was him trying to convince me in the ten seconds that I let pass before I would just tell him no again. If I’m getting really honest about it”—she stops and points a teasing finger at me—“and I guess you’re making me get really honest about it—I was so resentful of him for putting me through the campaign even though he never had to strong-arm me into it. I was the one who told him to go for it, who quit my job, who just forgot about myself.” She purses her lips. “And, well, he forgot about me, too. Frankly, I can’t blame him. When it comes right down to it, I was wholeheartedly living up to the image. It was what I thought that I was supposed to want.”

  She pauses, and I see a thoughtful, ponderous look in her eyes that I’ve never seen in our decades of friendship. “I still love him. I really do. But I feel like something’s happening to me, like some layers have been peeled off of me or something. Does that make sense? With Brendan gone—well, with the campaign gone—I get to be myself again. I don’t think that ever could have happened if we kept going the way we were going. Why is it so hard for us to just be ourselves? To just be honest about what we want?” I can see her thinking it through.

  “I don’t know.” My mind flashes to Larry and all of the hours I’ve spent worrying over our relationship.

  “So what are you going to do?” I ask her. “You’re certain you’re ready to leave him?”

  “I don’t know what I want anymore,” she says, throwing her hands up into the air. “But the funny thing is, it’s kind of a relief.”

  We sit silently for another moment. This is one of the great gifts of old friendship; to quietly sit in a room together. I listen to the screech and crunch of a garbage truck on the street outside.

  “You know what’s strange about all of this?” Kate says.

  “Hmmm?”

  “I’ve frankly always been a little bit jealous of Amy.”

  “Really?” Now, this is honesty.

  “I know what I used to say.” Kate shakes her head. “And I’m not saying any of this because of what’s happened to her. I’m really not. But I’ve always envied her. That’s my dirty little secret. She always seemed so simple, you know? Simple in the best possible way, and so happy without having to strive for all of this extraneous crap. I mean, my mother trained me to worry about such inane things—reputation, social standing. Amy never had to worry about that stuff. She just had—” She stops herself. “Well, she seemed to have exactly what she wanted. The sweet house, the family life.”

  “She definitely did,” I say, nodding.

  “It’s kind of ironic, then, isn’t it?” Kate says.

  “What?”

  “Well, Amy and I both seemed to have a lot of things, and it turns out that neither of us really had much of anything.”

  “I always thought that you both had it all figured out,” I say.

  “Oh, please,” Kate says. “You’re the most steady of the three of us. You’re the rock.”

  I gasp. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “It’s true!” she says, but then she must be able to tell from the way that I’ve gotten up to rearrange the magazines and tchotchkes on the coffee table that I’m not in the mood to talk about myself. She points at my cell phone sitting on top of Larry’s latest issue of The Journal of American History. “No word from anyone yet?”

  I pick it up and look at the screen to make sure. “No, nothing.”

  “Then in the meantime,” Kate says, leaning toward me, “we should do what Amy needs us to do most.”

  “What’s that?” I say.

  “Figure out what we’re going to do about Mike.” She gets up and walks across the room to pick up her purse, rifles through it, and pulls out a small leather diary. “I happen to know a really great lawyer.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Later in the day, I thumb through a mass of cardigans on the sale rack at the J.Crew in Georgetown Park, trying to distract myself. After Kate took me to pick up my car, which was still in front of Amy’s house from the day before, I came home and fell into a heavy, much-needed sleep. Three hours later, I woke with a jolt and checked my phone—no calls except for one missed one from Randy. I spent ten minutes pacing from room to room before I decided that my restlessness would only lead to more useless wallowing, so I went ahead and drove into Georgetown, so that I’m at least near the hospital when Margaret’s call finally comes in.

  Behind me in the store, a college-age Asian woman is holding a tiny pair of jeans up to her childlike waist, asking her friend’s opinion. Next to me, a woman swipes furiously through the corduroys, digging for her size. I feel myself seething; it’s almost like I can hear my anger ratcheting up, like climbing a ladder. How can these women just be going about their day while one of my best friends lies down the street with her head cracked open like Humpty Dumpty’s? It’s as if there’s a force field around me that divides our realities: On the outside, it’s swirls of springtime and the smell of the sun in the air. But inside, here where I stand, it’s darkness, damp cold, and the kind of piercing quiet that makes you want to scream. As the minutes pass without word from Margaret, I feel increasingly uncomfortable in a relentless and awful way, like my body is trying to turn itself inside out. I wander toward a bin of hair accessories, pick up a tortoiseshell barrette, examine it halfheartedly, and toss it back in. Then it hits me: This horrible, “nobody knows what’s happening to me” feeling must have been exactly how Amy felt, all the time.

  Twenty minutes later, just after I’ve pushed a lid onto a paper cup of exorbitantly priced coffee at Dean & Deluca, my phone finally rings. I look at the area code: 919. Yes! Finally.

  “Margaret?” I don’t bother with hello.

  “Waverly, she’s awake.”

  “And?”

  “It will be a while before we know for certain. She’s still groggy from the surgery, and the doctors say she’ll need to be monitored very closely over the next several hours to make sure that everything continues to progress in the way that they want it to, but…oh, Waverly.” Her voice breaks. “They’re very optimistic!”

  If not for the steaming cup of coffee in my hand, I’d leap with joy.

  “She wants to see you,” Margaret says. “Get here as soon as you can.”

  Amy’s skin looks gray and chalky, like cemen
t dust has been applied to it with a powder puff. Her head has been shaved and is covered in a turban of gauze and medical tape. The topography of her body underneath the bed linens looks childlike and frail. A tangle of tubes and wires weaves from her head and arms and chest to the IVs and monitors gathered behind her bed like watchmen. I cup my hands over my mouth, trying to keep the tears in as I rush toward her. “Can I hug you?” I say, squeaking out the words.

  “Yeah, yeah, of course,” Amy says, a tired smile spreading across her face. I cautiously put my arms around her and press the side of my face to Amy’s, giving her a soft peck on the cheek before I let go. Her family is outside, giving the two of us some time.

  I sit on the edge of a vinyl chair next to the bed and slide it closer to her, and then shift to avoid a bright beam of sunlight that’s escaped through the vertical blinds.

  “You can close those blinds if you want to,” Amy says.

  I shake my head and carefully place my hand on her arm. I just want to touch her, to hold her hand or put my palm to her cheek; to confirm that she’s really lying here awake and alive, to prove that she’s going to be okay.

  Amy turns her head against the pillow and gazes drowsily at me.

  “How do you feel?” I ask. It’s the only place to start.

  “Mmm,” Amy says, thinking about it. She attempts to shrug. I look at the IV tube coming out of her hand. It reminds me of visiting her in the hospital on the morning after Emma was born. There was a crowd of family in the room and nurses bustled in and out. Animated, happy conversation whirled around the room—“the baby came so fast, Amy was so brave, did you see the size of Emma’s little feet?” Now it’s just the two of us, the room silent except for the static beep-beep of the machine monitoring her heart rate.

  “I feel achy,” Amy says. “Like I haven’t used my body in a very long time…kind of like when I started running again after Emma was born. Isn’t that strange?”

  I squeeze her arm.

  “Nothing hurts, exactly, it’s just…I’m very tired.”

  I nod, squeeze her arm again. Thank God, she’s alive.

  “They drilled a hole in my skull. I have titanium plates now.” She chuckles, thinking of something. “When I was a kid, I begged mom to let me cut my hair like Cyndi Lauper’s. You know, like on the cover of the album with ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.’ I guess I finally got my wish.” She smiles, a flash of the old Amy. Then her voice dips: “I’m dying to see Emma.”

  “I’m sure you are. When can you?”

  “Now,” she says. “But I told them to wait. I need to figure out what to say to her. Claire is keeping her at the hotel. Thanks for helping with all of that, by the way.”

  I nod. “Amy, you know that you can talk to me…about any of this,” I say. I feel like every time I say it, it becomes less effective; a watered-down mantra that she doesn’t want to hear.

  “I know,” Amy says. She fumbles to grasp for my hand.

  Unlike my relationship with Kate, my friendship with Amy is punctuated by physical affection. It’s her nature, and became mine with her. We press our hands against each other’s arms when we speak, swoop the hair out of each other’s eyes, pick lint off each other’s sweaters, and hug hello and good-bye even when the interval between the two is mere minutes, but I can’t remember ever holding Amy’s hand. It feels light and damp, like a child’s.

  “I’m okay,” Amy says.

  I swallow against the gob of phlegm pressing against the back of my throat and squeeze my hand tighter around Amy’s.

  “I am. I’m okay.” She gazes down toward the end of the bed. From where I sit, it’s hard to tell whether she’s closed her eyes.

  “You know, I’m alive,” she finally says. When she looks up at me, she has tears in her eyes. I brush one from my cheek. “I’ll just be happy when I can get out of here. Start to get past this.”

  I nod, thinking about all of the things that Amy will have to endure once she gets out. It’s not like there will be a “Welcome Home” party with a banner hanging across her living room and balloons tied to the mailbox. Flowers somehow don’t even seem appropriate. Will she even want to go back to that house? Will she even stay in Virginia? “You know you can stay with me if you need to,” I say. “While you get everything figured out.”

  She doesn’t say anything.

  “What happened?” I say, spitting it out before I waver any longer about whether to ask.

  Amy gazes back at me. Then, this time, she squeezes my hand. “I’m going to be fine.”

  “Have you talked to the police? About what you’re going to do?”

  Amy nods. “A little while ago.”

  “I heard about the arrest,” I say, deciding that it’s better at this point not to tell Amy that I’d seen Mike at the police station. “What’s the next step? Will there be a hearing, or…?”

  “Oh.” An almost undetectable scowl flashes across her face, as quickly as a bird zipping past the window. “I’m hoping not.”

  I frown. “What then?” Did he admit to doing this? Is he going to quietly cooperate? Will he go straight to jail?” There are so many questions I want to ask.

  Amy shifts under the sheets. “I don’t want him to go to jail,” she says, her voice so quiet that I’m not sure that I’ve heard her right.

  “Wait,” I say. “What?”

  “If it was up to me, the charges would be dropped.” Amy slides her hand out of mine. She runs her fingers over the gauze that wraps across her forehead, almost analyzing it in the way that she touches it, as if she’s reading braille.

  “Oh, so then is he just cooperating…or something?” I’m completely confused.

  Amy closes her eyes and tries to shake her head, a barely perceptible wag. “No, no. It’s nothing like that, Waverly. I don’t want to get police, lawyers, all of that stuff…” She purses her lips like she’s disgusted. “This woman called me a few hours ago. I swear it was within minutes after I woke up, before I even had a chance to talk to my parents. She was some sort of advocate assigned to me by the state. I don’t know.”

  “Amy, slow down, okay?” I can see the anxiety taking over her face. It probably isn’t good for her. “Now, who was this woman who called? Take your time.”

  “An advocate.” She glances up at me. “A…” She sighs. “A domestic violence advocate.”

  I nod.

  “She explained to me what Mike was being charged with and when I told her that I didn’t want him to be charged with anything, she said that it wasn’t up to me. Can you believe that? She said that because it’s a criminal case, the state will prosecute him regardless of whether I want to be involved. She said that it’s standard.”

  “But I don’t understand.” I reach out for her. “You don’t want him to be charged?” Maybe this is all too much for her right now. Maybe she isn’t thinking straight. Surely it will take a while for her to recover from the injury and the surgery alone, much less all of the psychological consequences of how it happened in the first place. Maybe we shouldn’t be talking about it.

  “I’m not leaving him, Waverly. He needs help.”

  I pull my hand back from the bed as if I’ve just been burned. Did I hear that right? “Wait.” I grip the metal armrests on my chair. “What?”

  “I’m not leaving him.”

  “Uh, uh—,” I stammer. “Have you talked to your family about this?”

  “That’s just it, Waverly,” she says. “Mike’s my family. Emma’s my family.”

  I’m stunned. There’s no other word for it. Looking at her lying in the bed, I realize that I am looking at the shell of the woman I used to know. Is Amy still in there somewhere? What kind of spell would have to be cast to bring her back? Could she be brought back? I don’t know what to feel. I am desperate, furious, heartbroken, afraid. I want to scream at her that she is out of her mind. He almost killed you! I want to yell. He will kill you!

  When I finally figure out something to say, the words come out tight
ly coiled and controlled. I am trying not to lose my composure. “Amy, I think that this is affecting Emma. I really think it’s harming her,” I say. I know it’s a cheap shot, invoking her daughter, but I’m desperate.

  She looks at me. “Waverly, that’s part of the reason why I know that we have to figure this out. For Emma.”

  Has he really whittled her down to this? “Amy,” I plead. My heartbeat feels like a whirring windup toy inside my chest. “Honey, just look. Look at what he did to you, Amy.”

  “I know. I’m not stupid, Waverly. I know,” she says. “But he’s sick. This is proof that he needs me more than ever.”

  “Amy, why don’t you think about this? You don’t have to make any decisions right away. You’ve been through so much.”

  “Waverly,” she says. “He’s already pleaded not guilty. His lawyer called me a little while ago and took a statement from me about my intentions to stay with him. With that, and with his clean record, he should be out on bond later today. Once I’m home, we’ll deal with the trial and what to do about getting his charge reduced. I know that you don’t understand this, but this is my marriage. This is what I have to do. I’m not a child. I know what I’m doing.”

  I look into the deep brown of Amy’s eyes and search for some remnant of the woman I used to know. Somebody out in the hallway laughs. It seems gruesomely appropriate.

  Amy reaches her hand out to me, stretching from her shoulder and wiggling her fingers for me to grab it. I look at her hand, and then, reluctant and heartbroken, I clasp mine to it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  What is it, Waverly?” Margaret’s face goes pale when she sees me. As she stands, her copy of Good Housekeeping falls from her lap onto the floor.

  “She’s staying,” I say before I can think better of it. Amy’s father makes a sound I’ve never heard before; an awful, guttural, wounded animal kind of moan. He flees the room before I can react, almost knocking into me as he escapes into the hallway. I should’ve taken some time to think. Margaret follows behind him, then Celia. I stand there, hopeless, while the other people in the waiting room play with their phones and flip through their magazines, pretending not to have heard me.