Damage Done

by Virginia Duke

  It was pointless to try and shut down the topic of conversation, but she figured she would try anyway. She lowered her feet into the hot water and played with the massage buttons on her chair, wishing she'd taken a Valium before they walked in. She couldn't pull one out now and take it in front of Harrison Township's Gossip Squad or tomorrow she’d be answering calls from people offering their condolences on her pending trip to rehab. And then Savannah would show up with a team of interventionists and a nanny to take care of the kids. Rachel prayed they’d quickly get distracted by something else and change the subject.

  "I tell you what,” Mrs. Hughes began, “When I heard his momma was ready to sue the school, I nearly died. Can you imagine? As if it's the school's fault that little boy got hurt playing football? He could've gotten hurt no matter what school he was playing at. If you're worried about getting hurt, you just don't play the game. I sure hope that boy's daddy talks her out of it, I don't think the school district could afford a messy lawsuit like that, and I think my husband might have a stroke if they raise our taxes again to pay for it."

  When she finished, she looked to her friends for affirmation, like she'd just explained the theory of relativity.

  "You know, that boy's daddy is from here,” Liddy Johnson said, “He lives in Houston now. His momma was that Indian girl, remember her? The one who ran that nursery on the old Orange Highway. Hilda over at the Castle Cafe' said he was here yesterday talking to somebody at the school, promising he wasn't gonna let his wife file the lawsuit. Can you imagine? Talking about lawsuits and money at a time like this? She probably doesn’t even care her little boy is so sick, she just sees dollar signs. It’s a good thing his daddy has some sense."

  All the old ladies nodded their heads in unison. Rachel’s hands filled with pins and needles.

  "Well, I don’t blame her!” Regina yelled over her friends, “She can be upset about her son and still want the school to make sure something like that never happens again. But let me tell you something, if my husband tried to tell me what to do like that when my baby was laying in a coma, I’d have his balls so far down his throat, he’d choke!”

  “Now, Regina,” Caroline Hughes interrupted, “You know that young girl isn’t gonna let her husband keep her from suing if that’s what she wants to do,” and then looking to Rachel, “All you young girls are so much more independent than we ever were, isn’t that right, Rachel?”

  “No, that’s not it at all, Caroline,” Liddy said, “These girls just let their men run all over them, and I for one, don’t care in this case, because if she’s worried about suing somebody when her child is in the hospital, then she needs somebody telling her what to do.”

  “No, I’m right, Liddy. Aren’t I, Rachel?” Caroline asked her again, “Women your age don’t let their husbands tell them what they can or cannot do, do they? You’re all a lot more independent than we ever were, or do you just appear to be so on the surface?”

  Regina jumped back in, “It takes a special kind of female to keep her husband in line and still give him the impression he's in charge. That's something these young girls don't know much about, besides, these new generations think it's fashionable to let their husband's boss them around, or to sit around and do nothing with their lives. And after how hard we all worked to help them get out of the kitchen and go to school and do things however they wanted to do things, and now they just run around with their heads up their asses and think their only job is to slut it up and make babies. Then they wonder why nobody respects them.”

  Rachel tuned them out then, her mind stuck on repeat, replaying what Liddy Johnson had said.

  You know, that boy's daddy is from here. He lives in Houston now. His momma was that Indian girl, remember her? The one who ran that nursery over on the old Orange Highway.

  Rachel did the math for the thousandth time, he was too old to be Dylan's son. The rumor mongers had gotten it wrong somewhere.

  But it was Dylan's mother who owned that nursery. Genevieve. Ginny, that's what everyone called her, and Rachel had choked up at the mention of her. Her eyes started to burn, the water bubbling over her feet like acid, burning her skin. She reached down and popped the rubber band on her wrist, looking over at Lauren as she chattered away with the woman painting her nails.

  That's why he was in Crane's yesterday, he'd been at the school. That was Dylan’s wife kicking him on the football field that night. Michael had to be his son, or his stepson.

  What must he be dealing with right now? A child on life support? And Kenneth had tried to save him.

  Dylan's son.

  She popped her rubber band again.

  She wouldn’t have wished something like this on anyone. But she hated him even more now. He'd destroyed her, and then he’d gone off and had another family with some other woman. What right did he have showing back up, and acting like nothing had happened when she'd seen him in the pharmacy? Like he hadn't abandoned her when she'd needed him the most?

  She'd faced her own tragic loss alone. He didn’t deserve her sympathy.

  "You alright there, Rachel? You want some water, honey?" Regina asked, leaning over from her spa chair and touching her arm.

  "No, thank you, I'm fine. The water is just a little hot."

  "Oh, Ms. Rachel, I'm sorry," her nail tech apologized and started to empty the tub.

  The blue water swirling down the drain made her dizzy. She closed her eyes and tried to forget. It was getting harder to push it away, his face kept coming back to her, the smell of him. The stupid jasmine from Ginny's nursery. His hands running through his hair, his hand reaching for her elbow.

  She leaned over and puked all over the white ceramic tile.

  ***

  Ginny’s nursery, it was always full of jasmine, irises, hydrangeas and begonias. Their warm home sat just behind the nursery, nestled in the pine trees. It was the first place she'd gone after she came home from the hospital. Jameson drove her, Savannah had refused, and Rachel wept when they’d pulled up to the abandoned nursery and empty house.

  “Rachel, why are you shaking?” Ginny had asked her more than once, “Hugs are supposed to make you feel better, not worse.”

  Ginny was the first woman to show Rachel what it meant to be affectionate to her children, insisting on hugging her every time she came over. It took her two years to feel comfortable with all of the hugs and kisses going on in Ginny’s house, but once she did, she never took it for granted. When Savannah had been too upset, it was Ginny who'd talked with Rachel for hours after having to put Icarus down, and it was Ginny who held her while she cried after her father left.

  “Compassion isn’t something you feel,” Ginny said, “Compassion is something you give.”

  Dylan's mother was a quiet woman with a gentle face, her makeup always in vogue, a stark contrast to the long hair and bohemian chic style she'd loved. During the afternoons, especially as things grew more difficult between her parents, when the drinking had become unbearable, Rachel sometimes rode her bike to visit Dylan while he worked after school. Ginny would wipe her dirty hands in the folds of her long, brightly colored skirts and apologize before pulling her in close for a hug.

  "Hello Hátka," she'd say with her southern drawl, a kind smile across her face. Dylan's smile. Hátka meant 'white' in the Kosati language Ginny learned growing up, she'd always teased Rachel about being so fair.

  Ginny was only half Coushatta Native American, a smaller tribe that was pushed into Louisiana by the growing white population, but she'd lived on the reservation a few years as a child, and she'd always been surrounded by the culture. Ginny's children were outwardly white to anyone who didn't know their mother, but in small town Texas where race was still a factor, everyone knew they were 'that Indian lady's kids,' which only made it harder for them to fit in.

  Dylan was always respectful of his mother's heritage, but he'd never showed the kind of interest Ginny would have liked. Still, she'd done her best to impart what limited knowledge she had
of their history to her three children, and whenever Rachel asked questions, Ginny's face lit up as she shared stories of her mother and her ancestors.

  "Rachel, don't encourage her," Dylan had teased her once as he sat potting bulbs in their large green house, "Or she'll have you weaving pine needle baskets to sell at the rodeo."

  The light blue SWIM t-shirt clung to his sweaty frame, muscles ripped from his favorite pastime. Light brown hair hung over his eyes and he'd reached up with an elbow to push it back, then smiled and winked at her.

  He'd always been able to flood her with excitement without any real effort, and even now as she thought back on how sexy and charming he'd been, she felt her chest grow heavy and her panties grow wet.

  ***

  Settled back in the office with a couple of turkey sandwiches from the deli around the corner, she and Lauren sat on the floor watching Sesame Street. Puking had helped, she told everyone she must have gotten food poisoning from lunch in Houston the day before, and as soon as Lauren's nails were painted, she'd paid and they left.

  The front door creaked open and the UPS delivery girl called out, "Hello? Package for Rachel Daniels, I need a signature, please."

  Rachel took the clipboard and signed for the envelope, thanking the girl who left in a hurry. Sometimes it was nice when people did their job without needing to stop and make small talk or drill her about her personal life.

  She threw the envelope on the table near her office when Jake pushed the door open and danced a little jig across the floor, his smile bright, his bald head brighter. He'd been devastated when his hair started to fall out and started shaving it almost immediately, refusing to take any hormones or pills to make it grow back.

  He pulled her into his arms and started turning her around to some music only he could hear, singing loudly about diamonds and fast cars.

  "Jake, stop, I puked earlier," she protested, making her way into the hall so as not to interrupt Elmo.

  "Oh wow, preggers?"

  "No asshole. You have to have sex to get pregnant."

  "So that's your problem? I'm calling Kenneth. You need to get laid before I have to ask Regina and Savannah to help plan this larger than Texas gala we're having in nine weeks."

  He pulled out his cell phone and pretended to make a call.

  "Not funny! Besides, he wouldn't give a shit. It's not like he's complained about the fact that we're not sleeping together. He's been sleeping in the guest room since January."

  Crap.

  That wasn't an admission she'd been prepared to make. Jake's eyebrows shot up dramatically, hands hit his hips and he looked at her in mock surprise. God, he was going to make a huge deal out of this.

  "Rachel," he whispered, looking over his shoulder to see if Lauren was out of earshot, "That's not okay. What's the problem?"

  "I don't know," she sighed, walking into her office. He followed, hands glued to his hips and stood over her as she dropped into her chair.

  "Rachel, you have to fuck your husband, you have to talk to your husband. That's life, Honey. Why is he sleeping in the guest room?"

  "Jake, you can't expect me to explain it to you when I don't understand it myself. He just is. He was working late, Hunter was falling asleep in our bed, he's getting too big for me to carry him to his bed, I don't know. He just started doing it. And I never said anything. Then he never said anything. And now it just- is."

  She shrugged, not knowing what else to say.

  "Honey, you have to communicate. You need to ask him what's going on, you have to talk about your feelings. You can’t tell me that he hasn’t tried to have sex with you since January.”

  “No, he hasn’t,” she argued.

  They’d had a good sex life in the beginning, she thought anyway. Not amazing, she’d never felt the toe-curling ravenous thirst for sex with Kenneth that she’d always read about in books. But it was decent, and it made her feel awful that Kenneth never came on to her anymore, feeding her insecurity and making her feel even more undesirable. She’d always been a little uptight, but he never said it bothered him, so she’d convinced herself he just wasn’t attracted to her anymore.

  “And don’t tell me I should take the lead," she finished, "Because I’ve tried. I’ve told him straight out that I wanted to have sex, I’ve tried wearing slinky nightgowns, lighting candles, all of it. There’s just no chemistry between us anymore.”

  “Did he ever complain about sex?”

  “Not really. I mean,” she hesitated, “He did complain sometimes that I wasn’t present."

  "Huh?"

  "You know, in the moment.”

  “So where were you?”

  “I don’t know. In my head I guess.”

  “With Dylan?” he asked seriously.

  She looked at him, her eyes narrowed in annoyance.

  The truth was she sometimes was with Dylan, and sometimes she was with some dark brutal stranger who objectified her and simply wanted to fuck her stupid, and a million other obscene things that ran through her head but she could never say out loud. It was more humiliating than admitting she’d sometimes thought about the grocery shopping, or whether she’d locked the office before she left.

  “Let it go, Jake,” she said coolly, “I’m not the least bit concerned about my lack of a sex life right now.”

  That was an exaggeration. She was concerned. She’d obsessed over it since before Lauren was born, her libido growing as she’d hit her thirties. But she’d never been able to get past the guilt she felt over her sexuality. Virtuosity and modesty were drilled into her over and over growing up, and when she’d finally risked letting herself enjoy her body, it had ruined her life. It almost killed her.

  So she’d retreated to the demure, respectable girl whose sexual identity was overshadowed by the shame she’d learned from her mother. And Savannah was right, it had kept her safe.

  “What's going on with you that you're not telling me?"

  He wasn't going to let up.

  "Jake, I don't know really. I'm just tired. My anxiety has been terrible, I don't know. I'm worried about Hunter doing well in school, I don't want to screw up my kids, and you know, it's not exactly easy to live with somebody right after they failed an attempt at saving some kid who broke his neck on a football field," her voice rose, tears welling in her eyes.

  “Don’t cry, dude,” Jake said concerned, “We’re just talking.”

  "Did you know that kid’s on life support? He might be brain dead? And listen to this. Do you know whose kid he is?” she yelled, not caring if Lauren could overhear, “Do you?"

  "Simmer down,," Jake demanded as he walked over and closed her door, "Whose kid is it?"

  She took a deep breath and wiped the tears from her face, summoning the courage to say it out loud.

  "It's Dylan's kid."

  ***

  She was supposed to call Dr. Valentine while Jake took Lauren to the park across the street, but she popped open a diet soda and listened to her mother catch her up on all of her recent shopping.

  "And Saks has the most beautiful fall selection,” Savannah went on excitedly, “You really should come see these Hermès silk scarves, Rachel, you would love them. I found a coral one that sets off my emerald broach just perfectly, it is honestly one of the most beautiful accessories I've ever seen."

  The scarf or the broach? The woman had thousands of the most beautiful accessories she'd ever seen sitting in two thousand square feet of custom designed closet space, complete with Tiffany's chandelier and an ebony chaise lounge she never sat on.

  "Mother, that sounds wonderful, I could use some new things. But I've got to get the gala off the ground. Do you have anybody new you'd like to include on your invite list this year?"

  She knew the answer already, Savannah was always making new friends at some club she'd toured or at a tennis convention across town.

  "Of course, dumplin', I'll make sure to get you a list. Have you decided on a venue?"

  "We booked it last year,
remember? It's going to be at the same place, Lowry's Summit."

  She'd had to pay the $3000 up front to book it, a hard check to write.

  Her mother talked about linens and chair covers, something about her abhorrence of white table linens at evening events and how Rachel needn't torture her with an invite if she weren't going to use black this year. She shuffled through the mail and threw in an "mmm hmm," or "sounds beautiful," every now and then. Savannah never really knew if she was listening, she was too busy concentrating on the sound of her own voice, making sure the early white trash years weren't audible.

  "Just a moment, Mother, I've got to call you right back," Rachel interrupted, unable to fake interest any longer.

  She'd never been able to tell Savannah how she felt outright, or tell her she made her feel suffocated and annoyed and inferior. It wasn’t Savannah’s fault Rachel wasn’t interested in the same things, and Rachel never wanted to hurt her mother’s feelings. But it had taken Rachel years of therapy to find a place in her life where she didn't loathe Savannah, or fantasize about her driving off some cliff in a convertible. Then she'd had Lauren, and she remembered something Ginny told her once when she'd complained that Savannah was driving her insane.

  "You'll understand when you have a daughter, Hátka," she'd said, "Having daughters teaches us to understand our mothers."

  She'd always loved Savannah anyway, she was her mother after all, but when Rachel imagined herself wrapping the new coral Hermès scarf a little too tightly around Savannah's neck, she knew it was time to hang up.

  She glanced at the envelope the UPS girl delivered earlier, still sitting on the small table near the door. She'd forgotten all about it when Jake decided to play therapist, lecturing her for an hour about talking to her shrink and talking to her husband and eating more fruit and taking supplements because she was getting old and her body no longer worked the way it had when she was young.

  She sat down with the envelope and fought the vomit rising to her throat.