by Dan Noble
I had certainly entertained the question on many a terrifying day after Mother’s disappearance. But luckily, my worst fears hadn’t been realized.
“You, my dear,” Dr. Samuels said, “have suffered a great deal, and it’s time to forgive yourself of however it is you think you’ve mistreated your mother and begin your life. It sounds like no one’s ever really taken an interest in that before. It was never about you—especially in the formative years, when that’s all it should have been.”
Of course, the therapist never believed any of the stuff about the book realm. And that’s why I liked him and chose to believe him.
So, in the version I told Kennedy, there was no dirt on my fingernails, no blackouts. Leaving those parts out reassured me these were insignificant anxieties, something to laugh at. Even more so because when I went to grab for the threads of the story, those bits felt like confessions, and Dr. Samuels had warned me off of those, and this was proof that they were nothing but intrusive thoughts I needed to laugh off. It felt so right—like the happiness people were always after. Dr. Samuels praised my progress. Surely, I’d followed the right path, I told myself.
Still, in my omission, I hadn’t been completely honest with Kennedy, and there were days when I felt the weight of the untruth between us.
And he’d been keeping the Big C from me. Did the weight bear down on him too? Wouldn’t it be so much simpler if we could unburden ourselves and get it all out there? Life was always looking that way—so simple if only…But we both knew no simplicities lie in that direction.
10
MILLIE
A few mornings after Angie’s visit it’s finally Kennedy’s test day, and I’m mixing Rose’s hot cereal (oakmeal, she calls it) with raisins (not too many raisins, lots of almond slivers, extra cinnamon sugar), pretending I don’t know why Kennedy’s got a late start this morning (10 a.m. appointment at the Kancer Doctor). Or why his knee is bobbing up and down and rattling the kitchen table when I look out at the relentless survivors of Mother’s garden, for I never did manage to grow anything on my first attempt, and didn’t have the heart for a second go at it.
Today, the first slants of morning light catch the fronds, illuminating petal tips that were not there this time yesterday. Is it possible they are more beautiful because of the visions of death surrounding them?
“Coffee?” I ask, shocked at the way ordinary tasks shelter us this morning.
“Nah. Trying to skip caffeine today. Didn’t sleep so well last night.” His lie slips out so naturally, it frightens me. You can’t eat or drink before these blood tests you’re having and we both fucking know it.
But it’s Kennedy’s chapter, David Duchovny Goes to the Oncologist, is how my mind frames it—a product, I suppose, of growing up on The X Files and of lately reading too many children’s books. I’ve been trying to cast it at a safe distance, and I try to give him the benefit of the doubt if he feels right that it should be handled this way. Which means I’m clenching my fists behind my back and trying very hard not to flare my nostrils. I don’t know how things will turn out, but I tell myself that somehow everything will come together—if it doesn’t concertina on itself. Either way, if I can’t work it out, a natural progression will take over, for better or worse.
An hour and a half later, I follow Kennedy, about six cars behind, having caught up with him just as he’s lifting Rose out of her car seat with all her glitter pots and an assortment of pastas in individual Ziplocs, non-toxic glue, drawing utensils, and Q-tips, outside Richard Segal’s, where she’ll be spending the day oblivious to the forces in action across the bridge.
I park clandestinely inside a church lot across the street. In the Segals’ driveway, Richard and his wife fawn over our daughter as if it’s the only thing that could possibly unite them.
I quickly U-turn and wait along the curb of the main street, and in moments, catch up with Kennedy, following him onto the highway eastbound to Manhattan. Is following him worse than approaching him? Could this be—as I’d told myself—a better way to respect his needs? It isn’t so clear as things get into motion. I only know I can’t do nothing. I tell myself I’ve distanced myself enough that Kennedy won’t have to worry about me breathing down his neck, forcing my point of view. If anything, he’s forcing this upon me. It’s all I can do to follow along.
There is a roughed-up Ford Focus, a Toyota Corolla, and a bright yellow Mini between us. I am counting on Kennedy’s tunnel vision, his obliviousness to surroundings when something key is at hand. At the wheel, I rub my mother’s necklace along my lower lip with my thumb and forefinger—just the way Rose does with her charm. I laugh out loud.
Kennedy seems glued to the destination. I see no movement but his arm reaching for the radio tuner now and again. God, the way he can use a radio to avoid things. Just when I think it’s impossible he’s listening, he’ll come out with an outraged comment—no matter what the content, from his point of view everyone is quite convincingly an imbecile. My assessment of the world has certainly deteriorated over the course of our marriage.
The tunnel swallows him first, then the Focus, the Corolla, the Mini, then me, as in my head I settle on one thing for sure: if this had been a chapter in a book, my mother wouldn’t have let me skip over it. She didn’t believe in that kind of thing.
If Hansel and Gretel were meant to burned in an oven, I read every word, looked in detail at the illustrations and the terror in their eyes. See how his shoelace is artfully dangling from the corner of the cell there? If Bambi’s mother was murdered, we read over it twice to make sure I understood she wasn’t coming back.
There’s plenty of traffic on Second Avenue, though it’s the middle of the day, and there’s no apparent jam-up or construction zone. The sky is bright and the sun dazzles off the mirrored skyscraper glass.
I imagine Kennedy checking the dashboard clock every two minutes, increasing the suspense. This vulnerable gesture would reunite us if we were in that car together—him from his news radio escape and me from my analogical one—so that by the time we’d have left the parking garage and approached the medical office lobby, we’d be huddled together and moving as a single, though conflicted, mass.
As things stand, I circle the block while Kennedy hands over his car keys to the attendee. When I see him exit, I do the same and head to the building bearing the address I will never forget.
He must have stopped for a drink because I catch him ascending the top tiers of the wide brick staircase up to the row of glass lobby doors just as I’m approaching the base of said staircase.
Inside, I hate the way Kennedy moves past the giant board of suite numbers and sails directly to the elevator that goes to the 12th floor, selecting from four identical banks on opposite corners.
Dr. Leonard Kramer, Oncologist
At the sight of the name at this place globally connected with Kancer and the receipt and yesterday’s faxed confirmation that yes, my worst fears have been realized. Kennedy’s been getting treated for Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma for nearly five years. My brain flashes back, vainly trying to whirl us to the time before this name and this place and its ugly consonants and poorly-named disease (if it’s a Non, then it should be named what it is) weighed heavily on our lives.
I know there’s a way to do so. Mother’s done it, and though I never admitted it to myself, I did too—with my incomprehensibly healed ankle all those years ago. It’s to do with what you’ve read—meaningfully—and where you’ve read it, and Dr. P, and suprarationality and preconsciousness, and all the stuff I’ve been denying all this time.
Once Kennedy’s elevator is safely past the second floor, I enter the neighboring one, watching the floor number display tick over. My doors open to the twelfth floor. He’s out of sight, but I smell his cologne. And that’s when I feel it. I’ve been here before. But when?
The sense memory is so strong, I can almost see myself here. I walk as slowly as possible toward and then past Kramer’s glass-fronted office where
the receptionists—the detail upon which I’d gambled—both seemed overly familiar with Kennedy. Like most women, they can’t help but beam at him. Right away, I can tell which one is Cindy, who, as her voice hinted, can’t be older than twenty-five while the other’s not a day under seventy. I instantly resent them. Get a hold of yourself, Millie, I think. Go downstairs and wait. This is where you part.
I allow myself one last look, scoff down a chocolate croissant at the lobby café and do my best to pass the time while pretending not to gawk at the elevator bank for his exit.
I suddenly feel ashamed. What is this semantic trick I’ve used to convince myself that tailing my husband around is better than facing him? This is so unlike me. And yet, all my actions are instinctive, accomplished, without hesitation.
Two endless hours (and another croissant) later, I see him. Instead of confronting him, the way I’d told myself I would, I raise my newspaper to cover most of my face. A wasted effort. His eyes are glued to the geometric carpet. He’s pale. My heart sinks. The news isn’t good. It isn’t fucking good.
I should run to him, tackle him, force him to tell me. Make him kiss me because who knows how many more kisses I will get. But there are rules. And we’ve both somehow made a mockery of them.
I stand and follow as he walks through the door and makes his way back to the garage. Staying a block behind, I trail, then wait, browsing in a souvenir shop to waste the time I imagine it will take him to retrieve his car.
As I wait at the shop’s door, I see his Range Rover turn north toward his store, and I run to get my car. It takes a long time. I cannot understand what the holdup is, I say rudely to the Pakistani man who has no idea what I’m saying, just trying to man the booth like his partner instructed him, smiling tightly and saying, “Car is coming, Miss Lady.”
“A person can get a cancer removed from their body quicker than this!” I yell. “This is not an important thing you are doing here!” This I also yell, sounding like someone I would hate, because this is the only person I can scream at. There are rules, I pointlessly remind myself. “Won’t you say anything?” I scream.
He smiles. It is a kind smile this time, with two horribly twisted teeth top right—the kind of smile I do not deserve.
There’s traffic on Madison; there’s always traffic on Madison. I try to relax my fingers, my posture. There’s no rush now. He’ll be at the store all day.
I pull up across the street from Kennedy’s shop and look for his car. I don’t see it. But there is a conspicuous space right in front. I try to look calm as I enter the store. Seb’s hair is lime green and black, swept to the side, somehow affixed in a surprisingly elegant swoop with gel, or spray. He looks surprised to see me. “Quelque Chose,” he says. It’s our little joke.
I came here some time ago, before meeting Kennedy, pulled by intuition. I found the cutest stationary I could make notes on that read Quelque Chose across the top. I guess that’s how he remembers me, besides being his boss’s wife.
“Quelque Chose,” I say. “So, where’s that wonderful husband of mine?”
“I’m afraid you’ve just missed him, Mon Cherie. He’s dashed out a second ago to see a salesman in New Jersey.”
New Jersey? Why wouldn’t the salesman come to him? I voice my curiosity.
“Good question,” Seb says. “I was just so glad for the opportunity for an afternoon of slacking off, I didn’t think of it.”
“Perspective,” I say. “It’s a killer.”
“Quelque Chose,” he signs off.
I shouldn’t be following him anyway, I tell myself as I get into the car. I feel my body start to relax, as if it’s just finished a big job. No sooner do the muscles start sliding down my shoulders than the panic sets in. It is unlikely that Kennedy would go to Jersey to see a client—especially after his appointment. More likely, this is an excuse when really he’s going to see some specialist radiographer or something. So now what?
I pull out, turn a right across town so that I can make my way back to the FDR Expressway. At a red light between Park and Third Avenues, I see him heading in the opposite direction. Is he going to Jersey? My muscles pop back up. I rearrange myself, more erect, in my seat.
When the light changes, I take an unplanned illegal left and follow Kennedy. When I get going in the right direction, he’s nowhere to be found. The lights are not in my favor. But I know the way to Jersey (of course, I do!) and hope I can catch up with him before he reaches the West Side Highway.
Once I get onto the Jersey Turnpike, the ride goes smoothly. Somewhere up ahead, first he, then I pass the Clara Barton rest stop, the Walt Whitman rest stop. I spot him going slowly in the left lane about five cars between us—something he hates; he’s distracted.
My throat goes dry and I start to gag. I grab for a bottle of water floating around on the passenger seat. The gagging turns to choking and I can’t get the damned bottle open. One-handed, my driving isn’t great. There are honks. Shit. I don’t want to draw attention to myself. I look up to see if Kennedy’s turned around. It looks like he’s checking his rearview. I feel like he’s looking right at me. My chest goes cold. But then he looks down and continues straight ahead, doesn’t change his speed or anything.
I finally get a sip of water and that starts me choking again. Water’s spurted everywhere. How come this never happens to Miss Marple? My cell phone rings. Oh god. It’s him. I should ignore it. If I answer it, and he hears a background noise that is also going off where he is, he will know where I am.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.”
I watch his back, which gives me nothing. He’s got himself organized with some kind of hands-free device, so there’s no fumbling with a handset, risking an accident the way I’m doing.
“Where are you?” I ask.
“Where do you think?”
“Work?”
“Yeah, work,” he says.
Does he know? Does he see me? Why did I ask where he was?
“Everything all right?” I ask.
“Seb told me you stopped by looking for me, so I wanted to ask you that question.”
“Right,” I say. “Yeah, fine. Got a lot done. Thanks for taking Rose to the Segals’.” I’m lying and he’s lying and it feels like we both know it but can’t stop ourselves. I’m going to say something. The next word I utter will be the truth. But a truck horn sounds and a second later it’s echoed on the line, then after a long, bizarre silence, the reception goes spotty and the connection cuts out. Neither of us calls back.
He takes the New Jersey General ramp, and I switch onto autopilot, flicking on my blinker as we exit and approach a parking lot. I shake my head at Kennedy not using his. And it comes heavy and sudden then, that I feel the years since Mother’s disappearance. Is this where he’s going, to the hospital, her hospital?
When the light changes, he continues straight. Someone honks at me from behind. As I thumb off my indicator, I look up to see if Kennedy noticed me. There are three cars between us. I swear he’s looking in his rearview. I swear our eyes lock. But he keeps driving, as if he hasn’t noticed a thing.
The hospital disappears from site as we make our way down the main drag. Where is he going? Maybe it is a salesman. I should turn around right now. But I can’t. Soon enough, my daughter may not have a father. The least I can do is see this, whatever it is, through.
I catch every light going on red, praying as we approach that he doesn’t sail through. Once, twice, and we aren’t separated. The third time I get caught. Kennedy races on without me. My heart sinks as he continues down the road and out of sight. It must be the longest light cycle in history. I feel my face flush, my jaw tense.
When the signal turns green I can see it’s pointless. He’s gone. I can’t see him anywhere. What had I been thinking? I drive for six blocks until I come to the gourmet supermarket, Walker’s, where I often stopped after visiting Mother; a place I for so long associated with thoughtful cups of coffee and lots of time conne
cting the dots.
Now, however, it reminds me that Mother’s disappearance was not something I should have put behind me, that I let myself be persuaded to let that go because it was too hard. But I seem foolishly to be trying to make up for that behavior now with Kennedy.
The lot is nearly full. I steer slowly down two parking rows, and halfway down the third, I see Kennedy’s Range Rover. I look around but don’t see him anywhere. Let the man have his lunch meeting! But I don’t. I park at the farthest corner and run as fast as my belly will allow, holding the small bump to prevent that awful bouncing sensation.
Inside, I wheel a cart around and pretend to inspect the wide aisles. On any other occasion, I would have been gaping longingly at the Listeria-laden salamis, the mercurial mussels in their netted bags. But today, I’ve got bigger problems.
I have no plan, no way of finding him except to scour the capacious prepared foods area, which is popular with the lunch crowd. Sharply through the fresh bread cloud, a whiff of garlic beckons as I beeline toward the expensive, inauthentic ethnic foods buffet. Immediately, I spot my father, the man I never hoped to see again, stiffly fingering tongs to pinch a generous helping of high-gloss chicken wings onto a Styrofoam tray.
I stand frozen, hands on cart, my father at three o’clock, tonging himself more chicken wings smothered in an unnatural hue of glaze, and then some dumplings, into the container, his kids pointing along at the chafing dishes. One of them looks about Rose’s age. The other a few years older, much taller anyway. I can’t turn away. My chest thuds. Beneath the tempo, an exquisite heartache blooms. Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Millie! Think, think. Are Kennedy and Father here meeting each other? And if so, why?
I scan the rows of chafing dishes under incredibly peppy illustrated signs. I spot Kennedy at a French bakery counter, pointing out a nice-looking baguette sandwich, ruffled lettuce peeking out bright as anything.