Dancing on Broken Glass

by Ka Hancock

  “What have you been up to?” I asked.

  “Not much. Just a whole lot of stabilizing. And when that gets boring, I count Peony’s chins.”

  “Don’t pick on her; she’s got a hard job taking care of you. Has Jared been by?”

  “Twice. He heard back from the architect and wanted to show me some plans. They’re good. I think we’re going to knock down that far wall, open it up for more tables.”

  Mickey and his business partner had been talking about this expansion of their club for the past year. It would be nice to see something finally happen.

  Mickey looked at me. “I need to tell you something, Lu.”

  I stopped. Those words were usually a prelude to disaster, so I steeled myself. Had he bought another bus on eBay, hired more migrant workers to paint our house, borrowed a goat to eat our weeds? “I’m listening,” I ventured.

  “It’s not that bad. It’s just that about four months ago, Lucy, I . . . I was good then and I booked us on a cruise.”

  I looked hard at him. “A cruise?”

  “I wanted to surprise you.”

  “Okay, I’m surprised. When do we leave?”

  “Well, we were supposed to leave last Thursday. You know, your last day of school.”

  “Oh,” I sighed. “That would have been fun. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I was going to, but I wanted it to be a surprise.”

  “That’s sweet.”

  “I’m working on getting the money back. I might be able to get half back because it was an emergency hospitalization. I’m sorry, babe.”

  “Me, too! Can you imagine? Beach sex at midnight. Skinny-dipping in the ocean. I almost wish you hadn’t told me.”

  “Beach sex?”

  “Beach sex, Michael. A lot of it.”

  Mickey grinned down at me, my perfectly gorgeous, astoundingly normal-looking husband. “How about this—how about Hawaii for your birthday, in September?”

  “Hmmmmm.”

  “Really. Let’s do it. It’ll keep me good.”

  I can’t exactly say how many times this very thing has not worked out—maybe not as many as I think since we’ve simply learned not to make too many plans. Still, the idea of Hawaii sounded fabulous. I kissed his chin.

  “Lucy, I swear I’ll make it work.”

  “How ’bout this,” I said to my looming husband. “We save the money. We make the reservations, I buy the bikini. And three months from now on my birthday, with or without you, I go to Hawaii.”

  “Oh, I’ll be there. You’re not going without me.”

  “I know you’ll be there, but just in case . . . you still get to keep your promise.”

  He draped his arm around me and we strolled the grounds, dreaming and planning, until Mickey’s medication made him too thirsty to talk. When we got back to the third floor General Psych and Substance Abuse unit, Peony was there to check us in. “Lucy! It’s good to see you, honey. How are you?”

  “Not too bad.”

  “You finished with school for the summer?”

  “I am, and it feels good.”

  The old nurse chuckled. “People think I got a hard job, but I wouldn’t work with teenagers if they paid me double.”

  I smiled. I felt the same way about her job. She handed Mickey his pills along with a paper cup of water and then watched him take them. After he swallowed, she checked under his tongue, and this small intrusive act always surprised me. In our regular life, Mickey was a bright, funny, successful business owner. He was laid-back and conversational. He was the guy who cooked dinner if he got home before me. Whined when I asked him to run to Mosely’s for tampons. He rotated my tires and paid the light bill. He was the guy I still couldn’t resist fresh from the shower. And he was this guy, too. The one who periodically slid off his carefully maintained course far enough that Peony had to make sure he hadn’t cheeked his medication. I squeezed his hand and he squeezed mine back.

  After years of patience, perseverance, and expertise, Gleason—Dr. Gleason Webb—had finally pinned down an effective prescriptive cocktail to treat Mickey’s bipolar disorder. A cocktail that my husband sometimes abandons for reasons that make sense only to him but that always lead back to a gradual reintroduction of said cocktail, where we are now. It takes a small handful of pills a day to keep my husband even. He takes a mood stabilizer, usually lithium, sometimes Depakote, frequently both. Sometimes Risperdal, to keep him from hearing voices. Neurontin, which keeps him from having convulsions—a side effect of the Risperdal. Symmetrel, for Parkinson-like symptoms that can occur secondary to the Depakote, Propranolol for tremors and Benadryl for muscle stiffness secondary to the tremors. Klonopin for bad anxiety, and Ambien to help him sleep. That doesn’t count the antidepressants thrown in when needed. But all of it works like magic to normalize Mickey’s behaviors and moods and reactions, but only if he takes what he’s supposed to when he’s supposed to, which is frequently a crapshoot.

  That is the background music to our life: is Mickey taking his medication? If I were a different kind of wife, one who counted out pills and watched Mickey swallow the way his nurse did, the answer would be a resounding yes. But I couldn’t fathom taking that responsibility from him, that dignity, so I’ve tried never to encourage Mickey’s reliance on me. In sickness or in health, I liked him empowered, not dependent. That doesn’t mean I don’t keep track of him, and it doesn’t mean I don’t take care of business when he gets nutty. That’s what you do when you love someone like Mickey. I’m not whining. Not when I’d been warned about living this life. Not when I’d had a dozen chances to change my mind. The truth is I think I loved Mickey a little the moment I saw him. And thank goodness, because now I can’t imagine loving anyone else. Or, being loved by anyone else. Despite the pitfalls (and the occasional missed cruise) I know I’d choose Mickey all over again.

  three

  SEPTEMBER 8, 1998

  She gave me her phone number, and even though I knew I would never call her, I memorized it anyway. I couldn’t help it. No one ever saw me the way she did. I’m sure that sounds odd, but looking at me and seeing me are two very different things. And I know the difference since I’ve been looked at by women, and not a few men, most of my adult life. But Lucy seemed to view me not through a young girl’s prism of attraction, but a much less forgiving light, rawer and more revealing. First of all she totally disarmed me as I sat flirting with her sister, who, I have to say, was pretty hot herself—blond, smart, and definitely interesting, though not really my type. But as the crowd gathered for a birthday party at my club, I was just enjoying myself in her company. And then this girl—and she was just a girl—walked in the door and the mood immediately changed, it elevated. Everyone knew her, and she was clearly adored. It’s cliché I know, but I couldn’t take my eyes off her as she worked the room. She had a hug for everyone and an easy laugh. She had on a tight black sweater with a short skirt and boots—and she was just my kind of pretty. I thought she might have caught me staring because when finally she walked over to us, I got a little anxious. But it wasn’t me she came over for. She came for the girl I’d been flirting with, and you could have knocked me over when I found out they were sisters. She smiled at me in an openly appreciative way and said her name was Lucy Houston. It fit her perfectly. She was smaller than her sister and had amazing chestnut hair that I just wanted to touch. Where her sister Priscilla struck me as a showpiece—carefully and beautifully maintained—Lucy was more effortless, and believe me, she needed no enhancement: clear skin, big green eyes, little upturned nose, full kissable lips. Add all that to her seeming to be just plain nice, and little Lucy Houston was practically irresistible.

  Well, it turned out we were celebrating her twenty-first birthday, which made her much too young next to my twenty-nine. But something happened when she came onstage with me. I was just trying to do my thing, crack a few jokes, get a few laughs, business as usual. I called her up to do a little sparring and she didn’t hesitate. Then
the world just sort of fell away and it was just her. I don’t know what she did, but somehow she drew me out from behind the careful persona I showed the world and got a look at the real me. And she didn’t flinch. When in pure fun I kissed her, and she kissed me back, I think I simply recognized her in some cosmic way, like a missing part of myself I didn’t know was missing. I don’t know if that kind of thing really happens to normal people, but it was pretty undeniable for me. And for someone standing far beyond the blessing line, it was shocking to the degree that it terrified me. And it terrified me to the point of stupidity. That gorgeous girl gave me her phone number and I let her walk away.

  I met Mickey Chandler in 1998 while I was a student at Northeastern University in Boston. Lily had lured me home to Brinley for my twenty-first birthday, where she had cooked up a party and invited everyone we knew. The occasion may have been my birthday, but I knew she needed a break, too; my sister and her husband, Ron, had just been through an adoption gone terribly wrong.

  I didn’t think poor Lily would ever recover from waiting and waiting for that precious child. She’d named him James Harrison Bates after our dad and Ron’s dad. We were all in love with him, that big, healthy, bald, adorable baby boy. Then we lost him when the fifteen-year-old mom changed her mind. That girl—with her idiotic mom and their attorney—just knocked on Lily’s door and asked for her son back. The legal term, of course, was adoption revocation, and in New York where the mom was from, she had forty-five days to file her intent to revoke consent. She filed on the last possible day, and it tore a gaping hole in Lily that I didn’t think would ever heal.

  My sister vowed that she would never try again. No one could blame her. Not after two miscarriages and tedious procedures to fix the problem—incompetent cervix. Now another failed adoption. The first mom changed her mind before the baby was born, so it was tough on Lily, but not as tough as losing Jamie. After Jamie, the subject of babies became completely off-limits. And later, the topic simply became unnecessary—I swore never to reproduce, and Priscilla married her career, insisting she had no interest in a family. But back when Lily first lost her son, Ron was so desperate to heal her heart, he bought her a dilapidated Victorian on our historic Brinley Loop, and their “baby” became an antique store they named Ghosts in the Attic. They closed the deal the day before I turned twenty-one, so my big night out was their celebration as well.

  Lily had gone to great lengths to make my twenty-first birthday completely fabulous. She found the venue and recruited the owner to make a fuss. Then she invited all my friends and even some of my surrogate moms. I’d had several of those over the years, since I was only seventeen when our mother died and—in the eyes of Brinley’s womenfolk—not fully grown. Three women in particular had stepped up to the plate, and they were all at Colby’s that night for my party—Jan Bates, Lainy Withers, and Charlotte Barbee. Of the three, I was probably closest to Jan. She was a gifted artist who’d once painted a portrait of Lily, Priss, and me with our dad and surprised Mom with it out of the blue. Jan had pieced it together from photographs taken when we were young, but you’d never know we hadn’t posed for it. It had hung in Mom’s bedroom until she died, and now Lily had it over her fireplace. Jan and Harrison Bates had been my parents’ closest friends, and they couldn’t have been more loving or supportive of us if we were their own flesh and blood.

  Lily pried me from Jan’s hug and swallowed me in a hug of her own, and I swallowed her right back. My sister had grown bony and there was a thin ring of pain around her eyes, but she was doing a good job of hiding it, especially when Ron sang out an off-key “Happy Birthday” that hurt our ears. Priscilla—our glittering jewel—was in the corner draped over a good-looking man who seemed a little in need of rescue. I walked over and she flashed her brilliant caps at me. My oldest sister looked utterly tantalizing in her tight jeans and an even tighter T-shirt the color of Fuji apples. She was flirting like a courtesan, but Priscilla was a study in contrasts. To look at her now one wouldn’t guess she was doggedly climbing the ladder of corporate law and could rob an opponent of his ability to speak in full sentences. She was a hard-coated triple threat: beautiful, brilliant, and driven. But Priss had a soft underbelly few besides Lily and me even knew existed.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey, back,” she said, unclasping her hands from the toned arm of her friend long enough to give me a hug. “Happy birthday, Lu,” she whispered quickly in my ear. Then she resumed her place next to the handsome man, who was now looking hard at me.

  I smiled. “I’m Lucy.”

  He stood up. He was tall with very broad shoulders and a tapered waist. I, on the other hand, am quite small and boyish, and I had to lift my gaze to meet his. He extended his hand and I took it.

  “This is . . . well, to be honest”—Priss grinned—“I don’t even know your name.”

  “I’m Mickey.” The man smiled his nice smile that seemed to hold a little something extra for me. I glanced at Priss, whose look warned me that she’d seen him first, which was a shame, because he was very cute. He had the most wonderful hair, dark and wavy with a wide silver thatch that fell over his forehead and made his age tough to determine—I’d say thirty. He had a great mouth and beautiful dark eyes that didn’t stray from me once as I took him in, thinking, I could get used to this. But I’d never competed with Priscilla for men, and I wasn’t about to start now, so I pulled my hand away and simply said, “Nice to meet you.”

  His eyes held mine long enough that I knew if I were competing with Priss, she’d be in trouble. But my sister was clearly in her element, and I left her to it as I worked the room and caught up with my friends.

  Colby’s, a club in the next town over from Brinley, was rocking that night with music and beer and chatter. I was having fun catching up with my friend Chad Withers, whom I’d known since kindergarten and who now ran Brinley’s only funeral home with his father. He was filling me in on his anemic love life when someone thumped on a squealing microphone and said, “Is this thing working?”

  Everyone stopped and turned their attention to the small stage at the corner of the room. I figured Ron would have given management the heads-up on my birthday, and that at some point the occasion would be acknowledged. But I was surprised when Priscilla’s hunky friend with the great smile did the honors.

  He said, “Welcome to Colby’s! It’s good to see you. Having fun? You’re all from Brinley, right?”

  Chad whistled between his fingers.

  “Good. Good. They say Brinley is known for fun. I know this is probably a step down from bingo at the town hall, but . . .” Mickey laughed, then put his hand on his heart in mock apology. “Just kidding. I love Brinley Township. People are real nice over there. And rich, I hear, which is even better, so . . . you know, feel free to spend lots of money. Howie’s over there making specialty drinks, and he’s working on one tonight called the Lucy Comes of Age in honor of our special guest.”

  Whoops of laughter echoed through the club, and I felt a little heat rise in my face.

  “Yeah. It’s twenty-one bucks a pop, so drink up, I’m late with my mortgage payment.” He chuckled and slipped his hand in his pocket and out again. “Soooo, anyway, I’m Mickey Chandler, and we love special occasions here at Colby’s, especially birthdays, and tonight we’re roasting Lucy Houston.” He patted down his shirt and pulled out of piece of paper. “I want to thank her sister Lily for providing me with all the dirt on Looooosy—if you know what I mean. Where is she, anyway? Anybody seen the birthday girl?”

  In the dim room, a spotlight found me and I bowed dramatically as my friends erupted with cheers.

  Mickey clapped a couple of times. “There she is. Lucy is now twenty-one years old—so watch out. So let’s see . . . you’re a student, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Going to school in Boston, living the good life with roommates, I suppose. So let me ask you something. Is your fridge cordoned off in neat little roommate sections? It is, rig
ht? And I bet your name is on your cheese and each one of your eggs. Admit it, Lucy.” Mickey chuckled. “Guys are so not like that. It’s all community property, right, guys? Food, beer, girls. It’s all up for grabs. Am I right?”

  Chad hooted as if he knew exactly what Mickey was talking about, and I laughed just because he was so cute! But more important, Lily laughed, which she desperately needed to do, so I was an immediate fan.

  “Lucy, c’mon up here,” Mickey said. “Help me out before I screw this whole thing up and y’all leave me and go back to bingo.”

  Not shy, I was on my feet before he finished asking, passing Priscilla on the way. She looked a bit peeved, but there was nothing I could really do about that. Onstage, Mickey’s smile was back—the good one from when we first met—and without my sister blocking its warmth, I marinated in it. My sisters are beautiful blondes, but I’m the one with the really good hair—thick and reddish brown—from my dad. That night it was loose, and Mickey reached over and ran his hands through it, coming close to inspect it. He smelled terrific.

  “How come you’re not blonde like your sisters?” he said away from the mike as he rubbed a handful between his fingers. Then he caught himself and let go. “So, uh, Lucy . . . twenty-one. What do twenty-one-year-old girls like to do for fun?”

  “Well, Mr. Chandler, I’m pretty sure the same thing dirty old men like to do for fun.”

  “Was that an old joke?” he said with mock offense. “You’re killing me, here. But I’ll cut you some slack since you’re such a hot little birthday girl.”

  “Why, thank you. You’re not too bad yourself.” I reached over and patted his solid chest, and when I did, his eyes shifted in a way that I would not have let go of for money.