Dancing on Broken Glass

by Ka Hancock

  While I was studying, I willed God to grant me a miracle. Nothing too grand. Just more time. I wanted to deliver a healthy baby girl, to hold her, to smell her, to see my Mickey’s first reaction to her. Then Charlotte and her cohorts could start an IV in every vein if they wanted to. They could pump me full of gallons of cancer-fighting poison, arrange me on a rotisserie and radiate the hell out of me. I was open to all of that—but only after the baby got here, unharmed.

  Until then, I was determined to live as normally as possible. So though I spent much of my time surfing medical sites on Charlotte’s computer, I was also working on my class syllabus for the new school year. It had been a long summer, and I was looking forward to going back to work, even if I was a bit worried about my waning energy. I’d had a frank discussion with my principal, Douglas Bunnell, who had, of course, already heard about my condition, but cried anyway when I told him. But bless his heart, he offered up a lovely recommendation: Miriam Brady was getting ready to retire and wanted to only work part-time. He suggested I team up with her, and he didn’t care how we worked it out as long as the classes were covered. Miriam’s preference was for us to work alternate weeks, which I thought was perfect.

  It felt so wonderfully normal to be starting school again. I loved my students, and come the second week in September, I was going to love going through the normalcy of being their teacher. I planned to work for as long as I could, but even if I’d been completely healthy, I’d had no intention of working past Christmas break, since the baby was due January 3. Of course what I considered a wonderful arrangement was decried by my family, who thought the only appropriate activity for me was to rest.

  About a week before school started, Lily saw my car in front of Charlotte’s office and stopped over to see how I was doing. She fortuitously arrived just in time to hold my hand during my five-month ultrasound—Mickey had blown off the appointment. But all was well, my baby was growing, and Charlotte said she looked perfect. But even as happiness flowed through me, I felt panic creeping up on me. Every reason Mickey and I were never going to have children flew in my face. Ashamed of all that she could inherit from me, I imagined Priscilla’s irrational anger at my mother directed at me. I gasped for breath.

  Charlotte’s arms came around me and soothed my unsaid worries. “A little dark-haired, dark-eyed daughter. That’s what you told me, right?”

  Holding back tears, I said, “She’ll be little like me, but she’ll look like Mickey.” I found Lily’s hand. “But what if she gets sick?” I croaked.

  Charlotte shook her head.

  “Just because her mother got sick doesn’t mean she will,” Lily said.

  “Easy for you to say, Lil.”

  “Not so easy. But in my case, it’s true. Cling to that, Lu.”

  More tears blurred Lily’s beautiful face. She was right. Lily was healthy . . . knock on wood. So was Priss, in spite of her scare all those years ago. Lily kissed my forehead, and the three of us had a handful of completely normal moments full of happy tears.

  I was actually grateful that Mickey hadn’t shown up. If he’d been there, he would have seen my doubt and hung me with it. Later that night, when I told him everything looked good with his daughter, I was able to hide my anxiety from him. It wasn’t that hard—he was too busy sulking to read between the lines.

  Frustrated, I went to bed. But sometime after midnight, I woke to the sound of a basketball bouncing on the back patio. When I looked out, a full moon was shining on Mickey and Harry, who were playing a little one-on-one. Bless you, Harrison Bates, I thought. Later, when I checked again, the two of them were sitting on the picnic table, their feet on the bench, just talking.

  I don’t know what Harry said to my volatile husband. I just know he worked his magic, because when Mickey finally came to bed, he scooped me into his arms. “I’ve been a jerk, baby,” he whispered.

  “Really?”

  “Really. And I’m sorry. I’m going to be better.”

  I’m a pushover for any apology, especially from Mickey, and I rolled over and kissed him long and deep for his contrition. We had pretty good makeup sex after that—all things considered—and I fell asleep while Mickey rubbed my hair between his fingers.

  But the cease-fire was short-lived. Soon, Mickey began sleeping less and less, and many nights he didn’t come to bed at all. One morning I woke to the sound of the shower, and before I was even out of bed, Mickey was already out and dressed. I wandered into the bathroom to find him combing back his wet hair with one hand as he brushed his teeth with the other. He gazed at me through eyes that looked ready for a fight as he rinsed and spit. When I didn’t engage him, he checked his teeth in the mirror, gargled, spit again, and planted a cold kiss on my nose, all in thirty seconds. “I’m late, Lu,” he shouted over his shoulder. “I left kind of a mess downstairs, but I’ll take care of it later.” He popped his head back into the bathroom to say bitingly, “And don’t freak out, it’s nothing.”

  My heart sank at his words, wondering what he’d been doing all night. But before I could say anything, Mickey was gone. He’d taken the stairs two at a time and was out the door before I reached the landing. He was sleeping less and working more than ever. Or at least he was showing up at one of his clubs. It was also no surprise that Mickey was blowing off his appointments with Gleason, leaving all those orbiting around him powerless against whatever was going to happen. And something was bound to happen because he’d also hidden his medication from me—he was now self-dosing.

  I looked in the mirror and sighed. Already my day felt heavy, and I’d just gotten up. I steeled myself for the “nothing” I might find and made my way down the stairs.

  When I saw the kitchen, I wanted to cry. Apparently Mickey’d had a yen for chocolate chip cookies in the middle of the night. He’d spilled flour on the floor and walked through it—several times. He’d cracked some eggs, but missed the bowl, and a stream of the slime was dried on the cabinet door. Though the canister was full of sugar, Mickey had opened a new twenty-five-pound bag, seemingly with his teeth. The bag had been knocked over, and a pile of sugar now lay at the foot of the sink.

  He’d clearly used every bowl we owned, as well as every cookie sheet, each of which was smeared with Crisco and stacked at the ready. But there were no cookies, just a mountain of cookie dough that had been abandoned, a wooden spoon stabbed in the top of it. A half-empty bag of chocolate chips was sitting on the table in the midst of a tower of newspaper and magazine pages. Magic Markers, glue, tape, and paper clips were scattered everywhere. And there was a cheap, little paper folder, the kind with a pocket on the inside of each cover. I opened it up and found pages—a dozen at least—covered on both sides, with the word please. Mickey had cut and taped and glued the word please over and over and over until the pages were completely covered with the word. Please, in all different sizes. He’d even cut up the cover of a book for the baby, Please Don’t Make Me Come Home from the Moon and stolen the Please.

  It was beyond eerie to sit in my ruined kitchen and peer into the disrupted reality of my husband. I fingered the pages he had obviously taken great pains to create. He’d been dedicated. He hadn’t allowed himself to become distracted as he had with the cookies. He’d hung in there for eleven pages—twenty-two if you counted both sides. Please. For whom had Mickey intended this message? Me? God? Himself? Please don’t die. Please don’t hate me. Please make me whole. Please help me. Please fix my wife. Please have the abortion. As I tried to analyze what couldn’t be analyzed, the ocean of pleases blurred under my tears.

  How long was this spiral going to take? I was ashamed to be thinking this way, but I had to be able to hope for enough time. It could take three months for Mickey to fall off the planet, and it could take that long to reel him back onto it. Then, if we were lucky, he could be stable for several months, or maybe just a few weeks. Sometimes more than a year.

  I looked around the kitchen again, then I buried my face in my hands. It was more than Mi
ckey’s illness this time. That I could handle. It was his illness weighed down with his broken hope that almost did me in. I couldn’t love him enough this time, no matter how hard I tried. So I steeled myself for what I knew was coming.

  twenty-one

  SEPTEMBER 2, 2011

  I haven’t told anyone about the nightmares I’m having. They happen when I’m fully awake, and they leave me hollow and exhausted and ashamed. In them I am frenzied and desperate and I’m completely alone. God has claimed Lucy and is pitying the freak left behind who cannot find his way. I’m running, as is my habit, convinced in my warped reality that I will find my wife—wherever God has hidden her—I will find Lucy and be whole again.

  Then I hear it, this tiny wail that cuts through all the noise. She materializes in my arms, small and completely vulnerable, and I glare down at her through a sheet of tears born of agony and rage. I think I might hate her—she is the thief who stole her mother’s life. My life. I don’t want her. I don’t want to want her. I want God to take her and give me back my wife. From the depths of me I roar down at this helpless infant, the sound something solid and so loud it cracks the sky until shards of it rain down on us, me and my daughter. We’re both bleeding and I pull her close, filled with useless apology, but she bleeds more. She needs me, and I am utterly, shamefully impotent. I set her down, gently, this baby girl who stares at me with no guile, no expectation, and I turn my back on her need and her trust, and I run away. I run until I am almost flying, but I cannot run far enough or fast enough or long enough: I can still hear her.

  It is taking longer and longer to recover from this nightmare—and far too many pills to keep it at bay. Even when I think I’m safely outside of this terrible experience, I’m still haunted by a core reality that does not change no matter how many drugs I take: I cannot do this alone. I cannot do this without my wife.

  Labor Day weekend has always been big in Brinley. First thing Saturday morning, the kids parade through the Loop on decorated bikes while the Midlothian High School marching band struts to the cacophony of brass and percussion. Floats and balloons usher in the firemen, who throw candy from the top of Brinley’s oldest fire engine. After that there’s a serious softball tournament at Pier Park. At five o’clock, the annual art festival takes over the pier, and then it’s time for the crown jewel of the holiday: the Labor Day Regatta.

  It’s our own ceremonial end of summer, and it draws visitors from all over the state. When I was little, my mother and Jan used to work for weeks on a float that all of us kids got to sit atop. My dad, being the police chief, kept order with a big megaphone. That memory comes back to me every year.

  I’d told Priss I’d pick her up at ten thirty and we’d walk over to the park for the game. I drove to the Cascade turnoff, where I left my car and walked up Foster Pier Road to the marina. I found my lovely sister sitting on the hull of our sailboat with her legs dangling over the side. She was wearing a linen skirt and a tank top that hugged her shape. She peered over her sunglasses at me, sizing up our standing.

  “Hey, Priss.”

  She glanced at my bulge and nodded, then pulled herself to her feet and climbed down from the boat. “Hey.”

  We’d talked on the phone a few times, but we hadn’t seen each other or spoken of our fight, so we were both kind of testing the water. But the awkwardness melted away when Priss walked over and pulled me into her arms. When she let go, I squeezed her hand. “I’m doing good, Priss. I really am.”

  “Liar,” she rasped.

  Our first few minutes together were a little wooden, but the pier, teeming with townspeople, nicely cushioned the stiffness. It was a lovely clear morning for September—the temperature destined for somewhere in the eighties—cloudless, with just enough sea breeze to remind us how close we were to the ocean. A crew was testing the sound system for the string of performers who would take the stage over the next two days. We walked through the rubble of boxes and tables and crates and canvas that were being transformed into booths. Priscilla laced her fingers through mine and squeezed. “I’m sorry, Lucy. I never should have told you how to live your life.”

  “It’s okay,” I said, frankly surprised she’d mentioned it. “It’s over.” I looked up at my gorgeous big sister. “It’s forgotten.”

  “Good, because I need to tell you something.”

  “What?”

  “Guess who I had dinner with last week?”

  “The New England Patriots.”

  “Very funny. Nathan Nash.”

  “Oh, really? How is he?”

  “He’s adjusting, he’s lonely. We had a nice time, just friendly. We talked for hours.”

  “You be nice to him, Priscilla. He’s one of my favorites.”

  “Just what is that supposed to mean?”

  I shrugged, grateful we had arrived at the park. “Is he here?”

  Priscilla looked toward the bleachers. “His son is playing on the school team, so he’s probably around here somewhere.”

  I followed my sister as she eyed the crowd. We found seats on the top row, and she continued to scan the benches for Nathan Nash.

  Mickey’s softball team, the Loopers, which was composed of anyone doing business on Brinley Loop, was favored to wipe out the competition: the Midlothian Brainiacs, the students and faculty from my school; the Heavenly Choir, which was made up of all the denominations of Brinley clergy; and the Come Back Kids, who were all the Brinians who’d moved away but had come home for this weekend.

  For the Loopers, Ron was pitching, Lily was catching, and my Mickey was playing shortstop. They’d been practicing for weeks, and the mock games had kept my husband fairly focused, even if his intractable mood had cost them a darn good first baseman. As it was, Mickey was keeping Ron and Jared busy putting out fires. I looked over and found Lily swinging a bat that looked as if it weighed almost as much as she did. She was wearing an enormous team T-shirt that hung nearly to her knees, and Ron was giving her some last-minute advice, or maybe it was the other way around. She looked up at Priss and me and waved. I gave her the thumbs-up.

  The tournament began with Muriel Piper and Oscar Levine, ostensibly the oldest living Brinians, singing the national anthem. Then it was whistles and applause as friendly wagers, and a few serious bets, were placed for our favorites. I was rooting for my beloved Loopers, of course, but I was pretty sure Midlothian was going to win. When the coin toss sent the Loopers to the field, I watched my family and friends take their places.

  Mickey turned his baseball cap backward and got serious. He looked amazing in his team jersey. Looking at him, one would never guess how thin his stability was stretched. He still considered himself perfectly functional, but he’d grown disturbingly sure that everyone had a motive to doubt him. Sadly, this paranoia extended even to me and Gleason. Mickey wanted nothing more than to blissfully soar above the reality of our situation, and he was doing it for the most part. I’d found his meds and watched his prescription for Depakote close enough to know he’d decreased the dose, and his Prozac was just about gone—unless he was very depressed, Prozac usually pushed him toward hypomania. When I asked him about it, he’d snapped at me. He apologized later, but wouldn’t admit that he’d manipulated his chemistry to such a brittle degree that at this point anything could happen. I watched my husband in his baggy shorts and Looper jersey punching his mitt, grinning at me from the field, amazed that nothing seemed amiss. He waved at me, and I blew him a kiss.

  “That’s so sweet,” Priss said sarcastically.

  The whistle blew and the tournament started. After scoring one measly run, the Heavenly Choir quickly struck out. Next, the first three Loopers made a base each, and then Mickey hit their team’s first home run. It gleaned them four lovely points. Lily was up next, and Priss and I yelled and whistled our sisterly support. She aimed her hit at the nearsighted Gladys Finney, who taught summer Bible school. Gladys ducked, missed the ball, and Lily rounded second base before the old gal had chased it down and thro
wn it back in.

  From there, things went downhill for the Choir, and the Loopers took the game 13–5, eliminating the clergy from the competition. Mickey joined me in the stands briefly to receive his accolades. I slobbered all over him and Priss bestowed smiles of approval. A pretty woman with a wrist-thick ponytail eyed my husband appreciatively from two bleachers down.

  Next the Loopers played the Brainiacs, and it was a long, close game. I was getting hot and uncomfortable and was fidgeting so much that Priscilla commented on my restlessness. I was surprised she’d noticed me at all, now that she had spotted Nathan a few rows over. The two of them were stealing glances like a couple of teenagers in English Lit.

  The Loops pulled off a narrow win, and people started heading for the concessions. Priss and I waited for Mickey, Ron, and Lily at the bottom of the bleachers, where Nathan joined us. He gave me a hug. “You’re looking good, Lucy,” he told me. Considering how I felt, I called him a liar.

  I was glad they were taking a break for lunch because I’d had too much heat and sitting on hard bleachers and wanted Mickey to take me back to my car. “You sure, baby? Maybe you just need something to eat.”

  “No, I’m tired. I need a nap. I’ll come back later and we can all have dinner together. Won’t that work?”

  He kissed me, but there wasn’t much warmth in the gesture.

  “I’m sorry, honey. Don’t be mad.”

  “I’m not mad, Lu. I just thought we could have a little fun today.”

  “We are. You were great. I’ll go rest for a while and then come back and we’ll party the night away.”

  “If that’s what you want to do,” he said, lifting me into his arms. “How ’bout a ride for my tired little wife.”

  Mickey dropped me off at my car. “Call me when you wake up, Lu, and we’ll figure out what we’re doing.” I kissed him hard on the mouth, but he didn’t taste right.