In Memoriam

by Suzanne Jenkins

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Sandra said, frightened. Tom never varied from routine, even when work called him out. It was unusual that he’d stop by the hospital at that hour.

  “I had to drive by anyway, and it’s not too late, is it? I wanted to see my son.” Getting closer to the bed, she could see he was experiencing an intense emotion.

  “Well, here he is,” she said, forcing a smile.

  Standing over the bed, he was looking first at her with narrowed eyes, then to the baby with a penetrating gaze. He put his hand up to Sandra’s chin and grasped it firmly, almost hard, turning her head to him as he bent over to kiss her.

  “My mother called me today,” he said. “She isn’t known for her subtle approach, as you know. She was concerned about Thomas Brent.

  “She said she never knew an Adams baby to be born with light hair. His hair is almost white. She said she was in the room when Pam made the announcement to the world that he looked like one of her babies. I wasn’t present, of course. Because if I had been, I’d have asked her to get out. The minute my mother said it, I knew.

  “I remember how you were so fucked up that weekend nine months ago. You’d come home from spending the day with Pam. You stayed in bed the entire weekend, sick, saying you felt drugged. Then of course, the unfortunate murder of Brent the next day. You stayed in bed for a week after that, too. No, wait; you dragged yourself to the funeral, against my advice. After you moped around for the next couple of months, the wonderful news. Out of nowhere, you’re pregnant!

  “This morning, I went home to Miranda. Wait until you see her; she could be his sister they’re so alike. It occurred to me they’re cousins. His father is Miranda’s first cousin. My mother noticed, too. ‘Can you believe it?’ she said. ‘They share genes.’” Tom decompressed as soon as the last word was spoken. Pulling a chair over, he plunked down into it, defeated. Shaking his head, he started to cry.

  Paralyzed, Sandra feared Tom was right, that baby Brent wasn’t his child. Not right away, of course, but a few months after she’d discovered she was pregnant, hiding her concerns from everyone. Tom’s reminder that she’d felt like she’d been drugged that Saturday after Pam left her alone with Brent sent chills through her body. She’d discovered evidence in the crotch of her underpants but ignored it, hoping it came from Tom because they’d had sex that morning.

  How would she accuse Brent of raping her, anyway? It would be devastating for business. Brent was coming to work with her that Monday. It would look bad for Tom, who was a New York cop. It would have been so embarrassing for him. What she should have done was had a blood test right away to confirm that she’d been drugged. Just in case. The possibility of a pregnancy hadn’t even occurred to her, yet.

  It was too late because she was already pregnant. It was a repeat of when she feared she was pregnant with Jack’s baby. She felt nauseous, and her period was late, so she took the test. The pink double stripes appeared. Positive! Not thinking of the Brent connection yet, Sandra rushed home from work to relieve Tom’s mother, Virginia, from babysitting and get Miranda into bed. She remembered exactly the sequence of telling Tom. “I’m pregnant!” she’d said happily when he came from work on a Tuesday night. Tom became ghostly pale. He knew she was concerned when her period was late, and it was during those conversations that his fears surfaced. The baby wasn’t his.

  Tom knew. That was why he couldn’t get excited. Both parents knew the truth, but neither could say anything about it because it was too awful to contemplate. Tom was sure Sandra had had an affair with Brent, and there was no way she’d be able to prove otherwise. They had Miranda to consider; what would become of her? Neither had sole custody of her, it was a fostering situation at best. And their house—the huge, pretentious brownstone neither could have ever afforded on their own. Ownership would revert to Pam if they ever broke up and no longer were in a position to care for Miranda as a couple. It was a scenario never imagined in a million years, now a possibility.

  Tom disliked Pam and her family from the first meeting shortly after Jack died. He knew all Sandra’s secrets: how she’d had an affair with Jack, becoming pregnant and contacting HIV, how Pam forgave her. They’d become unlikely best of friends. He tolerated Pam because she trusted him to be a father to Miranda. There was just too much at stake to give credence to his fears. What if they were unfounded? He would have upset his family for nothing. So he buried it and tried to be civil, tried to pretend he was excited. Tried to give his behavior an acceptable title: he was the worried father. But it didn’t work. He didn’t touch her, could barely make eye contact, never wanted to feel the baby move or look at her belly as it grew. Concern that it wasn’t his baby was never verbalized, so horrible was the possibility.

  So when he finally saw the baby for the first time, he didn’t even try to see his likeness. All he could see was a Smith. And when his mother made her announcement, that cinched it. It wasn’t his child.

  “What are you going to do?” Sandra whispered, grateful Tom had not yet delved into a discussion about Brent.

  He raised his head and looked at her. “I’m pathetic,” he said. “What am I going to do? Probably nothing. Admit to my family that my wonderful girlfriend is a whore?” He laughed out loud, and the baby jumped in Sandra’s arms. “No way. I have too much pride. We can just let things go on as they are. For Miranda’s sake.” He stood up and walked out of the room without saying good-bye. But Sandra knew she could never just let things go on as they are.

  She remembered the kiss, the one kiss she had with Brent in the car, that if she’d been standing up, her knees would’ve buckled. On Monday morning, she tried to pull herself together to get to work; it was supposed to be Brent’s first day at Lang, Smith and Romney. But the phone pealing at five thirty cinched it; she wouldn’t go back for a week. It was a hysterical Pam, almost incoherent. Brent was dead. Armed with a checkbook, ready to pay his ex-girlfriend’s father for having to ship her belongings back and forth across the country, the man thought he was reaching for a weapon. At least that was what he told police. Even his daughter said it was ridiculous, Brent never did anything to warrant the fear he’d do them harm. The worst that could be said about him was that he was a sex maniac.

  Sandra was so full of shame and disgust with herself that she couldn’t stop thinking about it. The next nine months were spent “pussyfooting around each other,” as Tom liked to call it. In spite of having told Sandra he’d probably do nothing about their relationship, it was clear they were going to have to do something, most likely putting an end to it. It would be the destruction of a family in its fullest sense of the word.

  To Sandra, it was a relief that the pretense was over. She no longer had to suffer through weekends at her future in-laws, pretending she enjoyed their company. And she didn’t have to pretend with Tom. He was a man that she lived with who’d called her a whore.

  Getting home from the hospital was an embarrassing nightmare; she had to call a cab the next morning to take her and the baby to the brownstone. Quickly moving out of their shared bedroom, she’d stay adjacent to the baby’s room. That Virginia Adams could betray her by making the comment about the baby’s appearance angered Sandra, so she ignored her, locking the baby’s door when Virginia was in the house. Tom and Virginia took care of Miranda while Sandra recovered.

  Virginia wouldn’t be caring for baby Brent. When he was two weeks old, Sandra returned to her job in Manhattan, bringing the baby along. Tom used to bring her to work, but she now hired a car at company expense to drive her in and out of the city. A nanny met her at the office and took care of the baby while Sandra worked, bringing him in to be fed every two hours.

  Sandra’s business partner, Peter, had just one meltdown, yelling at her that she wasn’t going to turn his office into a nursery. In turn, Sandra pointed her finger at him and told him to, “Shut up, Peter. I’ll do whatever the hell I please because this is my company, too.” He never broached the subject again.

  Virgin
ia continued to care for Miranda but never asked about baby Brent. Sandra was sure Tom told her the whole story because for supposedly being the first blood grandchild, she was not in the least interested. Sandra was happy; it meant less fake interaction with her, and she never cared for Virginia, anyway, the feeling mutual.

  Longing to tell Pam that baby Brent was her grandchild, Sandra knew the timing for it had to be perfect, as well. Everything was in the timing.

  Chapter 3

  Keeping her head down as she race-walked to her car, Pam was determined not to look up at Lisa’s window, sure Dan had better things to do than peer down at her, but she could never be too careful. The thought of him infuriated her. Happy his family appeared to have left already, she wasn’t taking any chances. Hurriedly unlocking the car door, she got in just in case there were any stragglers waiting to accost her.

  The ongoing anger she had for the Chua family was probably misplaced grief for Brent, and Pam knew it. She preferred being angry. Dan had tried to make amends after betraying her with Lisa by being solicitous, but Pam didn’t trust him and could see the slick lawyer come shining through in just about everything he said to her. His sliminess made her skin crawl.

  Why she got involved with him in the first place was a mystery. Deciding it must have been the contrast between neuter Dave, her previous boyfriend, and macho Dan that attracted her, or her pride after Andy Andretti walked out on her. Dan was young and hot, and her ego fell for his attention. Pride cometh before a fall.

  Driving back to the beach from the hospital increased her anxiety rather than diminished it. Staying busy was key. Her mother would soon be arriving home from spending the morning with Lisa, and Bernice was there with her assistant, probably playing Gin Rummy. Bernice started drinking again soon after moving in, and Pam had let her. She was eighty years old. If she wanted to feel a buzz in the afternoon, Pam would facilitate it. The cocktail hour was eagerly looked forward to now that the ladies were in residence.

  Developing a fantasy world made living tolerable for her after Brent died, beginning with not allowing his name spoken. If anyone dared to, her displeasure was such that it would be the last time. Audible gasps followed by, “Please don’t mention him,” and, “I’d rather not hear about it,” were effective strategies. But when both Sandra and Lisa chose Brent as their babies’ middle name in spite of knowing her feelings, Pam gave up, keeping quiet but cringing whenever she heard it used.

  Eventually, life was tolerable because she pretended he was still alive. Brent was in Pasadena, working. He rarely came home after graduating college, so it was an easy smoke screen to erect. She didn’t know how long she’d be able to get away with it, but for now, magical thinking was working for her.

  The horrible night Brent was murdered was a blurry mess in her memory. Other parents who’d lost children told her the memories burned vividly in their brain and were available for revisiting. Not for Pam. She thought part of the reason was because she heard the news from Andy Andretti, the first man she’d dated after Jack died. The day she told him she had AIDS, he fled, and then he spoke about it to other people.

  After leaving the birthing center, Pam’s thoughts returned to that night when Brent was murdered. She didn’t fight the memory this time, picturing being outside on the veranda late at night as she had done for years. It was cool, early summer, and she had the fire pit lit. There was no moon, and the stars popped in the black sky. It was impossible to see where the horizon ended until a boat pulling a lighted dinghy came into view. It was so beautiful, seeing the dots of white light against the black sky moving slowly across her field of vision. She was about to indulge in fantasy, remembering when Jack was alive and the two of them would sit out just as she was doing, watching the ships in the night, when the doorbell rang. It was late, and the sound startled her. She said, “Brent!” He must have decided to come home after all rather than sleeping at the apartment. She jumped and ran to the door, smiling, not thinking why he would come to the front door instead of through the garage as usual.

  Throwing the door open, she was shocked to see Andy standing in front of her. The first thing that went through her head was that it had to have something to do with Ed Ford, Lisa’s husband, who had recently had a run-in with the police.

  “Oh!” She was speechless for a second. “Hi,” she finally said. “What’s wrong?”

  “Can I come in, Pam?” Andy asked.

  Later, Pam thought how surreal the scene must have appeared, that it was too bad they didn’t have any witnesses to it.

  “Ha! Why would I let you in my house at this hour?” She was in her best haughty matron pose, in flowing gauze summer pants and shirt, her hair piled on her head like a princess, with her nose in the air.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said, and for just a second, she was frightened. A cop was at her door in the middle of the night. Wasn’t that enough? She thought of her children. The entire scenario didn’t take more than sixty seconds.

  “Oh God,” she said, and she leaned forward to grab onto the front of his shirt. He put his arms around her. “Oh God, oh god, oh god.” Hopeful God or someone would hear her and everything would be okay, that he was only there to tell her a neighbor’s dog was on the loose or that her car had been stolen. Anything but what she would ultimately hear come from his mouth.

  “Brent’s gone,” he said. “He was shot.”

  Pam let go of Andy and put her hands up to her face. Oddly, she didn’t burst into tears or start screaming. She could feel a wave of something pass through her body; of indeterminate temperature, it started at her throat and moved through her chest and came out her feet. When it had run its course, she just wanted the man gone. She didn’t need details or explanations, not yet anyway. She wanted to be alone to process what she’d just heard. No one could help her; it was something horrible she needed to do on her own, never to recover.

  “Thank you for coming to tell me,” she said, moving by him to grasp the door. She hoped that was enough of a hint for him to get out so she didn’t have to ask him to go.

  He paused for a second, and it was a second too long.

  “Please get out of my house, Andy.” She put her hand up against his chest to push him out the door. Whatever it was that had left her body was trying to get back in, bubbling up in her throat, choking her, and he had to leave before she lost control. He didn’t say good-bye, honoring what he saw in her eyes, that she was a woman come unwound.

  He walked down the path to his car and turned around to see the light over the front door go off. Waiting in case she started to scream or needed help, after a few minutes he gave up. Pam hid in the corner of the vestibule, peeking out the sidelight. Once he pulled away from the house, she’d feel safe. The light beams on the car moved past, and she ran to the veranda, slamming shut the sliding doors. Days later, she’d arrange to have the veranda enclosed with doors that she could lock. Everything closed, locked, turned off, that was the only way she could feel secure again. The next thing she did, which turned out to be a lifesaver, was record a message on her answering machine. This is Pam. I’m sorry to inform you my son, Brent, has passed away. I ask that you respect my privacy and not contact me. Funeral arrangements will be posted in the paper. She had three calls to make, one to Lisa and one to Nelda and one to Sandra, but she’d do it in the morning.

  Eerily calm, she got ready for bed, her mind a blank. Taking two sleeping pills, she got under the covers, fully dressed, and fell right to sleep.

  The next morning, something had shifted; she woke up remembering Brent was dead. “Oh God, why?” she cried, disbelieving. How could this be happening? Never see his beautiful face again, hear his voice, feel his hug? She lay in bed crying, thinking of Jack, what his response would be if he were still alive. Jack wouldn’t have survived it, dying on the spot or going crazy. Jack dying first was appropriate, for his sake.

  Popping up out of bed, she ran to the hall phone to call Lisa. The light on the answering machine was flash
ing wildly. The morning news was full of the story about Brent and his assailant, and friends and family were calling for information and offers of help.

  “Mother! Oh my God,” Lisa screamed into the phone. “Dan is on his way to White Plains right now to try to see what happened.” They cried together. Lisa promised to call her as soon as Dan got in touch. Dan. Pam wasn’t thinking about Dan the snake. Right now, it was Dan their attorney. He’d find out whatever he could. Last night, Pam was unable to engage Andy Andretti, and now she was regretful, starved for information, wanting visuals. She wanted fodder to focus on, but she didn’t think she wanted to share her grief with someone so undeserving.

  The next call was to Sandra, the same screaming and crying, the same promises that Tom would find out what he could. Someone had to call Nelda, so Pam decided to bypass it, telling her mother was more than she could tolerate, passing the task on to her sister Sharon.

  After she made the calls, Pam got back into bed and stayed there the rest of the day. She didn’t brush her teeth or bathe, forgot about coffee to drink. Nothing mattered. She heard a soft knock on the veranda glass; it would be Jeff Babcock, her closest friend. She couldn’t talk to him yet.

  Sometime in the afternoon, she fell asleep again, and when it was dark, after nine that night, she woke up. Feeling physically ill, she struggled to stand up at the side of the bed. Pam, always well groomed and ready for the world, didn’t bother to look in the mirror. If she had, she’d have been shocked. Wearing the same gauze outfit she’d put on yesterday morning, it was a wrinkled, sweaty mess. Hair mashed down on the right side, the pile of curls perched on top of her head twenty-four hours ago had slid down the left side of her head. Mascara smeared under her swollen eyes, lipstick worn off on her pillowcase, she was unrecognizable.

  She stumbled through the hallway to the front door and peeked out the sidelight again. The porch was packed with flower arrangements and fruit baskets. The pile of goodwill did nothing to lighten her burden. If she had the courage, she’d kill herself. Nothing could have prepared her for the way losing a child would make her feel. It transcended feeling. All the years she’d looked the other way, served her family and did for others suddenly turned on her, and she could only look upon herself. It wasn’t introspective, increasing her peace, or pain relieving. She wanted her pain to magnify and take over her body and mind so she didn’t have to think. She didn’t want to be nice and make small talk, comfort others and make excuses for God. Instead, the overwhelming desire was to stamp her foot, to throw the contents of her china cabinet onto the marble floors, or better, to set fire to the house. She wanted to make a statement that would clarify what losing Brent meant to her.