She had added a section about the promise Those Ladies had made, letting him know he could punt any subject he wanted to Steph or Gina. She’d also added a paragraph about how she’d been warning her parents for several weeks that once Laks was in first grade, Mara thought it best for the child to attend after-school care until Tom could pick her up on the way home from work.
It would allow the girl a chance to socialize more, Mara had told them. But what she really wanted was to make it easier for Tom to extricate her parents from his daily life, in case their constant presence was too painful. She knew they would insist on resuming their afternoon babysitting, and she knew he would never be able to tell them no. Unless they all knew it was one of Mara’s last wishes.
And she’d added a line or two telling him she’d paid her Neiman’s balance and canceled the account, so he needn’t worry about it. She didn’t want to think about him opening the statement, reading down the list of her last purchases. She’d canceled everything else she could think of, too—law school mailings, catalogs, anything that might show up at the house with her name on it.
Finally, on a separate page he could throw out if it angered him, she had written down the names and numbers of some Unitarian ministers who would perform a memorial service, even for someone who had never set foot in the place. Even for a family who would make no promises they would ever attend a service again. For all the lack of connection to the church Tom claimed, she wouldn’t be shocked if he wanted a real funeral service. It was about ritual, perhaps, more than belief. And there wasn’t a ritual older than gathering people together to say a few words about the dead.
Even if the words Tom wanted to say were “Fuck you.” She read over the list of names, unsure. Was it fair, providing these names and numbers? Once he considered the idea, she knew he wouldn’t be able to ignore it. And if there was a service, he wouldn’t be able to say “Fuck you.” Not out loud, anyway. Out loud, he would be forced to say nice things about her. He would make himself talk about all the good things she had done, for him and for Laks, before she had done this terrible thing.
He would have to nod and smile and agree with her parents and Those Ladies and others who came that yes, it was a dreadful thing to do to a child, to a husband, to such caring parents and friends, but really, who were any of them to judge? How could they ever truly know what she had gone through? Who were any of them to say they wouldn’t have at least considered the same thing?
And he would, in saying those things out loud, nodding as others said them, have to allow to himself that maybe some of them were true. He might still whisper, “Fuck you, Mara,” when he was alone in their room, or driving to work, exhausted by the demands of juggling a career and a child on his own. But the funeral service would have planted the seeds of empathy and understanding, and now and then, she hoped, those seeds would sprout and rise up through the curse words. Maybe those seeds would never be enough to crowd out all of the resentment and bitterness. But maybe they would be enough to push away some.
“Mama!” Laks was peeking over the arm of the couch, looking like she’d discovered a pony standing in the kitchen.
Mara laughed, and swiveled around to face her daughter. “Yes. Mama. Mama who said good morning to you thirty minutes ago and has been sitting here, five feet away, ever since.” She smiled and shook her head. “You and those cartoons.”
“Watch with me!” Laks scrambled to a sitting position and patted the couch beside her. “Mama, watch with me!”
Was there a worse form of torture for a parent than half an hour of SpongeBob’s maniacal laugh? Mara glanced at her laptop, scrambling for one of her stock excuses for why she couldn’t possibly spare the time, why sitting in front of mindless cartoons would have to wait for another day.
What other day?
“I’d love to.”
She sat carefully beside the girl, leaving a few inches between them. Since the library incident, she’d been more self-conscious about her body, especially in front of her daughter. But Laks inched toward Mara until the space she had so carefully left was gone, and then tipped over sideways from the waist so her upper body lay across her mother’s lap, her cheek on her mother’s knee. Mara stroked her daughter’s hair with her left hand and with her right she traced small circles on the fabric of the girl’s pajamas, above her bony hip.
Laks wiggled, pressing her body tightly into her mother’s lap. Two little hands reached out to grab Mara’s right, bringing it into the girl’s chest and clutching it tightly. She wiggled once more to reposition herself, then lay still and let out a long, contented sigh. Mara let out a similar sigh and the girl giggled.
Mara had been wondering how to say goodbye to Laks, deliberating over what she could say or do that would be significant enough to bring meaning to the child later, but not momentous enough to make her worry now. She felt the hot sting of tears as she realized: this was it. Tom would drive Laks to Mara’s parents’ house after dance class, while Mara was at lunch with Those Ladies. This was goodbye.
The closest box of tissues was on the table, out of reach, so she let the tears flow and counted on the girl being so engrossed in the ridiculous cartoon she wouldn’t notice. Her right hand was trapped, and she couldn’t bring herself to stop her left from stroking Laks’s hair, so she turned to wipe her nose on her own shoulder. As she turned, her laptop came into view and it struck her that she knew exactly what 2boys would say if he could see her now, and if he knew everything she hadn’t been telling: “On the upside, this is the last thirty minutes you’ll ever have to spend watching SpongeBob.”
Mara let out a strangled half sob, half laugh at the thought, and Laks, who was already laughing at the screen, laughed harder.
38.
Mara
Mara and Those Ladies settled into their booth at the Wooden Table, Mara’s favorite restaurant. As they adjusted themselves, arranged napkins, found places to store their purses, Mara turned to Gina.
“Would you take Laks to church sometime?” she asked. “If she wants to go, I mean? And maybe even if she doesn’t? Maybe around middle school, or late elementary, when you get the sense she’s old enough to take in what they’re saying? Tom won’t mind. I told him I was going to ask you about it.”
“I’d be honored to,” Gina said.
“Thank you,” Mara said. “Oh, and remember we talked once about you reminding her to call Tom on our anniversary? And I think you said you’d have her do it on Mother’s Day, too? I was thinking, you should tell her to stop if he remarries. And Steph, you’re going to have to be the one to talk to my parents about being nice to any new girlfriend or wife—you know that, right? I mean, I can’t imagine them being anything but kind to anyone, but in that case, I don’t know—”
“Where’s all this coming from?” Steph asked, her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What aren’t you telling us? Did Thiry give you some news that things are moving faster, or—”
“Oh, no,” Mara said, backpedaling. “I just . . . think about these things, you know? Laks was talking the other night about how Susan’s family always says grace, and she wanted us to try it, and it made me think about how she might enjoy church. Or at least benefit from going a few times, seeing what it’s all about. And the other things just, I don’t know, came to me, I guess, at various times. And since you’re both here, and I actually remember them . . .” She didn’t mention she had written each down on a sticky note and reviewed them surreptitiously as they took their seats.
Steph twisted her lips as though she didn’t quite buy her friend’s explanation. Mara lifted her menu and before Steph could interrogate her further, Mara smacked her lips loudly and read a few items out loud. “They have the best filet mignon here. They wrap it in the thickest bacon. And the creamiest tiramisu. Oooh, but the chocolate brownie with warm fudge is so tempting.”
“I wish,” Gina said, looking down at her protruding waistl
ine. “It’s going to be another house salad for me, with cottage cheese and fruit for dessert.” She put finger quotes around “dessert” and made a face.
“Well,” said Steph, “since we began the meal with all the maudlin talk about messages we all need to pass on to Laks from the one who’ll be beyond the grave”—she hiked a thumb at Mara—“I’d say this is as good a time as any to order something decadent enough to qualify as a last meal.”
Gina opened her mouth to chastise Steph but Mara put a hand on Gina’s arm and shook her head. “She’s right. I mean, why wait until the absolute last meal? Especially since my last meal will be through a tube. That’s not the way I want to savor my last bite of chocolate fudge!” As she spoke, she rooted through her purse for the small notebook Gina had given her ages ago to record things she didn’t want to forget. Gina smiled as Mara produced it.
Flipping through the pages, Mara said, “Here it is. I can’t remember where I found this—big surprise—but I knew at least one of you”—she slid her eyes toward Steph—“would appreciate it. And this is the perfect occasion for it. It’s something Nora Ephron wrote, or said in an interview or something. Here goes: ‘When you are actually going to have your last meal, you’ll either be too sick to have it or you aren’t gonna know it’s your last meal and you could squander it on something like a tuna melt and that would be ironic. So it’s important . . . I feel it’s important to have that last meal today, tomorrow, soon.’”
“Perfect indeed!” Steph said, clapping her hands once and then holding them under her chin, Neerja-like. They all laughed and Mara winked at Steph, a silent thank-you for keeping the moment from becoming depressing.
“No tuna melt for me, ladies,” Mara said. She handed the book to Gina, who was wiping her eyes, having not fully escaped the depressing angle. Pointing to the quote, Mara smiled at Gina. “No house salad, either. It’s filet mignon and brownie time. Bacon and chocolate are the two essential ingredients in any last meal. And I’m having a martini, too. Dirty. What the hell, I’m not driving.”
“I’ll have the tiramisu,” Gina announced proudly. “That way, you can have some of each. What’s your next choice for entrée?”
Mara read through the menu again and chose the lowest-fat option she could find for her weight-conscious friend. “Um, I think the salmon with vegetables.”
“Bullshit,” Steph said.
“Eggplant Parm,” Mara admitted.
“One eggplant Parm, one tiramisu,” Gina said. “Done.”
“And after that?” Steph asked.
“Butternut squash ravioli with sausage. Extra sausage. And lemon meringue pie.”
Gina smiled and handed the book back. “It all sounds so much better than a house salad.”
As they ordered, Steph and Gina sounding proud when they announced their lunch choices to the waiter, each adding a fancy drink, Mara silently rehearsed the speech she’d come up with in the cab earlier. It was part goodbye, part thank-you, part spoken love letter to two women who had been like sisters to her. It wasn’t adequate, the few words she’d come up with. But nothing would be.
When the waiter was gone, Mara took a breath and launched into her oration. She spoke about what Those Ladies meant to her. What a blessing their friendship was. How she’d never be able to put into words the degree to which she appreciated their loyalty, their honesty, their support over the past few difficult years—
“Jesus,” Steph interrupted. “I can’t take any more. Not after the messages for Laks and the last-meal stuff. Can it wait for another time? I mean, you’re not dying tomorrow, right?”
Gina gasped and Mara blanched. Mara recovered faster than Gina and gave Steph her most casual laugh. “God, I did sound dark, didn’t I?” She waved a hand, dismissing her macabre speech as silliness. “Thiry has me on this new head-shrinking drug,” she lied. “Makes me all sappy and dramatic. You think that was bad, you should’ve heard what I said to Tom last night . . .” She arched an eyebrow.
It worked. Steph leaned across the table, a strong hand gripping Mara’s. “Ooooh, now the conversation’s taking a nice turn. Tell me, just what did you say to hunky Tom? I can think of a few things I’d like to tell him myself.”
• • •
“Did you go through the twelve-step program?” Mara asked Harry as he drove her home from the restaurant.
“Nah. I’m old-school. Cold turkey on my own.”
“Wow. Impressive.”
“Not hardly. Took me twenty-five years ta get round to it.”
“So you’re not familiar with that bit in the program where people go around apologizing to people they’ve wronged in their lives?”
“Nah. Can’t say I am.”
“Well, I’ve been doing a little twelve-step of my own, this week. Not apologizing, though—thanking. People who’ve helped me, or who’ve been particularly important to me in my life.”
“Kinda like countin’ yer blessin’s, only you’re comin’ right out and thankin’ yours.”
“Kind of. And, Harry? I want to thank you, too.”
“Me?” he asked, feigning surprise. “I been particularly important in yer life?”
“I think you know you have.”
“Yuh,” he said, smiling. “Maybe I do.”
“I wasn’t happy to have to give up driving this week, to give up that control. Not that I need to tell you. But I’ve started thinking maybe there’s a reason it happened. And the reason was so I could meet you. I’m very happy I was able to spend this week with you. So, thank you.”
His smile widened. “Welcome.”
They drove the rest of the way in silence. When he pulled up in front of her house, she took an envelope out of her purse and handed it to him with the cash for the fare.
“What’s this now?” He turned the envelope over in his hands.
“It’s nothing, really. Just something I thought you could use.”
“Should I open it?”
She nodded and he opened it carefully, unfolded the typed letter inside and read the opening line. “Dear Caroline.” He turned quickly to Mara.
“It’s what I think you’d want to say to her,” she said. “It’s everything you told me, the way I think you’d write it if you could . . .”
“Get my head ta make the words come out how they sound in my heart,” he finished.
“Yes.”
She waited while he read the rest of the letter. When he was finished, he folded it carefully and put it back in its envelope, which he set on the passenger seat, under his jacket. “You’re right,” he said. “It’s exactly what I’ve always wanted ta tell her. In all the words I’ve felt inside but could never get ta come out right on paper.” He shifted in his seat and leaned toward her. “Thank you. For doin’ this for me.”
“You don’t have to use the whole thing. Only the parts you think are good.”
“I’ll use every single word.”
She took his arm after he opened her door and they walked to the house in silence. When she started to turn the door handle, he put his hand on hers and stopped her.
“Why is it, I wonder, that you’re doin’ yer own little twelve-step program this week? Thankin’ people? Givin’ me this gift?”
She looked up at him and smiled. And then she leaned toward him and kissed him on the cheek. “Harry. You know the rules. No questions, no comments, no sympathy, no judgment.”
“Huh,” he said, frowning, and she could tell he was regretting his own rules. But he gave a small smile and nodded. “Okay, then,” he said, and started down the walk to the cab.
After a few steps he turned to her and said, “This ain’t goodbye, though, right? We’ll go ta the school again together on Monday? I’ll get ya a little after eleven?”
“Sure,” she lied. “A little after eleven. That’d be great.”
“S
ee ya Monday, then.” And he turned around and walked to his car, thrusting an arm high in the air as he went.
39.
Scott
Curtis had cried from the minute he woke up in the morning until long after they returned home from LaDania’s memorial service. Scott couldn’t calm him down, and Bray and Laurie didn’t do any better. Finally, Pete threw out a Hail Mary involving ice cream and the boy’s tears stopped for the time it took them to drive to the ice cream place and watch him inhale a gigantic sundae.
They started up again close to bedtime. Laurie took a shift cuddling with him on his bed until he cried for Scott, who stayed for well over two hours before Bray tagged in. Around eleven, Bray dropped onto the couch, spent. The boy was still whimpering a little, he said, but he was close to sleep. Scott went upstairs and poked his head around the door. Curtis didn’t stir, so Scott stole into his own room and slid into bed beside his soundly sleeping wife.
He lay beside her for ages, trying to coax his body into sleeping. He was beyond exhausted, yet the gears in his head would not stop spinning. He glanced at the rise and fall of Laurie’s shoulder and wondered if he should wake her. But what good would that do? Lifting himself carefully out of bed, he crept out of the room and down the hall, pausing at Curtis’s door. The boy was still splayed on his bed, legs spread wide, arms flung at right angles above his head. His breathing was slow, the emotional toll of the last twenty-four hours having dragged him into a deep slumber.
Downstairs, Scott poked his head into the family room, where Bray lay sprawled along the length of the couch and then some, looking as comatose as his younger brother. The kitchen clock read five after one. He spotted his laptop on the table and wondered what the chances were that any of his friends would be online. 2boys was a night owl, and he’d been uncharacteristically sweet since Scott had given them all the tragic update late yesterday, but his boys always had Sunday morning hockey or lacrosse practice or both. LaksMom and her husband had a date night, and while it had never stopped her before from popping in with a short comment while she powered down from the night and her husband crashed, she had warned that she might not be on.
Five Days Left Page 28