She slumped into the chair and waited for Rick. It was almost seven, and he was never late.
Mr. Nobody. Mr. Nobody—everywhere in the room, and in every sound, the tears rolling down her cheeks; she tasted salt and blood—bloody salt.
When she saw Rick, she was relieved and she tried to talk to him, but she couldn’t get her mouth to work. A noise came from her; it sounded like a whimper. I love you, she wanted to tell him. She could see by his eyes that he was terrified. “Eileen, it’s me,” he told her. “It’s Rick. You stay here, Eileen. You’re cold. I’m going to get you a blanket.”
Her head beat as if someone were hitting it with a fist. Rick moved across the room, did things she couldn’t see, and returned with a blanket. A drop of wet clung and trembled at her nostril, heaving in and out with her breaths. She tried to send a signal to her hand to wipe it, but her hand wouldn’t move.
Again, she opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Rick’s mouth was stretched in tension as he placed the blanket gently over her body.
As his face came closer, he became more out of focus. “Here,” he said, and he was wiping her nose with a tissue. The small pressure made a sharp pain grip her neck, and then it slowly and horribly filled her body.
Everything went out of focus again, and then into a fuzzy glare. She moved her eyes to the window, looked at the stretch of dark blue and lighter blue sky.
As she watched, a sailboat crept into her sight, and then another. Their sails leaned to the side, white and puffed with wind, and the people moving on the boats were as small as ants.
Jesus Christ, she thought. I’m going to die. And then the boats moved past the frame of her window where her eyes could not follow.
“When this is over,” Rick said, gripping her hand, “we’ll watch The Searchers. How does that sound? Huh? How about that?”
HER HEAD FLOATED; she was lying in a hospital bed, her wrists tied with restraints. Then panic, stab in her neck, crash in her head. Rick’s voice, trying to comfort her: “I’m here, Eileen. I’m here.”
Bang! Bang! Bang! No way to express the pain, the stab at her neck, the explosion in her head, her language gone.
Her eyes did not settle until she was in a coma.
AND SHE FOUGHT. Even in a coma, the next day, surprising the nurses and doctors. Brain stem injury, C1 cervical fracture. Fall with head trauma, gastrointestinal bleeding. A broken neck.
Rick remained with her through the following morning and into the afternoon, and then Esther joined him; the others did not come. Despite everything, she lingered.
EARLY EVENING, RICK and Esther left for the cafeteria, to get coffee; while they were gone, her vital signs dipped, as if on impulse, and she slipped away all at once.
4
IN THEIR AUTUMNAL years, Charlie’s father and mother had been doing “some serious soul searching,” and whatever they’d discovered in their soul quest had impelled his father to write their last-born son a check for $200,000, with the request that Charlie finally “settle down and buy a home.”
Charlie was able to greet the check with news of his promotion at Orange County Community College, further recommending himself as a worthy recipient. He’d been more than satisfied by this generous figure and was quietly enjoying its implications, when, with the liquidation of a building or two or three or four in his father’s business, and a rearrangement of his father’s trust (he wasn’t sure of the specifics; he preferred to be in the dark), Charlie learned that the “soul searching” was in continuance, and that as a result, he and his siblings—in a month or two, “when the ink dried”—would be worth close to $3 million each.
With sudden riches came certain responsibilities: He needed to acquire a lawyer, a financial advisor, and a real estate agent. As soon as possible. An aura of importance settled over him, followed closely by a sense of immediacy, knowing that his person was backed by such a large sum.
He told no one of his impending wealth, especially not Esther, as that would have only further complicated their relationship—she had enough to think about. He was protecting her—or was he? He couldn’t think about her right now. Their relationship was too confusing; come to think of it, she had always confused him: Falling for her seemed evidence that he was entrenched in the culture he criticized openly. She was becoming increasingly unstable, as her arrest demonstrated.
Thinking about her—about them—was like being lost in an unending maze. He was done thinking about the relationship, for now. She was impossible to understand. If he waited the situation out, he might gain clarity, like golfing in the early morning fog until it dissipated with the sun’s light.
Charlie walked a little straighter; he purchased new underwear and socks and set up an appointment with a “personal shopper” to update his wardrobe; he got a haircut at an expensive salon (short and masculine, his mother would love it) and purchased the suggested hair care products, regardless of cost. He thought more before speaking, feeling that his words carried a certain weight (“Say what you mean and mean what you say,” his father had often told him), and he became impregnated with the idea that his future held great possibilities, that he could no longer be a spectator to his own fate, but must participate actively in its grand arrival. It was his birthright.
He could do a great many things as a rich man that he had not been able to consider before, and the love of knowledge that so occupied him could be cultivated with travel—he was already planning a trip around the world! Maybe two trips around the world! Indonesia, China, Africa. Why not? He could go back to school, get his PhD. “Doctor Charles Murphy” had a good ring to it.
Why not take advantage of the money? It was his birthright. He wouldn’t squander it on stupid material possessions—he was different from the majority of wealthy people. He appreciated money for what it was: a means to an end. He didn’t need things. Well, maybe a few things, just because.
A nice car—God, any car he wanted. Sweet Jesus. He could buy a Porsche if he wanted. Three million dollars! Not that he’d ever buy a Porsche. He could buy his own membership to the country club—he wouldn’t have to use his parents’ every time he wanted to golf.
But he’d draw the line: He’d make sure to use the money for worthwhile purposes. Maybe he’d even donate a generous figure to Clothing for Change. Yes, he would. Anonymously, of course.
Although he had always appreciated his parents, any lingering resentments were wiped clean, and now when he thought of them, it was only with gratitude and love. His siblings had conformed in all the ways he hadn’t, pleasing his parents, and he’d secretly harbored animosity, jealous not of their accomplishments, necessarily, but more of how their accomplishments suited their parents. But this, too, evaporated in a golden shimmer of goodwill.
Whereas before he’d attended family events and dinners and meetings with an amiable resignation (the unconventional outsider, beloved nonetheless), now he found himself looking forward to the company of his blood kin.
And it was with giddy anticipation that he walked to the driving range of Pelican Hill, where his brother, Frank, stood waiting. Frank had arranged the meeting, and Charlie had been honored and surprised that his brother wanted to spend time with him, as that was not ordinarily the case.
Charlie carried a bucket of golf balls, his driver and a few other clubs tucked under an armpit, and as he neared, Frank’s arms spread open in an expansive welcome.
“Charlie, my brother,” Frank said.
“Hey there, brother,” Charlie said, setting his bucket and clubs on the grass. And then he was embraced in a masculine hug with the requisite back slaps—a hug that had been passed down from father to sons.
Although their greetings were marked by an affectionate familiarity, Charlie thought of his brother more as an authority figure (Frank was nine years older) than as a genetic equal, and had developed during childhood and all the years that followed a commingling respect and distaste for him.
It was hard to shake: Around
his brother, he often had the perverse sensation of having just been pulled over by a policeman for a traffic violation.
He’d always been more comfortable with his sister, Karen (five years older). She was amused but not threatened by his liberal politics. She’d nicknamed him The Family Weirdo, but when he’d asked her to stop calling him that, she had (except during phone greetings—“Hey, Weirdo!”).
Having married a well-known businessman (Tom Tefflinger, or Double-T, as he was often called) and produced three children in quick succession, Karen was responsible mainly for the upkeep of their home and children, as well as for alternating visits to the gym and the tennis court to keep her figure trim. Aside from a brief scare with breast cancer (the tumor had been removed, her breast remained intact), she led what she termed “a charmed life.”
Frank held an MBA from Stanford, but rather than spread his business acumen in Charlie’s direction, he liked to tease him (“Hey, I’m curious, Charlie: Does that liberal arts background help with the stock market?”).
Charlie trusted their father to arrange his will so that Frank couldn’t strip Charlie of his share of the family fortune, because, if given the opportunity, Frank would leave him in the dust. But Charlie didn’t blame his brother or hate his brother—he figured it must have been what they taught at Stanford business school.
“What a day, huh?” Frank observed, his gloved hand taking a swipe at the emerald-colored grass. The fountain near them gurgled like a happy baby, a bubble of water in the center. Beyond the driving range, the ocean and sky stretched in blue agreement.
“Beautiful,” Charlie concurred.
Frank’s attention was on him. “I like it,” he said, nodding his approval of the recent haircut. “Nice.”
“Mom’s going to love it,” Charlie said, his face flushing at the thought.
“So will Sheila,” Frank said, bending over to tee his ball. “She’s been asking me for years, ‘Why won’t Charlie cut his hair and shave?’ ‘I don’t know, honey,’ I tell her. ‘Charlie’s always been a little different.’”
Frank had been married for over twenty years to Sheila (“I am my kids’ mom,” she said, when asked her occupation), and a whole wall of their parents’ house was devoted to photographs of the three progeny this contented union had produced (the opposite wall was devoted to Karen and Double-T’s offspring).
Frank stepped back, taking in the driving range with a happy squint.
Sheila had never liked Charlie, he had never liked Sheila, but he felt his grooming habits should be left out of the equation. “I shave every day,” he said.
Frank shrugged.
“I’m not kidding,” he said. “I shave every day.”
Frank crooked his elbows inward so that his arms made a V from his torso, his golf club like a baton.
Charlie decided to let it go, but he could hear Sheila’s voice, the note of self-righteousness: It’s simple. I don’t care how smart you are. You can be a professor of everything, for all I care. You need a wife. Just imagine what a good woman could do for you. A good woman would make you accountable for your actions. I’m tired of standing back and saying nothing and watching you go from one bad choice to the next. Your picker is broken. Don’t laugh! Admit it, Charlie. Your picker is broken. Big boobs and blue eyes—those are your requirements! That’s it, it’s settled: I’m going to set you up on a date!
Frank leaned over his golf ball, crooked his knees.
Charlie set up a tee beside him. The sounds of balls being struck reverberated around him, and he went into the motion of his swing. In his experience, the driving range was a productive way to clear his head, and his head needed clearing.
He’d taken literally and with no small amount of relief Esther’s declaration that morning to “leave me alone,” the dark beam of her eyes drilling through him. Earlier that morning, he’d been telling her about a theory he’d read recently that sex had evolved as a form of cannibalism—one primitive organism eating another and, in the process, exchanging DNA. He was talking—“Did you know that in some organisms, sexual reproduction has been shown to enhance the spread of parasitic genetic elements, like yeast and fungi? We need these things. The most honest sexual interactions have a component of destruction”—when she’d interrupted him, saying, “Oh, please, Charlie, be quiet. I haven’t had breakfast.” She watched his reaction and then added, “Maybe you’re just afraid of commitment.”
“This isn’t about commitment,” he said. “It’s about looking at sex through the clear eyes of science; it’s about the possibility of a better understanding, an understanding that is not crippled by sentimentality.”
“Okay,” she said, but it was obvious that she was agreeing so that he would stop talking.
And they’d gotten in a fight the night before, and all because he’d told her that a friend of his had said that she looked like a model.
“Is that why you’re with me?” she said. “So that your friends can tell you that your woman looks like some stupid model?”
“You don’t know that models are stupid,” he said, for some reason feeling the need to defend them. “You don’t know that for a fact.” He’d meant the statement as a compliment and was hurt by her reaction.
She was silent, and her look seemed to reduce him to a man who was interested in her for her beauty—and not at all interested in her as a person, which seemed unfair. He tried to explain this, and she interrupted, saying, “It’s the way you said it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your voice,” she said. “You sounded so proud.”
“Now you’re mad at me for the way my voice sounded,” he said. “Think about how unreasonable that is.”
“You never ask me what I think,” she said.
“Sure I do.”
“No,” she said, “not really.”
“About what?” he asked. “What do you want me to ask?” He could feel social forces, pressures, stereotypes, and misconceptions collecting, waiting to ambush them, to overtake them.
“Anything,” she said, turning her face from him. “You never ask me what I think about things.”
This, he felt, was one of those trick conversations. But in a strange way, he knew she was right.
He put his hand on her shoulder, and she faced him. They looked at each other expectantly, but there was nothing to say.
He understood that she was under a great deal of stress, but even so. She’d flinched that morning when he’d touched her arm. And the look she kept giving him—it was as if she were accusing him of something he didn’t understand.
There was a word for the way she was behaving, but he couldn’t think of it. What was the word? It was on the tip of his tongue. Whether her desire to be left alone was in earnest, it was easier to comply with than to question. She’d been sitting on the bed, with her head cradled in her hands, and he was having trouble getting that image of her out of his mind.
Morbid. That was the word. She was morbid.
During his other relationships—even during his affair with Brenda—he’d lived carefully: making sure to sleep at least eight hours each night; reading novels and inspirational books, along with his academic pursuits; exercising three times a week; eating fiber; and evacuating his bowels each morning. But with Esther, he experienced a loss of control, a loss of routine, a loss of order.
Morbid. She moped around his apartment, she spent the night without asking, she’d basically been living there for the past month. She wasn’t taking care of herself, wasn’t showering or wearing makeup, and he had to remind her some mornings to change her clothes. She looked older, sadder.
Sometimes he’d look at her and see a middle-aged, severe Esther. Not as bad-looking as Sheila, with her thick waist and broad shoulders and that flap of skin under her chin that signaled the beginnings of a double chin, but still.
It was like Esther had stopped caring.
“I’m tired of trying,” she’d explained one night (all in response to his
simply reminding her to brush her teeth). “I shave my armpits and then they just grow more hair and I have to shave them again. I brush my hair and then it gets messy and I have to brush it again. It goes on and on and on. I’m just so tired of it all! I’m tired, Charlie. Don’t you see?” And then she flagged her hands in front of him, wiggled her fingers. “Look, see? My polish is chipped; the nails are breaking. What’s the point? I’m tired; tired, tired, tired.”
This is as beautiful as you’ll ever be, he’d wanted to tell her. You’ll never be as pretty as you are right now, and you’re wasting it.
She was always staring at him, studying him. That awful, condemning stare. She was stony and cold—remote.
But she perked up when she went to visit her drug-addled brother at his recovery home. He watched her come alive. Sometimes she went with Rick—he honked the horn for her, one long beep. (“Why doesn’t he just come inside?” “Because he thinks you don’t like him.” And again, she’d given him that stare.)
Charlie hit a quick succession of golf balls—he’d set three in a row—clack, clack, clack. The sound of his club making contact satisfied him, echoing through his body with a mysterious warmth. His balls landed within yards of each other, like a constellation of stars leading toward the flagged hole.
The sun had come out of a cloud, making everything look new and dramatic, and what was left of the morning fog melted and disappeared. He watched Frank squatting, his shirt dislodging from his khakis.
“You know what?” Frank said, standing. He settled himself over his golf ball, hips swaying. “I’m gonna hit this one all the way”—and he swung, smacked his ball—“to the moon.”
5
ESTHER WAS DRAGGED through the final dregs of a napdream: she and Charlie on the beach. A sailboat floated across the surface of the ocean. And then suddenly Charlie ran and leapt into a wave, his toes visible—then he was gone, swallowed. When she woke, she stretched and widened into the cool spaces of his bed, feeling a fatalistic despair.
This Vacant Paradise Page 24