After Melanie

by Gloria Goldreich

  ‘Why don’t you have lunch with your father?’ Denise suggested. ‘It might help him to talk to you. Father-and-son stuff.’

  ‘Don’t get carried away by your one three-credit course in family dynamics,’ he cautioned her. ‘You’re not a licensed social worker yet.’

  ‘I’m as much a social worker as you are a lawyer,’ she retorted.

  They laughed. Laughter came easily to them.

  ‘We have to remember,’ he said more seriously, ‘that this is a very hard time for my parents. A terrible time. Melanie was the center of their lives. She gave meaning to their marriage.’

  ‘I think it’s very sad that they needed Melanie to give meaning to their marriage. If Melanie is dead, does that mean their marriage is dead, that it has no meaning? I think not. I hope not.’ She chose her words carefully and held his hand as she spoke. ‘They do love each other.’

  He thought of those faded snapshots, his mother’s face wreathed in tenderness, his father’s bright with laughter. ‘Of course, they live in different worlds,’ he continued. ‘They always have. Literature for my mother. Business for my father. And that was all right. They never needed words. But they did need each other. They had what I’d call a quiet happiness. They adored Melanie. They were wonderful parents, caring parents to both of us. And I tried very hard to be a good son.’

  He trembled, drew her close, pressed his cheek against the fragrant softness of her wild, thick hair.

  ‘You are a good son,’ she murmured.

  ‘Yes. I suppose I am. I love them a lot but I sometimes felt that I was an actor in a play and that it was very important that I say my lines correctly so that I wouldn’t disturb their calm, so that I wouldn’t upset them. I feel it even more now. I don’t want to disturb their sorrow. Does that sound crazy to you, Denise?’

  She did not answer at once, remembering how her first visits to his home, so different from her own raucous household, had surprised her, even intimidated her. She too had rehearsed her words, orchestrated her actions, careful not to speak too loudly, to weigh her words, certain that David and Judith were quietly judgmental. She had been grateful, then, for Melanie’s exuberance, her outbursts of laughter, her gaiety and spontaneity. Denise had been at ease with Melanie who enthused over her small surprise gifts – the magenta scrunchies for her dark hair as irrepressible as Denise’s own copper-colored curls, the stationery embossed with her initials, an iTunes gift card.

  When Melanie told them that she was doing a school project on the Amish, Denise had suggested that the three of them, Brian, Denise and Melanie, spend a weekend in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. She had brought guide books and she and Melanie had spread them across the dining-room table and read them aloud to each other. They would stay on an Amish farm that doubled as a bed and breakfast. They would ride in an Amish buggy. They might milk a cow. Melanie had giggled. She had never seen a cow.

  ‘Oh, it’ll be such fun.’ She had clapped her hands and danced around the room, hugging Denise, hugging Brian.

  David and Judith had smiled. Denise felt that she had struck a home run. Nothing delighted Brian’s parents as much as Melanie’s delight. They spoke of joining the excursion to Pennsylvania.

  But, of course, they had never visited Amish country. Melanie died the week before they were to leave. Her death incomprehensible. Their sorrow overwhelmed. It was unfair! So unfair! They shouted out their anger, wept their way through their rage, then held each other close, seeking comfort in touch, consolation in talk.

  Denise, ever resilient, slowly emerged from the miasma of sadness. She struggled to cope with Brian’s grief and her own. She would comfort Brian’s parents as best she could. She promised herself to tread carefully, but she was resolute.

  She infused their dinners with spates of chatter, questions that demanded answers. How had Judith prepared the delicious soup? What did David think of an incipient labor crisis? She nodded at their monosyllabic answers and prattled bravely on, Brian’s foot nudging hers beneath the table, Judith and David staring at each other unseeingly.

  She asked Judith to meet her for lunch or perhaps for a visit to a museum. Judith always politely declined, but Denise persisted. She congratulated herself on her role in encouraging Judith to volunteer at the thrift shop. She told herself that it was good for Judith to get out of the house, to have a routine. It was good that Judith was helping this Dr Kahn sort through his late wife’s clothing. It was yet another step toward coping. Her text for a course on grief counseling claimed that recovery was always a process, never a resolution. Mourners, the author emphasized, had to understand that there was life after a loved one’s death. Denise dared not mention that to Judith. She was careful, very careful. Like Brian, she rehearsed her conversations with his parents.

  His question did not surprise her. She knew how careful he was not to upset them, especially during the dark days of their unrelieved, unstructured grief. But she thought it important that Brian abandon all care, all constraint, and speak to David with unrehearsed honesty.

  ‘I think your father needs you,’ she said firmly. ‘I think it would help him to talk to you, to really open up. If he can.’

  He nodded. ‘All right. I’ll try to meet him for lunch, but I’m not sure he’ll have the time. His work schedule is overwhelming. There are nights when he doesn’t get home for dinner.’

  ‘And that’s because he’s working late?’ she asked drily.

  Her question gave voice to his own suspicions. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘And I’m not sure I want to know. But yes, we’ll have lunch. I’ll insist.’

  They clung to each other then, her head buried in his chest. She was relieved that he had accepted her suggestion and that he had not been angered by the question she had asked and its dark implications.

  David, although surprised at Brian’s invitation to lunch, agreed without hesitation. Brian suggested an Italian restaurant that he and Denise favored, choosing it because it was in neutral territory, equidistant from his father’s office and the university. Neither his father’s colleagues nor his classmates would interrupt their conversation.

  They both arrived exactly on time and were welcomed by the overweight blonde hostess. She flashed them her brilliant professional smile as she led them to a table.

  ‘So nice to see a father and son having lunch together,’ she said and handed them the oversized menus.

  It surprised Brian that she had so swiftly recognized their relationship but, looking at their joint reflection in the mirror opposite their table, he realized, for the first time, how like his father he looked. They were both tall and thin, sharp-featured and lantern-jawed, their thick dark hair closely cut. How odd that they should so closely resemble each other and yet be so dissimilar in temperament, something that Denise had noticed at once. He himself was given to easy laughter, a lightness of mood and spirit, whereas David was always serious and sober, a man whose gait was heavy, almost clumsy, and whose words were uttered with great care. Even their tastes in music and literature were different. Brian was addicted to historical fiction while David read only dense biographies and histories. Novels, classics included, did not interest him. Classical music absorbed him while Brian, like his mother, treated music only as background.

  He wondered, as he stared across the table at his father, if his parents had ever listened to music together. But of course they had. He remembered now. There had been subscriptions to the Philharmonic and to chamber music concerts, quiet evenings when they sat together in the living room as opera played and David fingered a libretto. Such memories offered him odd comfort, made his dark suspicions seem foolish.

  ‘Good to see you, Dad,’ he said.

  David nodded. ‘This was a good idea, Brian,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you suggested it.’

  The pleasure in his smile filled Brian with guilt. The idea for this meeting had not been his own and he was not glad to see his father.

  They studied the menus with great seriousness and di
scussed their choices, relieved to have something to talk about. Would the pasta be too heavy? Would the fish be really fresh?

  They ordered too quickly, pasta for Brian and fish for David, then stared uneasily at each other. Brian filled their water glasses. David coughed and asked Brian about his courses.

  ‘I’m doing all right,’ Brian said. ‘But not as well as last semester.’

  ‘That’s understandable. You’ve had a distraction.’

  Brian cringed. Was Melanie’s death a distraction?

  David hastily corrected himself. ‘It’s been a hard time. You’ll do better next semester,’ he added and recognized that his words were still sadly inadequate, clumsily phrased. Judith would have spoken more sensitively, he knew. But then she lived in a world of words. Grace in both movement and locution came naturally to her. How proud he had always been of that easy grace. Watching her walk toward him had always filled him with wonder – wonder that she had chosen him, that they had chosen each other.

  Their food arrived. David discussed a difficult arbitration he was working on.

  Brian pretended interest and then set his fork down too heavily. ‘I don’t want to talk about your work, Dad.’

  ‘I thought it would interest you,’ David said evenly, and he continued eating.

  ‘I’m worried about you. About you and Mom.’

  He knew he was speaking too directly. Denise would not approve. She had advised caution, a discussion of his own feelings, his own sense of loss. She had suggested he ask questions.

  ‘What sort of questions?’ he had asked. He had refrained from reminding her that they had decided he would not rehearse this conversation.

  ‘Like “Is anything bothering you, Dad?”’

  He would ignore that suggested question, imagining what the answer might be.

  Of course something is bothering me. The same thing that is bothering you. My daughter – your sister – is dead.

  Not that those words would be spoken. His father had always guarded his emotional privacy, hoarding all expressions of anger and sorrow. Only Melanie had been able to coax him into demonstrations of gay affection and sudden bursts of laughter.

  ‘Very worried,’ he continued.

  David nodded, plucked a piece of garlic bread from the basket and shredded it slowly, methodically, building a small hillock of oily white crumbs.

  ‘Of course, you’re worried,’ he said at last. ‘I’m worried myself.’

  ‘What’s happening, Dad?’ Brian’s voice was gentle now, reminiscent of David’s own tone during his childhood when he had offered comfort over a boyhood sadness, perhaps rejection from a team, a disappointing grade on an exam. Hugs were foreign to David, but it had been his way to take Brian’s hand in his own and stroke it gently, as though the gesture might erase the transient wound. But now their roles were strangely reversed. Brian felt himself to be the comforter and thought that he might reach across the table and take his father’s hand in his own and stroke it. Instead, he twirled a piece of pasta on to his fork but did not eat it.

  ‘Since your sister …’ David paused, breathed hard. ‘Since our Melanie died.’ His voice trailed off. He lifted his water glass, took a sip and waited for a restoration of courage. He would be careful but he would be honest. He knew that what he had to say could not be easily said. But he would try. He had to try. He owed it to Brian. He owed it to himself. He spoke very slowly but he did not stutter. For that he was grateful. ‘Things have been very difficult for us, for your mother and me,’ he continued. ‘We find it difficult to talk to each other, to share what should be shared. Both of us so deeply loved our Melanie.’

  Brian nodded. ‘Of course I know that,’ he said.

  ‘And I think you also know that her birth came as a surprise to us,’ David continued. ‘We had thought to have a large family, but the years passed and it seemed then that you would be our only child. You were a wonderful son. We loved you and were so proud of you. Still, we were disappointed and that disappointment became toxic. We feared for our marriage. And then Melanie was born. She pulled us back together. She filled our lives. She became the hub of our lives, the focus of our future. Do you remember the plans your mother made for this year? She did not call it her sabbatical year; she called it Melanie’s year – a time we all would share in new vistas of excitement. Everything planned to delight Melanie. And then …’ Again his voice trailed off. He struggled for control, his eyes cast downward. He took a sip of water, spoke more softly. ‘And then she was gone. Our only vista now is one of darkness. Yes. We have you but you have your own life, which is as it should be. We are alone again, your mother and I. Together yet alone. And unprepared.’

  ‘Unprepared?’ Brian repeated. ‘Unprepared for what?’

  ‘Unprepared for each other, for an empty togetherness. I do not know what to say to her. She does not know what to say to me. We are trapped in a silence of our own making. Do you know that for a long time after Melanie died I could not say her name? It stuck in my throat, it burned my brain. I saw how this wounded your mother. But I had no words. How could I comfort her when I could not comfort myself? I told myself that she would cope, my strong Judith, your wonderful mother. Hadn’t she always? And she did. While I choked on my sorrow, she took control of her mourning. She went to a therapist. She took long walks. She developed a routine. Her volunteer hours at the thrift shop, the hours she spends helping Jeffrey Kahn … Such a nice man, Jeffrey, gentle, considerate. I knew him when his family lived on our street. I suppose he and your mother, spending so many hours together, offer each other comfort.’

  ‘Only comfort?’ Brian asked and hated himself for the question that had come unbidden.

  ‘Of course. Only comfort.’ David’s tone was curt, his gaze unflinching. ‘We are speaking about your mother, Brian. I have never, in all our years together, had any reason to doubt her. I do not doubt her now. We have always been faithful to each other. I only wish she were happier, that I had the power to make her happy, to puncture her sadness.’

  ‘But you yourself say that she is much better, that she is coping. It will take time, but she’ll be herself again,’ Brian protested, recognizing the hollowness of his words, knowing that he was struggling to reassure himself as well as his father.

  ‘Yes. That is what I tell myself. Because I love her so much. Because I know she loves me still. But at night, when she thinks I am asleep, she cries. Very quietly. Her grief is her own. She does not invite me to share it.’

  David reached again for his water glass, took a long sip, then scattered the small mound of crumbs across the cloth.

  ‘And you. Do you reach out to her? Did you?’ Brian asked. He thought of his own nocturnal tears in the days after the funeral and how Denise’s hands had been so soft and gentle upon his face, as she wiped the tears away and then entangled her body in his, an embrace of comfort and tenderness. He regretted the harshness of his question, the subdued anger of his tone. He braced himself for his father’s resentment, but it was a voice laced with calm and regret that answered him.

  ‘I could not cry with her. Tears did not come to me. And I could not reach out to her. Not then. Not now. My touch is too uneasy, my movements too uncertain. I do not have her gift for words. I feared her rejection, her impatience. I am a clumsy man, a clumsy man married to a graceful woman. Your mother once studied ballet. Did you know that, Brian?’ David asked.

  ‘No. Yes. Maybe.’

  Yes. He vaguely recalled talk at the dinner table about ballet, Melanie wanting lessons, his mother rising suddenly, uncharacteristically, to laughingly demonstrate a plié. He remembered Melanie proudly showing Denise a newly purchased pair of ballet slippers and a tutu. The ballet slippers had been of white satin, the tutu of a gauzy pink fabric, Melanie’s cheeks as bright as polished apples as she put the white slippers on and danced across the room on tiptoe. His heart turned. With each memory of his sister, he mourned her anew.

  ‘But, finally, I too found a place to cry,
’ David continued. ‘Quite by accident. Nancy Cummings, a colleague, with whom I had worked on a couple of projects, was on leave when Melanie died. She only learned about it months later and she came to my office to offer her condolences. Her words, after such a long period of silence, took me by surprise. She took my hand, and when I felt her touch, I began to weep. I couldn’t explain it then and I can’t explain it now. I sat at my desk and wept. Nancy kept my hand in hers and over lunch the next day she told me that her young husband had been killed in a car crash when she was pregnant with her daughter. A death sudden and unpredictable. She understood what it was to suffer a devastating loss that swept in without warning. We have a common language. She understands and she does not judge. I go to her apartment and I sit on her couch and I cry. And then I help Lauren, her daughter, with her homework. You remember that we gave all Melanie’s furniture to Nancy. So I, a man without a daughter, help a little girl without a father, to understand the new math. I do this at Melanie’s desk, sitting on that little chair Melanie loved. And sometimes I have dinner with them, and Lauren chatters away just as Melanie used to. And sometimes I am so very tired that I fall asleep on Nancy’s couch. Nancy and I work together, which means that we have lunch together. That is when she sometimes weeps. We are – she and I – partners in a grief exchange. I am not having an affair with her. As I told you, I have always been faithful to your mother, as she has been faithful to me. You have no need to worry. Nor does your mother.’

  ‘She doesn’t know I’m worried. She doesn’t know we’re meeting,’ Brian said.

  He thought to tell his father that he had seen him with Nancy Cummings in Bryant Park, but he said nothing. That incidental sighting, his unfounded painful suspicion, seemed irrelevant now.

  ‘No. I suppose not. I did not mention it to her. Nor have I told her about Nancy. Perhaps I should have. Perhaps I will.’ His voice was newly hoarse. He had not meant to say as much. He had not meant to burden Brian with such an outpouring of confidences. It was not fair to his son.