Stop Here (18 page)

No doubt Carl told his sister that she plans to leave everything to Lacy. No doubt it's how he got an address from her. But did anyone tell the girl? Her watch reads seven. Could be Lacy won't get home till later. Could also be the girl's in her apartment and won't leave till morning. Does she sit here all night? She stares at the building. It's a sixth-floor apartment. Does she have the strength to climb up? Maybe there's an elevator? Doesn't matter. She'll get there, somehow, find
6
J and ring the bell. The door will open. She'll introduce herself. Lacy could freak out. Then what? Answer correctly and win a daughter? Answer incorrectly, and . . . one thing she does know, a mother is more than the woman who birthed her.

And what is it she can add to her daughter's life? Who is this visit for? If she invades that life and then disappears forever—because that's what will happen—would that be fair? If she were going to be around for even a few years none of this would matter. They'd have time to know each other, time to compare likes and dislikes, disappointments as well as revelations. Without time, the girl will be left with sorrow, perhaps regret, what might have been, what isn't. How can she chance that? How can she impose this perverse need on her daughter? Dina's wrong. Consequences matter.

Something else tugs at her, something she didn't want to think about before driving here. Lacy could've found her if she'd wanted to. They were never more than an hour apart.

Once more she stares at the gray building, its prison-like façade, littered courtyard, forbidding back ally. Her clean, pretty condo comes to mind, with its small patio, its array of plants, glass-topped table, pillowed chairs, so comfortable, so inviting. All of it will belong to her daughter who can sit there with a glass of wine, a husband, maybe children. It's this she'll take away from being here. It's this she'll hold on to.

Carefully, she maneuvers the car out of the small space. The sky is darkening. Behind her, the streetlights brighten the pavement with an evening sun.

• • •

A jet flies low and loudly over the car as Dina pulls up in front of the departures building and pops the trunk. “Take your bag. I'll park and meet you back here.”

With trepidation, she watches Dina drive away. The crowds make her nervous. People push past her. It's loud. Cars drive up to the curb nonstop. Redcaps hurry by, tugging trolleys of bags. Long lines form in front of outdoor check-in podiums. The every-which-way of it is confusing, how to get by, which direction to go? Figuring out anything here feels beyond her. A strong urge to be at home where it's quiet, predictable, assails her.

It'll be better on the plane, she assures herself. In her own seat, calm, maybe she'll sleep. She steps through the first set of automatic doors. A second set leads to the ticket counters, but she doesn't enter, fearing Dina won't find her. A spasm tightens her back. They occur more often now, but over-the-counter meds still help, though she has stronger stuff if she needs it. She fishes in her purse for the red pills, shakes out two, finds her water bottle and swallows them. Cars continue to pull up, unload, and drive away. Endless. Automatic doors open and close incessantly, hordes of people in and out. Where's Dina?

Jack's call this morning, he wanted to erase any last-minute concerns. Said he was aching to see her, had taken care of every little detail. Repeated some of the many places he'd show her. How gorgeous the weather was, the ocean something else. His tone was gentle, his words meant to reassure. She didn't say leaving home frightened her now.

Leaning against a wall, tempted to close her eyes, she goes over the checklist. House and car keys, her father's phone number and address to Dina. Done. Clearly marked envelope with will, deed, and financial stuff on coffee table should Dina need it in case she . . . Jesus, she's only going for two weeks. Could she be any more dramatic?

“Oh Dina,” she exhales, “I thought I lost you.” In her summery yellow dress and sandals, her friend looks cheery, youthful.

“Check in and we'll go sit somewhere. It's early.”

The line is long and disorderly, baggage everywhere. People study their tickets, eye children, each other, emanating anticipation, annoyance. And what does she feel? The last time she flew was ten years ago, to Florida. Her newly divorced friend was anxious the entire trip about leaving her children. It wasn't much of a vacation, and nothing like what Jack has planned. Still, she's never flown across the ocean. She's never been unable to trust her body.

“Did I give you Jack's cell phone number?”

“And his e-mail address at work. Yes. Relax. I'm exceedingly efficient. I ran the ICU, remember?” Dina glances at her, then away.

From the ticket counter they weave through the crowd toward a small restaurant filled with travelers, tables crammed together, loud voices, scraping chairs. The bar is festooned in outer-space décor, silver stars shoot away from blue and red planets. They find a small table near a Plexiglas wall overlooking the tarmac, and order two cosmopolitans. Huge unmoving planes line up ready to take off, the weight and wingspans challenging the idea that they'll do so. The ground crew in orange jackets as bright as their wands of light that cut through the air in semaphore code. She watches it all, a moving tableau that her plane will soon join. Dusk is beginning to settle, the late sun falling somewhere in the sky.

The waitress sets down their drinks and hurries away. “Serving an airport crowd can't be easy. It makes the diner seem like a breeze. Mila gave me a note from Willy. He wrote,
Miss you, always will
. Then asked when I'm coming back. I'm not, you know. I haven't told Murray.”

“I'm sure he figured it out.”

“Ava says Murray actually wants to sell. Amazing, Murray no longer there. He's a fixture.”

“More like a relic.” Dina looks in her bag for a tissue, her expression troubled. “Something I'd like to ask you—it's none of my business and you can say so.”

Afraid to hear anything disquieting, she wants only protective custody from those around her, cages of love. How silly is that? “Go ahead,” she says, and takes a long pull of the drink. It's strong, tangy, cold. She decides she'll have another.

“Why did you decide against more treatment?”

She gazes at Dina, the small, round face, eyes that penetrate. She recalls the sleepless nights, anxious days weighing another round of chemo against the agony of side effects when no good outcome could be promised. Even now, the turmoil of that decision is easily resurrected.

“Jack's a cancer researcher. My doctors faxed him results after two rounds of chemo. He didn't want to mix doctor with boyfriend but I begged him. My mother had only snippets of information. She had to intuit on a daily basis. I told him that would send me bonkers way before the disease got me.

“He wasn't happy with what he saw. A pernicious cancer, invasive. The stats on treatment weren't promising. He said no one ever really knew how much time, that miracles happen . . . that word clarified things. Why spend the time I've got left throwing up, tasting mouth sores instead of food, becoming so weak I couldn't walk by myself. You know the rest of it.”

“Yes. I can't imagine what I'd do,” Dina says more to herself. “I think you're brave,” her friend's eyes moist.

“Dina, it's okay—”

“Sorry, Rosalyn. It's not like me to be—”

“I know it's not. You're all steel wool, right?”

Dina smiles. “Not exactly, but after years in a hospital you grow some tough skin.”

Her glass is nearly empty. “Let's have another.”

“You do. I'm driving.” Dina's eyes watch her.

Seeing the waitress zip from table to table, she decides to order at the bar, which is three deep with people whose raucousness tells her they're pain-free. Two young men smile, bow, and part to make room for her. She grins. Ordinary consideration feels extraordinarily reassuring these days.

“Damn, I forgot to throw out the flowers.” She places her drink on the table. “They'll dry up and flake all over the . . . Christ, why am I still worrying about such unimportant crap? Is that crazy or what?”

Dina says nothing.

“Before you picked me up, I ran around the place, a bundle of indecision. Should I apply makeup at home, on the plane? Who cares . . . makeup for god's sake? I'm dealing with life and . . . Dina I expected to let go of trivia, though what that would feel like is beyond me. It does happen. I've heard it said often enough, but maybe closer to the end.” Her throat tightens. She takes another pull of the drink.

Dina's hand slides across the table and squeezes hers. “I've been with lots of patients, and sick isn't dead. Yours is a warm body to touch and a mind to think and feel. You're alive, Rosalyn. Why shouldn't everything matter?”

“But the junk that fills my thoughts . . .” she shakes her head. “This morning . . . never mind.”

“Oh go on, rattle away. Lord knows what goodies I'll hear.”

“I was in the shower. The shapes on the curtain reminded me of Halloween when I was a kid, maybe eight. My mother cut out the face of my pumpkin. She made one eye round, the other square. God knows why. I wanted them to match. She tried to fix it, but only made it worse. I stamped my feet, crying I wanted another pumpkin. My father grabbed the damn thing, opened the door, and flung it out as far as he could. I was inconsolable, hated him for days. But this morning the memory struck me as funny, my father, in uniform, heavy boots tramping across the living room floor to throw out a little pumpkin. I laughed out loud. It's been that way recently. Events transformed by circumstance.”

“Or time. As the years pass, I see things differently, too.”

“Like what?”

“My husband's death. I didn't really grieve. I sucked it up as another glitch and soldiered on. Maybe that was necessary, but he deserved more. Thinking about it lately, the sadness is there, untouched. On the other hand, Tim's difficulties growing up . . . they don't seem as enormous now as they felt then.”

“What do you do about any of it,” she murmurs, watching the planes move silently down the runway. Flares light the way now, the darkness complete. People at the adjacent table noisily push back chairs, assemble their luggage and file out.

“Aren't we the serious ones?” Dina quips.

“You think?”

“You're about to take off for unknown parts. I think that's serious business.” Dina glances at her watch.

“A house by the sea in a place called Mumbles. Sounds pretty grave. Have you been to Wales?”

Dina looks at her as if to say when would that have happened.

“Well, neither have I or a zillion other places. It's an adventure, isn't it?” The drinks have produced a comfortable buzz in her. She stands to gather her stuff. The waitress rushes over with the check. She leaves an outrageous tip.

• • •

They amble past food counters, bookstores, newsstands, kiosks selling all manner of things, luggage, watches, even jogging outfits. So many people going somewhere, it's as if two disconnected worlds exist, one here and now, another elsewhere. She is a bit drunk.

“The whole point of this uprooting trip is for you to have a marvelous time. Can you remember to do that?” Dina asks as they reach security.

She takes in her friend's face, the combative jaw sturdy as ever. “I'll try. But I'm a bit shaky,” she admits.

“Who isn't?”

They hug for a long moment. Dina gently disengages. “I'll stay here till you get past security.”

Several lines snake around awaiting passage through to the gates. Unlike the earlier ticket line, there's an air of expectancy, even gaiety. Women in jeans, shorts, flip-flops, men, too, in casual wear, all leaving, same as her.

Searching the large tote for her boarding pass, her fingers brush the address book. She promised to send postcards from everywhere. As the line moves forward, she loses sight of her friend, but knows Dina's there, watching, waiting. Her friends are like that, loyal, constant, strong-willed, and opinionated, like her. When she returns there'll be wine and laughter as they extract every detail of her trip. These women love stories.

She slings her bag onto the conveyor belt, tosses her shoes, purse, and sweater into plastic bins, all of which slide slowly through loose leather flaps into a tunnel to be scanned. It occurs to her she's done with scans. No more machines that click and buzz looking for hidden flaws, no more unwanted reports, no more uncertainty. She can drink as much as she wants, eat whatever pleases her, stay up late or sleep for hours, because why not? She can have or reject anything within reach. Everything out there is open to her, which is exciting yet weird.

Walking barefoot through the metal detector, a strange question pops into her head. Can people die happy even if they're not happy to die?

 

11

She was Definitely Here

“What is it?” She puts aside the fashion magazine someone left at the diner, the clothing nothing she'd waste her money on.

Nick is pacing with a beer bottle in hand. It's distracting.

He glances at her, his usually expressive eyes opaque, then walks out. She hears him in the kitchen. Is he worrying about his daughter? He said he was relieved Glory decided on the Peace Corps.

She picks up the magazine, flips pages looking for something besides skinny models with big lips. A window fan sends currents of hot air in her direction. A shower might help to cool her. He returns with another bottle of beer, though the one on the floor is half-full, and resumes pacing.

Ignore him, she thinks. If he wants her attention he'll have to say so; she isn't in the mood to read minds. It's too hot. The magazine is open on her lap, but her thoughts tick off chores she plans to accomplish. It's her day off. Her daily visit to Rosalyn, of course. She, Mila, and Dina follow a schedule of care with the help of Hospice. Rosalyn wants to be at home. Who can blame her. After Rosalyn, she'll drive . . .

He plops noisily on a chair and like a sullen adolescent moves the beer bottle back and forth on the dining table, leaving wet rings.

Glory pads in barefoot through the unlocked door in shorts, her T-strap top revealing glowing tanned skin. “Hi all.” She registers her father, who's pacing again.

“How was the beach?” Ava asks.

“Hot and crowded, but fine. The three of us had fun in the water.” When Nick's back is turned, Glory mouths, “What?”

She shrugs. “Where's Bobby?”

“Outside with Hamid.” Glory told her Hamid's upset about her upcoming departure. They've been seeing each other a few months and plan to stay in touch. The girl's more open with her than Bobby is with Nick, whom he pegs as Glory's father and therefore off-limits.

Nick's at the window now, fingers drumming the wall. “Ask Hamid in for a beer,” he says suddenly, eagerly, as if Hamid's presence will undo whatever's troubling him.

“Dad. How many times . . . he does not drink, it's against his—”

“Of course, of course. I can give him a soda.”

“He's sandy, doesn't want to. Ava we're going to the antiwar vigil in Sag Harbor. Bobby's coming with us.”

“He is?” Glory's invited him many times. He claims it bores him to stand there. It must be that he's taken a shine to Hamid. She remembers Bobby's difficulty letting go of Mark's friendship, which was more like a courtship.

“I hope he doesn't get restless . . .” But their eyes are on Nick, who trades his empty bottle for the one on the floor, then stares out the window again.

“Dad, I've raided the fridge. See . . .” Glory jiggles a bulging canvas tote.

“Sure, why not?” Nick doesn't give a glance, his foot tapping nervously. Whatever's out there has his full attention. She and Glory exchange a quick look.

“Are you feeling okay? You sound strange,” Glory says.

“Don't I always? Next time tell Hamid to come in, sand or not.”

“I'm not keeping him away, I promise. Dad, I'm leaving.” No response.

“We'll see you later,” she pats Glory's arm reassuringly because now she's worried, too. He's always responsive to Glory. What the hell's going on?

“Should I stay?” Glory whispers.

“No, it's better for us to be alone,” she whispers back, not sure if that's true.

When the door closes, he says out of nowhere, “Glory's reliable.”

“And right on the mark about you. You can't find a place for yourself. Are you anxious about something?”

“That's it,” he agrees, then strides to the bedroom. She follows.

“About what?”

“About telling you,” his high-pitched tone a cry.

A rush of adrenaline fires her system. “Me? What?”

“I'm getting a beer. Want one?”

“No. Take it easy with the stuff.”

He lopes out in his bathing trunks and undershirt; his shoulders burdened by whatever she's about to hear. Her mind races through recent talks but nothing troublesome surfaces. An illness? He hasn't been to a doctor. Is he about to confess about an affair? Except their relationship is smooth, loving, Nick constant, loyal. He always wants to be with her.

Damn, she wishes they were at her house. The ambience at his less than reassuring. Though used to the warps and creaks of floors and doors here, it's less cared for than her own place. Her eyes sweep the yellowing walls of the bedroom, the tiny windows, paint cracks along the ceiling. Nothing attractive. Still, they've bonded in his saggy bed with its unmatched sheets and pillowcases. Their schedules are so erratic; to be alone with him she steals a few hours and comes here. Sometimes Nick's asleep. Always, though, as soon as she enters the bed his long limbs wrap her. The gentle strength of his hands is a constant surprise, so too the satisfying turbulence of their lovemaking. His almost childlike subsidence afterward follows her home, makes her feel safe, though she can't say why.

What's taking him so long? “Nick,” she calls. Outside the window, the small lawn appears as thirsty as the white sky. The sprinkler is on though they're supposed to save water. It's been a week-long heat wave and the humidity has been merciless.

“I couldn't find a beer cold enough so I stuck a few in the freezer.” He fiddles with the secondhand A/C in the window. He switches it on high and for a moment the whirring noise is everything.

“Let's talk in bed,” he says.

“That's ridiculous.”

“That's me, ridiculous,” his serious tone is disconcerting.

He props up some pillows. “Get in first.”

“I don't have to listen to you, Nick.”

“Yes you do, for the next few minutes, then, maybe, never again.” His large dark eyes beneath his thick brows stare at her unblinkingly.

“Christ, you're scaring me. You know I hate surprises and I hate being set up. You know that, Nick.” She sits on the side of the bed, her feet planted on the floor.

He pulls up a chair. “It's hard to say everything because there's so much.” And looks at her imploringly. Her stomach cramps.

“Are you sick?” Rosalyn's decline is never far from her thoughts.

He shakes his head. He holds both her hands as if he's sure she'll pull away at his first words. She won't. She'll listen to everything. It's what she does with Nick because sometimes it takes a while to figure out exactly what he wants.

“I have a plan that'll change our lives. For the better, is how I see it. I've thought through every angle. I don't find any flaws.”

“Tell me.”

“The diner's up for sale. We have to buy it.”

Now it's her turn to stare. Has he gone off his meds? Where would they get that kind of money?

He lets go of her hands, begins pacing. “I know what you're thinking, but we can do it. If we get married, sell your house, move in here together, we'll raise enough cash for the down payment. The diner income will pay the mortgage and then some.”

“Wow! And whoa,” she says.

“Look at it any way you want, it's good.” But he won't look at her.

Move in together? Marry? The diner? Sell her house? His words feel threatening. Words make things happen. They start wars.

“Nick, look at me. Did you expect me to say an immediate yes or no? You know me better than that.”

“What scares you most?” His tone so earnest, she nearly relents to put him at ease.

“Well . . . buying the diner,” she offers because she can't go near the rest. “That's big, Nick, too big for me to comprehend.” The A/C isn't doing its job. The room is hot. They should open the window.

“Murray sells to some asshole, which is likely, we'll have to live with the consequences. The asshole will micromanage. They always do. Then what? Murray's no picnic, but he knows how far he can bug me. And what about you? The new guy will make you work things his way. And think about this.” He begins pacing again. “New bosses bring in their own people. They fix up and sell. We might not have jobs. It might not stay a diner. We know the business . . . the customers. We'll change the name, spiff it up, place a few ads on the highway . . . that'll bring in more people, more profit,” his arms gesturing, appealing. “Hard work isn't my problem. But here's the thing . . . No way can I look for a new job. No way. All that adjustment shit, can't do it. I don't want to.” He's shaking his head.

She's stunned, can't remember the last time—if ever—he said as much at one time.

“Ava . . . you and me, we're good together. I couldn't . . . I wouldn't do this without you.” He stops pacing, gazes at her with frightening intensity.

“You're generally so iffy about things,” she murmurs, his sudden forcefulness unwelcome. He drops back on the chair, his body visibly deflating. But she can't tend to him now. A heavy band has wrapped her chest. She needs out of here, where she doesn't care, but not here. She needs air. “Let's talk later. I have to be at Rosalyn's at four. I'll see you after your shift. Okay? Lay off the beer, it's only three.” She leans over to kiss him, breathes in his familiar peppery scent. His fingers circle her arm.

“You can't leave without giving me anything back.”

“I need time, Nick. I can't get my mind around any of it. I can't even formulate the questions I know I have. We'll talk. Don't worry. We always do.” She's beginning to sound hysterical.

He tugs her toward his lap. She knows where that'll lead, and pulls away.

• • •

On Sunrise Highway, cars whizzing past, A/C blasting, she presses the gas pedal but where she's headed remains a mystery. She lied. She's not due at Rosalyn's till five. She had to get away. Felt knocked over by a wave with nothing to grab onto, the old sensation that ebbed and flowed after her husband was killed. That, too, alarms her now.

Houses pass in a blur. She's seen them a million times before, old, worn, fractured windows, dirty aluminum siding, lawns too small to notice. Her house is better than that though not by much. Yet it's home. Her parents left her the place. Shouldn't that count for something? Rosalyn's gorgeous condo comes to mind, and so what? Okay, upheaval frightens her.

Her eyes land on a familiar exit sign. She heads toward the ramp leading off the highway. A few minutes and she's at the open wrought-iron gate. She drives through, turns onto a dirt path and parks. Her husband's grave is one hill over. During Bobby's first three years, she brought him here to visit on her husband's birthday, then Bobby began having bad dreams. They stopped coming. It was a relief.

Sparrows flit from tree to tree no doubt looking for some moisture. In the distance a few people attend a burial, fortunately their grief too far away to see. She remembers her husband's military funeral, the phony solemnity of uniformed strangers tending to the bereaved. She hated it. When they offered her the flag, she shook her head, wouldn't touch it, as if doing so would jeopardize the baby inside her. They handed the flag to his mother, too bent over in sorrow to see what she was accepting. It was a hot day like today. Everything dry, including her eyes, because she couldn't afford to cry, needed to conserve her strength for Bobby.

It isn't that she didn't love her husband, she did. When he proposed in his father's cluttered Ford, she said yes immediately. But at nineteen what did she know about anything? A lot less than now, and yes, she loves Nick, too, but it's different; she's different.

The thing is, she's been in charge of her life for years, with no one to answer to. She's made ends meet, god knows how, taken care of the house, her son, a job, made decisions on her own, big ones, little ones, daily. Why would she want to change any of it to buy a diner? They'll have to work even harder. They're not going to be much richer, either. Nick's drug bills alone are through the ceiling. He won't step into a VA hospital for free help, says he'd rather put a bullet in his head. Besides she's comfortable, even happy with the present arrangement. Why disturb that?

She flashes on her cop father. He'd analyze a homicide from every angle, yet each time he came up with a solution he'd shoot it down with another theory. It astonished her how many ways he could look at a situation. Nick can't do that; he's too impatient. It's not that he's going to undercut her response, but he won't get what there is to discuss. Either she agrees with his plan or she doesn't.

Sunshine rolls slowly down the hill leaving shadows . . . like a life. What's she doing here anyway? There are no friendly spirits, only sad memories. She drives back to the highway.

• • •

It's four-thirty when she pulls up in front of Rosalyn's condo, her head more muddled than it was an hour ago. A drink will help. Mila makes sure there's wine in Rosalyn's fridge. There's even leftover vodka, gin, and scotch from the night after Rosalyn returned from abroad. With a table filled with sinful food and drink, they partied hard. She, Dina, Mila, the four of them . . . drunk, wild, high on laughter, Mila snapping one picture after another with her cell phone. Rosalyn was like a kid who's been given everything she wanted for Christmas. She couldn't stop yakking about every unbelievable place Jack took her, banishing illness as only Rosalyn could.

• • •

The front door isn't locked. She finds Mila in the living room, looking half her age in a sleeveless shirt and shorts, hair in a ponytail. She takes in the surroundings as if for the first time. Teal-colored couch and chairs facing the plant-filled patio outside a large window, colorful rugs, black-and-white prints on the wall. Nick wouldn't care about any of it.

“Hospice hung another morphine drip. She's been mostly sleeping. Damn, it's unfair.” Mila sighs deeply. “So energetic, now maybe a nod, a word . . .”