The Healing (5 page)

God bless her.

Karen had been desperate. After her daughter ran out this morning, she found herself teetering on the edge of hopelessness. It would have been so easy for her to call 911 and have paramedics come to the house, pick Mike up off the floor, and haul him away in an ambulance. He would have been admitted for tests and observation, and when the hospital deemed him eligible for around-the-clock care, he would have been placed in a nursing facility.

But how could she bring herself to do such a thing? How could she set such a series of events in motion without thinking of the finality of it all?

It was tempting. Especially after Mike told her to put the pillow over his face. He knew better than anyone what the future held for him. It was only natural for him to want to put an end to his misery.
Their
misery.

“Stop talking like that,” Karen had scolded. “Get ahold of yourself so we can get you off the floor. I can't do this by myself.”

She had to put up her usual façade of tough love. If she didn't—if she had sat on the floor next to him and started sobbing along with him—she would have been useless. Besides, if she let Mike see how his physical deterioration and utter despair were ripping her heart out, it would only justify his plea for self-annihilation.

“I'm sorry,” he kept saying. For a man like Mike, the shame and weakness associated with his disease were far worse than any pain he endured.

Karen knew it, but she thought she could diminish the shame by skirting around it. “Come on, we can do this
,
” she had urged in reply to his apologies. Her eyes began to sting with the deluge of tears she wouldn't allow to fall. Her throat began to ache with the need to vent her own grief . . . to wail and mourn for a husband who wasn't even dead.

Yet she couldn't allow such a dangerous chink in her fortress. She had to disconnect, even if it branded her as cold and impatient. If she dared to look directly into Mike's deep blue eyes—where more than half her life was written—she would lose control.

The ensuing hour had been unequivocal torture for them both. Mike eventually cooperated with her, and she managed, with every ounce of her athletic strength and a helpful surge of adrenaline, to get him into the wheelchair. But then she had to strip him down and wash him.

Her hands shook as she peeled the drenched pajamas from his body and wiped him down with a soapy washcloth. She tried to pretend it was like any other chore, perhaps on par with changing Lori's diaper, clipping her grandmother's fingernails, or massaging her father's feet while he was on his deathbed. Those were things she had done without thinking twice. Why did her hands shake, when washing Mike should have been the easiest task of all? She knew his body as well as she knew her own.

But this wasn't Mike's body.

Silence hung between them, suffocating them, demeaning them. Something that should have been binding and natural felt awkward and humiliating. Karen knew Mike was mortified by his condition. Yet she couldn't begin to reassure him when she didn't know herself how she felt.

“I'll understand if you want to divorce me,” he told her as she rinsed him off. His voice was hoarse. He was a defeated human being.

“Don't be ridiculous,” Karen replied. She glanced up at him quickly, and it only took a second for his gaze to pierce her to the soul. He was watching her with all of his anguish laid bare, and the sight of his watery eyes sent a pain searing into her chest. As a result, her swiping motions grew quicker and more flustered.

Divorce him?
How could he even say such a thing?

He was letting his shame become bigger than her love for him, and it allowed a spark of anger to intensify her grief. She finished drying him off and flung the towel aside.

“I'm serious, Karen,” Mike said. “After you put me in a home, you should be free to go on with your life
.
”

“You only make things worse when you talk like that
,
” Karen said. Her knees clicked as she straightened up.

“I don't want you to live like this,” Mike said plainly.

“I've got to do the laundry,” she announced, steeling herself by swiftly changing direction. She ripped the wet sheets from the sofa bed and carried them off in her arms, dropping a clean condom catheter on his lap as she rushed by.

It occurred to her that he might have trouble slipping it on himself. Maybe that was why she was carrying a load of sodden bedclothes in the first place. But she couldn't bring herself to ask him.

Five minutes later, Karen stepped back into the living room. She found Mike slumped sideways in his wheelchair, weeping silently with his head propped in his trembling hand. He was still naked and shivering but refused to let her dress him or help him with the catheter.

From the way he had been talking, he probably hoped to contract pneumonia and die. Or at least develop such a bad exacerbation of symptoms that Karen would indeed institutionalize him.

That was when she had called the visiting nurse and requested a nonscheduled visit.

She also had to call their friends and postpone their plans for the Fourth of July weekend. “Mike had a bit of a setback,” she told them. “I'll tell you about it when things calm down a little.”

By the time the visiting nurse arrived, Karen was ready to detonate. Her husband was suicidal, and her unstable daughter was off God-knew-where doing God-knew-what with God-knew-who. When the nurse told her to take a walk, she had started out fully intending to take a mind-clearing, cardiovascular-pumping, stress-reducing power walk to the town line and back. But she was too damn tired.

So she ended up at Founders Landing. Where it all began.

chapter seven

Summer 1975

There was no full-length mirror in the house, so Karen slipped into her grandmother's bedroom to check her image in the large dresser mirror. She was seventeen years old, but Grandma's bedroom in Southold was still like some kind of forbidden sanctum, with its dark antique furniture, high four-poster bed, and old photographs. A familiar and comforting scent hung in the room. It was the scent of Grandma herself, clinging to the sheets and the flower-print housedresses that hung in the closet.

Karen turned sideways and studied how she looked in her new bathing suit. Fluorescent colors were all the rave for swimwear, and she had picked out a bright orange bikini that was the same eye-catching color as a traffic cone. At least it would complement the suntan she intended to get as the summer went on.

She pivoted back for another frontal view in the mirror. A few shapely curves had rounded out her once-boyish frame, but Karen was all too aware she didn't fill out her bikini top like some of her friends. They always told her she was lucky because she could eat ice cream three times a day and never worry about belly bulges and chunky thighs. Somehow she didn't feel very lucky as she critiqued her lean body. It was great for sports, not so great for bikinis.

Karen leaned toward the mirror to clip up her dark blond hair. The models in
Seventeen
all had straight, wispy hair, just like hers, but she could never quite get hers to look as glamorous. She threw a bottle of Sun-In into her beach tote with her brush and suntan lotion. By August her athletic body would be bronze, her hair would be sun-streaked, and her fluorescent bathing suit would be faded.

As for today, her first day on the beach for the season, Karen was satisfied with her new bikini, a pair of cutoffs, and the glow of youthful anticipation. She had just finished her junior year in high school as the star athlete of both the tennis and swimming teams, but she had spent the last three months staring out the classroom window, daydreaming about what the summer held in store, thinking about the beach, and wondering what might spark her interest in Southold this year.

“Grandma, I'm going!” Karen called, traipsing down the stairs in a joyful rhythm, her beach tote in hand.

“Wait!” Grandma called back from the kitchen, where the smell of sautéed garlic still permeated the air from lunch. She appeared in the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. Her dark eyes quickly inspected Karen's scantily clad form, flickering with the questions and mild disapproval of a fifty-year generation gap. “You go?” she asked in her Czech accent.

Karen was tempted to roll her eyes and click her tongue impatiently, but she didn't. Her father always balked when his daughters were disrespectful to his mother, and they eventually learned to curb their attitudes in her presence. If Karen gave her grandmother a hard time about anything, her father would make her go back to the city with the rest of the family during the week. Everyone else was working full-time, but Karen had gotten by on babysitting jobs so that she could stay in Southold from the last week of June until Labor Day.

“Yeah, I'm going,” Karen repeated patiently, as if saying it for the first time.

“You be back at five?” Grandma asked.

Karen knew if she haggled, she could get another half hour. “Six?”

“Five-thirty.” It was the same beach curfew every year.

Karen ran to her grandmother and kissed her cheek. “Thanks, Grandma!” she said before dashing off. Once she was on her bicycle, a trusty old Royce Union with no gears, no fenders, and rusty handlebars, it felt like the last ten months had never happened. It felt like she had been on her bicycle only yesterday, with the wind in her hair, the sun in her eyes, and the adventure of another glorious summer day stretched out before her like teen heaven.

It took Karen less than five minutes to get to the beach. Her cousin Anya and a few other friends were already congregated on the wharf steps when she arrived, and Karen jumped off her bike and let it drop to the ground with a metallic crash. A chorus of squeals and laughter rose up as the circle of teenage girls closed in on Karen to welcome her. Most of her friends were summer residents, as she was, but her cousin Anya lived in Southold year-round. Yet that wasn't all that set Anya apart from the rest of the cackling mob. She happened to be nearly six feet tall and looked like she belonged in a Renaissance painting. She had a wild mane of auburn hair and flashing green eyes that dazzled everyone who met their gaze.

“Look at you! You look great!” Anya told Karen, gripping her arms and whirling her around.

“You got started on your tan already,” another friend commented.

Karen hadn't purposely started on her tan. She just loved being outdoors.

Someone else whirled her around. “Did you grow your hair? Let's see!”

She let her hair loose, shook it out, and then twisted it to clip it up again.

“You've got the greatest hair!”

Her cousin Anya whirled her back. “I hope you're here for the whole summer. Southold is so
boring
when you guys aren't here.”

Karen nodded, and the summer coterie of lifelong friends flew into a group hug.

It wasn't long before the cacophony of their reunion ebbed to whispers and giggles because Anya brought up the juicy topic of a new summer interest. “Hey,” she said, nudging her cousin. “Don't look now, but you've
got
to check out the new lifeguard. He's an absolute
fox
!”

Karen waited a few seconds before casually turning around.

“Not yet.” Anya yanked her arm. “He's looking over here.”

“You're making it so obvious, An,” one of their other friends said. “He already knows you're eyeing him.”

Anya ignored the rebuke. “Okay,” she said to her cousin. “Look now.”

By the time Karen was allowed to take her first peek, she only saw the new lifeguard from the back. He sat on his white watchtower like a dark-haired demigod, his arms extended across the back of the chair.

“What happened to Alan?” Karen asked, figuring her cousin had to know the fate of the previous hunk who had graced the chair for three summers in a row.

But Anya shrugged her shoulders apathetically. “He finished college and got a real job.”

“And did you find out this one's name yet?”

“Not yet. Let's put down our towels near him and see what he does,” Anya suggested, leading the way to claim their section of the beach.

Karen followed along with the rest of the girls and watched in amazement as her cousin paraded in front of their new prospect with all wiles in motion. The Top 40 hit “Why Can't We Be Friends?” was crackling out of the small radio the lifeguard kept beside him, and Anya danced to the funky rhythm.

On her way past the lifeguard's chair, Karen glanced up and saw Mike Donnelly for the first time. He was silhouetted against the bright midday sun, his hair hanging in damp ringlets after a dip in the bay. If his face weren't so boyishly Irish and his eyes weren't so intensely blue, he would've resembled some Roman god of the sea perched on his pedestal. Expecting that his gaze would be riveted on Anya's tall hourglass figure and melon-sized breasts bumping along in her shocking green bikini, Karen was embarrassed to find him looking down at her.
Her
. Why was he eyeing the boiled chicken wings when a gourmet feast was right in front of him?

“Hi,” he said, moving nothing but his straight dark eyebrows.

Karen felt an immediate rush of heat to her cheeks. “Hi,” she echoed, ducking her head. Her heart knocked hard and fast against her breastbone.
Idiot,
she berated herself.

“How about right here?” Anya was saying to the group with her hand extended, indicating a clear patch of sand like a game show model offering Curtain Number Three. They were diagonally in front of the lifeguard's chair. “Excuse me?” she called up to him brazenly.

Karen braved another glance upward because now her flirtatious cousin had diverted the lifeguard's gaze.

“Yup?” he replied, moving only his head. His arms were still draped across the back of the chair and his long, well-muscled legs were stretched out and crossed at the ankles. He looked like he was lounging on a comfortable sofa watching a movie. Except he was wearing nothing but a red swimsuit that was about as wide as a headband.

“We won't be in your way if we park ourselves here, will we?” Anya asked, peering up at him with her weight shifted onto one hip and a hand shading her eyes.

The lifeguard looked amused. A slow, attractive grin creased his face. “Don't worry,” he said. “I can forge a path to the water if the deadly riptide tries to claim a life.”

“And the sharks,” Anya said. “Don't forget the sharks.”

Everyone laughed. There were no man-eating sharks or dangerous currents in the waters off Founders Landing. The only time the lifeguard truly earned his pay was when a child capsized on an inner tube or got stung by a jellyfish. The rest of the time he was free to watch bikinis and daydream about the girl he wanted most on the beach.

Karen's eyes remained riveted on the lifeguard's face as he broke into that full smile. When his laughing blue eyes fell on her again, he caught her gawking at him, slack-mouthed and airheaded. Snapping her jaw shut, she unfurled her towel and hastily set it down on the sand. While her friends wriggled out of their shorts, oiled their young bodies, and stretched out in various poses to sunbathe, providing wholesome visual entertainment for their new prospect, Karen sat on her towel and hugged her knees, careful not to move or risk another glance for a long time. She stared out at the bay, conscious of every sound and movement behind her.

Anya was nowhere near as patient or demure as her cousin. She kept a watchful eye on the handsome stranger, restlessly flipping from her back to her stomach in an obvious attempt to get his attention. She finally ended up on her side with her head propped on her hand, reclining Cleopatra-style as if her beach towel were a royal settee. The swell of her hip rose up from her waist like a camel's hump, and her full bosom spilled sideways out of her small bikini top. Karen was almost embarrassed to look at her.

“So what's your name?” Anya asked.

“Mike,” the lifeguard replied.

“Do you live around here?”

“No, I'm from Queens. But my aunt and uncle have a place in Cutchogue, and I'm staying with them for the summer.”

Karen's ears perked up, but she kept looking at the water. Wouldn't it be funny if he lived in Flushing, like her?

She didn't have to ask, of course, because Anya was there to keep the conversation rolling. “Hey, my cousin Karen lives in Queens,” she told their new acquaintance, nodding toward Karen, who twisted around at the mention of her name.

Blocking out the sun with a raised hand, Karen saw that the lifeguard was again gazing directly at her. He had finally changed position and was now leaning forward on his knees. It only took an instant for the image to brand itself on Karen's brain. His shoulders were enormous, perfectly proportionate to the thick neck and brawny arms of a young man who probably pumped iron. Those smirking lines etched their way into his expression once more, and Karen could have sworn there was a message there for her alone.
Lucky for us,
was what he was saying without words.

“So where do you live, Karen?” was what he said out loud.

“Flushing?” she said, realizing that it came out like a question.

“Are you sure?” he teased.

She knew she was turning purple, but she scrunched up with a little laugh. “Pretty sure,” she replied.

That glorious smile split his face wide open. “I'm from Richmond Hill.”

Karen started to relax a little. She hadn't expected someone so good-looking to be so personable. As a matter of fact, she had expected Mike the Lifeguard to continue sitting on his elevated throne like a work of art, soaking up as much idol worship as he could from his new group of admirers. “A couple of my friends from school live in Richmond Hill,” she said.