He floats his gaze down toward me, and for a moment, his face is awash in something that I never see on him: sadness.
“Don’t stop trying,” he says, his eyes back on the sky. “There’s always an answer, even when you’re sure that there’s not.”
—
Later, once the fireworks have subsided and Theo has said polite goodnights to all, I realize that he never told me what his question was. I consider texting him to ask — I
want
to text him to ask.
What was your question to me and how will it change things?
I start typing with my good hand but my bravado fades. There are some things that are better left unsaid, and besides, now that I’m sober, I suspect I wouldn’t have an answer for him anyway.
24
My dad holds a press conference the next day. He sits at the podium and sips slowly from his water glass, looking a dozen years older than he did when all of us gathered at the Four Seasons and he announced that he was taking a lover. The cameras snap his photo for the front page of their websites, of their newspapers. The reporters, and there are many of them, hold their recorders in the air, as if my father has something so important to declare that it cannot be missed.
My dad leans into the microphone and starts talking about fate, about death, about embracing both. He gazes into the CNN camera and says that he hopes that he can offer comfort to those who are dying or those who are losing loved ones or those who simply fear the inevitable.
“It
is
inevitable!” His voice rises. “But let us all know that what will be will be. This was not my time. But if it had been…I would have been at peace with that too.” Then he shifts back into his wheelchair with a contented smirk, as if this is the most brilliant thing that has ever been said. I want to raise my hand and say, “Hey dumbass, you wouldn’t have been at peace with it, because, you know, you’d have been, like, dead.” But that’s not the part I play today. That’s not the part I play in the family. That would be something Raina would say, but she is simply focused resolutely ahead, staring at nothing, her eyes glazed over.
The nurse wheels my father out a back door, and the reporters holler more questions to his doctors. I watch him go and realize that the one thing my dad didn’t mention is family: how he was thinking of us, how we got him through. Nearly everyone says that on their deathbed, don’t they?
When I saw that white light off in the distance, I was thinking of my dear wife, Rose, and how I couldn’t leave her just yet!
But not my dad.
“Do you think your dad believes in God?” Nicky asks me after we usher out of the press room and down the hall. He drops quarters into the soda machine.
“I really don’t know.”
I really don’t know him at all
. “I think…he believes in something though.”
His theories. His science. That’s what he believes in.
“So you think that he actually believes all this bullshit?”
The machine spits out a Dr. Pepper, and he pops the lid.
“Nicky, it’s ten in the morning. Should you be drinking that?” I feign an attempt at step-parenting.
“Probably not.” He slurps from the top.
I sigh.
“How can he not see that it’s all bullshit?” he asks again. “Like with my dad.”
“He doesn’t think that any of it is bullshit,” my mom says from behind us. She pecks my cheek. “And thank God that pomp and circumstance of a press conference is over. Speaking of bullshit.”
“Did you know that he has a DNR?” I ask her.
“Of course he has a DNR, sweetie. Who wants to be a vegetable?”
I exhale again. “That’s not what I meant. I just...”
She squeezes my shoulder.
“He believes what he believes. Nothing’s going to change that.”
“So that means that he knows about you and Nancy? And that he trusts that it will all work out?” I plunk in my change and aim the back of my cast at the Dr. Pepper button. Then I remember that yesterday Vanessa dared me to get in shape, so I opt for a water.
“He does not know about Nancy, no.” My mom grows quiet.
“Do you think he believes in God, Minnie?” Nicky asks.
“Do you believe in God?” she asks back.
“As a Jew, I must.” Nicky puts on a solemn face.
“That’s not really an answer.”
“It’s an answer.”
“Not really,” my mom says.
“You asked, I answered.” He takes a long sip of his Dr. Pepper and swallows down a burp.
“That’s a rote answer. There’s no critical thinking involved.”
I squint at my mother. This is new territory for her, for me. Before she had Raina, she’d been a high school math teacher. I’d forgotten that somewhere in her, she’d once been pinned to logic, to 10+10=20 because you can
prove
it.
I watch her now and wonder if maybe she hadn’t forgotten too. Maybe she can explain to me why 1 +1 no longer equals Shilla.
“I don’t get it,” Nicky says.
“You’re accepting that there’s a God because you’re a Jew. That’s wonderful. But you’re not asking yourself why you accept it so easily, when there are plenty of reasons not to. Sure, that’s why people call it ‘faith.’ But I’m not exactly getting the faithful vibe from you.” She reaches over and takes the Dr. Pepper from his hand. “And you shouldn’t drink that crap. It will kill you.”
She aims the can into the garbage, and it hits the bottom with a clang.
“Wow,” Nicky says, as my mom heads down the hall. “What was that about?”
I smile and am surprised to feel a twinge in my nose, tears ready behind my eyes.
“That’s about being a mom. I didn’t know she had it in her.”
“Huh,” he says. “I don’t really get it.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Some of us are slow learners.”
—
Email From: Shawn Golden
To: Willa Chandler-Golden
Subject: Your dad
W —
Saw your dad’s press conference and thought I should reach out and let you know I’m glad he’s going to be okay. All’s well that ends well. I have to go back to Palo Alto tomorrow. I know that you want to talk and that our August deadline is just a few weeks away…how about if I call you when I’m back? Nicky wants to stay here with you. Guess he got bored of the zipline. I still think it’s awesome. That kid. Who knows what goes through his brain?
-S
Email from: Theodore Brackton
To: Willa Chandler-Golden
Subject: Hi
So hey. I can’t stop thinking about you. And what’s going on. I’ve been asked to consult on a project for Goldman Sachs for the rest of the summer (insider trading, but you didn’t hear it from me), but I’m not going to accept if you don’t want me here. I’m trying to do the right thing, Willa. I know what that means for me. I have no clue what it means for you.
Email from: Raina Chandler-Farley
To: Willa Chandler-Golden
Subject: Theo
W — don’t kill me but I just called Theo to ask for his advice on Ollie’s case. The govt wants some heads to roll, and Ollie’s a high-profile head to axe. Theo said he might be staying in the city for the summer, so I figured it was cool to bring him on. Just wanted to ask you if that’s okay?
Email from: Willa Chandler-Golden
To: Raina Chandler-Farley
Subject: re: Theo
Please, you already called him so why are you asking me for my permission now?
Email from: Raina Chandler-Farley
To: Willa Chandler-Golden
Subject: re: re: Theo
I was trying to be polite.
Email from: Minnie Chandler
To: Raina Chandler-Farley; Willa Chandler-Golden
Subject: Your father
Girls –
Willa (I’m cc-ing you Raina because you should know this but keeping your brother out of it because lord knows he has enough problems), I wanted you to be aware of the fact that when I stopped by the hospital today, your father inquired as to the current standing with your book with Vanessa. He is and continues to be quite worked up over the thought that his own kin is publicly contradicting him — I believe that’s an exact quote — and he sat up in his flimsy hospital gown and with his thinning hair flopping every which way and with his teeth unbrushed and his rage turning his cheeks nearly purple and spit out: “I cannot believe that our daughter is publicly contradicting me!” and I must say, girls, I have never been less attracted to a human being in my life. Anyway, I think he may be struggling with facing his own mortality (despite what he says) or perhaps just getting old (it’s really no fun, though better when you’re a lesbian!) or maybe I just caught him at a bad moment. But…it is something to be aware of. His displeasure. Do with it what you want. Lord knows I have spent too much of my own life nurturing his pleasures and displeasures and now, I frankly don’t give much of a fuck.
Can we get lunch tomorrow? Nancy and I will be at the opera tonight.
xoxo
Your mother, Minnie
Email from: Willa Chandler-Golden
To: Theodore Brackton
Subject re: Hi
It’s okay if you stay. I actually think it’s kind of sweet.
—
Sleep refuses me that night. Raina’s out of Xanax, and the Ambien I found in her medicine cabinet while stealing some of her eye cream does nothing to help. I flop to one side, then I flop to the other, my mind like a million electrical wires, all interconnecting, all flipped on high. Shawn. Theo. My dad. The book. Good lord, wasn’t it all so much simpler way back when there was just Shilla and our plan and the notion of a baby? Even if I wasn’t sure that it’s what I wanted — motherhood and its complications and the guilt and the fear and the worry that comes with ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes. Still, it was
easier.
It was inertia. It was what should have been my master plan. It’s what should have been my fate. Fate doesn’t have to equal happiness, you know. Fate just has to be. Fate just is.
My mind drifts to Theo and my new fate and his question. What was it that he needed to ask me? What was it that he needed to know?
I start a list:
THINGS THEO WAS GOING TO ASK ME:
1. Do I still want to sleep with him after so many years? (Yes.)
2. Did I think about him even when I shouldn’t, even when I was married? (Yes.)
3. Do I understand what exactly this means? (No.)
4. Am I willing to throw caution in the wind and give him a chance? (Caution into the wind is not my strong suit.)
5. Do I still love Shawn? (Yes.)
6. Do I still love him? (Yes.)
7. Is that enough? (How do I know?)
Ollie shifts in the bed next to me, and then the nightstand light goes on, and he says:
“So I take it you’re going to keep me up all night?”
“I’m sorry. Insomnia.”
“Have you tried melatonin? It’s nature’s cure.”
“Shut up, Ollie.”
“Sorry.” He does sound truly sorry. “I can’t help it. It’s instinct.”
“Dad doesn’t believe in instincts, you know.”
We fall quiet, though he doesn’t turn off the light. I make bunny ears with my fingers, and the little rabbits hop along the wall.
Then he says: “I’m not trying to be annoying when I say this but you should exercise more. It would help with your stress.”
“I know. Vanessa said the same thing. She dared me to be able to run five miles. I think she’s, like, angling to make me enter a marathon or something. It’s a little preposterous that she doesn’t have to do any of this crap that I do.”
“She was born brave,” Ollie says.
And I can’t dispute that because she seemingly was. Which also made her too independent and maybe meant that she’d never settle down, settle in, but courage wasn’t the problem.
“Still, she could maybe start running with me.”
“Run alone. It’s quiet time. I work out a lot of my mental crap when I work out.”
“But I hate it.”
He says: “That’s a dumb excuse, Willa. You know that. You sound like you’re eight.”
“Neither of us is exactly an expert at taking responsibility.”
“Hey,” he says. “I’m employed! That’s responsibility.”
I tut: “You’re running celebrity yoga classes from Raina’s living room. And…that wasn’t what I mean. I meant
responsibility
.”
He doesn’t say anything for a while, so I waggle the bunny ears in the shadows. Quiet seeps into the room until he whispers:
“I really screwed the pooch.”
“A Chandler family specialty.”
“You’re kind of in deep shit yourself,” he says. “Falling for Theo when you’re still married.”
I sit up suddenly, the bunny ears no more.
“I’m not falling for Theo!”
“I read bodies for a living, Will. I know you think it’s BS, but I’m good at it.”
I flop back onto the pillow.
“I don’t think it’s crap. I just never had the same conviction.”
“I can’t disagree.” He doesn’t mean it rudely, I know.
“Does Raina know you did it?”
“More or less.” He rolls over onto his elbow and looks toward me. “But I did it with the best of intentions.”
“It was a shortcut.” I mirror him, up on my elbow now too.
“I was never good at the long-cut,” he states. “Responsibility was never either of our things.”
“I’m sure they’ll be more lenient for your good intentions.”
There’s not much more left to discuss after that, so eventually, we both lay back, and he flips off the light, though I know I’m no closer to dreaming than before. After a few minutes, I’m certain he’s asleep, his breath slowed, his body still.
But then he says:
“Willa, you know, it’s not too late.”
“What do you mean?” I stare up to the blackness of the ceiling.
“For conviction. For you to find it. If I can find responsibility, maybe you can find conviction.”
“Oh,” I say. “I don’t know.”
“Well, that’s your first problem,” he says. “If you don’t know something, ask.”
—
Theo picks up on the third ring. He’s groggy but I’m certain I didn’t rouse him. Theo never sleeps. I used to wake up in the middle of the night and find his pillow cold, then I’d pad into his kitchen to discover him hovered over the computer, fixing whatever needed to be fixed in the world. I’d fold my hands over his shoulders and try to help him relax, and maybe I’d make him a cup of tea, but eventually, he’d implore me to go back to sleep, and I reluctantly would. Though I never felt great about leaving him alone in the kitchen, never felt great about slipping into bed without my other half. With Shawn, I never had to worry about that. He was always
there,
next to me
.
Until he wasn’t. Until he was at
Grape!
or at golf or at God knows where now with Erica Stoppard. Theo welcomed space but never so much that he didn’t know where to find me, couldn’t make his way back to bed and vacuum up the distance. Shawn never needed space until suddenly, he needed an ocean.