Those We Love Most (13 page)

Sunlight filtered through the brocade cabbage rose drapes in their bedroom. It took Roger a few seconds to remember what city he was in. Chicago, not Florida. But it was Julia he’d been dreaming of and her town. He faltered at the recall for a moment. Tampa. There it was, he’d retrieved it. It still startled him when the rustiness happened in his head, at the oddest times, like an ambush. Of course he knew the name of that city. God knows he’d been there enough times for real estate deals.

Sometimes lately, especially when he was tired, conjuring up the exact name or word could be trying, almost as if there was a gumminess to his mental circuitry. “Cobwebs” he called it. He had been able to joke about it with Julia, and when it occasionally happened she would touch the back of his hand and smoothly insert the word. He’d been more reluctant to reveal the depths of this weakness with Margaret.

“Just old age,” he’d explain it away to his wife. Except that at times it felt different. Words would swim in front of him like a stutter, eluding capture until he grasped them. But more than that, what scared Roger sometimes was the flat-out forgetting. And in those moments he would ask himself if it were real, the advance of something serious, or just the unreliability of short-term memory as people aged.

Roger looked at the digital clock on Margaret’s side of the bed. The red numbers registered 6:37
A.M.
and he noted his wife’s rosary beads coiled like a snake on the small table next to a box of Kleenex. He was relieved that she found comfort in the rituals of prayer and religion. She had always been far more devout than he, although he attended Mass fairly regularly on late Saturday afternoons. Margaret lay immobile on her side, wearing the dramatic black satin eyeshade Erin had given to her for Christmas one year when she’d complained that her “change of life” left her unable to sleep past dawn. And now it had become a habit, the dark fabric erasing half of her face in a kind of Batman death mask. Her mouth hung partially open, and little gurgly sounds, too polite for a snore, emanated rhythmically from the back of her throat. She must have taken a sleeping pill, something she did more frequently to get a full night’s sleep. Roger rolled over to his edge of the bed, taking care not to make any noise. He didn’t want to wake his wife right now for any number of reasons. Saturday mornings were his cherished time, that first cup of coffee in the kitchen, padding out barefoot on the cool asphalt to grab the newspaper at the end of the driveway. He had planned to squeeze in nine holes of golf today. The course would close in two weeks.

The sun was rising in an iridescent burning ball that filled him with a sense of vigor. The October air had cooled markedly at the fringes of each day. Normally it was in the morning that he felt most like his old self, his thoughts firing efficiently, his brain crystal clear and not muddied by the day’s complications. Halfway down the driveway, Roger stopped as a squirrel scampered in front of him, his tail seeming to float as he bounded. Roger could see the animal before him, he knew what it was, but he could not immediately retrieve the word. Other
s
words—
skunk
,
skull
,
skill—
swum around him murkily before
squirrel
emerged as a crisp, whole word with an attendant sense of relief. He remembered the Magic 8 Ball toy that had delighted Maura and Erin one Christmas as proclamations of “Yes, Definitely,” and “Very Doubtful,” and “Outlook Great” floated up through the inky liquid when you turned it upside down. Sometimes retrieving his words felt like that.

Roger had purposely kept these niggling worries about his memory from Margaret. She might make too much of it, or fuss over him with her high-strung nature. And of course then she’d insist on him seeing a doctor and going through a battery of tests, something for which he had little patience. As a husband and father, he was careful not to erode or endanger his protective role, and so it hadn’t been difficult to keep these mental hiccups to himself. Throughout the past decade he and Margaret had already begun to fall into a pattern of avoidance in certain unintended ways, bouncing off each other like amusement park bumper cars. If he heard her in the kitchen, there were times he’d slip into the den. Or if he knew she was in the bathroom washing up before bed, he’d watch a few more minutes of the cable news before coming upstairs. It wasn’t completely calculated, he reasoned, not purposefully deliberate. Some nights avoiding his wife required less effort after a taxing day at the office.

But in the growing light of day, a full weekend of activities and visits planned with the grandchildren, Roger felt a sense of renewal concerning his marriage flare-up amid the backdrop of lingering sorrow. James’s death had caused their family to respond in the ordinary ways that abrupt loss affects people, forcing them to take stock of their own mortality and the fragility of life. But there had been something more, something deeper, gradually opening back up between him and Margaret that felt hopeful.

Memories of James and their moments together flitted through his mind’s eye at the oddest time, arresting all other thought. And where he might not have remarked on these kinds of emotions before the accident, he had purposely mentioned this last night to Margaret. They were picking over a dinner of plain grilled salmon and broccoli, with some of her canned garden tomatoes over a mound of cottage cheese.

“Do you ever just think about James and stop everything you are doing? Do you ever feel so sad that you don’t want to take another step?” His words rushed out in a jumble at the table with an intensity that surprised him.

Margaret had looked up at him thoughtfully, but coolly, her fork poised halfway to her mouth, her expression unchanged but for the arch of her brows. “I think about him all the time,” she said in a measured tone. “But I don’t let myself get overwhelmed. Not now. Not at this place in time. I can’t see the point in letting yourself wallow in that kind of grief. I just keep going when I start to feel that way and I try to push out those thoughts. They’re unproductive.” She cut a clump of broccoli in half and popped it in her mouth, chewing neatly, her jaws working rhythmically in a way that Roger had always found slightly annoying.

They ate for a few moments in silence, the clatter of their cutlery and the blaring TV news providing a background conversation. Margaret broke the silence. “I remember once reading something that Rose Kennedy said. It was in a magazine article, I think.” Margaret set down her fork, and her eyes took on a faraway look. “I remember the interviewer asking her how she went on after all that tragedy—two sons assassinated, one killed in a plane crash, I think, along with another daughter. He was a war hero, remember? And there was that one, Rosemary, who was retarded.” Margaret paused to take a bite of salmon before continuing. “She said, Rose Kennedy said, that she just made up her mind, years ago, that she wasn’t going to let those events control her. That if she collapsed with grief it would have a very bad effect on everyone else in the family who had to go forward.” Ennobled, Margaret picked up her fork and neatly cut a piece of fish with a sideways slice.

“Well, that’s a pretty tall order,” he had said softly. “Rose Kennedy was quite a lady. She came from an era where you learned to buck it all up. I guess it’s nice to think we can control our emotions like that but … well, realistically, I don’t think all of us can just flip a switch.”

“I just think it’s something to aspire to … is all. Sitting around sniveling and wringing your hands for weeks about something you can’t change, that doesn’t help the kids any, does it? There’s Ryan and Sarah, and everything still needs to get done around the house. Someone just has to set an example is all I am saying. They can’t see every adult close to them just incapacitated by grief. I think it’s up to us to show those kids that life goes on. That we’re here to love them too.”

Roger had nodded. There was no point in countering her. Taking the path of least resistance when she got on what he referred to as her “high horse” was always the best course. But there was a ring of truth to what she said, and he found himself admiring her steeliness, the strength of her internal conviction. He frequently found himself on the brink of tears in the stretches of time he had spent alone with Maura after James died. In those moments he envied his wife’s self-control, her centered fortitude. Maura and he jokingly referred to themselves as “the old softies” in the family.

They ate the rest of the meal listening to the network news echoing from the small kitchen TV, a welcome and legitimate distraction. Roger focused again on Margaret as she finished the last of her dinner. She was a handsome woman, had always been striking. Something sentimental unexpectedly hit him, a tingling of gratitude like an electric current, and for just a moment he felt as if his eyes would fill.

“Do you remember when we met?” he said suddenly, immediately feeling silly for the question.

“Of course.” She laughed.

“Our blind date, at … uh …” There it was again, that tiny trip wire in his brain. “Wheaton College, of course. Wheaton. Good old Phil Tracey set us up, and then he lent me his car to drive over to your campus from Northwestern. I took you out for ice cream, remember? Phil Tracey. When was the last time we saw him?” Roger smiled at the memory.

“Lord, we haven’t seen Phil in at least two decades. I think it was at your reunion, sometime in the 1990s, and he was totally bald.”

“I should call Phil …” He trailed off, lost in thought for a moment. “Think about those times, Margaret, the mid-1960s. We were so insulated from most of that mess. The Vietnam War and those hippie protesters. After Phil enlisted, I remember no one heard from him for a few years, and then he turned up in California. The guy was making a fortune in that early phone technology stuff.” He shook his head, remembering. “It was automated switchboards or something.”

“I almost didn’t go out that night. But Phil kept bugging me that you were home from Northwestern. How could I forget? You had on that blue sweater that perfectly matched your eyes.” Margaret’s face softened at the memory, and they gazed at each other full in the face and then Margaret patted his hand maternally before pushing her chair back. Roger drained the last of his cocktail and crunched down on the slim remains of the ice.

“I’m glad I listened to Phil.” Margaret rose with a coy smile and slid the remains of her food onto his plate as she began to clear the table.

Everything about Margaret had been mysterious back then. The way she held herself, the reserve, as if there were parts of her she was keeping back just for him. She had a quick staccato laugh, not an easy one like his sister, but one that took some work to coax out, making it feel like a reward. She was bright, and her dark looks and hazel eyes behind clumped lashes contributed to what he had referred to as her “unattainable beauty” when they had first begun to get serious.

All of the things about her appearance that had so drawn her to him in youth had now gelled in slightly sharper ways with age. But she was still attractive. Some of the qualities of her personality that had once felt alluring, like a challenge, were now occasional irritants and obstacles, varying in degree at different times. But he admired Margaret, he respected her, and of course, he still loved her. They had logged years, raised three children, and soldiered up the corporate career ladder together. There had been periods where their love had felt more dutiful. Yet, in the end, taking stock of Margaret, as if considering her with fresh eyes, he had to admit that they mostly fitted together with the satisfaction of a solved puzzle.

Sarah needed to nap today. Although she had mostly given them up this past summer, she’d grown tired of playing with the dollhouse, and she was rubbing her eyes between moving the plastic figurines from room to room.

“Hey, little beauty,” Maura murmured as she whisked her off the floor and into her arms. “Whaddya say we go read?”

Thumping up the stairs with her daughter in her arms, Maura impulsively grabbed a book from the shelf and settled into the white painted rocking chair in which she’d nursed all three children.

“Sarah, sweetie,” Maura began in a soft voice. “You read to Mommy.” And as part of their little routine, her daughter pointed to an object in the book, and Maura launched into her version of the story.

“Big red bawl.” Sarah pointed triumphantly.

“That’s right Sarah,
b
-
a
-
l
-
l
,” and Maura would repeat the word in that subtle nudging way a parent refines and corrects their child’s speech. When they had finished the book, Maura began to softly brush her daughter’s velvety belly skin with the tips of her fingers, as she grew more limp and pliant in her arms. They rocked a few minutes longer and then Sarah’s head sagged. Maura rose from the chair in slow increments, skillfully lifting her over the rail of the crib and lowering her onto the mattress.

Down in the kitchen, the good feeling with Sarah sputtered, replaced by the strangled quiet of the house. The whir of the appliances was broken by the sporadic angry caw of black crows arguing in the branches outside. The old Maura would have had any number of things to accomplish during nap time, but now, she hung listlessly over the sink, staring out the window and into the side yard, fixated on the angry birds and the curled, dead leaves tumbling across the grass in a gathering wind.

Maura thought about the feelings of pure joy she’d experienced in mothering moments with Sarah and her boys, especially at seasonal times: ironing fall leaves between wax paper, choosing Halloween costumes, carving pumpkins. All of these moments were tinged now, sepia toned, the purity of them tinted by her overarching loss. And yet deep inside she had to admit she was feeling infinitesimally and incrementally stronger; there were spikes of her old self. She was more up to the challenge of being outside of the house for longer periods. She’d accepted a lunch invitation from Celia and was determined to go, although she was bringing Erin as a buffer. Pete was right. Her hiding from the world wasn’t accomplishing anything other than to worry her two remaining children. She was trying hard to focus on placing one foot in front of the other.