Those We Love Most (38 page)

“How about a movie?” Margaret offered. “There are a couple on cable that I’ve heard the kids talk about.” She scrolled through the TV guide section of the
Sun-Times
, squinting through her reading glasses.

Their children had been so attentive through all of this, she thought, coming over to help with meals, playing cards, and staying with him when she had to run out. Maura and Erin had even run through some of the speech therapies with their father in the earlier days. They were blessed to have such a close-knit family. It was difficult times that let you understand good fortune; you could take an accounting of what you had in a way you weren’t able to when life ran smoothly. Margaret had reminded Roger of that fact when he needed to be bucked up.

A few months after the stroke, Roger had gone through plenty of days when he seemed in despair, and Margaret had been concerned. She’d mentioned it to Father Durkee, and he’d come by to visit Roger. She wasn’t privy to anything they’d discussed, and she had made a point of not probing Roger afterward. She was merely thrilled that he’d been receptive to the idea. But there were days, she knew, when the realization of his disabilities coalesced into a terrible sadness and frustration.

Rummaging through drawers in the bedroom around that time, Margaret had come across an old prescription bottle of sleeping pills, stuffed in a sock, of all strange things. The disturbing thought occurred to her that maybe he had been hoarding them, that perhaps he was contemplating taking his own life, and then she dismissed that as foolhardy. Looking at the label, she could see they were left over from the days when Roger had traveled more extensively for work. And they were three years old, past their expiration date by months. If anything, Roger slept too much, nodding off in the chair in front of the TV and passing out nightly almost the minute his head touched the pillow. She had pitched the prescription bottle into the trash.

One afternoon, exhausted and short-fused, Margaret grew tired of his moping around, his taciturn moods and unwillingness to say much, and she’d really let him have it, just unleashed her frustration on him like a drill sergeant. Margaret told him he was being a sad sack when he had all of this family under his nose, Maura, Erin, and Stu. All those beloved grandkids. Most people didn’t get that lucky in a lifetime. He was a survivor, she had screamed at him, a blessed survivor. After that, he had seemed to make more of an effort and it had pleased her. He was still working hard to come to terms with the person he was now. Maybe he would always be in some way, she reasoned, and she’d have to accept that.

“Make peace with who you are,” his physical therapist had said. “That’s one of the greatest gifts you can give yourself. People are constantly changing in life no matter what. No one stays the same.” And while it had felt like mumbo jumbo at the time, she and Roger had both moved closer together as a couple. He was really working at his recovery now, determined to get back to the mostly positive and energetic person he had been, or at least as close as he could. And he seemed committed to their marriage in a way she hadn’t felt in years. Their children had really supported him, and of course the grandkids were a constant source of cheer. She could see his spirits lift when they were around.

Even her disconcerting thoughts and images of Julia had receded lately. In the first few weeks after Roger had been transferred to the rehab hospital in Chicago, she had checked his cell phone daily. There had been two calls from a number in Florida, but no voice mail message. She had deleted each one. When she saw evidence of the third call, Margaret had pressed redial almost without thinking, and thankfully, she had gotten Julia’s voice mail. Her heart had thumped like a snare drum, rage singing through her veins, and yet when the phone clicked to the sugary message asking callers to “leave your number for Julia,” she had become focused and cool.

“This is Roger’s wife. Margaret Munson. And I wanted to tell you that he is not interested in taking your calls or talking to you at all. Whatever you thought you had with my husband is over. Don’t ever call here again.” Margaret had pressed the end button with a flourish, and she was amazed, even thrilled, at how good it had all felt.

Of course, she would never confide any of this to Roger. Better for him to think Julia had never tried to contact him again. Margaret could keep secrets too, especially when there was a higher purpose.

“What do you think about the movie
When Harry Met Sally
?” Margaret asked, studying the guide again. “Remember that one? It’s a comedy and a love story. Looks like it’s on at eight. That gives us a little time.”

Roger nodded and seamlessly maneuvered another spoonful of sherbet up to his mouth, smacking his lips. “Sounnnss good.” Margaret turned off the news in the kitchen and rose to clear their bowls. Roger stood, deliberately, and headed into the powder room. When she joined him back in the den, she reached to pat his arm as she rounded his lounge chair, and he impulsively grabbed her hand back, drew it to his lips, and kissed it as she came to a full stop in front of his chair. Margaret smiled, momentarily off-kilter at the unexpected act. He tilted his head up, bright eyed and hopeful, and studied her. The expression on his face was that of the man she had fallen in love with all those years ago in college, handsome and confident. Roger suddenly tugged her arm impishly and then pulled her into his lap as she laughed out loud.

“Moooooom … we got you a present …” Ryan burst through the door, and tiny clumps of dirty ice fell off his boots and onto the mudroom floor.

“Whoa, buddy,” said Pete, shutting the door behind them with Sarah in his arms. He beamed and set his daughter down as she ran toward Maura excitedly.

“Don’t tell Mom what we got her, Ry. We need to wrap it before we put it under the tree. Go find some wrapping paper, OK? Christmas stuff.” Ryan was off like a shot.

Pete bent to pick up the kids’ coats from where they had shed them on the mudroom floor and hung them on the wall hooks. He let out his breath in one long
whoosh
, rubbing his hands, and then moved toward her for a hug.

They stood in comfortable silence for a moment in the middle of the kitchen, and Maura circled her arms around his torso. Outside in the waning dusk, two squirrels chased each other in the frozen grass, punctuated by piles of snow, and then cut sharply into the neighbor’s yard. “I need some scissors!!!!” Ryan’s singsongy voice called from the family room, and she smiled up at Pete before breaking away to oblige.

Teeth brushed, books read, the chaos of laundry still spread on the floral chaise in the bedroom corner, Maura headed back down the stairs to make sure all of the lights were off. Pete was already snoring, and he and Sarah had both fallen asleep in their bed. She had decided to leave her daughter there for the night. The days of wanting to sleep in Mommy’s bed were numbered and precious, she understood.

In the kitchen, the artificial light from her computer illuminated the small built-in desk. As she moved to switch off the machine, she impulsively jiggled the mouse to check her e-mail one last time. There were three new messages. One of them was from school, something from the recent PTA meeting, and the second was an Evite to a jewelry sale for charity. The third was an unfamiliar e-mail address, and she hesitated for a moment before clicking on it.

Hey Mrs. C—

I know I haven’t been in contact for a while but they barely give us a chance to breathe here. I’m still getting used to military life, but I’m adjusting faster than I thought. Now that basic is over we can at least talk to the outside world! My parents are coming down to Kentucky to see me before we head out. They’re pretty much still having a tough time with all of this and I know my mom is going to cry
.

The last time I e-mailed I wasn’t sure exactly where we were going, but it looks like we’ll be headed to Marjeh, in the Helmand Province in southern Afghanistan. That’s about all I know right now. But I’ve met a bunch of great guys and they’re all from different parts of the country
.

One of my really good buddies is a guy named Jimmy. He’s from Brownsville, Texas, and he’s always going on about BBQ and southern girls and all kinds of crap about his truck, but he makes us all laugh. His real name is James. I thought that might make you smile
.

I’ll try to send another e-mail when I get settled. Sometimes it’s a little hard to think about home, especially at night. I do miss it, probably more than I thought I would. I’d love to see the lake about now and I’m craving a hot dog with the works from Frank’s. Say hi to Mr. Corrigan and send him my best. I’m going to crash right now but I just wanted to send this off
.

Alex

Maura reread the e-mail one more time. She would respond tomorrow instead of dashing off something now while she was tired. She was touched that Alex wanted to stay in contact; she hadn’t expected that. Maybe she and Sarah would bake some cookies or brownies and send them to him. Everyone loved to get mail.

Back upstairs Maura sighed as she lifted the covers around her and slipped her legs under the blankets. She moved toward Pete’s arm to absorb the warmth of his chest, and he stirred in his sleep as she reached to smooth her palm against his cheek. Outside under the streetlamp’s trajectory, she could see a few large flakes beginning to fall. They had predicted a few inches tonight, and maybe it would stick. Snow for Christmas would be good.

Sarah had moved toward Maura’s side of the bed in her sleep. The third child, Maura thought. She had the keys to their kingdom, and she had her daddy twisted around her little finger. Maura looked over at her daughter’s chest as it rose and fell, a tendril of hair flipped across her forehead, her mouth partially opened, face angelic. She was already beginning to lose her baby fat. Maura felt her heart swell with a fierce love for her family. All of them.

A truck rumbled outside the window, breaking the still, winter air. There were no other night sounds, no wildlife, no birdcalls. The world was in hibernation.

As she waited to succumb to sleep, Maura felt the touch of Pete’s foot, gently, probing, moving toward her like an outstretched hand. Her own foot met his and moved up his ankle, and she left it there for a moment longer than was physically comfortable.

For a few minutes before she surrendered to sleep, she let her thoughts focus on her marriage. She and Pete were connected by the years, the kids, and their shared experiences, and yet she could still feel the outlines of herself as a wholly separate being apart from him. Maybe that was all right, Maura reflected. Perhaps that was exactly the way it was supposed to be. There were boundaries, even in the best marriages, and they’d bumped up against them. And maybe there wasn’t just one person in the world whom you were meant to fit into with the surety of a jigsaw puzzle. In the end, the rough patches and the harder things you endured were far more useful and valuable to have survived than the long stretches of calm and peace. Mastering the turbulence was how you achieved longevity, by simply making it through, by outlasting the bad.

Trust took such a long time to earn. And yet it could all come unmoored in an instant. She was smart enough to know at least that. People kept secrets. People built walls. It didn’t mean they couldn’t and didn’t love with all their hearts.

And so this was what she would have to make peace with; this was what she would have to hold close. Like the cross section of a tree, the bad period would be marked in interior rings, the years of drought, the blunt force trauma to the heart, all of it only visible after death. Maybe silence was a price we sometimes paid for loving so completely, the price we sometimes paid to protect those we loved most.

Maura could only hope that they had already survived the worst of it, that loss had, in the end, become their terrible unifier, the thing that had strengthened and cauterized them. As she scrunched her body closer to Pete and reached out to touch her daughter, a satisfied smile creased her face. One last contented sigh escaped her lips, and she rolled drowsily onto her side. She could feel them all turning toward one another again, moving in unison as subtle as a gravitational pull.

In the three years it took to complete this book, I stopped and started numerous times, and shelved it once for almost a year. Initially, I thought it was a story about loss, the club to which we all eventually belong. But as I began to flesh out the different generations, I came to understand it is a book about resilience. It’s about the best parts of us; the secrets we choose to keep and how the ones who love us can move us past the hard places and orient us in the right direction.

While I enjoy just about every genre of literature, I find richness in the stories that deal with real-life issues and surmounting hardships. Those are humbling moments that force us to reconstitute ourselves, sometimes in surprising ways. That was the genesis of this story.

But any novel, especially a first work of fiction, takes a village. And I had an exceptional one. Forgive me if I don’t mention you by name.

Undying gratitude to my family for allowing me to write outside my day job and in the shadows of my life. To my children, especially, for understanding when I needed you to hush up at times. For Bob, who has always championed me as a writer and encouraged me back when I was writing kitty litter and bunion-prevention press kits to pay the bills.

To all the folks at Hyperion with whom I’ve had the pleasure of working. Thanks and blessings to the indomitable Ellen Archer, who saw the manuscript’s bone structure and believed that with plastic surgery it could become this book. To my exceptional editor, Christine Pride, who just kept making it better. Your attention to every line and determination to challenge me like a personal trainer is what every author prays for.