Authors: Ann Tatlock
“But, Jane?”
“Yes?”
“It’s going to take every ounce of strength I’ve got.”
Jane nodded, though she was unsure of what he meant.
“I’m not sure I have any strength left over to be what you want me to be.”
“I don’t want you to be anything other than what you are.”
“It’s not enough.”
“It
is
enough.”
The muscles in his jaw twitched again. “Right now I can only concentrate on trying to get better. I can’t shoulder the responsibility of being your fiancé on top of that.”
Jane felt herself go weak. She sat back in the chair. “What are you saying?”
“It’s just that . . . something tells me that if I love you, I should let you go. I know it will hurt for a time, but you’ll get over it. And then you’ll go on and make a real marriage. ”
“Please don’t let me go.”
“But, Jane—”
“I don’t want you to let me go.”
“But I want you to have a real marriage.”
Jane thought a long while. Seth seemed content to wait. At length she seemed to understand. “It would be better for you if we weren’t engaged.”
He turned to her with apologetic eyes. “Yes.”
She nodded stiffly. “I’m not very good at giving up, but if that’s what you want, I’ll do it for you.”
“I’m doing it for you, Jane.”
She lifted her hand to her head in confusion.
Don’t cry. Not yet. Not until after you leave.
“What should I do now?” she asked.
“You should do whatever you want. But it might be best if you go on back to Troy.”
“I want to stay here. Besides, I’m house-sitting for Diana.”
Silence. Then, “All right.”
“I want to keep seeing you.”
“If you do, we’ll be going back to square one.”
“What do you mean?”
“You will be getting to know Seth the quadriplegic. You need to know who I am now, not who I used to be. We’ll be starting over at the ground floor. We’ll be starting as friends.”
“It’s a little hard to go backward, Seth.”
“We’re not going backward. We’re wiping off the slate and starting over. Different man, different relationship. No ties. You’re free to go at any time. If you meet someone else, I’m not going to stand in your way.” He stopped, rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, then back at her. He laughed lightly. “I’m not going to stand in your way. Get it? Since I couldn’t stand, even if I wanted to.”
“It’s not funny, Seth.”
The grin slid off his face. “Sorry.”
“I’m not sure I can do this.”
“There are no other options, Jane.”
Jane looked down at her hands, at the engagement ring she had so joyfully worn. She held it up for Seth to see. “I guess I should take this off?”
He nodded. “It would be best.”
Reluctantly, she slipped it off and put it in her jeans pocket. “I’m going to keep it, though,” she said, “just in case the day comes when I can put it back on.”
“Fair enough.”
Her stomach turned and something began to pound right behind her eyes. “I think I’m going to go now.”
“All right.”
She picked up her pocketbook and stood. “Can I . . . is it all right if I come back sometime?”
“As long as you know where we stand.”
She looked toward the window, lifted her chin. “I guess you’ve made that pretty clear.”
She turned to go, had almost reached the door, when he called her name. “Jane?”
“Yes?”
“It’s only because I love you.”
Love? Was there not one place to lay your heart where it wouldn’t be broken?
She turned and looked at him. And then she turned away and left the room.
She strode purposefully down the hall, her eyes downcast, her gaze intent. She wanted to see no one, and she wanted no one to see her. The elevator came, the doors opened—it was empty, thankfully—and she rode down. The lobby was busy with patients and their families. No one played a tune on the piano in the atrium.
She pushed open the front door and stepped out into the heat of the June day. Her chest heaved with tears as she walked toward the parking lot.
Is this the answer to my prayer, God?
She clenched her jaw, quickened her pace. She wanted to get home where she could give in to the tears.
She had reached her Honda and was about to unlock the door when her cell phone rang. Digging it out of her pocketbook, she looked at the lighted screen to see who was calling. A local area code. But the name of the caller was given as Unknown, and she didn’t recognize the number. She didn’t want to answer. But she did.
“Hello?”
“Jane? It’s Ted Taggert.”
“Oh?”
“Listen, a group of us from the U are going to the drumming circle tonight. Do you want to come down and join us?”
29
I
t was a night she would later remember in bits and pieces. The long hunt for a parking space on the streets surrounding the park, long enough that she briefly considered giving up and going home. The familiar rhythm of the drums, the slant of evening light between the buildings, the dull relentless sense that she should not have come even as she stood at the edge of the park, scanning the crowd.
You’re a fraud and a liar. Go home.
There was Ted, standing on the sidewalk along Patton Avenue, directly across from where she stood on College Street. He raised a hand, beckoned her over.
I have no business here.
“Jane,” he said when she reached him, “good to see you. Glad you could come.” He took her hand, leaned over, kissed her cheek.
“Thanks for inviting me,” she said. At least she thought she said it. She couldn’t hear herself speak, couldn’t hear herself think, above the incessant thumping of the drums.
He introduced her to his friends. She heard their names and promptly forgot. They smiled, said hello, eyed her warily. Or maybe she just imagined their guardedness. Maybe she just imagined they could see right through her, all the way to the VA hospital, all the way to Seth.
The blond girl turned her face away, said something to Ted that Jane couldn’t hear. Warning him?
Be careful. She’s on the rebound.
You don’t give up your fiancé one minute and go meet another man the next. That’s not the way it’s done. Jane knew that. Then why was she here?
“So how you been?” He smiled at her, put a hand on her elbow.
She looked at him, tried to conjure up an answer, settled for the cliché. “Fine. I’m fine. How about you?”
“Busy,” he said. “I was called out of town this past week on some business, or I would have called you sooner.”
A broken heart was weak, became disconnected from the brain, had no rudder to steer it. A broken heart was prone to foolishness.
You should have said no. You shouldn’t have answered the phone.
“We thought we’d hang out here for a while,” he went on, “and then go catch dinner somewhere. Will that be all right?”
“Sure. Sure, that sounds good.”
And then what? Pretend there was no Seth? Pretend that all was well in her life?
She listened to their conversation as though from a distance, heard them laugh. She winced at the sound of it. She knew she ought to join in, she ought to say something. She tried, but every utterance sounded banal and insincere.
So what do you teach at the U? Have you always lived in Asheville? I love your necklace. Is that a sapphire?
She scarcely heard what anyone said in response.
Maybe Ted knew she was floundering. Without asking, he tugged at her hand, led her out to the dance floor. She was a puppet, to be pulled by strings.
If she let herself be pulled into the dance she might find the pleasure in it, just like last time, when dancing to the drums had made her laugh. After all, it was supposed to make her one with the universe, with the cosmic consciousness, with the divine. There had to be some joy in that, didn’t there? Or peace. Or nirvana. The blowing out . . . the extinction.
Nothingness. That would be nice. Could one commit emotional suicide? Pry the emotion chip out of your heart and go on living?
The drumming went on and on. Hadn’t they been here for several years now?
“Want to sit down for a while?”
She felt herself nod.
As they moved through the crowd toward the concrete tiers, he motioned toward a street vendor selling hot dogs and sodas. “You thirsty? Want something to drink?”
“No thanks. I’m fine.”
They sat. The sun was low, the shadows long. Summer nights had always been her favorite slice of life, back in Troy, back in time, back in all the days before today.
He was there, too close, leaning toward her, his face near her hair. “Do you mind if I kiss you?”
“Yes.”
Yes, I mind.
But he didn’t understand. How could he? When he kissed her, she drew back, broke down in tears.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“I have to go.” She jumped up.
“Wait a minute! Jane!”
She felt his hand on her arm, turning her around.
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No, I—”
“What’s wrong with you? Why are you crying?”
“I’m sorry, Ted. It’s not you. It’s me. I shouldn’t have come.”
“But what—”
“I’m sorry. Really, I’m sorry.”
Later, she wouldn’t remember driving home, though she must have somehow found her car and driven from downtown across I-240 to Montford Avenue. She didn’t recall the moments between Pritchard Park and the Penlands’ house, but she slowly became aware of herself standing in front of the liquor cabinet, staring at all the pretty bottles.
There was only one sure way not to feel anything anymore. One sure passage to the place of no pain.
Oh, Seth!
30
S
he stayed away from the hospital for five days. On the morning of the sixth, Truman called and asked her to come.
“What’s the matter?”
“Seth has pneumonia.”
“How bad is it?”
“I’m not sure. I think he’ll be all right, but why don’t you come on in. They’ve got him in ICU.”
Jane snapped her cell phone shut and steadied herself against the kitchen counter. At the thought of pneumonia, she felt all the strength drop out of her and gather in a puddle at her feet. She shut her eyes and took a few deep breaths. After a moment she pushed herself away from the counter and looked around the kitchen. She felt disgusted by what she saw. Piles of dirty dishes in the sink. A stack of unread newspapers on the table. Splashes of spaghetti sauce across the parquet flooring. And empty bottles everywhere. One on the table, one on the counter, one in the sink. Were there more in the den? She didn’t know, couldn’t remember.
For the past five days she had secluded herself in the Penlands’ home, slowly sipping away the sorrow while Seth was in the hospital succumbing to pneumonia. How could she have let this happen? She suddenly felt she was in the wrong place—no, in the wrong
person,
as though she had slipped into her mother’s skin and was consorting with a bottle while the one who needed her most was left alone.
Truman met her outside the doors of the intensive care unit. His eyes spoke before his mouth did, telling her he was worried.
“Thanks for coming, Jane,” he said when she reached him.
She shook her head. “Of course. How is he?”
“He’s one sick fellow, but the doctors are doing everything they should be doing.”
“Last time I saw him, he was fine.” But that was six days ago. A lot can happen in the span of a week.
“I believe it was Sunday he started getting sick. Cold symptoms, at first. The typical sneezing, watery eyes, sinus drainage. For most of us, just an annoyance.”
Jane nodded.
Truman went on, “By yesterday it was full-fledged pneumonia. He was moved into ICU where they started him on IV antibiotics. He seems to be responding well.”
“But I don’t understand, Truman,” Jane said. “He had a pneumonia vaccine.”
“Yes, but there are different kinds of pneumonia. And of course someone who’s a quad is particularly susceptible. Since the muscles around his lungs don’t work, it’s next to impossible for him to cough up the congestion in his chest. That’s the real danger.”
Jane looked away, down the long empty corridor. “Pneumonia is the number-one killer of quads, isn’t it?” She looked back at Truman.
“That doesn’t mean Seth won’t get over this, Jane,” he said. But his eyes, at least for the moment, spoke otherwise. He was having his doubts. “Why don’t you go on in and see him? You’re allowed ten minutes at a time. There are gowns, gloves, and masks outside his room. You’ll have to put them on before you go in.”
“All right.”
“Ten minutes. That’s all. Any longer and the nurse will ask you to leave.”
“Okay.”
Truman put a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll be in the waiting room when you come out. If you want to talk.”
She gave a small uncertain smile before pushing her way through the doors of the ICU.
His eyes were closed in sleep, though his face was far from peaceful. His brow was heavy and his eyelids twitched. His breathing was labored in spite of the oxygen mask that covered his nose and mouth. He looked as though he was listening to the lopsided battle going on inside his body, that of his compromised immune system against an invading army of microbes. The battle must have reached a fevered pitch, as fresh beads of perspiration broke out along his forehead.
“Seth?” Jane said.
He didn’t respond.
Jane gazed at the IV dripping antibiotics into a vein beneath his collarbone. A second IV sent hydrating fluids into a vein in his arm. They were the fresh troops, the reinforcements sent to the front in the hopes of winning this war. Monitors above the bed displayed their progress: pulse, respiration, blood pressure. And on a separate monitor, the slow and steady beating of his heart.
“Seth?” she said again.
She touched his arm, remembered he had no feeling there. She moved her hand to his forehead. Even through the glove she wore his skin felt warm.
His eyes fluttered open. They looked glassy and bright, like the eyes of a porcelain doll. It seemed a great effort for him to focus on her face. “Jane?”