Accidents of Marriage (27 page)

Emma peeked into the living room to check on Caleb and Gracie. Their whole family had become so frigging creepy. Gracie wrapped herself in her red bathrobe as if it were the Shroud of Turin—that was a Catholic relic, right? At least Gracie’s robe was clean. Grandma Frances had told Gracie cleanliness was next to godliness, and if she wanted God to let Mommy come home from rehab, she had to let Emma wash it. Then Grandma Frances gave Gracie the set of ivory rosary beads that she’d been given by her own grandmother. Wait until Mom saw Gracie on the couch, fingering the holy white beads as she read the Sunday comics.

Shivering sadness overcame Emma as she realized that her mother probably wouldn’t even notice. Not that any of it mattered. From Emma’s point of view, Gracie might as well be fingering jelly beans. Crosses, Stars of David—none of it meant anything except phony promises.

Caleb sat at the other end of the couch, chewing on the top of his knees through his flannel pajama bottoms, racing miniature cars down his legs, stinking like dried-up pee again. His pajamas were clean, but his body still carried the smell from the previous night’s bed-wetting. Soon the whole house would smell like Caleb pee. Emma had started sniffing herself before she left the house—afraid that she, all of them, carried the odor.

Her father’s footsteps sounded upstairs. The toilet flushed. A lock snapped open. Muffled voices drifted from upstairs. What could they talk about? Her mother barely made sense.

Emma couldn’t recognize her mother’s tread. Before the coma, her
mother flew down the stairs, light and fast. Now she clomped one stair at a time. Like Frankenstein. Her father matched his step to hers, both of them sounding tentative and old. Emma wanted to hear her father’s usual impatient hurrying, sounding as though he’d soar if he could.

Her mother looked haunted as she entered the kitchen.

“Good morning, Mom.” Emma’s attempt to hug her brought an awful gasping sound from her mother, flinching as though Emma were trying to strangle her.

“Mom’s feeling a little unstable this morning, honey.” Her father’s hand hovered above her mother’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Mad. Let’s have breakfast. Then you can have a pill. You’ll feel better.”

“What’s the pill for?” Emma asked.

“Anxiety,” her father answered, while her mother gave Emma that chilling smile where her mouth turned up but the rest of her face forgot to follow. Emma tried not to stare at her mother’s hair sticking up in all directions.

“ ’Kay,” her mother said.

What did her mother’s flat whispery
okay
mean?

Okay, I don’t mind Dad answering all the questions?

Okay, I’m going to get better?

Okay, I’m here but gone?

Emma turned to get mugs from the cabinet.

“Look, Mom. Your favorite mug!” Emma held up a red mug with
World’s Best Mother
written in clumsy white script.

“Cup,” her mother said. “Don’t . . . remember.”

Grandma Anne had tried to prepare Emma for the way her mother would blurt out whatever was on her mind, but still the words brought a jolt of hurt.

“I made it for you.” Emma tried to sound matter-of-fact and mature.

“Mom shouldn’t have coffee right now,” her father said. “Caffeine can bring on more anxiety, and she just had a bit of a panic attack. I better check with the doctor.”

“I . . . decide,” her mother said. “Me. Me. Me.” With each repetition of
me
, her mother jabbed herself in the chest.

Her father took a box of cereal from the cabinet and shook it. “Honey, it’s not a good idea. Let’s wait till we talk to the doctor.”

Her mother looked as though she were trying to scream
no
, but she only succeeded in making a painful-sounding bark. She tried again, but seemed unable to form the words. Appearing invaded—as though the zombie in her had taken over—she grabbed the sugar bowl and hurled it toward the cabinets. Glass shards and sugar sprayed in a wide arc as it shattered.

“Maddy, baby.” Her father rushed to her mother, who sat slamming her hand on the table, sobbing as though her world had imploded.

Her mother stood. “I. Want. Coffee.” She glared at Emma and her father.

Emma stared from one to the other. “What should I do, Daddy?” she asked.

“Coffee,” her mother repeated in a strangled voice:
cuf . . . eee
.

“Right after you take your pill,” her father said.

“Should I get her pills?” Emma asked. “Want me to make some tea? Want chamomile, Mom?”

“For God’s sake, Emma,” he said. “Can’t you just be quiet for a minute?”

CHAPTER 26

Ben

Ben could barely remember normal, that fairy tale from another world, a world where people did things like sleep and smile. Maddy had been home for two weeks, and it seemed that long since he’d slept through an entire night. Or truly smiled.

Normal was for people who hadn’t fucked up their families. Normal wasn’t for men who raced around in a car built for thugs and assholes.

Tonight he’d have traded ten years of his life for an evening watching the Red Sox, but the devil didn’t show up to make the trade, so he stumbled in exhaustion through Caleb peppering him with questions as he tried to get him to sleep.

“What’s temporary love syndrome, Daddy?” Caleb asked.

“Temporary love syndrome? Where’d you hear that?”

He could be asleep in less than thirty seconds and say screw it to the hours of tasks still ahead.

“Grandma said it on the phone.” Caleb kicked his tucked blanket out, undoing his grandmother’s hospital corners. Ben had thought about telling Anne not to bother making Caleb’s bed so carefully, but then decided it would sound ungrateful. Only Anne stood between his family and total chaos.

“She said Mommy has temporary love syndrome,” Caleb said. “Is Mommy going to fall out of love with us?”

After a confused moment, Ben got it. He put a hand on Caleb’s jiggling leg. “No. That could never happen. It’s not temporary love syndrome—you heard it wrong. It’s temporal lobe syndrome.”

He tried to think of a way to explain it to Caleb. “
Temporary
does mean limited. Good work. What Mommy has is temporary, but
temporal lobe
means a part of the brain. Up here.” Ben poked his own temple and then Caleb’s. “And
syndrome
means a condition—something that is happening in someone’s body, or a pattern of things happening that mean there is a condition in place. Like a dirty syndrome would mean someone had a syndrome of not cleaning himself or his stuff.”

“Do I have a peeing syndrome?” Caleb asked.

“Sort of, I guess. But you’ll be over that soon.” Ben pressed a hand into his temples where another tension headache was growing. Maybe he had buried-in-shit syndrome. “Temporal lobe syndrome is the name of Mommy’s brain injury. What she hurt when she . . . when she bumped her head.”

“Will she get better?”

“Of course. Absolutely.”

“All better?”

Ben considered all the things he should say, reassurances mixed with not-too-frightening honesty, and took the lazy way out. “Yes, Caleb. She’ll get all better.”

He kissed Caleb good night before his son could ask any more questions, turned off the light, and headed downstairs. Gracie’s lamp was off—had he even said good night to her?

Anne was in the kitchen, wrapping sandwiches for lunch. He lined up apples on the counter. Granny Smith for him, McIntosh for the kids.

“I can finish up here.” The dull knife he’d grabbed hacked more than sliced the apples. Where did Maddy take them for sharpening? Asking Anne meant she’d take care of it within a day, and adding to her workload would be shameful.

“It’s okay. I’m just about done. All that’s left is putting the right lunch in the right bag.” She smiled at him, her grin reminding him of
Maddy’s. “Imagine Emma’s face if she ended up with Caleb’s Fluffernutter?”

“You know that we’d be lost without you, right?” This was so true it terrified him.

Her dismissive gesture was classic Anne. “Family. It’s what we do.”

“Perhaps. In a perfect world.” Ben wished he had the ease to give her a spontaneous hug. The sort Maddy would bestow without thought. “I’m grateful it’s true in your world.”

Anne rested her hands on the counter. “Any news about the case?”

Ben clenched his fist over the dull knife. “The wheels of justice turn slow but grind exceedingly fine, Anne. When it grinds over our way, we’ll get it dismissed. Trust me. They haven’t a thing to go on. They know that. This case is low on their list. Barely a blip. If, by some stupidity, they charge me, we’ll get it dismissed,” he repeated. “Trust me.”

“That’s good, Ben. And that’s what you keep telling us. But really, is that the point?” She looked down and wrapped the last sandwich. “I mean, of course it’s important that it get dismissed. But either way, eventually you have to tell Maddy what happened. She’s going to find out. You can’t bury your head in the sand forever.”

“Why not?” As though it made a fuck’s worth of difference how it happened. What was, was, right? Did they want him drowning in the past or taking care of the future? He’d deal with the case if and when it came up. Burying his head in the sand sounded fine right now. “What is so important about her knowing?”

“This accident didn’t come out of the blue. Face it, Ben. Whatever the law says—guilty, not guilty, charged or dismissed—it’s not like you were simply driving along like a law-abiding citizen and got smacked in the rear. Right?”

Answers eluded him. He sagged in defeat.

“Look.” Anne took the knife from his hand and held it tight. “This is your decision. Jake and I, Vanessa, we all agreed. And we’ll keep our promise. But Maddy deserves the truth. From you. About everything.”

•  •  •

The moment Anne left, he headed to the study, hoping to read at least the front page of the
Boston Globe
before going to bed. Instead, he found Emma curled in his leather chair, surrounded by books, bobbing her head in time to whatever played through her earphones.

“Isn’t it time for bed, honey?” He raised his voice so she’d hear him above her music.

“Not yet.” She didn’t look up.

“Homework?” When she didn’t answer, he tipped her book down, forcing her to look in his eyes.

“
What?
”

He removed her white earplugs. “Don’t shout at me. I’m not shouting.”

“Right.” Now Emma was barely audible.

“What did you say?”

She looked up at her father, tugging her book back up. “I said
right
. As in, you were right. You weren’t shouting. I’m agreeing with you.”

“Please, no sarcasm. And we need to be quiet so we don’t wake Mom.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry. If there’s one thing Mom does really well now, it’s sleeping.”

“That’s enough,” Ben said. “If you can’t keep a civil tongue in your head, go upstairs.”

Emma slammed her book against her knees. “Don’t take your junk out on me. You’re not the only one picking up all the extra work around here.”

“I’m not in the mood for this.”

“Oh! Sorry, Dad,” she said in singsong. “Is that what you want to hear?”

He wanted to hear
Thanks, Dad. I love you, Dad.
He wanted to sleep for twelve hours. He wanted someone in the house not to need hand-holding and coddling. He wanted Anne to keep her opinions and criticism to herself.

“What I want is to hear a more respectful tone.”

“Well, too bad. This house is like a mental hospital. All any of us hear is crazy talk. That’s us now.” Emma stomped out of the room.

Lacking the energy to be the father who’d make the right point,
or even the father who gave a fuck, Ben headed to the glass-fronted cabinet and grabbed a bottle of bourbon. Quick and neat, he tipped the bottle to his lips, swallowing one shot and then another in two gulps. Then he filled half a highball glass. Peace for one night, that’s all he wanted. One night to come home, turn on the television, watch the news, read the paper, eat still-hot food, check his mail, and go to bed.

Okay, he’d screwed up. But it was an accident—he hadn’t done anything with deliberation. There was no intent. It’s not like he drove down the Jamaicaway with a goal of hurting his wife, damn it. A million men drive too fast and don’t have accidents. Did he deserve a forever sentence of indentured servitude? He’d become a lifer in a pile of shit. A dull ache throbbed over his eyes. He picked up the paperback thriller he’d started two nights before and then closed it and turned on the television.

•  •  •

Drinking had been stupid—instead of peace, he had a pounding headache.

As he went to the kitchen in search of aspirin and water, he turned off the hall lights and checked the back door. He found the aspirin bottle in the junk drawer, swallowed three, and went upstairs. Opening the bedroom door as quietly as possible, he unbuttoned his shirt and crept to the bed. Maddy slept on her back, arms flung out to either side. Before, she’d always been a side sleeper, rolling herself deep into the covers. Maddy’s injury had affected her so profoundly that even her sleeping positions had changed—a small but still unnerving transformation.

He settled carefully on the bed, wearing only boxers, craving Maddy’s heat on his skin, but her new starfish position made it difficult to get close. Not wanting to wake her, Ben curved around her body as best he could, one leg hanging over the edge of the bed.

Maddy’s chest rose with each quiet breath. Emma was right. Since the accident, Maddy slept as deeply as Caleb and Gracie, as though she’d become a child herself. Before, she’d been the one who woke
at the first sign of trouble in the house. His ability to sleep through everything had made her irrationally angry.
I can’t believe that you can sleep,
she’d say as she climbed back into bed with a hungry squalling infant Caleb, sometimes with Gracie trailing, clutching Maddy’s nightgown in her tiny hand.

He matched his breathing to Maddy’s.

In and out.

Each night he went to sleep dreading the morning.
Get better, Maddy. All better.