Club Sandwich (11 page)

We sit at a table for two now. Just my sister and me. A candle cuts the gloom of the empty restaurant.

I love her. When all the sludge is pumped away, she’s my sister and I love her. Her marriage is falling apart. The time-honored adultery story. I forgive every miffy remark she made earlier. I’m surprised she showed up at all. I’m not surprised, however, that I made no attempt to give her the benefit of the doubt. I’m a boob.

Bottom line: I wouldn’t trade places with Brett for one second, not even for a million dollars or a week on a desert isle with Ralph Fiennes.

She’s crying. “I thought this would be the good one. I really thought this one would work.”

Marriage number three, fifteen years in length, and despite her golden baubles and her golden glow, she feels like she’s not enough for anyone right now. I’m glad Lyra cooked the chicken breasts for my nieces. They’ve spent their lives with adults who spend their lives trying to make up for their mistakes, and always in the wrong
way, with clothing, jewelry, parties, and good schools. No wonder they measure affection in terms of what they can get from a person.

And now, another divorce, and perhaps a trip to Europe or Tahiti to ease the pain. Marcus will leave and probably try to continue to see the girls—I mean they were four and five when he married their mother—but Brett won’t let him, and the girls will suffer more than anyone. She’ll spend half her divorce settlement attempting to purchase their mental health from places like Neiman Marcus and Club Med, or whatever resort spa rates these days.

I feel so sorry for them.

If Rusty hadn’t come along, this could have been me. Sure, he’s absent most of the time, but we are a pair. No. We’re a unit, he and I. I can’t imagine life any other way. It’s why his absence pains me so much. I guess the day I should really begin to worry is the day it stops hurting.

“When did you find out about her?”

“Last night.”

“How?”

“An anonymous phone call. My gosh, it’s so typical!”

“Did he deny it?”

“No. He was actually relieved.”

“As if he deserved that.”

“Exactly. Way to go, Brett, you did that creep a favor! Perfect!” I pour more water into her glass. “So what’s next?”

“He says he wants to work things out, but—”

“The trust is broken.”

“You got it.”

“Is it the first time? The first woman?”

“I didn’t ask. I’m not ready to hear the answer.”

“Do you know who called?”

“It was a man.”

“Maybe the other woman’s husband?”

“No, her father.”

“Eww. How old is she?”

“I’m not about to ask.” She taps her fingers on the tabletop. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it myself. He’s been working late way too much lately. And you know, Ivy, I’m not the type to check up on him.”

“Well, why would you be?”

“Exactly. He’s suggesting we go away together to patch things up. As if it will be so easy.”

“I’ll check up on the girls.”

She shakes her head. “They’ll be fine, and I haven’t agreed to anything yet.”

“Good girl.” I’m trying very hard not to offer any advice. Brett’s going to do what she’s going to do anyway. “We’re here for you. You know that.”

“Thanks.”

“Keep me posted, though, would you?”

She purses her lips, and I grab her hand. “What I mean is, whatever you need, okay? I know we don’t always get along like maybe we should, but I love you.”

Her lips relax.

I don’t know what more Marcus could want in a wife. Brett is a golden goddess. Toned. Smooth. Glittering like a fairy.

“Brett, I’m not here to judge you, and I don’t want you to think I’m going to sit around and compare our lives. I mean really, you’re a successful, beautiful woman.” (I take a deep breath for the building-up speech.) “You look ten years younger than you are. You run a thriving shop, your children are gorgeous, and they’re getting
great grades in college. You’ve made a beautiful home. Frankly, Marcus must be a fool to jeopardize all that. You are a great lady, and you
will
get through this. I promise.”

“I wish I felt like that woman right now.”

I lean over to her and fold her into my arms. She smells like Chanel; I smell like kitchen. She looks like an actress; I look like a tired mom. She wears silk; I wear rayon. She’s got the drive to succeed; I possess the drive to survive. And together we’ll see this thing through.

We have to. She’s my sister. And we own a bond that only sisters can own.

Mr. Moore’s house wins the award for Most Cheerful on the street. A few years ago, before his mother died, he painted it her favorite colors, yellow and rose. Moss-green shutters tie it into the landscape and render my plain old white house more boring than a lecture on cell division. It always gives my heart a lift.

He doesn’t sleep much, so I know he’ll welcome my ten o’clock knock.

“Ivy Jane! Come on in!”

He steps aside as I amble into the entryway. He painted much of the interior in peaceful shades of blue.

“I brought you some leftovers from our family dinner. A soft crab, some veal.” I hold out the takeout container.

“Oh my goodness. This’ll sure beat the Manwich I made tonight.” He takes the box. “Hold on while I put this in the fridge. You got a minute?”

“Always got time for you, Mr. Moore.”

“I’ll make us some tea. Have a seat in the living room.”

I was hoping he’d invite me in. Mr. Moore doesn’t know it, but he’s my confessor, my wise man. On second thought, maybe he does know it but doesn’t mind.

No couches congregate in the living room, only comfy chairs that don’t match. Two florals, a plaid, a book-binding pattern, two solids, and somehow it all works. Built-in bookcases testify to my friend’s interests. Planes and seafaring vessels and the history thereof, gardening, gemstones, Civil War, theology. I choose a floral chair, swivel around, and grab a book about eschatology, something in which I have very little knowledge and very little interest. I leaf through the pages reading nothing, thinking only about Brett.

“Ivy, dear! Could you come help me carry this tray?”

I’m coming.

A minute later, he relaxes in the plaid chair, feet up on a plain green ottoman, and we sip the brew. An antique plate of Pepperidge Farm cookies goes uneaten by both of us.

“Thanks for inviting me in.”

“You had that look on your face. What happened?”

I tell him all about Brett.

He shakes his old head. “Now, I never did get married, which saved me from a lot of life’s ills, but kept me from a lot of joy, too.”

“I don’t know what to tell her.”

He thinks on that, and I slurp in anticipation. I look down at the book on my lap. The word
preterism
jumps off the page. Preterism? What’s preterism?

“Does it matter, in the end, what you say?”

“I guess not.”

“I remember your sister when she was a little girl and she used
to visit your grandparents. My guess is she’s one who has to find her own way no matter how thorny the path.”

That sure is the truth.

He adds, “But she has a good heart tucked inside there.”

“That’s true, Mr. Moore.”

“And she knows God.”

I nod.

“So we’ll just pray for her, and when she asks for your help, you’ll be there to lend a hand.”

I set my tea on the side table. “I just wish I could make life easier for her.”

He waves a hand. “Life is never easy, Ivy. All you can do is know your resources and use them the best you know how. In fact”—he points at me—“that’s something you might start doing yourself.”

S
omething’s wrong. As I helped Rusty ready the kids for their trip down to the King’s Dominion theme park, my gut started knotting up. I had called Mom to remind her she wouldn’t have to watch Trixie and Persy today, and the phone rang and rang. Darn it, but I just can’t convince the woman to employ an answering machine! I even bought one for her for Christmas several years ago. When I asked her about it, she said, “I’m saving it for when I really need it.” What’s that supposed to mean? And she never leaves messages on mine either. God bless caller ID is all I can say, or I’d never know when she needs me.

I called again after the kids were dressed. Yet again after I set out the cereal bowls and finally just before I left.

Three calls, ten rings apiece. Surely one of those would have awakened her. My stomach vibrates. But I’m on my way to the restaurant, and now I speed dial her on my cell phone. Nothing.

I step on the gas and call Brett.

She answers on the first ring. “Hey Ivy.”

“Hi sweetie. I can’t get an answer at Mom’s.”

“I called earlier. I didn’t get one either.”

“I’m on my way. Hopefully she’s volunteering down at St. Joe’s or something and forgot to tell me.”

“Call me.”

“I will. How are you doing this morning?”

“Okay. You know. Didn’t sleep much last night. I can’t even get in the bed with him.”

“Who can blame you?”

“Exactly. Listen, I gotta go. Call me later, okay?”

“Sure thing.”

I tear down York Road, seeing a ticket in my future, but no policemen lurk. The closest parking space sits a block away from the restaurant. I screech in. Dear God, don’t let anyone hit the tail end of my car!

I dash down the sidewalk, fishing in my purse for the keys, because, of course, I automatically dropped the ring inside when I stopped the car. And the ring automatically dove to the bottom. Of course.

As I try to shove the key into the lock, it begins slipping from my grasp. Calm down, Ivy. Slow down. Remember, she’s probably volunteering at the hospital or at bridge with some of her friends. She probably forgot to tell you she was going, and surely a woman her age doesn’t have to report her every move to her daughter.

I finally open the door and hear a moan.

“Mom!” I run inside, multiple “Oh noes” opening and closing my mouth.

“Ivy …” She moans again.

The kitchen.

She lays on the floor. No, no, no. Her leg, angled askew, lies like a broken branch still attached to the tree. Her skin glows with the same pallor as the linoleum.

“I’m here, Mom.”

“Fell. Last night.”

Last night. I rush to the phone in the living room and dial 911.

I’ve made my way through life relatively pain free. Other than bearing children, I remember only a few times intense pain beat me blue. The day I put ear-cleaning solution in my left ear not knowing my eardrum was ruptured tops the list. Brett was there, hopping behind me where I bent over the sink, grabbing my ear. She was freaking out in a good way because I realized even amid the fiery pain how much she cared. “Should I call an ambulance? Should I call an ambulance?” she said to Mom, who remained calm.

The second was the day some stranger in a mask extracted my tonsils.

I was three.

I remember a blue sky, the yellow of the daffodils, and the gangly forsythia bushes flowering in the yard, their slender branches punctuated by the sweet blooms. I remember a sun-warmed backseat and the peculiar smell of warm vinyl. Silver-gray vinyl.

I don’t recall the details of the pilgrimage to the hospital, and I’m not even certain whether it was St. Joe’s or Greater Baltimore Medical Center, but I remember being shown to the room, Mom with me every step, helping me change into the hospital gown, pulling my hair into a ponytail. Then finally, I found myself looking up into the concerned, cornflower eyes of the anesthesiologist, and two nurses, one with dark eyes surrounded by long, thick lashes that curled up into blond tips, the other with deep crow’s-feet and a friendly slant. They asked me to count to ten. I guess they deemed me too young to count backward.

The black gas mask descended, and a sudden panic milled in my chest and behind my forehead like a swarm of bees, but I counted anyway. Something stoic resided in me even at three. I remember
five but not six. I remember wanting so much to cry. I remember swallowing the fear. And then nothing.

That something stoic has stood me in good stead from time to time, like when Rusty had his heart attack at thirty, or when Lyra refused to breathe right after her birth. It doesn’t negate the fear, mind you, but it sees me through with little outward hullabaloo. A force field, really, it fools onlookers into believing I am in control, steady and ready to do what needs doing.