Shelter Us: A Novel (29 page)

We lift our heads up and look at each other. He is still on his knees. I am sitting at the edge of the chair. “I love you so much,” I say. “Please don’t leave me.” I am terrified that he won’t say it back, that he won’t forgive me, that he will punish me and leave me. I am frightened he will tell me to get out of his office, to pack a suitcase and get out of our house. I am frightened by not knowing what’s coming. I will die. I will die if he leaves me. Amid the roaring fear pounding in my head, I hear a small, hopeful voice say,
Look at this—look how much you love
him
. My heart exclaims with relief. I didn’t know it could still feel this much. I am filled with the sensation of coming back to the surface.

“I need you so much, Robert. Please come home.” The overhead fluorescent lights cast a greenish-white glare on our tableau. It is quiet enough in the office to hear the lights’ faint buzz and the ticking of the desk clock I bought for him when he first moved into this office. A red light on his phone flashes on and off, telling him there’s a message waiting. Maybe it’s a colleague calling with condolences about his job, relieved his own job was spared. I look at him and hold his hands with mine, bringing them up to our hearts. “Please forgive me.”

“What about Brian?” he says, his voice flat, the sound of a person concentrating on not revealing emotion.

I say, with all the conviction I can muster, “Brian is nothing to me. He was my high school boyfriend, Robert. That’s it. I love
you
, Robert. You are my husband. You and Oliver and Izzy are everything. Everything.” In the silence before he answers, I know that I have no control over what happens next. He will choose to believe or not; to forgive or not.

“I need to know that I can trust you,” he begins. “I need to be able to talk to you, and you need to talk to me.”

“You can.”

“Wait,” he says, taking the picture of Ella. “I need to be able to talk about Ella and be sad about her, or happy, to remember her.”

“But I thought you didn’t want to. You stopped going to grief group—”

“Not because I wasn’t grieving. Because I couldn’t bear to hear all those sad stories. I think about her all the time, Sarah. I don’t talk about her because I didn’t want to upset you.” He shakes his head. “I was trying to be sensitive.”

I may never understand how two people who are supposed to be in sync, who have chosen each other over every other soul, can misunderstand each other in this most profound way. “Well, be less sensitive,” I say. A half laugh breaks the intensity for a moment. “I mean it. Can you please be less considerate, less worried about me, and just
tell me what’s going on with you? I am your wife.” I savor the feeling of the word on my lips.

“You’re right.” He swallows. “I have to tell you something else, about work.”

“I—” The buzzing of my cell phone interrupts us. Damn it. “It could be Bibi; she’s with the boys. Hello?”

“Hello, is this Mrs. Shaw?” an unfamiliar voice asks. It is formal and gives me shivers.

“Yes. Who’s this?” Robert looks at me warily, waiting and watching my expression.

“I’m calling from Santa Monica Hospital . . .”

“What is it?” The blood drains out of my head.

“What is it?” Robert echoes. My heart pounds so hard, I think I might break a rib. I stare back at Robert, my free hand wrapped tightly around my belly.

“Mrs. Shaw, we have your grandmother here . . .”

“What happened? Is she okay?” I ask, and then mouth “Bibi” to Robert.

The voice continues. “She fractured her hip and appears to have bruised two ribs. She’s resting now, but she’ll need hip surgery.”

“She was babysitting my kids. Where are my kids?”

“They’re in the room with her. She insisted they stay together and even drive with her in the ambulance. The paramedics usually don’t allow it, but she was very insistent.” I imagine the ruckus she must have caused to keep the boys with her, then to get this guy to place a call for her.

“Can I talk to her?”

“She can’t talk right now, but she insisted that I call you. She is very persistent,” he repeats, sounding fatigued.

“We’ll be right there. Where are they?”

“Third floor.”

I hang up and tell Robert what I know. My superhuman grandmother with her veneer of immortality, impervious to time, has turned out to be mortal. I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am. The woozy
pulse of adrenaline is back; the seductive pull of normalcy has been pushed just beyond reach again.

Robert places his hand on my back, and it soothes like the sun warming my skin. We run through the hallway, down the stairs, and out onto the campus, alive with hurried people. In the parking lot, I stop and grasp him as if I’ve just come home from war. I squeeze him as hard as I can, every muscle clenched tight, making sure he’s real. He returns the squeeze, and his jacket absorbs the tears of relief rolling down my cheeks.

W
e make
our way west on Wilshire Boulevard with what feels like the rest of the city. Red brake lights decorate the night. Robert is driving, and I keep my hand on his right leg. His hand rests on top of mine. The words of the billboards invade my consciousness:
I
P
OD
. BMW. V
IRGIN
A
MERICA
. A world of things and places to want. I am in shut-down mode, a feeling I first encountered after my parents’ accident, a feeling that the world is about to swallow me.

At a red light, Robert turns to me. “There’s something important I need to tell you.” As the light changes, he inches forward and watches the car in front of us. “I was starting to tell you, and I should have told you before, but . . . how can I put this? I don’t have a job after June.” He pauses, checks my reaction. “UCLA eliminated my position. After this semester, I’m no longer a professor there.”

I know those are painful words for him to speak. He looks up to gauge the effect they have on me. I have a choice: I can pretend to be surprised, or not.

“I know,” I say. “Jane told me.”

“Really?”

“Just tonight. When I was looking for your office.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but there never seemed to be a good time.”

“I know.” I squeeze his leg.

“I’ll figure something out.”

“
We’ll
figure something out. Maybe I’ll give Frances a call and see if they need me back at the NRDC.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Not really.” We smile. “Maybe a little. It wouldn’t hurt to have something else to think about.” I relish the effect my next statement will have on Robert. “Actually, I have something else to tell you, too. I talked with my Dad.”

He looks at me like I’ve just said the Pope and I had drinks last night.

“You’re kidding. That’s fantastic.”

“Yeah. It felt good. I’m glad you pushed me on that.”

We arrive at the hospital and park. I reach for my door handle, and Robert says, “Wait. Hang on.” The clock is ticking on visiting hours, and I’m anxious to find our kids and Bibi. He looks into my eyes. A residual fear stirs in my heart, knowing that I have done something he has the right to never forgive me for. He opens his mouth to speak, and I hold my breath. “Don’t ever leave me, Sarah.” I cry out with relief and kiss him on the mouth until I need air. We cling to each other, our heads fitting on each other’s shoulders like perfect mates, the completion of a puzzle.

“Okay, let’s go,” he says. We jog to the entrance holding hands. This hospital holds such contradictions for me. I try to focus on it as the place where my children entered the world and leave it at that.

We step out of the elevator and look for room numbers. I hear Oliver’s high voice: “Daddy!” He runs toward us, and Robert scoops him up and kisses Oliver’s neck.

“You found him, Mommy!”

“Yep! Honey, where are Izzy and Bibi?”

“Down there.” He points. We follow Oliver’s outstretched arm down the hall. “Izzy got a bump,” he says.

A man wearing white scrubs approaches from behind the nurses’ station. “Mr. and Mrs. Shaw?”

“Yes,” we reply in unison.

“Your mother said that your younger boy bumped his head.” People
often think Bibi is my mother. She never corrects the misimpression. It could be vanity, in order not to reveal her true age. Or it could be to connect with her daughter, to inhabit her for a flickering moment. “She was carrying him when she fell. She wouldn’t sign a release for tests on him. It’s probably nothing, but you should wake him up every two hours.”

“He has a concussion?”

“It’s unlikely. There was no reported loss of consciousness, but we recommend that you wake him up, just in case.”

We keep walking toward the room, and he admonishes us, “Just a few minutes, please. Visiting hours have ended.”

Izzy is sleeping in a bed made out of two chairs pushed together, his head propped on a pillow. A SpongeBob Band-Aid graces his forehead. Bibi is in bed, her eyes closed. She looks pale, so frail. So unlike herself. I walk first to Izzy, stepping lightly. I kiss the lump under the bandage. I walk over to Bibi’s bedside. “Bibi?” I say quietly, not wanting to startle her. She opens her eyes and sighs. She lifts her arms an inch off the stiff white sheets and lets them fall back down. My eyes are drawn to the plastic hospital bracelet around her wrist. Patient name, number, doctor, date. She looks so small in the bed.

“Can you believe what an idiot I am?” Her powerful, ironic voice sends a surge of recognition and relief through me. “I can’t believe I did this.
Ay
, it’s so foolish. A hip? What am I, an old lady? Don’t answer.”

“How do you feel, Bibi?” Robert picks up her hand.

“Terrible!” She tries to laugh, make light of this, but it’s a pale sound, drained of its usual energy.

“What happened?”

“It’s so silly. Izzy woke up and called out. He wanted water. He wanted to come with me to get it, so I picked him up, and as I was going down the stairs, I slipped and fell. I managed to have him fall on me, but he bumped his head on the wall.”

Oliver pipes up. “I heard him crying, so I got out of bed, and Bibi told me to call 911, so I did. And I let the firemen in and showed them Bibi.”

“You did great, honey.” No one mentions our collective memory of the last time the firemen were there. I lean down to kiss Oliver. It’s been an eventful night for everyone.

Bibi does not like to be reminded, or to remind anyone else, that she is in any way diminished. She turns the conversation away from her fall and the firemen. “How are
you
, darling?” she asks me. Her forceful look tells me she wants the truth.

I meet her gaze squarely. “Good, Bibi. I’m good.” I put my arm around Robert’s back for emphasis.

“That’s wonderful.” She reclines back into the pillows and closes her eyes. I sense she is pleased that, despite the present circumstances, she was a part of helping us reach each other tonight. I observe her features, her wrinkles, her brown spots. Her forehead is creased with pain.

The nurse steps in. “Folks, time to go.” He stands there to let us know he’s not kidding.

“Sorry the babysitter fell down on the job,” Bibi says, and chuckles.

I lean down and kiss her forehead, wishing my lips could smooth away her pain. “I love you, Bibi. I’ll come back tomorrow. Get some rest.”

“Good night, Sarah. Good night, Robert. Good night, Oliver, my rescuer.” He puffs up. “Good night, sleeping Izzy,” she adds.

“Good night, Bibi,” we say.

Robert picks up Izzy from the chair and holds him against his body like a blanket. I take Oliver’s hand, and we follow them into the wide hallway. The polished floors reflect the sounds and shadows of nurses and orderlies walking about in rubber-soled shoes, checking on patients, delivering pills and cups of water. I feel an overwhelming urge to look at Bibi one more time, convince myself she’s the same strong woman she’s always been. I motion to Oliver and raise one finger to my lips to show him we’re being stealthy, and step softly toward her room to observe her without her knowing. I peep carefully through the door frame, and her eyes are waiting for me. Under the discomfort, a power shimmers. She winks at us and gives us a
thumbs-up. We blow her a kiss; then Oliver skips down the hallway to catch up to Robert and Izzy. He reaches his arm back to me, urging me to join him, and I do.

W
hen Oliver
is nearly asleep, hovering between wakefulness and dreaming, he surfaces for a moment. “Mommy,” he says in a sleepy voice, “I know why it’s scary.”

“Why what’s scary, honey?”

“Dying. It’s scary because you don’t want it to end. Because life’s so good, you’ll miss it.”

Our bodies are breathing in sync, our faces close enough for me to see a tear slide down his cheek, and to smell his breath, sweetened by toothpaste. I rub my hand in slow circles on his belly, curve my hand around its soft shape. I see with an urgent clarity what I need to do. I have to free him from his legacy of loss. More than I need air to breathe, I need to push him out of the stream of my sadness, to shut off the valves through which my sorrow has poured.

“You’re right, honey. It
is
so good. And you’re so good. And I am so lucky to be your mom. I love you so much.” He takes my hand to dry his cheek. I wrap around him and feel his warm body relax into my sheltering shape. “It’s okay to feel scared sometimes, but let’s mostly think about how good it is to be you. Okay?”

“Okay, Mom.”

When he is sleeping soundly, I leave his room, write down his words, and post them on my bathroom mirror, a morning meditation to keep my head above water.
Life is so good
.

Robert is in bed waiting for me when I come out of the bathroom.
He has dimmed the bedroom lights, and I smile back at his grin, feeling the same longing, the same desire for renewal.

“Hold on one second,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”

I walk out of our room and back down the hall. After the disquiet of the night, I need to look at my children while they are sleeping. It is not because there, in repose, they look like angels. It is not because in their slumber there are no demands being made of me. It is because in this moment of stillness I can focus on every inch of them and declare with my soul and eyes and heart,
I love you, every part of you, with every part of me
. I can stare unnoticed, without changing them or sending them into a tizzy, beautiful, spiraling beings too fast to be understood.