Shelter Us: A Novel (7 page)

He is impatient for an answer. “Who puts the last bones away,” he repeats, “when the last person dies?” He huffs, accusing me of evading a simple question.

His words conjure an image in my mind: Bones in a forest; white, shiny calcium resting on dark, silty soil. Hot noon sun piercing the spaces through a canopy of trees and leaves, gnats floating in spots of light. Bones piled up—pelvis and femur and fibula and scapula. Ribs and vertebrae all jumbled up, piled loose. Waiting for someone to tend to them, tidy them, cover them, put them away. Like the dirt shoveled on Ella’s coffin, covering pink roses with an impossible-to-forget
thud
.

“Um,” I say—as good a start as I have—“I’m not sure what you mean by ‘last bones.’”

“Maybe God does,” he answers himself.

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from saying there’s no such thing as God. Let him believe in something if he wants to. Instead I answer with a question: “Is that what you think?” Parenting by Socratic method—my law degree has some current use.

A pause; then, “Yes.”

“Hmm.” I acknowledge that I heard him, but I have nothing wise to say.

He adjusts his head on his pillow, fidgets under the blankets, and takes my hand. I wish I could enter his brain and explore its pathways.
I want to understand him better. Before I can ask him where that question came from, his breath changes. He has found his way into sleep, comforted himself.

I stay in his bed for a while, thinking about his question. I wonder if he would have been this way if Ella hadn’t died, if other preschoolers ask these types of questions. When it happened, Oliver was barely two years old. We didn’t know what to tell him, how to explain where she was. We said, “Ella is in heaven” because we couldn’t think of anything better at the time. There was no acceptable explanation. But it is hard to convince a child of something you do not believe, especially a child such as Oliver. He could always sense an untruth.

“Why can’t I go to heaven?” he pressed, sounding jealous. I looked at him in horror, terrified that he’d bring down a fiery wrath by suggesting that he would leave us, too.

“You just can’t.”

“Am I going to die?” he asked next, his voice breaking as he got to the heart of the matter.

My mind searched for magic words that would set his fears at rest, that would let him go back to thinking about dinosaurs and geckos, things a little boy should be thinking about. What could I say? How do you tell your child he’s going to live a long long long long time; that he’s going to be a big boy, then a teenager, a grown-up, a daddy, a grandpa, a great-grandpa? How do you promise him a long life when you and he both know the truth: maybe—and maybe not?

His fears used to flare at bedtime. Every night after I turned off the light, he cried, “I don’t want to die.” The sudden darkness of the room erased all the beautiful images I’d just poured into his mind with the pile of books on his bedside table—little blue trains and hungry caterpillars and a mischievous cat in a striped hat. I wished that I could lie and tell him he wasn’t going to die. I tried out the sound of those words in my mind but couldn’t bring myself to speak them. It was the truest thing: someday he would die. Instead I held him, stroked his hair while he pondered a world without him, his pillow damp with tears. Eventually he’d roll onto his tummy and command, “Hold my
hand.” I’d reach my hand out, and he’d grip it in both of his. Sometimes I would sing what my mom sang to me when I went to bed, a prayer for safety: “
Shelter us beneath your wings, oh Lord on high. Guard us from all harmful things, oh Lord on high. Keep us safe throughout the night, till we wake with morning’s light
.” It was hard for me to utter the last part, after what had happened, but it was my deepest, most fervent prayer, and it ushered him into sleep.

When Izzy was born and joined Oliver in the bedroom, Oliver’s anxiety began to taper off. I don’t know if he stopped worrying about dying or simply stopped talking about it. I wondered if Izzy’s presence in the crib a few feet away brought him peace of mind. Now at bedtime we talk about planets, going to the toy store, who threw sand that day and why. We talk about the moon and sun and what’s ten plus ten. But our ritual remains: when he’s ready to sleep, he takes my hand. It is our shorthand for comfort and safety, for me as much as for him. We hold on until he is fast asleep.

After he’s been asleep a few minutes, I extricate my fingers, roll ever so gingerly away to keep the mattress from springing up, tiptoe to the door, and I’m clear. Day is done.

I pause and turn around to take in the peacefulness of my boys at rest. A picture frame on the dresser reflects the light from the hall. I walk toward it and lean down to study it for the thousandth time. It is a photo taken the day Izzy was born. We are all in the hospital room, our faces silhouetted from the light coming through the window behind us. A sturdy labor nurse held the camera. Robert stands next to me looking down at Izzy, who is cradled in my arms in his blue-and-pink, standard-issue newborn hat. Bibi stands next to him, smiling at the camera. Oliver stands in front of them, high on his toes, stretching his neck to see the new baby, his expression a blend of wonder, worry and hope.

R
obert’s side
of the bed is empty when I wake up. His voice reaches me from downstairs. “Oliver, come eat your cereal before it gets soggy. Izzy, come on, up you go, into your high chair. That’s it. Eat your cereal.”

I stretch and yawn as I listen to the sounds of life going on without me. My mind slides into thoughts like
They would be fine on their own
and
Robert could handle them
, which I have to slap away. Right after Ella died I fantasized about dying. Not killing myself, just death. Maybe an accident or a quick disease that would end the wrenching physical pain and let me follow her, take care of her. But my death wish tapered off. It wasn’t something to play with. I had Oliver to protect. I wish I could protect that little baby downtown. What chance does he have? I roll out of bed and go downstairs to my family to collect curative kisses and hugs, palliatives for what ails me.

“Good morning! Happy anniversary,” Robert greets me.

I look at him, perplexed. Our anniversary is in June. It’s February. Robert winks at me. Oh,
that
anniversary. I smile at the memory of our first “date.”

“We’re all set for tonight. My mom’ll be here at six,” he says.

“Oh, I meant to call her—”

“No problem. It’s all taken care of. She’s looking forward to it.” He turns to the kids. “Do you know what tonight is, boys? It’s a very special night!”

“Is it my birthday?” Oliver asks. He looks confused about why he’s just now being told.

“No, not quite that special. It’s Mommy and Daddy’s anniversary. And you get to play with Grandma Joan.”

“Not special at all,” Oliver proclaims. I think he may be developing a Don Rickles sense of humor.

“I’d better go,” Robert says, and rushes off to get dressed for a day of teaching, meetings, and office hours. We kiss Robert good-bye. I push the woman and baby to the bottom of my consciousness, and move on with my day.

The doorbell rings at 6:00 p.m. Joan and her punctuality.

“Are you ready, Sarah?” Robert calls up.

I am standing in front of the mirror in our bedroom, dissatisfied.

“Almost! I’ll be right down!” I have tried and rejected three different outfits. They lay on the bed in a heap, and I am at a loss for what to try next. I hear the children greet Joan. Even their noncommittal “Hi, Gramma” cuts a swath of jealousy through my heart; I wish it were my mom they were greeting.

I look once more in my closet and take what’s left: black boots, black dress. They’ll do. I brush my teeth, apply mascara, and check my reflection in the bathroom mirror before I go downstairs. It’s not that bad. My wrinkles aren’t shouting out tonight, and my hair seems to like whatever is going on with this February wind. The dry, cold air has made my lips red but not yet chapped, and I even found lip gloss in the bathroom drawer. My cheeks are pink in just the right places. I allow myself a moment of satisfaction. Then I gird myself and go downstairs.

“Hello, Sarah.”

“Hi, Joan. How are you?”

“I’m well, Sarah. I’m always happy to spend time with my grandchildren.” She swallows the last word. It’s always there.

Before we leave, I kiss the boys, my sacrament for safety. “I love you,” I say, holding them too tight.

Robert has suggested we walk to the fancier Italian place in town, so we do. It feels good to not be in a car, to hear the sound of our footsteps on the sidewalk, to move at a human pace. The chilly night wakes me; the uncommon wind tricks me into feeling like I’m somewhere else, someplace mysterious—vaguely European, even. We hold hands. I let the darkness disguise the physical reminders of where and who I am, blur the edges of my usual signposts.

When we arrive at the restaurant, Robert opens the door for me. A woman wearing a crisp white button-down shirt and pleated, shiny black pants asks and answers, “Two?” and leads us to a table in the corner. I do my reflexive scan of the room. When I see that I don’t know anyone here, I relax.

I pick up the menu. “What are you having?”

“Ha,” he answers.

Robert hasn’t looked at the menu since our first time here.
Mista
salad, linguine
pescatore
, chardonnay, every time. I spend five minutes reading the menu and order the special, lobster ravioli, and merlot. After the waiter takes our menus, Robert reaches for my hands. His are warm, solid. He looks at me with a lascivious twinkle and asks the annual question that stirs ancient memory: “Remember Kip’s?”

We tell people that we met in law school, but we leave out a tiny detail: we met in a bar while in law school, and our relationship started as a one-night stand. It was Valentine’s Day, the middle of our second year. My friend Carolina and I were celebrating hitting the halfway mark of law school. Carolina—beautiful, confident, red-hair-down-her-back Carolina—attracted attention wherever she went. We’d been assigned to each other as Moot Court partners as 1Ls. I had expected to hate her but had been surprised to discover that besides being intimidatingly gorgeous, she was whip smart and had a wicked sense of humor. She made me laugh—no mean feat—and she became my best friend. When we went out, I amused myself by watching the parade of guys competing to get close to her. Occasionally, a second-placer would make eye contact with me and we’d flirt for a while.

Carolina and I weaved our way into Kip’s, a crowded hangout for Berkeley grad students. A band played in the corner. A television over the bar was tuned to a Cal basketball game. The bartender was flirting with three young girls who had to be freshmen with fake IDs. Robert, whom I hadn’t yet noticed, was sitting toward the far end of the bar, watching the game, his back toward us.

Carolina and I squeezed up to the bar, and I watched heads turn in her wake. We ended up on either side of Robert. She ordered a cosmo (bartenders got to her pretty fast), and I asked for a snakebite, with olives on the side. Sweet with salty. Robert touched my arm, and when I turned to acknowledge him, my stomach filled with butterflies. He smiled like he already knew me, leaned in close to be heard over the music, and said, “I guess I’m not the only one who likes olives,” then he pointed to the napkin covered with empty toothpicks in front of him. Those were his first words to me. Corny, right? But I felt the heat of his breath on my neck and ear, and it traveled across my shoulders and up my neck, right into my brain. Even then he had that same strength, warmth, confidence. When he looked at me with such attention, it gave me an instant buzz.

Carolina moved toward the makeshift dance floor. I stayed next to Robert, and we talked about the basketball game, the people in the bar, the band. The whole time, I felt vibrations up and down my spine. All I could think about was kissing him.

He asked if I’d like to go outside to talk more, get away from the noise, and I felt my heart race. I motioned across the room to Carolina to indicate that I was going outside, and she looked at him, flicked me a thumbs-up, and returned to dancing.

He held my hand as we weaved our way outside. I felt good, weirdly safe, taken care of. No sooner had I felt the cool February air on my face than he stopped walking and turned around so fast that I bumped into him—happily, I must say. We started kissing. My instincts took over. I was a walking id. We paused for breath and I said, to my shock, “I live two blocks away.” We practically ran down the street, laughing and holding hands. I could barely pull the keys out of my pocket
because he was kissing the back of my neck in a way that made me feel as if I might faint.

When we got inside my apartment, we were like one of those cheesy television movies—clothes strewn in a path from the front door to the bedroom. Except we tripped over our shoes in our haste, landing on each other and bumping heads in the hallway, which they never do on TV.

He still laughs when he recalls the look of surprise on my face the next morning when he offered to walk me to Evidence. I’d had no idea he was a fellow law student. How could I not have noticed him? He told me he was glad I was too serious in my front-row seat to notice a guy in back, and that he’d been watching me all year, waiting to make his move. At the time, I thought that was just a line, that he’d never seen me before the night at Kip’s. But after knowing Robert all these years, I believe him. It sounds just like him: patient, focused, directed.

“Yes, I remember Kip’s,” I say now, and he walks his fingers around mine, touching my wedding band. Falling in love with Robert pulled me away from the dark cloud of my mom’s accident. His wholeness drew me to him. Sitting here now, I feel a remnant of how it felt to be brought into his glow. For one beautiful moment, I remember what it was like to be us.

T
he light
the next morning is not kind to me. The mirror that last night gifted me radiance now shows something closer to the truth: fields of wrinkles frame my eyes, lines criss-cross over brown spots. Gone are my rouged cheeks and pink lips. I look away from the mirror and out the window at the morning sky.