The Descendants (39 page)

“Well, girls,” I say. “It’s just me and you.”

“And you and me,” Scottie says.

“And me,” Sid says.

“Are you guys okay?” I ask. “Should we go back in?”

Everyone looks in, but no one makes a move toward the room.

“This isn’t working,” Alex says. “I feel like we’re just watching her. Waiting…”

“I know,” I say. “I know.”

I see Sid looking down the hall and checking his watch and cell phone once more.

“You expecting someone?” I ask.

“No,” he says.

I can tell he’s disappointed in me. He thinks that I should “step up” and fight Brian who, Sid claims, “couldn’t bust a grape in a fruit fight.” He thinks telling Julie about the affair would make me feel better, and this is amusing to me, yet sad because he still doesn’t get it. If anyone should know about the futility of revenge, it’s Sid.

“Maybe we should get some air. Get some food? We could get a plate lunch.”

“Should we say goodbye like it’s the last time?” Scottie asks. “Just in case.”

I look into the room. “No,” I say. “It’s okay. We’ll be right back.” Saying goodbye like it’s our last could become exhausting, so we leave. We just go, hoping she’ll still be here and too afraid to admit that we could be wrong.

42

SHE WAS STILL
there when we got back from lunch and she’s still here this morning. And here we are again, another day sitting in the dark room, watching Joanie, waiting. Some of the flowers have wilted, the ginger and the pikake, though they still make the room smell good. The tips of Joanie’s fingers are blue. I wonder if anyone else notices this. It has been five days since she’s been on her own.

Joy appears in the doorway. I’m relieved to see her.

“Joy,” I say.

“Mr. King. Your wife has a visitor.”

I watched a father say a wordless goodbye to his daughter, yet this is almost more disturbing, Joy’s graveness, the fact that she can’t look me in the eye.

“Who is it?” I ask.

“A woman. I don’t know her name. Should I send her this way, or would you folks like to be alone?”

I try to think of who it could be. Everyone I told has stopped in, though I could see Shelley coming back to check on us.

“Sure,” I say. “Send her in.”

“Okay, Mr. King.” Joy walks away, and I wonder if she’s sad for me or if it’s that we’re no longer clients; they’re just waiting for us to get out of here so they can clear the bed for the next patient.

“Who is it?” Alex asks. She tucks her hair behind her ear and smooths her shirt. Only now do I notice how nice she looks. She wears black slacks and a crisp white collared blouse. Sid, too, is wearing a collared shirt, and jeans that aren’t falling off him. No one told them to dress nicely or respectfully, and I’m stunned though almost saddened that they didn’t need me to guide them. Scottie, however, is still in my charge, which is evident from her extra-large T-shirt that hangs below her shorts so it looks like the T-shirt is all she’s wearing. The back of the shirt reads
FIERCE
and has a picture of a pit bull foaming at the mouth and lifting his hind leg over a daisy.

“What if we don’t want her in the room?” Scottie says. “It’s our time.”

“It’s a little late for that,” Alex says.

“What if she’s from the child protection agency?” Scottie asks.

“For what, Scottie? Why would they be here?” I look at her shirt, her hair, her nails.

“To take us away,” she says.

“But why would they do that?”

“I was only joking. Jeez, chill.”

Sid sits in the same chair and his foot taps against the floor; he seems nervous. Then his foot suddenly stops and he straightens up, a look of contentment brightening his face. I look at the doorway and see a huge arrangement of white roses, so large they cover the woman’s face, but I immediately recognize the bronze hair and pale arms of Julie Speer.

SHE SETS THE
vase of flowers on the floor and looks down at her light blue sweater.

“I’ve spilled,” she says. Water runs down her sweater, ironically forming a stain that looks a bit like a rose on its stem.

“Here,” Scottie says. She goes through the drawer near Joanie’s bed and brings out a hospital gown. “Use this.”

Julie hesitates but then says, “Thank you,” and quickly swipes at her sweater, then stops and looks at all of us and then at Joanie. I remember telling her that my wife was sick, but I can’t believe she would come. Alex picks up the vase and places it on the shelf at the back of the room, since the counter near Joanie is full.

“It’s nice of you to visit,” I say. “I didn’t expect—”

“I know,” she says. “We just met, but I was thinking about you girls these past few days and I knew your mom was here. I just felt I should stop in.”

Her hands are shaking slightly. She brings one to her chest and takes a deep breath. I take her by the elbow and lead her to the chair by Sid. He nods at her.

“This is Sid,” I say. “Sid, Mrs. Speer.”

“Julie,” she says.

He extends his hand and she takes it and for some reason says, “Thank you.”

“Where are your kids?” Scottie asks.

Julie seems to consider her question carefully. “They’re still on Kauai with my husband. They’re returning this afternoon.”

“Are you friends with my mom?” Scottie asks.

Julie studies Joanie as though the answer to Scottie’s question depends on what she sees. “No,” she says. “I’ve never met her.”

Alex and I make perplexed faces at each other, something I’ve found we’ve been doing a lot lately. Whenever something is strange or annoying or funny, her face is the first place I look.
What is Julie doing here?
my face asks.

“We appreciate the flowers,” I say. “We appreciate you coming by.”

“Alex,” Sid says. “Scottie. Let’s give them some time alone.”

“What?” I say. “No, that’s okay. You don’t have to leave.”

Sid puts his hand on Alex’s back and guides her toward the door. Scottie follows, and then he closes the door and leaves me alone with her. I need to tell Julie that my wife isn’t going to get better, as I previously said. I need to tell her she should leave. I walk to my wife’s bedside.

“I know,” Julie says.

She stands against the window, against the vertical blinds, the kind Joanie couldn’t stand. I used to have them in the den. “They’re very starter-home,” Joanie said when she first moved in. They were there when I bought the house and I wouldn’t have changed a thing—the floors, countertops, patio, garage, roof—until Joanie pointed out the flaws. She extended the front walk, planted three types of ferns, extended the roof, and put in large wooden posts so that the façade looked grand yet welcoming. She ripped out the carpet, tore down the floral wallpaper in the bedrooms, remodeled the kitchen, the bathrooms. She bargained with contractors, called in favors. She worked hard, and she made the old place into a beautiful home, and once I saw it, I couldn’t imagine ever living in it the way it had been.

“Matt?” Julie says.

“Yes,” I say. “Yes, Julie.”

“That’s why I’ve come,” she says. “Because I know. I’ve come because my husband wouldn’t.”

I absorb this, searching my pants pocket, for some reason. I finger a ball of something—lint or a worn wrapper. I wonder what it is.

“I know he was sleeping with her. I know she’s…not well.”

“She’s dying,” I say.

“I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“That’s not what I’m asking. I mean, why are you sorry?”

“I shouldn’t have come to your house like that,” I say. “I didn’t know he had a family. I’m sorry.”

She looks at the foot of the bed, then up to Joanie’s face.

“Joanie’s beautiful,” I say. “This isn’t the way she normally looks.”

She nods. “I feel awful,” she says, “but I’m so angry.” She starts to cry. “I’m so angry at both of them.”

“I’m angry, too. And it’s really strange, a really bad thing to feel.”

She wipes the tears off her face.

“When did he tell you?” I ask.

She looks surprised. “My husband?”

“Yes. Did he tell you after we left? Did something happen?”

“He didn’t tell me,” she says. “Sid told me. He called the house yesterday. My husband and I have been going crazy. You can imagine.”

“Sid,” I say. “Well.”

“It’s just that…” She starts to laugh and begins fanning the air in front of her. I feel I should give her a moment alone, so I look up at the ceiling, but then I look back at her and can’t mask my irritation.

“What are you laughing at?” I ask.

“It’s all so terrible,” she says.

“Julie,” I say. “I’m sorry for everything, really, but I can’t do this now. I need to be with my wife now.”

“I know,” she says almost angrily. “I thought it was awful that my husband didn’t come here. I just came because I didn’t think that was right. I wanted to tell your wife I’m sorry.”

I wonder if a part of her is satisfied somehow by my wife’s fate. I don’t like the way she looks, standing over Joanie; the contrasts between a healthy woman and a dying woman become pronounced. Julie’s face is tan from her beach vacation. Joanie looks minuscule compared to her. I feel completely protective of Joanie, united with her, madly in love with her. I want to hold her hand and point Julie toward the door.

“He told me everything,” Julie says, either to me or to Joanie. “I forgive you for trying to take him, for trying to tear my family apart.”

“Stop,” I say. “Don’t do that.”

She makes to say something else, something she has probably rehearsed, but I won’t let her fight with a woman who can’t fight back. Her grace and gentleness are gone. She has tricked herself into thinking she is doing something noble, but really, this is all about anger. She is feeling the same things I feel, I guess—the need to guard what’s yours. This is a war. It always is.

I walk to the door and open it and wait for her to leave. She looks down at Joanie and I wonder if I’ll have to remove her. She glances at her flowers, then turns away from the bed.

“He didn’t love her,” she says.

“I know, but he didn’t love you for a while, either.”

She pauses in front of me. “I came here. I didn’t mean to act this way. I just love my family, that’s all.”

“This is my wife,” I say.

She waits for me to continue, but I don’t have anything else to say. I was going to say,
This is the love of my life. You can go home to your family. I can’t.
But I don’t want to talk to her anymore. These past few days have been about trying to weed everyone out. Go. Everyone, please go.

She hesitates, maybe wondering if she should shake my hand or hug me, but I make it clear that I don’t want either. I think about how I kissed her, leaving my mark, just as her husband left his. I’m sickened by my trite revenge, and how Julie could be the last woman who kisses me back.

She walks out and I shut the door once again, and look at her flowers standing tall at the back of the room. And then I go to my wife, who looks like a ghost of a woman. I sit on her bed. I take her hand, which doesn’t feel like her hand anymore. I touch her face, look at her lips, the lines in her lips. I rub my palm over her forehead into her hairline, just as her father did. I ask her silently to forgive me and then realize she isn’t some kind of god and that I need to say it aloud.