The Mermaid Chair (29 page)

us the island was swallowed in darkness. The water seemed immense, glowing as if lit from underneath. I stared at a short beam of light coming from the bow of the boat, sliding needle-like in and out of the waves, and thought suddenly of the sea goddess, the mermaid Sedna whom Mother had read about in Dominic’s library book. She had ten severed fingers.
Ten.

The whole horrible thing fell into place then.

My mother was not going to stop until she’d cut every single finger from her hands.

She had emulated Eudoria, the prostitute-turned-saint, by cutting off one finger and planting it, and then, getting no relief, she had moved on to Sedna, whose fingers had turned into sea creatures—frolicking dolphins and seals, singing whales—

forming the entire harmonic ocean world out of her pain and sacrifice. Ten fingers to create a new world. Ten. The day Whit had shown me the book on Sedna, I’d read about the number, the same words Mother must have read:
“Ten was considered the
holiest number. Pythagoreans deemed it the number of regeneration
and fulfillment. Everything sprang from ten.”

How had I not seen it? The way Mother had taken a simple story, a myth, a number, things meant to be symbolic, and contorted it into something dangerous and literal? How had I un-derestimated the desperation in her to grow the world back the way it had been before my father died? That singing world in which we had lived by the sea.

C H A P T E R

Thirty

pq

As Hugh crossed the parking lot in front of East Cooper Hospital, I watched him from a window in the third-floor waiting room where Kat and I had been en-sconced since dawn. Even from up here, I could see that his face was tanned, and I knew he’d been tilling up the backyard again.

When confronted with loss, Hugh got out the old hand tiller that had belonged to his father and exhausted himself with physical labor, plowing up huge stretches of the yard. Sometimes he wouldn’t even get around to planting anything; the point seemed to be just ripping up the ground. After his father died, I’d watched him plow with such sorrow and drivenness, stoically propelling himself into the early-summer darkness, that I could not bear to watch. He had rendered much of the two acres around the house a bare, exposed ground of fresh wounds. I’d once seen him pick up a handful of the upturned dirt and, closing his eyes, smell it.

I’d called him at six this morning. It had been dawn by then, but the forbidding darkness and quiet that had floated through the hospital all night had not yet lifted. Dialing the number, I’d felt overwhelmed by the shrouded, deft way Mother had been laying siege to herself. I was defeated, to tell the truth. I knew t h e m e r m a i d c h a i r

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that Hugh would understand how I felt, the exact contours of every feeling. I would not have to explain anything. When I heard his voice, I started to cry—the tears I squashed on the ferry.

“I have to commit her,” I’d said, struggling for composure.

The surgeon on call, who’d repaired Mother’s hand, had made that clear enough. “I suggest
this time
you get a psychiatrist in to see her and start commitment papers,” he’d said, kindly enough, but with emphasis on
“this time.”

“Do you want me to come?” Hugh asked.

“I can’t do this alone,” I told him. “Kat’s here, but—yes, please, could you come?”

He’d gotten there in record time. I looked at the clock on the wall. It was just past 1:00 p.m.

He was wearing a knit sport shirt, the terra-cotta one I liked so much, and crisp khaki pants with his tasseled loafers. He looked well, the same handsome, golden look about him, and his hair was cut shorter than I’d seen it in years. I, on the other hand, looked like one of those people you see on the television news who shuffle around in the aftermath of some natural disaster.

My hair needed washing, my teeth needed brushing, and my eyes had puffy, bruised-looking smudges underneath from lack of sleep. I wore the gray warm-up pants and white T-shirt I’d slept in. I’d had to scrub Mother’s blood off them in the visitors’

bathroom. Most embarrassing of all, I had no shoes. How could I have left without shoes? I’d been startled on the ferry when I saw that my feet were bare. One of the nurses had given me a cheap pair of terry-cloth slippers sealed in a plastic bag.

The worst part of the night had been waiting to hear if Mother would be okay—
physically,
I should say; at that point I
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don’t think either Kat or I had a lot of hope for her mentally.

They’d let us in to see her while she was still in the recovery room. We’d held on to the bed rail, staring down at her face, which was the color of oatmeal. A pale green oxygen tube had gurgled under her nose and blood was dripping, thick as resin, into her arm from a plastic bag over her head. Reaching down under the sheet, I’d picked up her good hand and squeezed it.

“It’s me, Mother. It’s Jessie.”

After several attempts she’d cracked open her eyes and tried to focus on me, parting and closing her lips repeatedly without making a sound, priming the words from what I imagined to be a contaminated well deep inside her.

“Don’t throw it away,” she mumbled, her tone barely audible.

I bent over her. “What are you saying? Throw
what
away?”

A nurse making marks on a clipboard nearby looked up.

“She’s been saying that since she started waking.”

I bent down where I could smell the noxious odor of the anesthetic from her mouth. “Throw
what
away?” I repeated.

“My finger,” she said, and the nurse stopped writing and stared at me with her mouth formed into a small, pinched circle.

“Where
is
your finger?” I asked. “I looked for it.”

“In a bowl, in the refrigerator,” she said, her eyes already closed.

I’d called Mike at 10:00 a.m.—7:00 in California. Waiting for him to pick up, I’d felt like his little sister again, needing him, needing him to come and take care of things. Once, as children, we’d run the bateau aground on a mudflat and, trying to help push us off, I’d fallen over the side, up to my waist in mud.

In places the mud could suck you down like jungle quicksand, t h e m e r m a i d c h a i r

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and I’d flailed around hysterically as he’d hauled me out. That’s what I wanted now. Mike to reach down and lift me out of this.

When he answered, I told him everything, and that I was going to have to commit Mother. He responded that I should keep him informed. Not “I’ll get the next plane,” the way Hugh had said, only that impotent token of concern.

I felt for a moment like I was going under. “Oh,” I said.

“I’m sorry I’m not there to help, Jess. I’ll come when I can, it’s just that now is not good.”

“When is it ever good?”

“Not ever,” he responded. “I wish I were more like you, able to face . . .
things
better. You always dealt with it better than I did.”

We never talked about the bedroom drawer we’d rummaged through as children, reading the clipping about our father’s death, the strange, sad spiral Mother’s life had taken, the mount-ing religious obsessions we’d witnessed with confusion. We both knew he’d run away from the island the same as I had, but he’d gone farther, and not just in miles. He’d washed his hands of it.

“I found his pipe,” I said abruptly, feeling furious at his desertion.

He was silent. I pictured the news poised over his head, guil-lotine style, waiting to drop the way it had with me—the sudden slice of recognition that a crucial piece of one’s past has been a lie.

“But . . .” he said, and, bogging down, started again. “But that’s what caused the fire.”

“Apparently not.” I was suddenly fatigued in the tiniest
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creases of my body—between my fingers, behind my ears, in the corners of my mouth.

“God, it never ends, does it?”

He sounded so damaged saying it that my anger began to dissolve. I knew then he would never come back and face all of this.

He wasn’t able.

“Do you remember Father Dominic?” I asked. “The monk who always wore the straw hat?”

“How could I forget?”

“Do you think there could’ve been something between him and Mother?”

He actually laughed. “You can’t be serious! You mean, an
affair?
You think that’s the reason she’s cut off her fingers? To pay her pound of flesh for it?”

“I don’t know, but there’s some kind of history between them.”

“Jess, come
on.
”

“Don’t laugh at this, Mike. I don’t think I can take that right now.” My voice rose. “You’re not here, you don’t see what I see.

Believe me, there are more outrageous things than
that
in her life.”

“You’re right, sorry,” he said. He let go of his breath, let it melt into the phone. “I only saw them together once. I went over to the monastery to ask Mom if she’d let me go out with Shem on the trawler—I was around fifteen, I think—and I found her and Father Dominic in the kitchen, fighting.”

“About what, you remember?”

“It was about the mermaid chair. Father Dominic was trying to get her to go sit in it, and she was furious for some reason. He told her twice, ‘You have to make your peace with it.’ It didn’t t h e m e r m a i d c h a i r

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make sense to me. But for a long time after that, I wondered about it. All I can tell you is that if the two of them had an affair, which honestly I can’t begin to conceive, they didn’t seem remotely amicable at that point.”

When we hung up, I felt more confused than when I’d called, but at least he knew now about Mother. And I knew about him—that part of him would always be lost to me. I felt comforted, though, that we were at least linked the way we’d been as children—not partners in conquering the island, which had been our carefree alliance before Father died, but partners in sur-vival. Surviving Mother.

Outside in the parking lot, Hugh was approaching the hospital entrance. I watched him pause on the sidewalk, looking down as if studying the spidery cracks in the cement. He seemed to be preparing himself. For me, no doubt. It was a moment of such private vulnerability that I stepped back from the window.

I darted a glance toward Kat, who sat across the room squeezing the bridge of her nose. Mother’s behavior seemed to have had a sobering effect on her; I’d never seen her so quiet.

Earlier, beside the bed in the recovery room, I’d watched Kat close her eyes and tighten both her fists, as if swearing a private oath to herself, or at least that’s how I read it.

“He’s here,” I said to her, trying to sound casual. I had a skit-tish feeling in my stomach.

This would be the first time I’d seen him since making love with Whit. I had the irrational feeling that the knowledge was somehow posted all over me for him to read, little scarlet
A
’s popping out like freckles in the sun. Crossing the bay last night, jerked out of my illusory storm tent and acutely aware of my ability to twist things to my liking, I’d kept my shock confined
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to Mother. But now, seeing Hugh, it was like coming upon my world of deceit, seeing it diagrammed like a map with a pointing arrow: you are here. Here. A place where the heart and its crav-ings obliterate everything: conscience, the will of the mind, the careful plaiting together of lives.

The ache in my stomach was the knot of blame, I know that.

Hugh had staked his life on me and lost. But there was defiance coiled in the feeling as well. What I’d felt, what I’d done—it wasn’t only some unstoppable erotic urge pent up too long, not just lust and libido and overactive sex organs. That wouldn’t be fair. The heart was an organ, too, wasn’t it? It had been so easy to dismiss the heart before. A little feeling factory you could shut down if necessary. How unfair. The feelings that ripped through it had power and force, perhaps at times the consent of the soul.

I’d felt it myself, the way my soul had raised its hand to conse-crate what was happening to me.

“Do you have a comb?” I asked Kat. “And lipstick?” I’d not brought a purse either.

She handed me a tube and a small brush, lifting her eyebrows.

“I look like shit,” I told her. “I don’t want him to think I’m so lost without him I’ve gone to pot.”

“Good luck with
that,
” she said, but smiling at me.

When he stepped into the waiting room, he looked at me, then away. I thought suddenly of Whit and felt my stomach turn over, the need to breathe, to paddle to the island in the marsh, a million miles from the world, and go down into the cool, dark water.

All three of us, even Kat, struggled as we waded through the initial greetings, the how-have-you-beens. Part of me didn’t
want
to know how he’d been, for fear my knees would buckle, t h e m e r m a i d c h a i r

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and part of me felt that if he described every ounce of pain and trauma I’d inflicted on him, it was the least I deserved.

For a good three or four minutes, Hugh and I seemed to be calibrating an emotional thermostat. Tapping it up and down, acting too friendly, then too reserved. It wasn’t until the focus turned to Mother that we began to get comfortable in the room together, which is saying a lot, considering how wretched that situation was.

We sat in padded wooden chairs near the window, around a coffee table covered in old magazines, some going back to 1982.

I was freshly knowledgeable about everything from Sandra Day O’Connor’s appointment to the Supreme Court to Michael Jackson’s glove.

Hugh was wearing a thin bracelet of what looked like braided embroidery thread around his right wrist—blue, tan, and black—which floored me because Hugh hated to wear any sort of jewelry except his wedding ring. That, I noticed, was still on his left hand.

He saw me staring at the bracelet. “It’s from Dee,” he said.

“She made it herself. I believe she called it a friendship bracelet.”