The Mourning After (25 page)

Madeline crossed her arms in defiance.  Earlier this morning, when she was blowing her hair, the hair dryer knocked into one of the bottles on her perfume tray, sending the others crashing like a fleet of crystal dominos.  It should have been simple to pick each up one at a time.  Instead, the more she tried to align them on the silver tray in her bathroom, the more bottles fell over.  Hearing Dr. Lerner’s words reminded her of that frustration.

Madeline is still so angry and hurt she wants to lash out at Craig, not baby him.  Then there’s David.  His absence exacerbates Craig’s betrayal.  The feelings are so tangled together; often, it’s easier to hate Craig and be angry rather than exerience the emptiness of David’s absence.  That he betrayed her before David’s abandoning her makes his infidelity all the worse.

Her eyes are furious when she says to Dr. Lerner, “I don’t know if I can forgive him.”

“I’m not asking you to forgive him.  I’m asking you to take a look inward—both of you—and focus on finding the problems in your marriage.  Ask yourselves, how did I contribute to this?  How did my actions help get us here?”

Madeline makes one more vicious appeal.  How the hell was it suddenly
her
fault that her husband attached himself to someone younger? “Ask
him
to look inward,” she hisses, gesturing in the direction of Craig and his beleaguered frown.  “This is bullshit, really, utter bullshit.  I can’t believe we’re actually paying you for this.”

Pretending not to hear Madeline’s attack, Dr. Lerner turns to Craig who is focused sheepishly on the hands clasped together in his lap.  “Did you say something, Craig?”

“This should be good,” Madeline utters, sarcasm and contempt dripping from her tongue.

“Craig?” Dr. Lerner repeats.

Craig concentrates on a spot behind Dr. Lerner because meeting her eyes would leave him defenseless.  Instead, he gazes at the walls lined with prestigious degrees and chooses one—the one from Tulane University—to study.  He can make out the woman’s name and the sturdy strokes of the Old English lettering. Soon the calligraphy blurs together, and he is looking at another wall—and a regret that is crystal clear.

A lone tear glides down his face, though no sound escapes his mouth.  It is as if the tear burst from a grieving heart, a leak that had nowhere else to go but through the misty eyes of neglect.  He doesn’t wipe it off even though he is certain it is staining his cheek and poising him for further disapproval.

Words are lost to him, and he shakes his head in disbelief. 

He is thinking of one of the first nights they agreed to go out after Chloe’s diagnosis.  They were at a dinner party for some friends.  Madeline looked stunning, and Craig told her so over and over in the car.  She had taken to knotting her hair up in a bun because it required little maintenance.  Craig found it classic, elegant, and he loved that he could see more of her face.  She didn’t thank him, she couldn’t.  She had a plethora of reasons to disagree with his assessment. She was tired, though it didn’t show.  She was worried about leaving Chloe, but she radiated confidence.

The group was settled in a private room at the back of the restaurant.  Madeline was to Craig’s right, and while he made small talk with the man across the table, Madeline was engrossed in conversation with one of the mother’s from the boys’ school. The man was going on about some property in Cat Cay, and Craig was bored and obligingly nodding his head.  The mirror behind the man’s head gave Craig a perfect view of Madeline, chatting away with the buxom blonde by her side. She was animated and smiling. Craig studied her face in the reflection, believing she would feel his gaze and turn her head.  In between cocktails and hor d’oeuvres, he willed her to catch his eye.  When the main dishes arrived, he told himself if she looked his way, it was because she could feel his love tapping at her shoulders.  She never looked at him.  Not through a steak that was too well done or through a molten chocolate lava cake that he savored.

They said their goodbyes and their thank-yous to the group and headed out to the car.  She was checking her cell phone to see if the children had called.  When he asked her for singles to tip the valet, she still didn’t look up, instead, handed him some singles while studying something in her bag.  His stare was prolonged and determined. 

Back in Dr. Lerner’s office, the words trickle out without emotion.  “She stopped looking at me.”

“Can you speak up?” Dr. Lerner asks.

“My wife,” he says, clearing his throat of the debris that had earlier inhibited him from speaking.  “My wife, she doesn’t look at me.”

Dr. Lerner eyes Madeline who has grabbed her pocketbook and is staring at her hands.

“Madeline, could you please look at your husband; look at Craig.”

Reluctantly, she turns an unwilling body.

“Craig, look at your wife and tell her what you need from her.  Don’t tell her what she doesn’t do for you.  Tell her what you want from her.”

Even though Madeline’s body is facing Craig’s, she is unwilling to move her eyes from the meticulous embroidery of her expensive bag.  Craig’s eyes are fixed on her face.  He is mistaken if he thinks the sheer force of his will can induce a reaction.  She is stubborn and angry, and he thinks for the first time since they walked into Dr. Lerner’s office, that this is a waste of time.  Their problems are too deep to fix.

“Madeline,” Dr. Lerner urges, “listen to what your husband is saying.  Let him tell you what he needs, so you can tell him what you need.”

Craig tries something daring as he reaches across the sofa for one of Madeline’s folded hands.  Dr. Lerner clasps and unclasps hers while the clock on her desk counts the intolerable beats of Madeline’s cruelty.

Madeline considers what she’s lost.  David.  David’s unborn child.  Chloe’s health.  Slowly, she turns toward Craig, her movements as ridged as the clock that drones on in the same paced measure that she has grown to detest.  Her eyes find his face, first his chin, still damp, and then his eyes.  When she is sure his eyes are locked into hers, and a whisper of hopefulness sweeps across his cheeks, she opens her mouth to tell him how much she hates him and why she can’t look at him, but tears swipe away her words. 

Instead, her hand finds his.

She doesn’t hate Craig.  No.  But hatred of him is so much easier to grasp than to admit how much she hates herself.

Levon tugs on the stainless steel handle of the oversized refrigerator and finds a carton of reduced-fat milk, which is strategically placed in front of the whole milk.  The expiration date reads January 1, 2008.  The date scares him. New Year’s should be a time of a fresh start, yet he is considering expiration, endings.  He wishes he knows his own future with as much certainty as he does the day the milk will go bad.

Pouring the velvety liquid into a tall glass, Levon guzzles it in one breathless gulp.  The sound of the front door opening and closing yanks him from a chocolate Mallomar daydream, and he rests the glass on the countertop to make his way to see who just entered his house.

“You are never going to believe this, Levon,” says Lucy.  She is carrying a suspiciously large envelope in her hands. “I can’t believe it,” she adds. “This is outrageous.  You’re a rock star.”

She is dancing around him, waving the manila envelope in the air, and Levon can see immediately that the addressee’s name is his own.  Levon enjoys the manner in which Lucy waltzes through his doorway without having to knock, but he feels that her checking their mailbox is crossing the line.

“Wait till you see what it says.  They love you!”

Levon grabs the mail from Lucy’s hands, which stills her billowy movements.  “You steal my mail and open it too?”

He didn’t have to ask who
they
were because the name emblazoned across the top of the fancy stationery gives him the information he needs.  Ellen DeGeneres—or one of her staffers—has written him back, and Ellen was devoting an entire episode to orphaned diseases.  The timing couldn’t have been better.  The very first National Rare Disease Day was taking place in Europe that March.  They’ve even invited Levon’s family and a guest to the taping in California!  The last line of the letter reads: “It is people like you who bring to the forefront the impact of some of life’s greatest travesties.  Your voice will be heard as we ‘silence the silence’ on rare diseases.”

Levon reads the letter again, carefully concentrating on the words and sentences that affirm his accomplishment.  Someone has listened to him and has taken him seriously.

“Are you sure this isn’t some joke, Lucy?”

“My tendency to pull outrageously funny stunts could never have made up something this good. You did this, Levon, you!”

He tries to reel in the words.  The only time he has ever been this close to superstardom was when he was ten and on a Carnival Cruise with his parents and David and Chloe.  For the costume contest, his mother dressed him and David as toilet seats with
1st Seating
and
2nd Seating
written across their backs.  The reference to cruise lingo for the designated meal assignments earned them top marks, and they won first prize for creativity and a seat at the captain’s table.  This was something much bigger than the toilet seat.  Back then he was
2nd Seating
.  Clearly, he had elevated himself to a better position.

Levon fiddles with the envelope and its contents.  There are forms to fill out, necessary signatures, and the required parental consent.

“Do I have to invite them?” he asks.  “Guess there’s no way I’m going to be able to fly cross country and go on national television without telling my parents.”

To this, Lucy replies, “You’re mother’s so drugged up she won’t know you’re gone.”

Though Levon hears Lucy’s words, his brain buzzes a warning.  He steals a sidelong glance at the girl who seems to have slipped from the sky. Despite her beauty, Levon sees something in her buttery skin and glittery eyes.  For once, he doesn’t turn away.  Instead, he focuses on the whole of Lucy, this person who has crept into his life and found a way to be his compass.  It is altogether strange for him to consider how for weeks, months even, looking into her eyes had made him flustered, and he was sure his flushed cheeks had betrayed his feelings for her.  Now he feels assured.  His cheeks remain dull white.  He no longer needs to turn away.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks.

Levon has a hundred things to say, though he doesn’t say any of them.  She would feel weird if he revealed how she has become a part of him.

“Levon?”

“It’s nothing,” he says, lying.  Looking at her is like having an entire meal without taking a bite.

Levon’s mom screams from upstairs that she wants Levon to empty out the washing machine and put the clothes in the dryer.

Levon rolls his eyes.  Daphne, their housekeeper, comes tomorrow, and he doesn’t know why his mother is insistent on doing the laundry on her days off.

“This week, it’s all about washing clothes.” 

He tells Lucy how the whirring of the washing machine can be heard at all hours of the day and night.  The laundry room is teeming with cases of Tide, Clorox, and Shout.

“Maybe it soothes her.”

They are walking down the hallway leading toward the laundry room.  Lucy is a few steps behind Levon, and he can hear the humming of the machine as he approaches.  “My mother has never cleaned anything in her life,” says Levon, turning the knob of the espresso-colored door.  “What can she possibly find soothing about doing laundry?”

“Quiet,” Lucy says, raising her finger to her pursed lips.  “Listen to the sound.”

The digital display signaling the end of the spin cycle reads three minutes.  Lucy hops up onto the adjacent dryer, leaning over the washer to watch the clothes spin through the clear, circular door.  Her nose presses against the glass, and a cloud of her breath fills the window.  “Look into the great abyss,” she says.

Levon moves closer and sees his face gawking back at him.

“Stare down the center,” she says, “it’s like riding on a roller coaster.  Maybe your mom comes down here and trips.”

“I doubt Mom needs any more thrill rides in her life.”

Levon is getting dizzy peering down into the machine.  His brain has been tricked into thinking there are miles swirling in front of him.  A part of him wants to tear up Ellen’s envelope and the proof of his existence, lift the lid, and slip inside for a free fall through the Maytag experience.

Lucy asks pointedly, “Are those his clothes she’s washing?” And when Levon doesn’t answer, she continues cautiously.  “Maybe she’s trying to preserve them.”

Levon almost laughs aloud.  “David’s clothes are untouched.  No one is allowed to go near them, let alone wash away his smell.”

This sad fact registers across Lucy’s face.

He says, “Your attempt at turning dirty laundry into some symbolic ritual is appreciated, but you have it all wrong.  Nothing makes any sense when someone dies.  There aren’t hidden meanings behind how people react.  I think she’s suddenly into washing clothes because she doesn’t have to think about it.  It’s methodical.  Wash. Dry. Fold.  Repeat the cycle. I think she does it because it’s safe.”

“How do you mean?” she asks.

“She can’t screw it up.  There’s a start and a finish.  No surprises.”

“You’ve obviously never done laundry,” she says. “Guess what happens when you accidentally wash your black T-shirt with your white clothes?  I think it’s more than that.  I think your mom’s in a lot of pain.”

“No shit,” quips Levon.

“I’m serious.  It’s hard not to joke about her being Joan Crawford, but really, I think the washing and the cleaning are about her pain.”

“I’m not seeing the correlation.”

“She’s trying to get rid of the ugliness, the dirt, the stains.”

“Then why stop at clothes?” Levon bursts out.  “You’ve seen her swoop in on her broom, and she’s not sweeping floors or cleaning bathrooms.”

“That’s funny, Levon, even for you.”

“A comedian and a shrink,” he laughs.

“You don’t have to be a shrink to figure your mother out.  She’s textbook.”