The Other Life (11 page)

“YOU LOOK TIRED,” QUINN SAID TO ISAAC. SHE SAT ON THE closed toilet lid watching him attempt to rinse the shampoo out of his hair in the bathtub. Even as she said it, though, she wondered if she really meant it, or if she was trying to rush him into bed so that she could go downstairs and slip through the portal.

“There’s still a lot of suds,” she said, pointing to the area around her own hairline to show him where. “Can I help you?”

Isaac smoothed his small hands over his forehead. “I can do it,” he said.

It was hard for Quinn to sit by and not complete the task for him, but she knew how important it was to let her son be independent. He dipped his head deeper into the water and sat up.

“I’m done,” he announced, and the tiny bit of lather left on his temple made Quinn ache with tenderness.

Isaac got out of the tub, and she wrapped his shivering body in a bath towel, surreptitiously dabbing at the leftover suds. She hugged him and he laid his wet head on her shoulder, drenching her shirt. She held him tighter.

“What do you want to read?” she asked, glancing at her watch. Quinn figured she had just enough time for one book before she went downstairs and slipped through.

“Good Night Bertram Bear,”
he said.

It was one of his comfort books, and he didn’t usually request it unless he was sick.

“You feeling okay?” she asked.

Isaac shrugged. She pressed her lips to his forehead to test for fever but he still felt cool from the water.

They went to his room, where she read him his story, distracted and anxious about getting downstairs. In a matter of minutes, she would get to look into her mother’s eyes again, hear her voice, smell her perfume.

At last she kissed him good night and went to the computer room, where Lewis was online, checking his weather statistics.

“I’m going downstairs for a while,” she announced. “I have a lot of ironing to catch up on. Can you keep an eye on Isaac? His cold might be getting worse.”

“Fever?”

“I don’t think so,” she said, and paused. What was that sound coming from Isaac’s room? She rushed back just in time to see her son vomit onto the bedding. Lewis hurried in behind her.

“I’ll get a washcloth,” he said. Together, they cleaned off Isaac and changed the sheets. Quinn worked as fast as she could so that she wouldn’t miss her chance to see her mother.

When at last they were done and Isaac was back in a clean bed, she gathered up the soiled linens and told Lewis she would probably be doing laundry for quite a while.

“Can you read to me again?” Isaac asked her.

Quinn sighed and looked at Lewis. “Can you?”

“Of course.”

“I want Mommy,” Isaac said.

Lewis put his hand on her shoulder. “I can do the wash,” he offered.

“No!” she said quickly, and then checked herself. She looked back at her son and softened her voice. “Let Daddy read to you now. Daddy hasn’t read to you in so long.”

Isaac’s lower lip went out and Quinn nearly succumbed. But Lewis piped in, saying that he would read any book Isaac wanted, maybe even two or three. And so she said good night and hurried to the basement.

Quinn quickly threw the soiled bedding and detergent into the washer and started the machine. Then she opened the ironing board and stared at the fissure that would deliver her to her mother. She thought of Isaac upstairs in his bed, snuggled next to Lewis, and realized they hadn’t given him a sip of water to wash down the vomit. Would her husband think of that? And what if the boy spiked a fever soon? Would Lewis give him the liquid Motrin he needed to be comfortable?

Lewis can handle this, she tried to tell herself as she climbed onto the ironing board. But then she thought about Isaac’s lower lip and his tiny voice.

Me, too, she thought, and wondered how many times she’d said that to her own father as her mother lay in bed, incapacitated by depression.

“Mommy is sick,” he’d say. “We have to be quiet and let her get well.”

And she would. She would be quiet and good. Careful and helpful. Anything that might get her mother out of bed. When it didn’t work, she thought she just wasn’t trying hard enough. And so she’d be quieter, kinder, gentler, better. But it never helped. It was like trying to feed an empty stomach with air, and the deep, desperate hunger never vanished.

I want Mommy,
Isaac had said.

Quinn closed her eyes for a moment. Then she climbed off the ironing board, folded it up against the wall, and went back to her son.

THE NEXT DAY, after reassurances from the doctor that Isaac didn’t have anything worse than a cold—and had probably thrown up because of post-nasal drip—Quinn drove him home from the pediatrician’s office, trying to feel more grateful that her son wasn’t sick than miserable over missing her mother. My boy is healthy, Quinn told herself, her free hand resting on her belly. Nothing is more important.

“This is a little darker than sky blue,” Isaac said from the backseat.

She glanced at him in the mirror and saw that he was holding up his new toy. It was a rubbery hedgehog about the size of a golf ball, and he’d chosen it from the bin of tiny treasures the pediatrician let the children pick from after each visit. Quinn knew that a lot of mothers used the promise of a treat to get their frightened children to go along willingly to their doctors’ appointments, and thought it wouldn’t be a bad idea for adult doctors to do the same thing. She wondered what kind of treat might have helped get Eugene to his doctor visits. He had to think his life was in imminent danger before seeking medical help. Even sex wasn’t a strong enough motivator to get him to the doctor.

From the beginning of their relationship, Eugene’s erections were inconsistent, and as time went on, they became less frequent. Viagra burst onto the scene in those days, and one couldn’t open a newspaper or magazine without seeing an article about it. Quinn rehearsed at least a dozen imaginary conversations in her head, but couldn’t think of the right way to approach Eugene about the topic, especially since she had already spent so much energy trying to convince him it didn’t really matter.

Fortunately, he was the one who brought it up. They were in bed, and he had lost his erection before they had a chance to make love.

“It’s okay,” she said.

He put his hands behind his head. “I wish I could get a prescription for Viagra. That would solve everything.”

“Why can’t you?”

“Are you kidding? You expect me to talk to a doctor about impotence? What would I say?”

“How about, ‘Would you write me a prescription for Viagra?’ ”

“And then he’ll ask if I’m having trouble getting it up.”

“So?”

“So? So it’s humiliating.”

“You’ll feel embarrassed for thirty seconds, Eugene. And then you’ll have a scrip for Viagra.”

“The media would have a field day with that.”

“The media won’t know or care.”

“You think they’re not salivating to find out who’s on Viagra?” he said.

“Please. I’m sure half the men in Hollywood take it.”

Eugene picked up the covers and looked down at his crotch, as if expecting to see something. He sighed. “Yeah, but they have special doctors in L.A. who write you prescriptions under aliases.”

“It’s not going to wind up in
Variety
, for God’s sake.”

“I can see the banner headline,” Eugene said. “DOC MOCKS SHOCK JOCK’S COCK.”

Quinn laughed. “That won’t happen!”

“And the follow-up article: FANS PRAY DJ RAY NOT GAY.”

“You should save this for your show.”

“Yeah, right.”

They were both quiet for a moment as Quinn tried to think of a way to convince him to see his doctor about this. It would, after all, make them both happier. She liked making love to him, and she missed those moments when his passion was so intense that he couldn’t wait to be inside her. Even the thought of his desperate desire made her shiver.

He put his hand on her shoulder. “You’re going to have to help me.”

“I can try,” she said, sitting up and lifting the covers from Eugene.

“Not that. I mean, you’re going to have to get me a prescription.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“Have someone else get it and then give me the pills.”

“Like who? Your agent? That might not be in his job description.”

Eugene looked at her, attempting to telegraph his meaning without saying it. Quinn got it.

“Hayden?” she said. “You want me to ask my brother to score Viagra for you?”

“Why not? Gay men have absolutely no shame about sex.”

“I don’t think that’s exactly true.”

“You know what I mean. He probably talks to his doctor about his dick all the time. In fact, his dick probably has its own name and insurance policy.”

She laughed. “I don’t want to imagine Hayden naming his dick.”

“I’m sorry. Was that rude? I take it back. I’m sure he doesn’t name his dick.”

“Thank you.”

“His butt, however, probably has its own credit cards.”

“Eugene!”

“Visa. It’s everywhere you want to be.”

She laughed again, this time so hard there were tears. “Can we move on, please?”

He picked up her hand and kissed it. “Of course. I don’t want to gross you out. Besides . . .” He paused and moved her hand to his crotch, where an erection was beginning to stir. “It’s your laugh,” he said into her neck. “It makes me crazy.” He ran his tongue along the ticklish place behind her ear until she giggled.

“That’s cheating,” she said.

“So’s Viagra.”

And they did make love that night. But the next time they tried Eugene couldn’t get hard, despite her best efforts. And so Quinn approached Hayden, who treated her request with sincere concern, and a week later handed her a refillable prescription for little blue pills.

QUINN PARKED HER CAR IN FRONT OF HER PARENTS’ HOUSE, cut the engine, and held on to the steering wheel as if she could slow her own heartbeat with the strength of her grip. The last time she visited this house it was empty and she’d hoped to communicate with her mother’s spirit through her paintings. Now her mother’s car was in the driveway and her heart was in the house . . . beating inside her chest.

It was Wednesday morning, and Isaac had felt well enough to go to school. So after putting him on the bus and, as always, remaining on the corner as it pulled away so that Isaac could watch her through the back window until the driver turned onto the next block, Quinn went into the basement and slipped through the portal to her life in the city. From there she got in her car and drove through the Midtown Tunnel to the Long Island Expressway, following familiar roads all the way to her childhood home.

Now, sitting alone in the car, she didn’t know if she could go through with it. How could she possibly do this? How could she face the mother she’d buried seven years ago? Maybe Hayden was right. This was a terrible idea.

She looked at the house and wondered what her mother was doing right this minute. Was she having a cup of coffee and reading the paper? On the phone with a friend? In her studio mixing colors? Doing yoga in her bedroom?

I should just start the car and leave, Quinn thought. She looked back at the house. No. I’ve come this far. I have to do this.

Quinn approached the front door and rummaged nervously through her purse for the key. She found it, but before she let herself in, she looked at the shiny brass mail slot, situated about three and a half feet from the ground—eye level for a toddler. Once, when they were visiting her father, Isaac stuck his meaty baby hand into the opening and got stuck. Quinn had acted quickly, breaking the hinge to free his little paw. They had never bothered to fix it, but here it was in perfect condition.