The Wally Lamb Fiction Collection: The Hour I First Believed, I Know This Much is True, We Are Water, and Wishin' and Hopin' (249 page)

“And none of you said anything to me.” She shakes her head. “Did she tell you not to? Threaten you or something?”

“No. Nothing like that. We just . . . I don’t even really know why we didn’t tell you. When she got like that, I guess we wanted to protect her.”

“From
me
? What did you think I was going to do?”

She shrugs. “We
should
have told you. But we felt . . . sorry for her.”

“Sorry for
her
? For Christ’s sake, Ariane. Your brother was the victim, not your mother.”

“I know but . . .”

“If one of you had come to me—if
she
had come to me—I could have done something.”

“I think that’s what we were afraid of, Daddy. That if you knew, you might send her away someplace and—”

“No! I could have gotten her put on medication. Depakote or something. Insisted she see a therapist. Do you realize what could have happened if she had seriously hurt him? There might have been police involvement, an arrest. How many times did she lash out at him like that?”

“That bad? Just twice, Daddy.”

“Twice? What happened the other time?”

“I . . . wasn’t home, but Marissa was. She told me they were upstairs, arguing with each other and—”

“Who? Who was arguing?”

“Mama and Andrew. She started chasing him down the hall, whacking him from the back with a hairbrush. And when he got to the top of the stairs, trying to get away from her . . .”

Oh god, don’t say it. “Tell me.”

“Marissa said she saw her shove him. And he fell. Landed upside down at the bottom of the stairs. And then Mama came to her senses again like the other time. Marissa said she ran down there and . . . and got down on the floor and was just holding him in her lap. Rocking him and telling him over and over that she was sorry. That she loved him and didn’t mean it.”

“But you didn’t see this.”

“No. By the time I got home, they had already gone to the emergency room.”

“Who? The three of them?”

“No, just Mama and Andrew. That was when Rissa told me what happened. And when they came back, he had a cast. He was okay, though. They’d taken an X-ray. He had just broken his wrist.”

“No,
she’d
broken it. What about the doctor who treated him? Didn’t he question them about it?”

“Yeah. Andrew said he told the doctor that he tripped and fell down the stairs. That’s what he told you, too, I remember. Daddy, it was Andrew who always made us promise not to say anything. He’d say that he had asked for it. Deserved it. Then he’d make up some story about how he’d gotten hurt so you wouldn’t question it. He felt sorry for her, Daddy. We all did. It wasn’t like she could help it when she got that way. And after, she’d feel terrible about it. Try to make it up to him. To all of us. She’d take us out for ice cream, or over to the mall. She felt so
guilty
.”

I shake my head. Tell her it’s the classic pattern for an abuser: lash out and then act remorseful. Buy the victim’s silence. “Victim
s
,” I correct myself. “Plural. Your brother was the primary victim, but you and your sister were victims, too.”

She shakes her head. “That makes her sound diabolical, and she
wasn’t
. She just . . . she couldn’t
help
it. I’m sorry, Daddy. You’re right. I was the oldest. I should have gone to you. It’s like you said before: you were the safe parent.”

“No, your mother was the one who should have . . . And even if she didn’t. Goddamnit, I used to treat kids that had come from violent households. Used to read the signs and get them to confront what they’d been through.”

She stands. Goes over to the railing and looks out. I get up and go to her. Put my arm around her and tell her how brave she’s been for finally telling me. She leans against me. Apologizes again for keeping it from me. Says she just didn’t know what to do.

“Why would you? You were just a kid. I should have read the signs. Picked up on
some
thing.” She begins to cry. For the next few minutes, we just stand there, me holding on to her, reassuring her. The poor kid: it happened ten years ago, but she’s still clearly traumatized. All three of them must be, Andrew most of all. Her target. Her victim.

When we go back in, Ariane heads upstairs. I hear the shower going. Mix myself another drink and pace through the downstairs rooms. They’re damaged. They’ve got to be. And Annie just gets away with it? Causes all this emotional wreckage and then goes off to her New York life? I think about how pretty she looked that sunny afternoon at the San Gennaro festival, and the day the two of them came by on their way to the Gardner Museum. My wife, the woman I’d lost and still longed for. . . . Then I see her going after him with that mallet. At the bottom of the stairs she’s pushed him down, cradling him in her lap like she’s the Virgin Mary in a fucking pietà. Well, guess what, Annie? The secret’s out. You
didn’t
get away with it. I don’t care about your hip, highbrow wedding, or the fact that it happened all those years ago. You’re going to account for what you did to them. You and I are going to have a long-overdue conversation, and it’s not going to be pretty. I go over to the sink and pour the rest of my drink down the drain. I’m not sure what I’m going to do yet, but getting smashed isn’t going to help. Not with Ari here.

When she comes back down again, she’s wet-haired and scrubbed clean—the way she used to look when she’d get out of the tub as a kid. She looks drawn, though. Exhausted. When I ask her if she’s all right, she shrugs. I suggest that we get in the car. Drive up to P’town and get those groceries. “Some steaks, maybe, or some fish. I can fire up the grill when we get back.”

She says no, she’d rather stay here. Be alone for a while. “Maybe I’ll take a walk while you’re gone. How far is the bay beach from here?”

“About half a mile. Tell you what. If you’re not here when I get back from the store, I’ll drive the car down there and pick you up.”

“Okay,” she says.

I grab my keys and head for the door. “Oh, and lock up before you leave, okay? Viveca’s orders. There’s a spare key in one of the kitchen drawers. The one below the silverware drawer, I think—where the other kitchen utensils are. The spatula and nut crackers and stuff.” Is there a mallet in there?

She nods. “I might not go, though. I’ll see how I feel.” I tell her not to overdo it if she feels tired—that we can always walk down there tomorrow. “Yeah,” she says.

Driving along Route 6, I replay what she’s disclosed. Start to backpedal a little. Memory’s not that reliable. Maybe she’s remembering it worse than it actually was. . . . But Jesus Christ, how could I have been so blind? I’d helped everyone else’s kids and left my own three in the lurch.

In the supermarket parking lot, a woman grabs the space I was about to turn into. Asshole! I find another spot two cars down. She gets out of her car, I get out of mine. Following her into the store, I glare at her back as if she’s guilty of something far greater than taking my parking space. But it’s Annie I’m furious with, not this random woman. At the entrance, I grab a basket and go in. It’s so brightly lit that it feels like a police interrogation room.
You didn’t know your wife was abusing your son? Or did you just look the other way?
The strawberries are achingly red, the piles of bananas insanely green. When I bump into a cart someone’s left in the middle of the aisle, I apologize to it. What the fuck, Orion. Get a hold of yourself. A woman in a cap and apron approaches me with a tray of free samples. Says something. But I walk right past her. She might as well be speaking in a foreign language.

It dawns on me that I’ve forgotten the list Tracy made. What foods did she say? Spinach was on there, I remember. Salmon would be good, I guess. Or chicken. That’s it: I’ll pick up one of those rotisserie chickens. Make a spinach salad. Buy some frozen veggies and zap them in the microwave. It’ll be quick, easy. But after I’ve gotten these and head to the checkout, I see that the lines are four or five people deep. Six
P.M.
and they’ve only got three registers open? Ridiculous! While I wait, I glance at the tabloids’ screaming headlines: all those disclosures of celebrities’ bad behavior. . . . She
did
single him out more than the girls when they were growing up. I knew that. But he was more challenging, too. Always testing, pushing her buttons. Hey, it wasn’t like
I
never lost my temper with him. But still. Physical abuse? Cracking him in the head with a mallet? Pushing him down the stairs? . . .

He’s twelve or thirteen, sitting across from me at the dinner table, his wrist in a cast. We’re eating the pizza, his favorite, that Annie’s picked up on their way back from the hospital. “You must be on a first-name basis with those emergency room doctors by now,” I say, nodding at his cast.

He glances over at his mother then looks back at me. “Yeah. What can I tell you, Dad. I’m a spaz.”

“What did you say you tripped on?”

“What?”

“You told me you took that tumble because you tripped on something. What was it?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember something that happened this afternoon?”

“His sneakers,” Marissa volunteers.

“Oh yeah, that’s right,” he says. “My sneakers. I left them on the stairs.”

“Well, don’t be in such a hurry next time,” I tell him. “And from now on, don’t leave your stuff on the stairs. That’s an accident waiting to happen. That goes for the rest of you, too. How many times do I have to tell you kids not to do that?”

“Yeah, okay, Dad,” Andrew says. “You’re right. I’ll try and be more careful.”

“Sir?” someone says. When I look up, there’s no one else in front of me. I place my stuff on the belt. Apologize to the kid at the register, the people waiting behind me.
When you got home that night, everything was back to normal
, she said. But goddamnit, I should have known something was wrong. It was probably staring me in the face.

When I load the groceries into the car, I realize too late that the cover of the rotisserie chicken’s not on tight. The juice has spilled all over the other things in the bag, onto the backseat, the carpet. It’s a mess. I say it out loud—“Fuck!” I snap the top back on, ignoring the dirty look I just got. Open the car door with greasy fingers. Get in and slam it shut.

Driving back to Viveca’s, I approach a family riding their bikes in the shoulder. A mom and dad, two kids, all of them wearing helmets. . . .

I’m in the bathroom shaving when he barges in. He’s what? Fifteen? Sixteen? I’ve taken him to empty parking lots a few times so he can practice his driving. He swings open the medicine cabinet door like I’m not even standing there. “Hey, do you mind?”

“Oh, sorry. I’ve got a headache. Mom says to take some aspirin.”

When he closes the medicine cabinet, I see his banged-up face in the mirror: a cut over his eyebrow, a goose egg on his forehead. “How’d that happen?”

“What?”

“That bump on your forehead.”

“This? I dunno.”

“What do you mean you—”

“I fell off my bike. Hit some sand and went into a skid, then bam! Fell head first against the blacktop.”

“And I don’t suppose you were wearing your helmet.”

“Nah. I forgot. Sorry.”

“You feeling groggy? Nauseated? Because from the size of that lump you’ve got, you could have gotten a concussion.”

“Nah, I’m okay.” And he’s out of there. . . .

Did he have a bike accident, or was that the time she clobbered him with the mallet? All those bumps and bruises. All those trips to the emergency room, and what do I do? Lecture him about wearing a helmet, leaving his shit on the stairs . . .

Looking at the road ahead, I’m disoriented for a few seconds. Then I realize I’ve missed my exit and the two after it. Driven all the way to Wellfleet.

When I get back, Ariane’s on the couch, reading. “Decided not to take a walk after all, huh?” I ask.

“I was going to, but I couldn’t find that key,” she says.

“Oh, sorry. I thought it was in there with that jumble of other stuff. Guess not. Let me start supper, then I’ll look for it.”

“Do you want some help?”

“Nah, piece of cake. Relax. What’s that you’re reading?” When she holds up her book, I squint and make out the title:
Home from the Hospital: Now What?

“Daddy?” she says. “You know when you were asking me before about whether I wanted a boy or a girl?” I nod. “I guess I want a girl.”

“Yes? Why’s that?”

“I don’t know. I think maybe boys are harder.”

I can guess what’s on her mind. She’s worried that if she has a son, she might take after her mother. Which she wouldn’t. They’re nothing alike, temperament-wise. Ariane’s sensible, measured. Whereas Annie was
always
strung tight, even before the kids came along. She could fly off the handle at things that anyone else would take in stride. She’s just hot-tempered, I’d tell myself. Thin-skinned. Over-the-top angry sometimes? Sure. But not sick. Not pathologically angry. . . . Were they
that
good at keeping it from me, or did I have blinders on? Doesn’t really matter, I guess. What matters is that I failed them, Andrew most of all. Good god, my poor son.

We eat in semisilence, our earlier conversation a weight between us. The TV’s on, murmuring in the background: Sarah Palin’s latest pronouncement, Lindsay Lohan’s shenanigan du jour. Ari’s pushing her food around on her plate more than putting it in her mouth. The weather guy promises that tomorrow will be bright and sunny with low humidity—a perfect beach day, ten out of ten. “Hey,” I finally say. “Do we need to talk any more about what you told me?” She shakes her head. “Okay, but if you change your mind—”

I stop. A car’s just pulled up outside. Tracy, maybe? Has she decided to come over after all? I get up, look out. But it’s not her silver Saab. It’s a taxi. A young woman gets out of the back. Sunglasses, jeans, a pork pie hat. Suddenly it hits me that it’s Marissa.