Within Arm's Reach (15 page)

“Aunt Angel came by this afternoon and asked me to give her my baby.”

I keep my eyes straight ahead on the pictures, on the faces of the children. I hear Gram’s sharp intake of breath. I think, Why did I say that? Why can’t I keep anything from her?

“Poor Angel,” Gram says after a minute. “I wonder if Johnny knew she was going to ask you.”

I rush out the words. “I said I wouldn’t do it.”

“Of course you did. You and I will raise this child up fine. I’m going to help you.”

When she says this, all the muscles in my body, which I hadn’t even known were tense, relax. I realize I had been worried Gram would think Angel had a good idea. That she would agree that any mother other than me would be best for my child.

Gram purses her lips. “Meggy and Angel stopped by this afternoon to see me, and Angel barely spoke. I didn’t think anything of it, though, because Meggy was running on at the mouth so, complaining about everything under the sun. I always hear her out and just hope that she’s not as unhappy as she says she is.”

“I think she just likes to complain.” I have to fight not to smile. I feel like I have won a victory. I am so glad I came to see Gram today instead of tomorrow. I am so glad my answer to Meggy and Angel was the right one. But I am also ready to leave. This day has been long and exhausting, first fighting Grayson, then my aunts, and then waiting for Gram to weigh in with her opinion. I feel like a dishrag that has been twisted dry.

Gram says, “I admit I did think of Angel raising the baby, when I first knew you were pregnant. After all, she and Johnny have wanted a child so badly, and tried so hard.”

“They should adopt,” I say loudly. I don’t like this turn in the conversation.

“I was taught, growing up, that if you find yourself pregnant at the wrong time for the wrong reasons, you leave home for a few months, have the baby, and give it to a family member to raise. In a way, it’s a nice tradition when it doesn’t go awry like with the O’Connor family. All of the children are well loved, everyone who wants a child ends up with one, and the family stays together.”

“Sure, if you’re prepared to pay for the years of therapy that kid’s going to need when he finds out the truth. And odds are he will find out the truth, I’m sure.” I don’t like the sound of my voice; it is angry and rasping.

“I agree.”

“You do?”

“I can’t bear to see any more children in this family hurt.” Gram turns her face away from me. She stares out the window. Twilight has fallen, the landscape is gray with shadows.

I lean forward in the loveseat, trying to get a good look at her. “Are you all right, Gram?”

She keeps her eyes on the window. The shadows from outside and inside meet on her profile, but her voice is normal. “I’m meeting some girls on the hall for dinner in a few minutes, and I need to get ready. I’ll call you tomorrow, Gracie. Take your check out of the desk on your way out.”

I cross the room, open the desk drawer, and look down on the check laid neatly on top of a pile of papers. From that distance, the thin piece of paper might be a letter, or a quick note. On the top left, under the date, is my name: Gracie Leary. On the line beneath it, written in my grandmother’s neat script, is the monthly sum we agreed I would need. Below that is my grandmother’s name: Catharine McLaughlin, the inevitable bottom line.

I look over my shoulder at my grandmother. She is still facing the window. I wonder what she is seeing, what she is remembering. It is clear that to her I am already gone. I fight the urge to call her name, to draw her back to me, to surprise her, to tell her something she doesn’t know. But I don’t have any idea where to begin, so instead I pick up the check, fold it, slide it into my pocket, and do as she has asked.

LILA

I woke up the morning after Easter changed, and changing. I felt as if some sort of dam had broken inside me and I was now being tossed around on the rapids and eddies of myself. I knew I was far beyond the point of stopping the motion; I had no choice but to give in.

Literally, I woke up that morning feeling awful. As if someone had hit me across the back of the head with a steel pipe. I ran my fingers over my scalp feeling for a bump. Finding none, I took the risk of opening my eyes. There was searing daylight, and it was then that I remembered what had happened. I remembered where I was.

“Good morning, Doc,” Weber said from behind me.

I rolled over. We were lying on plaid flannel sheets. There was a poster of Lynda Carter dressed as Wonder Woman on one wall, and a poster of Bon Jovi on the other. “Oh my God,” I said. There was a swollen feeling in the back of my throat. I imagined that the alcohol had burned my esophagus, leaving an inky trail from one end to the other.

I had gone to the Green Trolley after the Easter gathering, and I had drunk vodka because I had been told it tasted like nothing, and that’s what I wanted to feel, nothing. The man next to me had continued to talk and talk and talk while I drank, and when I had drunk enough, I went home with him to his apartment above the hardware store on Main Street.

“I always knew we were going to get together, Doc. I just knew it. This was fate.” Weber was lying on his side, his head cushioned under one bent arm. Where the sheet ended, I could see the hair on his chest and then the beginning swell of his beer belly. “I love fate,” he said.

I was fishing under the covers with my hand, careful not to touch his side of the bed. “Have you seen my clothes?”

“I’ve known for about a year that our lives were going to become intertwined. I even told my buddies. Joel thought I was crazy, but I said no—”

“Our lives are not intertwined.” I found my bra under the sheets, but no underwear. The air in the room was biting cold. I could see my jeans on the opposite side of the room. Next to them was the disgusting sight of a used condom. My jeans had fallen on the floor in a running pose, as if trying to make a getaway without me. I was not at all comfortable with the idea of walking across the room naked to get them. No one had seen me naked in a very long time. I could not, in fact, remember the last time anyone had seen me naked. The very few times I’d had sex I’d managed to keep most of my clothes on. I was almost more amazed to find that the vodka and Weber had induced me to take off every stitch of clothing, than I was to find myself in his bed.

“This was a mistake,” I said. My breath made little clouds of white in the air. “I’m sorry if I misled you, but I was in a bad state last night. I wasn’t myself.”

“I foresaw last night, Doc, so it couldn’t have been a mistake.”

“I’m not a doctor. Please don’t call me that.” I sat up, clutching the covers to my chest. The air climbed up my spine with icy fingers. “Why the hell is it so cold in here?”

“I forgot to turn the heat on when we came in. I was distracted by the lovely lady with me. Close your eyes, Doc, and I’ll get your clothes for you. I’m shy, so no peeking.”

The last statement made me smile, but only for a split second, because doing that made the drumming in my head increase to double time. When I closed my eyes, the darkness was at first loose with spots of light, and then it began to revolve with the single-mindedness of a washing machine in the spin cycle. I moaned and fell back on the mattress.

I heard Weber’s bare feet padding across the room toward me. “I turned the heat on, Doc. It should warm up in here in no time.”

I kept my eyes closed and said, “You have to make a deal with me.”

“Can’t help you there. Sorry.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t believe in deals.”

My clothes dropped into my lap, freezing and stiff, completely unwelcoming. I stared over at him. “You don’t believe in deals? What kind of statement is that?”

“I don’t believe in anything binding. I take life as it comes.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “This is simple. If we see each other out in public, we’ll act as if nothing happened. We’ll pretend we don’t know each other. We won’t tell anyone about last night. And that includes all of your stupid firehouse buddies.”

Weber was next to me in the bed again, co-opting my space and using up what little warmth there was to spare. “How about if you keep your side of that deal, and I’ll play it by ear?”

I heard this from beneath the sheet, while I was wriggling into my jeans. When I was dressed, I rolled off the bed. The sudden movement made me nauseous, but at least I was on my feet, looking down at him. This is the room of a teenager, I thought. A New Jersey, Bon Jovi– loving, gold jewelry–wearing teenager who has never grown up.

“Please,” I said. “Please promise me you’ll keep quiet.”

“No can do, Doc.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “You don’t believe in promises.”

“That’s right,” he said, and pointed a big fat grin in my direction.

It was only when I got out of that room and that apartment that the slamming in my head abated, but the swelling in my throat had not gone down. It was difficult to swallow, and my breath caught sometimes on the way in and out. I couldn’t help but think of what diseases might cause this kind of symptom. Making the list calmed me slightly. Pneumonia, strep throat, herpes, allergic reactions, esophageal obstruction, chicken pox, bronchitis, tonsillitis.

I MADE my way home, ignored both the signs of sleeplessness and the curiosity in Gracie’s eyes, and rushed into the bathroom. I stopped moving for only one moment, right before I stepped beneath the steaming-hot shower. I closed my eyes and was unexpectedly overwhelmed by my smell. I hadn’t noticed it before, not in Weber’s bed, not while I was putting on my clothes, but now it was impossible to escape—the salty, warm, grainy sex smell took over the small bathroom. I couldn’t believe that the odor, spreading out in every direction, emanated from between my legs. There was something fascinating about the strength of it, and I had to force myself to duck under the stream of water and wash it away.

After I got dressed I dodged Gracie again and drove to the hospital. My favorite parking spot was free, so I pulled in and then sat in my car for a few minutes, too tired to move. I pulled down the sun visor and looked into the small rectangular mirror. I studied my face, feature by feature, categorizing the parts the same way I would the symptoms of a patient. Freckles across my nose (my mother’s thin, haughty nose), chubby little-kid cheeks, thick sheets of dark brown hair hung on either side. I was not pretty, but no one in my family was pretty. I was not sweet and dreamy looking like Gracie. I was not striking looking like Mom. I didn’t have Gram’s innate dignity. My features had a hard, separate look to them, as if they each belonged on a different face but were fixed so firmly where they were that there was no hope of rearrangement or change.

My reflection blurred for a second and I was suddenly swamped with memories. This was another sign—as if I needed one—that I was not in complete control. I was always aware of the endless memories that filled an entire section of my brain, but I didn’t experience them unless I chose to. I kept them locked away. The recollections were voluminous and mundane, but when I was tired, or feverish, or upset, or, apparently, hung over, they had the ability to take me unawares.

I remembered a screaming argument my mother and I had over a pink cardigan she’d bought for me to wear to my first day of high school. I remembered one dinner when Papa was drunk and he told me he was going to marry me and take me deep-sea fishing off the coast of Florida. I remembered winning my first horseback riding trophy and lifting it up over my head while my father took my picture.

I pulled my white coat out of the backseat and walked toward the jigsaw-shaped hospital. I had to squint to see anything past the ridiculously bright sunlight. I’d left my sunglasses somewhere. I couldn’t remember where. I felt myself stagger slightly. The pounding in my head remained.

“Jesus, Lila, you look like you were run over. Are you here for work, or to check yourself in?”

It was Belinda, standing outside by one of columns, holding a cigarette.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” I said.

“I just started. I needed a hobby.”

This struck me as very funny. I tried to laugh, but the noise went dry in my throat and made me cough instead. I said, “I drank vodka last night for the first time.”

Belinda lifted her cigarette in the air as if it were a drink. “To numbers one and two in the medical school class of 2001.”

“Why aren’t you being as annoying as you usually are?”

Belinda gave a small smile. “I’ve been here for thirty-seven hours with no sleep.”

“Oh.” I felt as if I had gone thirty-seven hours without sleep, too. I felt not sleepy, but exhausted. I had to sit down suddenly, so I did, on the curb.

When Belinda spoke again, the competitive lilt was back in her voice. “Have you had any more thoughts on what you might do your Sub-I in? I’m thinking about vascular surgery or neurosurgery.”

I tried to play along. I knew what was going on here. Belinda wanted me to declare my intent so she could follow me into that field and finally beat me there. “I’m not sure,” I said. “Maybe dermatology or family medicine? I haven’t decided yet.”

“Bullshit. You have to do something more demanding than that, Lila, and you know it. In order to be really challenged, we both have to be some kind of surgeon. It’s our responsibility.”

“Responsibility to whom?”

Belinda dropped the barely smoked cigarette. It fell a few inches from where I sat. “To ourselves, silly. And to the world. We can’t waste our gift. You can’t be nonchalant about something so important.”

I squinted up at her. Between her blond hair and the sunlight, I nearly went blind. “Enlighten me,” I said. “What is our gift?”

Belinda answered seriously. “Medicine.”

I rubbed at my eyes, wishing for dark and coolness. “That’s very interesting. I wasn’t sure. Do you have any other pearls of wisdom to drop in my lap?”

Belinda’s teeth disappeared. “You know what your problem is?” she said. “You can’t even carry on a simple conversation. You have no idea how to talk to people.”

She walked toward the swinging door marked
Emergency,
her blond hair swishing behind her.

I reached over and picked up the cigarette she had discarded. I held it for a minute between two fingers. Then I brought it to my lips and breathed in. I coughed hard, the taste of hot gravel on my tongue.

I’d come too close to being truthful with Belinda in that exchange. I’d almost opened up to her. I could feel the words pressing on the back of my throat, creating the same swollen feeling I’d had when I left Weber’s. I wasn’t even sure what I would have said, which was particularly worrying. I couldn’t afford any lapses of judgment.

The more Belinda knew about me, the more she had to use against me. The next thing I knew I would be telling her that I was in medical school only because of a conversation I’d had with my mother and grandmother when I was a sophomore in college.

I had come home for Christmas break, and my mother was on me about the fact that I had not yet chosen a major.

“I can’t decide,” I said.

Gram had been invited to dinner and had arrived an hour early. Since we were ordering food in, as usual, there was nothing to do but sit around. My mother suggested that we sit in the living room. Once we were settled, Gram in the low armchair, Mom and me in opposite loveseats, Mom decided this was an ideal time to have a discussion that was guaranteed to make me miserable. Even though Mom was annoyed at Gram for coming over early, she was obviously counting on Gram to back her up.

“What are the choices?” Gram said.

“Anthropology, literature, biology, or religion.”

My mother shook her head. “That’s just a list of the classes you’re taking.”

“No it’s not. I left off water aerobics and philosophy.”

“Why?” Gram asked.

“I don’t like to exercise, and I don’t enjoy philosophy.”

“Why don’t you enjoy philosophy?”

“Mother, you are veering off point. We’re discussing what major the child should choose and what she wants to do with her life.”

“Kelly, there’s no need to make everything so deadly serious. We’re just talking about Lila’s major. She already knows what she’s going to do with her life—Lila wants to be a lawyer like her grandfather.”

“That’s what I wanted when I was ten years old, Gram.”

“So? You had a calling when you were young, that’s all.”

I could feel the heavy history behind my mother’s and grandmother’s gazes. My grandfather was a powerful lawyer who threw his weight around in New Jersey politics. He had been respected by nearly everyone, but most of all by his family. For all the bad talk that has come out within the family about Papa since his death, his career and his professional achievements have only been polished and embellished. I knew that one of Gram’s greatest hopes was that one of the grandchildren would become a lawyer, since none of her children had. I also knew that with my top grades and studious habits, I was the best candidate.