"I doubt that."
Surprising me, she reached out to touch my cheek, something I could never remember her doing before. "I haven't had to talk you down from a water tower, have I?"
Thanks to the coffee and Marge's early morning help, I felt a bit better than I had the day before when I drove London to school. She chattered away in the backseat about her dream--something about a frog that kept changing colors every time it hopped--and her innocent cheer was exactly what I needed.
Back at home, I forced myself to put on my running gear. I hadn't run since Vivian's announcement--the first days I'd missed since I'd started back up--and I hoped that the physical exertion would leave me feeling more like myself. On the run I was fine despite adding a couple extra miles, but by the time I'd finished my shower, I found myself thinking about Vivian again. The fury I'd felt earlier had diminished, replaced by an overwhelming sadness.
It was almost too much to bear, and knowing I couldn't face yet another day like the two I'd just weathered, I had to do something. Anything. My desire to work was zero, but I forced myself to go to my den. As soon as I took a seat at the desk and saw a photo of Vivian, I knew that staying at home wasn't going to work. There were too many reminders here; too many reasons for the emotional train to start steaming again.
It was time, I thought, to visit my office.
Packing up my computer, I went to the office I'd rented. The shared receptionist was startled to see me, but reported as usual that I had no messages. For the first time, I honestly didn't care.
I unlocked my office. Nothing had changed since I'd last been here--it had been weeks--and there was a thin sheen of dust on my desk. I set my computer on it anyway and opened my email.
Dozens of messages, most of them receipts for automatic bills or spam. I deleted as much as I could and filed the bills in the appropriate folders, until I was left with the emails containing links to the footage for the commercials. With the presentation for the plastic surgeon already complete, it was Taglieri's turn. I reviewed the notes I'd taken the weekend before; of the six takes we'd made in front of the courthouse, three were definite no-gos. Of the three that were workable, I eventually whittled that down to two. Of those, I thought he was better in the beginning in the second take, and better at the end in the first take. With a little editing--I had basic software on my computer--I'd be able to put those two sections together. There's nothing quite like movie magic.
Even better, I liked him in the footage we'd shot, and I was sure that others would as well. He came across exactly the way I hoped--honest, competent, and likable--but more than that, he looked good on camera. Maybe it was the natural lighting, but it was a vast improvement over his previous commercials.
The footage for the second commercial was much more complicated. There were a lot of different scenes shot from varying angles--and a particularly gorgeous scene of a meadow with grazing horses--along with many different people, and that multiplied the way the commercial could eventually play out. Knowing it would take more time and energy than I'd be able to summon, I decided to simply work on the first commercial.
The software I used wasn't commercial grade, but that was okay; I'd already spoken to the best freelance editor in town, and slowly but surely I got to work. At lunch, I had to force myself to finish a bowl of soup I'd picked up from the deli, then went back to editing until it was time to pick up London from school.
It had not been an easy day. Whenever my concentration waned--even for a second--the emotional turbulence, and questions, would return. I'd get up from my desk and pace; other times, I would stand near the window, feeling as my chest grew tight and hands began to shake in what seemed to be an airless office. I would feel--deeply feel--my own loss in a way that made me believe there was no reason to go on.
But inevitably, because distraction was my only hope of salvation, I would return to the desk and try to lose myself in the service of Taglieri.
"What you're experiencing is normal," Liz assured me on the back patio later that night, after I told her what I was going through. She and Marge had shown up at my house yet again after work. Marge had brought Play-Doh and was sitting on the floor with London while they sculpted various items.
"You've suffered a profound shock. Anyone would be upset."
"I'm worse than upset," I admitted. "I can barely function."
While Liz and I had talked hundreds of times, it was the first time I ever felt that I needed to talk to her. The day had left me spent. I wanted nothing more than to run away or find a dark, quiet place to hide, but with London, I couldn't do that. Nor did I think it would help; after all, I would carry my thoughts with me wherever I went.
"But you told me you went to work," she said. "You got London to and from school and piano. And she's eaten."
"I picked up fast food on the way home."
"That's okay. You've got to learn to be gentle with yourself. You're handling this about as well as anyone could. Especially the way you're dealing with the emotions."
"Did you not hear anything I told you?"
"Of course I did. And I know it feels unbearable, but believe it or not, the fact that you're letting yourself feel the emotions instead of suppressing them is a good thing. There's an old saying that goes like this: The only way out is through. Do you understand what that I mean by that?"
"Not really. But then again, my brain doesn't seem to be working all that well. The next time I look at the commercial I edited together, I'll be depressed at what a terrible job I did."
"If it's that bad, you'll fix it, right?"
I nodded. I had to fix it. Because Vivian had opened her own bank account, it was up to me to cover all the bills, including, I assumed, the mortgage.
"Good. And that will be another step forward. And as to what I meant earlier--too many people think that suppressing emotions--or avoiding them--is healthy. And sometimes it can be, especially after the passage of time. But in the immediate aftermath of a traumatizing event, it's often better to simply allow the feelings to surface and to experience them fully, while reminding yourself that the feeling will pass. Remind yourself that you're not your emotions."
"I don't even know what that means."
"You're sad now, but you're not a sad person and you won't always be sad. You're angry now, but you're not an angry person, and you won't always be angry."
I thought about what she'd said before shaking my head. "I just want to stop the emotions from being so intense. How do I do that?"
"Keep doing what you're doing. Exercise, work, take care of London. In the end, it's just going to take time."
"How much time?"
"It's different for everyone. But every day, you'll feel a little less vulnerable, a little stronger or resolute. If you thought about Vivian every five minutes today, maybe next week, you'll think about her once every ten minutes."
"I wish I could snap my fingers and be done with it."
"You and everyone else who experiences something like this."
Later that night, after London had FaceTimed with her mom and had gone to bed, I continued to sit with Marge and Liz. For the most part, Marge was content to listen.
"In your experience," I asked, "do you think she'll come back?"
"I've seen both situations, honestly," Liz answered. "Sometimes, what someone thinks is love is just infatuation and after the shine wears off, they decide they've made a mistake. Other times, it is love and it lasts. And still other times, even if it is infatuation, the person comes to the conclusion that the love they felt for the first person is no longer there."
"What should I do? She won't even talk to me."
"I don't know that there's anything you can do. As much as you might want to, you can't control another person."
I wanted a drink, I wanted to forget and simply not care, if only for a little while, but even though there was beer in the refrigerator, I held off because I feared that once I started drinking, I wouldn't stop until the fridge was e
mpty.
"I don't want to control her. I just want her to want to come back."
"I know you do," Liz said. "It's clear that you still love her."
"Do you think she still loves me?"
"Yes," Liz said. "But right now, it's not the same kind of love."
I turned toward Marge. "What happens if she wants London to move to Atlanta with her?"
"You fight it. Hire a lawyer and make a case that she should stay with you."
"What if London wants to go?" I felt the pressure of tears beginning to form. "What if she would rather be with her mom?"
At this, Marge and Liz were silent.
Friday, I took London to and from school and dance, but otherwise buried myself in work like the day before. I was barely surviving. I remembered that fourteen years earlier, on a horrible day I would never forget, the Twin Towers collapsed.
Then came the weekend. Liz's suggestions had become a mantra: work out, work, take care of London and though I wouldn't be heading into the office, I nonetheless wanted to follow her advice.
I woke early and ran seven miles, my longest run in years. I forced myself to eat breakfast and then fed London. While she relaxed, I finished my edits on the first commercial and started working on the second one. I brought London to art class, continued to edit while she was there, and learned that London had made a vase. She carried it to the car gingerly, careful not to bang it on anything.
"We have to bring this back next week so that I can paint it," London told me. "I want to paint yellow flowers on it. And maybe some pink mouses."
"Mouses?"
"Or a hamster. But hamsters are harder to paint."
I had no idea why that would be, but what do I know?
"Okay. Flowers and mouses," I said.
"Pink mouses."
"Even better," I agreed. "Are you ready to head to Nana's?"
I helped her into the car, knowing that it was time to tell my parents that Vivian had left me. Because Marge wanted to stay with me while I shared the news, Liz took it upon herself to take a walk with London. I called my father in from the garage, and he took a seat next to my mom.
I spilled it all in a single rush of words. When I finished, it was my dad who responded first. "She can't leave." He frowned. "She's got a kid."
"I should call her," my mom interjected. "She's probably going through a phase."
"It's not a phase. She told me she was in love with him. She's got her own place now."
"When is she coming back?" my mom asked. "If she comes next weekend, your dad and I will be out of town. We're going to visit your uncle Joe in Winston-Salem. It's his birthday."
My dad's younger brother by a couple of years, Joe was a mechanic who'd never married but had, over the years, gone through one long-term girlfriend after the next. Growing up, he was the cool uncle, and I can remember wondering why he'd never married. Now, I suspected he might have been onto something.
"I don't have any idea when she's coming back," I answered.
"The work must have been too stressful," my mom said. "She's not thinking right."
"How is she going to see London?" my dad asked.
"I don't know, Dad."
"Doesn't she want to see London?" my dad pressed.
"I should really call her," my mom fretted.
"You're not going to call her, Mom," Marge said. "This is their business. I'm sure that Vivian will be back to see London. And even though she hasn't told Russ when that might be, I'd guess it'll be within the next week or so. In the meantime, it's probably not the best time to pepper Russ with a ton of questions or to start making plans. As you can imagine, it's been a pretty rough week for him."
"You're right," my mom suddenly said. "I'm sorry. It's just such a shock, you know?"
"It's okay, Mom," I said. I watched my dad rise from the couch and walk to the kitchen.
"How are you holding up?" my mom asked.
I ran a hand through my hair. "I'm doing the best I can."
"Is there anything I can do? Do you need help with London?"
"No," I said. "I'm doing okay with that. It's not so hard, now that she's in school."
"Why don't I bring over some dinners for the week? Would that help?"
I knew she felt like she needed to do something. "That would be great," I said. "London likes your cooking a lot more than she likes mine."
I felt a tap of cold glass against my shoulder. My dad had a beer in each hand and was holding one out. "For you," he said. "I'm in the garage if you want to talk."
When I wandered out to the garage twenty minutes later, my dad motioned for me to sit on a stool while he took a seat on a toolbox. I'd brought out a second beer for both of us; there was something on my mind--something I hadn't mentioned to either Marge or Liz--and I wanted his perspective.
"I don't know if I can do this," I said.
"Do what?"
"Be a single father. Take care of London. Maybe it would be better if London went to live with Vivian in Atlanta."
He cracked open the beer I'd brought him. "I take it you want me to tell you that I'm in agreement with you."
"I don't know what I want."
"That's not your real problem. Your real problem is that you're afraid."
"Of course I'm afraid."
"That's what parenting is all about. Doing the best you can while being terrified of screwing up. Kids can turn hair gray faster than anything else, if you ask me."
"You and Mom weren't afraid."
"Of course we were. We just never let on, is all."
I wondered whether that was true. "Do you think I should fight for London like Marge said? If it comes to that?"
My dad scratched at the jeans he was wearing, leaving a streak of grease. "I think you're a damn good father, Russ. Better than I ever was, that's for sure. And I think London needs you."
"She needs her mom, too."
"Maybe. But the way you've been taking care of her? I know it wasn't easy, but you just got up and did it, and she's a happy little girl. And that's what being a dad is all about. You do what needs to be done and love your kid the best way you can. You've been doing that and I'm real proud of you." He paused. "Anyway, that's what I think."
I tried to recall whether he'd ever said anything like that to me before but knew that he hadn't.
"Thanks, Dad."
"You're not going to cry are you?"
Despite everything, I laughed. "I don't know, Dad."
"Why are you crying?"
I wiped at a tear I hadn't known was there. "It doesn't take much these days."
CHAPTER 15
One Day at a Time
Unlike my friend Danny, I was around to experience my mom's angst as one by one, she lost the family with whom she'd grown up. I was thirteen when my grandfather died, eighteen when my grandmother died, twenty-one when the first of her brothers passed away, and twenty-eight when the last one slipped from this world to the next.
In each case, my mom bore the heaviest burden. All four were lingering deaths, with frequent trips to the hospital while poison was administered in the hopes of killing the cancer before it killed them. There was hair loss and nausea, weakness and memory loss. And pain. Always, there was too much pain. Toward the end, there were occasional days and nights spent in the ICU, with my relatives sometimes crying out in agony. My mom was there for all of it. Every night, after work, she would head to their homes or to hospital, and she would stay with them for hours. She would wipe their faces with damp cloths and feed them through straws; she came to know the doctors and nurses in three different hospitals on a first-name basis. When the time came, it was she who helped with funeral arrangements, and I always knew that despite our presence she felt very much alone.
In the weeks and months following that fourth funeral, I suppose that I thought she would rebound in the way she always had before. On the surface, she hadn't changed--she still wore aprons and spent most of her time in the kitchen when Vivian and I visited-
-but she was quieter than I remembered and every once in a while, I would catch her staring out the window above the sink, isolated from the sounds of those of us nearby. I thought it had to do with the most recent loss; it was Vivian who finally suggested that my mom's grief was cumulative, and her comment struck me as exactly right.
What would it be like to lose one's family? I suppose it's inevitable in everyone's family--there is always a last survivor, after all--but, Vivian's comment made me ache for my mom whenever I would see her. I felt as though her loss had become my loss, and I began swinging by more frequently. I'd drop by after work two or three times a week and spend time with my mom, and though we didn't talk about what she--and I--was going through, it was always there with us, an all-encompassing sadness.
One night, a couple of months into my new routine, I dropped by the house and saw my dad trimming the hedges while my mom waited on the porch. My dad pretended not to have noticed my arrival and didn't turn around.
"Let's take a drive," my mom announced. "And by that, I mean that you're driving."
She marched toward my car and after opening the passenger door, she took a seat and closed the door behind her.
"What's going on, Dad?"
He stopped trimming but didn't turn to face me. "Just get in the car. It's important to your mom."
I did as I was told and when I asked where we were going, my mom told me to head toward the fire station.
Still confused, I did as I was told and when we were getting close, she suddenly told me to turn right; two blocks later, she directed me to take a left. By then, even I knew where she wanted me to go, and we pulled to a stop next to a gate that was bordered on either side by wooded lots. Before us stood the water tower, and when my mom got out of the car, I followed her.
For a while, she said nothing to me.
"Why are we here, Mom?"
She tilted her head, her eyes seeming to follow the ladder that led to the landing near the top.
"I know what happened," she said. "When Tracey and Marge broke up. I know she was brokenhearted and that you met her here. You were still a child, but somehow, you talked her down and brought her back to the dorms."
I swallowed my denials, something easier said than done. Nothing I could say would matter; this was my mom's show.