Leave Me

  Maribeth stood above the slow lane. The three people circling in there seemed to be going terribly fast. Maribeth spent a good few minutes trying to figure out the etiquette of inserting herself into the flow. It reminded her of being fifteen, in driver’s training, trying to work up the nerve to merge into freeway traffic for the first time.

  When there was a break in the swimmers, she got in and tried a sort of breast stroke but soon found that her still-healing underarm muscles restricted her range of motion so greatly that she was hardly moving. A swimmer swooped up suddenly behind her.

  “Sorry,” she called.

  She switched to a doggy paddle and made it to the end of the pool, where she held on to the side while she caught her breath. Another swimmer came up behind her. “Are you swimming?” she asked. Maribeth wasn’t sure if what she was doing could rightly be called swimming. It felt more like not-drowning, but before she could think of an answer, the swimmer did one of those neat little underwater turn-kicks and took off (not remotely slowly, Maribeth couldn’t help but notice) in the other direction.

  Once she’d caught her breath and once there was a decent gap between her and the other swimmers, she pushed off again. This time she tried the crawl, crawl being the optimal word in describing her painfully slow stroke. Two swimmers passed her before she reached the other end of the lane. In the time it took her to complete the next length—having to stop and stand halfway through—all the other swimmers in her lane had passed her. She could feel their impatience radiating through the water. Slow lane or not, she understood, she shouldn’t be here. She was the old lady doing thirty-five on the freeway.

  By the time she reached the other end—she had done four lengths at this point—her breath was raggedy, perilously close to hyperventilation. She felt panicked and must’ve looked it, too, because the lifeguard jumped down from his perch and in a voice that carried across the pool deck asked, “Ma’am, are you in crisis?”

  She was forty-four years old and had suffered a heart attack and undergone bypass surgery. She’d run away from home and neither her husband nor her best friend had tried to contact her. And she couldn’t swim. Yes, she was in motherfucking crisis!

  “I’m fine,” she gasped.

  She managed to heave herself out of the pool and get herself back upstairs without collapsing. Up in the locker room she realized that all her things were stowed in Janice’s locker. And she had forgotten to bring a towel.

  She was on the bench, shivering, when she felt a towel being draped over her shoulders. “There you are.”

  Maribeth couldn’t answer. It wasn’t just that she was still breathless and shaking, it was that she had been caught out again. She could float, she could tread water, she could paddle, she could even approximate the strokes, but she couldn’t actually swim. How had she not known this?

  “Let’s get you warmed up,” Janice said, guiding her toward the communal showers. She stood under the water a long time, letting the heat soak the cold and sorrow and emptiness out of her. When she finally dried off, she felt as wrung out as if she’d been swimming hard laps for days.

  Janice was already dressed and packed up. Maribeth apologized.

  “What are you sorry for?” Janice asked.

  When Maribeth didn’t answer, Janice asked, “How long since your surgery?”

  She was briefly surprised. But of course, she was now naked, her medical history was etched in relief all over her skin. “Seven weeks.”

  “Why, that’s no time at all.”

  Even if she could swim, it was a certain kind of hubris, perhaps the same sort that made her think she could run away with no repercussions, to think she could simply get into the pool and go.

  She handed Janice back her towel. It was white, like a flag of surrender.

  42

  Later that afternoon, Maribeth logged on to her e-mail to search for her parents’ social security numbers. She really had given up on hearing from Jason. When she saw his message, for a brief second she wondered if he’d done that on purpose, waited the exact number of days that it would take her to go through the stages of grief and then just when she was starting to feel, if not okay, then resigned, drop an e-mail.

  But that was paranoid.

  Also that was way too much effort for Jason.

  There was no subject line, but there was a little paper clip icon in the attachments field. Had he written her a letter begging her to come home? Had he sent divorce papers?

  Okay. Take ten calming breaths. One, two—

  Her hands flew to the keyboard, opening the message, downloading the attachment. She began to read. The first line was sickeningly familiar.

  She felt vomit rise in her throat. She pushed herself away from the table. She did not want to puke on a library computer.

  After five weeks away and nearly a week since she’d e-mailed him, Jason’s response was to send back the note that she had written to him the day she’d left home. Just like that. Return to sender.

  This was what she meant to him? This was what her absence meant? So little that he had nothing new to say? All he could be bothered to do was to throw her words back at her?

  She hadn’t remembered exactly what she’d written on that rushed morning, but seeing that first line again . . . She closed the window, deleted the e-mail, and emptied the trash, erasing all traces.

  Except she couldn’t erase what Jason had done. She couldn’t believe he’d done that.

  But as she sat there, her tears drying into itchy streaks, she could. Why would Jason respond? Why would he offer to carry any of the load when he never had before? Why would he start now, after she’d done this unforgivable thing, relinquishing all rights to martyrdom, transferring them so neatly to him. On a platter. Just like always.

  She didn’t know why she’d hoped for more, but she had.

  She didn’t know what she’d expected, but not this.

  43

  Dear Liv and Oscar,

  I’m sorry

  Don’t hate me

  I’ll always be your mother

  I had to

  I left because

  44

  The next day, she was back on the couch, in her nest of blankets, the TV bleating away. Janice called to invite her swimming and she said no. Todd and Sunita texted that they were going on the weekly shopping trip that night and she didn’t respond. Janice called again to ask if she’d had any luck getting that information she’d requested and she put her off. Todd called and she didn’t answer. Janice called a third time to say that she had some potential news and why didn’t they meet at the pool tomorrow to discuss. Maribeth said maybe. Sunita texted, asking her if she wanted to go to that hipster craft fair on Saturday. Maribeth didn’t respond.

  You okay? Sunita texted.

  “I don’t know,” she answered out loud.

  AND THEN STEPHEN texted. Checking in to see how you’re doing. Also, starting to panic about Mallory’s gift. Almost bought her a banana chair.

  It was the first time she’d smiled since, well, since the last time she’d seen Stephen.

  She thought about the craft fair, which Sunita had described being like an Etsy flea market. It actually sounded like the kind of place they might find something for the discerning Mallory.

  Step away from the banana chair, Maribeth texted back.

  She kicked off the blankets.

  Screw Jason.

  45

  When Janice said she wanted to meet Maribeth at the club to discuss news about her birth-mother search, Maribeth figured it was a matter of convenience. The pool was around the corner from the school where Janice worked and she often swam on her lunch break. “Make sure you bring flip-flops this time,” Janice said. “You don’t want to catch a fungus.” Maribeth had little intention of swimming again, but in deference to Janice, she did pack a bathing suit.

  In the locker room, Janice started to undress and Maribeth started to undress with her because not to felt weird.

 
“Some potentially exciting news but I don’t want to get your hopes up too much. It’s not certain,” Janice said.

  “What?” Maribeth asked.

  “Allegheny Children’s Home, one of the oldest, still-operating adoption agencies in Pittsburgh, has a record of a baby girl with your date of birth.”

  “Is that me?” Maribeth asked.

  “It might be,” Janice replied. “We could use more information to verify. Your parents’ social security numbers would be helpful.”

  “I’ll get that as soon as I can,” she promised.

  “Once we have that, we can try to confirm. And the Orphans’ Court search is underway but I’d expect that to go on into the new year.”

  Maribeth sighed.

  Janice patted Maribeth on the arm, then glanced down at Maribeth’s bare feet. “Did you bring the flip-flops?”

  “No. But I don’t think I’ll swim today.”

  “Oh, nonsense. You brought your suit didn’t you?”

  “Well, yes, but . . .”

  “And here, I brought an extra pair.” She handed Maribeth some orange shower shoes. “If they fit, you can keep them.”

  “But I don’t think I’m going to swim.”

  “Try them on. Do they fit?”

  They were a size or two big but they would do.

  “Perfect,” Janice said. “As for your swimming, I was thinking, I could give you some tips.”

  “Tips?” Maribeth began to suspect that the meeting at the pool had not been a matter of convenience. She had been played.

  “I was a lifeguard for years. I’m not certified anymore but I’ve taught more than my share of children to swim.”

  “I’m not exactly a child,” she said.

  “I know,” Janice said. “But I’m sure I can teach you, too.”

  FIVE MINUTES LATER, Janice was presenting Maribeth with a kickboard.

  “Really?” Maribeth asked.

  “I find it’s good to start at the beginning.”

  “But I thought I just needed tips, like you said, on my form. Because I’m recovering from surgery.”

  “True. But good form sometimes means unlearning bad habits,” Janice said.

  “What bad habits?”

  “Oh, nothing specific.”

  “But it’s not as if I’ve never swum before.” She may not know how to swim properly but she could swim. Sort of.

  “Sometimes the best way to master something is to start at the beginning.”

  Any minute now Janice was going to turn into Julie Andrews and start singing.

  “Fine.” Maribeth reached for the kickboard.

  Janice held onto it. “Not so fast. Do you know how to kick?”

  She was insulted. She knew that much. “Of course I do.”

  “It’s just that most people kick with their knees bent like this.” She mimed kicking with her fingers bent at the knuckle. “But really you should keep legs straight and kick from your hip like this.” She kicked with straight fingers.

  Maribeth didn’t say anything. She had always kicked with bent knees.

  Janice demonstrated and then handed the board to Maribeth. “Don’t forget to point your toes, graceful like a ballerina.”

  Maribeth started kicking. The board flipped over and she went with it. Graceful like a water buffalo.

  “Here,” Janice said, taking the board back. “Hold it in front of you and keep your elbows straight. Then kick from your hip crease. Lightly. No need to fight the water.”

  After a few tries, the board stopped wobbling so much, and after a few more, she was able to kick straight. She went up the length of the pool, then back. Up. And back. Her hamstrings and calves started to burn and her pointed toe sent her foot into a spasm. None of it was graceful, none of it was fun. But for a moment or two there, she did zone out enough to forget about her birth mother and about Jason and the kids.

  Then Janice took the kickboard away. “That’s enough for today,” she said.

  “But I only kicked,” Maribeth said.

  “And that’s plenty for one day,” Janice repeated.

  Well, at least she was not on the verge of passing out this time. Up in the locker room, Janice reminded her to get the information about her parents. Maribeth promised it by Monday. Which was when they agreed to meet for their next swim lesson. Maribeth wasn’t sure how she felt about that, but it seemed too late to back out.

  46

  Saturday morning Maribeth texted Stephen. Pick me up at 11 or meet at the craft fair?

  A minute later, her phone rang. “I can’t make it,” Stephen said.

  He’d been so keen to go when she’d suggested it a few days ago. “Medical emergency?” she asked.

  “In a matter of speaking.” He did not sound right. His voice was not just hoarse but raw, as if he’d been drinking glass.

  “Are you sick?”

  “If I am, it’s by my own hand.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He coughed. “I am hungover, M.B. Very, very hungover.”

  “I’m coming over,” she said.

  “I’m not fit for company,” he said.

  “I don’t expect to be entertained.”

  “I’m just in very bad shape.”

  “Didn’t you once tell me that it was okay to ask for help?”

  The line was silent. Then he said: “Come over.”

  HE WAS GRAY. His hair, his skin, his rumpled, sour-smelling T-shirt, all of it gray. She knew he was nearly sixty, but this was the first time she’d thought of him as old.

  The source of his misery was sitting out on the counter: three empty wine bottles and a half-full pint of something else.

  Maribeth could see he was embarrassed by the booze, by having her witness it. So she brushed right past, brusque as can be, as if she were the cleaning lady and this were an unpleasant business but nothing unusual.

  She took the bottles out to the recycling bin, wondering if this was the scandal. A binge alcoholic cardiologist. Word would travel fast, if not to her.

  Back inside, he was hunched over a mug of coffee.

  “Warm that up for you?” she asked.

  He shook his head.

  “Can’t keep it down?” she asked.

  Another sad, little-boy shake of the head.

  She dumped the coffee and poured a glass of water and set it before him. “Do you have any Alka-Seltzer?”

  “Upstairs. Bedroom nightstand.”

  As she climbed the stairs, the treads groaned, as if the whole house were suffering. She found the large master bedroom, its king-size bed rumpled and unmade, and paused at the threshold. She could smell him, his usual scent of bergamot and leather, mixing with the spoiled-cheese aroma of vomit.

  Walking lightly on the balls of her feet, she went to his nightstand. (She assumed it was his; it was cluttered with medical journals.) She opened the drawer; inside were more medical journals, a deck of playing cards, a Kindle, some Post-it notes, but no Alka-Seltzer.

  The nightstand on the other side of the bed was bare, save for a framed wedding photo covered in a film of dust. Now Maribeth truly felt like an interloper as she opened the drawer. There, next to a package of Kleenex and a dog-eared collection of Junot Díaz stories, was an open box of Alka-Seltzer.

  Had Felicity used it to settle her stomach during the chemotherapy? Had she read the Díaz stories to take her mind away from the bleakness of her present? The uncertainty of her future?

  The master bathroom smelled strongly of vomit. Holding her breath, she rifled through the medicine cabinet, found a bottle of pain reliever, and went back downstairs.

  Stephen sat at the counter, staring into space, the glass of water untouched. She dissolved the Alka-Seltzer and tapped his hand. She placed three tablets of Tylenol in his palm. “Swallow,” she commanded. “Drink.”

  He drank the water, eyes closed, in one gulp. Maribeth resisted the urge to say “good boy.” When he belched, the fumes were strong enough to give her a contact buzz. br />
  “Better?” she asked.

  A grimacing attempt at a smile. “A little.”

  “I’m going to make you eggs, something greasy. It’ll absorb whatever booze is left in you.”

  “Who’s the doctor now?” he said weakly.

  “Do you have eggs?”

  He nodded toward the refrigerator. It was mostly empty. But it did have half a dozen eggs, some half-and-half, and some butter.

  “How about hot sauce?” she asked.

  He nodded toward the pantry. She shuffled around and found several specialty bottles of CaJohn, a Trinidadian brand. She wondered if that was where Felicity was from. Or maybe they got it on holiday there. Or maybe they just liked hot sauce.

  “We’re two for two,” she said. “Going for a trifecta. Bread?”

  “Try the freezer.”

  She found some hamburger rolls and set them out to thaw. She beat the eggs with half-and-half and salt and pepper, heated the skillet, and melted a pat of butter and poured in the eggs.

  “How come my kitchen only smells good when you’re here?” Stephen asked.

  “I’ll take it as a sign of progress that you think food smells good.” She popped the rolls into the toaster oven, gave the eggs a toss with the spatula, sprinkled on the hot sauce.

  “Where did you learn to cook?”

  “It’s only scrambled eggs, Stephen. Pretty basic.”

  “But you know how to cook properly. I can tell.”

  “I do. I learned from a magazine.”

  “How industrious.”

  “Not from reading it, from working at one. My first job was at a cooking magazine. Before that I could make macaroni and cheese from a box.”

  “How’d you get a job at a cooking magazine then?”

  “I faked it. The week before my interview I read cookbooks and food magazines and watched cooking shows, so that by the time I showed up, I was Julia Child.”