“But we have your bedroom ready for you,” Stella protested. It was true—we had been under the impression that Samantha was going to stay the night.
“No, I was always leaving today. I didn’t say that?” Samantha smoothed her hand over the lacy doily on the coffee table, avoiding looking at us. “They really need me at my conference. And I’m up for an award.”
“An award!” Stella weakly clapped her hands. “Well, then! What kind of award?”
“A…real estate award.” Samantha looked at me, her eyes pleading.
I could tell she’d just tacked this on in a panic. Stella had probably caught on to this already, I realized next. But we both gave in. What was the point of arguing? “Well, all right,” I said. “I guess we could go today. Stella, you up for going to Wal-Mart today?”
“I think I could manage,” Stella said, putting a gloved hand to a yellowish cheek.
“Good,” I answered. I raised my wine glass and looked at Samantha. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” Samantha answered, snapping back to her new self. In a few minutes, she carried her wine glass to the sink and poured it down the drain.
nineteen
My father didn’t seem that surprised when I gave up my fellowship two years ago, and he hadn’t pushed me to explain why I’d stayed. After I watched my flight to Dublin take off, I’d come home and picked up the dogs from Mrs. Church, the woman down the street who’d volunteered to adopt them until my father was back from his “rest cure”—his description, not mine. Mrs. Church seemed so relieved when I showed up at the door, saying that as soon as I had left, the dogs had eaten a shepherd’s pie that was sitting on her kitchen counter, knocked over a coffeepot, and lapped up the coffee. Only Wesley greeted Mrs. Church when she returned to the kitchen, leading Mrs. Church to believe that he either had some remorse for what he’d done or that he possibly wasn’t involved at all.
The Christmas of 1998, the first Christmas my father was at the Center, he and I celebrated in the facility’s common room with some of the other patients. There was a fir tree in the middle of the room, a roaring fire in the fireplace, and six inches of glittering snow outside. My father squealed when he saw I’d brought Wesley with me, which only reminded me that he never squealed when he saw me.
Bing Crosby was on constant repeat on the Center’s stereo. There was a marathon game of Scrabble, the aides making sure no one used any words that would upset anyone else. Everyone ate with plastic utensils, and the pecan pie was eschewed because everyone seemed to have a nut allergy. It didn’t really feel like Christmas.
When Christmas came around again in 1999, I helped my father move into the Center’s “rehabilitation” property, an old manor at the corner of its grounds. Merewether was built for patients who could handle more space and freedom but still wanted day-to-day treatment. My father wanted to move there on Christmas Day—it was his present to himself.
The day was icy and bright, and we had to be careful carrying my father’s bags up the slippery front steps. I felt charmed by Merewether’s cozy Craftsman-style detailing, dusty Mission furniture, upholstered window seats, and drafty farmhouse kitchen. There was a big fir tree in Merewether’s living room, too, only this one felt more appropriate. Sweeter. Not many residents were around—most had gone to visit family, as Merewether patients were allowed to leave the Center’s premises for a few hours each day. There was an older woman who was a wonderful painter; she gave paintings to the other housemates as Christmas gifts, even one to my father, though he’d just moved in. There was an overweight man who spoke very softly and cried when we sat down to Christmas dinner, prepared for us by some of the aides and the chef they’d brought over from the main building. There was an emaciated girl in her twenties, barely older than me, with dark hair and translucent skin. They were nice, though, and grateful for a celebration. I didn’t mind my father living with them.
My father laughed and joked with the aides. Wesley came again and sat on everyone’s laps. We talked about how this might be the last Christmas of our existence—Y2K was upon us, and there was a lot of half-baked talk about water pipes exploding, massive floods, planes falling out of the sky, and bank accounts dissolving into rows and rows of zeroes. There was even a round of singing, the thin girl banging out Christmas carols on the house’s old piano.
That winter, my father and I set a time every night to talk on the phone, but suddenly I would call and he wouldn’t be there. When I did catch him, he was often distracted, getting off quickly. We’d agreed to read a John Irving novel together and conduct an over-the-phone book group, but when I asked him about it a few weeks later, he admitted he hadn’t started it yet. A good chunk of the winter went by when I would call, leave a message, and it would take him days to call back. When we spoke on the phone, he asked me such small and generic questions, as if I were a distant relative, or perhaps a friend’s child: How was my new job? How was the guy I was dating? I began answering in monotone, insulted.
Or was I just being sensitive? Was he just busy, or was he avoiding me? Perhaps there was something he wasn’t telling me. Perhaps there was something I’d done. The paranoia mounted through the spring, creeping up without me quite knowing it, until I realized three weeks had gone by and I hadn’t called him—nor had he called me. Who had not called first? Who had started this?
I finally visited him on a bright day in early August, eight months after he’d moved into Merewether. I took Metro-North, got a cab at the station, gave my name at the security desk at the Center’s front gate, and a golf cart picked me up and drove me to Merewether’s doorstep. Merewether didn’t allow any cars on its premises; everyone got around by golf cart or bicycle or on foot, not unlike a retirement community.
My father opened the door to Merewether himself, announcing that the others in the house had gone to see the new Austin Powers movie at the big theater in town. I stepped into the house tentatively, unsure of how to greet him. We awkwardly hugged, then moved away from one another. I looked around. The front room’s furniture was lumpy and comfortable, the pillows missing some of their batting. A Big Mouth Billy Bass—the electronic novelty that sang “Take Me to the River”—was propped up against a credenza across the room. There was plenty of evidence of the other housemates—a pale blue cardigan hanging from one of the coat hooks, a wrinkled copy of The Stand by Stephen King facedown on the front room’s easy chair, a pair of eyeglasses on the round table. Next to the glasses was a large note that said, Without speaking, without silence, how can you express the truth?
My father noticed me looking at it. “We sometimes write koans for each other.”
“Koans?”
“Philosophical sayings. For meditation. Leahanne is a Buddhist. She got us into it. It’s really useful.”
I assumed Leahanne must have been another Merewether resident. “So…you like everyone in the house?” I asked.
“Sure,” he answered. “They’re very nice. They love animals as much as I do. I’m trying to see if we can get an indoor cat.”
I laughed. “Right.”
“What?”
“You’re not a cat person, Dad.”
His face clouded, offended. “I like all animals.”
My father took me out to Merewether’s backyard and showed me the apple tree, the plot of dirt for flowers and vegetables, the wheelbarrow. “I have a new job,” he declared. “I’m replanting the garden, weeding and mulching and making sure that the bulbs are evenly spaced.”
“Why aren’t you in the office anymore?” Last year, his doctor told me that once the patients graduated to Merewether, the hospital staff gave them small jobs. They’d assigned my father to the accounts office; he was to update pertinent information into the Center’s database.
He shrugged. “Because I’m doing this now.”
“Did something…happen in the office?”
He stiffened. “I just didn’t want to work in the office. It was my decision.”
I held up my han
ds, surprised by his defensiveness. It was unusually brave of him. “Okay, okay,” I said. “I got it.”
My nose filled with the earthy smell of mulch and dirt. When my father first went to the Center, his therapist told me that breakdowns were very likely within the first two months. When that didn’t happen, he told me that if the patient doesn’t have a breakdown in the first two months, he is almost guaranteed to have one in the following six months. He said I shouldn’t be alarmed if my father had to move back into the Center’s main facility for a while—it was actually a sign of progress. I was confused. A breakdown was now progress?
Yet my father looked strong. He told me on the phone a few months ago that he’d begun playing tennis. An instructor came out on Tuesdays and Saturdays, and a group of them were talking about holding a tournament later in the summer. I was happy for him, but I didn’t want to say it out loud or even feel it too strongly in case that might jinx it.
My father made sandwiches for lunch and brought them out to the patio, remarking that the tomatoes were from the garden. “So how’s work?” he asked, taking a big bite.
That generic question, yet again. “Fine.” I noticed a big blob of tomato on his cheek, and leaned over and mopped it up.
“Doing anything in the lab?” he mustered.
“I’m not licensed to do that, Dad. I’m just the office assistant.”
“You’re smarter than everyone that works there. Are you going to apply to grad school?”
“It’s too late now. I missed the deadline for fall.”
“Apply for spring. It would be a waste not to go, if they’re paying for it.”
Dr. Hughes had found me a job at NYU’s genetic counseling office. When she introduced the possibility, she kept apologizing for its meagerness—“It’s like a glorified assistant’s job. I’ll see if I can get them to give you some more challenging projects, and it’s a great way to go back to grad school, because working for NYU means they’ll comp your tuition, but still, it’s awfully menial”—to the point where it annoyed me. Maybe menial is all I can manage, I wanted to say.
Most of the counselors at the genetics clinic were sweet, soft-spoken, adequately educated women, there to gently explain the details of Tay-Sachs disease and sickle-cell anemia and spina bifida to couples who were either already pregnant or thinking of conceiving. A guy named Alex, twenty-five, was in charge of the billing department, gathering people’s insurance information and asking for up-front payments and making sure bills weren’t outstanding. The women in the office loved Alex in a mother-hen way. The first thing people noticed about him was his size: he was six-five, broad, with hamlike arms and powerful legs. And he was a fan of wearing the same color tie and dress shirt, like Regis Philbin. One day, as we were both leaving the office at the same time, he’d asked if I wanted to get a cup of coffee. It was the way most people started dating, I realized. Not after years and years of tempestuous pining—as I’d done with Philip—but casually, curiously.
My father stood up and carried our dishes into the house. When he came back out, he asked me if I could help him put up a chickenwire fence around one of the trees. I was to hold the posts steady and upright, and he would hammer them into the ground.
The sledgehammer had an awkward center of gravity; it took my father by surprise. The first time he swung it, he missed the top of the post completely. The second time, he hit the side. I watched as his hands shook, probably a side effect of his medication.
“Maybe you should let me do it,” I suggested.
“It’s pretty heavy.”
He finally hit the top of the post, but it was a tentative, ineffectual little tap.
“You have to give it more force than that,” I said with a laugh.
My father dropped the sledge to the ground. It fell heavily, the wooden handle tipping into the dirt. The air was absolutely still. He trudged over to the graying, splintered picnic table and sat down. When I lifted my head, he was staring at me peacefully.
“What’s going on with you, Summer?” he asked. He didn’t sound wounded or fragile, merely curious. “I haven’t heard from you in a long time.”
A bird let out a very long call. My heart pounded. You haven’t heard from me? I wanted to say. You’re the one who doesn’t answer your phone! “N-nothing,” I stammered, stunned. There was a tinny buzzing in my head where thoughts should have been.
“You seem different,” he said, cocking his head to the right. “I’m not sure how, but you do.”
I blinked, flummoxed. I seemed different? And I wondered if I somehow did seem different to him. “Is it because of that guy you’re dating?” he went on, almost sounding hopeful. “Alex?”
Alex? My heart sank; my father and I really didn’t talk. Alex and I had fallen into a pattern with which I was mostly unfamiliar but pretended as best as I could that I’d had plenty of practice in. He took me out to eat and to the movies, always paying. Things hadn’t moved too quickly or too slowly, but rather followed a very proper timetable, as if he’d read about when to do what in some sort of manual.
But I knew my relationship with him wasn’t going anywhere. One night, while we were lying in bed, he’d propped himself up on his elbows and told me he loved me. It was like he’d flung himself from a tall tower. His face was flushed, his pupils huge. He asked me if I loved him back, but I couldn’t say anything. I just stared, dumbstruck. How could he love me? What had I done that was so incredible? I wanted to say that I loved him, too, but I knew I didn’t mean it, so the words wouldn’t come. I wasn’t sure if I was equipped to love anyone.
Moreover, Alex knew nothing about me—I’d told him nothing about my mother leaving, my father’s condition. It was amazing, actually, that he didn’t know, considering that Dr. Hughes had ties with the office and had probably said something to someone there. But he believed what I told him—my father lived across the country, and we didn’t speak.
I poked my finger into the chicken wire. “You seem different, too,” I said, my voice a childish whine.
My father stretched his arms to the sky. “I guess I am different. I feel pretty great. Better than I’ve felt in a long time.”
“You…do?”
He nodded. “I’ve been seeing a great new doctor. His name is Walter, and he’s a million times better than anyone else I’ve seen. I feel so much…clearer.”
I hadn’t been told he was seeing a new doctor. “You call the doctor by his first name?”
“He asks that we do. And I’ve been on meds I haven’t had to change for months. It’s like, after all these years, I finally got the right combination. I feel like I’ve finally emerged from a cave. I’ve even thought about leaving here soon.”
“You mean to come back to Brooklyn?”
One corner of his mouth curled up. “It’s where I live.”
I stared at him for a few long seconds, silent.
He crossed his arms over his chest, still smiling. “Don’t act so ecstatic.”
“No, I mean, I’m happy,” I said quickly. “Of course I’m happy. It’s wonderful that you’re feeling better. But, I mean, are you sure?”
I wanted to ask him if he was thinking of leaving soon. What would he do, back in Brooklyn? Would he try to find a job?
He gazed out at the farmland beyond Merewether’s split-rail fence. “You know I’ll always love you.”
I started up. “I love you, too.”
There was a pause, and then he said, “The accident I got in years ago. I told you about the girl that died, right? Kay? We saw her grave in Cobalt?”
I rubbed my eyes. “Yeah. Sure.”
He stared off at the woods. “She was in a coma for weeks after the accident. They kept her alive, but not because they thought she’d live. Because…she was pregnant.”
Far off, a car door slammed. A few birds took off from a nearby tree. “She was pregnant?” I repeated.
“It was unthinkable, really. They knew she was going to die, but they also found out she w
as pregnant. They wanted to see if they could save the child.”
“Were you there?”
“Well…no.”
“Why not?”
“Her fiancé was there. Her family.”
“But you were her friend. You didn’t see her?”
He took a sip of water and stared at the outdoor thermometer mounted on a post next to the house. “No.”
I tried to process this, to make sense of why he’d chosen this moment to tell me. “So I guess the baby died?” I asked. I tried to remember if I’d seen a smaller headstone beside Kay’s. I couldn’t remember one, but then, I hadn’t been looking.
“What?” my father asked.
“The baby. It died, right?”
He bent down and picked up the sledge, and then leaned it against a tree. “I’m thirsty. Do you want more water? Or another tomato, maybe? It’s good with a just a little salt and basil. I think I’m going to get one for myself.” He started for the door.
I glared at his receding back. He was always like this; he hated discussing things that had died, adults or children, even animals and trees. He couldn’t watch nature programs because they always involved something strong killing something weak. By the time he came back outside, the other housemates had returned from the movies, bumping around the house noisily, saying Austin Powers catchphrases like “Yeah, baby!” and “Danger is my middle name” in swaggering British accents. The conversation quickly veered somewhere else.
On my way home, pressed against the window on the Metro-North train, I felt unsettled, as if I’d left something behind. I started planning the next time my father and I would talk. It would be better. I would be better. I would ask him about gardening and tennis. What was bothering me, anyway? Didn’t I want a father who played tennis and gardened and interacted with society? Didn’t I want him to be well?
At work, I watched patients in the waiting room. There were pregnant women with fretful looks on their faces, pale couples trying desperately to conceive, mothers who’d already had a child die from leukemia and were mining their chromosomes to see if something inside of them had caused it.