“When we split, when we were in court the day we were granted the divorce, it felt to me like we were in a play of some kind. It just was so unreal. And after it was over, when we came outside, he said something I barely heard, it was as though I were underwater. But what he said was an apology. He was apologizing for the way we’d failed each other, the way we’d hurt each other, the way we hadn’t been able to rescue ourselves from such terrible ruin. And you know what I said? I shook his hand and said, ‘We’ll be in touch about Sandy.’ ”
She sighs. “There’s so much I didn’t realize about what divorce does. For one thing, it doesn’t go away. It doesn’t go away.
“Sandy sees him at least once a month and I don’t know what they talk about, but for so long now she’s been incredibly hostile to me. It might not have anything to do with Steven, it might just be her age—when I was twenty, I hated my mother as a matter of principle; her breathing pissed me off. Or it might be Sandy’s own problems that I’m not aware of—she doesn’t talk to me like she used to.
“Whatever it is, things are just so cold between us, and oftentimes I wish I could talk to someone who really knows her. Someone who knew her when she was that sweet little girl in her favorite patent leather shoes, holding on to her blankie. The preteen who used my baster as a microphone to sing Madonna songs in front of her mirror. And the only person who shares all those memories of her is my ex.”
Lise has been staring into the night, talking, but now she turns to look at me. “What do you think about my going to see him?”
“I think it’s up to you and him.”
“Yeah. I wonder what he’d be like with me.”
“It’s hard to say, I guess.”
“I also wonder if I have other motives, ones I haven’t admitted to myself.”
We fall silent, and then she says, “Cece? Would you go and get your box?”
When Renie comes home, we tell her: Lise is coming on the road trip. Just to go, but also maybe to see someone.
“And then they were three,” Renie says.
“DO YOU REMEMBER MARY LOU SINGLETON?” MY MOTHER ASKS me. I’ve come to visit her before I go to the Arms. And I did call ahead.
“The woman with the little black dog?”
“Right. Fala. Well, she died. Mary Lou, not Fala.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. You liked her, right?”
“She was nice. I used to play Chicken Feet with her.” A card game a lot of the residents here enjoy.
“Was it … sudden?” I ask.
My mother shrugs. “No death is sudden, here. If you know what I mean.”
“I guess not.”
Then, to change the subject, I say, “Hey. Do you remember Dennis Halsinger?”
She sniffs and looks away from me. We’re sitting in the vast dining room, and we’re the only ones here. There’s coffee available all the time, and it’s delicious; I like to sit here with my mom sometimes and have some. There’s a nice view of the garden outside the glass doors, and birds come regularly to the feeder they have out there. Squirrels, too, and one of the women goes after them with a broom.
“Dennis Halsinger was that hippie. You always seemed to think so much of him.”
“Yes, I did.”
“He was a handsome young man, but he didn’t take care of himself.”
“He took care of himself!”
“Oh, he wore those leather vests with no shirt and his hair was much too long. And he wore necklaces.”
“He wore a necklace. Which many men do now. Including your beloved Twins.”
“Well, his was a hippie necklace. But why are you asking about him? Have you heard from him?”
“Yes, I have, I got a letter out of the blue, and I’m going to go and see him.”
“Doesn’t he live in Hawaii?”
“He was in Tahiti, but he’s in Cleveland now.”
“Cleveland! What’s he doing there?”
“He came back because …” I don’t want to say his mother died. “He missed being in the States.”
“Well, you do what you want. The one I always liked was Greg Larson.”
“I know you did.”
“Cece?”
Here it comes, I think. She’ll ask me why I don’t try to find Greg Larson. But I am wrong. What she says is “Would you have any feelings about my getting married again?”
Spencer Thompson? Big ears? “Would I have any feelings about it?” I say.
“Shhh!” my mother says, looking around.
“There’s no one here,” I say.
“People wander in.”
I lower my voice, lean in closer to her. “Of course I would have feelings about it! Is that what you want to do, get married again?”
“It’s not for love and romance so much as it is for practical reasons. You should hear your father carry on every time I use that step stool to reach up to the top shelves in the kitchen.”
“Why are you reaching up into those shelves? We specifically organized your kitchen so that you wouldn’t have to go up there. All that’s up there is holiday dishes, and you know I’ll come and get them out when you need them.”
“And he’s worried about my being alone so much.”
“You’re not alone so much!”
“Well, that’s exactly what I told him. But he feels I’d be better off with someone around. Especially at night.”
“Ma, if you want to get married, I’m glad for you. It’s just taking me a little by surprise.”
“Well, me, too.”
“You mean, when he asked you?”
“No. I mean when your father told me to get married. I haven’t been asked yet. I’ve got to think about who I might want.”
Meet my mother.
“Tell me honestly, honey, what do you think is more important, money or sex appeal? Mary Lou always said a sense of humor, but you know that won’t pay the bills.”
“Good luck, Ma,” I say, and she says, “You, too.”
I’m not sure, but I think I liked it better when she was my mother and not my girlfriend.
ANNIE SULLIVAN AND I HAVE GONE OVER A FEW THINGS FOR our brief training session, which mostly is focused on communication. She has coached me in listening techniques—reflection, clarification, and so on—and impressed on me the importance of a silence that is active, that suggests a kind of willingness and acceptance. “And when you speak, err on the side of brevity,” she said.
She told me about what posture conveys on the parts of both the client and the attendant, how it is important that you not seem put upon. She told me that grief takes many forms, from hilarity to hostility, and to be willing to accept what may seem like odd behavior as being completely normal, under the circumstances. She said that sometimes when a person’s body is ready to stop, even wanting to stop, the person will nonetheless linger because of important or unresolved issues.
Most of this I already knew and was comfortable with. But then she told me what to do if Michael seemed to be in pain, if he vomited, if he lost control of his bladder or bowels. He probably would not ask for anything, including food or drink; he had been eating very little, but just so I knew, he was allowed anything he wanted in the way of food. I nodded, but for the first time I felt nervous. I wondered if I should be doing this after all. There was a reason that my first reaction when Penny suggested it was one of incredulity.
“One last thing,” Annie says now. “Perhaps the most important thing. You need to be honest. These clients are very sensitive to artifice of any kind, they don’t have time for that. Okay?”
“Yes.”
She pushes back in her chair, puts her hands flat on her desk, and says, “So. There’s our crash course. Any questions?”
“No. Not yet, anyway.”
“Call on any of the staff if you need us for anything.”
“I will.”
We stand, shake hands, and she says, “Thanks for stepping in this way. It will give me a few days to train someone else to take o
ver when you leave.”
I nod, start to leave the office, and she calls my name.
“One last thing. You should know that he probably won’t or can’t thank you. Don’t take it personally.”
“Oh, I don’t expect him to thank me,” I say. “I only want to help if I can.”
I follow her upstairs, and she is leading me to Michael’s room when her pager goes off. “He’s right there,” she says, pointing to the room a few steps away. I recall it from my last visit. “I’ve got to go. Are you okay?”
I nod.
I go to his room and knock lightly on the open door. He is turned away, but when he hears the knock, he turns toward me.
“I’m Cecilia Ross,” I say. “Cece.”
He stares at me.
“I’m here to—”
“I know why you’re here. Have a seat.”
I go to the chair by the window and put my purse on the windowsill. When I turn around, his eyes are closed. I sit down and wait.
Two hours later, I haven’t done anything but stand guard, wait to see if Michael will open his eyes or speak, and read to myself from the book I brought along. As I stand to leave, I hear him say something. “Pardon?” I say. I walk to the side of the bed, lean in closer. “I’m sorry; I didn’t hear you.”
“I said thank you.” Two words that, coming from him, assume an entirely disproportionate weight.
“You’re welcome,” I say. I had wanted to do so much more for him.
As I am almost out the door, I hear him say, “You’d never think it would be boring, right?”
I turn around. “I wasn’t bored!”
“I am.”
“Oh! Oh, well, I …”
What to say? I think of Annie telling me that it’s important to be honest, and so I am honest. I say, “I hadn’t thought of that. Would you like me to maybe read to you next time?”
“When’s next time?”
“Tomorrow.”
He sighs. “Yes.”
“Anything in particular?”
“Oh,” he says, “I don’t know.” He points to the book I have under my arm. “Is that poetry?”
I nod.
“Maybe that.”
“Do you have any favorite poets?”
An immense sorrow comes into his face.
“How about if I just bring a variety?” I ask quickly. “Jane Hirshfield, Billy Collins, Marie Howe?”
“Charles Simic?”
“Of course. I’ll bring him, too.”
He nods. “Good.”
“Tomorrow, then.” I hold my hand up, and he does the same, then closes his eyes again.
At the end of the hall, I see a young woman with long blond hair in a ponytail. She’s wearing a stylish trench coat, a blue silk dress beneath it, low heels. She carries a briefcase and a purse. Michael’s fiancée! I stop short, thinking, I’ll go back to his room. If she tries to come in, I’ll gently rebuff her. If that doesn’t work, I’ll call out for staff. But then she opens the door to another room and I hear her say, “Grandma?”
Embarrassed by my apparent willingness to gin up for war, I continue on my way.
In the lobby, I see Annie, and she smiles and comes over. “So?”
“It was fine,” I say.
“No sign of his fiancée?”
“No, although I saw a young woman I thought at first might be her. But she went into another room.”
Annie frowns. “I’m sorry; I completely forgot to tell you what Phoebe looks like.”
“That’s her name? Phoebe? What a lovely, old-fashioned name.”
“Yes, and she seems to be a lovely, old-fashioned girl. Very sweet and gentle, except when it comes to her determination to see someone who clearly does not want to see her.”
I nod, then say, “But … is it so clear, really?”
“It is, unfortunately. In his three weeks here, he has never vacillated. I suppose he has his own reasons. He won’t talk about her other than to say he doesn’t want to see her. At all. And she’s the only one who has come to visit.”
“His family? Does he not have family?”
“His parents are dead, and he didn’t care to name anyone else as a relative. And if he has friends, he must have asked that they not come, either. It may be hard to understand, but I have to take him at his word when he says that that’s the way he wants it. Did he talk to you at all?”
“He did. Just as I was leaving. It’s funny … he said he was bored.”
Annie nods. “I’ve heard that before. One woman told me that even the pain got boring. I asked if it helped to have visitors, and she said, ‘It’s not that kind of boredom.’ ”
Now it’s my turn to nod. I’m not sure exactly what that woman meant, yet I feel the truth of her words. I tell Annie, “We agreed that I would read some poetry to him tomorrow.”
“Wonderful.”
“So … what does Phoebe look like?”
“Oh, she’s lovely. Long blond hair. Tall and quite slender. Always well dressed.”
I swallow. “That was her, then! I think it was! But she went into a room two doors down, the one at the end of the hall.”
“That room is empty.”
Quickly, we go together up the stairs and down the hall to the room Phoebe went into. No one is there. Then we go on to Michael’s room, where he lies sleeping. Annie tiptoes in and checks the bathroom. She shakes her head no when she comes out. We go back downstairs and she walks me to the door.
“Well, you’ll know for tomorrow,” Annie says.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Not your fault! She came late today, though. I’ll have to remember that.” She sighs. “She had given up for a while; she didn’t come five days in a row, as far as I know. But here she is, back at it. If I can catch her, I’ll try talking to her. Again.”
THAT NIGHT, I’M IN MY ROOM, THINKING ABOUT SEEING DENNIS, wondering what we’ll say to each other. What does anyone say to anybody who used to be so important in her life, whom she’s not seen in such a long time? It seems to me that in situations like this, we’re all wondering the same thing: I’m still me; are you still you?
A woman named Nancy who drove me around Cincinnati at one of my speaking gigs had just gotten back from a business trip to Miami. She said she’d heard an old boyfriend lived there, and she found him online, then called him to see if he’d like to get together for old times’ sake. She was divorced and sick of the men she was meeting on Match.com, and she really wanted to spend a little time with an attractive guy she felt safe with. She called his home and he answered the phone and she said, very tentatively, “Hi, is this Ben?” and he yelled, “Nance?”—he remembered her, just like that.
They both started laughing and then talking a mile a minute; she said it was like no time at all had passed, they might as well have been back in high school, where he used to walk her to class and be late for his own so often they finally stopped giving him detention slips. After they talked awhile, she told him she was coming to Miami and asked if they could meet for coffee. He said he’d have to ask his wife, which sort of doused the flames, but she held on while he did ask, thinking she’d wear blue, he’d always liked her in blue.
The wife said no. Even after Nancy got on the phone with her to say that she was just an old friend and the wife was welcome to come, too. No, the wife said, she didn’t think it was a good idea.
When Ben got back on the phone to say goodbye, Nancy gave him the address of her hotel, but he never showed, never called.
“I mean, I suggested coffee, not even a drink,” she said. “Meeting for coffee, what’s wrong with that?”
I raised an eyebrow, and she sighed and said, “I know.”
A knock on the door, and I say, “Come in.”
It’s Joni. She comes over and sits at the foot of my bed. “I have to get a bunch of new clothes.”
“Oh? Why?”
“I’m in love. I might be in love. I really like this guy. Jeffrey Mitchell. Isn
’t that a nice name?”
“Yes, it is. Good for you!”
“Yeah. I want to get some new clothes and all new makeup. Even new socks, I saw the cutest socks, and you know what was on them? Whisks! I’m going to get them and a whole bunch of other things, some really pretty dresses, too.”
“And you’re going to lose ten pounds, right?”
She looks at me. “You think I need to lose ten pounds?”
“No, it’s just something that so many women say when they meet a guy they like.”
“Well, I don’t have to lose weight.”
“I know.”
“Maybe five pounds.”
“Not even that.”
She leans toward me, embracing herself. “I’m excited.”
“I know.”
“I mean, really excited!” she squeals.
“Yes, I can see that.”
“Well. Good night.”
“Good night.”
When she gets to the door, she turns around. “I’m kind of embarrassed, being this excited—and at this age!”
“You’re in good company.” I slide down to rest my head on my pillow. I wonder how much weight I can lose in a week. Once, I put the pedal to the metal and lost seven pounds in a week, but then I got scared that I had some deadly disease and ate a pizza just to make sure and three pounds came right back on. And then, of course, the other four.
IN THE MORNING, I DRESS AND SHOWER EARLY, THEN COME DOWNSTAIRS just as Renie is leaving.
“I’m going in for a meeting at the paper,” she says. She puts on her raincoat and belts it tightly. “Guess what. I got an email from her this morning.”
“Your daughter?”
“Yes.”
“What’d she say?”
“She’d rather not see me. As I elected quite a while ago not to have anything to do with her. Also, she thinks the name Camille is just weird and why did I even tell her that. Also, she is not about to dishonor her real mother by seeing me.”