Acts of Contrition (27 page)

A few hours later, Sean wakes up slowly, blinks and coughs, struggles to sit up. He’s disoriented and confused. When Colleen smooths the hair on his forehead and tells him it’s okay, the furrow between his brow unknots itself. His gaze locks onto hers like an anchor, like her sapphire eyes alone have the power to buoy him in troubled waters.

“What…?” he croaks. “Where…what…?”

“You’re in the hospital,” Colleen says gently. She’s straightened herself, wiped her eyes, plastered on a smile. Her composure has come back before my eyes, like a Polaroid developing into focus. I’m astonished. She was able to let go with pure, uninhibited love and emotion when he was in surgery and after, still groggy, but now that Sean’s coming to, her strength is erected again. Is it that she feels he doesn’t deserve seeing her reduced to tears? She’ll cry for him, but she won’t let him know it. Hmm. The dignified lady she is has politely yet firmly kicked the frantic lady in the butt with a solid
I’ll take it from here.

I’ll forgive you, but…
That’s Colleen’s caveat, it seems. She forgives Sean, but she won’t let him see her vulnerable side. She won’t let him see how much she truly cares. That’s her armor, her protection.
I’ll forgive you, but…

Sean looks at me, scans the room, baffled and worried. “Where’s Tom? Where am I?”

“You had a heart attack, Sean,” Colleen says. “A heart attack. The surgeon had to do a triple bypass on you.”

It takes a moment for Sean to process the enormity of this, like trying to get a good grip around an awkward piece of furniture. Then he begins to weep, jagged little gulps of sobs.

“I’ll be right out here,” I say to Colleen, and then step into the hallway. The doctor is walking by. “Excuse me!” I say. “Sean Morrissey, in this room.” I point. “Is he really going to be okay?”

“Your father should be better than he was before.”

“My father-in-law,” I say. “Not that it matters.”

“You’re right,” he says. “It doesn’t. When you’re married, it all gets thrown into the mix.”

I check my phone, call Mom, call Tom’s boss, Chuck. By the time I’m finished with the phone calls, I do the math and figure that Tom should have landed by now. I dread dumping this on him when he’s so far away. I know how helpless he’s going to feel. I dial.

Tom answers on the third ring. There’s the commotion of the airport in the background. I hear Patrick say something about getting something to eat.

“How was your flight?” I ask stupidly, trying to spare Tom for another minute.

“Long, very long,” Tom says. “You’d think there would be some more legroom on an overseas flight, but no luck.”

“Yeah,” I say, “did they feed you?”

“Just one of those boxed lunch things. It wasn’t too bad.”

“Probably anything tasted good on a flight that long.” I smile and realize that we’re having a conversation. I close my eyes and wish that we could just
talk,
have some inane conversation about legroom and airplane food, but I know that I need to tell him. “Listen, Tom, first let me say that
the kids are fine
. In fact,
everything’s fine
.” It’s in the parents’ code: Never start bad news without the reassurance that all of the kids are fine. A parent’s heart can only withstand a few seconds without air when there’s a possibility of harm to one’s child.

“What happened, Mary?” Tom says, his voice breaking.

“Your father, Tom. He had a heart attack.”

“What?”

“He had a heart attack, but he went through surgery—triple bypass—and the doctors say he’s going to be fine.”

“How’d this happen? Where’s Mom? What did she do? Is anyone with her? God, we’re both
here
! She’s all alone. Are her sisters coming?”

“Tom, stop!” I say. “I’m here. I’m with your mother. She’s fine. And yes, I’ve called her sisters and they’re coming the day after tomorrow. But I’m here and I’m going to stay for as long as they need me, so don’t worry.”

“You’re
there
?” he asks in a little boy’s voice. “You’re in Virginia Beach?”

“Of course, Tom. I left the second she called.”

“And the kids?”

“Mom and Dad have it covered.”

“And Dad is out of surgery and he’s doing okay?” Tom clarifies.

“That’s right. I just saw him.”

“He hasn’t been feeling well,” Tom says. “For a while.”

“I know,” I say, because it’s true: For months now Colleen has told us that Sean has been subpar.

I hear Tom sniff, clear his throat. “Well,
thank you,
Mary,” he says in a very official voice, but I know better.

“Okay, then,” Tom says. “Let me make some calls and see if I can get on a plane back tonight. Maybe the plane I came on just refuels and heads home. I’ll have to go to the counter and ask. And I’ll have to call Chuck. Let me make some calls and I’ll get back to you.”

“Listen, Tom,” I say. “I know this is your dad and you’re going to do whatever you feel that you have to do, but I talked to Chuck and he said of course he’ll bring you home immediately, and that he would reschedule the presentation and send another guy. But I told Chuck to hold on. I told him that I’d try to convince you to stay,
just for tomorrow,
to do the presentation. Here’s the thing, Tom. Your father is in a hospital bed recuperating.
He’s going to be here tomorrow and the next day and the next day. The heart attack is over. The surgery is over. So why don’t you at least stay and do the presentation? You’ve been working on it for a month and some other guy isn’t going to be able to do it as well as you. What do you think? Trust me, Tom. Everything is fine here. If it weren’t, I would tell you.”

I hear Tom take in a gigantic breath and exhale noisily. “I don’t know, Mary. I mean, my dad just had a heart attack. I should be there.”

“And you will be. All I’m saying is that I don’t think it matters whether it’s tomorrow or the next day. It’s up to you, honey.” I say
honey
before I’m aware it’s exiting my mouth. It’s been months since Tom and I have used any term of endearment for each other. We stick purely to our very formal Tom and Mary Show.

“Okay,” he says. “Let me think about it. I’ll call you back.”

We say good-bye, but neither of us hangs up.

“Mary,” Tom says finally.

“Yeah?”

“Nothing,” he says. “I’ll call you back.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Principles

TOM

I STARE INTO THE AIRPORT,
but my vision is messed up, like I can’t remember how to read. I’m looking at the signs above baggage claim and I can’t seem to remember what flight we were on, what city we came from, the name of the airline. Tourist billboards are plastered on every wall, the castles, the green hills, the mossy cliffs. Patrick’s outside, I guess, smoking. I look around for the shoulder bag he brought on the plane because, knowing Patrick, he probably left it on a bench somewhere, but then I realize that it’s hanging from my shoulder, along with my computer bag. I can’t think! What else did I have with me? Aer Lingus, that’s it! Where the hell is the Aer Lingus counter? Upstairs, likely. Where the hell is Patrick, smoking an entire pack?
Oh God, Dad.
My father, a heart attack.
Oh God, Dad.

And Mary’s there. Of course she’s there. She’s there taking care of my parents and I’m way the hell over here with my
brother instead of her. I’m hurting, God, I’m hurting, but I didn’t need to be such a bastard to Mary. Hurting was what I fed on, but that cold hardness with her was just gluttony. It wasn’t necessary. I stuffed myself on meanness, and now Mary’s there, taking care of my parents. Of course she is.

How do you measure what’s real, what’s true? How do you stack up all that’s pure against all that’s evil? Even if I want to, how do I forgive Mary for crushing my heart? How the hell do we get beyond this?

Patrick’s walking toward me. I can smell the Camels before he’s even near me, thanks to some pocket of air traveling in front of him.

“Where’s our luggage?” he asks.

“I don’t have a clue,” I say. “I’ve been on the phone with Mary.”

“Kids okay?”

I clutch Patrick’s biceps and tell him the news. I tell him that Dad had a heart attack, that he’s going to be all right, that Mary thinks I should stay for a day. I tell him everything I know and when I’m finished, Patrick asks, “How does Mary know all this?”

“Because she’s there, Patrick,” I say, and even though I would expect nothing less of Mary, the fact that she’s there and I’m here lodges a boulder in my throat.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Offend Thee

NIGHT FALLS AND SEAN SLIPS
back into sleep. Colleen and I are playing a game of Scrabble and she’s kicking my butt, coming up with words like
SQUIRES
and
ZOOLOGIST
on double- and triple-point squares. Tom called earlier in the night and said yes, hesitantly, he would stay and do the presentation tomorrow and then he and Patrick would hop on a plane. I promised that I’d let him know if anything changed with his father’s condition.

I call home and Mom puts the phone on speaker. “Nana’s teaching us how to make biscotti,” Sally says.

“And she let me paint my fingernails,” Emily adds.

The boys brag that Pop let them pound nails into a board,
just because!
The kids scurry back to their business, forgetting that I’m listening. I hold the phone to my ear and absorb the sounds I craved for so long and cherish every day. My children: happy, secure, confident. Thriving individuals whose hearts are not only whole but strong, the muscle fortified with an abundance of love’s nutrients. “We’ll talk to you later, hon,” Ma says. I nod,
clear my throat, croak out a pathetic “Okay, Ma. Thanks.” I hold the phone to my ear until they hang up.

A day and a half later, I’ve sent Colleen home to catch a shower and a few hours of shut-eye. I’m sitting with Sean, slumped in one armchair, my feet propped onto another. With a pen poked behind my ear and the local paper’s crossword puzzle in hand, I ask my father-in-law, “A four-letter word for a Greek god, starts with E?”

“Where’s my Sally when I need her?” he says.

“I think it’s Eros,” I tell him, remembering Sal telling me the story about Aphrodite and Ares, Eros’s mother and father. I stand and stretch, hold the water cup with a straw for my father-in-law to take a sip, adjust his pillows. “How ’bout this one, a four-letter word for an extinct bird,” I say, sitting back down.

“A dodo,” a voice says.

I turn and see Tom standing in the doorway. My heart plunges. He looks as rumpled and disheveled as I know I must, after his days of travel, but adorable, too, in that just-off-the-mountain type of ruggedness. I wonder what he thinks I look like, still in my jeans and T-shirt from two days ago.

“Tom,” I say, my eyes welling. I look away, as if taking a precaution against staring into the sun. “Look, Sean!” I say. “Tom’s here. I imagine Patrick’s not far away.”

“He’s outside,” Tom says, leaving out the obvious: smoking a cigarette or two before facing
this
situation head-on.

Tom approaches his father hesitantly, places a careful hand on his shoulder. “Hi, Dad,” he says. “How are you?”

“Better than new, son,” he says. “New blood vessels and all.”

“Look at all this stuff,” Tom says, pointing to all the machines.

“This is the heart monitor,” I explain.

“Mare watches it like a hawk,” Sean says, and Tom’s mouth smiles, but his eyes are sad.

“This is his blood pressure, his oxygen level,” I go on. “The IV is just saline, to keep him hydrated. A little bit ago we ate some applesauce and Jell-O, didn’t we, Sean?” I look over at my father-in-law and rub his shoulder. It’s been hard to see a strong man like Sean reduced to a feeble, childlike state, even temporarily. The thought of my own parents turning the corner into old age and diminished health nearly kills me. It’s frightening to see how easily pillars crumble.

I stand up and take Sean’s water cup to the sink. Rinse it, fill it again, poke through a fresh straw. “Drink,” I tell him. “He’s a good patient,” I say to Tom. “Sometimes a little obstinate, but I guess that runs in the family.”

Tom sits in the chair I had been in, leans into his father. “Good God, Dad,” he says. “You scared us all to death.”

“Thank God for Mary, here,” he says. “She’s a tough little cookie. Watching over the doctors and nurses, making them check the medicine twice before they shoot it into me. Poor doctors probably haven’t answered so many questions since they took their boards.”

“Well,” I say, a mix of pride and embarrassment, “you hear horror stories.”

“What’s next?” Tom says to his dad. “When do you head home?”

Sean looks to me to answer. That’s how he’s been these past couple of days, unsure of his footing, deferring to me or Colleen most of the time. “A few more days,” I say. “Then he’ll head home and start a whole new life of healthy living, right, Sean?”

“Broccoli and water,” he snorts.

“And a shot of whiskey on your birthday,” I add. Sean and I have made up a calendar of ten days during the year when he’ll
indulge in a glass of whiskey. His birthday, St. Patrick’s Day, Thanksgiving, and Christmas topped the list, along with a handful of holy days of obligation.

“How was your trip?” I ask Tom. “And the presentation, did you pull it off?”

“It went well,” he says. “They’re definitely on board.”

“Good,” I say, morbidly thinking we need Tom to be successful at work, we need him to bring home a big bonus at the end of the year, especially if his anger is interminable. If he never forgives me and one of us needs to move out, we’ll have two households to support. I’m
assuming
Tom would continue to support me as well as the kids. Maybe just the kids. Maybe I’d be forced to hit the pavement, looking for a job, competing for a first-year associate position against twenty-five-year-olds fresh out of law school. How would I fare compared to the new lawyers who know how to use iPads and smartphones and who are willing to work until midnight on weekdays because they don’t have to monitor homework, confront a new mound of laundry each night, and put four kids to bed?