Barefoot Beach (24 page)

“That's right. Jack told me you work with amputees, veterans. Now, that's a noble calling. And there are all kinds of new technologies emerging in your field. Prosthetics with microprocessors. Advances in stump maintenance.”

Jack made a gagging sound. “Hearts, okay. But stump maintenance? Jeez. Maybe you two could talk about this one-on-one next time.”

Dirk slid a glance toward me while I thought,
One-on-one? Next time?
He said, “Jack's obviously not heading to medical school after college.”

“Right. Or at least not doing anything too bloody. Maybe ophthalmology,” Jack said.

Ophthalmology? Until now, he'd wanted to be a professional lacrosse player or a college athletics coach.

“So, Mom, this is what we've done so far today.” He counted off on his
fingers: a stroll on the boardwalk, a climb to the top of the Dunmore Point Lighthouse, back to The Claw for crabs and beer. After lunch, they'd spent an hour or so on the beach. (I felt an electric warning buzz prickle my skin.) “And we sat on Mooncussers Rock, kind of catching up.” And there it was. The jolt.
Zap!

Mooncussers Rock! To the Farrells that rock was a mystical talisman like the Blarney Stone in Ireland. Sacred. Lon had carried Jack out there in his pj's during his kindergarten summers and spun stories of the pirates who had ravaged the coast of Maryland, the rascal Mooncussers. On later August afternoons, my son had helped my husband make the rock into a fort, dressing it with the toy soldiers and miniature artillery of Lon's childhood. That was Lon's rock. Lon's and Jack's damn rock, and on the first visit Jack had taken the Donor Dude to plant his ass on it.

I couldn't look at my son. Or at his sperm donor. Thank God Em had returned to check on us so I could stare helplessly at her.

“Anything I can get for you?” She swept her question to me, catching my desperation.

Yes, you can get me back my old life,
I thought. Even the last eight years of it without Lon were better than what I suspected lay ahead. They'd stolen my rock. It was just a symbol, but that was the point of symbolism. It stood for something.

“Actually, you can help us out here, Mrs. Haydar.” Jack slipped his iPhone from his shirt pocket. “Mom is lousy with a camera. Sorry, Mom, but you know it's true. It's the French Revolution with her. ‘Off with their heads.'” I managed to nod. He held the phone out to Em. “Would you mind?”

He called the shots. First, the two men stood side by side, Dirk's hands clasped behind him like an English duke's, Jack's arms dangling purposelessly. For the next few, they moved closer together. Then Dirk clasped a hand on Jack's shoulder and my son's grin broadened.

I was nursing my tea, wishing it were bourbon, when Jack called out, “One with you, Mom.”

Oh . . . dear . . . God.

There was no arrangement that didn't tick me off. With Jack in the middle we looked like the standard family portrait. Wrong. But left to right—Jack, Dirk, me—made me the outsider.

“Very nice,” Emine said when she'd snapped at least five and she and I thought we were finished. Jack moved out of the last frame, saying, “Thanks, Mrs. Haydar. Appreciate it,” and took back the iPhone.

“It's getting late,” I murmured. “I really need to get home.”
I have wine to drink, a shrink back in Baltimore to call, and his new prescription for Xanax to fill.
I didn't say it, but, oh, did I think it.

“One more,” my son ordered. “A shot of just the two of you.”

The parental unit. Was that what he was thinking? No panic, but something like numbness took hold of me. I glanced at Dirk, who finally looked as uncomfortable as I'd been feeling before I started feeling almost nothing at all. He raised an eyebrow to me and shrugged, and we inched together.

“I need more happy, you two,” Jack called out. I bared my teeth and held a facsimile of a smile by gritting them. He and I would have a chat later about which pictures were banned for posting on Facebook.

Then it was over. Correction, not quite. We had an exit scene that Margo would have given an eyetooth to direct.

I was already on my feet, which were awake enough to move me. The numbness seemed to have drifted up and settled around my chest, under my rib cage, so I felt like I'd inhaled a cloud. A little moist, a little thick, a little fuzzy. I wanted to get myself home before it floated to the brain.

I allowed myself to be drawn into Jack's embrace. He whispered, “Thanks, Mom. Big surprise, right? But you did great.”

I patted his cheek and the stubble of five-o'clock shadow.

Dirk and I shook hands. For a split second of panic, I felt, or thought
I did, a tug that could have ended in a hug. I held fast. “Very nice meeting you,” I said, holding my ground. The formality of the farewell did sound bizarre, which would have been Margo's take.

“Same here. I hope we do again,” Dirk said.

“Yeah, sure you will,” Jack interceded. “Dirk's coming back in August.”

“Really?” Someone's voice that sounded like mine rang in my ears.

“Looks that way,” Dirk DeHaven Donor Dude said. “I'll be in Baltimore, in any event. I've got a follow-up meeting at Hopkins.”

“They've invited him to be a visiting professor in the med school. But you'd be working in the OR too, right?”

“It's all up in the air right now. There's a multitude of factors to weigh.”

“But you
are
going to meet with them again.”

“I am.”

“And maybe stop by here.”

Dirk laid a hand on my son's shoulder. “Or you can drive into Baltimore. We can take in a game at Camden Yards. You a baseball fan?”

“Here is better,” Jack insisted. “Baltimore's a sweat swamp in the summer.”

While they were debating, I waved myself off. They didn't notice.

At home, my message light was flashing. Emine checking up on me.

I'd call her later. Em liked to probe beneath the surface (unlike Margo, whose
specialty
was the surface). I didn't think I could handle that. Not yet.

The fleecy cloud had, as I'd feared, invaded my head. A swim might chase it, I thought. I changed into my bathing suit, not a new slimming one either—a flimsy, stretched-out halter style five years old with no power to girdle boobs, belly, or bum. Great, because I'd already sucked up enough for one day.

The ocean was warmer than I expected for mid-July. I didn't bother to scope for jellyfish. Let them watch out for me. I was swimming with the current in calm waters when I caught the outline of Mooncussers
Rock. I'd avoided passing it on my walk to the ocean, but it was a rock; it stayed in one place. Sometimes silvery veins in the duller minerals flickered in the sun and memories flitted around it along with the sand flies. From where I was today, though, it looked lifeless and solid, and I wouldn't let myself get close enough to see if the magic had vanished.

Class the following Tuesday evening, and Lieutenant Colonel Scott Goddard was holding me in a rather compromising position, pressed so close that I was sure the American flag pinned to his left pocket would leave a patriotic imprint on my right bazoom.

My left hand was placed properly on his upper arm, which was solid, the muscles toned under the summer-weight shirt, and his biceps tightened as I ran my thumb over it. This stroke was not approved by any dance system I knew of, but the scent of him, the tempting nearness of his flesh, his neck, his jaw—I just couldn't help myself. My right hand, which was lightly grasped in his, got a return squeeze. I heard him chuckle. At that moment, I wanted to dance with him into a clichéd sunset.

He may have been thinking the same thing, because Bobby had already announced, “Change partners,” three times, but Scott wasn't having any of it. When I reminded him of the switch rule, he gazed down at me with a half-fond, half-ironic smile and held on tight. “So sue me. Take me to dance court. Even if I lose, I win.”

A few minutes later we were jitterbugging to “Runaround Sue” when something went wrong, very wrong.

I heard before I saw. Sniper sharp, Scott saw before he heard, he told me later. Sight and sound were almost simultaneous, the blur of the drop and the
thunk
of a slack body hitting the polished wood floor. Morty Felcher's body. Then Marsha's bellow of shock, followed by her spiraling scream. Scott released me, sprinted to Morty, and dropped to kneel on the leg he'd been born with while barking behind him, “Call 911!”

George Powell phoned it in. It didn't look like Morty was breathing. Scott began CPR. Marsha thrashed in my arms in an effort to see what was happening. “Morty!” she cried. “Fifty-two years together. Don't leave me!” And what I thought, in the midst of the madness, with inexcusable self-absorption, was that she'd had him for fifty-two years and what a blessing.

He was breathing evenly by the time the EMTs arrived. Scott and I trailed the ambulance in his car.

“How was his pulse?” I asked him.

“Thready. Maybe a heart attack. Possible stroke. Or it could be something minor like dehydration or he's coming down with the flu.” I leaned against Scott. As solid as a rock.

I said, “Now I suppose it's up to God and the docs. You did all you could.”

“Maybe, but I've heard that before and it's not much consolation when ‘all you could' wasn't enough.”

One day, if whatever we were starting here took hold, we could go on a guilt trip, the two of us. I had baggage; he had baggage. We could schlep it together. There were worse reasons for an alliance than a common history of tough times. Then again, there were better ones. I thought how wonderful it would be to have this man by my side when I was on my feet and nearby to steady me when I got shaky—or ready to apply mouth-to-mouth when I needed it.

I decided, especially after what I'd seen tonight, I could rely on him. That was progress.

The entire class gathered in the ER waiting room. It was two hours before the nurse came out. “Who's here for Morton Felcher?” and everybody stood. The nurse laughed. A good sign. “He made it,” Scott murmured.

“Mr. Felcher wants his wife,” the nurse said, and Marsha dashed forward. “That's me. Fifty-two years.”

“Congratulations, hon. Come on back with me.” To all of us she added, “They're going to implant a pacemaker. He's doing fine so far. And he's got quite a sense of humor for a man just returned from the dead. He ought to do stand-up . . . once he's standing up.”

Scott drove me home. But before we reached the house, he pulled into a space at the end of Surf Avenue at the margins of a drape of light shed by the streetlamp so it was mostly shadows that merged for our kiss. It was a different kiss from the previous ones, more tender. After all, we'd faced death together. But then one kiss merged with another and urgency replaced tenderness and one touch led to another and, in what I interpreted as an expression of love of country, his hand strayed to the spot on my skin that had carried the imprint of Old Glory. He also reconnoitered the surrounding territory.

When we came up for air Scott released me and flicked on the soft interior light.

“Honestly.” His head was tipped back and I took in his profile, as brilliantly cut as a silhouette on a Roman coin. “I couldn't be happier that Morty's alive. But”—he shifted to face me—“I've got an evil side that would like to kill him myself for pulling this stunt tonight of all nights. Look at you. I never realized your eyes are so blue. The thing is, Nora, I had a special evening on deck for us. I thought we'd go to my condo after class and kick back. I bought champagne and . . . You really do have beautiful lips—you know that?”

It was late. I was suddenly tired. “Is it on ice, the champagne?” I blurted, mainly to divert him from my lips.

“It's in the fridge.”

“Keep it chilled. Saturday's coming up fast.”

“Not fast enough for me,” he said.

And that's how we left it when he dropped me off in front of the house. The pathway lamp illuminated the sweet bay magnolia tree so its white flowers bloomed incandescent against the purple darkness, but the truth is, I could have found my way to the door by my own glow.

“Where have you been?” My son snapped his focus from the laptop screen and what appeared to be the Skyped image of . . . I moved in . . . Dirk. Back in San Francisco, I assumed.

“Hi,” I said to Jack, who'd swiveled his chair to confront me.

“Hi.” I ducked into the camera's eye to wave at DD in California.

“Hey, Nora. Good to see you. Jack, I'll let you go. Now you can relax, son. Bye, all.” The image vanished.

Jack surveyed me for a long moment. “Do you know what time it is, Mom?” He squinted at the computer's date-time logo. “Past midnight. I've been crazy worried about you. I called you three times. No answer. It's Tuesday night, okay, maybe with class you're running late. So eleven. But midnight? Where've you been? Do I have to imagine why you didn't pick up your phone? Or my messages?”

He was getting awfully close to the line, and I flashed him a barbed-wire look. I pulled out my cell phone, and yup, the light was flashing, furiously, reproachfully, it seemed to me.

“Sorry. I was in the ER sitting under a sign that prohibited cell phone use because it interferes with diagnostic equipment.”

He did a double take. “Holy crap, you okay?”

I told him about Morty Felcher.

“Wow. All right. But next time call me, like, as a courtesy. Please? So I don't worry.”

“Agreed. Sorry again.”
When did I become the teenager?
I wondered. But the bigger question was, when had Dirk DeHaven started to call my son
son
? And what the hell did that mean?

“He called him
son
.” I'd rushed to phone Margo the next morning. “‘Now you can relax, son,' is exactly what he said when they were Skyping.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake, you get your knickers in a twist over the most trivial things. Son. The generic ‘son.' As in ‘buddy.' Or ‘kid.' I call Merry ‘kid' sometimes. Does that make her my daughter, God forbid? Sweet child, but so troubled. I mean, you met the Dude. No fangs or horns. You think he's trying to steal your baby boy? Come on. Even you said he was friendly and approachable and he treated you with respect. It doesn't sound like he played the entitlement card either, like, ‘I'm a world-famous healer. Kiss my ring.'”

“No, but you could sense his effort to be a regular guy. Except he's not regular, Margo. He treats the children of emirs and princes. He probably has a room at home lined with autographed pictures of the grateful parents. A gallery of the rich and famous.”

“Like in Pete's man cave, you mean?” Pete's prized possession was the signed photograph of him with President Reagan when he was named MVP in the Orioles' last World Series win. The prime minister of Japan was also up on that wall next to Bono and under Madonna.

“Regular guys are highly overrated in my book,” Margo drawled. “You think Scott Goddard is standard issue with his Silver Star, his magic leg, and how he gave Morty Felcher the kiss of life or whatever? He's no regular guy.” Her tone turned sly. “I'll bet he's extra-large all over. Well, you'll find out Saturday night.”

“With you everything is about sex.” I regretted it the instant I said it.
Now I was in for an update on Pete's performance in the bedroom, X-rated, no doubt.

But Margo surprised me. Her response was far from prurient. It was romantic, in fact. “And what's wrong with sex, may I ask? It's fabulous with the right person. And mine is suddenly his old self again. Young self.”

So Pete was back in the saddle and his wife's good graces. No mention of the other—imaginary, I was sure—woman. “You just need to decide on your right person, Norrie. Now, you're certain it's not the world-renowned and, may I add,
divorced
doctor, who happens to be the provider of half of your son's chromosomes, which makes it very convenient?”

“If it were up to Jack . . . ,” I began. “He just about lassoed us together.” I described the photo shoot. She hooted.

“You can't blame the boy for trying. He's working out the emotional geometry. How the pieces fit. So of course he sees you as a prospective couple. I bet you'd make the
National Enquirer
as a touchy-feely story. Sperm man weds egg woman twenty years later. One big happy family. Personally, I wouldn't count the Dude out. He could be your in knight in shining armor come to rescue you. For one thing, you'd never have to worry about money again. The Surf Avenue house wouldn't have to go to market. He'd probably love a place in Tuckahoe, especially if he makes the job at Hopkins permanent. Think on it. You wouldn't even have to work. There's your answer. That would solve everything.”

“No, it wouldn't. I love my work. I want to work,” I protested.