Barefoot (12 page)

And yet, even with redemption almost within her grasp, doubt plagued her. Why waste her time on an idiotic project that was destined to lead nowhere? The answer was, she had no other options. She wished again and again that her academic career had not been so gruesomely derailed. Even with millions of potential dollars in her future, Brenda dwelled on the “if onlys.” If only she hadn’t answered her cell phone the night John Walsh first called, if only she’d warned Walsh not to show his midterm paper to anyone, if only she hadn’t lost her temper with Mrs. Pencaldron and thrown a book at the painting, if only she’d exercised a modicum of common sense . . . she would still be a professor. Professor Brenda Lyndon. Herself.

Her first semester at Champion had gone beautifully. Brenda was awarded the highest teaching rating of any professor in her department, and these ratings were published in the campus newspaper for all to see. Some said it was because Brenda was new blood, a professor half the age of anyone else in the department, and with such unusual subject matter (Champion was the only university in the country teaching Fleming Trainor). Brenda was attractive to boot—slender, with long hair, blue eyes, Prada loafers. Some said the English Department offered no competition. The rest of the faculty were dinosaurs, wax dummies. Whatever the reason, Brenda blew away the other professors in her department, not only in the numerical ratings, but with the anecdotals.
Engaging, absorbing . . . we hung on every word . . . we carried the discussion into the quad . . . we were still talking about the reading at dinner. Dr. Lyndon is available and fair. . . . She is everything a Champion professor should be.
The
Pen & Feather
ran a front-page feature on Brenda the following week. She was a celebrity. She was part Britney Spears, part Condoleezza Rice. Each of Brenda’s much-older colleagues—including the department chair, Dr. Suzanne Atela—called to congratulate her. They were envious, though not surprised.
That’s why we hired you,
Dr. Atela said.
You’re young. You have a passion for your subject matter that we outgrew long ago. Congratulations, Dr. Lyndon.

Brenda had bragged to her family at Christmastime; she had bought a bottle of expensive champagne to celebrate, drank most of it herself, and then blew her own horn.
My students like me,
she said as they all sat around the harvest table in Vicki and Ted’s dining room eating the impeccable meal that Vicki had prepared entirely from scratch.
They love me
.

These words took on a mortifying nuance second semester, when Brenda’s class consisted of eleven females and one male, a fox in the henhouse, a thirty-one-year-old sophomore from Fremantle, Australia, named John Walsh.

I love you,
Walsh said.
Brindah, I love you.

In the passenger seat, Vicki coughed. Brenda peeked at her. She was pale, her hands were like restless birds in her lap.
I am driving my sister to chemotherapy,
Brenda thought.
Vicki has cancer and might die from it.

Today, Vicki was having a port installed in her chest that would allow the oncology nurses to thread a tube into her vein and administer the poison. Installing the port was outpatient surgery, though the hospital told her to expect a three-hour visit. Brenda was supposed to take the kids to the playground, buy them an ice cream at Congdon’s Pharmacy on Main Street for lunch, and be back at the hospital in time to pick up Vicki and get Porter home for his afternoon nap. Vicki had made it sound all nice and neat, the perfect plan, but Brenda could tell that Vicki was nervous. When other people got nervous, they tightened up, they became high-pitched and strained. Vicki was like this normally. When she got addled, she became floppy and indecisive. She was all over the place.

Brenda pulled into the hospital parking lot. As soon as she shut off the engine, Porter started to cry. Blaine said, “Actually, I want to go home.”

“We’re dropping Mom off, then we’re going to the playground,” Brenda said. She got out of the car and unbuckled Porter, but he screamed and thrust himself at Vicki.

“Give him his pacifier,” Vicki said flatly. She was eyeing the gray-shingled hospital.

“Where is it?” Brenda said.

Vicki rummaged through her bag. “I can’t find it right this second, but I know it’s here,” she said. “I remember packing it. But . . . maybe we should run home and get another one.”

“Run home?” Brenda said. “Here, I’ll just take him.” But Porter kicked and screamed some more. He nearly wriggled out of her arms. “Whoa!”

“Give him to me,” Vicki said. “I may be able to nurse him one last time before I go in.”

“But you did bring a bottle?” Brenda said.

“I did,” Vicki said. “This is going to be known as extreme weaning.”

Brenda moved to the other side of the car and set Blaine free from his five-point harness. A person had to have an advanced degree just to operate the car seats. “Come on, Champ.”

“Actually, I want to go home. To my house. In Connecticut.”

“Actually, you have no choice in the matter,” Vicki said in a stern voice. “Mommy has an appointment. Now hop out.”

“Here,” Brenda said. “I’ll carry you.”

“He can walk,” Vicki said.

“No,” Blaine said, and he kicked the seat in front of him. “I’m not getting out.”

“After we drop Mom off, we’re going to the playground at Children’s Beach,” Brenda said.

“I don’t want to go to the beach! I want to go to my house in Connecticut. Where my dad lives.”

“We should have left him at the cottage,” Vicki said. “But I couldn’t do that to Melanie.”

Brenda kept quiet. She was not going to be predictable.

“I’m taking you to get ice cream for lunch,” Brenda told Blaine. “At the pharmacy.” This was the ace up her sleeve, and she was dismayed to have to throw it so early, but . . .

“I don’t
want
ice cream for lunch,” Blaine said. He started to cry. “I want to stay with Mommy.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Vicki said. “Can we just get inside, please? Blaine? Will you help Mommy out here and come with me inside?”

Blaine shook his head. Strains of “Für Elise” floated up from Brenda’s purse. Her cell phone.

“That’s probably Ted,” Vicki said.

Brenda checked the display, thinking,
Yes, it’s probably Ted,
but hoping it was Walsh. The display said,
Delaney, Brian.
Brenda groaned. “Shit,” she said. “My lawyer.” She shoved the phone back into her purse and, fueled by her anger at the call, barked at Blaine, “Let’s go. Right now.”

Reluctantly, Blaine climbed into Brenda’s arms. She gasped; he weighed a ton.

“I want to stay with Mommy,” he said.

If only the university officials could see me now,
Brenda thought as they walked through the sliding doors into the bright chill of the hospital.
They would have mercy on me. Anyone would.

They slogged toward the admitting desk, where a busty young woman waited for them. She had blond hair held in a very sloppy bun with what looked like crazy straws, streaky blusher on her cheekbones, and breasts that were shoved up and out so far it looked like she was offering them up on a platter.
Didi,
her name tag said.

“Victoria Stowe,” Vicki said. “I’m here for a port installation.”

“Righty-o,” Didi said. She had long painted fingernails with rhinestones embedded in them. Brenda wanted to whisk the girl home and give her a makeover. Pretty girl, bad decisions. Didi slid some forms across the desk to Vicki. “Fill these out, insurance information here, signature here, initials here and here. Sign this waiver, very important.” She smiled. She had a lovely smile. “It’s so you can’t sue us if you die.”

Brenda took a long, deep drink of the girl’s cleavage. Could she buy the girl some tact?

“I’m not going to die,” Vicki said.

“Oh, God, no,” Didi said. “I was only kidding.”

In the waiting area, they found a row of chairs in front of a TV.
Sesame Street
was on, and Porter became entranced.

“Go,” Brenda said. “Get it over with. Go now while we’re calm.” Blaine emptied a tub of Lincoln Logs onto the polished floor.

“I can’t,” Vicki said, sitting down. “I have all these forms to fill out.” As she said this, the forms slid off her lap and fanned out all over the floor.

Suddenly, a nurse appeared. “Victoria Stowe?”

Vicki bent over, scrambling to pick up the forms. “I’m not ready. Were these in any special order?”

“Bring them along,” the nurse said. “You can fill them out upstairs.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Didi called out. “Go now, or you’ll back everything up.”

Vicki remained in her seat. She looked at Brenda. “Listen, there’s something I want to ask you.”

“What?” Brenda said. Vicki’s tone of voice made her nervous. Brenda traveled back twenty-five years: Brenda was five years old, Vicki was six and a half, the two of them were playing on the beach on a cloudy day in matching strawberry-print bikinis and yellow hooded sweatshirts. There was a bolt of lightning, then the loudest crack of thunder Brenda had heard either before or since. Vicki grabbed her hand as the rain started to fall.
Come on. We have to run.

Until the obvious differences between them emerged, they had been raised as twins. Now, Brenda felt a fear as strong as Vicki’s own.
My sister!
Fifteen years ago, when Brenda had spent her study halls as a library aide and Vicki was student council president, who would have guessed that Vicki would be the one to get cancer? It didn’t make any sense.
It should be me,
Brenda thought.

“Mom?” Blaine said. He knocked over his log cabin running to her.

“If you can be strong and go with that nurse, I will take care of things here,” Brenda said. “The kids will be safe. They’ll be fine.”

“I can’t go,” Vicki said. Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry. I just can’t.”

“Victoria Stowe?” the nurse said.

“They need you in pre-op,” Didi said. “Otherwise, I swear, things will get backed up and I will get blamed.”

“Go,” Brenda said. “We’ll be fine.”

“I want to stay with Mom,” Blaine said.

Vicki sniffled and kissed him. “You stay here. Be good for Auntie Brenda.” She stood up and crossed the room stiffly, like a robot.

“Vick?” Brenda said. “What did you want to ask me?”

“Later,” Vicki said, and she disappeared down the hall.

An hour passed with Brenda feeling like a broken record. How many times had she suggested they leave—to go to Children’s Beach, to get ice cream at the pharmacy?

“With sprinkles,” she said. “Please, Blaine? We’ll come back and get Mom in a little while.”

“No,” Blaine said. “I want to stay here until she comes back.”

Porter was crying—he’d been crying for twenty minutes, and nothing Brenda did made him stop. She tried the bottle, but he wouldn’t take it; he spitefully clamped his mouth shut, and formula ran all over his chin and the front of his shirt. His face was red and scrunched, tears squeezed out of the corners of his eyes; he threw back his head and wailed. Brenda plopped him down on the floor, put an orange plastic gorilla in front of him, and hunted through Vicki’s bag for the goddamned pacifier. Porter shrieked and threw the gorilla in anger.

Brenda pulled out a box of Q-tips, two diapers, a package of wipes, a Baggie of Cheerios crushed into dust, a set of plastic keys, two Chap Sticks, a box of crayons, a sippy cup of what smelled like sour juice, and a paperback called
When Life Becomes Precious
. Vicki could go on
Let’s Make a Deal
with what she had in her bag, and yet there was no pacifier. Brenda checked the side pocket—the bottle was in there, and aha! Under the bottle, squashed at the very bottom of the pocket and covered with lint and sand, was the pacifier.

“I found it!” she said. She brandished the pacifier for the girl behind the desk, Didi, as if to say,
Here is the answer to all my problems!
Brenda stuck the pacifier in Porter’s mouth and he quieted. Ahhhhh. Brenda sighed. The room was peaceful once again. But not a minute later, Porter threw the pacifier across the room and started with fresh tears.

“Blaine?” Brenda said. “Can we please go? Your brother . . .”

“There’s a soda machine at the end of the hall,” Didi said.

Brenda stared at her. Soda machine? She had two tiny children here. Did the girl think her problems could be solved with a can of Coke?

“We’re not allowed to have soda,” Blaine said.

Didi stared. “Maybe you could use a walk.”

The girl wanted to get rid of them. And could Brenda blame her, really?

“We
could
use a walk,” Brenda said. “Let’s go.”

She carried Porter, who was whimpering, down the polished corridor.
Cottage Hospital,
she thought. The kind of place where they fixed up Jack and Jill after they fell down the hill. Nothing bad happened here. Vicki was somewhere in the cottage hospital having her port installed. For chemotherapy. For cancer.

It should be me,
Brenda thought.
I don’t have kids. I don’t have anybody.

Before she got the teaching job, Brenda had never seen Champion University, except in photos on the Internet. She had taken a virtual tour like a prospective student and checked out the neo-classical buildings, the geometric lawns, the plaza where students sunbathed and played Frisbee. It looked, while not bucolic, at least sufficiently oasis-like, a real college campus in the melee of Manhattan. But at the start of second semester, in January, the blocks of Champion University were gray and businesslike. This only served to make the English Department, with its Persian rugs and grandfather clocks, its first-edition Henry James in a glass museum case, seem more inviting. Mrs. Pencaldron, the department’s supremely capable and officious administrative assistant, had rushed to make Brenda a cappuccino, something she did for professors currently in her favor.
Welcome back, Dr. Lyndon. How was your break? Here is your class list and the syllabus. I had them copied for you.