Barefoot (29 page)

It seemed like they stayed in that moment for a very long time—with Melanie holding Josh’s hands to the life inside of her—enough time for Melanie to travel down the road of insecurity and doubt, enough time for her to reach the conclusion that she’d made a mistake. She let Josh’s hands go—in fact, she pushed them away—feeling stupid and foolish. She had been wrong to pursue him; she had been wrong to put any stock in her own kooky, adolescent feelings.

Josh separated from her. She heard him inhale, as if in relief of being cut free. But what Josh did next was so unexpected, it took Melanie’s breath away. He lifted up her shirt and lowered his head. He pressed his face to her belly, and he kissed her there, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

S
leep.

Vicki left a note.
Gone for a walk,
it said.
To Sankaty Light.

She couldn’t sleep—or rather, after the beach picnic she fell asleep like a rock sinking to the bottom of a riverbed and then she awoke with a jolt. She lifted Ted’s arm and looked at his watch: 1:00 AM. Vicki’s head was buzzing; she was
wide awake
. The room was dark, the house quiet except for Ted’s gentle snoring. Vicki flipped over and caught sight of the Styrofoam head, the wig, the ghoulish face,
Daphne,
and it freaked her out. She rose from bed, picked the head up, and set it in the back of the closet. In the morning, it was going to the dump.

The boys were sleeping on their mattress on the floor. They were on their backs, their heads together at the top of the mattress. Blaine had an arm flung protectively across Porter’s chest
.
They were sleeping with just a sheet, which was now bunched down by Blaine’s ankles. Vicki stood at the foot of the mattress, watching them. Because it was so warm, Blaine slept in only short pajama bottoms and Porter in just a diaper. Their torsos were perfectly formed—Blaine lean and muscular, Porter chubby with baby fat—and their skin was milky white; it glowed. Vicki could pick out a pattern of poison ivy on the back of Porter’s leg, she could discern a juicy new mosquito bite on Blaine’s forearm. Their dark eyelashes fanned out against their cheeks; Blaine’s eyelids were alive with movement underneath. What was he dreaming about?

There was, she decided, no more beautiful sight than her children sleeping. She loved her sons so profoundly, their perfect bodies and all the complexities each contained, that she thought she might explode.
My children,
she thought. They were bodies that had come from her body, they were a part of her—and yet she would die and they would live.

Vicki had entered into motherhood wholly unprepared. She had woken up confused when the nurse brought Blaine in to feed on the night he was born. The reality had sunk in, gradually, over the past four and a half years.
This child is my responsibility. Mine. For the rest of my life.

Being a mother was the best of all human experiences, and also the most excruciating. Getting the baby to nurse, getting the baby to eat solids, getting the baby to sleep, the teething, the crying, the crawling, into everything, can’t take my eyes off him for a second, a whole roll of toilet paper stuffed into the toilet, the first steps, the falling, the trips to the emergency room (
Does he need stitches?
), the Cheerios that stuck together and nearly choked him, the weaning from the breast, the bottle, the pacifier, the grating squeal of Elmo’s voice, the first playdate, the hitting, the grabbing, the first word,
Dada
(Dada?), the second word,
mine,
the earaches, the diaper rash, the croup. It was a constant drone, all day, every day, occupying Vicki’s hands, her eyes, her mind.
Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
Who did she used to be? She couldn’t remember.

Vicki used to think that Blaine was born for her mind and Porter was born for her heart. Blaine was so damn capable, so independent, so smart. Before Vicki was diagnosed, he had taught himself to read, he knew his states and state capitals (
Frankfort, Kentucky
), and he kept a list of animals that were nocturnal (
bat, opossum, raccoon
). A day with Blaine was one long conversation:
Watch me, watch me, watch me, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy. Will you play Old Maid? Will you do the puzzle? Can we paint? Do Play-Doh? Practice numbers and letters? What day is today? What day is tomorrow? When can Leo come over? What time is it? When is Daddy coming home? How many days until we go to Nantucket? How many days until Porter’s birthday? How many days until my birthday?
Blaine’s favorite time of day was story time, and better than the stories Vicki held in her hands, he said, were the ones in her mind. He loved the story of the night he was born (Vicki’s water breaking unexpectedly, ruining the suede Ralph Lauren sofa in their pre-kids Manhattan apartment), he liked the story of the night Porter was born (her water breaking in the Yukon on her way home from dinner in New Canaan; Ted drove like a banshee to Fairfield Hospital, and Vicki delivered in time for Ted to get their babysitter home before midnight). But Blaine’s favorite story was about how Vicki had punched Auntie Brenda in the nose when Auntie Brenda was a newborn, freshly home from the hospital, and how Auntie Brenda bled, and Vicki, feeling scared of what her mother would say, locked herself in the bathroom, and a fireman had to come get her out. As Vicki watched Blaine sleep, she realized she hadn’t told him any real stories in a long time—and what was worse, he’d stopped asking for them. Maybe someday she’d tell him the story of how she had lung cancer and they came to Nantucket for the summer and she got better.

What
was
he dreaming about? A bike without training wheels, a scooter, a skateboard, bubble gum, a water pistol, a pet? These were the things he wanted most, and he made Vicki set timelines. Can I have a hamster when I’m six? Can I have a skateboard when I’m ten? Blaine wanted to be big, he wanted to be old; this had been true even before Josh came into the picture, and now, of course, Blaine wanted to be exactly like Josh. He wanted to be twenty-two, he wanted a cell phone and a Jeep. Vicki always told Blaine that the day he became a teenager was the day her heart would break, but now she thought that if she lived to see Blaine turn thirteen, she would count herself the luckiest woman alive.

The other morning, Vicki had awoken to find Blaine standing by her bed, a silent sentry. She smiled at him and whispered,
Hey, you.
Blaine pointed to the corner of his eye, he pointed to the center of his chest, and then he pointed to Vicki, and Vicki did the best she could to keep from crying.
I love you, too,
she said.

And then there was Porter, her baby. She missed him so much. He’d stopped nursing, and suddenly it was like he’d grown up and gone off to college. He took bottles from Josh, from Brenda, from Ted—all Vicki got was two and sometimes three hours during the heat of the afternoon when Porter took his nap tucked into the crook of her arm. He made sweet cooing noises when he slept, he babbled when he was awake, he sucked his pacifier like it was his job. His body was a pudding; when he smiled there was a dimple in his cheek. He was almost totally bald now and he only had two teeth—in truth, he looked like an old man. But he was so sweet—that smile could make anyone love him.
Don’t grow up!
Vicki thought.
Stay a baby, at least until I’m healthy enough to enjoy you!
But Porter was chasing after his brother, the trailblazer. He would not be left behind! He was determined to conquer his developmental milestones early and with ease. Already, he had started cruising around the living room while holding on to Aunt Liv’s dainty furniture. Soon, he would be walking. Her baby would be gone.

Blaine stirred. He made a snorting noise like a startled horse, and his eyes opened. He looked at Vicki. She held her breath—the last thing she wanted was for him to wake up, or to wake up his brother. His eyes drifted closed. She exhaled. Even this hurt.
I love you,
she thought.
You were both born for my heart.

She tiptoed into the living room. Quiet, dark. The banjo clock ticked. Brenda’s door was shut, Melanie’s door was ajar about an inch. Vicki stepped out onto the back deck. The night sky was achingly beautiful. Vicki couldn’t believe that people slept through nights like this. Back in the kitchen, she wrote the note, and then she left.

Gone for a walk. To Sankaty Light.
In her ersatz pajamas—a pair of gym shorts, her Duke T-shirt, and flip-flops, with a bandanna on her head. This was, she realized, another crazy escape, just like the previous morning’s jaunt to the Old Mill. She felt like a burglar as she padded down Shell Street. Every other house was pitch-black. The air was sweet with flowers and the ocean, and busy with the sound of crickets. Vicki was leaving the house with just a note. She thought of Josh’s mother hanging herself without any explanation, and shuddered.

She made it to Sankaty Head Lighthouse, but barely. She was coughing and wheezing; her legs hurt, her head was throbbing, she touched her forehead—it was dry and hot. And yet, she felt proud. She had walked nearly a mile, some of it uphill, and now here she was, in the middle of the night, standing at the foot of the giant peppermint stick. To one side lay the rolling greens of the golf club, and to the other side the bluff dropped dramatically to the pounding surf. Vicki moved as close as she dared to the edge of the bluff. The ocean was before her, and the magnificent sky. Stars, planets, galaxies, places so far away human beings would never reach them. The universe was infinite. It was terrifying, really, incomprehensible, and had seemed so ever since she was a little girl. Vicki used to imagine the universe as a box that God held in his hand. Time would go on forever, she thought. But she would die.

She wondered what it would be like if she had always been as alone as she was this second, with no one else in her life—no husband, no children, no sister, no parents, no best friend. What if she were a homeless person, a drifter, without connections, without relationships? What if she were an island? Would that make dying easier? Because, quite frankly, she could imagine nothing more lonesome than dying and leaving everyone else behind. Dying was something a person did on her own. Dying only proved that no matter what bonds human beings formed with other human beings, everyone was, essentially, alone.

A voice cut through the darkness. “Vicki!”

Vicki whirled around. Ted was marching up the hill toward her, huffing and puffing himself. He could have been her father, coming to scold her for sneaking out. But as he got closer, she saw the look of concern on his face. He was worried about her, and he should be. What, exactly, was she doing?

“Vick,” he said. “Are you okay?”

“I’m going to die,” she whispered.

He made a shushing noise, the same noise he used to make when Blaine was a baby. He wrapped his arms around her. She was burning hot, not just the embers in her lungs, but her whole body. It was ablaze with sickness, with renegade cells. It wasn’t something that could be exorcised. She
was
sickness. Once in Ted’s arms, however, she started to shiver. She was freezing up there on the bluff, with wind coming off the water. Her teeth chattered. Ted’s arms were the strongest arms she had ever known. She breathed in his smell, she absorbed his warmth, she rubbed her cheek against his cotton T-shirt. This was her husband, she knew him, and yet he was so far away from her.

“I can feel it,” she said. “I’m going.”

“Vicki,” he said. His arms tightened around her and that felt good, but then he started, almost imperceptibly, to shake.

“I got up to look at the boys,” she said. “I just wanted to watch them sleep.”

“
You
should be asleep,” he said. “What are you doing up here?”

“I don’t know.” She felt reckless then, and irresponsible. “What about you? What if the boys . . . ?”

“I woke Brenda once I realized you were gone,” he said. “She said she’d stay in our room until I brought you back.”

Like a runaway,
she thought. But she couldn’t run away, she couldn’t hide. How long would it take her to understand that?

Ted held her by the shoulders, forcing her to look at him. His face was shining with tears. He was strong and masculine and competent, her husband, but the tears fell steadily and his voice was supplicating. “You have to get better, Vick. I can’t live without you. Do you hear me? I love you in a way that is so powerful it lifts me up, it propels me forward. You propel me forward.
You have to get better, Vick.
”

Vicki tried to recall the last time she’d seen Ted like this, stripped down to bare emotion. The day he proposed, maybe, or the day Blaine was born. Vicki wanted to tell him,
Yes, okay, I’ll fight for you, for the kids.
It would be like in the movies, it would be the scene where everything turns around, with the two of them standing on the bluff next to the lighthouse under the great dark sky; it would be the epiphany. Things would change; she would get better. But Vicki didn’t believe in the words, she knew them to be false, and she wouldn’t say them. So she said nothing. She tilted her face up to the sky full of stars. The problem with having everything, she thought, was that she had everything to lose.

“I can’t make it back,” she confessed to Ted. “It’s too far. I feel like hell.”

“I know,” Ted said. “That’s why I came to get you.”

They hadn’t made love in nearly a month, and yet Ted had never touched her more intimately than at that moment. He picked her up, he carried her home.

Brenda’s phone rang. She was on page thirty of the screenplay and screaming along; the words were coming faster than she could write them. She was too busy to even check her phone’s display. It wasn’t exactly a mystery: the call was from either Brian Delaney, Esquire, or her mother. The phone stopped ringing. Brenda heard the soft dinging of an elevator somewhere in another part of the hospital, and then the gung-ho voice of the ESPN
SportsCenter
anchorman.