Eight Minutes (24 page)

“It feels like I’m married to Kay’s husband. Eric has changed. He’s a completely different person, not the man I married.”

“He was your husband then. He is your husband now.” Ms. Pushpa squeezes my hand. “You speak as if he is the only one who has changed. Surely you are not the same. Even a stationary stone over which a river flows changes its shape and texture over time. The river flows differently because the stone is there. Transformation is a part of life. We mature, moving from our childish concerns to our adult responsibilities. We change when we become parents. It’s expected that someone might change, like your husband did, after recovering from a near-death experience. I have been fortunate enough to benefit from life experiences, and these have changed me.”

I shake my head. “This is different.”

“How?”

“There’s a difference between normal human development and a third party swooping in and taking over your husband’s body.”

“Again with the talk of ‘taking over the body.’ You must open your mind. The soul is not a ‘thing’ that can be pushed to the side and bullied away.”

I don’t know what to say.

Lakshmi shakes her head at her mother. “Don’t lecture her now. We’re not here to make it worse.”

“Perhaps there is more to your husband than you can visualize. This is not necessarily a bad thing.” Ms. Pushpa intertwines her fingers and gently shakes her clasped hands, as if she were trying her best to sprinkle drops of comprehension in my path.

“Allow it to be a good thing,” she whispers.

I bite my tongue. For the first time, I think Ms. Pushpa doesn’t know what the hell she’s talking about.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

LEARNING TO LIVE WITH IT—OR NOT

N
ot long after Lakshmi and Ms. Pushpa leave, Pa settles into his recliner. He makes sure I see the deliberate flexing of his toes before he says, “Let’s hear it, baby girl.”

I kiss him right above his crazy eyebrows. He holds my face close to his, and neither of us moves. We are forehead to forehead. I close my eyes and hold the moment. He nods his ancient head, and it feels to me like he understands everything in the world.

I tell him I believe John Robberson is a soul hitchhiker. That he wasn’t ready to go. That he somehow latched on to Eric in order to get to Kay so she could forgive him. That Kay resents what she found out after his death.

Pa shakes his head. “Nah. I don’t buy it. I met the woman. All she did was brag about her hotshot husband.”

“I think she was overcompensating. She told us all this horrible stuff about the way he died, and she was so mad at him. She must’ve realized she said too much. It’s called denial, Pa. I saw both sides of her. She’s bitter, trust me. She needs to forgive him.” I shake my head. “She can’t grieve properly until she does. She’s stuck.”

“Well, following that line of thinking, I figure you’re all stuck.” He bobs his head, as if to absorb the weight of his opinion, which has seemingly plunked itself into place. “She’s stuck with the truth and she don’t like it. John Robberson’s stuck to Eric, whether he likes it or not; it’s too late to second-guess that one. Eric just figured out he’s stuck with this John Robberson fella. So the downside of believing all this, as far as I can tell, is that you’re stuck with both of ’em, aren’t ya?”

“Unless Kay forgives him. Then she can go on, and it releases him to be in peace.”

“You sure about that?”

I sigh. “Not really.”

“Well, I’m no expert, but I’d be mighty surprised if it’s that easy. The way I figure it, there’s only a couple of ways this is gonna go.” He counts them off on his fingers. “One, she forgives him. Or not. Two, he goes away. Or not. Which, in my book, baby girl, is none of your business.”

“How can you say that? John Robberson made it my business.”

“Sorry, baby girl, but you’re the one making it your business—which brings me to number three,” he says, pulling on his third extended finger. “Once you get one of those ‘or nots,’ there’s only one thing to do. You learn to live with it.”

“How can I learn to live with it?”

“
That’s
your business. That’s what life is all about. Playing the hand you’re dealt.”

I have to let that one sink in awhile. I bite my tongue for the second time that day.

“You sound like Ms. Pushpa.”

“I seriously doubt that.”

“It’s true. You’re saying it in different ways, but ultimately she said I should accept it. And you think I should forget this nonsense. That it’s none of my business. I need to learn to live with it. That’s what you said, right?”

He sighs. “I can see that you’re gonna do what you’re gonna do. Maybe you’re right and I’m an old fart. If she forgives him and he goes away, you’re done with it.”

“And if not?”

“I just hate to see you decide you can’t have a happy marriage unless you can fix somebody else’s unhappy marriage. Especially since one of ’em is dead and the other one doesn’t want anything to do with you. Seems to me it would be easier to figure out how to live with what you’ve got.” He pushes the footrest of his recliner into the upright position. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get my beauty sleep.”

I grab a light cotton sweater, wander out onto Pa’s front porch, and settle into a lawn chair in the night air. I reach for my cell phone. When he answers, I can’t tell who it is. It’s Eric’s voice, but I can’t tell which one of them is talking. So I hate it, but I have to ask.

“Eric? Is that you?”

He hesitates. “Yeah. Come on, Shel. I mean, what am I supposed to say? Yeah, it’s me.”

“This is going to be weird.”

“Not unless we make it weird. It is what it is.”

“Can we talk?”

We’re on the phone for hours. Listening. Explaining. Recapping. Apologizing. Negotiating. No more secrets. Again. By the time we hang up, we have a plan. Core competency of the Buckners? Making a plan and making it work. No matter how ridiculous the problem we’re trying to solve. Step one is agreeing on the problem. Step two is agreeing on the goal.

No matter what Ms. Pushpa and Pa say, learning to live with it is not the goal.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

PHASE ONE—KAY

E
ric and I get right to work. Phase one, step one: contact Kay. In a world where we’re all so overconnected, it’s amazing how hard it is to reach someone who doesn’t want to be reached. Kay’s not exactly on Facebook. I leave a message on her home phone, which she doesn’t answer. We give it a week before we decide it might work best if I write her a letter.

Dear Kay,

I’m not quite sure what to say about the way our visit ended.

“Don’t say that,” Eric advises, looking over my shoulder. “I don’t think we should mention it. Just write to her like nothing happened.”

I reach for another sheet of stationery.

Dear Kay,

Toby loves the puppy. We named him Buster. He’s growing like a weed! Already, his legs seem like they’re two inches longer than when you were here. His spots are starting to show, too. He’s got a big one right at the base of his tail. The ones around his face look like freckles. Here’s a picture.

“That’s good,” Eric says. “Should I put Toby in the picture? Or just Buster?”

“Just the dog, I think. I don’t know if Toby is a trigger for her. We don’t want to make it worse.”

The process of getting a decent picture of a rambunctious puppy distracts Eric long enough for me to write the rest of the letter in peace. I won’t try to name it, whatever transpired between her and Eric. I refrain from speculating about John’s unfinished business. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Kay—and I’m sure she would deny this—the direct approach absolutely does not work with her. If we’re going to talk again, it’s going to be on her terms. All we can do is extend ourselves. I’m not sure I could hit the right note if I had to say it, especially not to her face, so I’m grateful for the smoke screen the letter allows me. No matter how I feel, we have to leave the door open.

I wanted to say I’m sorry for the awkward way our visit ended. I understand if you need some space, and I want to make sure you know we hold no ill will toward you. I hope you feel the same. Your visit affected me (and my family) very deeply. We will never regret meeting you or forget your connection to us. We mean no harm. Please write to me and at least let me know that you received this letter.

We consider you a part of our family.

Maybe I went too far with that one. Even as I write it, I’m convinced she’s going to call bullshit on me. But I don’t erase it, and I tell myself it wasn’t too much.

Two weeks later, I’m keeping watch on our mailbox as if it’s going to vaporize when I’m not looking. Lakshmi catches me checking it one more time on my way to the park. Toby runs ahead of me with Buster on the leash. I wave and join her on the patterned blanket that has absorbed all our park conversations. We sit side by side in the shade.

“Nothing yet?” she asks, watching me cram the junk mail into my tote bag.

I shake my head and watch Buster drag the two boys on laps around the park. “It would be a lot easier if she’d just answer one way or the other. If I knew for sure that she absolutely refuses to allow any contact . . .”

“Um . . .”

“I know, I know. Fourteen empty mailboxes in a row. That’s an answer, isn’t it?” I bark out a noise that’s supposed to sound like a laugh.

“You knew it was a long shot, right? Given what you know about her. She was furious when she left.”

“At John?” I ask. “Or Eric?”

“Does it matter?”

“Probably not,” I admit. “All that matters is whether or not she can get over it. And it doesn’t seem like that’s her strong suit.” I flop onto my back and pull at my hair, making a face. “Aaack!”

“Momma?” Toby flies his airplane nearer to us.

“I’m okay, baby. Momma’s just ripping her hair out, that’s all. Go crash your plane.”

Lakshmi gives my arm a squeeze.

I sit up and turn toward her, sitting cross-legged. “You’re right. I need to face reality. She’s not going to write back. Even if I call her every day, she won’t answer, and even if she did, she wouldn’t let me or Eric anywhere near her.”

“I’m sorry,” she says. “Are you giving up on phase one?”

“Not unless I have to. There has to be another way to reach her.”

“You could go back to Branson.”

“Yes. We know how well that worked out last time.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m not sure. We can’t force it. She needs to be receptive in order for this to work.”

As we return home from the park, we wave as Eric turns off the mower to greet us. Toby wedges himself between us, holding our hands, begging us to swing him. One, two, three, whee!

Eric beelines for the refrigerator and tosses me a bottle of water while Toby goes upstairs to play. Eric glugs his entire bottle without taking a breath. When he’s finished, he gives me a big “aaah!” like Toby.

“You know, we could call her church. Maybe tell her pastor that we need to talk to her.”

Eric’s face contorts, like he just licked a lemon.

“Think about it,” I say. “We could tell him we’re trying to make amends. Convince him that she needs to hear us out. To give us peace in our souls.”

He says, “You’re working on the assumption that he knows. What if she hasn’t told him anything about us? Then we’ve created a problem for her, and she’ll have to explain it. Or lie. Either way, it’s not going to make her want to talk to us.”

“Do you think she’s told anyone?”

“I don’t know,” he says, on his way to take a shower. “I’m not clairvoyant. Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Well, not really,” I mutter under my breath. John Robberson knows whether or not Kay would tell her pastor. He probably knows the best way to get her to talk to us. But the more we bring John to the surface, the higher the risk that Eric fades away. That’s a risk I’m not willing to take if there’s any other way.

One of my conditions, as we’d determined our strategy, was that we’d set limits. No matter how much mental shuffling I manage, I still don’t want to be married to John Robberson. I want to be married to Eric.

After much discussion, and after Eric spent two days poring over all those lists I’d made back when I was observing Toby, he saw the pattern: John Robberson was only strong enough to appear when Eric was in a reduced state of consciousness. So we agreed that the best way to control John’s appearances was to shut off those avenues.

So Eric doesn’t drink anymore. I joined him out of the same compassion he showed me when I was pregnant. We don’t really miss it. Sure, it might be nice to have a cold beer on a hot day, but it’s easier to not have it in the house. We weren’t everyday wine-with-dinner kind of people anyway. Binge drinking just doesn’t hold the appeal it did in college.

We lock the bedroom door, and I keep the key. No more sleepwalking chats with Toby. We both agree Toby has to be protected. We’re not taking any chances.

The first rule about John Robberson is that we don’t talk about John Robberson. Eric doesn’t want this to become a dinner-party anecdote, the interesting thing about us that others discuss among themselves. He believes it would damage his reputation at work and make him the object of ridicule. He thinks it makes him sound stupid.

The fact that it’s true doesn’t make it easier. For Eric, it actually makes it harder.

I think he doesn’t want to talk about it because it makes him vulnerable. The unimaginable has happened. We don’t have a way to talk about that in our culture.

So we set limits. He’s been even more diligent than I expected. After he read about the effect of music on brain waves, he made one more change. When he runs, now he listens to a book or podcast instead of music. He doesn’t like it as much, but we agreed it’s best to keep his cognitive functions alert. When he finishes his run, he calls me and I try to talk him out of his jelly doughnut cravings, like an AA sponsor.

That’s right. Jelly doughnuts.

We’ve been piecing it all together—all the unconscious influences. Naming the dog Thud, getting a Dalmatian in the first place, the mustache, all that flight jargon, the bomb story, even the CPR on Toby—we think all these came from John Robberson. But when Eric told me about jelly doughnuts, it knocked the wind out of me.

We’ve always been in complete agreement about food—organic, whole grains, nonprocessed, no chemicals. Nothing fried. Ever. I’ve never nagged him like I do Pa; I don’t have to. If anything, he’s more adamant about it than I am.

Every day since he started walking again, he’s made his way to Sunshine Doughnuts to purchase and consume not one but two jelly doughnuts. He’s been covering it up the whole time.

He says, “I finally understand food addiction. I’m powerless. One is not enough; it has to be two. And not the regular glazed kind; they have to be the kind with gooey stuff in the middle.”

“Yuck!”

“I know! I feel like shit and keep going back for more. I crash, like, within twenty minutes.” He laughs. “The guys in my group tell me they think I’m sneaking a smoke because I go outside and walk around the building every day now at the same time. Why do you think I’m running so much?”

“I had no idea.”

“Hey,” he says, “do you think it’s like the people who get transplants and start craving the food their heart donor wanted? Maybe this is my version of the oatmeal cream pie.”