Stop Here (12 page)

The technician removes the wires, wipes the gel off her body. The surgeon scrolls down the long sheet of paper, studying the EKG.

“Rosalyn, your heart is beautiful,” he tells her, stuffing the graph in her file. “I'm sending the bloods to the lab. The bone scan hasn't come back yet. But let's look at the mammogram together. Get dressed, come to my office.” He helps her off the table. The desire to hang on his arm, to stay in his sight at all times, is strong.

• • •

“I left work an hour ago to get here, but the traffic . . . listen, sorry I'm late, couldn't be helped,” Jack bustles in, anticipating a scolding. But she hardly noticed the time. As usual he makes himself at home, uncorks wine, pours some in glasses, hands her one.

“I haven't done a thing about dinner,” she mumbles more to herself.

“Low on the problem scale.” He tugs her to sit beside him on the couch.

“Are you a problem solver as a scientist?” she asks, though concentrating is difficult.

“It's what they pay me for.”

“Are you worth the money?”

“Absolutely.”

“Tell me one of your great finds.” She's trying.

“It'll sound like tooting my horn, is that how you say it?”

“Toot away,” she orders.

“I discovered blending two types of old drugs produced a third that raised the number of white cells in the blood.”

She stares at him. “Are you doing cancer research? Because that's too eerie.”

“I never saw any reason to mention it before. It's where a great deal of the drug investigation is today.” He slides an arm around her shoulders.

“You don't have to press me one place or another every time you mention cancer. I'm not that fragile.” Actually, though, she's chilled.

“No you're not. In fact, your self-sufficiency is sometimes off-putting.”

“Off-putting. That's very British. Aren't your countrywomen very self-sufficient?”

“In their public selves.”

“I see.” She wonders if his wife is clingy.

“I offended you when it wasn't my intent.”

“Men want women to need them so they can feel strong and noble. But here's the thing . . . when women do lean on them, men feel suffocated.”

“Wow. That's telling me.”

“That wasn't my intent.”

He laughs. “Touché. Nevertheless, you've seen the doctor again. What happened?”

“He showed me the mammogram. It's there, a white splat, not small, easy enough to see on the film. Also the staging came back. The surgery is being scheduled.” She moves to the window. It's too dark to make out anything that isn't already familiar. He comes up behind her, nuzzles her neck.

“Your touches kind of scare me.”

“That's simply terrible. What can I do?”

She wants to say, be cautious, because she's taking in the dimension of things, registering their very essence. She once read soldiers on the front lines create an impenetrable bubble to keep the world at a distance.

The phone rings.

She picks up the cordless. “Hello?”

“You said you were away.”

“Dad?”

“Can't stand the sight of me anymore?” his voice explosive.

“Dad!”

“Lie to your father? Great! I actually thought Darla was my granddaughter, but she's only going on eighteen.”

“Dad—”

“You've resented—”

“For craps sake, I have breast cancer.” She hangs up. “Bastard,” she mutters. “And you, too. Just go home.”

“My sweet girl. I'm not about to honor your self-pity.”

“Self-pity!”

He hands her the wine. “Drink up.”

“I don't want it. And I don't want you here.”

“Take a deep breath, my dear.”

“I want you to leave.”

He wraps his arms around her; his hard body a wall. “So you can be alone with your fears.”

“So I can muster my strength.”

“It's already there, in your eyes, determined jaw, set lips. Believe me, it would take an earthquake to undercut that.”

“Why do you think you know me?”

“I don't. You won't let me. You won't share your dreams or your nightmares. Why didn't you tell your dad in the first place? Why must you carry the load by yourself?”

“And you'd like to take me to bed to prove your ability to comfort me, right?”

“I would, but not for that reason.”

She gazes at him. Nothing in his expression mocks her. The accent makes him sound flip. “And the reason is . . . ?”

“I'm terribly smitten with you. I didn't want to be. It's why I hired someone instead of meeting a woman on my own. I thought hiring would alleviate better feelings.” His voice so earnest it's almost comical.

“You talk funny.”

He chuckles. “I'm going to cook dinner. Can I search your pantries?”

“Excuse me?”

• • •

She sets the table, her mind somewhere else. What if she fled? Stuffed the bad news in a corner of her brain the way the doctor stuffed the EKG in her file. What if she took off for California to walk the beaches? Or farther, Rome, Venice. Or maybe Turkey? She has the money. Spend it now. She looks out the window where things are as they were. That's the problem with fantasies. They change nothing.

He places a puffy salami omelet on the table, the garlic and onion smells palpable.

“Looks wonderful,” she says, a bit sorry for her cutting words before.

“Now aren't you glad I stayed?” He holds out a chair for her.

“I won't be bribed.” She sits across from him.

“Apparently. Yet it's exactly what I want to do. Cheer you.”

“You're sweet.”

“Not really.” His expression clouds and she wonders if he's feeling guilty.

“Are you thinking about your wife?”

“Not thinking so much as worrying a bit. I spoke to the nurse this morning. My wife's been sleeping more. A bad sign.”

“Do you like being surrounded by sick women?”

“What a thing to ask.” He looks uneasy.

She shrugs. “Well, you are.”

“I don't see you that way.”

“What way?” She's no longer sure what they're talking about. Like those customers who insist on chatting. She provides trivial questions, and the answers don't matter.

“Like Lillian, incapacitated.”

She wishes he hadn't said her name.

“Simply believe this. I'm here for you.”

“But then you won't be.”

“You're vulnerable. I'll continue to reassure you.”

“Jack, that's condescending.”

“Good! Sounds more like you.”

“I'm in a very strange place,” she admits.

“And I'm still drawn to you.”

“Who knows what's going to happen to me.”

“That's true about any of us,” he says.

“You mean, today's what we have? Sounds like my dad.”

He cuts the omelet, places some on her plate. She's not the least bit hungry but forks up a tiny piece because he's watching her. Ridiculously, Willy comes to mind. He still worries about what people will think.

“Things still matter,” she muses.

He looks up. “What do you mean?”

“I'm surprised, is all.”

“Crises propel us to odd places. A bit of an adventure . . .”

“That's inspiring, thank you.”

“Adventures have no history, that's all.”

“It's more complicated than an adventure,” she says.

“Come now. You've heard about the best-laid plans . . .”

She nods, pushes away the barely touched food. “I'm really not hungry.”

• • •

She drives to her dad's house. She hasn't spoken to him in a week. She considers leaving the bags of food in the driveway and taking off, but then finds herself with a shopping bag in each hand, walking up the scarred path. Fogged windows block anything inside. The house needs painting. Only the maple tree thrives, though no one ever cut back its branches.

“Dad?” She shuts the door behind her.

To her surprise he's in the kitchen.

“What're you doing?”

“Want coffee?” he asks.

“No.” She wants out of here. Will resent any discussion about her body. And begins to stuff packets of frozen food in the freezer. He leans against the sink watching her. There's hardly room for the two of them.

“I hired Darla for the summer,” he says gruffly.

“You what?”

“Going deaf?”

“You'll have to pay her.”

“No kidding,” he says.

“Did she agree?”

“She accepted.” His eyes steady on her.

She wants to say you finally got off the chair. She wants to say it took the threat of death. She wants to say it's really too late. “Good, Dad. That'll be a help.”

• • •

They've taken her street clothes, earrings, purse—anything that could identify her—and stowed them in some room she'll allegedly be wheeled to after recovery. Draped in a hospital robe, covered by a sheet, she's one of several bodies lined up between drawn curtains awaiting surgery. It's still possible, she isn't anesthetized yet. She could chance fate, shout, I changed my mind! Let me out of here! She makes no move, no sound, resignation heavier than the future.

Fingering the cold edges of the narrow gurney, A/C very high, no germs allowed, if she stays calm her teeth won't chatter. Breathing in deeply, she counts slowly on each exhale the way Dina taught her. It's no use. Her thoughts race, collide, refuse to remain long enough to read, as if there's something she must resolve. Dina has the keys to her condo and will take care of everything. Darla will deal with her dad. Ava and Mila drove her here. Ava didn't say much, though Mila went on about her daughter, how amazing it is that's she's grown, how worrisome, too, how she spends money like . . . Mila's chatter was more comforting than Ava's silence. They insisted on staying with her through admission, walked her down the long blue-carpeted corridor toward the heavy double doors leading to the area where a nurse took over. It surprised and scared her then when Ava suddenly hugged her so tight the breath was squished out of her.

Jack, too, on his last night here wrapped her so tightly she feared for her bones. Said over and over she was his godsend. How strange. He wanted to remain with her through surgery and then some, though his job at the lab was done. She wouldn't let him, didn't want him to see her in duress, wanted his image of her to be whole and beautiful. And, yes, she understood none of that mattered to him, but still, it's what she wanted. He wrote down a thousand phone numbers where he could be reached. He promised to stay in constant touch, made her promise to meet him in Europe when she recovered. Said if she didn't, he'd return to fetch her. She believes him.

Her doctor parts the curtains. He's in surgical garb, though his mouth remains uncovered. He smiles warmly; his warm hand squeezes hers. He alone understands what she's about to go through. He promised her a shot to relax her and leans over to inject her arm. He whispers two words she'd never say to herself, “think positive,” though they both know truth will have its way.

8

About Time

“Mom, sit down.”

“I'm making dinner.” The don't-bother-me tone reserved for fussy customers, she's brought it home with her. Okay, she's overworked, working the diner kitchen . . . it's not her thing. Damn Murray. Rosalyn's illness, too . . . it frightens her—fear for those she loves.

“I can't talk to your ass, Mom.”

“Darla!” She spins around. Without a bit of makeup, her daughter's a stunner, the contrast, dark hair, light skin. “Okay, what?”

“You're not going to be thrilled.”

“Try me.” The shag cut frames Darla's small face perfectly.

“I graduate in June.”

“I know that.” Adolescent nonsense. She reaches for an onion on top of the ancient fridge, notices the scratch marks on the door from a thousand magnets.

“In July, I'll be eighteen. I won't need your signature. It's May,” her daughter recites.

She fishes for the missing knife buried under a pile of dishes in the cracked porcelain sink. Christ, the place could use some rehab. “Work the summer for Rosalyn's dad. Save money for the car's down payment. I can't—”

“Mom . . . Forget the car. I'm going to sign up.”

She stares through the window at an identical clapboard house. A breeze flutters the short white curtains that need washing. “No you're not,” she says softly, her gut cramping.

“It's the best way.”

“To what? Die?” She sits across from her daughter.

“Don't be dramatic.”

“It's out of the question, Darla.” If she raises her voice, they'll fight. She'll lose. She takes a deep breath, tries not to sigh.

“If I sign up now, I get an extra thousand dollars.”

“Money?” It's her fault, all her worrying out loud about it. She'll send Darla to her cousin in Arizona.

“You don't have any. I need a lot.”

“They're not paying you to attend the opera.”

“Mom, I'll be fine.”

“You're only saying that because you're young and stupid.”

“Thanks.”

“It's a horrible choice. There are only downsides.” Is this what women's liberation has brought? She needs a drink.

“On top of the thousand, there's a shitload of cash up front, so I could start a savings account. What am I going to do here? Work a few hours for Rosalyn's dad, a few hours more in some supermarket till I save enough to go to a third-rate community college? It's not how I see my future.”

“Spend the summer with your cousin in Arizona. I'll scrape up the down payment for that jalopy you've been eyeing.” Maybe Murray will let her work Rosalyn's shift as well.

“If you say no now, I'm going to sign up in July. So mull it over.” Her daughter strides out of the kitchen.

She kills the stove flame and grabs a bottle of Johnnie Red from below the sink, a glass from the drain. She pours a few inches neat, sits on the couch, and drinks it down. The door slams. Out for the evening. The sigh that's been clogging her throat escapes. The girl's right about one thing—there's nothing special about living here. Darla could meet a guy and get pregnant. Her daughter's too smart for that. How smart is signing up, though?

It annoys the crap out of her that in a few weeks Darla won't need her approval to put her life on the line. Maybe it's true . . . what goes around . . . She devastated her parents when she eloped with Jimmy. But this is different. Darla could be maimed or killed. Christ, she has to do something to stop her. Times like these, a father would be helpful. Good god, it's been years since she had a thought like that.

She pours more scotch, looks around, but there's nothing worth selling. The room has darkened. She doesn't bother with the lamp. Her reflection's on the TV screen, a woman edging middle age with a daughter as old as she was then. The marks of time can't be hidden the way she's hidden Jimmy from Darla.

Sitting here will solve nothing and make her late for work. The overheated diner kitchen, that's what's waiting for her. One more day, Murray said, before a temp arrives and then back to her regular shifts, not that she loves them either. With glass in hand, she searches for a piece of paper, finds an index card on Darla's desk. Writes:
Monday, my day off, we're going out to dinner. The pub you like. Don't make other plans. Off to work.

• • •

Darla walks the long route to Michelle's house. She needs to think. Her mother reacted as expected. The woman's scared of change. Why else would someone with her looks still be unmarried? She never gets a good answer to that question. It doesn't matter. She has no plan to follow in her mother's footsteps. College, law school, a job on Wall Street . . . she'll make a fortune and buy an apartment in Manhattan. Her mother will see she made the right decisions. The guys who've been in Iraq tell her the girls there do housework. Clean machinery, set up office stuff. They're not running around banging open doors with M
16
s or whatever they're called.

• • •

She rings the doorbell. Waits. “Damn,” she mutters, just when you need someone. Not that she's crazy about being here, Michelle's dirty-mouthed brothers always in her face.

The upstairs window finally opens.

“Hi, let me in.”

They traipse up the few steps to Michelle's room. “Where are your brothers?”

“Out with my dad.”

An intact family she'd rather die than join. Michelle's father, a cop, never stops smiling. She can't trust someone who pretends everything's okay when his wife's messing around with whoever will have her.

Michelle, tall and broad-shouldered, stands in front of the window, her dark, wavy hair backlit by the evening sun. “What did your mother say?” Michelle has no patience for the finer feelings. She wants details. When Darla returns from a date, Michelle phones with clinical questions: What did his tongue taste like?

“Over her dead body. It's a first response.”

“Did you tell her I'm signing up, too?”

“She'd accuse me of not making up my own mind.”

“We need to go together.”

She eyes the posters on the wall, no one she likes. “You're eighteen in June. I won't be able to sign up till late July.”

“Work on your mother.” Michelle rolls the squeaky desk chair back and forth.

“Like how?”

“The breakdown: you're depressed, no motivation, want to die. Refuse to get up for school.”

“My mom thinks I'll get killed.”

“Do you agree with her?” Michelle asks suspiciously.

“Of course not. I know she's negative. Have you spoken to any more of the guys who came back?”

“Ian said I was crazy, but he's been high since he came back.” She laughs. “Let's smoke at the beach. My mother's car is outside. She won't be home till middle of the night.”

• • •

They park in the empty lot. The beach won't be officially open until Memorial Day. Her bare feet tramp the damp sand. The sun has disappeared. They walk to the shore and sit, knees up, listening to the crash of waves. In the gray distance a ship cruises the horizon. Gritty wind blows in her face, her skin clammy. It's fine. She's open to the elements, but worries about how tough army training will be. She's not an athlete. Michelle can carry weight on her back. The thing to do is begin building muscle now. If she puts her mind to it she can do it.

“There's no guarantee we'll be sent to the same place for training,” she says.

“Then we'll tell them the deal's off. They need us. They'll agree.”

“You don't know that,” her tone sullen.

“Did your mother say something you haven't told me?”

“That's not the point.”

“Darla, we've been over points.”

“What did your father say?” she asks.

“Women soldiers fuck up and complicate situations, then he laughed.”

“And your mother?”

“Either she'd just had sex or was flying on chemicals. She looked at me like who was I, then said don't get raped. I told her I'd do my best.”

“My mom's stubborn. It'll be hard to change her thinking. If worse comes to worst I'll wait till after my birthday. She can't stop me then.” She doesn't say it'd be easier if there were two parents. Even if they both didn't want her to go, they'd have each other to bitch and moan to.

“The sooner we get out of this Long Island swamp the better,” Michelle declares.

“I wonder what the desert will be like?”

“Check out
National Geographic
.”

“I bet it has its own silence.“

“There's a war going on.”

“We'll get time off, sneak behind some dune, look at stars, smoke dope. I thought you brought some?”

“Coming right to you.” Michelle digs a small plastic bag out of her purse, removes a joint, lights it, takes a drag, then passes it.

Inhaling deeply, she stares into the hazy nothingness. After the second hit, she sees a distant cloud drop behind the horizon.

• • •

Breakfast customers have cleared out, thank god. The lunch crowd will soon descend. Nick stacks salads in the big aluminum fridge; he's filled the bread bins. He's been here all night and must be exhausted. After an hour in the kitchen teaching a temp guy this and that, it became clear he's not a keeper. Damn. She slides onto a counter stool beside Ava, who's nursing a cup of coffee and thumbing through
Newsweek
. Murray hates his employees sitting even on break. His car keys dangle on the hook near the register. Why's he even here on a Sunday? The adjacent mirror reflects a swath of diner along with her sorrowful face.

She sighs loudly and Ava looks up.

“Darla wants to join . . . the army, the Marines, I don't know. Our conversation didn't get that far. Ever see the parents of dead soldiers on TV? It's beyond me how they continue to support the disaster. I'd never be that forgiving.” She pulls napkins from the holder, then squeezes them back in.

“That's bad news.” Ava folds away the paper. “Why?”

“The military can't get enough fools to volunteer so they're offering pots of gold. I can't compete with that.” Would Ava lend her money? Christ, she's on the road to desperate.

“Are you two getting along?”

“Teenage girls and their moms, what's new? We're okay together. Our fights are like summer storms, they're over quickly.” Long fingers of sun reach across the countertop, reminding her she'd rather be elsewhere.

“You have to stop her.” Ava sounds alarmed, no doubt thinking of Bobby.

“How? Tie her up? Lock her in the bedroom?” She's read about parents who do such things. There's that woman who drove her kids into the water.

“Hell, my husband was killed in Iraq,” Ava mutters, as if Mila didn't know.

For a moment they both stare into the mirror, silent. In the near distance trucks rumble on the highway.

“Should Nick speak to her, you know, a man, a vet,” Ava offers.

“She'd ride my tail for telling you. The things you hope for . . . the girl's getting older . . . the two of us will talk . . . reason together. Think again.” Not totally true. Darla is reasonable. In fact she's damned logical, which is why it's so difficult to win an argument. Her daughter will do well in life. But she has to be alive.

Nick, with gear in hand, ready to go home, comes around and whispers something to Ava, who nods. His hand brushes her cheek.

They watch him leave.

“It's good between you two,” she says.

“I think so.”

“Don't hurry it.”

“What does that mean?”

“Enjoy each moment, I guess. Sounds corny, doesn't it?” But, actually, she means anything can happen and then what.

Murray comes up from the storeroom. So that's where he's been. “Ava? Write down toilet paper, cleaner, dozen rolls of towels, and, also, we're breaking glasses. That has to stop . . . another box water-size . . . they're damn expensive. Mila, nothing to do?”

If Rosalyn were here she'd remind Murray Ava's finished her shift.

Murray stacks some stray plates, dumps them in a bin under the counter with a crash, then takes a fistful of bills from the register, counts them, and slams the register shut. “Temp could use hands-on, Mila. He's alone in there. But maybe you're otherwise engaged.”

“Sylvie better sleep with the guy . . .” she whispers to Ava, sliding off the stool to wipe wet silverware that would air-dry in a minute. Murray stuffs the wad of bills in the burlap bank bag. The thought of filling her pockets comes and goes.

• • •

The morning sun highlights the faded lime-color walls, water-stained ceiling, sagging beanbag chair. Darla sleeps tight. She perches on the edge of the too-thin mattress, thinks to stroke her daughter's hair, but touchy-feely is no longer a habit between them. There was a time Darla clung to her like an extra limb, her little arm circling Mila's leg as if she feared her mother would disappear.

“Time to get up, sweetie.”

“Umm.” Darla hugs the pillow, her painted-pink toenails bright against the graying sheet.

“You'll be late for school. Come on.” Was she on the phone all night? No point asking, she needs calm between them.

“What time is it?” Darla mumbles.

“Seven-thirty.”

Darla lets go of the pillow, swings her legs off the bed. “Why did you wait?”

“Relax. It's only seven.”

“Damn! I always fall for your stupid trick.”

“Because you're a great student. You'll get some kind of scholarship.”

“Mom, I go to a less than mediocre high school. They don't even have a music department. They don't have any AP courses either. I'm not getting any scholarships without that kind of stuff. You just don't understand. I'll get financial aid, but it won't be from Yale or Harvard.”