The Gates of Evangeline (2 page)

W
hen my friend Rae shows up with an eggplant dish her husband made, I know exactly what play she's running. It's a move I've grown accustomed to. The food gets her inside, where she guilts me into eating
just a little, so I can tell Mason you tried it
. Then, as I dutifully pick at her husband's cooking, she tackles chores around my house.

In the beginning, her little check-ins drove me nuts. I wasn't hungry. I didn't
want
my laundry done. Dishes were beside the point. Now I realize the neighborly love behind the visits, understand the time Rae and Mason set aside each week for me, and I'm grateful—though they still drive me nuts.

Today, I don't even have time to retrieve a spoon before she's attacking my kitchen, poking a broom into the dark crevices beneath the fridge and dishwasher. I'm in no mood for it.

“Would you
stop
cleaning, damn it? The house is fine.”

She sets the broom down slowly. Sighs. Sucks in her cheeks and runs a fingernail up and down her long brown throat. “Just trying to take something off your plate.” Her gaze slides around my kitchen: its sticky counters, my ever-growing mound of mail, the overflowing garbage.

I know that she wants to help, wants to bring light or at least some Pine-Sol into my cave of misery, but Rae doesn't know this mess like I do. She sees smudgy sliding glass doors, and I see my son's fingerprints. She sees an old Cheerio, and I see a breakfast when he sat with me, fidgeting, complaining, dawdling.

“So what did Mason make today?” I ask, peeling back the tinfoil on her casserole dish. “It looks good.”

“Eggplant rollatini.”

I have an obligatory spoonful. “Tell him I like it,” I say, although it tastes like nothing to me, the way everything does now. “Did Zoey help? Is she still talking about being a chef?”

“Nah, she's back to ballerina again.” Rae fiddles with one of her springy Afro curls and then changes the subject, as she usually does these days when I ask about her daughter. “So, Charlie, honey,” she begins, “I have to ask. Are you seeing somebody?”

I'm confused. “You mean a boyfriend?”

“I mean a therapist. A grief counselor.”

I wave a hand dismissively. “I have pills, I'm fine.”

Rae squints at me. “Pills are good. But maybe you need to
talk
to someone, too. You've got a lot to sort through. Most of us can't do that alone.”

The thought of explaining myself to someone, giving name to my feelings—it's exhausting. “I'll figure it out.”

“I know you will,” she says, softening. “You're the strongest person I know. Maybe
too
strong. It's okay to be a blubbering mess for a while.”

“For a while?” I give a shaky laugh. “I don't think I'll ever stop.”

“Oh, sweetie.” Rae crosses the room and envelops me in the kind of rib-crushing hug my grandmother and I could never exchange. “This is your low. This is your rock bottom. I don't know when and I don't know how, but you'll get through this. And you'll kick life in the balls just as hard as it's kicked you. Remember when you found out Eric was cheating?”

The question, I assume, is rhetorical. It was not the sort of moment you'd forget. Eric took me to a restaurant for a so-called date night and, shortly after our appetizers arrived, began his dramatic confession.
Charlie,
he said, gazing into the distance like a character on a soap opera,
I did something terrible.

Two years after the fact, it still makes my blood boil. “He wanted me to make a scene,” I tell Rae. “That freaking drama queen.”

“Oh, I'd have punched him,” Rae says. “But you didn't. You held it together. Because you're a tough-ass bitch.”

I shrug. My anger that day was with myself just as much as Eric. Because I should have known, should have seen the affair coming. Our marriage had been on the rocks since Keegan's birth, and I never mistook Eric for a model of moral virtue. I just didn't think he'd get the opportunity.

We've had problems for
a long time,
Eric said, delivering a speech that was clearly rehearsed.
But we can get past this. For Keegan. Our son needs us.

He expected tears, a choice between two women, but I remained calm, determined not to follow the script.
No,
I corrected him through a mouthful of crab,
our son
needs
me.
I want primary custody. And if
you do anything to fight me on this—anything at all—I
will have you paying child support out your ass for
the next sixteen years. This can be hard, or this
can be easy.

In the end, he made it easy. For me, but mostly for himself.

I want to tell Rae that I'm not tough, just dumb to have married an asshole like Eric in the first place, but I can't regret Eric. Because I could never regret my son.

“Listen,” Rae says, “I better go. You hang in there, Charlie-girl. One day at a time.”

She doesn't tell me that she's going to pick up Zoey, but it's Thursday. Zoey has dance on Thursdays. I haven't forgotten. As I watch her drive away, I wonder if our friendship can survive this. Can I forgive Rae? She has somewhere to go. She has a child waiting.

•   •   •

T
HAT EVENING
I get a call from Bianca, my art director at
Sophisticate
. I mute the TV, some program I wasn't really watching about ancient Egyptians, and answer my cell, grateful for the distraction of work.

“Hon, how
are
you?” I'm used to Bianca enthusing over beautiful layouts and agonizing over the font and color of text. Discussing my personal life is another story.

“I'm fine,” I say cautiously. “You?”

“Good, good.” Bianca doesn't linger on niceties. “So listen . . . I wanted you to be the first to know.” She takes a deep breath. “Dunhaven's looking to sell the mag.”

The TV casts eerie blue shadows across the wall of my living room. I stare at the images of mummies and ancient tombs, trying to absorb her words. Bianca and I have never exactly been a fan of our publisher, but a sale could mean a massive, catastrophic shake-up at work. This is a big deal, a very big deal, and yet I can't quite summon the energy to get riled up.

“Huh,” I say.

My response is not what Bianca anticipated. “Look,” she says, “I'm not supposed to say anything, but Longview Media's already made an offer. It could be accepted as early as next week.”

“You think they'll restructure?” I ask.

“I can guarantee it,” she says. “I know you've been working a lot from home these last few months, but that's not gonna fly with Longview. I'm telling you this as a friend, Charlie. Starting next week, you make it to the office
every day
, okay? Because heads are going to roll. And you know how bad Tina wants your job.”

“Okay,” I tell her, and in some distant way I do appreciate that she's looking out for me. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

After our call, I sit staring at the phone, wondering why I'm not more concerned about the job I spent most of my adult life chasing.
Twelve years
, I realize in disbelief. I began working for the magazine at twenty-six. Once I determined my stint at
Cold Crimes
magazine was going nowhere, I started freelancing for
Sophisticate
until they offered me a staff writer position.
Sophisticate
was a complete 180 from writing about old murders and advances in forensics, but it was a steady job and paycheck. Now, many years and several promotions later, I am managing editor and I have an amazing career. Right?

An amazing career and almost no social life. Hardly any family. And no son.

I wander into the bathroom, in search of my Ambien. Kick aside a heap of mildewed towels, ignoring the smell. Pry the lid off my pill bottle.

Would losing my job really be a bad thing? For years, I've dedicated myself to a magazine that promises today's affluent professional woman a life of happiness and ease. But where is
my
happiness?
My
ease?

I slip myself an extra sleeping pill. I don't want to think anymore, don't want to remember what I've lost. Don't want to ask myself where I would be without my job now, too.

•   •   •

D
ING
,
DING
,
DING
.

I'm jolted from my medicated fog by the doorbell. I sit up on the couch, head pounding, stomach lurching. An Ambien hangover. That's what happens when you double the recommended dose.

The doorbell rings again, three times in quick succession. It's a sound I haven't heard in a while. Zoey. Her “secret” ring for Keegan.

In the last few months, Rae has kept her daughter's visits to a minimum, and I don't blame her. I'm still fragile, unprepared to deal with Zoey's relentless questions. How do you explain to a kindergartener that her playmate is dead when you yourself can't fully grasp the implications of that word? I consider ignoring the doorbell altogether, but I've known Zoey most of her life. I love her to pieces. She is the only child I have left in my life.

I open the front door and blink away the morning sunshine. Zoey's face tilts up toward me; she's a tiny, even more gorgeous version of Rae. Smooth coffee skin, strictly managed curls. A fashionista in training. Rae stands behind her, hesitant. I have no doubt that she's coached her daughter thoroughly, but Zoey's only five, still a bit of a wild card.

“Hi-hi!” Zoey studies me. “Are you sick?”

“Zoey.” Rae's tone is a warning.

“I came to show you my new outfit.” She holds out the skirt of a lime-green ensemble and spins around for me.

I kneel down to her level. “It's beautiful.”

“She wanted to say hello,” Rae murmurs. “I hope you don't mind.”

“No, I'm glad you came by.” I glance at the living room clock. “Looks like I overslept.”

“We'll let you get started on your day.” Rae puts a hand on Zoey's shoulder, attempting to steer her child away. “We need to go too, baby. Time for school.”

Zoey glances back at me. “Hey, wanna come to my dance show? It's gonna be really good.”

Her mother obviously didn't anticipate the invite. “Charlie's really busy. Maybe another time.”

Is she protecting me, I wonder, or shielding Zoey? “Are you having a recital, Zo?” I ask. Even before I lost Keegan, I envied Rae for her daughter, the princess dresses, purple tutus, and glitter paint. I haven't been to either of Zoey's recitals since she started lessons.

Zoey beams at my interest. “Yeah, we're having a show. And I get a costume. It's
really
pretty.”

“Wow,” I say. “I'd love to go.”

Zoey hugs my knees.

“Are you sure?” Rae looks dubious, like she doesn't think I can hold myself together.

“Of course.”

“The recital is Sunday afternoon. I could pick you up at three.”

I can tell that she's still not convinced.

“If Sunday gets here and you don't feel like it, no biggie.”

I attack Zoey with tickle fingers, ignoring her mother. Zoey squeals in delight.

“I'll see you on Sunday, sweetie. I can't wait.”

“Yaaay!” She does a celebratory dance, and her joy is so innocent and pure, I think my heart will break.

•   •   •

I
N THE FOR
TY
-
EIGHT HOURS BEFOR
E
Zoey's recital, I become strangely agoraphobic. The idea of leaving the house fills me with panic. Can I really smile and applaud as I watch other people's children on display? Fueled by my anxiety, I stop lazing around the house and start cleaning. It's time. Objects are not the same as memories, I remind myself. My son is more to me than a Ninja Turtle backpack and a hallway littered with Matchbox cars.

I put away all of Keegan's toys, stacking puzzles and games on shelves, packing blocks and Legos away in boxes. I make his bed, wash and fold his clothes, alphabetize his books. These items mean nothing now to anyone but me. I am the only one who remembers the seven thousand times we read
Moo, Baa, La La La!
and the games of Candy Land he shamelessly cheated at. There are no new memories to be made.

When I am through, the room is neat and impersonal. Blue walls, green trim, a
Sesame Street
bedspread. It looks like an IKEA display, a room waiting to be filled by some anonymous little boy, not my little boy, but someone else's.

Afterward, I turn on the shower, step in with all my clothes on, and sit down. I cry. Cleaning has never felt this bad.

In these two days, I stop taking sleeping pills. I don't want to check out, don't want to numb myself. I need to feel. Sleep, without pharmaceutical aid, has always been elusive; now it's an impossibility. At night, I leave the TV on, letting the enthusiastic voices of infomercials keep me company. I clean out the refrigerator, attack the bathroom tiles with a toothbrush. I cringe with self-loathing as I go through past issues of
Sophisticate
, the articles on diets and plastic surgery. I think,
At least I never had a daughter to screw up
. A cold comfort indeed.

•   •   •

O
N
S
UNDAY
, I sit on the couch and wait. This is it. My day to look normal, to fake it as best I can. Sunlight filters weakly through the curtains. I hear birds. Days and nights without sleep finally take their toll, and before I know it, I'm gone.

Birds, first. Crows squabbling, the light receding, then red. Red flowing, rippling, shimmering. I dip my hand in it and watch fabric spill from my fingers. Someone giggles. I peel back layers of red and Zoey emerges, sequins falling from her hair.
I'm not ready,
she sings to me,
I'm not ready for the end.
Suddenly she's dancing. Spinning, twirling, leaving me nauseous with all her circles.
I'm not ready,
she sings,
I'm not ready for the end
. I reach for her, trying to steady her, but a curtain descends. Not my green curtains, but black curtains, crushing in their weight. Now Zoey is gone, swallowed in their black folds, screaming.