The History of Great Things (22 page)

Marjorie asks if you've met Fern yet.
Who's Fern?
you ask, and your sister points across the room to a blond woman who's clinging tightly to Victor. You look over and reserve judgment for now.
Well, it was to be expected, Marjorie
. This is when your
dear old friends Inge and Dan come over to greet you. Inge is fighting tears too, until she sees you looking at Fern.
Oh well
, she says in her sweet German accent,
she's all right. He's been ill, a bit, she takes care of him. Ill? Ya
, Inge says
, a stroke, cancer. Not long after you . . . he's better now. You should go say hi. I'm sure he's waiting.

Inge squeezes your hand; you take a deep breath, walk across the room. Victor has tears in his eyes, like everyone else, but that doesn't make it any less awkward, and he almost has to peel Fern off his arm to give you a hug. He introduces her, she says
I've heard a lot about you
, in a thick Staten Island accent, sort of a monotone; you don't know yet that this flat tone is her only tone, the point is that it seems potent. It's an absence of tone functioning as tone. The truth is, Victor hasn't talked that much about you; he's told her he loved you and that you were a brilliant singer, but “complicated” is about the extent of the rest of it. It's in the past, and he's never been one to linger there. And you're sharp, if somewhat paranoid, and you're not altogether off in perceiving something in Fern's toneless tone, though what that is has yet to reveal itself. Fern's phone rings in her purse; she says it's her mother calling her back.
Ma.
Yeah. Yeah listen, Ma,
why do you think Pop didn't come to the wedding?
No I haven't been drinking, Ma, it's a goddamn booze-free wedding, but I'm going to run to a deli to get some right now
, you hear as she walks away. You and Victor stare at each other for a bit; it's hard to know how to open the conversation.
Hey, how's that new wife working out?
isn't quite right, though that's what you want to know.
She seems
. . . you say, having no idea how to finish the sentence. You were reaching for something along the lines of
nice
, but it's not coming out of your mouth.
She's a good person
, Victor says. What you don't know is that he says this a lot.
Betsy's not— I hoped maybe they'd be
friends, but . . . I think Betsy just can't get past her not being you.
You can imagine that there might be a shred of truth to this, and also that it's far from the full story
. Maybe you should give Betsy more credit than that. What's that supposed to mean? I'm saying maybe she has some reason to think this woman isn't right for you. Betsy doesn't know her. I've tried. We've had Betsy to the house. Wait, what house? The house, our house. You mean
my
house? Sweetheart, where did you imagine I would live? I imagined
you'd live in a new house! Who would want to live in my house? It's a nice house, why
wouldn't
we want to live there? Because it's creepy! You're crazy. It's where I live. Did she redecorate? No, sweetheart, we haven't redecorated. Look, I'm about to retire and we'll probably move to South Carolina, there doesn't seem any point in moving now. Does she wear my jewelry? No! Of course not. Betsy has your jewelry, just like we agreed on. Good. She had the nerve to ask me for the old dining room table and chairs, though. My mother's table and chairs? Yeah, we use it. No you don't, we always kept that folded up. Yes, it's folded, it has picture frames on it. It's supposed to be Betsy's—you can't put picture frames somewhere else? That table is supposed to be hers after I die. But you're not using it. I'm not having this conversation. It was wrong of her to ask. Give her the table! I see crazy is still an issue in the afterlife. Fuck off, Victor! That was my mother's!

All of the wedding guests can hear what's going on. Marjorie comes over to try to calm you down.
Lois. I can't begin to guess what this might be like for you. No, you can't
, you say.
Lois
, Marjorie says again,
listen. We don't really like her either. She isn't you. You're right. Don't you suppose that might have been exactly why he chose her? I can't begin to guess why he chose her. I know, that's what I'm trying to tell you. He had his big love. He's a guy. They don't do well on their own.
You muster a snuffle that represents a laugh.
He was the one who took care of
me,
though
.
Yes, he did, but he was heartbroken to lose
you, and Fern showed up on the right day when he was tired enough of crying. Yeah, what, a month later?
you ask, and Marjorie laughs and says
Roughly, yes, but he was heartbroken and lonely and she was there and she was the opposite of you and that was what he thought he needed.
Your sister is slowly breaking through.
But she's using my stuff. Yeah, that stinks.

—I'm not sure this scene is doing what I want it to, Mom. I feel like I'm just having you say things I think.

—Maybe we think some of the same things.

— . . .

—Can we go to the future now?

—That's gonna be weird.

—It's weird now.

—Let's wrap this weirdness up first.

At the bride and groom's table, you have a chance to talk to Dad and his wife. It's not the first time you've seen Dad since the divorce, but it's been a good number of years, and though he and Jeannie have been married for decades, you've never met her. You offer Fred a hug; his illness has now aged him to the point where there are barely traces of the man you remember, but the sparkle in his green eyes is still there and it's hard to call up the limitless anger you once had toward him.
Betsy's missed you so much
, Jeannie says, the kindness in her voice settling into you. All you've got is a sad smile of gratitude.
She thinks I'm mood-oriented.
Jeannie is too polite to know how to comment on that, but I'm not.
Mom, let it go. Did you bother reading the part of the story where I cry for a year? No. Hm.
You turn to me and whisper
It's too bad Jeannie didn't meet Fred first. Nobody's sorry things worked out the way they did, Mom. I caused him a lot of pain. Yeah, you did.
But he recovered. I have a sister. Jeannie has three sons. I wouldn't exist at all. Well, maybe that would have been for the best. What? No, I just mean, whoever you might have been would have had a more normal childhood, a more normal life. I should have probably never had you. Mom! So you're sorry you had me. What if I said I was? Are you? No! You just said you shouldn't have had me. I said probably. So you're not sure. That's what probably means, yes. So probably I shouldn't have been born. That's not what I meant. It's fine that you were born. Fine? It's great that you were born, really, it's great. Great? It's the greatest thing in the history of great things that happened to me. Honestly. Honestly? Yes, Betsy. Why won't you say what you meant? I don't want to. C'mon. I'm dead. Can't you just cut me some slack? I've cut you plenty of slack. I misspoke. That's all. I'm not sorry you were born.

—I feel like I'm losing control of this narrative.

—I don't know what you just said.

Honey, I'm sorry. Of course I'm glad you were born. I only meant that I wish I could have given you a more normal upbringing. You could have, you just didn't want to. Okay, well, maybe not normal, exactly, I did love that our life was—even in poverty, it seemed extraordinary to me. Yes, sometimes a little too extraordinary. I guess if I could change anything I might have wanted things to be like they were, but less . . . sad.
You kiss me on the head.
But look at you. You've done better without me. Mom. You were there for thirty-seven years of my life. There is no me without you. That's a good thing. Or—it's a complicated thing that's also a good thing.
You nod, pull a crumpled tissue from your beaded sleeve to wipe your eyes.
Oooow! I scratched myself in the face
.

Y
ou're now sixty. How the hell did that happen? Sixty is old. Victor tells you that you're as beautiful as ever; one glance in the mirror tells you he's out of his mind to think so, and you are certainly glad you avoided the sun your entire life, but sixty is sixty and you were a young woman only moments ago. You never thought about what sixty would be like. It feels close to over. You're tired now,
all
the time. Which makes your brain start to do what it does, again. If you have another twenty years, what do you want for that? You try to picture yourself like your mother after sixty, a tight gray perm, senior cruises to Alaska. Haven't you traveled enough? Would you really want to do anything like getting on a boat you can't get off, just to spend two weeks playing shuffleboard with a bunch of old people? No. What you would like is to get the hell out of New York City and be with someone who understands you. You will never be Callas-level famous, it's finally clear. You haven't made peace with it, but you know it's true. New York has taken its toll. So you live in a nice apartment in the Schwab House, with a view of the river and your long-awaited second bathroom. You want out. You've always loved Colorado. Your high school friend lives there, she's always wanted
you to come, has a guest house you can rent. Done. Within the space of about a month, you go from turning sixty to telling Victor you want a separation and packing up a U-Haul with furniture and driving yourself to Boulder. You have no idea what this looks like to everyone else. You try to explain your reasons to me, that it's all Victor's fault, and that he doesn't even try to understand you.
He's not the person you think he is.
Hm, where have I heard that before?
I say, you say
What are you talking about?
I say
Never mind
.

Colorado lasts six weeks. Long enough to unload your truck, hang curtains and pictures (well, who are we kidding, that part is accomplished in about three days), make a sweet little home in your carriage house apartment with a deck above a stream in the woods. It's peaceful, which only serves to make you understand clearly now that there is no peace for you. Attempting a task as basic as ordering telephone service results in full-on screaming at an automated voice system until your throat hurts, which in turn magnifies your existing self-hatred for possibly damaging the only good thing you have to offer. You do some writing, a life review to date, pluses and minuses and in-betweens (not many of those). You are able to get the briefest glimpse of what it looks like from the outside. You've sung with La Scala. You've been married nearly twenty-five years to a man who adores you; you've traveled the world, raised a beautiful daughter. These are things to be happy about. You have had your joys, but you have never really known peace. Still, a few things come into focus. Your brain doesn't work quite right, you know this now, though you still haven't pinpointed the whys or hows. You're beyond tired. Physically, mentally, spiritually. You want to rest everything. And you realize, here in Colorado, that that's been available to
you all along back east. So you tearfully ask Victor to take you back. There was never any question that he would. You ask if you can move to New Jersey, though; you can't live in the city anymore. You call Betsy and tell her. She seems surprised, but weirdly relieved.

Y
ou and Victor buy a beautiful four-bedroom house in Upper Montclair with a big front yard and a big backyard. Why didn't you do this sooner? You have a guest room, an office, a sewing room. You spend three months decorating, allowing yourself to buy some new living room furniture for the first time in twenty years. (Victor would have done this years ago; you saw no reason to spend the money when you were fully capable of reupholstering sofas and chairs.) You celebrate your twenty-fifth anniversary together with a backyard party. He buys you a puppy. At the end of these three months, with no new projects yet begun, you're restless again. What the fuck is wrong with you? Victor asks if you want to take a couple of engagements that come in, you say sure, get back to practicing. He drives you into the city for a lesson; you get your foot stuck in your purse straps, on the floor of the car, and fall out onto the sidewalk, breaking your hip. You're pissed. You've taken vitamins for decades to prevent this; fuck those snake-oil-selling con artists. Everything is X-rayed, hip-replacement surgery is scheduled, but there's more news as well.

The worst news. Cancer. Of the lungs. Lung cancer. What? Yes. As soon as you've recovered from the hip surgery, you will
have another surgery to remove the cancerous part of your left lung. You respond to this news with silence, at first; Victor holds off from discussing it until all three of us are gathered in the kitchen in Montclair. Your first thought is blank. Your second thought: That asshole just ruined my new kitchen. Your third thought: I spent an entire lifetime not smoking. I made not smoking an active thing. That's not easy to do. Your fourth thought comes out of your mouth:
Hold on. Victor. The doctor discussed this with you before he talked to me, Victor? That's
wildly
unethical. I can't even . . . I knew as soon as they called that it was bad news, Lois. I persuaded them to tell me the results over the phone. I thought it would be better if I told you.
The rest of your thoughts blur together into what is commonly recognized as shock. You don't cry for another day or two. You can't understand why everyone else isn't crying, though; it doesn't occur to you that they don't want to upset you any more than you already are. You believe in expressing all feelings at all times, though this has never been a successful practice for you insofar as your feeling-expression resulting in any real change. Victor says that the doctors have given him some percentage chance of full recovery. The number doesn't fully land, but you're sure it's above 50, and that's enough for now. You can work with that. You'll think about it later.

In post-op, the doctors report that they had to take two-thirds of your lung but that they've gotten everything, that you'll have a full recovery. Your lungs, from years of singing, are impressive, the doctors say; the amount of lung removed still leaves you with more lung than most people have before the operation, so essentially you're at everyone else's square one. Something to be proud of. You made a little guest room for cancer in these lungs, great. The doctors strongly suggest a rig
orous course of treatment as a matter of prevention, and Victor is also in favor of this, but as soon as they outline your treatment options, you know you're not going to have any of them. You have done your research, of course. You are a person who asks questions and demands answers, and when you don't like the first ones given, you go looking for ones you do. There are no guarantees. You learn the phrase “cut, poison, and burn,” and you've already been cut so you'll skip the rest of that torture, thanks. You've brought this on yourself with your broken brain; maybe you can get rid of it if you can learn how to think better. You can say affirmations. You can affirm the hell out of this godforsaken disease. You don't want to lose your hair; you don't want to spend any more days in bed than you already do. You have things to do. You've got an engagement with the Virginia Symphony next spring. Victor is fully prepared to cancel that on your behalf; you say
Oh no you don't
. You don't want anybody in the business knowing about this. You've already been vocalizing, and right now you sound like shit, but your shit is ten times better than whoever they'll replace you with. Plus if you can sing a concert that will obviously mean you're fine.

So you practice. You double down on lessons, double up on your lung rehab exercises, learn compensation techniques. It takes a little more out of you than it has in the past, and by the end of this time, before the concert, you're not at all where you've been before. There's a different tone to your voice, and there's less power, but there's no less art. You receive the usual standing ovations and rave reviews in the local papers. Your lack of lung is not noted because they know nothing about it; you might even have gotten a better review had you come out about it, but you take a great deal of pride in the raves you've gotten under these circumstances. You sing better than half the dilet
tantes out there with recording contracts right now, with one less lung. You could sing the shit out of shit with half a lung.

But this performance took almost all the energy you had. You'll just take a break now. You go in for your follow-up appointments, and the doctors find some more spots, not small ones, on your other lung, the lung you do still need. This time, Victor talks you into the chemo and radiation; you still really don't want it, but you're too tired to argue. You could double up on holistic treatments, you think, which you've already been doing: Reiki, acupuncture, crystals, affirmations, aromatherapy. But you agree to do it for him. You see his worry now.

These treatments, however, take the last small reserve of energy in your well. When you're not sitting in the chemo room, you're in your bedroom with the curtains drawn watching
Golden Girls
marathons. You feel somewhat better for brief periods between treatments, enough to plant a few fall flowers out front, catch up on some mending projects, start a new afghan for Betsy, to replace an earlier one you made that doesn't match her sofa very well. Your doctors say you've made significant improvement. You do not feel significantly improved. You're on oxygen most of the time, and that bullshit tank is a pain in your ass to drag around even on better days. Victor and Betsy suggest at least coming down to the living room, looking out at the beautiful backyard to get your spirits up. They don't get it. You don't want to see the life you're not living; you don't want hope for what you're not going to have. But you can't say that to them, even if it somehow wouldn't make them sad, which you know it would. They'd try to cheer you up, rally you; you don't want to be rallied. It's confusing, because you were always such a fighter; maybe you're finally done fighting. You should keep on going, to feel like
this
? Weren't you the one who al
ways told everyone that you were a huge proponent of assisted suicide, that if you had some horrible debilitating illness you wanted one of us to come pull the plug? You never got confirmations from me and Victor about that, and even Audrey, who understands you like no one else and who is a nurse and mother through and through, had said
I don't think so
. You're not going to record; you've known this for years. You've done some good in the world, not enough to make up for the excess of drama you've added, but you've done what you felt you could. Maybe you weren't meant to be an old person. That feels true. You can't picture yourself as a little old lady with a silver perm and unblended rouge. You still look good now; maybe this is meant to be. What is it they say about leaving a good-looking corpse?

Just before Thanksgiving, you're feeling better. You've felt good enough to walk the dog all the way around the block, dragging that dumb old oxygen tank behind you. You're looking forward to having me home. You plan dinner; Victor and Betsy will help, it'll be like always. I fly in from Chicago the Sunday before, but when my cab pulls up in the driveway, you're feeling a little weak. Victor puts you in the car to take you to the hospital to be on the safe side. Your daughter tells you she loves you, you mouth the words back, can't get any air behind them, an apologetic look in your eyes. You know. You totally know. She doesn't know, but you do.