The Hole in the Middle (17 page)

Zoe drains her glass.

“My marriage is fine,” I say.

“No one is saying otherwise,” says Sara.

“Let's change the subject,” I say firmly. “How often do you guys have a family dinner with your kids?”

“Aside from Christmas and Easter?” asks Megan.

“Does ordering pizza count?” asks Laura.

“Intermittently,” says Sara, “but not before my youngest turned seven.”

“So if someone told me that she had a family dinner every night of her children's lives with candles on the table, you would say she was—”

“Lying.”

“Deluded.”

“Desperately insecure.”

“Someone with too much time on her hands.”

“Trying to fuck with you.”

“OK,” I say, almost weak with love for these fine, fine women.

“Back to the conversation about your job, did I miss something while you were on book club hiatus?” asks Laura. “Why are you spending all your time on events? I thought you were running the communications office.”

“I am,” I say, “but my aforementioned boss has a fairly broad
definition of communications. Actually, if you ladies want to help me out, you can come up with a theme for the Gala for me.” I give them the thumbnail sketch of my quest for the Gala theme. “My current working theory is that the answer is buried back in the eighties somewhere. Any bright ideas? Emblematic song titles?”

“‘I Want Your Sex,'” says Zoe. “That was my absolute favorite eighties song.”

“Of course it was,” says Megan. “I was more into the alternative scene. How about ‘Tainted Love'?”

“I'm sure that you were big in the alternative scene at the age of seven,” says Zoe.

“Piss off, Zoe,” says Megan.

“Tears for Fears,” offers Laura. “‘Shout.'”

“Eurythmics, ‘Sweet Dreams,'” says Nora.

“Not bad,” I say. “Food for thought.”

“Oh, I have the best idea!” Zoe leaps up. “Eighties dance party, anyone?”

There is a chorus of cheers and applause, and Sara sighs. “I guess we're not discussing the book, then?” she asks.

“Maybe next time,” says Zoe, to the opening notes of “I Want Your Sex.” “Hope springs eternal.” And as I watch my friends shimmying and twirling around each other in circles, I say a silent thank-you to Beverley Chen, because in spite of everything, I do feel better.

february 1995

“I don't understand,” says my mother. “I thought you were going to be home for the whole week.”

“I was,” I say. “But I haven't made as much progress on my honors paper as I should have. I need to be near the library. It's Reading Week. That's what I'm supposed to do.”

My father picks up the extension. “Her work has to be her first priority, Mary,” he says. “Don't give her a hard time.”

My mother's disappointment is palpable. “If you work hard on it now, maybe you can make it home for the long weekend at the end.”

“Maybe,” I say. “I don't want to promise. I'll see how it goes.”

“OK, honey,” says my mother in a choked voice, and hangs up abruptly.

“Sorry, Dad,” I say, my throat suddenly tight.

“Don't be sorry,” he says. “We're very proud of you. We'll see you soon.”

I hang up the phone feeling wretched. The truth is that my honors paper is coming along on schedule, and I could take a few days off. And if I were going to be alone in the house for Reading Week, I'd take a stack of photocopied research to my parents' place, make a few token efforts at underlining and highlighting the articles, and spend the rest of the week hanging out with my mom. But I won't be alone. Will's
grandmother, Penelope, was admitted to the cardiac ward at the hospital last night, and Will's family ski trip has been canceled. With A.J. in New York, Reading Week on Abernathy is suddenly alive with romantic possibilities.

Will and I haven't spoken about the night of the Christmas party. I know that he's avoided being alone with me since we came back after the holidays, and I've been playing it cool. If he wants to broach the subject, I have some light, breezy banter ready to go. My instincts tell me that we're not yet at the denouement of our romantic comedy, and that any conversation about what's happening between us isn't going to end with Will pulling me into his arms as the credits roll, at least not yet. We're still in the middle of the story, the part where his true feelings slowly rise to the surface of his consciousness until he can no longer deny them. I've seen this movie, and I know that it's important to be present when the eureka moment arrives. So I'm not leaving town.

I find Will in the kitchen, leafing morosely through the sports section. “Hey,” he says. “When are you heading home?”

I pour a mug of coffee and sigh. “Not sure,” I say, keeping my tone light. “Maybe later in the week. I'm going to stick around and do some work at the library. Professor Marsh wants to see a draft in a couple of weeks.”

“Really?” he says.

“Really. You've got to hate professors who think Reading Week is for reading.” I roll my eyes and open the arts section. “Pass the milk?” He pushes the carton to me, giving me a chance to gauge his reaction to my performance. No signs of suspicion or, worse, impending flight: so far, so good.

We sit in what seems like companionable silence for a while, and then I say, “How's your grandmother doing?”

“Hard to know,” he says. “If you believe my dad, she's fine and about to be released; if you believe my mother, she's at death's door. It's wishful thinking on both sides. I'm going to the hospital this morning to check it out for myself.”

“Oh,” I say. I've never met Will's parents, and he rarely talks about
them. I've always assumed that it's because he's a guy and therefore less inclined to reveal personal details about himself, but there's a harshness in the way he says
wishful thinking
that makes me think Will is driven by more than simple biological imperatives. “I'm sure she'll be happy to see you.”

He laughs. “You met my grandmother, didn't you? She's not exactly known for her warm fuzzies. But Lillian will be there today, so it has the potential to be bearable at least.”

“Do you want company?” I ask, and then, kicking myself, add, “I was going to go downtown this morning to check out the Matisse exhibit at the art gallery before it closes.”

But Will is too distracted to notice that my offer is overeager, or else he's willfully blind to my motivations, because he says, with obvious relief, “That would be amazing.”

The cardiac unit reeks of disinfectant and despair, and Will and I stride quickly through the mint-green halls, averting our eyes from the shuffling patients in inadvertently revealing gowns as we look for Penelope's room. I feel unsettlingly young and healthy. Penelope is at the end of a long corridor, away from the nursing station. “That's good,” I murmur to Will as we enter. “If they were worried about her, they wouldn't put her down here.”

“Exactly what I said,” says Lil, rising from her chair and coming over to greet us. “And believe me, there's nothing wrong with her tongue.”

With no makeup to conceal her pallor, and semi-reclined in the bed, Penelope is clearly very ill. But she still manages to direct a glare of unadulterated hostility in Lil's direction. “You see?” says Lil. “She'll be just fine.” She turns to Penelope. “Pen, you remember Sophie, don't you?”

Pen nods regally and shifts her gaze to Will, who is frozen beside me. I bend down, as if to tie my shoelace, and poke him in the shin. He looks down at me and I tilt my head toward his grandmother. He pulls his shoulders back, walks over to the bed, and kisses her cheek. “You gave us a scare, Gran,” he says.

Her face softens. “Too mean,” she manages.

“To die,” finishes Lil. “Don't worry about Pen, my dears, she'll outlive us all. You should see the trouble she's giving the doctors.”

As if on cue, there's a knock on the door and a man enters wearing jeans and a striped button-down shirt. “Ah, Dr. Barber,” says Lil. “Where's the white coat?”

“We save those for the TV doctors,” he says, unhooking Penelope's chart from the end of her bed. “So, Mrs. Shannon, how are we feeling today?”

“She can't speak for
you,
” says Lil pointedly, “but
she's
doing much better today.” Penelope gives Lil a smile that is almost grateful.

Dr. Barber steps over and raises the bed so that Penelope is sitting. “Let's have a look,” he says, and Will backs away in alarm.

“We'll wait outside,” I say, grabbing Will by the arm.

He leans up against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. “Are you OK?” I ask.

“I'm not good at this kind of thing,” he says.

“What kind of thing?”

“I don't know . . . hospitals, doctors, seeing my grandmother naked.”

“She was wearing a hospital gown,” I say, laughing. “Is there some deep childhood trauma that I should be aware of?”

He manages a weak smile. “Not that I remember. But maybe I've repressed it.”

The door opens and Dr. Barber steps into the hallway, gives us a wave, and strides off. Lil comes out of the room. “The examination is over. You can come back in, Florence Nightingale,” she says to Will, and steps aside to let him pass. She turns to me. “Don't mind him. He's always been squeamish. You, on the other hand, are a brick. He's lucky to have you.”

She gives me an appraising look, and then her gaze travels over my shoulder and darkens. “You haven't met Will's parents yet, have you?” I shake my head. “You're in for a treat,” she says. I move back to make room for Lil as she air-kisses the new arrivals, a tall man in a three-piece suit, with strands of silver running through thick dark hair; and a
brittle blonde with a perfect manicure and no laugh lines. “Staunton, Susannah,” says Lil. “How nice to see you both. Have you met Sophie Whelan, Will's roommate?”

“No, we haven't had the pleasure,” says Will's mother, extending a smooth hand bristling with diamonds. I shake it briefly, then do the same with Will's father, who smiles at me warmly.

“Will speaks so fondly of you,” he says.

“It's mutual,” I say.

“I'm sure,” his mother says meaningfully, and then turns to Lil, dismissing me. “How is she?” I feel myself flush, and realize that for all the catered dinners, the nice car, and the connection to Lil, I've only just processed that Will comes from money—lots of it.

“Stable,” says Lil.

“Are her affairs in order?”

Lil's smile freezes at the edges. “This isn't the time, Susannah.”

“I disagree. Penelope is lying in a cardiac ward. She refuses to tell us anything about her finances, her advisers, or her estate plans. If things go badly, who do you think will be left sorting through the mess?”

“I will, as it happens. I'm her executor.”

“And does that seem like a competent choice, Lillian? You aren't exactly in the first bloom of youth yourself.”

“Susannah!” says Will's father. “Mother is entitled to make her own choices.”

Lil's voice is creamy. “Penelope will be here for a few more days, Susannah. This might be a good time to go over to her house and count the silver if you're concerned.”

“I don't have a key, as you well know, Lillian,” says Will's mother. “Shall we get this over with?”

I am way out of my depth trying to navigate Will's family dynamics, and acutely conscious that my status as his roommate is insufficient to warrant my presence here. I follow the group into Penelope's room, but linger by the door, waiting for an opportunity to signal to Will that I'm leaving.

“Penelope, darling,” I hear his mother say. “You look marvelous. How are you feeling?”

“Pugnacious,” says Penelope.

Staunton laughs. “That's a good sign. I'm sorry we missed Dr. Barber, Mother. What did he say about your condition?”

“Fatal,” says Penelope.

“Penelope!” says Lil. “Dr. Barber says she's recovering very well and should be able to avoid surgery. He's going to keep her here this week and get her medication sorted out.”

“Disappointed,” says Penelope.

“Why would you be disappointed?” asks Staunton. “It's great news.”

“You,” says Penelope, looking at Susannah, and even I can tell what she's implying. Susannah colors, rises up on her Chanel heels, and stalks out of the room. Will watches her go, white-faced, and finally makes eye contact with me. I shoot what I hope is a sympathetic look his way, point to the exit, and beat a hasty retreat.

Halfway down the corridor, I hear him calling me. I stop, and he jogs up. “Let's get out of here,” he says. “Are you still going to the art gallery?”

“I could,” I say. “Or we could do something else if you want.”

“What time is it?”

I check my watch. “Just past noon.”

“Perfect,” he says. “Over the yardarm. Let's go.”

“I thought you said you played pool,” says Will, watching me miss yet another disastrous shot.

“I said I
had
played pool, as in ‘a few times before.' I think I might have been drunk, though. I don't remember being this bad.”