Between Husbands and Friends (39 page)

Tuesday morning I wake to good news: Jeremy’s fever is down. He eats the breakfast the nurse brings him, and asks for more.

That afternoon, Max and I tell Jeremy that he has cystic fibrosis, emphasizing its effect on his lungs. It is why he coughs so much, we tell him, and the coughing is good. In fact, we’re going to learn, all three of us, and Margaret later, how to perform the chest percussion therapy that loosens up the mucus in his lungs. It makes the mucus jump off his lungs, we tell him, so that he can cough it up and spit it out. If it stays there, it makes it easier for Jeremy to develop lung infections. So we want to get it out, and we’ll pound on his chest and back for thirty minutes three times a day. Also, he’ll have to take enzymes every day, to help him digest his food, because the same mucus that troubles his lungs also prevents proper digestion.

That’s enough information for now, we think. We’ll have the rest of our lives to tell him more. We’ll be learning along with him.

Jeremy doesn’t appear frightened or upset when we talk to him about all this, and afterward Max and I congratulate each other. We haven’t shown our fear, so Jeremy isn’t afraid. And when the flowers and candy and gifts arrive from his friends and his teacher and the
Gazette
staff, he begins to see that being in the hospital does have its positive side.

While Jeremy naps, Max and I phone a Sussex psychiatrist and make appointments. Then Max drives out to Sussex to organize his papers and the necessities he’ll need for spending the night here.

He’s only been gone minutes when Andrea Cobb arrives, with Margaret in tow. There’s much commotion, it’s like a birthday party, especially because the Cobbs have bought Jeremy a present: the expensive dual-control Space War set that he’s been yearning for.

“Andrea,” I exclaim, “you shouldn’t have. It’s too much!”

“No, it’s not, Mom!” Jeremy cries, and we all laugh. “Wanna play, Margaret?”

“Sure, Germ.”

Margaret and Jeremy settle on the bed, all attention focused on the game.

“I’m going to stretch my legs,” I tell them.

Margaret waves a careless hand: Go.

I stroll around the hospital halls with Andrea. It feels good to walk.

“Jeremy looks good,” Andrea says.

“They’ve got the pneumonia licked, I think, but we’ll be living with the CF every day.”

“How are
you
holding up?”

“Well, to be honest, I’m tired and scared and heartbroken. And I’m thoroughly sick of the inside of my own head. Let’s talk about something else. Tell me about town meeting.”

Andrea chortles malevolently. “It was pretty colorful! It lasted till midnight.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not. And several of our, shall we say more
distinguished
town leaders—Cory Richmond and Daniel Swartz, among others—had to be reprimanded for using profanity and shouting.”

I laugh, imagining it. “It must have been wild.”

“You’ve probably heard: We voted to let the CDA Development Corporation build its building. All this,” Andrea points out, “without either Max or Chip Cunningham to lead the battle. We know Max was at the hospital, but we don’t know what happened to Chip. He just didn’t show up. His assistant was good, but not as good as Chip. In fact, that might be why his side lost. But maybe not.”

“Mmm,” I respond, ambiguously.

We turn the corner, following the bright floor tiles back to the medical ward. Andrea says, musingly, “I hear the Cunninghams are getting a divorce.” Andrea would like to hear what I think about this, I’m sure. Everyone knows that Kate and I are best friends.
Were.
I owe Andrea something, at least an explanation for why I’ve sent Margaret to her house instead of the Cunninghams’.

“I haven’t talked to Kate recently,” I admit. “I’ve been so busy with Jeremy, and of
course Kate with Garrison.”

As we turn back toward the medical ward, Andrea goes off to buy some cookies and coffee. I’m alone as I approach Jeremy’s room, and so I hear my children talking to each other.

“Am I going to die?” Jeremy is asking.

I freeze outside the door.

“Get out of here!” Margaret responds. “No-oo. Duh.”

“But I’m in the hospital.”

“That’s because you have pneumonia, Germ. If I had pneumonia, I’d have to go to the hospital, too, maybe.”

“But I’ve got cystic fibrosis.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re going to die. It just means you have to do special things. It just means you’re special, Jeremy.”

“But I could die.”

“We all could die. Would you stop talking about dying? Mom and Dad would kill you if they heard you talk like that. Let’s play Space Wars again.”

Her voice is sharper than it should be. Give him a break! I mentally chastise her, and then I think: She’s frightened, too. Max and I need to spend some time with her.

I sweep into the room to see them bent over the electronic game, thumbs clicking. “Hi, guys.” They’re too engrossed to do more than mutter a reply.

Andrea takes Margaret back to Sussex; Margaret has homework to do and it’s a long drive. Jeremy’s tired and falls into a light doze while watching television. Later tonight Max will come in to spend the night here and I’ll go home to look at my mail, listen to the answering machine, and sleep in my own bed.

The corridor is busy tonight with families and friends visiting the other young patients. Laughter rises and falls in the air and footsteps beat eagerly against the floor. I look out at the lights of the city, feeling melancholy and lonely. I try to read but my mind won’t settle. Tomorrow I’ll call Jared Falconer to tell him I can’t take the job. I could call Stan right now; I’m not sure he knows we’re here. Probably he does, because everyone knows everything about everyone else in Sussex. But just in case he doesn’t, it wouldn’t hurt to call him. I should find out
how Write?/Right is, even though I’ve only been away from the phone for two days. But I don’t want to talk to Stan, not really. Write?/Right seems frivolous, part of another life. I can’t get my thoughts to settle on work. Every path in my mind leads to Jeremy.

“Auntie Lucy?”

I look up to see Abby in the doorway, holding a present wrapped in paper covered with balloons. She looks great, with her long brown hair brushed out around her shoulders and held back by a pink headband that matches her pink dress.

“Abby!” God, how I’ve missed this child with her sensible freckled nose and her smile.

Kate stands behind her, unbelievably perfect in her plain fawn-colored dress and shoes. Her summer tan still glows so that she’s caramel all over, head, skin, and clothes, and burnished, like a well-polished lamp. Cool as ice, she greets me. “Hi, Lucy.”

“Kate.” I’m too stunned to say more.

“I brought this for Jeremy.” Abby holds up a package. She blinks rapidly as she takes in the formidable equipment of the room, the height of the hospital bed, Jeremy’s bandaged arm.

Jeremy’s eyes flutter open. “Abby!” Suddenly he’s a packet of six-year-old eagerness. “Look at my arm! I have a shunt! I get antibiotics twice a day from a tube that comes out of there! I have cystic fibrosis! And the Cobbs gave me Space Wars!”

Abby climbs up on the bed and kneels facing him. “I brought you a present.” She watches while Jeremy tears off the paper to find five videocassettes of the latest children’s movies.

“Thanks!” Jeremy explodes in a spasm of coughing. Kate and Abby freeze, and I put my hand on his back and hand him some tissues. When he’s through, he says confidently, “I’m supposed to do that. I’m supposed to cough. I have to get all the yuck out. Want to watch a video?”

Abby eyes the Space Wars set. “That’s cool.”

“Wanna play?”

“Yeah,” Abby says eagerly.

Kate’s looking a little white around the edges.

“Let’s step out into the hall,” I suggest.

“I hate hospitals,” Kate mutters.

“I used to. I guess I’ll learn to love them.” I steer her toward the far hall by the elevators and the telephones.

“How long will Jeremy be in?”

“Two weeks.”

“Two weeks!” Kate goes pale. “Jesus. That’s awful.”

“Well, it looks like it’s going to become part of our lives.”

“This is terrible. I’m really sorry.”

“I know.” Up close, Kate doesn’t look so perfect. She’s lost weight, and beneath her makeup her eyes are shadowed. “Tell me, Kate, how are you?”

She eyes me warily. “You really want to know?”

“Of course.”

Heaving an enormous sigh, she slouches against the wall. “The truth is, I’m just one great big emotional snarl. Garrison’s really sick. I spend all day taking care of him and trying to keep his spirits up and hiding in the bathroom weeping, then Abby comes home from school, so I plaster on a fake smiling face and act like Donna Reed.”

“You do it so well,” I interject wryly, as if this were old times.

“Yeah, thanks so much,” she shoots back. “And then, there’s all the rest of it—” She glares at me.

“Chip, you mean.”

“Chip. I’m furious at him, but to be completely honest, I’m glad that something finally happened that enabled me to change things. I’ve wanted to do this for a long time.”

“This.”

“Divorce.”

“You’re really going through with it.”

“I really am.”

“So I did you a favor,” I say, only half joking.

“Yeah, right.” Her face is grim. “I’m seeing a therapist.”

“Which one?”

“Sam Campbell.”

“Max has an appointment with him. For antidepressants.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not. I’m going to see him, too.”

“Good God,” Kate says. “How bizarre. Sam’s head must be spinning.” We stare at each other and we can’t help it: We connect; we grin. Then Kate’s face grows somber. “Chip’s put the farm up for sale. Although you probably already know that.”

“What about Abby and Matthew?”

“You mean, how will they deal with the divorce? They’ll survive. I mean, Matthew’s
already had a lot thrown at him. He knows Chip had an affair with you. He knows Chip is Jeremy’s father. If he can absorb that, he can handle anything.” She takes a deep breath. “He’s got a girlfriend.”

“Chip?” I gasp, incredulous.

“No! Matthew!”

“
Matthew?
” I don’t know why I’m so surprised. And irrationally insulted and jealous; I want him to like Margaret. “Who?”

“Cecilia Clark. The little tramp.” Tears well in Kate’s eyes.

“Kate, Cecilia is a perfectly nice young woman.”

“Cecilia’s a slut. She wears the tightest—”

“Kate. Get a grip. Remember what it was like when you were their age.” In a softer voice, I add, “Remember what it was like when we first met?”

Kate looks at me, and for a moment I hope she’s seeing not me, exhausted, harried, frightened, guilty Lucy West, married mother of two and adulterer, but the Lucy West I was that long-ago spring afternoon when our eyes met at the baseball game. When Matthew and Margaret were three years old and we were not yet even thirty. When the air was sweet with the fragrance of new-mown grass and with the sight of so many young daddies coaching and cheering on their young sons. When lust was something to grin about, and mischief only reminded us that we were still young.

Kate’s blue eyes darken. “I remember how we used to joke about living in a retirement home together. Max would write a newspaper and Chip would sell stocks and you and I would sit on the front porch in wicker chairs and gossip.”

“Yeah.” An elevator opens, ejecting a nurse who hurries past in the opposite direction from Jeremy’s ward.

Kate looks at her watch. “I’ve got to go.”

“Wait, Kate. About you and me. Do you think …?”

Kate stares at me levelly. Her voice is tight with control as she says, “Do I think we can still be friends? I don’t know, Lucy.”

“I think we need each other, Kate.”

“You could be right. It’s too soon for me to judge,” Kate says quietly. Then, as if she’s conceded too much, she straightens. “Anyway, I should go. I just wanted Abby to see Jeremy, I didn’t intend to get into true confessions.” Abruptly she turns and strides back to the medical ward.

Following behind Kate, I notice a few especially pale hairs sweeping down to her immaculate collar: gray hair! Kate has gray hair. Shocked, I find myself patting my own curly mop, thinking not of vanity but of the relentless passage of time.