Objects of My Affection (31 page)

“Lucy? It's me. Mary Beth.”

Mary Beth Abernathy—ugh, it's her turn to host book club. She's probably calling to warn me she'll be able to tell if I only watched the movie.

“I'm kind of in the middle of something,” I mumble so I won't interrupt Marva's incensed tirade that there is simply no
trust
in the world anymore.

Mary Beth replies, “Call me back when you get a minute. It's about Ash.”

“Wait. Ash? What about Ash?” Fireworks go off on my insides at the mention of my missing son.

“I have information about where he is. So I should be home for another—”

“No, wait, I'll—oh, hold on.” I point to the phone and say to Daniel, “I need to take this call. I'm going to step outside.”

He mouths,
Who is it?

I wave him off and run out to the front porch. “Mary Beth, what is it?” I ask as soon as I'm alone. “What about Ash?”

“You can't tell anyone where you heard this,” Mary Beth says in an ominous tone.

“Why? What's going on? Is Ash in any sort of trouble?”

“Katie will pitch a fit if she finds out you heard it from me.”

“All right.”

“Because I promised her I wouldn't say anything, and if she finds out I did, she'll never trust me again. And with all the pressures on kids these days, I need to keep communication open.”

Cut to it already!
“Mary Beth,
please.
What did you hear?”

“As you know, Katie is very close with Samantha Peterson,” Mary Beth says, now in brisk tones. “So she told
me
that Samantha told
her
that Ash called her soon after he left the rehab facility.”

Samantha. That little snot. Since she'd told me at the bowling alley Ash had written to her, she was one of the first people I called to ask—no, make that
beg
—to be told if she heard from him.

“Is he okay? Where is he?” I ask.

“From what I hear, he's fine.” Upon hearing those few words, my entire body instantly unclenches. “He's still in Florida, in the Tampa area. He's staying with a guy he met in rehab. According to Samantha, this friend already completed the program, and he's taken Ash under his wing. He's going to help him find a job. They've been attending those meetings together … not AA … what's it called when it's drugs?”

“NA. Narcotics Anonymous.”

“That's right. Anyhoo, that's the skinny.”

He's okay. From what Mary Beth says, he's clean. But if that's the case … “Why hasn't he called me?” I ask, barely caring that I must sound pathetic to Mary Beth—even though later she'll certainly recount my angst to the other moms in her circle.
(She was quite choked up, but who wouldn't be? Snubbed by her very own offspring!)

“He didn't say specifically. Although he did tell Samantha he wanted to show the rehab people he could do it on his own. So maybe that includes you, too.”

That sounds like Ash. Stubborn. Willful. And—thank God—still sober. “As long as he's fine, that's what matters,” I say, though it's not true. He should be back in rehab. He should call his mother—not hide from her as if she were the enemy. “It's strange Samantha wouldn't have called me to tell me that herself. Or at least tipped me off in some way.”

“She's scared her mother will find out. Delores wouldn't be wild about her daughter associating with a drug addict. No offense.”

Offense taken, but whatever. “So does she have a contact number for him? Can you get it for me? Because I'd like to—”

“I can't do that!” Mary Beth gasps, as if I'd asked her to drive the getaway car while I rob the bank. “As far as anyone is concerned, we never had this conversation. If I go back to my daughter and say you want a phone number, she's never going to come to me with her problems again.”

“But isn't there some way you could finesse it out of her, or ask her to have Ash call me … ?”

She exhales sharply. “I'll see what I can do.”

“Thank you. It'd mean the world to me if you could.”

“It's challenging enough raising teenagers in this world today. We moms have to stick together.”

“So true,” I say, watery with unexpected gratitude. I've been too harsh on Mary Beth. She's not as snooty and obnoxious as I've always thought her to be. Why in fact, she's quite—

“It's the least I can do,” she says, interrupting my thoughts. “I count my blessings every day that I have these wonderful children, so I owe it to the less fortunate to help them out when I can.”

Or
… perhaps Mary Beth is exactly as I thought. No matter. I'll gladly suck it up and take what charity she's tossing my way. Mary Beth has told me that my son's not dead or back on drugs. Even if I am a pariah—both to Ash and to society—I'm a pariah with a son who is, at least at the moment, alive and well.

I'm in the midst of giving one more plea for her to find out Ash's whereabouts and ending the call when Daniel comes out onto the porch.

“Was that the PI? Did he find Ash?” he asks as I tuck my phone back in my pocket, still stinging from having to hear the news from another mom. If only it'd been Mackenlively—then I wouldn't be feeling so inadequate on top of everything else.

I give Daniel the short version of Mary Beth's call, noticing as I'm speaking that instead of feeling the sensation of unburdening myself, it's as if I were admitting my shameful story to yet another person.

When I'm finished, he crooks an arm around me in a hug. “Thank God, huh? You must be so relieved.”

I wriggle from his embrace. “Where is everybody else? Is Marva seeing the last of the rooms?”

“They're still arguing. You're happy, right? That Ash is safe?”

“Yes, of course, but
happy
might be too strong a word. So why won't that guy let Marva see the rest?”

“He suspects we're casing the joint. That we're going to come back later to rob them blind. Is there something else about Ash you're not mentioning?”

“I told you all I know, which obviously isn't much. So why is Marva putting up with that idiot? Why doesn't she go look at the rooms whether he likes it or not?”

“He's brought up more than once that he has a shotgun—and he strikes me as the type who's itching to use it.” Daniel tips his head, openly studying my face. “What's going on, Luce?”

“How would I know? You're the one who was in there.”

“I mean, what's going on with you? You seem upset.”

“You'd think they'd be out here by now.”

“Was it the call? Are you upset about the call?”

Daniel's refusal to let it drop finally breaks me. “Of course I'm upset about the call. Who wouldn't be? Just because Ash isn't dead doesn't mean that everything is peachy. Not that I would
know
how things really are with him, because he can't be bothered to contact me.”

“Yeah, that is pretty rotten,” Daniel says, nodding. “Can't say I blame you for being mad about that.”

Here it is again, the feeling that I need to defend Ash, even though I couldn't agree with Daniel more—it is rotten of Ash. I don't need Daniel pointing it out, though. I'm well aware of my son's faults, as well as my own. “I'm not mad. I'm concerned. I'm sure Ash has a good reason for not calling, but—”

“Yeah, like there isn't a single pay phone in the entire state of Florida, right? Or the dog ate the paper where he wrote down your number? I tell you”—and I'm amazed at how agreeable Daniel's tone
is, as if he and I were on the same side of this argument, which we most certainly are not—“now that you know he's alive, you must want to kill him.”

“You know, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't make light of this.”

“I didn't mean to—”

“It isn't funny.”

“I know it isn't. But you told me yourself, he's got a place to stay and a few bucks in his pocket. He's going to NA meetings.
He's
having a fine old time. Meanwhile, you're up here worrying yourself sick, and he can't make a call? Sorry, but that's shitty. You can make excuses for him all you want, but it doesn't change the fact that he owes you more than that.”

“I don't care what he owes me. It's not like I'm keeping score.”

Daniel presses his lips together, and for a moment I'm hopeful he's going to drop the subject, but he continues, “You're allowed to be mad.”

“Oh, believe me, I am,” I say, hoping he picks up my hint.

He does. “At Ash, I mean. He has you walking on eggshells again. You're scared anything you do or say is going to send him back to using drugs, and he knows it. It's just … it's hard to watch him do this to you.”

“Nobody said you had to watch. In fact, please don't.”

My words hit their mark. “What the f—,” Daniel says, his face flushed with anger. “That's what I get? Because I'm being honest and telling you I don't like the crap he's pulling?”

“This is not
crap
he's
pulling.
You act as though he's a normal teenager who's breaking the house rules by staying out after curfew or sneaking a beer. Ash is an addict, and now he's dropped out of rehab and is just stumbling along on his own. He could backslide. He could overdose. He could
die.
I'm not simply going to ignore that, as much as you might think I should.”

Daniel doesn't even try to keep his voice low. “Don't twist my words. I'm not suggesting you ignore Ash. That's the last thing I'd ever say. You may recall that
I
was the one who—”

The door is swinging open, and I want to get in one last word as the others step outside. “Daniel—you asked me before if I get it?” I say barely above a whisper. “Well, I get it. I'm Ash's mom. He's my problem. Not yours. Not anyone else's.
Mine.
This job with Marva is almost over, so don't worry—I won't be
bothering
you with having to look at me and my annoying crises anymore. In fact, consider it over now.”

I'm waiting for the rush of satisfaction to hit at seeing the pain flash across Daniel's face, but it feels more like that sandwich I ate at lunch doing handstands in my stomach. It all catches up … Ash … Marva … the painting … the job … the kiss … Daniel's hurt expression … my rolling, tipping stomach …

“Hon, you okay?” It's Lynette, pausing in her litany of apologies to Marva to stare, concerned, inches from my face.

“Yes … but I may be about to throw up.”

“For Christ's sakes!” Gil bellows. “Not in the bushes! I just trimmed those!”

Lynette ushers me back into the house and chucks me into a bathroom inside a hallway. After assuring her I don't need her help—I'm already starting to feel less queasy—I head to the sink and splash water on my face. The bracing cold calms me. After a short while—with my hairline and part of my shirt soaked—I turn off the faucets and use a hand towel to dry my face.

That's when I see it in the mirror's reflection.

Woman, Freshly Tossed.

It's hanging directly across from the toilet, partially obscured by a shelf containing towels, spare toilet paper, and magazines. Hesitating only briefly—do I dare reveal to Marva that her life's greatest work is on display in a
bathroom
?—I open the door and start shouting for her, claiming that I need her help.

She approaches in the manner one might a car they suspect contains a decomposing body. “I'm not good with sick people,” she says grimly. “You should ask that Lynette gal.”

I beckon her inside. “There's something here you need to see.” I'm too emotionally exhausted to even hope to fawn over her brilliance
the way Daniel would have, but I'm also not about to leave her alone in the bathroom for what may turn out to be a huge disappointment. There are razors in here.

As soon as I click the door shut, she sees it and then softly laughs. “How very apropos.”

Setting the carpeted toilet seat down for her, I say, “You wanted to see it. Make yourself comfortable.”

She sits down. The space between the toilet and the painting is so small that she has to tip her head up to get a good look. “So there she is.”

I lean against the sink and decide to take on the elephant in the bathroom. “Sorry it's in such an awful place. That must be infuriating.”

“On the contrary, I find it rather amusing.”

Though I don't believe her, we've come all this way for her to visit it, so I shut up and let her do so. Her eyes flicker over the painting, and I wonder what she sees. That is, besides the obvious. Like all of Marva's paintings, the colors in
Woman, Freshly Tossed
are bright, the lines bold. The image is simple: a nude woman in blue tones leaning against a bed, behind her a ghostlike image of a man. Then there's some squiggly stuff. It's powerful, although seeing it in person, I'm surprised everybody says it's so sexy. It strikes me more as melancholy, although that could be attributed to my current state of mind.

Eventually, Marva breathes out a sigh, still looking at the painting. “You couldn't go away, could you. You had to drag me through it one more time, didn't you.”

Is she talking to me? “Are you talking to me?”

My voice pulls her from her reverie. “I'm not sure who I'm talking to.” She pushes on her thighs to stand. “The lucky news is, you're the only one that responded. I'm not quite as crazy as rumor would have.”

“You're not crazy,” I say, trying to rally with at least
some
gushing. “Except in the way that brilliant people are, but that's allowed. That painting shows what you're capable of, that's for sure. It's amazing. Of course you know that, but I'm telling you in case you forgot. About
how amazing your painting is, and, by extension, how amazing you are.”