She Has Your Eyes (15 page)

Andrew:
Good day for it.

Me:
A little nippy outside. So I read your e-mail. To quote Shakespeare, that’s fucked up.

Andrew:
LOL. Yeah, I thought you’d get a kick out of it.

Me:
You weren’t serious about going into business, were you?

Andrew:
I was half-serious, like considering the possibility yet knowing all along that it was ludicrous.

Me:
I hear it’s real hard work. Not at all glamorous like TV and fiction portray it to be.

Andrew:
You’re probably right.

I couldn’t think of anything else to type and stared at the screen, waiting for him to fill the void, which he did.

Andrew:
Is your fiancé with you?

My stomach flipped, and I knew it wasn’t due to the rocking of the boat.

I could lie to him. He wouldn’t know. It would likely get me off the hook, as my guilt about prolonging this chat—and enjoying it—intensified with every passing second. Was I trying to punish David? Somehow level the playing field by having someone from my past coming into my life as well? Or maybe it was curiosity on my part. I had never really resolved things with Andrew, despite having forgiven him. In hindsight my forgiveness had seemed more like an obligatory gesture—a might-as-well resignation. But I’d been thinking that I owed Andrew something too. If not an apology, then an explanation. And he’d certainly been contrite.

Me:
Just me. But I have to get going soon.

Andrew:
Time to step out on the deck?

He remembered. There always came a point when I had to leave the cabin and spend the rest of the ninety-minute ride outside—didn’t matter how snowy, windy, or rainy it was. During the winter months I brought an old quilt and wrapped myself in it, adding to the layers of thermal, wool and faux fur. The trip was too short for Dramamine, especially considering I had to drive before and after the boat ride. Sitting on the deck was the only remedy to my queasiness.

Me:
You win the gold star. Plus I think my luck with this wireless hotspot is about run out.

Andrew:
I’ll let you go, then. Nice to chat with you. Talk to you soon.

Leave it to him to say that. Last thing I needed was to make this a regular habit. And yet, it took all my willpower not to type “I can hold out and chat for a little while longer.” Because I wanted to. And I hated that I wanted to.

Me:
Good-bye.

The sun shone brightly; the sky was blue and cloudless, the water calm. I sat on one of the benches outside the cabin—the less windy side (I checked)—and tightly wrapped the quilt around me, hugging my iPad in its case.

The reel of the last twenty-four hours replayed yet again as I stared at the landscape in the distance—a passing boat, a lighthouse, a stray seagull—and once more attempted to sort out my feelings like puzzle pieces. Wylie’s question about whether I would’ve resumed a relationship with David, even
solely as a friendship, haunted me. I couldn’t see myself doing it. Not only because I knew Sam would never stand for it (and there’s no way I would’ve kept it from him—or so I believed), but also because it would’ve been too big a box to open. It had been a struggle for David and me to navigate our way through and to each other after Sam’s death. Too many feelings to sort through back then. Too much to renegotiate.

But here I was, attempting to go down this road with Andrew. Worse still, keeping it from David. I of all people knew what it was like when your fiancé kept a close friend of the opposite sex from you. Especially when that friend turned out to be more than a friend. That’s how Andrew and Tanya had begun. Granted, Andrew and I weren’t currently sleeping together—hell, we hadn’t even yet
seen
each other. But we weren’t just friends. We had been more. And I knew how I’d feel if the shoe were on the other foot, if David was suddenly in touch with an ex. In fact, he
was
in touch with an ex. More than an ex.
The mother of his child.
And she was going to be in his life from now on.

I had to stop this. Now. No more e-mails, no more chats. Andrew apologized. I forgave him. That was enough.

As the ferry sailed closer to Orient Point, I wondered what awaited me on the other side of the Sound. And I worried, for I somehow already knew I was going to return to find things had completely changed.

chapter twenty

I pulled into the gravel driveway at my mother’s house around one o’clock. The lawn had been recently cared for, its grassy scent still lingering in the air, mixed with a woody, smoky scent so familiar to northeastern autumns. The leaves had been raked or blown to the curbs and streets, but so many strays found their way back to the lawn and driveway and crackled under my feet as I walked—a comforting sound, one I looked forward to. As a child I would look for the crispest, driest leaves that would make the best crunch when I stepped on them. When I had shared this detail with Sam, it became a game when we went for walks in the park.

Just as I’d flipped my keys around to the one that opened my mother’s door, she beat me to it me by opening it herself.

“Were you waiting by the window for me?” I asked, stepping across the threshold, dragging an overnight suitcase and a shoulder bag with me. “Hi, Mom.”

“You hungry?” she asked.

“Starving.”

“Your brothers are picking up the pizza as we speak.”

My mouth started watering at the very mention of pizza. It was one of the few things I still missed about living on Long Island. That, and the bagels.

I headed for the guest room with my bags, but Mom stopped me. “You’re not in there, Andi.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Tony’s staying in that room.”

“Why is Tony staying over?” The East End was a good fifty miles from where Tony lived (it’s called
Long
Island for a reason), but he never stayed the night unless the weather was bad or he had too much to drink, and both of those were once-in-a-blue-moon occurrences.

“I asked him to. Joey’s staying over as well.”

Mom had a three-bedroom house—modest by East End standards. She had impeccable taste and sense of design, and liked to keep things simple and in order. Manageable. She wasn’t the type to throw dinner parties or have extended houseguests. But in the last few years we’d all been making more of an effort to do things as a family.

“So where am I staying?” I asked.

“You’ll take the office with the futon. Joey offered to sleep on the sofa bed in the den.”

“That’s nice of him.”

About fifteen minutes after I settled in, the front door swung open and my brothers entered, both in loud midsentence, until they saw me. I rushed to them, and each took a turn handing off the two stacked pizza boxes to each other and enveloping me in a bear hug while our mother looked on. As Tony released me, I caught her observing the three of us, a softened, sad smile on her face that I’d never seen before, like she was trying to freeze and preserve the moment, cling to it with white knuckles.

“How’s life in
Baaaston
?” asked Tony, doing a horrid imitation of a New England accent. You’d think we hadn’t seen each other in months rather than weeks.

“Chilly,” I responded.

“Yanks are kickin’ ass in the playoffs,” said Joey.

“Sucks to be without Mariano though,” I said.

“How’s David?” asked Tony. “And what’s up with that whole paternity thing?”

I shot my mother a displeased look. I hadn’t mentioned anything about the situation with Wylie to my brothers—I’m not sure why, or what I was waiting for—but my mother had apparently taken the liberty to bring them up to speed.

I spoke as if the matter was as common as a new job or promotion. “He’s got a daughter.”

“No shit!” said Joey. “For real? DNA match and everything?”

“Wait till you see her,” I said. “She totally has David’s eyes. It’s hard not to keep staring at her. For David too, I think.”

“What’s her name?” asked Joey.

“Wylie.”

“Wylie?” said Tony, as if to imply,
What the hell kind of name is Wylie?

“Yeah, Wylie. I like it,” I replied, feeling inexplicably defensive. “So stop mocking.”

“Who’s mocking? I just asked—”

“Yeah, yeah,” I interrupted.

“Enough,” said my mother. “Boys, get the pizza into the kitchen.” Forty and fifty-something, and she still called them “boys.” “Andi, set the table.”

“Can’t I do dishes instead?” I whined.

“Fine. Joey, set the table.”

“First I give her the futon, now I gotta do her chores too?” he complained.

“For God’s sake, what is this—nineteen eighty-two? You’re all acting like a bunch of children.” I detected a hint of delight in her admonishment.

“I got Sammies,” announced Tony, holding up a six-pack of Sam Adams. “Anyone want one?” Both Mom and I looked at him as if he were nuts. He knew I didn’t drink, and our mother had always believed drinking beer wasn’t “ladylike.” “Hey, I’m just being polite.” He took a bottle for himself and one for Joey, and hunted for an opener. It struck me at that moment how warm the house felt with all of us there together.

The conversation consisted of my filling everyone in on the situation with Wylie and fielding the many questions they had. There was nothing I could say beyond, “I don’t know what’s going to happen. He wants a relationship with her, and he’s entitled to one. They both are.”

“What’s she like?” they asked.

“Your typical teenager, I guess. She’s inquisitive, a little ballsy.…”

“Please,” said Mom. “Pick another word.”

I tried. “Feisty?” No, that wasn’t it. “She speaks her mind, that’s for sure. Anyway,” I continued, “we’re going through the awkward getting-to-know-you phase.”

“Trust me, it takes a while. Tell David to be patient,” said Joey. For the last six months he’d been in a serious relationship with a woman who had a nine-year-old daughter. So serious, in fact, that he was considering long-term scenarios, including the possibility of marriage, and he’d even mentioned the possibility of legally adopting the girl. Suddenly I felt ashamed for not being more supportive, not taking more of an interest and
giving him a shoulder to lean on. David was right; I was more self-absorbed than I cared to admit.

“I had no idea,” was all I could say, the pizza seemingly caught in my throat. He seemed to understand what I meant.

For dessert my mother presented a chocolate bundt cake drizzled with caramel glaze—a favorite of ours from when we were kids. Usually we got it for our birthdays, and while we all fawned over and joked about what we’d done to deserve it, my brothers and I exchanged furtive glances with one another, more worried than ever. After we cleaned every last crumb from our plates with our fingers, I cleared the dishes.

Mom looked at Joey and Tony. “You didn’t bring your guitars by any chance, did you?”

They shook their heads. “No.” There was a time when my brothers didn’t go anywhere without their guitars. It would’ve been analogous to an asthmatic leaving the house without an inhaler.

She looked disappointed. “My fault for not thinking to ask you.”

“We should leave one here in the house,” suggested Tony. I was expecting her to refuse the offer, but she shocked me by suggesting he do just that from now on.

The four of us sat at the dining table; a pregnant pause had taken over, and we all knew it was time for my mother to speak. I almost waited for the clichéd tap on the glass with a utensil to signal attention.

“Well, I might as well get into it now,” said Mom. “Last month I found a lump in my breast. The doctors biopsied it and turns out it’s malignant. But that’s not all. It’s spread elsewhere.”

I remember watching foreign films with Julian the Spanish teacher at NU. My Spanish was so rusty, and it took me so long
to mentally translate that by the time I figured out what was said ten minutes ago, I missed the next ten minutes. The same thing was happening in the present moment as all functioning in my brain slowed to a halt in order to process those four sentences, starting with the key words: lump… biopsy… malignant… I was just processing
spread
when Joey’s brain beat me to it. Sort of.

“What do you mean,
spread
?”

“It’s cancer,” she said matter-of-factly. “It spreads.”

This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening, this can’t be happening.…

“Why are you just getting around to telling us this?” said Tony. My mother’s look communicated that she neither appreciated his question nor his tone, but she said nothing.

“Mom,” I said, my voice cracking. “Are you OK?” I could hear myself say the words, like a little girl unable to fully comprehend the complexity or the severity of the situation. “I mean,” I added, “are you in physical pain right now?”