She Poured Out Her Heart (27 page)

“Yes.” No way around that one.

“If I get a cat, will it die?”

“Yes.”

“If Robbie gets a dog, will it die?”

“Yes.”

“Celia had a goldfish and it died.”

“All right, you know what? You need to concentrate on being here right now and doing things you want to do and need to do. Not worry about dying. That doesn't help. Think about getting better. Can you do that?”

An eruption of noise from downstairs, Robbie yelping in a high, wordless voice. “What is it?” Jane cried, heading for the landing. “Robbie?” She ran down to the kitchen, where Eric was boosting Robbie up to hold his hand under the running tap. “What happened?”

Robbie was still bawling, his face bright red and his nose streaming. “Eric?”

“He pulled a pot of boiling water over and burned himself. Get some ice, would you?”

“What were you—” Jane stopped herself and went to the freezer door to lever some ice into a glass. A saucepan lay on its side on the stove top in a puddle of hissing water. She wrapped the ice in a dishtowel and
handed it to Eric. She didn't see any blistering, at least not yet. There would be some explanation for the boiling water, some bad decision, some lapse in supervision. As if Eric was piling up all his mistakes at once.

She put a hand on Robbie's neck, kissed his cheek, and mopped at him with a Kleenex and told him it was all right, it was going to be all right. His sobs were trailing off into whimpers now. Her eyes met Eric's. “What was it?”

“He wanted macaroni and cheese instead of lasagna. He was trying to see the water boil.”

Jane didn't have to say anything. He already knew. He tied up the ice in the dishtowel and laid it on top of Robbie's burned hand. “Doesn't that feel better?” he said encouragingly, though Robbie wasn't having any of it.

“Does he need the emergency room?”

“I don't know yet, Jane, let's give it a minute, OK?”

She understood that he was angry because the accident had been in so many ways his fault and now he felt bad about it. Angry at getting called out for what he must consider his purely private screwing around. That didn't mean he had to act like an asshole.

And how she hated being a person who cared about such things! This furious, diminished self!

She turned off the stove burner and mopped up the spilled water. The pan of lasagna was sitting out on the counter and she cut a square of it and fixed Robbie a plate with salad and a roll and poured him a glass of milk. “How about you try eating dinner? You can sit right here with the ice on your hand and I'll cut your food up.”

Jane helped him blow his nose and get settled at the kitchen table. “Keep the ice on it,” Eric instructed. “Do we have any gel packs? I can give him some lidocaine, that should help.”

Jane ignored him. “I thought you liked lasagna. Here.” She loaded a forkful of it and lifted it to Robbie's mouth. He swallowed it down. His eyes still leaked stray tears. “Can you manage the rest with your good
hand?” His left hand was the injured one. She guessed that was lucky. “How about some milk?” Eric watched them for a minute, then left the room. He kept his medical supplies in the upstairs bathroom. She wanted to tell him to check on Grace, but why should she have to tell him that?

Robbie wasn't making much headway on the lasagna. Jane helped herself to his portion. Eric hadn't eaten yet either. One more blown dinner. “How's your hand doing?”

“Hurts.”

“Did you try to reach the stove top? You know better than that. Here.” She helped him blow his nose again. “You have to learn to be more careful, sweetie.” Already Jane had unspeakable visions of bicycles, automobiles, organized sports.

Eric came back in then with his medical kit and his brisk, Doctor Dad cheerfulness. “All right, buddy, let's get you fixed up.” To Jane he said, “Grace says you're supposed to give her a bath.” He must not have liked the look she gave him. “Tag team,” he said, an attempt at lightening things up, if only for Robbie's sake.

Jane went back upstairs. Grace was fretful, all wrapped and tangled in her bedding. “What happened to Robbie?”

“He hurt himself with some hot water on the stove.”

“Is he going to die?”

“No, and I want you to stop talking like that! Grace! It's not funny!”

Grace kept quiet while Jane prepared her bath. She liked it hot but not too hot. Full but not too full. A few squirts of pink bubbly soap. Jane peeled away Grace's pajamas, limp from a full day's wear. “All right, hop in. I'm not going to wash your hair because your ear's still sore. We'll do it tomorrow. Let me help you.” She steadied Grace as she stepped into the tub, then squatted down. “Here's your washcloth. Scrub your feet, please.”

A knock on the door. Eric looked in. “Hey there, monkey girl.”

“I am not a monkey.”

“I beg your pardon. My mistake. Clearly, you are a kangaroo.” To Jane
he said, “I'm going to give Robbie some of the acetaminophen with codeine. It'll help him sleep.”

“Fine.” She didn't know why he'd bother seeking her out and telling her this. “I'd get him in his pajamas first. Here, take his toothbrush. He can get ready for bed in our bathroom.” Tag team indeed.

Grace finished her bath and Jane wrapped her in a towel and helped her wiggle into clean pajamas. “You're feeling better, aren't you?” Jane asked, when she was tucking her in. Grace's temperature was below a hundred by now. Even the pink room seemed less lurid.

“Yes,” Grace admitted, as if she was giving up a privilege, with reluctance.

“And tomorrow I bet you'll feel a whole, whole lot better.”

“Mommy? Do people die when they're awake or asleep?”

“Grace. What did I tell you?”

“But which one?”

“Both. Neither.”
If I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.
Some universal childhood fear? Jane couldn't remember it herself. “You don't have to be afraid to go to sleep. I promise you are going to wake up in the morning just like you always do, and you'll be fine.”

“What if I have a bad dream?”

“Then you come get me.” Jane stopped. “Did you have a bad dream?”

“I don't know.”

“You don't know if it was a dream or you don't know if it was bad?”

“It was about Daddy.”

“What about Daddy?” Jane asked, trying to keep the brittle edge out of her voice. Yes indeed, what about Daddy?

“He was crying.”

This was unexpected. “Well, your daddy doesn't cry.” At least, she couldn't remember him doing so. Or just the once, when they'd almost lost Grace. He was entirely too confident, which was another way of saying, full of himself. “What was he crying about?”

“I don't know,” Grace said again, yawning.

“Then it was just a dream and you don't have to worry about it. Go to sleep now. Think about something pleasant.”

“Daddy is a big crybaby.”

“Good night, Grace.”

Jane pulled the bedroom door closed, leaving a hand's width opening so Grace could see the hall light and wouldn't wake up frightened. In spite of what she'd told Grace to reassure her, she felt spooked, filled with free-floating dread, too many things gone too wrong, and how did you know when it was over?

She crossed the hall to Robbie's room, which was dark and quiet. His door too was open and she looked in, letting her eyes adjust. Robbie was in bed, asleep on his back. Drugged up, cried out. His white, bandaged hand lay beside him like a small pet.

Eric was in their bedroom, she guessed, waiting to tell her more of his indignant half-lies. Jane had to remind herself of the passage of time, the day and the night gone by since her suspicions, or no, her absolute dead certainty had crashed-landed on her, but Eric would not have made the same reckoning. He'd be wondering what she knew and how, and waiting to have it out with her, having already tried on this or that argument or excuse, and to Jane it was as if all of it had already happened and she had moved on past it to whatever numb and ugly part of their life came next.

Jane went to the room she'd prepared for herself, found a nightgown and robe in the closet, and changed into them. She washed her face and brushed her teeth in the children's bathroom and readied herself for sleep. She crept into Grace and Robbie's rooms and stood over them for a time, holding her own breath so that she could listen to theirs. Satisfied that they slept without distress, she returned to the small bedroom and lay down in the narrow bed and turned off the light.

Her nerves were broken glass, her head full of jumpy thoughts. She didn't expect to sleep, not any time soon at least. There was only the dry waiting to get through. For a time she dozed, or thought she did.
Footsteps came toward her down the hall. Eric threw open the door to the room. “What's this about, Jane?”

The hall light made her shield her eyes with her arm. “Leave me alone.”

“This is some stunt. How about, if you have something to say, say it.”

“I did. Leave me alone.”

“This is not the way an adult behaves, Jane.” He fumbled around for a light switch, didn't find one. The room was too small for an overhead light. He'd probably never noticed. He kept reaching and thumping the wall. “Ah, crap.”

Jane sat up in bed. “Do you want to wake the kids?”

“Come out of there so we can see each other.”

“I'm fine right here.”

“Goddamn it, Jane.”

“Why are you the one who's angry? Why are you bothering? Talk about stunts.”

Eric stepped into the room, a backlit shadow. She hissed at him. “Get out! What are you doing, leave me alone!”

“What's the matter with you, huh?” His face was in shadow, she couldn't see it. “What, you're afraid of me now? Christ.”

“Get out of here!”

“For God's—”

“Get out!” Jane reached for the lamp and clicked it on. She and Eric stared at each other.

He had a bloodshot, rumpled look, as if he'd already been asleep and then awakened. The light made him squint.

“What are you doing in here?” Attempting a reasonable, exasperated tone. But he was still furious. And perhaps frightened, as she was.

“I'm trying to sleep. I'll talk to you in the morning.”

“No, you're trying to make some goddamn point, because you think, I don't even know what you think.” He shook his head, disgusted. Pretending now to be disgusted. He was trying to get her to say what she
knew, what he had done to give himself away. She knew him that well. As he knew her. Nothing in their knowledge of each other made them happy.

Jane said, “You want me to just go along, go along with everything you do. Act like I don't notice.”

He might have said, Notice what, but that would have given too much away, and neither did Jane wish to say what she knew, or suspected, and so they both held back. Watching him, she was aware that he had drawn into himself, relaxed for the moment, as if reassured, as if he had gotten away with something and was congratulating himself. “Don't bet on it,” Jane said, which startled him back into wariness.

She could see him visibly coming to some decision. “All right,” he said. “I can see I'm never going to talk you out of your suspicions. You're going to think the worst of me because you can't follow me around all the time making sure I'm behaving. So go ahead and assume whatever you want. I can't control that.”

She purely hated him then. He must have seen it in her face because he took a step back and seemed to lose some of his swagger. “Bastard,” she said, without heat, but meaning it.

“Please come back to bed. This is childish.”

“How about, you sleep where you want and I sleep where I want.”

She watched him trying to decide how he might still turn everything into an argument he could win, then she watched him give up. She'd been right. She'd been right from the very start. “I'm sorry,” he said. “Really.” And then they both waited to see what would come next.

After a minute Jane said, “I suppose there's some way that it's my fault.” She felt calmer now, less inclined to react, but also more deeply shaken.

“No. Of course it's not.”

“Who is she? Somebody at work?”

“Yes.”

Jane waited. Eric said, “It isn't anything. Wasn't. It was an impulse. A bad idea. I'm sorry.”

“I don't think I want to hear any details.”

“Of course not.” He seemed aware that he might have agreed too quickly. “I mean, that's up to you.”

“No more lying.”

“All right.”

He was still standing there, taking up too much space in the small room. “Are you moving out?” Jane asked. And watched him look thrown off balance.

“No, why would I? Where would I go? What about the kids?” When Jane didn't answer, he said, “Unless that's really what you think ought to happen.”

“I don't know yet. What I think ought to happen.”

“Well please don't . . . Let's give it a little time to settle, OK? I know this is all new, and hurtful, and confusing, and I think we ought to, if only for the kids' sake, not decide anything right away.”

Jane said, “It just amazes me, that as soon as there's any opportunity to talk your way out of something, you jump on it.”

He said something under his breath, a quick, fast swearing, and pushed his way from the room.

Jane stayed where she was. Her armpits were damp. She heard sounds from down the hall, Eric moving around, opening, closing things. Then he was back. He'd put on clothes, a pullover shirt and jeans, and a fleece jacket. He had his keys and he thrust them into a pocket. “You win. I'm going. You don't have to hide in here anymore.”

Jane raised a hand: Go.

“I said I'm sorry and I am. We could work this out. Other people do. Maybe we still can. We could talk about it. But not until you're ready. You decide.”