Souvenir (30 page)

Fifty

M
EG’S PHONE RANG AT A MINUTE BEFORE TEN
. S
HE WAS IN THE DEN, ALONE
with the shadows that stretched across the waxed parquet, holding but not reading an article titled “How and Why to Live with ALS.” She’d read it before, more than once, in fact; it was only wise to do what she’d counseled an unfortunate few of her patients to do, when facing the sobering facts of their own incurable disease: make sure you know what you’re doing when you choose to ride it out, or not.

She answered the phone, elated to see the name on the display. “Carson. I’m so glad you called. Sorry for the subterfuge earlier.”

“No, I—of course.”

“You must think I’m a crazy person.”

“No crazier than a guy who supposedly got lost in the town he grew up in and visits periodically.”

So she was right in suspecting that his appearance outside the lab was no coincidence. She wasn’t foolish enough, though, to imagine his motivation was anything more than concern for a dear old friend. Hopefully it wasn’t simply pity.

“Where are you now?” she asked.

“Home. At my folks’, that is. Usually I stay at the house, but I’ve reclaimed the shed for the week,” he said, his voice soft with memories. “Are you at home?”

“In the den.” She thought of him there in the shed, surrounded by the details of their youthful dreams: the blue cupboards, the vines she’d stenciled over every downstairs window, the colorful rag rugs Beth and Julianne had braided one summer under Kara’s guidance—they’d all wanted to be involved in their big sister’s romantic future. She wished she was there again, in the innocent past.

He said, “Can you talk?”

“Nobody’s around.” Savannah was in her room on the phone. Brian was in Jacksonville for the night, due back tomorrow evening. “I was wondering, though, if you wanted to…that is, if you felt like coming by.”

“Get reacquainted with you and Brian?” he said with a humorless laugh.

“No, Carson, of course not. He’s out of town. And Savannah wouldn’t even know you’re here; she never comes out of her room this late. But if you’d rather not—”

“I’m on my way—oh, directions would be good.”

While she waited for him to arrive, Meg looked over the “How and Why” article once more. To the credit of its author, it didn’t sugarcoat the reality of ALS, and it didn’t use religion as an antisuicide stick. Under the “Why” column were “family events and milestones” and “opportunity to help advance research.” Nowhere did it say “because a cure is on the horizon.” Even the most optimistic medical advice wouldn’t make that claim. In essence, the pamphlet reminded the patient of things they might wish to experience, or witness, while waiting for the end. “Remember,” it said, “you have the right to live out whatever ambitions you feel you can accomplish.”

Which was all she was doing by inviting Carson over. And what a relief it was that he wanted to see her, that he didn’t hate her after all. She was glad he hadn’t asked what she hoped to accomplish with this meeting, because she had no answer for that. With the path ahead shrouded in fog, instinct was her only guide.

She checked on Savannah, whose door was closed but who was now singing softly and playing her guitar. For her birthday, Meg would give her a collection of Joni Mitchell CDs. The car was a wonderful gift, no question, but hardly personal. Brian hadn’t even let Savannah choose the color. He insisted they go with white, for its superior visibility. He wanted her to be as safe on the road as possible, which Meg couldn’t fault; if only he also gave that kind of attention to the things Savannah cared most about. When had he seen her play ball last? When had he listened to her sing, except by accident?

For that matter, when had
she
?

Thank God Beth was moving to Ocala soon; Savannah would have someone with far fewer distractions to tend her these next two years, and hopefully beyond. As Meg knew well, a girl didn’t stop needing to be guided just because she
thought
she did.

She went to the foyer where, with the lights off, she could see out to the road. Soon she saw headlights, the slow approach of a dark-colored car. As she headed outside to the driveway, her breath seized in her throat; now that Carson was here, she wasn’t sure what she would do, what she would say. Her invitation had been an impulse that she wasn’t sure, now, how to handle.

Too late to turn back, though. She looked down at her clothes, suddenly self-conscious. The outfit—silk-blend capris the color of a canyon sunset and a hand-embroidered white silk tee—was what she would have once called “rich bitch” clothes. At least she’d left her shoes off; being barefoot brought her a little closer to the young woman she’d been—plus, she walked more steadily without shoes, even her flattest sandals.

There was no disguising the sling she now wore; although he’d seen it earlier, she slipped it off and dropped it next to a camellia shrub.

Carson shut off the car and got out. She saw him gaze up at the house’s expertly lit stone exterior, saw him scan the copper light fixtures and gutters, the tiled roof, the patterned cobblestone driveway; when he looked at her, she expected him to make some comment about how upscale her life had become, how she’d done so well for herself. She was ready with a response about how he likely lived as well or better himself—but instead of saying anything, he walked over to her, put his hands on her shoulders, and pulled her into his arms.

She closed her eyes, pressed her cheek against his shoulder, so solid and warm beneath his shirt. His smell, his shape, the lean taper of his waist where her hands held onto him were a homecoming for her senses. He tightened his arms around her and buried his face in her hair, murmured something low and reassuring. That she couldn’t make out the words over the thump of his heart in her ear mattered not at all.

He released her slowly, until they stood apart again. “Well, that’s better,” he said.

“Definitely.” Her voice was husky. She cleared her throat. “Come on inside. I’ll buy you a drink.”

They went to the den and settled onto opposite ends of the velvet sofa, glasses of Amber rum in hand as props to bridge their awkwardness. Never would either of them have predicted that some day they’d sit together in a room like this, on brushed velvet, with damask-covered armchairs nearby, four layers of drapery covering the windows. A room where expensive liqueurs waited in antique crystal decanters. They were people who belonged someplace with thin cotton curtains and secondhand furniture—and by
secondhand,
she didn’t mean antique. They belonged in a room with plain pine floors, where barn cats wrapped around their ankles and the smell of orange blossoms drifted in through metal screens; a place with blue cabinets and rag rugs. This room felt like someone else’s life; she felt disoriented here, as if she’d taken a wrong turn somewhere around 1987 and kept going, missing the danger signs all along the way to now.

“Those decanters were Brian’s grandmother’s,” Meg said, to make conversation. She held up the cut-crystal highball glass in her left hand. “These, too. I tried to give them to my mom, but she wouldn’t take them. ‘Too fancy for our place,’ that’s what she said. They’re too fancy for me, too, but how can you not use something so beautiful? I’m going to give them to Beth when she gets here.”

“She’s coming to visit?”

“Moving back. To help with Dad—and me, though I hope to not need much help.”

Carson’s gaze slid away and he took a drink. “Good stuff,” he said.

She would let him avoid the subject, for now. “I got this rum on St. Bart’s, but I’m sure you can find it in St. Martin too, if you look. Rum’s like water in the islands.”

“That’s no exaggeration,” he said. “I had my share when we were there recently—though I do try to keep it reasonable these days.”

She recalled the newspaper feature about him leading the wild life, and her mother’s attempt to discuss it. “I’m glad to know that.”

This was a little better, not so awkward. He looked like he was relaxing some too, though he rubbed his chin the same way he’d done at the tailor shop. Even so, what a relief it was to know she hadn’t lost him entirely, that even in this surreal place she had access to him, for a little while anyway.

He said, “
I’m
glad Beth’s coming back. I don’t know quite how to ask this, but…I was reading about, about the ALS stuff, after you called me last week, and I saw that some people do pretty well for a long time.”

“Some do,” she said, glad to get on the subject rather than leave it like an unmentioned elephant in the room. “Though it’s subjective, the definition of ‘well.’”

“You seem to be doing all right,” he said cautiously.

“I’m functional. My right hand and arm are the worst. My left is weakening, but still okay. I can dress, I can drive, I can eat—and drink.” She took a sip. “I’m doing my damndest to get a journal written for Savannah. My father gave me some notebook diaries my mom kept, and I can’t tell you how much they mean to me.” She didn’t tell him that she’d begun to notice her speech was being affected—only an occasional mumbled word or dropped sound, but enough to show that things had taken a serious turn for the worse. She might accommodate the disease, she might even forget it for a few blissful minutes, but it was now certain that she wouldn’t be one of the “lucky” ALS patients.

Carson said, “Ah, Meg, I feel so awful about this….” His voice broke. “It just…it doesn’t seem real. Or fair. It’s not
fair
.”

She sighed. “What is? Nobody guaranteed us ‘fair.’ The way I see it, I’m just glad to have had my daughter,”
or ours
, she thought. “And my career. And…and the farm and groves and the lakes…. And you,” she added softly. “You know I’d do it all differently if I could do it over again—but I can’t. So…”

“So I’m glad you let me come spend a little time with you. I hope…well, it would help me a lot if you’ll let me see you now and then. If you want me to, that is.”

She didn’t answer right away, sure that he was anticipating a future where she remained mildly incapacitated for a long stretch of time, where he—and Val?—could come by to visit. How to tell him otherwise, when he was looking at her with so much hope in his eyes? Of course she wanted to see him, but he had to understand how she felt.

She said, “Carson…here’s the thing: I’m not the kind of person who’s willing to endure everything ALS dishes out just so I can live until my last
possible
breath. I’m not willing to be a prisoner left motionless inside my own body. My nerve sensation’s not going to go away.
Clear thought
won’t go away. I’ll feel, see, and hear everything but be completely unable to respond. I can’t do it, Car. I can’t…
be
that way.”

“No…no, I can see why—” He put a hand to his mouth for a second. “But there must be treatments you can try—”

“Other than for symptom management, nothing’s been shown to have more than the smallest effect, not on the full-blown cases like mine.”

“What about experimental stuff? Other countries, or…?”

She shook her head. “It’s hard to believe, right? As advanced as medicine is—we expect to at least get a fighting chance. But the truth is, doctors are powerless in more areas than you want to know.”

“It’s so…” He sighed loudly. “Jesus. What will you do?”

She shrugged and turned her glass so that it caught the light and refracted it onto her lap, tiny slices of rainbow on her dark sienna pants. “I haven’t decided. But you know, I’m a doctor; I can put my hands on just about anything I need, if that’s the route I go.”

“What other—?”

“Possibilities? Methods? Nothing violent, I know that. No guns, no razor blades, nothing messy. I’m not crazy about blood.”

He laughed, in spite of the somber topic. “That figures. Me, I’m not crazy about flying, and I think I spend half my life on planes. That’s probably
why
I’m not crazy about it.”

“You’ve seen so much of the world, though, right? One thing I’m glad for is the traveling I’ve done. Not all of it was for pleasure, but I’ve been to Europe and Mexico and Canada—Banff is astonishing. Have you been there?”

“I haven’t. I always mean to go; it isn’t that far from Seattle, comparatively. But I’m always going somewhere else, you know?” He drained his glass, got up to refill it. “More?”

“No,” she said, concerned that her speech would get messy after more than one drink. Neither did she want to get sleepy while he was here. It was such a pleasure just to share space, to reacquaint herself with his motions, with the deep tenor of his voice, refined, now, from his years of performing. She wanted to appreciate every single sense of him, undulled even slightly.

Carson looked down at his hands, picked at a callus on one finger; she could tell he was thinking about how to ask the next obvious—but difficult—question. She waited, letting him take as much time as he needed, though she knew her answer wouldn’t satisfy him. Finally he said, “When? I mean, how will you know when you’re…ready?”

“I’m not sure. I suppose it’ll be when I feel like I’ve done what needs doing. I haven’t even told Savannah the whole truth yet. She thinks what I have is just a nuisance disease—that’s what I’ve led her to believe. I can’t put something so heavy on her so close to her birthday.”

“God, Meg. I don’t know how you’re keeping it together. I’d be a basket case.”

“Habit,” she said.

Until a few weeks ago, so much of what she did, how she lived, even what she
thought
was habit. It was easier to let routine take the place of conscious living—because she’d been afraid of what might happen if she looked too closely at herself, her life. A person could go too far, though, in trying to avoid facing the mistakes in her past. She could be so determined to clear an alternate path that she failed to see she was cutting a trail to nowhere.

Odd though it sounded, having ALS was beginning to feel like a free pass to ditch routine and do what she wanted. This attitude, she saw now, was what her father was trying to encourage in her; it was what her sisters were expecting when they waited for her answer to what she was going to
do.
They all imagined that she would be more self-centered with the end so near, that a little selfishness would be reasonable and right.