The Actor and the Housewife (30 page)

“Oh, Celeste, I’m so happy for you. I really, really am.”

“Yes, I am too. And Rebecca, I tell you, I’m surprised by the power of that yes. Yes! Yes! I say it, I—shhh, Bellamy, shh. I’m too noisy.
Ma-man
is so noisy.” She made some humming noises, some cooing noises, and her voice softened. “Felix didn’t want children, Rebecca. And I wanted Felix. I thought I didn’t need the children. I thought Felix’s love was enough. But years passed by and I began to realize I didn’t know what I wanted. That’s when I met Alfredo, you see. He yearned for children, dozens of them, desperate he was, so impassioned, so warm and vibrant. I saw a different life I could have.” Her voice softened even more. “Now Alfredo is gone, but the baby . . . Oh, Rebecca.”

“I know.”

“I had no idea. I didn’t understand.”

“I know.”

“I never understood love or what it means to live, to have cells inside me splitting and forming new ones, to have blood rushing through me. I never understood anything until my baby. He is everything.”

“He is,” Becky agreed. “He so is.”

“I’m sorry for what I did to Felix. I’m sorry for how it ended. But it had to be so, you see? It had to be. So Bellamy could be. God stood beside me and pointed the way. I took the wrong path getting here, I know,
mon lapin
, but here I am now with this baby in my arms.
Grâce à
dieu
.”

After the call, Becky wandered the house for an hour, looking for something useful to do, but each time she began to fold laundry or tidy the family room, she got distracted and wandered off again. There was a buzzing in her bones that made her need to keep moving, a tingling in her legs that begged motion. She was happy. Celeste had a baby. Little Bellamy. Becky ambled back to the kitchen, disappointed to find no dishes to wash. Regret stung a little in the glow of goodness—she wished it could have been Felix’s son. She wished Felix could be a father, that Celeste hadn’t broken his heart, that there could be a family where family was needed.

But the sting of regret couldn’t kill the glow. She had heard in Celeste’s voice just how smitten she was with her little guy. Somewhere in France there was boy who was as loved as any creature in this world. It was a reason to rejoice.

Not sure how Felix would feel about her contact with his ex, Becky decided not to mention it to him until the stress of the Oscars had passed. But at the pre-party in Los Angeles, he took one look at the girls and said, “Been in touch with Celeste, have you?”

“How did you know?” Becky asked.

“Come now, who would have helped Fiona have that dress made? You?”

“Oh, okay, fine.” She took a breath. “Did you know she had a baby?”

He stared hard at the ground. “I knew.”

“She and Alfredo are quits. She’s raising the baby alone, living with her mother in France for now. I was thinking, if there was a time when amends could be made—”

“Becky.” He held her hands, his eyes clear and hard. “You want to mend the whole world, but some things are best left alone. I’m not being bitter when I say I don’t want to see Celeste again. We changed. There is no us to re unite. She’s happy; I’m happy. It is quite over. As it should be.”

Becky nodded. This one she would let be.

So Polly and Felix walked the red carpet. The family watched from Felix’s living room and screamed when they saw Polly, her sweet, shy smile picked up by hundreds of cameras. She was so beautiful, so beautiful, Becky’s heart teetered between bursting joy and shrinking fear to see her baby girl fourteen and nearly grown, dressed for a ball and out in the world.

“That midnight blue is the perfect color for her,” Becky said.

Fiona gazed at the screen. “It works with her skin tone, and it’s the exact color of the outer ring of her irises. With her build, she’d do better in patterned tops, but for this I wanted a single tone—more elegant. So I off set the plainness of the color by creating more interest around her neck and shoulder, with the folded fabric there and the gathering on the one side.”

“Wow. You are so much smarter than I am.”

Fiona smiled with more shyness than was her wont. “I’m trying to impress you.”

“Baby, you don’t even have to try.”

On camera, Felix introduced Polly as his adopted goddaughter and they sang a short duet of “That’s Amore” for the camera. The family applauded so loudly Becky thought Polly might hear a few blocks away. Even Hyrum hooted for his sister, as loud and urgent as the last Who yelling for Horton.

Mike went down to the theater to wait for Polly, plucking her out of the crazed chaos and bringing her back to Felix’s place. She stayed in her dress all night, sitting carefully on the sofa to watch the televised awards show, smiling so hard Becky worried her cheeks would give out.

The show was painfully long, but Becky couldn’t tear her eyes from the screen, even during commercials. She put both hands over her mouth and held her breath when at last she saw what she’d been both yearning for and dreading—Felix on camera with his mother.

Biddie Callahan-Coxhill was perhaps seventy years old, her white hair dyed brown in a clumsy job that even Becky’s eye could spot. She was wearing a purple taffeta gown, the frills doubling her girth, and no jewelry except a heart locket. Becky had been with Felix when he’d purchased that locket a couple of years before, not knowing then whom it was for. Biddie had a look about her—cunning if somewhat simple eyes, disapproving mouth—that made Becky think she might not be the most relaxing person to be around. But Felix had a hand atop hers, and she was gazing at her son. Smiling. Beaming. Actually glowing, so that Becky wondered if she could read a book by the light of her face alone.

“Good boy,” Becky whispered. “Good, good boy.”

Jamie Foxx won the Oscar, but Becky was certain Felix must have come in a very close second and declared it often. Mike chose to go back to the hotel with the boys while Becky and the girls attended an after-party. Felix took them to a relatively quiet gathering hosted by a director who had small children, guessing that it would be decent for the girls.

Felix was in great spirits, no matter that he didn’t win. “It’s over. I’m a free man. Hallelujah.”

“Is your mother here?” Becky asked, looking around.

He shook his head. “She was knackered and went back to her hotel.”

“Mm,” said Becky.

“You want to know how it went.”

She shrugged.

“You want me to tell you how I feel about it and what Biddie thought.”

She lifted one shoulder and looked away coyly.

Felix sighed. “It was not unbearable having her here. And Mum was . . . happy. So, thank you.”

That was when Becky attacked him with a ferocious momma hug.

Even her meddling couldn’t dampen his mood after being freed from the shackles of waiting-on-Oscar. He danced with Fiona and karaoked with Polly. He and Becky did a reprisal of “Islands in the Stream,” then the four of them shared the microphones and sang “We Are Family.” Felix was spry and joyous, dancing foolishly, plying them with handfuls of candy stolen from various bowls. It wasn’t until the end of the evening that Becky realized she hadn’t seen him drink anything but water.

On the cab ride back to their hotel, Fiona said, “I like Felix.”

“Me too,” Polly said.

“Yeah, but you always have. I used to think he was mean, or just cold or something. But he was fun to night. I think he’s a good guy.”

On the phone a few days later, Becky told Felix what Fiona had said. He laughed.

“You see? Children are wonderful once they grow into adults.”

“And so are you, Felix.”

“Well said, Mrs. Jack. Well said.”

In which we waste no time, because Becky would
abhor dwelling on the sad parts

They discovered it at Mike’s yearly checkup. He had no symptoms. He was feeling fine. But the doctor worried about the urine sample results. They did follow-up tests. Becky left the boys in the care of Polly, who was almost fifteen and becoming less flighty and more reliable. Becky and Mike sat in the leather armchairs at the doctor’s office, holding hands, and waited for words of comfort. The doctor sat down. His cushioned chair wheezed as it settled and sounded remarkably like passed gas. So Becky was on the verge of laughing when the doctor said, “It looks like it’s back.”

The laugh fell away, replaced by a sensation like being belted in the stomach. He didn’t prepare them at all. He didn’t ask them to think of happy thoughts or make sure they were sitting comfortably. He didn’t say, “I’ve got some bad news.” Just, “It’s back.”

And then, “Let’s get a plan for how we’re going to eradicate it for good.”

Okay. Plans were good. Becky liked plans. They gave her things to do, ways to use her hands, keep busy, fight for that end result.

So they planned. And they fought. Tests and tests and treatments. Back to radiation. Go, fight, win.

Mike was a rock. Besides the cancer, his body was in great shape, and the doctors kept saying, “He has an excellent chance. He’s young, healthy, with a happy, stable home life. The cancer is serious, but his odds are better than most.”

The worst was dragging the kids through it again—because Becky was certain it would all end well. She had that deep-rooted sensation of comfort, almost as if a small voice were whispering, everything will be well. Everything’s going to come out fine. She just hated for those poor kids to have to worry about their dad again. So she didn’t let them worry. She was up, up, up all the time. Happy, calm, hopeful.

“Bec, you’re working too hard,” Mike would scold. “Why don’t you go out tonight, see your sister or Melissa, do what ever girlie stuff you do when I’m not around. Like catch a Felix Callahan flick.”

“What, those cavalcades of smut? No thank you.” She lay next to him, fitting her hand around his jaw. “I like being with you.”

“Because I’m so fascinating.”

“You have your moments, but mostly, I just like to look at you. Your momma knew how to make a fine-looking laddie.”

When Mike was asleep (she made his bedtime nine-thirty—he needed his strength) and all the kids settled, she would talk to Felix. Never for long. She needed her rest too. Just a few words, just to touch voices with someone who was moving out in that bright, untainted world.

“It’s not until I’m alone that I realize how tired I am.”

“I can come out. Tomorrow.”

“No. I’m so busy I’d feel guilty that I wasn’t paying enough attention to you.”

“I don’t need attention.”

“Ha! That’s a good one, Felix. You always were so witty.”

“I’ll disappear into a corner. You won’t even know I’m there.”

“Then I’d be sad. No, stay where you are, off in fantasyland making moving pictures and dating lively young impossibilities. It makes me happy that life is going on normally somewhere.”

“If you need something impossible and you don’t call me for help, I will get very angry.”

“No, you’ll still like me. You can’t help it. But it’s a messy scene—sometimes I throw things, like milk. And pens.”

“I’ll call.”

“Good.”

Again at the doctor’s office—
wham
.

“The radiation is having less effect than we’d hoped.”

What? That wasn’t supposed to happen. It was going to be a repeat of their last treatment adventure—hard times, icky procedures, ultimate victory. This cancer was not playing by the rules. It was enough to infuriate Becky—but she was calm. She strapped on more armor, determined to pull them all through.

She read. Books, medical journals, scores of Web sites. She counseled with the doctors about every procedure, every symptom, every test. But she was nice about it. She brought them cookies.

Postsurgery times were the closest Becky got to cracking.

“In order to feel the least bit normal,” she told her friend Melissa, “I need Mike home in his own bed.”

Melissa put both arms around Becky’s shoulders. “You’re Wonder Woman. You can do this.”

Becky nodded. “I can.”

“But you don’t have to go it alone.”

Becky hesitated.

“You don’t,” Melissa said like a threat.

Melissa knew the many secrets of the hospital routine, having seen her father through six years of chronic illness.

“Don’t fight the hospital,” Melissa said. “Claim it as a second home. Own it.”

She showed Becky the best and most often available parking spaces, and divulged the hours she could leave for lunch and still return to find a place. She introduced Becky to the volunteers at the information desk, and soon Becky knew not only their names but also the names of their grandchildren. Melissa took her on tours of the cafeteria, pointing out which foods to ingest and which avoid, and revealed a booth in the corner where one could go to have a private cry. Together they decorated Mike’s hospital room with relics from home and made alliances with the nurses. One invited Becky to her wedding.

Four months later, the disease was taking a visible toll on Mike. It was frightening to see that big, strong man lose weight, lay so small on his side, curled up on the hospital bed, more of a question mark than a person. She stood in the hospital room, watching him as he slept, her arms folded. This wouldn’t end badly. She wouldn’t allow it. Strength and fierceness poured through her and she was sure she could wrestle a Herculean beast into submission, if only one would be so gracious as to terrorize the hospital.

Mike’s cure wasn’t progressing. The doctor laid out new plans. They involved lots and lots of money.

Becky had barely mentioned it before Felix arranged to pay for a cutting-edge treatment that their insurance wouldn’t cover, and Becky didn’t argue with him about the money. The plans were failing one by one, the fight was getting nebulous, her hands were feeling weak. It was starting to get difficult to think clearly. She felt haunted. This thing, this infected phantasm, was clinging to the family, whispering in their ears, making the whole house feel drafty and prone to collapse, their lives thin and chilly. With each sliding moment she realized more fully—she was living in a horror movie.

Don’t go down those stairs, Becky! Don’t open that door!

If only she knew which door was the one that would unleash the killer, she’d board it up for good. Instead every moment seemed to inch by as if a creepy soundtrack played in the background, the eerie kind of music that is designed to speed up your pulse, make your skin hurt in anticipation of attack.

She took deep breaths. She fitted herself with more armor. She would not succumb. You hear that, foul cancer beast? I won’t give up my husband! You won’t take any of us!

She kissed Mike a lot. She kissed the kids a lot. She made buckets of snickerdoodles.

The night before they found out the results of the new treatment, their bishop (not Andy the car lot manager—a new one) and a neighbor came over in suit and tie to give Mike a blessing of healing. They anointed his head with olive oil, placed their hands on his head, and began the prayer. Mike had had several blessings so far, and Becky fully expected it to go like the others, full of lines like “We bless you that your body will heal and you will experience a complete recovery.”

But as the bishop was speaking the prayer, he paused. He started to speak again then hesitated again, finally saying, “We bless you, Brother Jack, to feel your Savior close by you, preparing you to return home. We bless you that your pain will decrease, your mind will remain lucid, and you will be able to fully enjoy the time you have left with your family in this life.”

Becky’s eyes opened. Take it back, she wanted to say. But she couldn’t get her mouth to work.

The bishop’s eyes were wet. Mike was crying quietly, as was the neighbor. Becky didn’t cry. She felt dried-up, a fallen winter leaf ready to crack underfoot. After they finished the blessing, everyone was silent, motionless. Finally the bishop spoke.

“I’m sorry. I wanted to bless you with remission, but I felt impressed to speak the words that I did. I think the Lord has other plans for you, Mike.”

Mike nodded. He didn’t dare speak, Becky knew, for fear that he might sob. The kids were all there, staring, eyes wide, Polly’s chin trembling. Becky cursed herself. She should have hidden them away, plugged their ears, spared them from this tragedy. From all tragedy. Or maybe not? Maybe they needed to hear it all to be prepared, hear the “I’ve got some bad news” parts before the bad news really struck?

It was going to strike. Becky felt that now, prowling on the edges of her forced calm.

After the bishop and neighbor left, the six Jacks sat in the family room. Even Sam, the youngest at age eight, seemed fully aware of what had just happened. A stunned, icy silence vibrated around them, as if the air were frozen solid and shaking under the blows of a hammer. The kids kept glancing at their mother, waiting for her to speak the comforting words, make it all better. Where was she going to get those words? She took a deep breath, hoping that they rested deep within her, that if she just started to speak, somehow the tiny grains of hope still left inside would multiple into loaves of brilliant comfort that would feed the entire family.

Mike spoke first. “It’s all right. It doesn’t matter. Whether I’m going to experience a miracle and be completely healed, whether I’ll get sicker before I get better, or whether I’ll die—it’s out of our hands. We don’t have to worry about it. What ever happens will happen, and it won’t change the fact that we’ve got the best family in the world, and we’ll be a family forever. So what that it stinks? We’ve been through stinky times before. Remember that summer Hyrum had the foot fungus?”

Sam and Hyrum chuckled.

“Talk about a stinkfest,” Fiona said.

“I used to wipe my feet all over your pillow,” Hyrum said, between maniacal giggles.

“You did? That’s gross! Mom, did you hear that?”

The next day at the doctor’s, they heard the news—the cancer had spread to his liver, his lungs. There was no more treating the disease at this point, only the symptoms.

“Time,” Becky said. “I want to know how much time.”

The doctor sucked in his breath. He was considerably less spunky than usual. The potted plant behind him was drooping. The whole world felt sluggish, malaised.

“It’s hard to say . . .”

“Say,” Becky insisted. She’d supplied him with a steady stream of snickerdoodles over the past months—that should buy her one sentence of truth.

The doctor pressed his lips together. “Weeks. If you would take my advice, Mike, live them. Live each one.”

“What do you want most of all?” Becky asked that night, curled up beside him in bed.

Mike’s face was tired, but his jaw didn’t clench. There was some peace to be had in knowing that he didn’t have to fight anymore. “Just the family. Let’s get away, the six of us, somewhere quiet and beautiful, somewhere we can be alone together.”

Mike’s parents’ cabin was too far away. Thinking was becoming hard for Becky. Since the unhappy blessing, she couldn’t arrange a bouquet of flowers let alone a family vacation. In all her life, she’d never met a challenge that had stripped her of all confidence and left her feeling so small and useless. It was time to crack and ask for help.

She had her parents and Mike’s parents, her siblings, Mike’s siblings, a combined total extended family of 126 people, besides friends, neighbors, ward members, all begging for ways to help, all waiting for her call.

She called Felix.

“Tell me,” he said.

“Mike doesn’t have long. I need—”

“Anything.”

“I need to take the family away. Where we can be alone. People are constantly calling and coming by and the kids can’t relax and just be with their father. We need to get out of this house, but we can’t be more than an hour from the hospital. I can’t think, I can’t—”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“I don’t want to bother you, but Mike, all he wants is to be with the family someplace quiet and . . . and beautiful . . .” Her voice broke.

“Did you hear me? I said I’ll take care of it. If you waste your time worrying about it for another second, I’ll fly out there just to paddle your bum.”

She sighed in relief. Felix would take care of it.

Four days later the family took possession of a house on a mountain lake twenty minutes from the hospital. They found the fridge and pantry fully stocked, fresh sheets on the beds, flowers on every table, stacks of board games in the living room, a six-person boat waiting on their private dock. Nothing cumbersome or unnecessary, like televisions or computers or neighbors. A nurse checked in on Mike every afternoon, but otherwise they were alone. It was quiet and beautiful, and afterward Becky supposed it was among the most blissful weeks of their lives.

They boated. They ate. They played games and laughed. Mike couldn’t sit on the sofa without at least one child snuggling up next to him. And at night, he held Becky in bed, held on to her as if she were a buoy in a tossing lake. His most casual touch was hot with significance. Each word he said, each expression, she fought to keep with her as if remembering them meant saving the world.

“You’re memorizing what I’m saying,” he accused her one night.

“I am not.”

“Every word I say. You get that look of concentration, then later when you think I’m asleep, you go scritch scratch in your journal.”