The Birthdays (31 page)

“Good. I’m glad you’re staying.”

“You’re glad, but you’re a little worried that I’ll want too much from you.”

“I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”

She laughed. “I don’t want anything from you. I promise.”

“Hilary, right, that was it.”

She moved closer to him and rested her head against his arm. He stepped behind her, slipping his hands around her stomach. “I’m not worried,” he whispered, his lips against her ear.

They stayed like this for a few moments, until Hilary said, “I should go.”

“How long do you think you’ll stay on the island?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll see how it goes, and whether I can find any work.”

“You want me to ask if they need anyone else at the store?”

“Sure,” she said. “But I’ve got a little saved, and my folks are going to help out. I’ll be all right for a while.”

“Hil?” he said.

“Yeah?”

“Sleep well.”

“Good night,” she said, and reached forward to take his hand. She kissed the top of it, probably longer than she should have, and headed back to the house. Maybe they would sleep together again—a part of her hoped they would—or maybe something more would happen between them. Most likely, though, they would become some version of friends in the end. The thought wasn’t entirely unpleasant. They could see each other every once in a while for dinner or a drink and talk about the others on the island, the latest gossip, and their own gossip, whom they were currently seeing or wished they were seeing. They could give each other advice about these women and men, they could discuss where they hoped to travel, what they hoped to do with their lives, as Hilary suspected this was a subject she would never tire of, even after the baby was born. In the end, it was the imagining alternate futures more than living them that seemed so necessary. The reminding herself of the many options for a person in this world. And she thought that Alex would agree.

She tripped over a pair of shoes by the front door, and Daniel shuffled in his bed. “Larry?”

“Sorry, go back to sleep,” she whispered.

“I can’t. I wasn’t sleeping anyway.”

“Is she up?” Hilary asked, motioning to Brenda.

“No. Hear the breathing? Sit with me awhile. I can’t fall asleep.” He gestured to an easy chair.

Hilary crept to the chair. “You sure we won’t wake her?”

“Nah. What were you doing outside?”

“Just had a moment of claustrophobia in here. I needed some air,” she said. “One thing they don’t tell you about being
pregnant is that your body temperature goes haywire. I’m always either hot or freezing.”

“I’m not sure she ever got to that point.”

She moved a few pieces of clothing from the chair and sat down. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Daniel said. He pulled himself up in bed and adjusted the pillows behind his back. Hilary couldn’t quite see his face in the darkness of the room. “She did have other things, a lot nausea and headaches, mostly in the beginning.”

“I know what that’s like.”

“I used to think that her being pregnant would put us on a more similar footing, you know, physically. That we’d both be at odds with ourselves. To be honest, it drove me crazy that although she had all these aches and pains and morning sickness, she remained basically happy.”

“You were a miserable wreck before your accident, Danielle. I’m sorry to tell you this, but you’ve never been ‘basically happy.’ Or maybe you were, I don’t know—were you? Maybe that’s me I’m talking about, never fundamentally content about anything.”

“I don’t really know. But I must have assumed that the discomfort and all the changes that come with pregnancy would in fact bring us closer. We needed that after the accident and after I’d begun to hate everyone and everything. Here’s something: I think that deep down I wanted her to suffer like I had.”

“That’s probably normal.”

Daniel whispered, “No one should want another person to suffer, especially his wife.” Brenda let out a short sigh. “Let’s try to keep it down.”

“You’ve been through a lot,” Hilary said as quietly as she
could. “Nothing can operate by
shoulds
after that.” She tried to think of something more comforting and specific to say about the matter.

“I suppose. But now, I don’t know. I don’t think I’m making her feel any better after what just happened to her. I’ve tried, but I don’t think it’s worked.”

“Maybe she just needs to feel like hell for a while.”

“Maybe. But I wish there was something I could just say or do or give her that would help just a bit.” He twisted a corner of the sheet in his fingers. “She’s so far from home over here.”

“What do you mean?” Hilary looked at Brenda, her small thumb beside her open mouth.

“She’s so far from London, from her mother and her family.”

“But she’s lived here for ages.”

“I know. Still, at a time like this. You should’ve heard her talking to her mother and how relieved she was just to hear her voice. I know that I needed you all around after my accident.”

“You just needed the distractions of liquor and stories of my pathetic love life,” she said. “You know you’re lost without me.”

“Oh, I think it’s the opposite, Larry.”

Brenda turned again and Hilary stood. “I’m going to let you two sleep.”

“Don’t leave me,” he half joked.

“Oh, Danielle, dahling, what do you want me to do? Should I crawl into bed between you two?”

“Okay,” he said sadly.

Hilary touched his shoulder and turned to leave. She stood a moment, unsure whether she should actually leave, and if
she stayed, then what? Could she sleep in the easy chair? She considered it, but then glanced at Brenda, a tiny heap next to him. She would wake the next morning and wonder when Hilary had joined them, and why.

She crept down the hallway and into her small room, where she lay down on the bed. She closed her eyes and shuffled beneath the sheets, but remained unable to drift off to sleep. How did her brother’s marriage continue day after day? How did anyone’s, for that matter? In general, it seemed a strange institution to have lasted so long. In this time when babies could be created by joining chemicals in a glass tube, when divorce was at an all-time high, ye olde institution of marriage was alive and well, and not just for dogged traditionalists: gays and lesbians sought the right to marry, artists married, musicians and loners and sociopaths and geniuses—virtually everyone. Smart, funny, creative people like Daniel fell in love and believed that this heightened, blissful state of attraction and adoration would last forever (for if they didn’t believe this, what was the point?). And then slowly, surely, the bliss began to fade—the adoration became affection, then comfort, then stasis, then irritation, and these people clung to each other long after anything good between them had slipped away, and why, what for? Hilary turned over and faced the ceiling. Surely there had to be a reason all these people stayed together.

After Hilary left,
Brenda began to twist and turn in her sleep. She kicked Daniel and flopped onto her back, then shot her arm into the air. “You okay?” he whispered, but she just sighed restlessly. What a sight they were right now, Brenda thrashing about in her sleep, Daniel sitting upright and scrunching the sheet into a ball. And what if she had heard the conversation he’d just had with Hilary? What if Brenda was incorporating it into some nightmare? But they’d spoken quietly. She couldn’t have heard them—and anyway, it might not have been such a terrible thing if she had. After all, he hadn’t said anything that wasn’t true. He’d merely spoken of his growing concern for her. He let go of the sheet and lay back down.

They would wake tomorrow, say their goodbyes to everyone and head off to the ferry. When they arrived on the mainland,
Brenda would help him into the car, and later into their house (his hands always got stuck between his wheels and that blessed doorjamb—he’d been meaning to have the door widened for months). She would check in on Morris Arnold, do their laundry, tidy up the place since they’d had no time to clean it before they left, make dinner, and later she would help him out of his chair, into his pajamas and eventually into their bed. Daniel adjusted the pillow beneath his head and tried to get comfortable, but the pillow was too soft, the mattress too hard. The waves pressed against the beach again and again. Before they dropped off to sleep, he would tell her that he’d been thinking about starting to lift weights again and build the strength to manage better on his own. He wanted to at least be able to get in and out of the car by himself. He’d tell her that tomorrow, he planned to call the doctor Tammy Ann was working for and ask about his research, then volunteer to help him. Maybe the man was close to finding a cure—maybe he could tell Daniel about some of his discoveries, if nothing else. Daniel pictured himself and Brenda beside each other in their bed at home, beneath those heavy cotton sheets she’d bought at that British housewares store, and he tried to imagine what her reaction to these things might be. Would she be relieved? Would she even care? After all, minimizing his burden on her was not the same as tending to her. He tried to imagine what tending to her might actually entail—trying to clean the house himself? Cooking her favorite foods? Chatting up the neighbors in her stead? The overall task seemed much larger than these superficial things, more nebulous and permanent and, he began to fear, next to impossible.

She sighed again. The waves seemed to whisper,
shh, shh,
and he fell into a fitful sleep. A while later, he woke to a fully
formed thought: on the other side of this ocean was her mother, starting her morning, undoubtedly worried sick about her daughter. She, more than anyone, would know how best to tend to Brenda.

She folded the crisp white sheets and set them in a small stack on the coffee table. Her back to Daniel, she began tidying the room, adjusting every pillow and frame and book. He kept finding himself directly in her path.

“I’m thinking …” he finally said, and drew the deepest breath he could. “I’m thinking that you should go home to visit your family for a while. It might be the best thing for you right now.” He’d rehearsed the words in his head the night before. He thought of gentle, convoluted ways to suggest the trip, then sharp, aggressive sentences; bloated, melancholy pleas. In the end, he’d decided just to be direct and honest.

“Oh?”

“Maybe for a week or two. Play it by ear, see when you’ve had enough. I think it’d be good for you to be back home. Don’t you?” A heavy sense of doubt crept through him, but no, he was doing the right thing for her.

“I don’t know if the doctor will let me go just yet,” she said tentatively.

“Well, whenever he gives you the green light.”

She held her eyes on the floor. “You could come too?”

He shook his head.

“You’re trying to get rid of me?” She forced a smile. “Anyway, I can’t leave you alone, you know that. You’d do nothing but let yourself lie in bed all day. You’d grow bedsores and go completely mad.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, love,” he said.

“I’m just saying what’s true. And don’t be sarcastic with that word.”

“You’ve gone away before, Bren.”

“But not since your accident,” she said.

“What word? What word are you talking about?”

“Love,” she said. “All right? Love. I hate that you only use it these days when we’re arguing. We both do. Like it’s some sort of ammunition.”

“I hadn’t noticed that. You’re right, though,” he said, and then, more quietly, “What a terrible thing.”

“It is a terrible thing.” She stood and pressed her hands over her face.

“I’m so sorry, Bren.” His eyes began to sting.

She sank into the couch. “Are you just saying that, or do you really believe it?”

“I’m sorry for all the sarcasm. I’m so sorry.” He brought his fists to his eyes. “Please believe me.”

She leaned her head back and looked up at the ceiling, and Daniel felt a tightening at the bottom of his stomach. He wanted to take back his suggestion that she go home.

“I guess I would like to be with my family for a while,” she finally said. “I do miss them right now.”

“I know,” he said, trying to sound strong and empathetic. Decent. “I can imagine.”

“You sure you wouldn’t mind?”

He managed to shake his head. He thought of her struggling to help him out of his chair and into their bed. Then he thought of their house without her, of lying in their bed alone, his empty wheelchair next to him. He pictured Morris Arnold next door, waving hello and looking around for her. And then
Daniel had an idea. “Maybe I’ll just stay here and let you have our place to yourself for a while if the doctors don’t want you to fly home right away. Maybe I’ll just stay here with Hilary, at least until you get back.”

“But what about your work? Don’t you have that book jacket due this week?”

He said that it could wait. Once everyone learned what had happened this weekend, they would extend his deadlines.

“Of course,” she said.

Hilary appeared in the doorway, rubbing her eyes and yawning. “Danielle. Brenda. Morning.”

“Larry, what do you think of me staying here with you? Just for a little while?” He briefly explained that Brenda might head home alone.

Hilary nodded slowly, clearly trying to decipher what this news might actually represent. “Sure. The company would be nice,” she said. She stood with them for a few awkward moments, then shuffled off to the kitchen.

Daniel glanced back at Brenda. He wheeled toward her, reached over and linked his fingers with hers.

“I should probably just slip out before everyone else gets up,” she said, slowly pulling away.

“No, don’t go yet,” he said. “Say goodbye to them before you head out. There’s no need to make everyone worried about why you left so quickly.”

Thankfully, she agreed.

“What’s going on?” Jake said, when Daniel explained the change in plans. Jake stood above him in the kitchen, a mug of coffee in his hands. “Shouldn’t you two be together right now?”

“It’s what she needs,” Daniel said. He knew he sounded curt, but he couldn’t help it.

Jake opened his mouth, then closed it. Maybe he was finally learning that he couldn’t always have a say in everyone else’s business. He meant well, Daniel knew he did, but sometimes it seemed as if Jake had been born without any innate sense of when to keep his mouth shut.

Daniel headed back to Brenda. He would see her again in a couple weeks, of course he would. He helped her separate their clothes and set hers back in their suitcase. “I’ll just throw mine in a plastic bag or something when I leave,” he said.

“All right.” She glanced down at their things. “I’ll put this somewhere safe for now,” she said, gesturing toward the container of ashes.

He nodded. “Put it where you think it won’t hurt too much to look at.”

“I will,” she said, and he began placing his clothes in a stack on the easy chair, wishing she’d said a little more just now, though what precisely, he wasn’t sure.

Evidently Jake explained the situation to his parents, for about ten minutes later, when Brenda’s cab pulled into the driveway (she’d insisted on avoiding any awkward goodbyes near the ferry), everyone seemed to know that she was leaving by herself. She gathered her bag and jacket and said goodbye to the loose group that stood before her in the living room. She thanked Jake and Liz politely for their hospitality, and Daniel followed her outside and pulled the door closed behind him so he could see her off alone. The plywood slipped beneath him, and his left wheel dropped onto the gravel before the right one did. She walked silently beside
him as they crossed the rough gravel toward the cab. He reminded himself again that this was the best thing he could do for her. “Call me when you get home today,” he said when they finally stopped on a grassy patch. “And after London, we’ll see.” He sat as straight as he could despite a sudden pull of gravity. “We’ll just see how you’re doing at that point, all right?”

“Thank you,” she said.

He hoped she did see at least a small change in him. After all, he could have said,
Can’t you see how hard this is for me? Look at what I’m doing here: I’m giving you a gift. I’m trying to do what’s best for you, even though it’s making me want to burst right now.

She stood there, looking down at his feet, maybe trying to think of exactly what to say. The taxi driver drummed his fingers against the steering wheel.

“Goodbye for now,” he finally said, and she said, “Thank you again for this,” and her words made him realize that, yes, she appreciated him right now. He was indeed doing the right thing, and later today and tomorrow and the next day, she could think of him with some degree of gratitude.

As she slid her bag into the back seat and climbed into the taxi, Daniel held his breath. She pulled the door shut, and he slowly lifted his hand and waved goodbye.

The air was cooler today, the sky covered by a scrim of clouds. He squeezed his knees. Even now, the nothingness beneath the skin there amazed him. Not a single pinch or chill. Sometimes it was infuriating, other times just strange. How could he lose so much and continue onward even for a minute? How could he continue on as an artist and husband and almost become a father in the face of this nothingness? It
seemed impossible to comprehend, and in a way, it was unbelievable that he had.

Ellen could no longer stand to see Daniel sitting in the driveway by himself, so she went outside. “Come back in,” she insisted. “Come and be with us before we head out,” and kept a hand on the back of his chair as he turned himself around.

The others sat in a circle in the living room, eating their breakfast. “Here, have something,” she said, and rushed to the kitchen, where Liz had set out fruit salad and bagels. Ellen fixed him a plate and returned to the living room. “You’ll stay here until Brenda comes back from London?”

Daniel nodded. And would he and Hilary be able to take care of themselves here, let alone each other? Would Hilary be able to handle getting Daniel in and out of bed, helping him in the bathroom if he needed it, all of this by herself? Ellen sat on the sofa, took her plate in her lap and moved a square of cantaloupe around a grape.

Joe soon appeared in the hallway carrying several bags in one hand and the cage in the other, his glasses perilously resting on the tip of his nose.

“Oh, I’m not ready. I hate to leave,” Ellen said, and went to fix his glasses.

“We’ll see you again before too long, Mom,” Jake said. His eyes were pink—he was undoubtedly hungover and now regretful of having polished off a bottle (was it more?) of wine last night. This weekend had crushed them all. “Maybe the next time we see you will be when Hil has her baby?”

Ellen glanced at poor Daniel. Of course he knew the others
would still have their babies, but she wondered whether he’d have the strength for it.

“Ell,” Joe said in his let’s-get-things-moving voice. “We don’t want to miss the ferry.”

“I know, I know, but hold on a moment. We need to say proper goodbyes. Daniel,” she said, and leaned down to him, “you’ll let us know if you need us. You’ll let us know when Brenda comes back and if you need us to help out or do anything, do anything at all, you know, grocery shopping or cooking for you, whatever you need, cleaning or decorating. Because I’m thinking that what we need is to get you some beautiful new …” There was no stopping the words that trailed from her mouth, though what she really wanted was to ask him when Brenda planned to return—would she even come back?
She would, of course she would, how could she not?

“Mom, I’ll be okay,” Daniel finally said.

Joe squeezed Jake’s arm. “I loved all that you did for me this weekend, and the gifts. Your gift. I won’t forget it.”

Ellen was glad that Joe thought to say these things. Sometimes such niceties escaped him and she was left to compensate for his frugality with tact.

Liz helped them carry their bags outside and Joe toted Babe’s cage behind her, and before Ellen could stop to enjoy one last moment with her family, they surrounded her and Joe and said their farewells. They all stood beside the cab that Liz had called. Ellen had suggested it, since Liz and Jake would take the next ferry and were in the middle of packing up their car. Soon, too soon, Ellen found herself sitting beside Joe inside the moving cab, Babe to his right, the island rushing past them on all sides.

“I can’t stand leaving them,” Ellen said. “I never can.”

“I know.”

“Can you?”

“Ell,” he said quietly, and rested his hand on top of hers. She waited for him to say more, but it occurred to her that of course he would not. He never did. But he did keep his large, soft hand on hers for the duration of the ride, until the cab had finally stopped and they could see a few people moving up a gangplank, onto the small ferry that rose and sank on the dark gray water.

They found two empty seats next to the engine room, though the blare here was deafening. The boat lifted anchor, and Joe fiddled with Babe’s cage on the floor in front of him. The turtle snuggled into his wood chips. He had become like another child to Joe, and Ellen was suddenly grateful for it.