The Distance Between Us (18 page)

“Don’t, Mom,” Jeremy implored. “She’s just upset.”

“Oh, hush, Jeremy.” I turned back to Caitlin. “Do you really think your father and I give a damn that you’re not exactly Jean-Pierre Rampal when it comes to the flute?”

She lifted her eyes from her stand and peered into my face. Her cheeks and forehead were flushed, and her nose was running. “Yes,” she whispered. “I think you give a damn about that, Mother. You’ll never admit it, of course, but that’s the truth. The only thing that matters to either of you is music, and if you say otherwise, you’re lying.”

I fell into a troubled silence in the face of her conviction. She wasn’t completely wrong, and I didn’t know how to answer her.

Arthur and I loved Caitlin dearly, and were proud of her, in our fashion, for her mind, and her spirit, and her many, many gifts. But music was the heart and soul of our existence, and she was our only child who couldn’t speak the language that we—and the boys—so effortlessly understood. And with that being the case—as Caitlin and I both knew it was—what could I say to her that wouldn’t be a lie?

There are moments in my life that have stood out as particularly awful. This was one of them.

She spun away from whatever she saw in my expression, then, and she ran from the room. We all sat there, quietly, feeling sick, as we heard her feet on the stairs, and the door to her bedroom slamming
shut. Arthur got up without a word and went to talk to her, but suffice it to say, she didn’t end up playing for us that day.

And the next day her audition was a disaster. She played as badly as she could, as if to further illustrate her point.

On the drive home from St. Louis afterwards, I thought about my own mother. I thought about what my talent had done to her, and now to my daughter, as well. I hated that Caitlin was suffering, and, believe me, I would have given her a kidney, or a lung, to make her happy. Without a moment’s hesitation, I would have reached into my own body and ripped out all my organs for her to use as spare parts.

But I also remember thinking, with shame, that even if there were a way to pull my talent out of me in the same manner, and hand it over to Caitlin, I probably would not be willing to do so.

Because my gift meant more to me than she did.

That’s a horrible thing for a mother to say, but it’s the truth. And it’s just as true today as it was then.

I can assure you I am not proud of this. But nothing in my life has ever mattered more to me than my musical ability. Not my parents, not my children, not even Arthur. It is the only thing I own that no one else can touch, nor sully, and it is mine forever.

I hear music in each and every one of my dreams. I always have; even as a little girl this was the case. It was only when I was older that I realized most people don’t have the same experience. And the thoughts that flit through my head when I’m awake often come with a melody of some kind as well, like a libretto for an opera. I do this automatically, and I couldn’t stop if I tried. Nor do I want to. I require notes more than food, polyrhythms more than air.

And it’s the same for Arthur. Our passion for music, and our ability to play it, is the strongest bond we have.

Caitlin was the apple of Arthur’s eye. He doted on her because she was our youngest child, and our only daughter. Every time he came home from a tour, he brought her a gift—candy sometimes, or a sweater, or a book she’d been wanting—and he’d more often than not forget to pick up anything for the boys. Even when she was a teenager he would still sing her to sleep sometimes, when she’d let him, and she was the only person he’d allow in his study
when he was in there reading. She shared his love of books, and silence, and the two of them would curl up together on his big chair for hours on cold winter afternoons, turning pages and not speaking.

But even so, Caitlin knew all too well where she truly stood with him. How could she not? Music always came first for Arthur, just as it did for me.

And I’m only beginning to understand the cost of this, for each of us.

I
t’s after four in the morning when Alex comes home, but I’ve been sitting here in the kitchen since two-fifteen, drinking chamomile tea (with brandy, of course), hoping desperately that it might put me to sleep. The fiasco at the reception earlier today—yesterday, now, I suppose—has been playing itself over and over in my mind, like an evil little melody. Especially the last part, when Arthur’s face filled with disgust and loathing.

Disgust and loathing for me, as he bent over Martha.

To console her. And protect her.

From me.

Dear God. I may never sleep again.

The small lamp over the sink is the only light in the room I’m using, and there are shadows everywhere, beneath the table and the chairs, at the base of the cabinets and walls and appliances, and lurking around everything on the counters—the bread box, the microwave, the toaster, the spice rack. I’m living in a house of shadows, and they appall me. But I’m too tired to get up and turn on the lights, too tired to do anything but nurse my drink in the darkness.

When Alex opens the door I jump in my chair, frightened by the noise. He steps in and shuts the door behind him, then stands in the entryway, peering in at me. He’s lost in the shadows, too; I can scarcely see his face from across the room.

“Hester?” he asks. “What are you still doing up?”

There’s something wrong with his voice.

“Nothing, child. Nothing at all.” I beckon him to come closer.

He keeps his distance. “The door wasn’t locked. You should always lock your door at night.”

His words are muffled and hesitant.

“I left it open for you.” I gesture at him again. “Alex? What’s wrong? Come in here and let me see you.”

“I have my key,” he murmurs. “It’s not safe for you to keep the door unlocked, Hester. You’re a little old woman, alone in a big house, full of antiques and stuff. Somebody could break in, and hurt you or something.” He steps closer, into the circle of light by the sink. “It’s not safe,” he repeats.

His left eye is black and blue, and one side of his jaw is swollen. He’s shivering violently, and there’s a visible patch of dried blood at the corner of his mouth.

I shoot to my feet. “For God’s sake, boy. What happened to you?”

“I’m fine,” he whispers. “Don’t make a big deal, okay? It was just a scuffle.”

He’s also intoxicated; the sour smell of beer fills the room.

“I beg your pardon? A scuffle?” I step over to him and put my hand up to examine his injuries. He shies away at first, but then allows me to put my fingers on his chin. I turn his head toward the light and wince. “You look as if you’ve been worked over by an angry mob, and you’re asking me to not make a ‘big deal’ out of it.” I release him in frustration. “So what should I make a fuss about, then? A public stoning?”

He just shrugs. “I’m okay, Hester. Really.”

I look closer at him; there’s a crust of ice on his flannel shirt and his jeans. I touch his collar and find it damp.

“Your clothes are wet, too! How did that happen?”

He gives me a twisted grin. “I fell into a ditch walking home, and broke through the ice. The water was a couple of feet deep underneath.” He tries to pretend this is all a joke. “Oops.”

“I see.” I glare at him. “I assume this stupidity happened during your brawl?”

“After. I guess I wasn’t paying much attention where I was going.”

I push him toward the stairs. “Get out of those clothes immediately, and go take a hot bath. You’ll catch your death running around like that in this weather.”

He nods and says okay, but then he just stares at me for a while. I give him another nudge and tell him to hurry, and he nods several more times before saying okay again and turning away.

Something in the set of his shoulders as he shuffles across the room twists at my heart. I don’t know what happened to him tonight, but I’m certain it goes far deeper than a ‘scuffle’ and a mishap in a ditch.

“Alex?”

He stops but doesn’t turn, as if he knows what I’m going to ask and doesn’t want to face me. “Yeah?”

“Who hit you?”

He draws a slow breath, and lets it out again before answering. “Eric.” His voice cracks. “It was Eric.”

Eric. The likable, attractive boy who spent the night with him recently. The boy I believe I referred to at the time as “sweet.”

Oh, dear. I think I can make an educated guess about what happened between them tonight.

I bite my lip and soften my tone as much as I’m able. “Go get cleaned up, and warm, and then come back down if you feel like it. I’ll make you a hot toddy, and we can talk.”

He finally looks over his shoulder at me. “Okay.” He studies me for a moment. “Are you sad about something, Hester? You look sad.”

I pull back, surprised. I was so fixated on him I’d almost forgotten why I was sitting in my kitchen at four in the morning, drinking brandy.

Arthur and Martha. Caitlin, and Paul, and Jeremy.

My job, my house.

My life.

Despair wells up and I frown, not wanting to discuss any of this with him at the moment, for fear of coming undone. “What does that have to do with anything?”

He doesn’t answer, and I look away, my lower lip quivering. I want him to take the hint and go away, now, like a normal human
being would, but he doesn’t budge. He simply stands there, waiting for me.

Irritating child.

As if he knows that I’m as bad off as he is. As if he’s actually concerned about me, in spite of his own obvious problems. As if I matter to him.

He’s still waiting.

I blink away tears, moved by his stubbornness.

The despair eases a bit, and I take a deep breath and look up at him again. “Yes, dear. I’m afraid I am a bit low this morning.” I gaze into his damaged face for a long time. “But then again, I’m not the only one, am I?”

His blue eyes fill.

I shoo him upstairs. “Go get warm, son, right now. Then come back down here, if you can stay awake that long.” I hug myself and sigh. “I believe it’s time we had a long talk, don’t you?”

By the time Alex returns to the kitchen, I’ve managed to rouse myself enough to turn on the overhead light and assemble the ingredients for his hot toddy. It’s too bright in here now, but at least the worst of the shadows have been herded into hiding beneath the refrigerator and the liquor cabinet.

I’m standing at the counter slicing a lemon when he steps into the room after his shower. He’s dressed in a white T-shirt and dark blue sweatpants, and of course he’s barefoot. He looks a bit less fragile now, although his bruised eye is still ghastly and the skin on his jaw is scraped raw.

He winces at the light. “Wow. That’s really bright.”

“Yes, it is,” I agree. “If you’d like, we can go into the living room after I’m done brewing this potion.”

He shrugs. “That’s okay. This is fine.”

I turn to pour hot tea from the pot into two mugs. He comes over to see what I’m doing and raises his eyebrows.

“There’s tea in a hot toddy?” He leans over and gives the steam rising from the mugs a suspicious sniff. “What else goes in it?”

I add the other ingredients as I list them aloud: “A few drops of honey … two shots of brandy, like this … and a slice of lemon.
There. Perfect.” I pause, considering, and reach for the bottle of Courvoisier again. “Did I say two shots of brandy? I meant three.”

He manages a tired grin. His long red hair is wet, but for once it’s combed. “You’re just making this up as you go along, aren’t you?”

I smile back at him and wave him toward a seat at the table. “I’m told that some primitives don’t put tea in their hot toddies, but I prefer not to associate with people of that ilk.” I bring him his mug and set it in front of him. “Let this cool a mite before you drink it.”

I settle across from him with my own mug, and we sit in silence for a while. I decide to not speak first; if he wants to talk about what happened to him earlier tonight, he will.

He sips at his drink and stares at the table. The grin he dredged up a moment ago is gone again, replaced by a bone-deep misery that declares itself in the slackness of his chin and the corners of his mouth. The seconds tick by and the house is so quiet it feels as if it’s holding its breath, waiting to hear what he has to say. The furnace is temporarily off and the air in the room is cool and light, and I can feel a draught pass through my hair, like a ghostly finger.

He clears his throat and raises his eyes to my face. “Did you ever do anything horrible, Hester?” His hands tremble a little as they cup the mug in front of him. “I mean, like something so bad you can’t even believe you did it?”

In an instant, Jeremy is in my mind, standing on the roof in the cold.

I close my eyes, then force myself to open them again. “Of course I have, child.” I lick my dry lips. “But so has almost everybody, I’d imagine.” I pause. “Why do you ask?”

He begins to shake. The quiver starts in his shoulders and works its way down his entire back as his eyes spill tears on his cheeks. “I did something bad tonight, Hester. Really, really bad.” He releases his mug and puts his face in his hands. When he speaks again I can barely understand him. “It’s not the first time, either.”

I gaze at the crown of his head. With his hair wet like this I can see a line of his scalp, pale and vulnerable under the dark red mass. He seems disinclined to continue, so I try to ease his way.

“You did something with Eric you regret?” I ask.

He nods. “Yeah.” He swallows several times and fights to control his breathing. “We got wasted in his dorm room, and he passed out on his bed. And then …” he drops his hands and stares into my face, “… and then I started to do stuff to him while he was blacked out.”

His eyes are red and bleak, and his normally attractive face is knotted with anguish. “I unzipped his pants and started, you know, started to …” The rest of his sentence is utterly lost, mangled by sobs.

I sigh. “And I take it he woke up?”

Another nod. “Yeah.” He wipes his runny nose on his short sleeve. “He opened his eyes all of a sudden and completely lost it when he saw what I was doing. Like he went fucking nuts, and started beating the shit out of me.” He dissolves in another spate of tears. “All I wanted was to be close to him. That’s all. I didn’t mean anything bad.”