The Distance Between Us (36 page)

She turns to face us. “If you’re going to discuss Paul, I’d like to be here, if it’s all the same to you.”

Arthur glances at me. “It’s not about Paul, is it?”

I shake my head. “No.” I clear my throat. “It’s not.” I make my way to the chair and collapse into it. “Although the three of us will need to talk about him eventually, of course.”

Grief is rising up inside of me, like rainwater in a pothole. I look over at Caitlin and struggle to say what needs to be said before it overwhelms me. “But there’s not much we can do for your brother, I’m afraid. I’ve been told he’s facing as much as twenty-five years in jail, even if the boys and I refuse to press charges.”

She closes her eyes for a long time, and when she opens them again, they’re brimming with tears. “Twenty-five years? Dear God. That’s …” She makes a queer little gesture with her hands. “… that’s the rest of his life.” Her voice breaks.
“Will
you press charges?”

When I first walked in the room, she was every inch the famous
Dr. Caitlin Donovan, chair of the English Department at Pritchard University. Now she’s just Caitlin, my brittle and heartsick child.

My throat closes. The only other time I’ve ever seen her this vulnerable was after Jeremy’s suicide.

“I don’t want to,” I whisper. “But I don’t know what else to do.”

I’m certain she’s going to argue, but all she does is nod after a moment, and wipe her face. She stares off into space, and a shudder runs through her body. “What happened to him, Mother?” she blurts, crumbling. “What happened to all of us?”

Arthur is crying, as well. He says her name, but then falls silent, and looks at me for help.

And I have none to offer. I look back at him, equally helpless, my own eyes burning with sadness. Our daughter searches both our faces, as if trying to grasp a dialect she’s never heard before, but her shoulders eventually sag in failure.

She takes a few deep breaths and composes herself. “I’ll be nearby if you need me,” she says quietly.

I don’t know which of us she’s speaking to, but on her way out the door, she touches my shoulder, and I swallow convulsively. I don’t even remember the last time she did something like that.

Martha pauses before stepping after her into the hallway. She shakes a finger at me. “I swear to God, Hester, if you upset him, I’ll kill you. He’s in no condition for another one of your outbursts.”

I stare over at her blankly, feeling no need to respond. At the moment, she’s only a cipher to me, a nothing, and for all the reaction I give her, I could be a statue—perhaps a distant cousin of St. Booger’s, lifeless and weather-beaten.

She begins to squirm under my gaze, but her pride won’t let her leave without some kind of acknowledgment. I suppose I can’t blame her for that, but I’m at a loss as to what I can do to pacify her.

Arthur speaks up, sparing me the task of breaking the stalemate.

“I’ll be fine, Martha.” He attempts a reassuring smile, but there’s a hint of impatience in it. “Now will you please close the door, and leave us alone for a few minutes?”

“Fine,” she huffs. “But I’ll be right outside.” She pulls the door shut behind her with an angry bang.

Arthur and I study each other for a moment in the stillness.

He’s so big. Why do I always forget how big he is? He fills the bed, and his broad shoulders almost extend the entire width of his mattress. It’s hard to believe he had major surgery just yesterday, because even now, wan and exhausted, he still seems indestructible.

“You look rather well, dear, considering all the stitches and pigskin you’ve got floating about in your ribcage.” I tug at my lower lip, the way I always used to whenever I teased him. “I understand your heart has been replaced with a football.”

That tickles him, in spite of himself. “You may be right,” he grunts. He brushes his eyes with the back of his hand. “That’s certainly what it feels like.”

We smile at each other, awkwardly, and become quiet again. We’ve gotten out of the habit of being good to each other.

He searches for words. “I … don’t blame you for what happened with Paul. I know you only did what you had to do.”

This startling concession rubs at my conscience.

“Did I?” I lean forward. “Oh, Arthur. I so much wish I were sure of that.” My worst fear comes tumbling out. “He was absolutely out of control, and that’s the God’s honest truth. But he may not have been meaning to hurt Alex anymore when I struck him. He may have been grabbing the boy only to help him up. But I struck him anyway.”

I play the nightmare in my mind again, reliving Paul’s last conscious moments in the attic kitchen. What would have happened if I’d simply spoken his name again, and asked him to leave? Would he have somehow turned into my son again?

I force out the rest of what I’m thinking, knowing that Arthur will have every right to judge me harshly for what I’ve done. My voice quivers. “And now I’ll never know if some of this could have been prevented.”

Arthur considers this gravely, then shakes his head. “You did what you had to do,” he repeats. “And from the sound of it, I think you made the right call.”

My lips tremble, and something hard and cold in the center of my body begins to dissolve. I didn’t expect mercy from him, and it may be my undoing.

I search in my purse for a tissue. “Thank you. You have no idea how much I needed to hear that.” I blow my nose and dab at my eyes. “When I first hit him, I thought I’d killed him.”

He nods and sighs. “I’m sorry to say it, but it might have been better if you had.” He rests his hands on his stomach and turns to look out the window. “Oh, Hester. How did our lives turn out like this?” He lets the question hang in the air for a minute, then swings his head back to me. “Where did we go so wrong?”

There’s no bitterness in him at the moment. Just shock, and hurt, and confusion. For the first time in what feels like centuries, I abandon my defenses, and answer him with as much honesty and love as I can dredge up.

“I don’t know, darling. Probably a thousand places, a thousand times.”

I rise from my chair, on impulse, and step over to the side of his bed. Wordlessly, he shifts to make room for me to sit next to him. I scoot up beside him, ignoring that the mattress is still warm from Martha.

I lift one of his hands and hold it in my lap. “But we also went right once or twice, didn’t we?” I gaze into his eyes. “And when we went wrong, at least we did it in public, in as humiliating a fashion as possible.”

One side of his mouth quirks up. “That’s for damn sure.” He takes a deep breath and grimaces in pain. “Ouch. Remind me not to breathe right now. It stings a bit.”

“Noted.” I study his fingertips, pressing lightly on the calluses he has from his violin. “No more breathing allowed.”

This is the first time we’ve touched since the day he told me about his affair with Martha, and his role in Jeremy’s death. We used to be very affectionate, and it seems surreal, and inexpressibly awful, to realize that this is likely the last time we’ll have physical contact.

He relaxes again and cocks his head, watching me. “There’s something different about you today, Hester.” He grins a little. “I mean, something beyond the fact that you’re not going out of your way to piss me off.”

I glance up and shrug. “It’s nothing, really. I merely had a lifechanging
epiphany on our roof last night, while you were in surgery.”

He blinks. “You were on the roof?”

I nod. “The boys and I went up there to stargaze. I needed some distraction.” I notice he’s no longer wearing his wedding ring, of course, but he hasn’t worn it for some time now. Yet the skin where it used to sit is still worn smooth, creating its own semipermanent band. I have one just like it.

“You gave me quite a scare yesterday,” I mumble.

He sinks deeper in his pillows. “I scared myself, too.” He catches my thumb, playfully. “So tell me. What was this epiphany of yours?”

I so much want to say the right things to him, now. I want to find the words that will set us both free, and end our mutual bloodletting. But there’s been so much anger between us, I don’t have a clue how to proceed.

With the truth, I suppose.

I disengage myself from him, gently, and place his hand back on his stomach. “As epiphanies go, it wasn’t much, really. It just … well, it simply occurred to me, all at once, that I’ve truly, absolutely lost you. And I’m more or less fine with that.” I reach up and put my fingers on his lips before he can answer. “Which doesn’t mean I won’t miss you terribly. And that I won’t hate Martha for the rest of my life, just for the fun of it. But when I thought you might die last night, things somehow changed.”

There are, surprisingly, fresh tears in his old gray eyes. He removes my hand from his mouth and holds it against his shoulder. “What things?” he whispers.

I study his thick beard, and his small, elfin ears, and his large Adam’s apple. I notice the way the late afternoon sun from the window brings out a random orange thread in the collar of his gown, and how a wrinkle in the middle of his forehead is deeper on the right side than on the left. I smell his familiar, pleasant body odor, which underlies the scent of flowers in the room, and the pungent medicinal stink, which must be the dressing on his wound, and I listen to him breathe, shallow and slow.

And I can feel his much-abused heart beating through our linked hands.

I clear my throat. “Everything, my love. Everything. The whole world changed.” I turn my head to look out the window. “I saw just how awful I’ve been since Jeremy died. I saw how much the two of us have hated ourselves for his death, and how we let that ruin us. I saw how I’ve clung to you like a parasite ever since you wanted to leave me, and I saw how the only hope for either of us to find any happiness from here on in is to just let go of everything, completely.”

My voice is even, and almost cheerful, but my face is wet. One tear after another falls from my chin to my lap. I turn back to him, resolved to finish what I came here to say.

“Arthur.” I wipe my nose with my free hand. “I have loved you so much. Do you know that?”

He tightens his grip on me and tries to answer, but he can’t. He pulls me closer to him, intending to put his arms around me, but the tubes are in the way, and he’s still in too much discomfort from the surgery to attempt such things, so I forestall him and lean in for a kiss, instead. His lips are soft and a little chapped, and our breath mingles, warm and moist. We only hold the kiss for a moment, and then I pull away and sit up again, before I get lost and can’t find my way back home.

He swallows several times and finally manages to answer me.

“I had a similar experience myself when I woke this morning,” he begins, with considerable difficulty. “I was foggy and still feeling the effects of the anesthetic, and when I opened my eyes, I saw Martha. And before she spoke, I found myself wondering why she was here, and not you.” He runs his fingers along my forearm and cradles my injured wrist in the palm of his hand. “And then I remembered everything, and it nearly killed me, all over again.”

He pauses. “I know you’re right. I know we can’t go back to what we were, and that we can’t be together anymore.” He locks eyes with me. “But I wanted you to know that when I woke up today, I was still looking for you. Even after everything that’s happened, you were the first one I wanted to see.”

He chokes out the next words. “I will always look for you, Hester. I have loved you my whole life, and I will always love you.” He fights for control, and I can hardly see him for my tears.

I don’t remember anything ever hurting this much in my life. Not the death of my parents, not Paul’s descent into madness, not even Jeremy’s suicide. Not anything. I thought I could handle this, but I can’t.

He does his best to get us both past this moment. He gives my arm a gentle shake, and when he can talk again, his mouth twitches and he sighs. “But that being said, please be aware that when I get out of here, it’s likely I’ll still want to strangle you, or run over you with a car.”

It’s a sorry sort of life line, but it’s enough. I take hold of it, and let him pull me to safety.

I force my lips to form syllables. “Of course you will, darling. I’d expect nothing less.”

And somehow we smile at each other. I don’t know how we manage to do that, but we do.

There’s a long, aching silence as both of us wrestle with our emotions. He lets go of my wrist, and we sit together, listening to voices in the hall outside the closed door, and the sound of somebody’s television in the next room, behind the wall. In that stillness I can feel us withdrawing from each other, bit by bit; without a word spoken, we both understand it’s time to end this. In another minute or two, I will walk out the door, and Martha will walk back in.

And that will be that.

He breaks the silence at last. “So, I’ve been thinking about something.” His voice is more removed now—still cordial, but no longer the voice of my husband.

I respond in the same manner, knowing it’s the kindest thing I can do for him at this point. “Yes? I’m all ears.”

He winces at the subtle change in my tone, but then he nods, as if to himself, and continues. “I’ll be needing time to recover from this surgery, and I probably won’t be in any shape to deal with all the stairs in our house. Martha’s home is more suited to the condition I’m going to be in, so we might as well drop this lawsuit thing for the time being, until I get my strength back.”

I straighten in surprise, and nearly begin to cry again.

It’s a generous thing he’s doing, and unprecedented. There are layers on layers of grief here, for both of us, and he’s doing what he
can to lessen some of it. And I’m grateful, and moved, by the gesture, especially because I know what the house means to him.

But even so, I can’t help goading him, just a little bit.

It’s what I do.

I sniff. “That’s very kind, dear. But are you sure? Martha could definitely use a few trips up and down the stairs every day, even if it’s not the best thing for you.”

His eyes narrow and his lips tighten for an instant. But then he searches my face, and something he sees there causes him to laugh, against his will. It’s an irritated, rueful chuckle, but at least it’s real.