A Woman's Place: A Novel (20 page)

"No, you wouldn't. You have no idea what it's like here, day in day out. When I sit with her, she accuses me of keeping a death watch, and when I'm not there, she accuses me of desertion. Never accuses you of it, mind you, even though you're more a deserter than me. Why haven't you called?"

"I did call. But things aren't easy here either."

"Why not?" I slid down against the glass, back to the ocean, face to all the new things that meant absolutely nothing in the face of death. I wasn't sure which weighed me down more, guilt or grief. I wanted to tell Rona everything. But I couldn't.

"I've been preoccupied," I said, realizing only after the fact that that would invite more questions.

Perhaps from someone less self-centered. All Rona said was, "I need you here. I need you here. When can you come?"

"I don't know."

"Well, I don't know how much more I can take. I wasn't cut out to do this, Claire. You know that."

"You're doing a great job."

"I'm not. I don't comfort her. I try, but nothing works. She doesn't want me, she wants you. I really need you here."

"I know, Rona, I know, but I have my hands full. I have to tell you--"

"Uh-oh. There's my call waiting. Listen, I'm expecting an important call. I'll talk with you tomorrow. See what you can do about flights for the weekend. I'll even pick you up at the airport. And call Mom?

Please?"

"Hi, Mom," I sang. "How are you?"

"Dying," came her feeble response.

It shook me. If she was giving up, I would be furious. She had no right Page 102

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to give up, not after all this time. "We're all dying, right from the day we're born. How are you feeling otherwise?"

"Why haven't you called? The pain is bad, and your sister is useless."

"Have you asked the doctors about the pain?"

"What can they say? They've given up."

"Doctors don't give up." "There's nothing in it for them. I'm poor. No chance of money from me when I go."

"You're in the majority. It's the rare patient who makes a big bequest."

"You could promise them something. Maybe that would help. Will you promise them something, Claire?"

"Of course. That's a nice idea, actually."

"Is something wrong?"

"No. Why do you ask?"

"You don't sound right."

Connie had known about most other ups and downs in my life. I wanted her to know about this one. I wanted her to tell me that going along with the court ruling even though it was wrong was the right thing to do. I wanted her to tell me I was the best mother in the world. But she would be sick with disappointment. And she was already so sick. I couldn't risk letting her take this kind of heartache to her grave, or, worse, having it send her there.

"There's a problem with work," I finally said. "Nothing that time and attention won't solve."

"When will I see you again?"

"Soon, Mom. I'll get back as soon as I can."

"The doctors listen to you. I feel better when you're here."

"I'll try. But it may be a few weeks."

"I miss you."

"Let me see what I can do. I'll call again soon. You rest until then. I want you strong for Thanksgiving. Okay?"

I almost didn't answer the phone when it rang next. It was nine-thirty. I was exhausted, felt as though I had lived three lifetimes in a day, and I still had to unpack my last bag and hang up my clothes if I had any hope of wearing them without major repair work. But if it was Johnny, I wanted to talk. Or Kikit. Or Dean Jenovitz. It was the last. I was immediately alert.

"I understand we have to meet, Mrs. Raphael." I heard the shuffle of pages at his end. "Is next Monday at two doable?"

"It is, but I was hoping for something sooner." I sounded a little desperate, but that was fine. I figured he was used to squeezing Page 103

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desperate people in.

There was more shuffling, and the slow, deliberating tick of his tongue.

"I have a possible Friday at ten, though I don't know as that's much of an improvement."

"If I took the Friday slot, my husband could take the Monday slot. Have you heard from him yet?"

"No."

"Have you heard from his lawyer?"

"No. Since the Monday slot is a definite, I'll put you down for that one. I'll make separate arrangements with your husband when he calls."

"When do you want to talk with the children?"

"After I've spent sufficient time with their parents."

"How much is 'sufficient time'?"

"That depends."

"Ah."

"Custody studies take time, Mrs. Raphael."

"I understand," I said and bit my tongue, but only for the space of a breath. "It's just that being separated from my children is an unnatural state, for them as much as for me."

"They're with their father. They'll be fine." How did he know that? How did he know that Dennis wasn't an abusive parent? How did he know what emotional harm my children were suffering with their parents splitting up out of the blue? How did he know they would be fine at all? I didn't care if

I 8 I he had ten degrees. That didn't make him an expert on my kids!

"Monday at two?" he asked.

"Yes. Dr. Jenovitz, I really am worried about my children."

"So was the court, which was why they were placed with their father. Why don't we talk about this on Monday. Do you know where my office is?"

"Yes."

"Good. I'll see you then."

I hadn't gone through life second-guessing myself. I had simply done what had to be done and moved on to the next task. I might have done what had to be done and moved on this time, too, had I been back home with the kids. They kept me busy. With them around, I didn't have time to brood.

But they weren't around now. I didn't have chores to do for them, or for Dennis. I had plenty to do for Wicker Wise but not here, not now. Here and now was the new home that was mine in name and deed and things, but still not mine. It was different at night, dark, silent, and in that dark silence, I second guessed my talk with Jenovitz. I wondered if I Page 104

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had sounded too pushy or controlling, wondered if I had been humble enough, reasonable enough. First impressions were important. I agonized over the one I had made.

I second-guessed my handling of the children-had I said too much or too little to Kikit, had I accepted Johnny's refusal too easily? I assumed they were both asleep, wondered if they were dreaming and whether they would wake in the night. I had always been the one who handled nightmares, who got up and held little bodies, who climbed into little beds and sang sweet little songs. I wondered if Dennis would--and I second-guessed my handling of him, too. It was fine to stand up to him, but if he turned around and took it out on the kids, the effort had backfired.

As I unpacked the last of my clothes, I tried to boost my morale by thinking back through the evening, but my talk with Connie held no solace. Nor did my talk with Rona. They saw me as their rock. It had always been that way, and I had never minded, but things were different now. I needed a rock of my own.

There was only one person who understood that, and I wasn't supposed to be with him.

Desperate for a little pampering, I took a hot bath in the tub of my new home, dried myself with an oversized bath towel, wrapped myself in another, and uncorked the bottle of Chardonnay that Cynthia had left on the kitchen counter for me. I had no wine glasses, but I wasn't fussy. A plastic cup did just fine.

Wine in hand, I climbed the spiral stairs to the top of my tower, piled my pillows against my brand-new wicker headboard, and climbed into my brand-new bed.

Then I began to hum. I didn't pick any one song deliberately, just went with whatever came, but what came were things that Dennis and I had never sung, sad songs, soulful songs. On to the next I went, eyes closed, a sip of wine, a deeper snuggle. Hum became voice, soft and wispy, always with a beat, I loved a good beat, and the words were my heart's cries.

I sang a little Carole King, "You've Got a Friend," "So Far Away," and James Taylor's "Fire and Rain." I sang to soothe myself, to lift my spirits, because music had always done that for me. This time was different. I didn't finish the wine, didn't even finish the song I was singing last, because emotion and my startling state of aloneness choked me up. First I cried, then I sniffled. Then, in the wee hours of the night, the beat of the ocean did what exhaustion couldn't and rocked me to sleep. nine.

I'm not sure that anyone who hasn't ever been granted "visitation rights" to his or her children can possibly understand what they mean. Visiting is the least of it, and there are precious few rights. I had to tell Dennis what time I was picking the children up, where we were going, and what time I would have them home, but that wasn't the worst. The worst was being with them, loving them to pieces and prizing every second of my time with them but feeling an awkwardness, trying to pretend things were the same when we all knew they weren't. The worst was feeling like a second-rate mother because the court said I was, and wondering if the children thought it. The worst was having to entrust their daily well-being to someone else. The very worst was having to drop them back with Dennis and return alone to my own place, which was deadly empty once the kids had been and gone. Predictably, they liked Page 105

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the lighthouse. Even Johnny was fascinated with it, though he started glancing anxiously at his watch as our time together neared an end. When I tried to get him to talk about what he was feeling, he gave me one word answers and shrugs, and then Kikit was tugging at me with talk of her own. I needed time alone with him, but she wouldn't leave my side. Given the paucity of our time together, I couldn't ask her to. Dropping the children back at the house, I begged Dennis to let me pick Johnny up from school the next day and take him out alone for an hour to talk. He said we had to stick to the schedule.

Carmen filed the Motion to Recuse late Thursday. So began another wait for a call from Selwey's clerk.

The lighthouse was shaping up well. The floors were done and, by week's end, the walls were painted and the windows washed. The children had already picked their furniture from my warehouse-Kikit a pretty wicker set, Johnny one of the wood sets that we stocked--along with the bedding they wanted, but I did the rest. Carpets, lamps, window coverings, framed posters--their rooms looked precious when I was done.

"So when can I sleep there?" Kikit asked when I updated her on the phone.

"Soon," I said. I was hoping for a reversal of the court order by the end of the following week, and if not then, during the week after that. Worst case scenario, if we had to wait until the GAL's study was done, it would be Thanksgiving. I refused to think that I wouldn't win at that point.

In any case, I wanted the children to see the lighthouse as home. To that end, I felt justified in neglecting other things to finish the decorating.

Wicker Wise was sturdy enough to bear the neglect without suffering much damage. I answered only the most urgent phone calls, dealt with only the most urgent problems. When the manufacturer of one of the major fabrics we used for cushions in our factory declared bankruptcy, I chose another company's fabric and submitted the order. When the line we had been most successful with in our western stores was discontinued, I chose a replacement. I kept Furniture Today close at hand and read it when I could. The rest of the work I left for Brody.

I saw him each day when I checked in at the office, talked with him about what had to be done, then left. He was leaving the following Monday for the West Coast, at which point I would be back in the office working. It was better this way, I told myself. Less tempting. But I missed him. I was going through the worst time of my life, and he was the one person who might have helped. He knew about visitation rights. He knew about being alone. He knew me and what made me tick. The court said we were having an affair. We weren't. But something had changed between us. Whether it was the power of suggestion or the fact that I was now separated and theoretically available, or whether there had been an attraction all long, I didn't know. All I knew was that our friendship wasn't as innocent as it had once been. I definitely felt it-little looks, quick thoughts, an absent, innocent touch that brought a shock of awareness.

He was right. Something did exist. But I couldn't pursue it. That wasn't to say I didn't think of him often. I wanted to call him Page 106

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Thursday night to tell him how dismal Halloween had been. Dennis had opted for having his mother give out candy at the house while he took Kikit around the neighborhood, and though I trusted that he would go through every last bit of the candy she received and throw out anything with nuts, I would have rather been there than sitting alone in my lighthouse with a bag of candy and not one child ringing the bell. I wanted to call Brody Friday night after discouraging talks with my mother and sister. They wanted me in Cleveland, and while I couldn't go, I couldn't tell them why. I was frustrated when they pushed, then angry, then--again and always--riddled with guilt.

I wanted to call him Saturday night, when I was feeling blue as blue could be, cold turkey after a day with the kids. After Johnny's game, I had taken them to lunch and a movie, then brought them to the lighthouse and sat with them in my tower overlooking the waves. Kikit had hogged my lap--not that I didn't want her there, but I wanted Johnny to feel a little warmth, too. When I reached out to him, he eluded my grasp. "Talk to me," I begged him, and he talked, but never about what needed to be said. When I broached the subject of the separation directly, he answered with head shakes and shrugs. The closest he came to making a statement was when Kikit asked me to sing and he suggested "No Man Is an Island."

"No Man Is an Island" had been the theme song of the group Dennis and I sang with. It had been the closer for our shows, sung at that point where the audience was dewy-eyed and mellow, caught up in the sense of community that characterized the times, swaying and singing along. The melody was strong and anthem like the harmony rich. Dennis and I had always sung it with a sense of nostalgia, and had had it played at our wedding. It was, in its way, the theme song of our marriage. It stood for much more though, I realized as I thought about it Saturday night after the children were gone. I had grown up in a joyless home. Singing had been my escape. I felt no oppression when I was singing, felt nothing pulling me down when I tapped my toe to the beat and heard the harmony click. I had met Dennis singing and had transferred to him those feelings of pleasure. It occurred to me, looking back, that Dennis had lost interest in singing, just as he had lost interest in taking pictures. Two sources of shared pleasure, both dried up. I should have seen it sooner. I surely saw it now.