Barefoot (48 page)

“Thank you,” Brenda said.

Brenda had called her parents in the frantic moments before the ambulance arrived, with Vicki unconscious in Ted’s arms. What Brenda said to her mother was, “Vicki’s unconscious.”

Ellen Lyndon said, “We’re on our way.”

And Brenda, realizing that (a) it would be fruitless to dissuade her mother and (b) her mother and father were exactly what she needed right now, some backup, some help, some support, said, “Yes, okay.”

They wouldn’t be able to get to the island until the morning, though, and Brenda needed comfort now. There was a worm of guilt chewing a tunnel through Brenda’s brain. Brenda had brought up money; she had meant to initiate a conversation about the hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars, and it was at that moment that Vicki lost consciousness. And it was now, ironically, that Brenda realized money didn’t matter. Money was the last thing that mattered. (Why did human beings believe otherwise?) What mattered was family. What mattered was love.

Love.

Brenda pulled out her cell phone and walked to the end of the hospital corridor. She dialed the number from memory. All summer she had tried to forget that number, and yet, it came automatically.

One ring, two rings.

And then, Walsh. “Hello?”

His voice. It threw Brenda off balance. She took a stutter step backward.
Rumor has it you committed the only sin that can’t be forgiven other than out-and-out plagiarism.

“Hi,” she said. “It’s Brenda.”

“Brindah.” There was a pause. “Brindah, Brindah.”

Oh, God. She was going to cry. But no.

“I’m on Nantucket still,” she said. “At the hospital. Vicki is upstairs having tests. Because one minute she was fine, and the next minute she was unconscious. It could be nothing, or it could be something awful. I’ve done a good job all summer. Taking care of Vicki, I mean. Not a perfect job, but a good job. I’ve been praying, Walsh, but I kind of get the feeling no one is listening.”

“Yeah, I know that feeling.”

“Do you?”

“Well, I did,” he said. “Until now.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t called,” she said.

“Ahhh,” he said. “Yeah.”

“I just felt like . . . all that stuff back in New York, with the university . . . it was all
wrong.
”

“They made you feel like it was wrong.”

“There were things about it that
were
wrong,” Brenda said. “The time and place. We should have waited.”

“I couldn’t have waited,” Walsh said.

Could I have waited?
Brenda thought.
To save my career? To salvage my reputation? Could I not just have
waited? Down the hall, Brenda watched Ted sink into a chair and drop his head in his hands. His ship was going down.

“I should go,” Brenda said. “My sister . . .”

“Is there anything I can do?” Walsh said.

“No,” Brenda said. “There’s nothing anyone can do.”

“Ahhh,” he said again. “Yeah.”

Love is all that matters,
Brenda thought.
Tell him!
But she couldn’t. She was too rattled by the sound of his voice, she was too mired in the nonlanguage of ex-lovers. There was too much to say, so she would say nothing at all.

“Well, okay,” Brenda said. “Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” Walsh said.

They were keeping Vicki overnight for tests, they said. One of which would be an MRI, in the morning, when Dr. Alcott could be present.

“Your sister has lung cancer,” the doctor, a trim, handsome Indian man visiting from Mass General, said. “We’re looking for metastases to the brain. Tumors in her brain.”

“Right,” Brenda said. “I understand that.”

“You can see her before you leave,” he said. “You can say good night.”

“Okay,” Brenda said. “I will.”

Brenda and Ted took the elevator upstairs in silence to Vicki’s room. It was a private room, quiet and white. Vicki had an IV and wore an oxygen mask. Brenda kissed her cheek, and Vicki opened one eye.

“I was really hoping I’d never come back here,” Vicki said into her mask.

“I know,” Brenda said. “I know.”

Ted sat down on the bed and wrapped Vicki up in his arms. “I love you, baby,” he said. “You have to hang in there. You have to get better.” Ted was crying and Vicki was crying, and watching the two of them together made Brenda choke up. One of her secret goals was to someday have a man love her the way that Ted loved Vicki. He always referred to her as “my bride” or “the beautiful mother of my beautiful boys.” If Vicki was in the room, she was Ted’s sole focus. He did act like an alpha male a lot of the time—with his hedge-fund-manager big-shot spiel—but really, he was a man on his knees in front of his wife.

Brenda thought of Walsh.
I couldn’t have waited.

No,
she thought.
Me either.

Josh was at the Chicken Box drinking Bud drafts, shooting pool with Zach, trying not to think about the beach picnic that was taking place out at Smith’s Point without him, although certain images flashed through his mind, unbidden: fishing poles sticking out of the sand, Blaine’s face in firelight, Melanie dripping and shivering from her nighttime swim. In the name of getting the night off to a good start, Josh and Zach had done a couple of tequila shots at Zach’s house before they went out, but what this had led to, in the car on the way to the bar, was Zach’s unwieldy confession that he had had sex with Didi twice over the summer and had paid her a hundred dollars each time.

“And I don’t think I was the only one, man,” Zach said. “I think she’s a prostitute or something.”

Now they were stuck in an uncomfortable silence, which was only partially ameliorated by the pool chat (
nine ball, side pocket
) and by the Bruce Springsteen cover band wailing their hearts out on the far side of the bar. If this was what Josh had been missing all summer, then he was glad he’d missed it.

Josh was relieved when his phone rang. He checked the display: It was Number Eleven Shell Street calling. It was nearly ten-thirty. They were probably just back from the beach, carrying the sandy, sleepy boys off to bed. And they were calling him because . . . ? It was probably Vicki, cutting his hours, or it might be Melanie. She had missed him at the picnic, she had been remembering the first picnic, when they . . . and wouldn’t he meet her now, tonight, one last time? How could it hurt? Well, it would hurt, it was like any addiction—you couldn’t keep going back for quick fixes, you had to cut it out all at once, cold turkey. Didn’t she
see
that? Didn’t she get it? She was the one who was
married!
Josh watched Zach, formerly his best friend, bent in half over the table, shutting one eye in concentration and jimmying his stick back and forth in front of the cue ball. Josh could totally blow Zach’s mind with the story of Melanie. As far as shock value was concerned, it would be an even trade for the news of Didi (a
prostitute?
), but Zach wasn’t worthy of the information. Josh let the call go to his voice mail.

Later, much later, after Josh had dropped Zach off at home (the two of them shaking hands, Zach saying in an upbeat, conciliatory way, reminding Josh why they’d been friends in the first place,
Hey, man, it was good to see you. It was good to hang out
), Josh listened to the voice message.

Josh, it’s Ted Stowe. Listen, some things have come up here at the house. Vicki is in the hospital, she had an episode, she’s in for testing, we don’t know what the hell is going on, but her parents, my in-laws, are coming over in the morning and they’ll take care of the kids. So you don’t have to worry about coming to work on Monday. Vicki probably has your address somewhere; I’ll write you a check for this week, plus a bonus. Vicki said you did a great job, and I really appreciate it, man. You don’t know how critical it was to have rock-solid help, someone to fill in the gaps, I know it couldn’t have been easy, and man, the kids . . . they love you and Vicki loves you and she’s going to be okay. We just have to keep believing that. Anyway, thanks again for your help. And good luck at school. I can’t believe I’m leaving such a long message. I hate talking to machines.

Click.
Josh listened to the message a second time as he drove home. It was a good-bye, good-bye a week early, which was fine, in theory, and Josh was certain he would be paid handsomely, but the good-bye bugged him. It had come from Ted, who was the wrong person. Ted, who suggested the only form of closure Josh might need was a check. What about saying good-bye to the kids? What about finding out if Vicki was okay or not? Episode? What kind of episode? An episode serious enough that she had to spend the night in the hospital? Serious enoughthat her parents were coming in the morning? Josh, helped along by the tequila and the beers he’d consumed at the bar, was both enraged and confused. It was another murky question—was he part of Number Eleven Shell Street or not? Could he be dismissed with a phone message? Apparently so. Thanks again, good luck, good-bye. Josh was tempted to call back and inform
Ted Stowe
of Josh’s importance to the women and children of that house. He had loved those kids and cared for them better than anyone else could have. He earned their trust; he knew them. He became their friend. He had pulled Melanie out of a quicksand of self-hatred and misery; he gave her confidence. He made her feel beautiful and sexy. He had confided in Vicki, he had treated her not like a sick person, but like a person person. He’d made her smile, even when she was on death’s door. He had confided to her about his mother. And Josh was going to help Brenda with her career; he was going to ask Chas Gorda how to sell a screenplay. He had done all of that—and Ted had written Josh off, cut him loose with a
phone message
. As if Josh were the plumber, the exterminator, someone who could be
cancelled. I’ll write you a check.

Be careful.
Not just because of Melanie, but because of the whole family. He had loved the family, and the family had broken his heart.

At a quarter to seven the next morning, Brenda heard what sounded like a suitcase on wheels bumping down the flagstone path, and then the creak of the ancient plank door opening. But no, she thought. It was impossibly early. Even people who went to church weren’t awake yet.

Seconds later, there was a tap on her bedroom door. Brenda opened her eyes to see . . . Ellen Lyndon poking her head in. Her mother. Brenda sat up.

“Mom!” she said.

The room filled, immediately, with the aura of Ellen Lyndon: her frosted-blond hair cut into a lovely bob, sunglasses pushed on top of her head, her permanent scent of Coco Chanel and vanilla, her pale pink lipstick. Her left knee was sheathed in a blue neoprene brace, and she wore tennis shoes in lieu of her usual espadrilles. But still, her pink tank was crisp and fresh and there were matching pink embroidered turtles on her Bermuda shorts. Who looked this wonderful so early in the morning?

My mother,
Brenda thought.
She goes to bed beautiful, she wakes up beautiful.

Ellen limped over to the bed, held Brenda’s face, and kissed her on the lips. Brenda tasted lipstick.

“Oh, honey!” Ellen said. “I’ve missed you!”

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Brenda said. “Already.”

“First plane. We drove until midnight and stopped in Providence. And you know your father. Up at five-thirty.” Ellen Lyndon eased down on the bed, removed her tennis shoes, and said, “Scoot over. I’m climbing in.”

Well, it wasn’t exactly the person Brenda wanted to be welcoming into her bed that day, but it was a kind of salve—even at age thirty—to be held by her mother. To have her mother stroke her hair and say, “You have been such a pillar, honey. Such a support for your sister. What would she have done without you? She was so lucky to have you here.”

“I didn’t do all that much,” Brenda said. “Drove her to chemo, mostly.”

“And you watched the kids and you helped out around the house. And you gave her moral support.”

“I guess.”

“And you dealt with me, your wacky mother.”

“That I did. How’s your knee?”

“It’s fine. I’ve had a few setbacks that weren’t important enough to tell you about. My physical therapist, Kenneth, does not know I’ve crossed the state line, but when he finds out, he’s going to be very cross.”

“Because it’s too much,” Brenda said. “I wouldn’t have called you, but . . .”

“Oh, God, darling, of course you were right to call me. Half the reason why I’m not healing as I should is because of the stress of your sister. I’m distracted.” Ellen Lyndon lay on her back and stared up at the ceiling. “This used to be Aunt Liv’s room.”

“I know. I remember.”

“Liv was a strong woman. Stronger than your grandmother, even. She was a great role model for you and your sister.”

“Yes,” Brenda said.
And if she’s been watching me the past year, she’s dumbfounded.

“I know they think Vicki might have a brain tumor,” Ellen said. “Nobody said that to me, but I know that’s what the doctors think.”

“I guess it’s a possibility.”

Ellen took a deep breath. “You know, as a mother, you’re never ready to hear that your child is sick. It is . . . the
worst
news.” She gazed at Brenda. “There’s no way for you to understand. Not yet. Not until you have your own children. And even then, I hope you never experience it.” Ellen Lyndon relaxed into the bed a little and closed her eyes. “But you know, it feels good just to be here. In this room, especially. This was the nursery for your grandmother and Aunt Liv. The cradle of strong women. I can feel their strength, can’t you?”

“Sort of,” Brenda lied. In truth, Brenda felt weak and tired. The conversation with Walsh hurt, like a scrape on her knee, every time she thought about it.

Ellen Lyndon shifted her knee a little, and in another moment, she was breathing steadily, asleep. Brenda slipped out of bed and pulled the sheet up over her mother’s shoulders.

Buzz Lyndon was in the kitchen with Ted, Blaine, and Porter, but no move had been made on breakfast. They were waiting for a woman to do it, Brenda supposed. Ellen Lyndon and Vicki had created these monsters themselves, but since Ellen was asleep and Vicki was gone, that left Brenda. Brenda hoped they liked cold cereal. She pulled out the Cheerios and started pouring.