Broken for You (14 page)

Wanda arrived in the kitchen, as usual, at precisely eight o'clock.

"Good morning!" Margaret said.

"Hi." Wanda busied herself with her backpack; it contained a number of books, writing implements, a ruler, a water bottle, an extra pair of shoes, and a large three-ring notebook.

That must be terribly heavy,
Margaret thought.
No wonder she's tired so much of the time.

"I got your note this morning."

"My note." Wanda gave Margaret a worried look and then began speaking very quickly. "I wrote it late last night, obviously, when I was feeling a little . . . grim, I guess you'd say. Yesterday was hard—it's tech week and everything—and I don't seem to be up to my usual level of. . . competence. Confidence. Anyway, I just hope my note didn't sound ungrateful or crazy or anything." Wanda clamped her mouth shut and studied a floor vent.

Having become familiar with the roiling landscape of Wanda's emotional life, Margaret recognized that the girl was barely holding herself together. There were so many things she wanted to say to her, but this was not the time to say them.

"Your note made perfect sense, actually," Margaret said, speaking gently to the top of Wanda's bowed head. "There are some things I'm
trying to change about my life too. Loaning you the car has something to do with that."

Wanda looked up and blinked. Her eyes were glistening. "I see."

"You think about it some more and let me know what you decide."

"All right." Wanda began to buckle the straps of her backpack. "You look nice this morning. Where are you off to, looking so dressed up?"

Margaret paused to sip her tea. "I . . . I'm going to play . . . That is, I'm joining a . . . group of. . ." She faltered. "I have an appointment."

"Oh." Wanda poured herself a small glass of juice. "Well, you look very nice. Are you sure it's no trouble giving me a ride?"

"No trouble at all."

"We should get on the road pretty soon, shouldn't we? So you won't be late?"

"I suppose so.. . ." Margaret's body felt like a block of granite. "Don't you want coffee before we go?"

"I'll get something at the Uptown Cafe."

Margaret gathered up her pocketbook, coat, and gloves. Her head had started throbbing.

"It's only a couple of blocks from the Rep," Wanda continued. "Maybe we could meet there sometime. Maybe on one of my matinee days?"

Margaret tried to focus her attention by putting on her gloves. "That would be nice."

"Their lattes look like works of art," Wanda went on in a chipper voice as she hoisted her backpack. "It's by far the best coffee in town!"

Margaret was a very good driver, Wanda noted—not one of those abysmally clueless old ladies who squint over the tops of their steering wheels as if they're engaged in bunker warfare, rely on telepathy instead of turn signals to communicate intent, and never let the speedometer get above 15 mph. Erect, sharp-eyed, focused, and absolutely by-the-book in terms of traffic protocol, Margaret clearly took her job as the operator of a motorized vehicle seriously.

They had a limited conversation when they first set out—the kind of polite, semiconscious exchange that people have when they either don't know each other or there's something else on their minds: "How is work going?" "Isn't it a nice day?" "It's been a lovely spring. So little
rain for March." "Are the winters here really that terrible?" "Oh, not so bad. A bit dreary, but. . ." And so on. But as they headed into heavier traffic, Margaret's solemn expression made it clear that a vigilant regard for the rules of traffic safety overrode any further participation in social niceties. Soon, they both fell silent.

"Just take Roy Street till it runs into Queen Anne," Wanda had said after they'd passed several minutes without speaking. "Then turn left."

"Oh, yes," Margaret replied, distractedly. "I remember this neighborhood."

Wanda was struck again by how little she knew of her landlady. This was the first time she had seen Margaret outside the confines of her house. Maybe that wasn't too remarkable; after all, Wanda kept unusual work hours. Margaret might do all kinds of exciting things during the day. She probably had a very full life.

"Bye! Thanks again!" Wanda called. She watched Margaret pilot the aged Volvo—signaling, maneuvering, and merging with the oncoming traffic so gracefully that Wanda imagined an accompanying piano playing ballet barre music.

It was early; the Uptown wasn't crowded yet. Wanda secured one of the window-side corner tables she preferred and then stepped up to the counter. She ordered a hazelnut espresso scone and a triple Americano, no room for cream. She settled into her chair. From this vantage point, she had a good view of the entire cafe, as well as the sidewalk and street. She could blend in. Observe without being observed. For the next several minutes, she studied the faces of each and every person in the Uptown Cafe.

Then she got out her little red and black book and began to write her affirmation.

Dr. Leising was indeed able to offer Margaret several acceptable treatment options: prescription medications, biofeedback techniques, dietary and vitamin supplement advice, and chiefly, regularly scheduled visits to the Radiology Department for CT scans to monitor her condition. He also lobbied convincingly for the engagement of a live-in nurse. Margaret agreed with special enthusiasm to this last suggestion, augmenting Dr. Leising's well-stated arguments with an unvoiced one of
her own: Wanda might enjoy the company of another woman, one closer to her own age. Maybe she'd be willing to confide her troubles to someone who was more like a sister.

Rebounding from the dread which had characterized the beginning of her day—a dread, she realized, that had been an insidious, anchoring force for all the unknowing months before Dr. Leising confirmed the presence of the tumor—Margaret left the office feeling weightless as a swallowtail.

She should probably call Stephen as soon as she got home and tell him the whole story. After all, she promised to let him know about the test results, keep him informed. Marita was fond of her too, Margaret knew—hard as that was to admit—and the news that she'd be dead in a year or two would upset them, to say the least. She was not looking forward to the conversation. It was so difficult to face
the fact
of them sometimes: Stephen and Marita, Marita and Stephen, Stephen and Marita and their three young children. In a sense, Stephen was very much at the beginning of his life.
It's nice for men that they can start over li\e that,
she thought without bitterness, but without exultation either.

I'll call later,
she decided finally.
There's no hurry, after all, and it's such a lovely day.

Leaving her car in the lot next to the medical building, she set out on a walk. At first she was uneasy. Downtown Seattle seemed as exotic as another country—so noisy and unfamiliar. It had been a long time since she'd spent any time downtown.
Years, probably,
she realized.
I
used to come down here quite a lot. I guess there was a time when it didn't seem like so much trouble. And of course, when I had Daniel, there were other reasons to get out of the house. Visits to Santa Claus, the art museum, the Four Seasons Tea Room, Pike Place Market, and so on. Special outings.
Margaret's eyes swept across the moving crowds of shoppers and office workers and tourists.
And all of this . . . activity,
she thought, wonderingly,
it's been here, all this time. It all goes on, even when I'm somewhere else.

There were confetti-like splashes of color from early blooming daffodils, tulips, hyacinths, jonquils, and crocuses. Even though the air was damp and cool—Margaret was quite comfortable in her wool cardigan—many people were without coats. Some even wore shorts and sandals.
She stopped to regard the window displays at The Bon. They featured mannequin families, artfully arranged on AstroTurf landscapes and engaged in various springtime activities: Easter egg hunts, gardening, tea parties. Chalky-skinned mothers and fathers lounged near picnic baskets stuffed with petrified baguettes and croissants, wedges of Brie, purple grapes, and gourmet sandwiches. Their well-mannered, pale, cherubic-faced mannequin children wore unscuffed shoes and carried baskets laden with designer eggs, Godiva chocolates, and complacent fake bunnies.
I guess that's somebody's idea of Heaven,
she thought.

She walked on—past enormous bookstores and Thai restaurants and banks with unfamiliar names, past computer outlets and software retailers and shoe emporiums. She was astounded by the number of people in Seattle who were just sitting around drinking coffee. Starbucks. Seattle's Best Coffee. Tully's Coffee. And the espresso carts! There seemed to be one or two of these on every block.

Tattoo parlors. Movie complexes. Copy stores. Video arcades. So many things had changed.

Margaret decided to take a chance that at least one thing in downtown Seattle had stayed constant. She started walking in the direction of the Hotel Orleans. She was fairly sure she remembered how to get there. It was several blocks north of the main shopping district—
Yes! There it is!
—on a quiet cross street that was lined with mature cherry trees in full bloom.

As she approached the hotel, a slight breeze stirred, and a few cherry blossoms shook loose onto her shoulders.

From across the street, she looked up at the hotel's curving facade, its delicate, filigreed, wrought-iron balconies set with pots of lavender, and the curved, intersecting slopes of its mansard roof. The noisiness and bustle she'd found so disorienting just a few moments ago seemed to fade, so that all she could hear was the steadying, hypnotic sound of the front courtyard fountain.

Drawing closer, Margaret saw a woman appear at the front entrance—she seemed neither young nor old—wearing a fine straw cloche hat and a full-skirted floral dress. The fabric of the dress moved gracefully, responding in a light, easy, playful way to the woman's body as she set off, full of purpose, toward some other part of the city.
I
could wear a dress like that,
Margaret thought,
and not look too ridiculous.

Breathing in the early spring air, she was filled with a vast, complicated, unspecific sense of the past—of many other springs long gone—and she felt a small, tentative unfolding sensation in her chest.
No wonder they tal
k
about heartache,
she thought.
That's exactly where one feels it.

One of the hotel valets approached her. "Madame," he said, using the French pronunciation of the word, "may I help you?" He was in his late fifties perhaps, and his face—round and benevolent as a full moon— looked concerned.

"No, thank you," Margaret replied brightly, pressing a hand against her cheek. "I'm just admiring the hotel."

"She's a grand old beauty, isn't she?"

"Yes, indeed." They stood silently for a moment, gazing at the fountain just outside the hotel entrance. It was a small-scale replica of the Tuilleries in Paris. "I was here many years ago," Margaret said, almost to herself. "On my honeymoon."

"Really?" The valet smiled expansively, revealing two sets of brilliant, white, perfectly even teeth. He could've been a spokesperson for Pepsodent.

"It was in 1958. Around this time of year."

"Aaaah," the valet replied. "That was just a bit before I came to The Orleans." Suddenly, he clapped his hand to his chest. Margaret was sure he was going to recite the Pledge of Allegiance. "Mr. MacPherson, at your service!" he announced, still holding his hand over his heart. The gold name tag that brushed the tips of his fingers read, "M. MacPherson, Senior Staff," and beneath that, "Valet Supervisor." He continued, "I've been here for over thirty years." "My goodness!"

"If you don't mind my asking, did you have the Honeymoon Suite?" This question, which might have struck Margaret as prurient coming from any other stranger, was offered with such warmth and innocence that she felt perfectly comfortable answering. "No, we didn't. My husband . . . we couldn't afford it, but we had a lovely little room, all the same. It was on the third floor, I believe. We were able to look out at the fountain."

"I see," Mr. MacPherson responded, narrowing his eyes and placing a manicured finger lightly against his lips. He looked positively judicial. "315, maybe. Or 317. Do you, by any chance—" and this was the
first time he seemed reluctant to speak—"if you don't mind my asking, do you remember the colors of the room?"

"Oh." Margaret paused again. "Well . . . I'm fairly certain that the walls were done in a kind of rose color. Wallpapered, I believe?"

"Oh, yes," Mr. MacPherson replied, gently authoritative, "all the rooms in the hotel are wallpapered."

"And the bedspread . . ." Margaret
had a sudden memory of the bed
spread—a happy, rumpled mess on the floor, at the foot of the bed— and of Stephen, laughing, naked, on top of it. She felt her cheeks go warm and wondered if she was blushing. "It was rose too."

"Not pink?" Mr. MacPherson asked, regarding Margaret with a piercing, urgent look. "You're quite sure it wasn't pink?" Margaret had a strong impulse to call him Sherlock.