Dying Declaration (17 page)

28

CHARLES STOPPED
at a restaurant on the way home from the Bible study. He was still trying to shake his vision of Buster.

“Table for one?” the hostess asked.

“Yeah.”

She led him to a table with two seats surrounded by tables occupied by families, couples, and friends. As far as Charles could tell, he was the only person eating alone.

The place smelled of day-old grease and too-strong coffee. The table was sticky, so he kept his elbows in his lap.

His concerns about Buster soon faded. After all, the man was safely behind bars. He would only be getting out if Charles sprang him, in which case Buster would be totally indebted to Charles. The more important thing was the spiritual state of those men he had left behind. Hopeless. Dangerous. Lost.

Nearly ten minutes passed before a waitress with a pierced tongue finally ventured by to take his order. He ordered a pile of strawberry French toast with a side of hash browns. A Mountain Dew to drink. Then he pulled out his iPod, donned his earbuds,
and waited for his meal.

Somewhere between two Kirk Franklin songs, just about the time Charles drained the last few drops of his first Dew, he totally lost his appetite. It wasn’t the music—Denita would never listen to Christian songs. And it certainly wasn’t the restaurant. To his knowledge, Denita had never set foot in this kind of restaurant. But suddenly her memory came back so powerfully that he didn’t quite dare reach out his hand and see if she might be real.

It was as if Denita came and sat down across from him, just as she did four years ago, in a different restaurant, a month after the big fight, a month after he had left their home for good. He wondered now, as he wondered then, how she had ever found him.

Her mournful eyes, brimming with tears, still drew him in. Though she had wounded him so deeply he could never heal, she still held sway over him. She had him four years ago. She had him tonight.

“There’s no easy way to say this.” Her words came out velvety soft, almost like a song. He didn’t respond, just waited an eternity while she drew her next breath. “There’s someone else, Charles.” The air left his lungs again tonight, the same way it had four years ago. “He understands me. Loves me. We’re going to spend our lives together. I’m filing for divorce.”

Charles rubbed his face as Denita laid the papers on the table. He remembered four years ago how he had tried to talk her out of it. Though he had walked out on her the previous month, he still wasn’t ready to give up on
them
. They just needed more time to think . . . counseling . . . anything. She had listened patiently, said she didn’t want to hurt him, but this was the only way. He remembered vividly how painful it was to stare at her back as she walked out the door,
the feeling of loneliness descending like a fog.

And even now, at unpredictable times, the fog would descend again, bringing a ghost of Denita back into his life and reopening painful wounds. But this night he would have no chance to talk Denita out of it. For when he blinked, she was gone, the fog slowly clearing again, and the beautiful face of his wife replaced by the chubby smile of the waitress with the pierced tongue.

“You want another Dew?” she asked.

“No. I’m fine,” Charles lied. “I’ll just drink water.” Then he stared at the back of the waitress as she turned and walked away.

It was nearly eight o’clock on Saturday night, and Erica Armistead had been sleeping most of the day. She had planned on getting outside, planting a few flowers, and running to the grocery store. But the Parkinson’s had not cooperated. The disease seemed to know when she had plans and would strike with unrelenting fury on those days.

She had gotten up early, but the disease put her back down. The tremors and stiffness had been particularly bad today, probably because she was so stressed out. On her good days she would try to walk off the stiffness. On her bad days she would shuffle from one prop to the next, leaning on furniture, against the wall, or sometimes on the arm of a friend. It had been that kind of day. She felt like she was shriveling up, like a super slow-motion replica of the witch in
The Wizard of Oz
—doused with water and shrinking into nothingness.

Sean had left for work today without saying good-bye. He had left her in the family room, dozing in and out while watching another movie on the Lifetime channel. The medication she took—levodopa—made her incredibly sleepy and would sometimes create a sudden freezing, a brief inability to move at all. She wondered if the side effects of the medication were worse than just letting the disease progress.

She was determined that the disease would not steal her entire day. She would carry through on the plans she had made for the evening. She had rested, watched television, and eaten this afternoon. Sean had called and said he would be working a
“double”—a second shift immediately following his first one. The second shift would start at eleven, and Erica would surprise him. She would take him something to eat, nothing fancy or heavy, just something special to get him through the night. It would be a show of her appreciation, her love for the long hours he consistently put in for the two of them. It would be a statement that not even the disease, on one of its most horrific days, could keep her from thinking about him.

She was losing him; she knew that. But this would be a start. And it would be worth the effort. This marriage, no matter how imperfect, was all that she had left. There would be no kids and no career. There was only Sean, and tonight she would begin the long process of winning him back.

She made it through the shower by steadying herself against the tile wall. She even shaved her legs, though there was no earthly reason to do so. When she stepped out of the long, hot shower, she felt better. And she felt clean.

She would go casual, jeans and a pullover—the blue one that Sean said matched her eyes. A few minutes with the blow dryer to get the hair ready. Then the makeup. It had been a while. A little foundation brought the color back. Blue eye shadow,
blush, mascara, and a light gloss on the lips. The wrinkles and the crow’s-feet near the eyes remained but were minimized. They showed character. She was a woman of character.

And she was ready. In fact, she had not felt this ready in weeks, maybe months. She would surprise Sean, and he would love it.

With trembling hands she grabbed the keys to her Lexus, picked up her cell phone and purse, and shuffled out to the garage. On her way to the hospital she made two stops: one for a warm cinnamon roll at a late-night deli she and Sean had frequented before the disease, and a second at a Barnes & Noble for a specially flavored Colombian cappuccino that Sean absolutely loved. Thus prepared, and with near-perfect timing, Erica Armistead pulled into the hospital parking lot at precisely 11:00 p.m.,
just in time for the start of Dr. Sean Armistead’s second shift. She held her hand out before moving from the car and noticed with pride that it was barely trembling. Getting out like this—surprising Sean—had done her more good than a megadose of levodopa.

She climbed stiffly from her car, imagining the look of surprise on her husband’s face.

She had parked in the handicapped spot—the only good thing to come out of the disease—and was grabbing the coffee and roll when she happened to look over the hood of her car toward the emergency room. Sean, big as life, was walking through the automatic doors, talking to another person—a woman—and removing his white lab coat. Something stopped Erica from just calling out. Maybe it was the intensity of the conversation. Maybe it was just a sixth sense. But instead of calling to him, instead of taking her bounty to him, she slowly settled back into the front seat of her Lexus and watched him walk across the shadows of the parking lot.

Sean and the woman parted ways.
Good! What a relief! Then why is my heart still racing? Why am I feeling nauseous? Why don’t I trust this man I’ve been married to for nearly eleven years? He probably found out he doesn’t have to work a double after all. He probably didn’t want to call and wake me. He’s probably just heading home.

She was sure Sean hadn’t seen her. She was also sure that for some reason—she really didn’t understand why—she needed to follow him. She had a bad feeling about this, a premonition that comes from living with someone all that time. Perhaps it was woman’s intuition; perhaps it was just paranoia. Whatever it was, when Dr. Sean Armistead pulled out of the Tidewater General Hospital parking lot at a few minutes after eleven, he was discreetly followed at a distance of about fifty yards by his own wife.

She hung back, two or three cars behind him, as he pulled onto Interstate 264 and headed toward the beach. Several miles later,
the interstate ended at a T intersection with Atlantic Avenue. Still a few cars behind, Erica hung a left, following Sean as he merged into the throngs of vehicles cruising the beach. She had been delayed at the turn onto Atlantic, and several more vehicles had inserted themselves between husband and wife. She was now about seven cars back and having a tough time keeping him in sight. She was also exhausted. And mad.

He turned into a small parking lot on the side of a large ten-story beach-front condo building. On the bottom floor was a T-shirt shop, a taffy place, and a bar—The Beach Grill. Erica turned in as well, now cruising no more than fifty feet back in the same parking lot, looking for a spot like her husband.
Why do I feel so guilty? I’m not doing anything wrong. He’s the one who’s sneaking around.

Maybe he’s just meeting a few of his buddies for a drink before he comes home. Maybe I should just leave. Why can’t I bring myself to trust him?

Sean found a spot, and Erica kept cruising. She pulled over at the end of one of the rows, far enough away so he wouldn’t see her. She watched as he got out of his car and walked toward the bar. Her heart dropped. A quick look around by Sean—a guilty glance just to make sure no one was watching. She had married this man, lived with him eleven years, and knew his look of guilt. She had just seen it.

She waited for him to go inside and then found an empty parking spot. She walked along the shadows of the building as she headed for the front door. The stiffness in her legs intensified, making her slump forward a little more. But something inside propelled her toward the door. She had to know. She had to answer these unbearable doubts.

She walked inside the front door, feeling vulnerable as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. It was a typical beach bar thronged with people on a bustling Saturday night. A second-rate band played in the far corner. The side of the bar toward the ocean opened onto a patio area with an overhang, and patrons were spilling out toward the boardwalk. The place pulsated with people and the relentless beat of the music. They lined up two-deep at the bar, the first row on stools, the second standing behind them and ordering drinks. There were couples and groups of women gyrating on the dance floor. And at the booths lining the walls there were more couples—some trying to talk, others all over each other—oblivious to the masses around them.

She should be one of them, Erica thought. At her age, she should still be dancing and drinking and catching men’s eyes even as she clung to the arm of her husband. Instead, she felt like a grandmother at a college frat party. She straightened her back as much as she could but kept her head low. Slow movements would keep her from limping.
Don’t grimace,
she reminded herself.

Erica wove her way through the crowd, small and hesitant steps like a frail old lady, wondering what she would do if she saw him. She found a spot near one of the corners, shielded by the broad shoulders of a young male on the prowl. She steadied herself and glanced around the place, booth by booth, then the dance floor, then the outside tables near the boardwalk. She finally saw him, his back toward her, sitting at one of the patio tables, his chair pulled snugly next to a woman, his arm draped comfortably over her shoulder.

The two of them ignored the band and the people around them, talking comfortably, their legs propped up together on another chair at their table. She felt sick as she watched the woman take a sip of her drink, then rest her head comfortably on Sean’s shoulder. They sat there, a picturesque couple staring out at the ocean, and Erica’s stomach began to churn unmercifully.

Her shield—the broad-shouldered student—moved, exposing her to this couple if they should turn around. She didn’t care. She just stood there for what seemed like forever—was it five minutes? ten? fifteen?—watching her husband share his heart with a woman she had never seen before. Erica was transfixed—hurt, sick, boiling, betrayed—all the passions of the heart engulfing her at once. She wanted to cry but was too stunned for tears. It was the openness of it, not just the betrayal itself, but the open flaunting of the wedding vows that hurt the most. When the feelings settled out, she was angry, pure and simple. And that anger gave her a sense of courage she had not known before. A courage to stay and face the truth.

Then, suddenly, the woman stood and stretched. She turned and glanced toward the band, then toward the bar. She had looked,
just for a second, directly at Erica.
Or had she??
The seducer turned back around, leaned down and gave Sean a kiss.
A kiss! On the lips!
And then she headed right toward Erica.