Oxygen (19 page)

“I’m sure it is. I mean, it sounds, well, I mean, if I were ready to invest in real estate—commercial real estate—it would probably be an opportunity.”

“I’ve already got the projections mapped out. The return you will see on this makes your Dow Jones index funds look like lunch money.”

Lori pushes her chair back from the table. “Marie, let me make sure you have some fresh towels and soap in your bathroom. She’s been up all night, Gordon. I don’t think she can wrap her head around all your numbers right now.” She puts her hands on my shoulders and gently forces me from my chair.

“I’ll be more lucid tomorrow, Gordon. Sounds like you’re working on something really interesting, though.” I move toward the stairs with Lori herding me in front of her.

“Give it some thought. Ground floor is where the money is to be made.” And with that he pulls a pair of folded reading glasses from his pocket and snaps open the business section of the
Star-Telegram
.

As soon as we slip behind the door of Lia’s bubble-gum-pink room Lori sits down on the edge of the canopy bed and picks up a ruffled pillow, hugging it against her middle. “So what do you think?”

“Oh God, Lori, I’m not in any frame of mind to think about real estate investments.”

“I’m not asking about real estate. What do you think about Gordon?”

“What do you mean, what do I think?”

“I mean, I think he’s losing it. I mean, I can’t believe my husband was sitting at our dining table hitting up his sister-in-law for a loan.”

“I’m not sure he meant it that way, Lori. He’s done awfully well in real estate around here. Maybe he’s onto something.”

Lori nods at me but her eyes narrow and she leans forward over the pillow like she’s sharing a scandalous secret. “He’s asking you for a loan.”

In truth, I had not heard my brother-in-law string so many illustrative adjectives together since I was his bridesmaid and he overdosed on champagne. Lori’s gaze drifts softly out of focus over my shoulder. One and a half years younger than myself, and so similar in appearance we have been mistaken for twins—she has the same deep-shadowed eyes, too large for her narrow face, the same hint of cleft in her chin. She is still pretty, to me. But I see in her face the wear that must be equally etched on my own.

“Are you two OK?” I ask her. “You haven’t said anything about how
you’re
handling his financial problems.”

She turns her eyes back to me, scanning my own new creases of worry and time. “We’re OK. For better or worse, and all of that. He’s been the strong one for me when I needed it. Now it’s my turn.” She relaxes against the wall, pushing the pillow behind her back. “So how’s your friend Joe? Do you still see him very often?”

“Sure, Joe’s still a good friend.” I say it evenly enough, but my face warms. “What made you think of him all of a sudden?”

“I think about your love life a lot. I just figured out a long time ago that the less I ask, the more you tell me. But since it hasn’t come up lately, I decided to intrude.”

“Am I really that secretive? Even with you?”

“Yes.”

I laugh. “Maybe that’s more out of consideration than privacy. My love life is boring.”

She narrows her eyes, not giving up. “Joe is the only guy you’ve ever dated whom you didn’t describe as ‘nice.’”

I fold my legs up and rest my chin on top of my knees. “How
did
I describe him?”

“I can’t remember. But I’m sure you used adjectives with more than one syllable. How can you work around all those male doctors and have a boring love life? Jesus, serial soap operas run for years on hospital romances.”

“Most of the men my age are married.”

“Does that matter?”

“Very funny. If a man
is
still single at this age, there’s usually a reason for it.”

“So why is Joe still single?”

I shrug. “He’s not an easy one to figure out. I probably know him better than anybody else at First Lutheran, and he still surprises me. He says he wants a relationship, but he only goes for women who stay one step out of his grasp.”

“He sounds like you.”

I raise my head up. “Do I have to pay for this analysis? Come on, I’m not that bad. I’m just busy. I have a great home, good income. No dirty socks or underwear to pick up.”

“Picking up dirty socks and underwear gives you humility, a fine attribute and a valuable tool for personal growth, I find. Besides, men can learn to pick up socks if you’re patient with them.”

“You could always place a personal ad for me, if you’re that intent on getting me coupled,” I say, smiling at her. “What makes you think Joe’s the right guy?”

Her voice drops to a more serious note. “Because you were happy when you were dating Joe. You were content in a way that I haven’t seen you since. Because Joe’s the one that makes you blush.”

“He’s too good a friend, Lori. He doesn’t feel like a lover anymore. I don’t know how better to explain it.” I’ve said the same to myself over and over. There should be no catch in my throat, no jump in my pulse. I run my finger over the delicate chain suspending the sapphire, then lock my hands back around my knees.

“Your lover should be your best friend, Marie. Love can be a choice as much as an accident.”

“That doesn’t exactly ring of passionate romance, you know.”

“The choice is everything that comes after the passionate romance. It’s the durable part—the part they never follow up on in movies. And for somebody who’s as into control as you are, it might turn out to be the best part.”

“Thanks.”

“Well, you are, Marie. I mean, God knows I want my doctor to be in control. But love isn’t a career. It isn’t a degree you earn or a formula you pull out of a textbook. It’s bumpy and blotched and painful and completely irreplaceable. Aren’t there times when it might be better to let go? Sometimes the best part of life grows out of what you have no say over.”

I reach over to hold her hand and whisper, “If I let go now, Lori, I will become completely unable to function.”

She clasps my hand in hers. “Well, what better point in life to be with people who care about you?” She hugs me then, holds me close and tight before she stands up. “I love you, Marie. I’ve missed you. Let me know if there’s anything you need, and sleep as late as you want.” She closes the bedroom door behind her and a faint puff of air flutters the pink taffeta canopy like the wave of a fairy’s wand. I run my tongue over my lips and taste quiet tears.

Beyond the walls of Lia’s bedroom the shudder of sneakers on stair treads, the rush of bathwater and muted singsong of bedtime stories at last diminish and settle into sleep. Half a continent away, Joe is probably home from the hospital. I imagine him sprawled on his sofa with Chet Baker and a cold beer, hair tumbled and sweaty after biking up the steep hillside of Queen Anne. Or sleeping already, his arms wrapped tight around an oversized pillow the way he does, the sheet tangled at his feet. I wonder if he has called me yet. I wonder if he has missed me. I wonder if he even knows I have gone.

My eyes open at dawn.
I’m too programmed to the early hours of my profession to sleep in. Or perhaps it is my ex-profession. For the fourth time since my plane landed I check my cell phone for messages, turning it off and on to be sure it’s working. In the hushed corner of Lori’s sleeping household, enshrouded in Lia’s princess bed, I dial my own number and whisper, “What has happened to you?” then play it back to myself as if I might hear the answer instead of the question. Trying to forget that it is only 4:00
AM
in Seattle, I pull on running shorts and shoes and hope to pound the catcalls of my conscience into silence. Besides, this early, perhaps I can tolerate the heat.

By the time I return Gordon has trundled off to the office and both of my nieces and my nephew are gathered together, hypnotized at the breakfast table watching TV. “Well, hey, guys. How’s the clan this morning?” Neil breaks into a huge grin that encourages me, until I realize it is directed at the cartoon action hero flying across the television screen.

“Neil.
Neil!
Your aunt Marie is here. Say hello to her, please,” says Lori, clad in a stained bathrobe that testifies to years of maternal duty rife with bodily fluids. Tugging against the mesmerizing force of the flickering light, Neil’s head pulls toward me until I occupy enough of his visual field to steal his focus. Then he leaps off the stool and throws himself around my neck.

“Aunt Marie. Did you bring me anything?”

“Neil!” says his mother. “Maybe you want to tell Aunt Marie about the sleepover. Or she might be able to help you put your bike back together.” I catch her hopeful suggestion that I might rescue her garage floor.

“I fix people, not bikes. Hey, you’ve grown two skinned knees since I saw you last. So you were at a sleepover last night?”

“Yep. Tyler’s. Oh, Mom, Tyler’s got this swimming pool in his backyard and he got this mechanical shark for his birthday that swims around the pool trying to eat you. It was so cool. Can we get a swimming pool?”

“Not today, honey,” Lori says distractedly, sorting piles of mail and magazines with a cup of coffee balanced in one hand and the telephone crooked against her shoulder. She drops the phone below her chin and whispers to me, “Sorry, I’ll be off in a minute. School auction stuff…. Two hundred and fifty, set up in tables of ten…. There’s juice, Marie…. No, I never told you one hundred…. Neil, feed your dog and get some clothes on…. If you’ll send me your menu, as I requested two weeks ago…Neil,
now!
…I’ve already given you my address.” Her chin dodges up and down over the mouthpiece as she targets us each in turn.

Hanging up, she says, “Oh God, it’s not even eight o’clock and I’m already worn out. Sit down, I’m making a fresh pot of coffee.”

I pull out a chair at the breakfast table, still slick with sweat from my run. Lia scrambles down from a high stool at the counter headed for my lap and knocks her plastic cereal bowl to the floor in a waterfall of milk and puffed rice. Lori slumps against the sink. “Lia, I’ve asked you not to leave your bowl so close to the edge of the table. Let Bella inside—I guess you don’t have to feed her now, Neil.”

Elsa appears in shorts and a T-shirt. She kisses my cheek and waggles a hand at Lori. “Bye, Mom.”

“Bye? Where are you going? You know you’re babysitting this afternoon.”

“I’m going over to a friend’s.”

“What friend’s?”

“Sierra’s.”

“Not wearing that, you’re not.”

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” Her voice climbs ever higher.

“Your shorts are shorter than your underwear. Have you looked at yourself in the mirror from the back?” Lori turns Elsa around by her shoulders and pushes her ahead of herself out of the kitchen. Elsa’s pleas spill into tears before they are across the living room. Lia and Neil slip off their stools at Elsa’s first wail and escape to the swing set in the backyard. I finish making the coffee and pour a cup for Lori when I hear her return.

“Welcome to my life. I’d hoped we could spare you for a few more days before you had to see the truth,” she says, taking the cup. She wipes a splatter of milk off the chair before sitting next to me.

“Would it help if I went to talk to her?” I ask.

“Oh, don’t bother right now. She’s furious but she’s changing clothes.” She holds her coffee cup wrapped between her hands, elbows propped on the kitchen table, and stares out the window at her younger children. Neil spins Lia’s swing until her hair whirls straight out from her small face; the dog yaps at his feet.
“Families,”
she says to herself, shaking her head, as if the word both asks and answers all the riddles in her life.

She looks back at me, appearing to measure my mood. “Dad called the other morning, before you got here.”

I sit up straighter in my chair. “Did you tell him I was coming to Texas?”

“No.” She raises her eyebrows emphatically. “No, I didn’t tell him. I figured you might not want him to know yet.”

I’m almost embarrassed by my relief. “Thanks. I’m not sure I’ll be able to get down to Houston this trip, so I didn’t call him.”

“Lia did.”

“Lia did what?” I ask.

She squints her eyes like she’s bracing herself. “Lia told him you were coming. She picked up the phone before I got there.”

I slump back into my chair and look up at the ceiling. Lori gives me a minute to adjust before she adds, “He’d like to see you, Marie.”

“Did he actually say that to you?”

“No. But I know he would.” She puts her cup down and leans closer. “You could fly down for a couple of days while you’re here.” We’re both quiet for a minute; Lia’s laughter outdoors is the only sound in the kitchen, bouncing like an echo as she twirls around. “When was the last time you saw him?” Lori asks at last.

“It’s been a long time.”

“How long?”

“Three years.” I see her bite her lip to keep from reacting to this fact. “I know. I know I need to go.”

“He’s aged a lot in this last year, Marie. We flew down a couple of months ago—Gordon had a meeting there in May and I went down for the day. I couldn’t believe how much he’d changed since my last visit. He just seems to have run out of energy, like he’s giving up. I think part of it is that he’s convinced he’ll be totally blind soon.”

“Most people with macular degeneration don’t ever go totally blind.”

“I know that. You told me that. So I told
him
that. He wouldn’t even let me finish the sentence. How do you get out of bed in the morning when you can’t even hope that today might be better than yesterday? He’s going to fall soon if he stays in that house alone. Fall and break his hip, or hit his head—if he doesn’t burn the place down first.”

I shift uncomfortably in my chair, staring out the window at the children clambering across the top beam of the swing set, the morning sun cutting sharp shadows across the grass. “Maybe that’s his own choice. Maybe he’d rather have that happen than give up his independence and let other people take care of him. Do we have the right to ask him to move?”

Lori doesn’t answer immediately. I turn to face her, waiting. “I don’t know,” she finally offers after the silence has become almost awkward. “Maybe he’s not the one who’s struggling with that question.” As soon as she sees my face fall, she says, “I’m sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just that…” She hesitates. “It’s just that before long you’re not going to have the option to make things better between you.”

I swallow back the mix of anger and fear welling up. A string of defiant words comes into my mind but I know they’re not really meant for her. “I can’t.” I shake my head. “It’s been so long since I’ve had a genuine conversation with him I get knots in my stomach thinking of going there. And besides, I don’t know how long I can be away from Seattle.”

Lori absorbs this without comment, though I see her mouth tighten for an instant. “I’m not trying to push you,” she says. “I’d rather have you here with us. But, especially given that he won’t tell me anything about what his doctors say, your input could make a difference. To me, anyway. And to him. He might actually listen to you about his health.” She lets all this sink in for a minute, and then optimistically tacks on, “It’s a short flight from here. Planes leave every hour.”

I drop my neck back on the hard rail of the chair and stare up at the light fixture, where a mosquito is strangling in a filmy spider’s web. “Oh God, Lori. I’ll think about it.”

“Thanks, Marie. I wouldn’t pressure you if I weren’t concerned about how much time he’s got.”

I lift my head and look at her. “Are you that worried?”

She nods her head, but any words are aborted as the screen door crashes open. Neil bangs into the kitchen dragging a plastic garbage can. “Mom, where can I find another can like this?”

“Neil, that thing is foul. Why are you bringing it into the house?”

“If I get another one, I can put them together, like this, see?” He joins his cupped fingers in a cage before his face. “It’d make a cool submarine.”

“I guess that does kind of look like a submarine. Look in the garage. But wash it out—with soap—before you climb into it.”

“And if I had a big pipe I could make that into a periscope. Can I get some duct tape?”

Lori opens a drawer crammed with coupons and screwdrivers and fishing line and jimmies out a wide roll of gray tape. “Here. Put it back when you’re done.” She brings the coffeepot to the table and pours more into each of our cups, ignoring the black streaks that trail the garbage can as Neil bumps back across the floor and out into the yard.

A minute later she jumps back out of her chair, black coffee sloshing over the table. “Neil. Neil, get back in here.”

He stomps up the porch steps to the door and presses his face into the wire mesh. “What?”

“What are you planning to do with this submarine?”

“Play in it,” he says, incredulous at the unimaginative density of grown-ups.

“Are you intending to play submarine in Tyler’s swimming pool?”

“Well, yeah.”

Lori whips open the door and pulls Neil in, plunks him into the chair facing her. “Neil.” She leans across her knees so her face is inches from her son’s. “Promise me. You will
not
make a submarine out of garbage cans and climb into it in Tyler’s pool.”

“But, Mom…”

“Promise me! Look me in the eye and promise me. Honey, if you go under the water inside those cans, you might not be able to get back up. Every year kids die from games like that.”

“No, it’s OK. It’s going to have a trapdoor on it, Mom.”

“Neil.” She holds her wristwatch up in front of his eyes. “Take a deep breath. Now hold it as long as you can. Keep holding it. Keep holding it. Look at the second hand on my watch and keep holding it…” Neil’s face, puffed out like a blowfish, grows pink, then red, and finally explodes in a spray of spit and air.

“That’s how long you have to get two stuck-together garbage cans apart before you die in Tyler’s pool. Get it? Now put the garbage can back behind the garage.”