The Scenic Route (22 page)

P
enelope hadn't slept in three days.

She had lain down. She had closed her eyes. But she hadn't slept. Not really. Sometimes she thought she might never sleep again. She couldn't go through this. Not again. She barely got through it the first time. But she was thinking negatively. This was not the same thing. Mandy was going to make it.

Mandy was actually lucky. She could have discovered the aneurysm after she was in the Congo. Or she might not have discovered it at all. So she was lucky. Very lucky. Penelope kept repeating this to herself, in the hope she would start to believe it.

She needed to believe it. She needed to pull herself together. With Larry, she wasn't prepared. She was too young. She was only thirty-four. She was younger than Mandy. How was that possible? She was a different person then. A more foolish person. A person who still believed in free love and socialism. Yet a person who thought agreeing to live in a fancy beach town meant she was somehow protected from . . . from the things that happen to the people who don't have such options. It wasn't that she expected not to have problems. She
just expected to have bourgeois problems. And compared to people in the Congo, she did.

Now she was older and less foolish. But she also had less stamina. Thank God for Austin. He had the stamina for both of them. The stamina to put up a brave front. He was there by Mandy's side, as he had been almost nonstop, while Penelope hung farther back, afraid Mandy would read the fear in her face. But Austin joked with Mandy. He teased her and rallied her. He helped her pretend everything was normal and fine, when neither could be further from the truth. Penelope didn't know what she would have done without him. He was still her little soldier. But he wasn't so little anymore.

She was worried about him. He seemed so sad, and not just now in the hospital. He'd been sad for some time. Even with Dallas and Coal. He just hid it better then. Both of her children were sad. Had she passed that on to them? It didn't seem possible, but she knew it was very much possible. She didn't spend six years getting two degrees in psychology and get nothing out of it. She had planned to do clinical work once the kids were grown. But she lost faith. Psychology was a religion in many ways, and Penelope had become agnostic.

But that was the easy out. The truth was there were many things she could have done with her degrees instead of remaining at a dead-end civil service job. There were few occupations more disheartening than being a human resources manager in the city of Detroit, where human resources sometimes seemed the only resources remaining. There were growing rumors about an emergency manager being brought in to run the city. There were also rumors of layoffs and pension reductions for all municipal employees. Penelope had no energy for rumors. And no illusions about happy endings. But she wasn't giving up on Detroit. If the city was a shadow of its former self, well, so was she, and she had somehow survived all the same.

Mandy was opening her eyes. She had been going in and out. Penelope knew it was mostly the drugs they had her on, making her sleepy. But every time Mandy closed her eyes, Penelope feared . . . No, what mattered was that Mandy opened her eyes.

“How you doing, champ?” Austin asked.

“I feel like crap,” she said hoarsely.

“Well, you look like crap, if that's any consolation.”

“Thanks a lot.” She was speaking slowly, as if the words were coming from a great distance.

“Are you still feeling woozy?”

“A little.”

“They have you on blood pressure medication.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“Yes, it's a good thing.”

Penelope didn't think it was a good thing. Nothing about this was a good thing. Mandy had survived the surgery. But the doctors kept saying things like “her age will work in her favor,” which was very different from saying she was going to be okay.

Mandy had closed her eyes again.

“You still with us, champ?” Austin asked, wiping a wet cloth across her forehead. Penelope should be doing that. Why wasn't she doing that?

“I'm not going anywhere,” Mandy said without opening her eyes.

“That's good.” Austin smoothed her hair. Her crazy-colored hair. Even crazier now with half of it shaved off. What had she done to herself? She used to have such beautiful hair. Penelope used to brush it out when Mandy was a child, and it was like a red halo around her head.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Evolution.”

“Evolution?”

She took a deep breath and made a soft guttural sound as she exhaled. “I was thinking that if evolution is random, what chance do we have on a day-to-day basis?”

“Ow,” Austin said. “You're hurting my head. Don't you want to talk about something less taxing, like who George Clooney is dating?”

“What happened in New York? Did you see Naomi?”

Who was Naomi? Penelope's children had lives she knew nothing about. They lived so close to her, and they remained so far away. She had friends whose children couldn't get far enough away from them, who knew more about what their children were doing.

“I said something
less
taxing.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“Why do you think I went to New York?”

Penelope thought he'd gone to New York for a job interview. That's what he'd told her. And to see his friend Stu. She thought he'd said Stu. But Stu lived in California. Or he used to. Or she was confused. She definitely was confused. Her brain was so tired she could almost hear the neurons firing in slow motion.

“That doesn't answer the question,” Mandy said.

“Love is complicated.”

“Don't plan a second career as a poet.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

Mandy was silent a few seconds. Then she said, “You're getting old.”

“Hey! No hitting in a hospital.”

“I wasn't hitting; I was scratching.”

They sounded like children again. Penelope wished they were children again. She wished they were all together in their Ford station wagon traveling to see Grandpa Joe in Phoenix. They used to torment her and Larry with their endless squabbling. She wished she could go back.

“But it's true, you know,” Mandy said. “You're in your late thirties.”

“Thirty-seven is not late thirties. And I think we should go back to discussing evolution.”

“You're getting too old to be young and careless.”

“That's okay,” Austin said. “I was never good at being young and careless.”

“No,” she said, “you weren't.”

This time it was Austin who was silent for a moment. “It's hard, Mandy.”

“Being thirty-seven?”

“No. Yes. That's hard too. Love is hard.”

“Love takes practice,” she said, speaking even slower than before. “Like anything else. The idea of love is ludicrous. What could be less natural than love? What could be less natural than putting someone else's well-being before your own? It goes against every evolutionary instinct.”

Penelope thought about that. Austin seemed to be thinking about it as well. She wanted to tell Mandy that she was right. Love
does
take practice. And you still get it wrong. And even when you get it right, sometimes it vanishes on a beautiful spring day. No, she didn't want to say that. But she realized it was too late. She had already said it too many times.

“So I guess we're back to talking about evolution,” he said.

“I guess we are,” Mandy agreed. Then she closed her eyes again.

“What did the doctor say?” Penelope asked. She was standing with Austin in the small waiting room, after purchasing the vending machine's last Junior Mints. She'd been popping them like, well, like candy.

“You heard him,” Austin said.

“But I don't understand him.”

“What don't you understand? He's talking in English, and you supposedly have two science degrees.”

He was losing patience with her. It was like all the patience he had with Mandy used up his supply, and there was nothing left for her.

“It's not the same thing,” she said, “and you know it. You're a doctor, and you know what these words mean.”

“He said she's doing fine.”

“And?”

Austin took a paper cup from the water cooler's dispenser. “And they're concerned about rebleeding.”

Penelope knew what that meant. She had read enough about aneurysms in the last two days to know that rebleeding meant a stroke or death. “Well, what can we do?” she asked.

“There's nothing we can do but wait and see,” he said, filling his cup.

“There must be something.”

“Well, there isn't.” Austin sounded so remote. He needed to stop being annoyed with her and think about his sister. He was a doctor. There was always some new drug or treatment they were testing. He should be able to find out about these things.

“There has to be something that we can do. Someplace we can contact. We can't just sit on our hands and hope for the best.”

“Oh, now you want to do something?” he muttered.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means you had your chance to do something.”

“What are you talking about? I didn't know she had an aneurysm. How would I possibly know she had an aneurysm?”

“I'm not talking about the aneurysm.” Austin threw his cup away. Water sloshed across the waste can as he headed for the door of the waiting room.

“Then what you are talking about?” Penelope called after him. “Come back here. Austin!”

He pivoted around. His face was red, and his eyes were squinched. She hadn't seen him look that way since he was a young child. Usually it was the expression on his face when it was time to leave the swimming pool on a day he hadn't taken a nap.

“You want to know what I'm talking about?” he said, his voice rising in pitch. “What do you think I'm talking about?”

“Austin,” she said, wanting to soothe him. “I have no idea.”

“I'm talking about Daddy.”

“Daddy?” Now she was even more confused. “What does your father have to do with—”

“You had a chance to do something. And you did nothing.”

Did nothing? Was he losing his mind? “I raced to the hospital like a madwoman. I pounded on desks and begged doctors to help him. I was beside myself. But there was nothing they could do. There was nothing I could do.”

“And what about before that?”

“There was no before that. It was an accident.”

“I don't think so.”

The stress of dealing with Mandy must have gotten to Austin. Penelope couldn't believe he had forgotten what happened to his father. “It was a surfing accident, Austin.”

“I don't see how it was an accident,” Austin said with a cold voice. “He wasn't accidentally surfing.”

“Austin—”

“He chose to go surfing.”

“He didn't choose to be hit in the head with a—”

“He gambled and he lost. He gambled with his life. And he gambled with our lives. He was a man with two small children, and he chose surfing over us.”

“You can't believe that.” But she could tell by the look on Austin's face that he did. “Your father didn't even know how to surf.”

“That part's pretty obvious.”

“He didn't grow up by the beach, like you did. He worked in his father's appliance shop from the time he was twelve.” Austin didn't understand. She needed to make him understand. “You were already ten years old—”

“I know exactly how old I was.”

“Your friends were starting to take surfing lessons. And you were afraid to. He didn't want you to be afraid of . . . He didn't want you to be afraid of anything. He was taking lessons so he could teach you.”

“Bullshit!”

“It's the truth.” But how could she expect it to make sense to Austin, after all these years, when it barely made sense to her at the time?

“I didn't need to surf.”

“That's what I told him—”

“I needed a father.”

“But he was a stubborn man—”

“You should have stopped him.”

“And he would have done anything for you.”

“YOU COULD HAVE STOPPED HIM!”

“I couldn't even stop Mandy from going to the Congo! How do you think I could stop your father?”

That seemed to register. But only for a moment.

“It's your fault,” he said. “Everything that's happened to Mandy and me our entire lives is
your
fault. And I wish it was you in that hospital bed instead of her!”

It was no longer her son's pained voice that Penelope heard, but the one that raged in the middle of the night, shredding her dreams.

“So do I.”

A
ustin was uncomfortable sitting in a patient's chair.

It didn't help that the chair wasn't particularly comfortable. It was a big, heavily stuffed chair, but there was no give to it. When he sat back in it, he felt encased by it. But when he sat forward, he felt it made him seem nervous. He didn't want to seem nervous.

He had thought therapists still used couches, where patients lay down. Maybe some did. Actually, in his mind, he was picturing a tufted divan. He must have seen that in a film. Someone lying with one arm flung across his face, shielding his eyes from the glare of the doctor's truth. Or something like that. Lying down would definitely be more comfortable. But probably also more vulnerable.

Hope Cassidy had recommended the therapist, saying it was some- one she had worked with at St. Vincent's. Austin and Hope had met for coffee a couple of times since he'd moved to New York. She said he reminded her of a good friend of hers. He took that as a bad sign for any romantic future. But he wasn't looking for romance at the moment, just a friend. A shoulder. Hope was actually pretty good in the shoulder department. But she had suggested he also try a professional. So he was
trying. Or was about to start trying. He was still waiting for Dr. Obatola to arrive. The receptionist in the hospital waiting room said he was running a little late, and she deeply apologized. She had invited him into Dr. Obatola's office because she said it was more comfortable than the antiseptic waiting room. She didn't know Austin had been in far worse waiting rooms. And “comfort” was a subjective kind of thing.

What wasn't comforting were the well-intended sympathy cards and phone calls. It was exhausting having the conversations. And it was a weird circular logic that people felt obligated to call to make him feel better, and he felt obligated to talk to them to make them feel better. But the awkward and pause-ridden conversations didn't really make anyone feel better. And he felt the people who designed sympathy cards should be shot.

Why do they think that someone in mourning would enjoy looking at gloomy pictures of wilting flowers and barren trees? There was only one card he'd received that he liked. It was a picture of a footpath on a sandy dune, leading past a ramshackle wooden fence to a patch of shoreline. Austin liked the idea of Mandy being on a path to finally getting over her fear of the water. He kind of hoped that heaven was a tranquil sea in which Mandy was splashing lazily in serene circles. Austin didn't really believe in heaven as a place. But he did when he looked at that one card.

“I'm so sorry I'm late,” Dr. Obatola said, coming in and shaking Austin's hand. He was a dark-skinned man in a white lab coat. He looked somewhat familiar, but Austin found everyone in New York looked more familiar than they should, given that he had just moved there. His brain had been so overloaded the last month, it was hard to know what was real and what was imaginary.

“I promise it won't happen again,” Dr. Obatola said. He had a soft British accent that Austin hadn't picked up on at first. Austin didn't
know what he felt about a therapist with a British accent. He kind of bought into the stereotype of Brits being stuffy. But Dr. Obatola seemed friendly, and he obviously wasn't tracing his lineage back to the Magna Carta. “I understand you know Dr. Cassidy,” Dr. Obatola said.

“Yes,” Austin replied.

“We worked together,” Dr. Obatola said.

“She told me.” Austin wondered if perhaps they had done more than work together. Dr. Obatola was a handsome guy, and Austin didn't see a wedding ring on his hand. Even though Austin wasn't dating Hope, he wasn't sure he felt comfortable seeing a therapist who had. Or maybe still was. Maybe Austin still wasn't comfortable with this whole therapy thing.

“You are also a doctor?” Dr. Obatola asked.

“Ophthalmologist.”

“Then you know just how crazy things are getting. I've only been at St. Luke's a year. I worked at two hospitals that went bankrupt.” Austin was under the impression that therapy was supposed to be about him. He wondered if he was going to be charged for this part of the conversation. “I don't know if Obamacare will make it better or worse. But a lot of doctors in New York are no longer taking insurance. Concierge service, they call it. Like a private club.”

“A private
health
club,” Austin said.

“Yes.” Dr. Obatola smiled in a way that suggested they were having a “bonding” moment. But Austin didn't feel “bonded.” He felt completely adrift. “In your message, you spoke about your sister. Do you want to talk about her?”

Austin realized that he didn't. He didn't want to tell this stranger about Mandy's life. About her death. This man couldn't understand who Mandy was. It made a mockery of what had happened to her. And what had happened to him.

“I'm not sure about this,” Penelope said.

Austin and Penelope were standing along the narrow stretch of beach on Belle Isle. There were children near them running back and forth into the gently lapping water.

“Do you want to wait in the car?” Austin asked.

Penelope shook her head. “I made it this far,” she said, burrowing a foot in the sand. “Did you ever bring Mandy here?”

There was a squeal of laughter as the children started splashing one another. “Are you seriously asking me that?”

She shook her head again and softly laughed. “No.” She took a Kleenex out of her purse and dabbed at her eye.

Austin gazed out across the Detroit River at the downtown skyline. Towering Oz-like over the city were the gleaming cylindrical skyscrapers of the General Motors headquarters. Well, the new headquarters, since the old landmarked building now housed government offices, which was vaguely appropriate given the city's history.

He unzipped his backpack and took out the tin container. Penelope looked away. Inside the tin were the fluorescent red strands of hair.

“Mandy hated her hair,” Austin said to Dr. Obatola, surprising himself by the disclosure.

“Why did she hate her hair?”

“I don't know,” Austin said. “Yes, I guess I do. It wasn't the color she wanted. It wasn't as straight as she wanted. On rainy days, she looked like a redheaded Roseanne Roseannadanna, the Gilda Radner character on
Saturday Night Live
. She had this idea of who she wanted
to be, of what she wanted to be, and she fell short of it. And she couldn't get past it. Except that's not true. I think she was getting past it. I think she was finally letting go of having this preconceived idea of what her life was supposed to be like. Because it never was going to be a picture-book life. I mean, it never was for us. There were no picture-book parents watching out for us. There was barely a mother. And mostly we watched out for her. I don't know what my mother would have done without my dad's life insurance policy. If she had to earn enough money to fully support us. Or maybe that's not true. Maybe if she had to earn more money, she would have gotten a better job and she would have been happier. Maybe Mandy would have been happier. She wanted to be happier. But at some point, I think she gave up trying.”

“Until recently,” Dr. Obatola said.

“Until recently,” Austin confirmed.

“You seem to have been very close with your sister,” Dr. Obatola said. Austin wondered if there was some mp3 file or DVD with prerecorded comments for therapists to make.

“Well, yeah,” he said. “It was pretty much her and me against the world.”

“Against your mother?”

“No.”

“You said against the world.”

“The outside world.”

“So your mother was on the inside?”

“Yes. No.” Now Austin was getting confused. He thought he was a step ahead of the therapist until a question or two back. Now he was trying to catch up.

“So was the outside world where bad things happened?”

“I'm not sure if that's exactly how Mandy viewed it.”

“How did you view it?” Dr. Obatola asked. He had gone from
being nearly silent to asking way too many questions. Austin was tripping over himself, and he was losing his train of thought.

“I'm not agoraphobic or something. I don't view the outside world as a bad place, if that's what you're asking. And that's not really what I'm here for.”

“You're here for your sister.”

“Yes,” Austin said. “No. I'm here for me. To help me deal with my sister.” That was implicit. Wasn't it? “You know, you're making this seem like I'm doing something bizarre.”

“Am I?” Dr. Obatola sounded coy.

“Yes.” Austin thought the whole point of therapy was to be supported. To have someone wrap you in the psychological equivalent of a warm towel and tell you everything you were feeling was normal. Unless what you were feeling wasn't normal. “You're making it seem like no one's ever sought therapy to deal with the loss of a loved one. As if I've landed from some spaceship from another planet where people get messed up when a family member dies.” Austin was getting pissed off and was planning on telling Hope what a complete jerk this guy was. And he didn't really care if she was dating him.

“I'm so sorry,” Dr. Obatola said. But something about having a British accent made his apology sound insincere.

“Are you sorry about making me feel bad or sorry that you can't help me?”

“You don't think that I can help you?”

“No.” Austin felt he should leave. He was wasting time and money. And now that he was working at a public clinic, he didn't really have much of either. Not that he was complaining. He enjoyed working at the clinic. He was once again an employee, but he wasn't paid well enough for anyone to gripe about how much time he spent with patients. And Stu kept threatening to move in with him to help them both cut costs, but Austin wasn't clear how having a roommate
was going to help if the roommate didn't have a job. Stu had been living off his savings for almost four years, hoping to come up with the next great app, which never quite happened. The savings were pretty much gone, and he needed a job. It seemed that there was one obvious dot-com CEO to ask for help. But Stu refused. Some people insisted on making things difficult for themselves.

“Maybe I'm not the right therapist for you,” Dr. Obatola said. Austin was surprised he didn't put up more of a fight. “But maybe I can help you find the right person. Can you tell me what you're looking for?”

Austin was looking for someone with empathy for a start. He was looking for someone who understood what he was going through. “I'd like someone who had a close family member die.”

“Someone who lost a sibling?”

“Or a parent. Or both parents.”

“So I should recommend orphan therapists?”

Austin knew he sounded ridiculous. But better to sound ridiculous by his own doing than to sound ridiculous because of someone else twisting his words. “You asked what I want.”

“I did.”

“And that's what I want. I know it's irrational. But isn't everyone allowed to be irrational occasionally?”

“You think it's irrational?”

“Of course it's irrational. I'm a doctor. I know you don't need to have a patient's symptoms to treat them. But I also know what I feel.”

“What do you feel?”

It was such a simple question, but the answer felt tangled like old fishing wires with the hooks still attached waiting to prick him if he wasn't careful. “When Mandy was born, my parents didn't say they had a daughter; they told people I had a sister. They said she was my responsibility. And she was. Pretty much from that day forward. I took care of
her. Or I always tried to take care of her. But now I can't take care of her anymore. She was this sweet kid with freckles and weird hair and big brown eyes and a great laugh. And she's gone.” His eyes were watering.

“And you want me to help you get her back?” Dr. Obatola asked gently.