Read The Unfinished Work of Elizabeth D Online
Authors: Nichole Bernier
The Unfinished Work of Elizabeth D (19 page)
In that instant, the vision of her life rearranged itself as effortlessly as cellular division, their togetherness expanding in the crevices of her free time, his belongings reproducing in the small space of her apartment. Unlike Elizabeth, she hadn’t automatically equated marriage with children or debt or suburbs, but even if she had, those things would not have been unwelcome. She hadn’t thought beyond the two of them together, living together, planning and saving together—all things she trusted would happen, one step at a time.
Chris ate large spoonfuls of the yogurt and blueberries, staring unfocused across the room, his thoughts on hotels half a world away. She itched to open the notebook, but of course it would be rude.
“I thought the kids might like a jeep tour this afternoon,” she said.
He looked at her like a man awoken from sleepwalking. He had no idea what she was talking about.
“Off-roading on the peninsula,” she said. “They loved that last year.”
He nodded. She could see him doing the math, the number of hours he’d need to get his work done in order to go, the constant tallying of how much of a time commitment was absolutely necessary and what could be reduced in small pinches. He wanted to
come. But his time here was not really his own. This is the way their arrangement worked, and there were sacrifices.
“Or we can save it for another day, if another day would be better,” she said. She didn’t want to go without him. It was more fun when he was around, and it was also easier. That was the economics of parenting; together, each could relax his or her vigilance by half. What happened when there was only one parent? she wondered. Did Dave Martin have to operate at 100 percent all of the time? Did he ever feel entirely at rest?
“No, let’s do it today. In the afternoon,” Chris said, and walked back into the bedroom, where his laptop and briefcase were waiting.
January 1, 1994
Dave’s coach threw a blowout bash in Hilton Head, and we flew down for it. Big golf world muckety-mucks, including a Titleist exec who thinks Dave should give up the tour and come work for them. Gear manufacturing, testing, promotions, whatever. Both of us had too much to drink and when we were by ourselves in a corner of the room, I told him it was not a bad early-retirement option. He laughed, but it was bitter. You been talking to my father?
Soon afterward he was jovial Dave again, working the room and getting a woman from Cartier to talk seriously about sponsoring him. I was on my own for a while and found a spot near the bar and talked with another player’s wife. She was pretty in the typical photographed-alongside-the-putting-green way, long blond hair, but an edge—a triple ear pierce and irreverent about golf. They have a toddler, and she’s pressing her husband to leave the tour because he’s never home. But she doesn’t want to nag because, as they say, a drag at home drags down the playing. “Game face, right?” she said. “We all have to do game face.” Then she said with a sly smile, “Come on, let’s go outside.”
Before I could respond, I looked across the room and saw Dave watching me, wholesome Dave Martin. ELIZABETH DEEEE, he called out, like a pronouncement or a crowd introduction at a sporting event.
I knew then that it’s not true anymore that my choices are open.
Unless you want to breach every expectation, live life with no boundaries or limitations. There are repercussions.…
Choices, repercussions. Kate got up and poured herself a cup of the coffee Chris had made, stood in the kitchen, stirring. It was a strange way to think of dating—a limiting of your options and lifestyle because you’d chosen one type of partner over another—though it was technically true. It was true of most decisions. The effects of your choices might not be clear at the moment they were made. But if you turned back to see where you’d come, there they’d be, the ghost of the path not taken leading to the places you would never go.
Piper wandered into the room asking for pancakes, vacant eyes suggesting she was still half in her dreams. She curled up on the couch fingering her blanket, feet curled beneath Kate’s left thigh. The cold toes made Kate shiver, but she pulled her daughter’s feet in closer and rubbed them to warmth. It became automatic so quickly, that impulse to do things to ensure your child’s comfort, even as it sacrificed your own.
Kate stretched out alongside her, scooping her in close with an arm around her waist. Piper’s hair smelled of verbena shampoo, though Kate always told her she smelled like pennies and carrots, since her hair was the same pale coppery shade as Chris’s. Kate reached to lay the notebook on the floor, but before she closed it, she read the last few lines of the entry.
… At 11:59, Dave found his way back to me. Happy New Year, Miz Drogan, he said. There was general mayhem as the ball dropped on TV, and everyone sloshed champagne around like we’d won the Super Bowl. He kissed me long and hard, then pulled back like he was sizing me up. In a heavy mock-Georgia voice he said, I think this is gonna be a big year for the last name Drogan. It’s a-goin’ DOWN
.
On the children’s last day of farm camp, Kate came back to the house after swimming to read on the patio. She poured a glass of iced tea and put it opposite the notebook, as if she were having a drink with a friend. The pages representing the early months of 1994 flew by. Elizabeth’s subtle resistance to Dave melted. The glass of iced tea warmed in the sun, forgotten.
In March, Elizabeth and Dave traveled to Georgia for his father’s sixty-fifth birthday. The Martins’ huge Greek Revival home was unlike any she’d seen, plantationlike on acres of oak and magnolia trees. The family’s camaraderie was similarly impressive and overwhelming, Dave’s brothers so exuberant that sometimes she’d slip away to the bathroom to sit quietly alone. His parents could not have been more unlike her own.
His father runs the show and has to have the last word on everything, as one Scotch turns into four. On his birthday he was giving Dave the business about failing to make the cut in Hawaii, and kept at it long after it stopped being funny. Dave’s mother is the most tranquil, agreeable person I’ve ever seen. She seems medicated
.
There were pictures of Dave’s sister, Dani, everywhere in the house, beautiful, frozen in time at thirty-one. Her widower, Zack, was there with the two children, and around them, Dave was the uncle everyone wishes they had: fun, patient, indulgent.
He spoils them rotten
. Family members shared stories about Dani as naturally as if she were someone who simply happened not to be visiting that day. But not Dave. He never mentioned her, and when someone else did, he left the room.
Odd, Kate thought, that he would put up such a firewall against discussing her even with Elizabeth, who had lost a sister herself, as well as her mother.
Friday, March 18, 1994
Earlier tonight sitting alone with Dave on the porch I mentioned how nice it is that everyone keeps their memories of Dani going with so many stories, and that it’s probably good for the kids, too. We were on the porch swing and Dave was rocking it back and forth a little, heel
to toe. The setting sun sank a good three inches behind the azalea bushes before he said anything.
Yep, I suppose, especially for the kids.
I knew I was going out on a limb but I gave it a try anyway, and asked if being back home made him miss her more. We both stared ahead at the sky as if the sunset were the most fascinating thing in the world, and after what felt like hours he said, Nothing makes me miss her more or less. I just plain do.
I thought about saying I had a sister too, but it felt all wrong. Not just because I’d be horning in on his grief, but because I can see his look: You’re telling me this now? …
Kate reread the last sentences once, then again. Elizabeth had never told him.
… I never have been able to think of the words to tell about what happened to her, can’t imagine saying it out loud. When you ride ahead of someone who’s barely eight, what happens behind you is still your fault. Especially if you’re being careless, and unforgivably if you were trying to get ahead because you didn’t feel like being followed, didn’t feel like being responsible for someone else. It screams out that such a person can’t be trusted around children
.
Sunday, March 20, 1994
We’re leaving tomorrow morning, and I’ve enjoyed it more than I thought I would. Big families take on a life of their own, pull you in like a commune.
I had a curious talk with Zack last night while we were doing the dishes. He’s quieter than the brothers, and I get the feeling he likes to step away sometimes too. He was asking how Dave and I met and how long we’ve been together, and when I told him about a year and a half he said, That’s good. It was odd the way he said it. Not, That’s good, as in, That’s nice, but as in, That’s good for him.
I didn’t know what to say to that and we were quiet a minute. I was
going to ask about how the kids were doing when he said, It’s nice that you guys are together. Dave seems happier than I’ve seen him in a long time.
I asked about Dave and Dani when they were younger, because he doesn’t seem to mind talking about her. He said they were practically like twins, that after college she spent time traveling with Dave on the mini tours. Then he said something strange—that he was glad to see Dave sticking with the tour. After a little silence he said it had started to seem like Dave wasn’t sticking with anything, like he was bailing on things before they could bail on him. He said he didn’t mean that as a knock on Dave, but it was like instead of making things seem more precious to him, losing Dani made things more expendable. He said, I’m glad to see that’s not the case anymore.
Unfair as it is, I couldn’t help thinking of Bertha
.
Back in New York, their dating life was happy and uneventful for months. Elizabeth traveled to some of his tournaments, and any weekends he wasn’t traveling they spent together.
One day, Elizabeth received a phone call at work following a routine visit with her gynecologist.
Friday, June 10, 1994
The results from my annual appointment were abnormal. Bad cells. Cervical dysplasia. The doctor told me to come back in on Monday and we’d discuss treatment options, though none might be needed. Sometimes it disappears on its own.
I called Dave, caught him back at his apartment after the second day of the Buick Classic just over in Westchester. He made the cut and was headed out to dinner with a few of the guys. I probably should have waited to tell him until he got in later but I was feeling shaky and didn’t want to keep it to myself. He’s usually good at making me feel better, pointing out the upsides to things. But when I told him he didn’t say a word.
I tried to do the glass-half-full talk: it’s totally treatable, sometimes
it doesn’t even need anything, just goes away on its own, it’s probably not a big deal. But he still didn’t say anything. Finally he offered me some vague reassurances and asked if he could call me later. It’s been three hours, and I haven’t heard back yet
.
Sunday, June 12, 1994
He still hasn’t called. I can’t think of a single excusable reason why.
T
HREE KINDS OF LETTUCE
, two kinds of tomatoes. Zucchini, cucumbers, herbs. The owners of the bungalow cultivated a garden in the side yard and, as a condition of renting the house to Kate and Chris for the summer, asked them to water and weed. Kate had never been much of a gardener but was surprised by how satisfying she found the work. Though she would not be on the island when the tomatoes matured, she enjoyed watching the tiny buds open on the Sweet 100s, and seeing the heirlooms grow bulbous and obscene until the vines bowed under the weight of their own success. While she pruned, James and Piper wandered into the neighbors’ yard. Mrs. Callum usually offered something good to eat.
Before Kate met Chris in New York, she shared a tiny apartment on West Seventy-Second, the envy of her friends not just for its low rent-controlled price or its full-sized kitchen appliances, unheard of in a small walk-up, but for its fire escape. The postage-stamp-sized landing was exactly large enough for one folding chair and a coffee cup, and from the rusty iron railings she grew mesclun and herbs haphazardly in three hanging window boxes. Whatever grew made its way to her salads, and the herbs to bread.
Elizabeth had been the better gardener. The evidence had been all over her kitchen; flowers on the table, season permitting, bunches
of basil tied with string in a glass on the windowsill. This domestic piece had fit naturally into the spectrum of her homemaking, all of which had seemed to come so naturally.
Kate pulled one scraggly weed after another. But less and less was as it seemed with Elizabeth. Kate hadn’t known that Elizabeth had had cervical dysplasia; Kate’s sister, Rachel, had once had it as well. There had been several white-knuckle days until tests showed it had not progressed to cancer, several phone conversations in which Kate had struggled to strike a new note, one of authoritative comfort from a younger sister. How far had Elizabeth’s dysplasia gone, Kate wondered, and how had Dave redeemed himself after being so absent? Kate yanked a weed with more force than necessary, and tore out an entire small stand of lettuce.
