Thursdays At Eight (14 page)

CLARE CRAIG

March 9th

M
ost of my day was spent with Michael. Not
with
him as in the same room or even the same vicinity. But I thought about him constantly. He was back in the hospital for his second bout of chemotherapy and Alex was scheduled to pick him up at the same time as before.

Apparently Miranda can't be bothered. Her excuse is that she's building her customer base and can't be dragged away from the nail clinic without missing appointments. I can't stand the way Michael defends her!

Alex knows better than to discuss the little darling with me, although I doubt he would, anyway. He finds the subject of Michael's live-in lover as distasteful as I do.

I know it's hard for Alex to see his father this ill. It is for me, too. I can sympathize with my son; Michael's his father, after all. My own reaction is harder to understand. Why should I
care so much? But I do, especially since Michael's condition appears to be fairly serious. He's avoided my questions so far, but from what I've been able to learn, it's some form of liver cancer. Alex doesn't know any more details than I do, but this can't be good.

While we were going through the divorce, I thought I'd enjoy seeing Michael suffer, but surprisingly I don't. Twenty-three years of marriage, most of them good, two children plus a successful business we built together—we shared all that. I think this is why I can't remain unaffected by his illness. If ever I needed proof of the thin line between love and hate, here it is. The line's so thin, in fact, that sometimes it's transparent.

Michael's chemotherapy, and apparently he's being given one of the more aggressive drug combinations, takes nearly all day. He's at the hospital for almost eight hours and so weak he can barely walk when he's finished. For four consecutive days he receives the drug cocktail, then he doesn't get it again for three weeks. I don't know how many treatments he'll require, but Alex mentioned four sessions. Four months of this seems like a very long time.

Twice now, because of Alex's schedule at school and my part-time hours, I've been the one to chauffeur Michael home from the hospital. My friends in the Thursday morning group fear I shouldn't be doing this. As they pointed out, Michael does have other options that don't need to involve me. I understand their concerns and yet I still find myself volunteering.

I'm confused about my feelings for Michael right now. Love, hate. Compassion, anger. It's all there.

And apparently I'm not the only one who's confused. Michael doesn't know what to think about me, either. We talk more, but never about
her
or the divorce. The ride between the hospital and his place takes about thirty minutes, depending on
traffic. So I guess it's only natural that we talk. After all, we spent more than two decades talking to each other.

The first time, our conversation was stilted and uncomfortable. More recently Michael described the side effects of chemotherapy. The weakness and nausea, the continuing weight loss, the depression. He's losing his hair but that seems too insignificant to mention. (Although it probably bothers his girlfriend.)

I was forced to stop the second time I drove him, too. I pulled off to the side of the road and just as before, Michael stumbled out of the car and immediately vomited. Then he did the oddest thing. He reached down and touched his vomit.
Touched
it. I had to know why. Michael would never do anything like that under normal circumstances.

After he'd rinsed his mouth, he explained. It's the fire, he said. It feels as though his entire body is burning from the inside out. The reason he touched the vomit was to see if it was boiling. That's the way it felt coming up from his stomach and through his throat. Like molten lava.

I gave him a few minutes to regroup and breathe in the fresh air. He leaned against the bumper, too weak to stand upright.

I had to help him back into the car and I know he found it embarrassing. Once he was settled and we were on our way again, he casually asked about Mick. Apparently our oldest son remains unwilling to speak to his father. He knows about the cancer; I told him myself. But Mick is as stubborn and unforgiving as I am. It gives me no pleasure to write this.

Michael isn't the only one Mick isn't speaking to these days. I wonder if he knows that his sons are estranged from each other because of him. Alex and Mick haven't talked in weeks. It hurts me to see it, knowing how close they once were. The boys and I clung to one another all through the divorce, and now Mick
can't forgive his brother for reconciling with their father. He was upset with me too when he learned I'd driven Michael home from the hospital. I guess I should count my blessings that he's still speaking to me. It's probably just as well that Mick's at college and not living at home right now, much as I hate to say that.

When we reached the place Michael's renting, he told me how much he regrets what's happening between him and his sons. Even though he sees Alex every week, Michael realizes their relationship will never be what it was. And Mick, of course, won't have anything to do with him.

Michael wanted me to know how much he loves them and how sorry he is, how he'd do anything to repair the damage. He looked sad and broken as he climbed out of the car and headed toward the small, dumpy rental house.

Not until he disappeared inside did I realize something important. When he talked about his remorse over everything that's happened, my name was missing.

LIZ KENYON

March 13th

A
nnie wrote me, and her sweet, precious letter was waiting when I arrived home from work. It thrilled me to hear from my granddaughter, but I felt restless and sad for the rest of the evening. Just a few months ago she lived here in Willow Grove and we had all the time in the world to be together. I miss our tea parties and baking muffins and snuggling up together in bed.

I read the letter twice, then wandered into the bedroom. The big fancy hats and white gloves we used for our tea parties are on the top shelf of my closet, gathering dust. What fun Annie and I had as we sipped tea—hers cooled with milk—from delicate china cups, the ones I inherited from Steve's mother. We'd nibble on cookies, having silly conversations with lots of laughter. It's a memory that brings tears to my eyes.

Amy and the kids and I chat every week, but it's not the same. I miss Annie and Andrew so much. They're my only grand
children, an extension of my children, an extension of Steve and me and the wonderful years we shared.

My appetite was nil tonight, but I forced myself to eat dinner, although I didn't put any effort into cooking nor did I experience any pleasure when I sat down at the kitchen table to eat. When Steve was alive, our dinners were an occasion, always served in the dining room with good linen and china, usually accompanied by a glass of wine. I took pride in cooking. Now dinner is simply a necessity, a chore.

As soon as I finished eating and feeling sorry for myself, I wrote Annie, holding Tinkerbell in my lap, making a rash promise. I told her I'd visit her this summer. The thought lightened my mood and then on a wild impulse, I made the decision to drive from California to Oklahoma. I hate flying. I detest being cramped in a narrow seat, breathing recycled air. Invariably I'm stuck with an inconsiderate jerk who rams the back of his seat into my nose. Why should I fly when I have the time and the desire to drive?

I can already hear Amy and Brian's objections. My children are going to remind me that it's not safe for a woman to drive a distance of that length alone. They'll want to know why I'd take the risk when air travel is so convenient. And I can almost guarantee they won't like my answer.

Over the years, Steve and I took a number of driving trips, with the kids and without them. We always enjoyed our time on the road. Like so much else in my marriage, I've missed that. Spending all those days in the car is far from a hardship when you're with a person you love, a person you know so well. It's a distinct pleasure and definitely my favorite way to travel. However, it's just not a possibility now; there's no one like that in my life. But I can still enjoy my vacation. With three weeks due me, I can drive leisurely, stop when I feel like it, tour where I want to and still spend plenty of time with Amy and the kids.

I don't intend to be stupid about it, but if something dreadful happens, an accident of some kind, then so be it. I refuse to live the rest of my life in fear. I enjoy driving, I miss my grandchildren and I'm heading for Tulsa.

Only I won't mention my plans to the family. Not yet. No need to stir up their concerns this early. Besides, it won't matter; I've made up my mind. First thing tomorrow morning, I'll book the time off. I feel better already, just knowing I'll be with Annie and Andrew this summer.

Karen phoned just before I got ready for bed. She asked several questions about reporting spousal abuse. It didn't take me long to figure out who she was talking about, although she didn't actually mention her sister by name.

Karen is outraged and rightly so. She wants
the son-of-a-bitch
arrested. Although I don't know why she phoned
me
to ask these questions. I guess it's because I'm older and supposed to be wiser. And maybe she figures that I know about domestic crime because I work in a hospital. I told her that, to the best of my knowledge, a third party can't file charges. I explained that whoever was abused had to be the one to do it.

It was fairly easy to decipher what went on, although she was careful not to break any confidences. Karen has rarely mentioned her brother-in-law and never by name. She calls him “the twit,” which appears to be a fairly accurate characterization. Reading between the lines, I listened as she explained that this
son-of-a-bitch
took a heavy hand to his wife. Just when it looked as if Karen had convinced
the wife
to file a report with the police, the twit sobered up and apologized.
The wife
has apparently forgiven him.

Karen is furious, not only with “the twit,” but with her sister. She's having a difficult time accepting Victoria's decision. Again and again she talked about the danger she felt
the wife
and her
child were in and how the
son-of-a-bitch
couldn't be trusted. I told her there was nothing more she could do without the wife's cooperation.

She didn't like hearing that any more than I liked telling her.

I will say one thing. For months now I've heard Karen complain about her sad relationship with her family. Even her word for the year has more to do with her family than with Karen herself—or so it seems to me.

At one breakfast meeting, she spoke of severing her relationship with her mother entirely. Each of us advised her not to do anything so rash, told her she'd regret it later. We all said family's too important to throw away like that. Karen took our words to heart, and I think she's glad she did. If ever her sister needed her love and support, it's now. From what Karen's said,
the wife
can't go to her parents. Karen might well be the only person Victoria can turn to.

 

It was nearly two and Liz still hadn't taken a lunch break. The way things were going, thirty minutes away from her office just wasn't feasible. Her one solution was to run down to the cafeteria and grab a sandwich to eat at her desk.

“You leaving?” Donna DeGooyer, the hospital social worker, looked stricken as she raced into Liz's office.

“What do you need?”

“Help and lots of it. I've got an adoptive couple coming to pick up a baby and an attorney who hasn't got the paperwork finalized and a young mother who's having second thoughts. The attorney and the birth mother are on their way to my office right now.”

“I was just going to get a sandwich. Do you want to come with me?”

Donna did a double-take as she looked at her watch. “It's
after two. Already? Go have lunch and I'll catch you later.” Then she was gone as quickly as she'd arrived.

Taking her wallet with her, Liz headed for the basement where the hospital cafeteria was located. The food was cheap, and for institutional fare, she found it surprisingly good. The lunch crowd had thinned considerably and the room was nearly empty. She reached for a tray, sliding it along the steel rails as she studied the remaining choices.

This late in the afternoon the selections were narrowed down to only a few. As she picked up an egg salad sandwich and a small pastry, Sean Jamison stepped next to her and slid his tray alongside hers.

“Egg salad?” He sounded skeptical. “Hmm. And a danish. High fat, empty calories. I don't recommend it.”

Ignoring him, Liz placed both items on her tray.

“You're a stubborn woman, aren't you?”

She didn't so much as glance in his direction. “If you haven't figured that out by now, you're a slow learner.”

It'd been nearly a month since she'd last seen him. They'd parted on pleasant terms—sort of. He had said he'd wait for her to call him, and that wasn't going to happen. She liked Sean, enjoyed his company, but she wasn't interested in a casual affair, which was all he seemed to be seeking.

He helped himself to a sandwich—
and
a danish, Liz noted. What a hypocrite! She poured a cup of coffee and he did likewise.

“You eating here?” he asked as they moved toward the cashier.

Liz's original intention was to take lunch back to her office, but now she hesitated. “I was thinking of it.”

“I was, too.”

She paid for her meal, then chose a seat close to the window.

Sean paid for his lunch and positioned himself at the table
directly across from hers. Liz glared at him. “Aren't you being a bit ridiculous?” she asked.

“Is that an invitation to join you?”

She sighed. “Don't be silly. You can sit here if you want.”

He was out of his chair and at her table within seconds. She could tell by his cocky grin that he was pleased, as though her invitation—such as it was—had been a concession.

“It's good to see you,” he said as he unwrapped the cellophane from his sandwich. “I'd hoped we'd get together before now. I don't mind telling you, it's been a long month. You're trying my patience, Liz. We both know what we want, so let's be mature about it.”

Liz reached for the salt and pepper shakers and peeled back the bread to dump liberal doses on the egg salad. “Don't you ever give up?” she asked, not in the mood for verbal sparring.

“What?”

“You're wasting your time. I'm not calling you.”

“Ah,” he said with a beleaguered sigh, “so this is all a matter of pride.”

“Come on,” she scoffed, “you know better than that. I came away from our dinner date feeling good—until you wanted to turn me into one of your sexual conquests.”

“Wrong. I happen to think you're an attractive woman and I believe we could enjoy each other in a mutually satisfying arrangement. What's so terrible about that?”

She was about to explain once again exactly what she objected to, but he cut her off.

“You're sexually repressed, aren't you?” he said. He seemed to be serious.

Laughing probably wasn't the most tactful response to his assessment, but Liz couldn't help herself. “You know what I've decided?” she asked, and then didn't give him a chance to
answer. “I like you. I'm not sure why, because when it comes to male-female relationships, you're about as shallow as a man can get.”

“Insults now?”

“No, the truth, and apparently there aren't enough people in this world brave enough to give it to you.”

“Should I be grateful you're so willing to enlighten me?” He looked more entertained than insulted.

“Yes, but I doubt you will be. Frankly, I don't know who you've been dating for the last ten years, but the Hugh Hefner image lost its appeal a long time ago.”

“Hugh Hefner?” he repeated as though that amused him. “Are you kidding?”

“I'm disappointed in you, Sean.” This, too, was the truth. Her sincerity must have reached him because his grin slowly faded. “You see me as nothing more than a challenge,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone.

He pushed his unfinished sandwich aside. “Hey, it's something we share because that's exactly how you see me. The only thing you're interested in is a ring on your finger. I went the marriage route once, remember, and all that got me was a whole lot of pain.”

“I'm not asking you to marry me. I'm simply stating that I won't fall into bed with you without a committed relationship on both our parts.”

“Sex isn't a four-letter word,” he sputtered.

“But it is,” she countered. “L-O-V-E.”

“Been there, done that, not interested in doing it again.”

Liz stared at him. She recalled that the only personal thing he'd told her was that he'd been married at one time. She hadn't realized the significance of that earlier.

“Was the marriage that bad?” she asked.

His face hardened. “Leave my ex out of this.”

“All right.” Apparently he'd carried the burden of his failed marriage for the last ten years. Everything he said proved he'd never moved beyond the regrets and the pain.

“I don't need any more lectures from you or anyone else.” He stood and emptied his tray, pastry, coffee and all, in the wastebasket on his way out of the room.

Liz knew it was unlikely she'd see him or hear from him again, unless it was work-related and unavoidable. Actually, that was for the best all around. They had nothing substantial in common, she decided, and a sadness settled over her.

She knew she had to relinquish the hopes she'd centered on Sean Jamison. Her natural tendency was to hang on, to keep hoping, but if she'd learned anything in the last six years, it was the danger that posed to her sanity and her heart. Sometimes you had to let people go—let your
feelings
for them go—in order to protect yourself.

She was back in her office when Donna returned, and from the relieved look on her face, Liz assumed that the adoption crisis had been resolved. Donna paused halfway inside the room. “You okay?”

“Of course I'm okay.” Liz was surprised her friend could read her this readily.

“I just saw Dr. Jamison, and he's on another of his rampages. You two didn't happen to cross paths, did you?”

Liz nodded. “You could say so,” she muttered. “We don't see eye to eye on certain subjects.”

Donna sank down on the chair and crossed her legs. “I don't get it. As a physician he's brilliant and wonderful, and as a man he's a major jerk. The way he treats women is deplorable.”

“I agree.” And she did.