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Midmorning the next day, London was discharged from the hospital. I'd already called the school and the piano teacher, explaining her absence and canceling her lessons for the week. I also let London's teacher know that she shouldn't be active at recess once she returned to school. Thankfully, the nurses had given me some disinfectant wipes to clean the backseat of the car, because I hadn't wanted London to see the bloody mess.
As I signed the discharge papers, I glanced over at Vivian, noticing how tired she looked. Neither of us had slept much; throughout the night, the nurses and doctor had come into the room to check on London, waking all three of us in the process. London, I assumed, would sleep for most of the day.
"I was wondering," Vivian said, sounding uncharacteristically tentative, "if I could come back to the house for a while. So I can spend some more time with London. Would you mind?"
"Not at all," I said. "I'm sure London would like that."
"I'm probably going to need a nap and a shower, too."
"That sounds fine," I said. "When do you have to go back?"
"I'm flying out tonight. Walter and I have to be in DC tomorrow. More lobbying."
"Always busy," I remarked.
"Too busy, sometimes."
I analyzed her comment on the drive home, wondering at the hint of weariness in her tone. Was she just tired, or was the jet-set lifestyle beginning to feel less exciting than it once had?
It was a mistake to try to read meaning into every word, tone, and nuance, I told myself. What had Emily said to me? If it comes, let it come. If it stays, let it stay. If it goes, let it go.
When we reached the house, I carried London inside. She'd already begun to doze off, and I brought her straight up to her bedroom. Vivian followed us up and after I got London tucked in bed, I watched as Vivian went to the guest room. Though I'm sure she noticed that I'd rearranged the furniture, she said nothing to me about it.
My car was too small to load my bike in the trunk, but I squeezed London's bike into the back. Someone had leaned the bikes against the mailbox. I drove London's bike home, put on my running gear, and ran back to the same mailbox. It was while grabbing mine that I saw the blood that had dried on the asphalt and my stomach did a flip-flop. I rode my bike home, went for a run, and took a cooling shower. Both London and Vivian were still sleeping, so I went back to the bedroom for a nap. I drew the shades and slept like the dead.
When I awoke, I found Vivian and London watching a movie in the family room. Though wearing the same clothes she'd arrived in, Vivian had showered, the tips of her hair still wet, and London was curled up next to her on the sofa. On the coffee table were the remains of London's snack--turkey and pear slices--most of which she had eaten.
"How are you feeling, London?'
"Good," she said, without looking up.
"How did you sleep?" Vivian asked.
I was struck by how ordinary she sounded.
"Well. I needed it." I motioned to the plate. "I know London just had a snack, but what are you thinking for dinner? Do you want me to make something?"
"I think it might be easier if we just order something, don't you? Unless you're really in the mood to cook."
I wasn't. "Chinese?"
She squeezed London closer to her. "Do you want Chinese food for dinner?"
"Okay," London said, still absorbed in the movie. The bandage on her head, along with the splint on her arm, made me wince.
Though I wanted to visit with London--part of me wondered whether she was angry with me for what had happened--I didn't want to do anything that might upset the detente that seemed to currently exist between Vivian and me. Instead, I went to the kitchen and ate a banana, then wandered to the computer in the den, trying to lose myself in work but feeling distinctly unfocused. In time, I called the Chinese restaurant and went to pick up the food.
We ate on the back porch, just like old times. Afterward, London took a bath and dressed in her pajamas. As bedtime approached, Vivian and I slipped into our familiar roles--she read first, followed by me. But when I finally came back downstairs, Vivian had already shouldered her handbag and was waiting near the door.
"I need to get going," she said. Did I detect a hint of resignation in her voice? I reminded myself again that it was pointless to read anything into it.
"I figured."
She adjusted the strap of her handbag, as if stalling would help her find the words she needed. "I noticed that you rearranged the house and took a lot of the photos down. The ones that included me, I mean. I was going to say something earlier, but I didn't think it was the right time."
For whatever reason, I didn't want to admit that I'd done so in a fit of anger. But I didn't feel I was wrong, either; I knew I would do the same thing again.
"Like you, I'm just trying to move forward," I stated. "But I put some of the family photos in her room. Because we'll always be her parents."
"Thank you," she said. "That was thoughtful of you."
"I put the other photos in a box if you want to bring them with you. There are some fantastic ones of you and London."
"That would be great."
I went to the closet and retrieved the box; as I held it beneath my arm, her eyes flashed to the photos. I felt acutely, perhaps more than ever, that our era as a couple had really and truly come to an end, and I had the sense she was thinking the same thing.
"Let me get my keys and I'll put this in the trunk," I said.
"I can carry it," she said, reaching for the box. "You don't need to drive me. There's a car waiting out front."
I handed it over. "A car?"
"It's not like we can leave London here alone, right?"
Right, I thought, wondering how I'd overlooked something so elementary. Being around Vivian--a Vivian who reminded me of the woman I had married, the very same Vivian with whom I had no future--seemed to have thrown me.
"All right, then," I said. I put a hand in my pocket. "About this weekend," I started, "and me having to stay at Marge's or my parents'..."
"You don't have to," she said, cutting me off. "I realized today that there's no reason for you to do that. It's not fair to you. I'll just stay in the guest room if that's okay."
"It's fine," I said.
"But you know I still want to spend as much time with London as I can. Just the two of us. I know that may not seem fair, but right now, I really don't want to confuse her."
"Of course," I said. "That makes sense."
She shifted the box beneath her arm and I wondered whether to offer a hug or a kiss on the cheek. As if anticipating my action, she turned toward the door.
"I'll see you in a few days," she said. "And I'll call London tomorrow."
"Sounds good," I said, opening the door for her. Behind her, idling on the street, was a limousine. Vivian started toward it and I watched as the driver quickly exited the car to help her carry the box. He opened the door and put the box on the seat. Vivian waited for him to move aside, then got into the car. I couldn't help thinking that it all seemed as natural as breathing for her--as though she'd always had a car and driver, had always been the lover of a billionaire.
I couldn't see her through the darkened glass of the car and I wondered whether she was watching me, but in the end, I simply turned away. Stepping into the house, I closed the door behind me, feeling strangely sad.
For a moment I hesitated. Then I reached for my phone.
Emily answered on the second ring.
We were on the phone for nearly two hours. Though I did most of the talking, working through my sense of loss, she managed to make me smile and laugh more than once. And every time I wondered aloud if I was a good person, she assured me that I was blameless. I needed to hear that, somehow, and when I finally turned in for the night, I closed my eyes wondering how I'd been lucky enough to rediscover Emily, who was exactly the kind of friend I needed most.
CHAPTER 20
Autumn
I love autumn," Emily said to me. "It 'wins you
over with its mute appeal to sympathy for its decay.'"
"Excuse me?"
"I was talking about autumn," Emily said.
"I got that. I'm just trying to understand what you said."
"Not me. Robert Browning. Well, kind of... I might have gotten a few words wrong here or there. He was an English poet."
"I didn't know you read poetry."
It was October 2002, a few months after Emily and I had been stuck on the Ferris wheel. It was also less than a few weeks after the Great Mistake, the one involving the woman I'd met in the bar. Marge had already warned me more than once not to say a thing to Emily, but I was still agonizing over my terrible secret.
We were, in fact, on a double date with Marge and Liz. We'd taken a trip to the Biltmore House in Asheville, which was for a long time the largest private home in the world. I'd been there before as a child but had never gone with Emily; it had been her idea to go, and also to invite Marge and Liz. When Emily had begun to quote Browning, the four of us were savoring wine from the Biltmore winery.
"I majored in art, but I had to take other classes, too," Emily pointed out.
"I did, too. But I never took one that included poetry."
"That's because you majored in business."
"Exactly," Marge cut in. "Just because you botched your education, there's no need to put Emily on the defensive."
"I'm not putting her on the defensive. And I didn't botch my education... I was just making conversation."
"Don't let him scare you off, Emily," Marge said. "He might be a bit lowbrow, but he's got good qualities, too."
Emily laughed. "I hope so. It's been more than two years. I'd hate to think I've been slumming with him all this time."
"I'm right here," I said to both of them. "I can hear you."
Emily giggled, this time joined by Marge. Liz wore a benevolent expression.
"Don't let them get to you, Russ," Liz said, laying a hand on my arm. "If they keep picking on you, then you and I can go tour the greenhouse, and we'll hold hands and make them jealous."
"Did you hear that, Marge?" I said. "Liz is hitting on me."
"Good luck," Marge shrugged. "I know her type, and you're not it. You've got a little too much of those Y chromosomes for her."
"That's a shame. Because I know a hundred guys who would probably jump at the chance to go out with her."
Marge smiled at Liz. "Of that I have no doubt."
Liz blushed and I caught Emily's eye. In response, she leaned over and whispered in my ear. "I think they're perfect together."
"I know," I whispered back. "I do, too."
Even as I said it, guilt began to eat away at me with renewed fury. Less than a week later, I told her about the Mistake.
Why couldn't I have kept my mouth shut?
"No bruising? No cuts or blood or frantic calls to 911?"
After I dropped London off at school the next day, I found Marge waiting in my kitchen. I'd called her that morning to tell her about my visit with Vivian, but she'd told me to hold off because she wanted the full account in person.
"London's still sore, but she's doing fine."
"I wasn't talking about London. I meant you. Or, I guess I could have been talking about Vivian, too. Depending on how angry she made you."
"It was good," I assured her. "Surprisingly pleasant, in fact."
"What does that even mean?'
"She wasn't angry, and she didn't make me feel like the accident was my fault. She was... nice."
"You do understand that it wasn't your fault," she said. "That's why they call them accidents."
"I know," I said, wondering whether I fully believed it.
Marge turned and coughed; when she reached for her inhaler, I noticed that she looked a little drawn.
"Are you okay? You were coughing a lot the other night," I said, frowning.
"Tell me about it. Last week, I spent two days locked in a room with a client who was sick as a dog. Then, swell guy that he was, he called to let me know he had bronchitis."
"Have you seen a doctor?"
"I went by the urgent care over the weekend. The doctor thinks it's probably viral, which means he didn't prescribe anything. I'm just hoping I have it completely behind me by the time Liz and I leave for Costa Rica."
"When is that trip again?"
"The twentieth until the twenty-eighth."
"I wonder what it would be like to have time for a vacation," I mused, feeling a little sorry for myself.
"It's wonderful," Marge shot back. "Whining, on the other hand, is less than appealing. How are you and Emily getting along? Did you tell her what happened to London?"
"I spoke with her last night. After Vivian left."
"Ah."
"What do you mean by 'ah'?"
"You know the old saying: The quickest way to get over someone is to get over someone else."
"Classy."
"Don't blame me," she said. "I didn't invent the expression. And we both know it goes for women, too. As in, the quickest way to get over someone is to get under someone else."
"Emily and I are just friends."
She reached over and gave my shoulder a squeeze. "Keep telling yourself that, little brother."
After Marge left, getting to the office was easy, but immersing myself in work was more elusive. While the emotional intensity of the last two days didn't come close to rivaling the days immediately following Vivian's announcement that she was in love with Spannerman, my reserves were low. Too much had happened in too short a time; it hadn't even been a month since all the upheaval began.
Nonetheless, there were things to do. At the top of the agenda was ensuring that the filming of Taglieri's fourth commercial was on track. By the time I reconfirmed everything, I was surprised to see an email from the editor, stating that the editing for the third commercial, the one featuring the child actress, was complete.
Because the third commercial had turned out so well, my instincts were to start airing both the initial one as well as the third, right away. I left a message at Taglieri's office suggesting that, and soon received the go-ahead. As I locked in the schedule with the cable company, I felt a familiar thrill at the thought that my work--and my company--would soon reach hundreds of thousands of people.
On a less thrilling note, I also left two messages at the dance studio. Ms. Hamshaw had yet to return my call.
London was all smiles when I spotted her at pickup amongst her classmates, and though she walked more slowly than usual to the car, I could tell already that she'd had a good day.
"Guess what?" she said as soon as she climbed into the car. "My teacher let me be her helper today. It was so much fun!"
"What did you do?"
"I got to help her hand out papers and I got to collect them. And I got to clean the whiteboard with the eraser during recess. But then she let me color on it and I got to erase that, too. And I got to wear a badge that said 'Teacher Helper' all day."
"And you could do all that with your sore wrist?"
"I just used my other hand," she said, demonstrating. "It was easy. And at the end of the day, I got a lollipop."
"That sounds like a pretty amazing day. Do you need my help buckling yourself in?" I'd had to do it for her that morning.
"No," she said. "I think I can do it now. I had to learn to do a lot of stuff with one hand."
I watched as she tugged at the seatbelt. Though it took a bit longer than usual, she was finally able to manage.
I pulled out of the lot and was beginning to accelerate on the road when I heard her voice again.
"Hey Daddy?"
My eyes flickered to the rear view mirror. "Yes, sweetheart?"
"Do I have to go to dance tonight?"
"No," I said. "The doctor said that you should probably take it easy this week."
"Oh," she said.
"How was your head today? And your wrist?"
"My head didn't hurt at all. My wrist hurt sometimes but I tried to be
strong like Bodhi."
I smiled. "Is Bodhi strong?"
"He's very strong," she said, nodding. "He can pick up everyone in the whole class. Even Jenny!"
I gathered Jenny was big for her age. "Wow," I said. "I didn't know that."
"Do you think I could go over to Bodhi's house? I want to see Noodle again."
I flashed to an image of Emily. "I'll have to ask Bodhi's mom, but if it's all right with her, it's all right with me. Not this week, though--maybe next week, okay? Since you should be resting?"
"Okay," she said. "I like Miss Emily. She's nice."
"I'm glad," I said.
"And it was fun going to the zoo with her and Bodhi. Can I see the pictures I took on your phone?"
I handed my cell phone back to her and she began scanning through the pictures. She reminisced about the animals she'd seen and what they'd been doing, and as she chattered on, I noticed that London didn't mention her mother at all, even though she'd seen Vivian the day before.
London, I realized, had grown accustomed to spending time with me alone, for better or for worse.
Because she'd watched television for much of the day before, I didn't want to park London in front of the electronic babysitter again. At the same time, I had to limit her activity, and we'd already done the coloring thing not too long ago, so I was at a bit of a loss. On a whim, I decided to swing by Walmart on the way home from school. There, I chose a board game called Hoot Owl Hoot! The box explained that the goal of the game was to help the owls fly back to their nest before the sun came up. Each player drew a color card and flew an owl to a color tile on the way to its nest, but if a player drew a sun card, the game moved one step closer to sunrise. All the players won if the owls made it back to their nests in time.
I figured that it was something both of us could handle.
London was thrilled to visit the toy section of the store, and she wandered from one side of the aisle to the other, enthralled by one item after the other. More than once, she pulled an item from a shelf or rack and asked if she could have it; while I was tempted to give in, I didn't. Nearly everything she'd shown me would have held her interest for only a few minutes after we returned home, and her toy box and shelves were already bursting with neglected stuffed animals and knickknacks.
The game ended up being a hit. Because the rules were simple, London got the hang of it quickly, and she was alternately overjoyed or despondent, depending on whether the owls appeared as if they would make it home in time. We ended up playing four games at the kitchen table before she began to tire.
