Chapter Nineteen
Nineteen
Joseph
February 2002
Today is my birthday, my seventy-ninth, and my last, and all I want is to surround myself with family, to embed myself in one more happy memory for them to hold. A storm blew in the night before, routine for February, blanketing everything in snow. Rain suggests sledding, and even though she can’t participate with her growing belly, she offers to pour hot cocoa at the top of the hill. Evelyn decides to hang back at the house, nervous to be out in the cold, although years ago she would have been the one carving a snowy path for the rest of us to follow.
“You sure this is a good idea?” Evelyn asks. “I’m afraid you’ll get hurt.”
“Sledding on my seventy-ninth birthday seems as logical as anything this year.”
She doesn’t argue. We didn’t expect Thomas and Ann to join, but they surprised me at the house with newly purchased snow tubes, folded flat in their packaging, that we pumped up before heading out together to Breyer’s Hill.
“You first, Pop. It’s your birthday,” Thomas urges, and the rest agree.
I swing my legs onto our old Flexible Flyer, and am filled with nerves. It has been years, decades, since I have gone sledding with our kids, but Tony gives me a hearty push before I can overthink it, and the icy air on my face, flying over the white expanse of snow, wakes something in me. I feel invincible, the way I used to feel as I leaped from Captain’s Rock, young again and free. I whoop as I soar through the powder.
It is climbing back up that reminds me of my age. I take two turns before I concede to the aches and stay at the top, assisting Rain in pouring steaming hot cocoa from the red plastic thermos that has seen many winter days like this one, sledding, or skating across Gooseneck Pond as soon as it froze solid. She leans against me as we watch them together, her curly hair wrangled beneath a knit cap, a mirror image of her mother, but with a steadiness and inner harmony all her own.
We clink our Styrofoam cups, and she sprinkles a few extra mini-marshmallows on their frothy surfaces. Connor and Violet squeeze onto our old wooden toboggan with Patrick, nearly too old to be caught sledding with his parents. Tony, always a big kid at heart, even married to Rain and a dad-to-be, pushes them off before hopping onto the back to ride along. Thomas and Ann glide alongside in their tubes, Ann giggle-screeching as they bumper-car and get knocked off at the bottom. Thomas falls onto his back into the pillowy snow with a chuckle that starts deep in his belly.
It is the perfect day. Except, I feel Evelyn missing in every laugh. I want to share every single moment with her.
The next morning, the rich smell of coffee greets me as I walk downstairs to the kitchen. Evelyn doesn’t drink it, although sometimes she will get it started for me when she is up early, wandering the halls before dawn, but this is not one of those mornings. She is tucked in bed, covers to her chin, trying to force sleep.
The last few nights she perched on the toilet seat, mouth agape, as I stroked her toothbrush across the backs of her molars. She grips my arm when we walk through the house, her steps slow and unsteady. I’ve caught her twice before falling, once as she crossed the living room and once coming out of the shower, and my heart quickened with the flicker of fear of what would happen if I hadn’t been nearby, dread rippled through my chest as I steadied her. Sometimes her face smooths to a masklike expression, her mannerisms and features cloaked in disarming stillness. Her tremor has spread, both hands quiver; the concerto the last music she played. Conversations repeated as though they are new. Her anxiety pulses as she shuffles across our wood floors, palpable as she anticipates lifting herself from a seated position.
I think, but don’t say, It’s alright, it’s not too much longer, my love.
Instead I say, I’m here with you, we have four months yet to share.
Most days she doesn’t want to see anyone. She can’t bear the scrutiny, weighing her progression, her symptoms, her mood. The glances and furrowed brows, the worry the children express to me when she is barely out of earshot.
Thomas must be up. Or perhaps Jane, Violet or Rain, who are coming over for breakfast this morning, beat me to the coffeemaker. Thomas and Ann slept in his room last night, squeezed together in his old bed. I can’t remember a time in years past that they stayed overnight. But since the Twin Towers fell, it’s been different. Thomas puts his arm around Ann’s waist when they sit on the couch; I’ve spied him stealing kisses as the door swings shut to the kitchen. Ann appears lighter under his affection, showing up to the dinner table with damp hair that dries with a natural wave I’ve never seen. They spend more time here on weekends, and took extra days off around the holidays to be with us, when usually they are out the door before dessert.
Thomas has been especially helpful with the logistics of it all, the details to carry out once we are gone. We named him executor of our will because he can best separate his emotions from the reality of all that comes with death. The paperwork and the phone calls and the scheduling, the distribution of things. The surreal nature of something so intimate as loss combined with the formal and legal and public ways you must share it with others. We told him we don’t want to be buried. Instead, we want our ashes scattered beyond the sandbar, floating through schools of minnows, carried on the backs of crabs, drifting in and out with the tides, in the place we’ve always been and will always be. Like my parents are with us in the worn banisters of the inn, in the flour-dusted countertops and faded curtains open to the summertime breeze. Like Tommy is in the first brisk swim of the season, or our grandchildren leaping off Captain’s Rock, he is the wind when it howls and the endless starry sky above. A cemetery is not where we feel them, it is merely the place they laid to rest.
Thomas pressed to know more about how , and we covered the grisly details the best we could, despite his misgivings. The stockpile of pills, the locations of our important documents and final wishes, the plan devised over a year ago that seemed such a hypothetical then, but now as it approaches I find myself researching alternate methods, all the ways pills can go wrong, desperate for something foolproof yet peaceful. An answer eludes me, so I shove it down, a bridge to cross only when there is no more road. Choosing to have faith in a good death with Evelyn, the same faith that propelled me from Connecticut to Boston and back again, certain that the only answer to a good life was one spent with her.
Violet makes extra portions of meals, stocks our freezer, picks up groceries, prescriptions. Jane calls each morning to ask how her mother is doing, and comes by a few times a week. She plays the piano for Evelyn, the music between them soothing what words cannot. Our children encircle us, buoying us from one day to another. The ways each can be useful are their offerings of peace, my gratitude deepening in lockstep with my shame.
Thomas wears a faded NYU T-shirt and sweatpants as he drinks coffee at the kitchen table; for years Evelyn and I were convinced he only owned suits and ties. Violet mixes batter for pancakes, Rain sprinkles diced potatoes with rosemary and paprika and coarse salt—Evelyn’s recipe for home fries—and Jane peels apart bacon strips and lays them on a baking sheet.
“Good morning, girls. Morning, Thomas.” I pat him on the back as I walk by. “Ann still asleep?”
He folds the newspaper and puts it aside. “Yeah. Mom?”
I pour myself some coffee, glance through the frosted windows to the garden, deadwood and twisted branches poking through the fresh snow. “Yeah, she’s tired from all of the activity last night.”
Thomas pauses, studying me like he wants to ask something, but he follows up instead, with, “It was fun yesterday, sledding. I can’t remember the last time I did that.”
“I’m glad you made it. Though I’ll pay for it today, that’s for sure.” I rub my leg, work the tension in my calf.
Thomas sets aside his newspaper. “Dad, I wanted to talk to you and Mom. Ann and I have thought a lot about what we can do, how we can help.”
I take a sip of coffee, relish the mug heating my palms. “You’ve already been more helpful than you know. Being here to spend time with us is all we want. We know you’re busy, and it’s a long way for you to come all the time.”
“Well, that’s what we’ve been thinking about.” He toys with his near-empty cup. “We don’t want to be so far anymore.” I raise my eyebrows in surprise, and he continues, “Mom’s getting worse fast, isn’t she?”
Rain, Violet and Jane stop what they’re doing, listening.
I open my mouth to assure him, but I can see it on his face. The grimace, the certainty. It’s on all their faces. They finally see what Evelyn has been trying to tell them all along.
“Ann and I have been looking at some houses in Stamford, so we can be closer to you and Mom, and Jane and Vi, and everyone. It’s important to me, to Ann too. We want to help.”
“Thomas, that’s very thoughtful of you, but you don’t need to uproot your lives because of us—”
“We want to. We don’t want to be so far from the family. We don’t want to miss anything anymore. It’s not only to help...it’s for us. Really.”
My throat thickens, and I do my best to clear it, knowing Thomas is uncomfortable with emotion. “That makes me so happy, son. Your mother will be so happy.”
“Why will I be so happy?” Evelyn shuffles down the stairs with small, weighted steps and a weak smile. Her wool sweater swallows her bony, hunched shoulders. It appears sleep was a battle she lost. Thomas looks to me but I wave my hand, gesturing for him to tell her.
“Ann and I want to move to Stamford, get out of the city. We want to be closer to family.”
Evelyn’s mouth falls open in disbelief. “But you love New York!”
“We’ll both still work there. We’ll commute in. Honestly, it’s amazing we stayed as long as we did. Most people we know moved to the burbs ages ago.”
Evelyn shakes her head, her smile wide. “I can’t believe it. Really, Thomas?”
“It’s time. We’ll be able to visit so much more without worrying about train schedules and getting back to the city late at night. Especially with a little one around here soon.” He tilts his head at Rain, who instinctively touches her bump and brightens. “We’re tired of missing everything. We just need to find the house.”
“That makes two of us, or should I say three of us.” Rain looks down at her bulging belly, covered in a striped apron. “Tony and I need to get out of our crummy apartment when the baby comes.”
“Rain, you’re welcome to stay here, it’ll be...empty soon,” Evelyn says. “Your grandpa and I discussed it before, hoping someday you could raise your family here like we did. We know how much you love it and, well, you two know this place better than anyone. But we never thought Tony would agree.”
“Ahh yes, his famous Sicilian pride.”
“It wouldn’t be a handout, tell him that. We know he likes to make his own way, but we’ve been trying to decide what to do with it, honestly. It’s too far for Thomas and Ann to commute, and Jane and Violet are settled with homes of their own. It’s filled with so many memories, and to think of the garden going to a stranger...” She pauses, trying to rein in her excitement. “You’d be doing us a favor, Rain, please. At least talk it over with him.”
“Really?” Rain’s eyes are misted over. “God...it would mean everything to us. I love the garden...you know how much we both love this place. I’ll talk to him.”
“And, Thomas?” Evelyn turns toward him. “You have no idea how happy I am that you and Ann will be closer, that you’ll be around more. I never thought I’d see...” She trails off, clears her throat and collects herself. “And you know you can stay as often as you’d like while you sort it all out.”
Our children, all together again. Something twists in my chest. We should be here. We should be with them, spending every last second we have. What if it’s too late?
What if it’s not?
He casts his gaze to the floor. “Thank you... I wish we had done this sooner.” Tears fall, and he hurries to wipe them away.
“Wish you had done what sooner, dear?” Evelyn’s face is cheerful, curious, her thread to the last few minutes snipped.
The color drains from Thomas’s face.
“What time is your train?” Evelyn chatters. “Your father can drop you after breakfast.”
Thomas’s voice is scratchy, eyes rimmed red. “I’m too late, aren’t I?”
Evelyn shuffles to the table and sits beside him, patting his hand as he crumples, shoulders shaking. “There will be other trains, I’m sure.”
I meet Jane’s eye and she swats at a tear falling down her cheek. Rain grabs her hand. Only Violet has seen Evelyn this way; she gives me a sad smile of recognition, the moments like this we’ve already swallowed, a shared knowledge between us, the inevitable creeping in.
Evelyn gestures at the abandoned preparations for breakfast. “That looks like quite the spread, but if you all don’t mind, I think I’ll try to get a bit more sleep. I’m not feeling up to eating. Save me some, okay?”
She stands slowly and Thomas rises to help her, but she shakes her head. We watch her ascend the stairs on her own. Uncertainty and remorse pool around me as I’m left alone with the children, quiet in their own sorrow. Will we really be able to go through with it? Can we face them one last time and say goodbye?
“How often is this happening?” Jane asks, her voice hollow.
“More often than I’d like.”
“Jesus.”
“It’s what we were expecting.” I try to keep my voice even but it wavers.
“But this, seeing it...four months? We have four months with her? Is that real, Dad?” Her voice quivers. “That’s all she’ll give us?”
Four months. My heart lurches. Take it back. We can take it back.
“How do I even begin to tell her everything I want to tell her? How do any of us...god, I wasted so many years mad at her, and now...”
“That’s ancient history, Jane. You’ve had so much good time together, you can’t—”
“I’ll be here more. Whatever she needs, okay?” Her voice catches in her throat. “But you, Dad? I’ll never understand it.”
“Can you lay off?” Violet says. “This isn’t easy on him either, you know.”
“Explain it to me, then.” Her eyes are wild, her fear and reality crashing in. “What if something had happened to Mom when we were little? Would you have ended it all then, when we were kids?”
“Of course not,” I stammer, trying to explain. “I would’ve been devastated to lose your mother, and I’m not sure how I would have managed. But of course I would’ve been there for you kids.”
Jane throws up her hands. “So why is this any different? You’re still giving up so much.”
Rain looks down at the tile, silent.
I continue with our practiced reasons, guilt ringing in every word. “You kids aren’t kids anymore. You don’t need me like you would have then. You have your own lives, your own families. The inn is closed. Your mom is my best friend, all I have—” I fumble with my words, trying to make Jane understand, to make them all understand what even I struggle to swallow “—besides you kids. Honestly, I don’t know what I would’ve done, and I’m lucky I never had to know. But, Jane, we’ve had our life together. All that’s left is the certainty one of us will go, and the uncertainty of when. So, it’s our time to be together, with whatever time we can guarantee.”
“Jane, let up,” Thomas cuts in. “You don’t understand because you’ve never been in love.”
“Oh, screw you.” She narrows her eyes at him, all venom.
“No one else was going to say it!”
“Thomas—” I warn.
“Can we not fight right now?” Violet rubs her forehead.
“Dad, you can’t let her do this. Listen to her, she’s not capable of making this kind of decision,” Jane says.
“Her body and memory may be faltering, but she knows exactly what she’s doing,” I say, clearing my throat. “We both do.”
I hear Evelyn’s movements upstairs, the pad of her feet against the carpet, the soft click of our bedroom door as it closes. Try to banish all the imagined years without her, but one thought remains. I can’t save her. I never could.