17. Bill
SEVENTEEN
bill
The afternoon with Margaret is nothing short of exhausting. As soon as she’d recognized Bill, Margaret had traveled back in time and started imagining that they were still in high school. Rather than correct her, Bill had gone along with the farce, hoping that she’d come around on her own and start living in reality again.
“You’re late—again,” Margaret fumes now, folding her arms across her chest. She looks at him the same way she had when they were teenagers and he’d shown up at her house later than they’d planned. “It’s like you don’t even want to see me. Are you here because I’m forcing you to be?”
Yes , Bill thinks. There is no way I would have left my job and my family and flown halfway across country for any other reason than because you’re forcing me to .
“No,” Bill says, holding up both hands defensively so that she can see his palms. “I’m here because I wanted to see how you are.”
“See how I am? I’m hurt, Bill Booker,” she says, turning back to the window. “You said you’d be here to meet my grandparents, and you missed the whole thing.”
Bill knows instantly that she’s skipped back in the timeline to a day when he’d promised to come over to her house while her grandparents were visiting, but he’d been unable to make it, and Margaret was furious when he finally did show up. It looks like they’re about to relive that moment.
“You have my most sincere apologies, Margaret,” he says. This is not how their original argument had gone, but Bill wants to diffuse the tension as quickly as possible. “I did not mean to miss them.”
“And yet,” she says, spinning around wildly, her hair catching on the stiff white fabric of her pressed and starched hospital gown. “Here you are, showing up without flowers, without any real excuse, and now I’m just embarrassed in front of my family. Is that how you want me to feel? Embarrassed?”
Bill shakes his head sadly. The day this had actually happened, he’d been the one who was embarrassed. Ashamed of where he came from. “No,” he says. “I don’t want that.”
“What happened?” Margaret’s eyes soften and she rushes across the room towards him. Instantly, one of the men against the wall steps forward to intervene, but Bill shakes his head to stop him. He’s not afraid of Margaret physically. “Why didn’t you come?”
Bill swallows hard as she stands so close to him that her breath is on his neck. She looks up into his face. Margaret is still tiny—barely five feet tall and weighing no more than a hundred pounds. Her eyes and hair have a wildness to them that they didn’t have when she was younger, but she is still the same woman Bill married all those years ago. At least somewhere deep down she is.
“I didn’t come because my dad got drunk again and he hit my mother. I couldn’t leave her there until he took off to find some place to cool down.” This was the absolute truth of the situation, but it was something he had not shared with Margaret the day it had happened. He’d been seventeen and proud. He’d also been fearful that Margaret and her family would see him as some kind of no-good bum from a bad family. He’d stayed with his mother, holding her as she cried in his arms, and waited for the sound of his father’s truck roaring down the dirt driveway. When the coast was clear, he’d left, driving straight to Margaret’s to try and smooth things over.
Margaret takes a step back, blinking at him now. “Your dad was…drunk?”
Bill nods. He’d never shared with her that his father was an alcoholic, nor that he hit Bill’s mother. They’d grown up in a time when family business was family business, and you kept your problems inside the four walls of your own home.
“He was drunk,” Bill says now, holding Margaret’s disbelieving gaze.
“So you still want to marry me?”
It’s Bill’s turn to just stand there wordlessly. He isn’t sure whether carrying on this fa?ade is a good idea anymore. “Margaret,” he says, putting both hands in his pockets as he takes one almost imperceptible step back from her. “I just?—“
In a rage, Margaret flies at him, hands pounding his chest as she wails. Instantly, the two guards have her by both arms and Bill is being shown out of the room and into the hallway. The door closes behind him, but through a tiny rectangular window, he can see Margaret flailing savagely against the grips of the two large men. Her screams are still audible even through the thick door.
“So,” May Ogilvy says kindly, standing at Bill’s side as he watches through the window. “You’ve gotten a sample of what we’re working with. I think it’s much more impactful for you to see it in person.”
Bill’s hands are in his pockets again. He tears his gaze from the image of his ex-wife being subdued in a hospital bed that he can see through the tiny window. His heart is racing. “Sure. Yes. I can see that she’s got some issues.”
Mrs. Ogilvy leads him to a small office on that floor, waving a hand at an empty chair for him to sit in. Bill sinks into it gratefully.
“Is this the highest level of care? Are there any options for medication? Will she ever get better?” His questions aren’t meant to sound like an interrogation, but they come out that way.
Mrs. Ogilvy sits and folds her hands together on top of the desk. “Well,” she says. “Let me address each issue individually. First of all, this is the second-tier level of restrictive care. The top tier is one that is essentially entirely restrictive. If there is any attempt to actually self-harm, or if real bodily harm is visited upon an employee by a patient, then we relocate them to the top tier immediately.” Bill nods silently. “Next, medication is an option. There are all kinds of psychotropic pharmaceuticals that we can use, Mr. Booker, but some will require your permission as her next-of-kin.”
“I see,” Bill says. He wants Margaret to get the best care she possibly can, but he also has concerns about her quality of life. “If we try one of these medications, will it mean that she’s…a vegetable?”
Mrs. Ogilvy smiles with understanding. “That’s a harsh term and one that we like to avoid,” she explains. “But it’s possible that the medications can put a patient into a state whereby they lose the ability or the interest in interacting with the world around them. However, if a patient is a danger to themselves or to others…that might be the best option.”
Bill inhales deeply, taking this in. “Right. Okay.”
“Now, as to whether or not she’ll ever ‘get better,’ I have to say that her particular type of psychosis is one that generally plagues a patient for the rest of their lives.” She stops and watches Bill as this sinks in. “Mr. Booker, once a person loses touch with reality, they often fall into a place that feels real to them. Margaret is doing her very best to get by in a world that she does not understand. She lives on a plane of reality that you and I cannot visit. Our goal is to make her safe, and to keep all of us—herself included—from coming to any harm. Is that clear?”
“It is.”
“Okay. Then to that end, I think our best options are to pursue a heavier dose of lithium, and to consider implementing Thorazine and possibly shock therapy.”
Bill rears back in his chair. “Shock therapy? Isn’t that dangerous—and painful?”
Mrs. Ogilvy holds up a hand. “At Desert Sage, we fully adhere to the standards for pain management during any treatment, Mr. Booker. Shock therapy is used to stimulate the frontal lobe and to incite a seizure that will, under the best circumstances, treat a patient’s depression and mental illness. Now, the risks and the cost will go up for these treatments and this level of care, but it’s what we feel is necessary.”
Bill is momentarily overcome by the crushing feelings of disappointment and responsibility. Mrs. Ogilvy seems to pick up on this as she watches him with sympathy.
“Are there any other close family members with whom you can consult?” she asks gently. “Perhaps any living relatives who might be willing to work with you on the cost of care?”
Bill shakes his head. Margaret’s mother had died of cancer shortly after they’d agreed to put Margaret into a care home, and her father had died of a heart attack three years later. There’s truly no one but him, and his pride won’t even let him consider reaching out to distant relatives or searching for someone who can help him. Bill had married Margaret, he’d chosen to leave her at Desert Sage, and she is—and will forever be—his obligation.
“No,” Bill says, looking at May Ogilvy squarely. “It’s just me.”
“I would imagine you’ll want to speak to Mrs. Booker about the situation, so I’ll just give you a write up to take home with you, and then you can get back to me about what you’d like to do. How does that sound?”
It sounds exhausting to Bill. It sounds overwhelming. It sounds like something he has to do.
He nods.
“Okay, then let me take you back to Margaret’s room. She should be calmed and under control at this point, and you can spend a bit more time talking to her or just sitting with her.” Mrs. Ogilvy looks at him from across the desk. “It might be hard for you,” she says softly. “But it will be good for her.”
Bill is accustomed to doing hard things, and so he slaps his hands against his knees and stands. “Then take me to her,” he says. “I want to do what’s best for Margaret.”
Bill sets his bags down inside the front door of his own house, tiredly accepting the hugs and squeals of his daughters, as well as a humorously manly handshake from his eleven-year-old son.
“Dad,” Jimmy says, holding out his hand.
“James,” Bill says, fighting to keep a smile off his face.
“We missed you.” Jo is waiting until the children have scattered to wrap her arms around his waist and give him a side-hug. She looks up at him. “A lot happened while you were gone.”
“For me too,” he says, and this is an understatement. The manila folder that May Ogilvy had given him at the end of an afternoon spent spoon-feeding his sedated ex-wife as she stared out the window had felt like a contract that he’d need to review and sign. He has no energy to look at it now, and therefore he doesn’t mention anything about it to Jo. “What did I miss?” he asks instead.
Jo has wrapped up a plate of dinner for him. The children have already eaten, so Bill and Jo sit at the kitchen table together and watch through the glass of the sliding door as the kids take turns jumping into the pool in the duskiness of late evening. They are illuminated under the porch lights and the half moon, and their shouts are filled with joy.
“Oh,” Jo says with a world-weary sigh. “I had my hands full.”
Bill forks a bite of roast beef into his mouth and chews while Jo sits in her chair with a glass of water.
She proceeds to tell him the entire story of Jude Majors and the fall that resulted in her being submerged in the pool. Jo tells him about the way Jude and Vance’s girls stayed with her while Vance was at the hospital with his wife, and about the trip to the beach with all of the wives and kids. She bites her lip before telling Bill how forlorn Vance had seemed when picking up his daughters. “I think he’s feeling alone in his problems at the moment,” she says, turning the water glass in circles on the tabletop as she watches her own hand. “And truthfully, he’s not alone—is he?”
Bill shakes his head as he hunches over his plate, eating hungrily. All he’s ingested in the past three days is airplane food, diner meals, and coffee. Jo’s roast beef and mashed potatoes are like a warm blanket, and he wants to wrap himself in it. The comfort of home is almost overwhelming.
“I would say that he’s definitely not alone,” Bill agrees. “I don’t think anyone has it totally easy, do they?”
Jo sips her water and then clears Bill’s dishes while he goes to change into a t-shirt and sweat pants. They meet in front of the television after the kids are tucked into bed, and Jo turns off the lights in the living room.
“Come. Sit.” Bill pats the spot on the couch next to him. Jo curls up at his side like a cat, pressing her body against his and then scooting down even more so that she can lay her head in his lap as she faces the television.
In the darkness, the flickering images from the TV screen are the only sources of light, and they fall over Jo’s pale arm and splash across Bill’s white t-shirt. He puts his hand in Jo’s hair gently and rubs her scalp as they sit there together, watching the end of Dr. Kildare on NBC.
When the show ends, Jo finally speaks. “Bill?”
“Mmm?” he says, not really forming a word; rubbing Jo’s head rhythmically has made him tired and relaxed.
“Are you okay?”
Bill’s hand stills and he rests it on the side of Jo’s neck softly. “I’m okay,” he says after a beat. “Are you?”
He can see the length of Jo’s eyelashes fanned out as she faces the television. “I think so. It’s been hard,” she admits with a sigh. “I wanted so badly to hate it here that I think it was even harder to admit to myself that it’s kind of growing on me.”
“Really? So you don’t hate it after all?” Bill smiles triumphantly in the darkened room.
Jo shrugs her shoulder and Bill moves his hand down, cupping her smooth upper arm with reverence; his wife—his lovely, sweet wife. It thrills him to hear that she doesn’t hate it anymore.
“I do still hate how hot it is,” Jo says. “But the pool is nice. And the beach is pretty.”
“That’s something,” Bill says cautiously.
“I like that we have air-conditioning,” Jo goes on, searching for more positives. “And the other girls are wonderful. Making friends has been so helpful.”
“Of course it has. You and Frankie seem exceptionally close. And, Jojo—I want to apologize. I shouldn’t have doubted her or said anything about her watching the kids. She’s a fine woman, and I totally respect your choice of friends. If you like her, then I’m sure she’s wonderful.”
Jo is quiet for a long moment. Bill can feel her breathing as she lays against him. Her warm head is still in his lap. “I just want you to know that I’m doing okay. It’s been a long summer of growing pains for me—and of being homesick—but I’m good at the moment. The kids are doing great, and I love the time I spend at the hospital. I really want to be supportive. I want to be here for you.”
Bill feels a rush of pleasure at these words—not just the bit about Jo supporting him, but also at her admission that she’s finding her own happiness—and he smiles as a new program comes on the television, though he pays no attention to what it is. “I’m glad to hear it,” he says.
“I’m doing my best, Bill. I’m always doing my best—I just need you to know that.”
Bill runs his fingers lightly over Jo’s bare arm as he looks down at her. There’s so much love in his heart for his wife, but he can’t help thinking of Margaret as they sit there, sharing a rare moment of complete marital peace and harmony. In the span of twenty-four hours, he’s spent time with both of the women who have been his wives. He’s put his arms around both of them—around Margaret in apology, and around Jo because he finds comfort in her embrace—and he’s thought of their various attributes. He looks at Jo now and tries to imagine how she must feel: he’s just been to Arizona to see another woman with whom he exchanged sacred vows; another woman who has carried his child in her womb; another woman he’s held in the dark of night in the most intimate ways that a man can hold a woman. And now Jo is expected to welcome him back without rancor or ill-will, and, so far as he can tell, she has. She’s a remarkable woman.
“I do know that you’re doing your best, Jojo,” he whispers now, his words mingling with the canned laughter of the variety show on the television. “We all are. I think that’s the best part of marriage frankly: that we get up every morning, and we try our best every single day. We show up for each other, and we support each other’s dreams. Don’t ever forget that I support your dreams too, Jo. I really do.”
The wetness of her tears seeps through the leg of his sweatpants as she cries. “Thank you,” Jo says, reaching up to wipe her eyes. “That means a lot to me.”
Bill moves his hand back to Jo’s head and runs his fingers through her soft hair. He means it, absolutely—he does support her hopes and dreams. He supports her volunteering at the hospital, even though he’d been skeptical at first. He loves the way she raises their children, and her smile still makes him feel the same way it did the day he’d seen her behind the desk at the dentist’s office. But Jo—like any other woman—is a bit of a mystery. Bill goes about his life and his work and just assumes that she’ll be there, steadfastly cooking and cleaning and welcoming him home every day. But is that fair to a woman whose heart beats and pumps blood to her brain just like his heart does for him? Is it fair to just automatically assume that her wants and wishes might differ so greatly from his own? That she could be completely content with housework and idle gossip with other women and never want anything more for herself? It almost seems wrong to believe that.
Jo is a smart, capable woman. A good mother. An impeccable wife. He looks at her delicate profile there in the flickering light of the television as she stares at the screen. She’s complex and complicated. She’s knowable and yet still unknown. He wants more than anything to believe in her and to push her towards her heart’s greatest desires.
Because of course he believes in her hopes and dreams…he just has no idea what they are.