A Month of Summer (9 page)

“He in here,” Teddy said, and led me into the hallway. “He in the chair. He sleepin’. He got some pills sleep. He got some pill.”

My level of anxiety ratcheted upward. “He took sleeping pills? Teddy, did you give him pills?”

Teddy curled his fingers against his chest again, pulling absently at his T-shirt. “No, no, A-becca. I don’t touch no pill. Mama say, don’t touch no pill. No pill.”

I slipped past Teddy, then hurried down the paneled wood hallway, the conglomeration of family pictures a blur as I passed my father’s office, the master bedroom, the small maid’s pantry that my mother had used as a sewing room. It was filled with plants now, mostly tiny starts potted in all sorts of unconventional containers— cooking pans, Tupperware bowls, drinking glasses, discarded cups, and take-out containers from various restaurants.

Rounding the corner into the living room, I saw my father crumpled in a recliner by the fireplace. The memory of him there, in that place, in a chair like this one, was strong as I crossed the room. Standing over him, I laid a hand on his arm, touched his wrist and felt a strong, steady pulse, listened to his breathing. He stirred slightly, and I backed away, unwilling to be within reach, to be found touching him if he woke up. I wondered if he would know me. Hanna Beth had left a message on my answering machine a year ago, warning that he was growing worse. My mother was in the hospital at the time, suffering from active lupus and end-stage renal failure. By then we knew that, after years of triumphantly and repeatedly forcing her lupus into remission, this battle would probably be her last. A final and telling rejection of my father seemed like one last thing I could do to please her.

She wouldn’t like it that I’m here
, I thought, standing over my father’s chair.
She wouldn’t like this at all.

I backed away another step, felt an intense sense of guilt, then repulsion, toward him, toward this place. The room was stacked with newspapers, muddy gardening clothes, dirty dishes, shoes, socks, glasses with lumpy, soured milk, pizza boxes with the leftover sauce dried black, and bits of cheese, hard and green with mold.

The combination of scents in the air was nauseating, dizzying.

I looked at my father, at what was left of him, a shrunken shadow of the tall man I remembered, the man who lumbered down the hall with long, confident strides, his cowboy boots thundering on the hollow wooden floor. He was the John Wayne of my childhood. A presence always larger than life.

The pill bottle was lying atop a tumbling pile of manila file folders on the table next to him. I picked it up, read the quantity prescribed, and counted the pills inside. The bottle was mostly full. He was probably fine.

He smelled. Bad. His hair, once almost black, now silver, was slick with oil, his clothes dirty and rumpled, his face covered with the uneven patches of a stubbly beard. On his left cheek, the hair grew around a crescent-shaped scar left by a tile that fell from a roof-top in Saudi. The roofer slid down his climbing pole, rushed to my father and sank to his knees, babbling in some other language. My father only squinted up at the roof, then took out his handkerchief and pressed it over the blood. He said something in Arabic, then we walked to our car and drove to the hospital for stitches.

I always wondered what he’d said to the man who’d crouched at his feet.

Teddy shook his head as I turned away from my father’s chair. “Mama say don’ touch the pill.” His eyes darted toward the bottle in my hand. “Don’ touch the pill. Don’ touch no med-sin. Them look like candy, but it’s bad.”

“It’s okay, Teddy. I’ll take care of it.”

“Daddy Ed get mad. He get real mad.” His fingers braided and unbraided under his chin. “Mama say no.”

His physical size, the rising degree of anxiety, sent an uncomfortable sense of vulnerability prickling over my skin. What if he became violent? Was he capable of it? “It’s okay, Teddy. I saw your mom today. She and I agreed it would be best if I took care of the pills for now. I bet when your mom’s here, she takes care of the pills, doesn’t she?”

Teddy’s frenzied movement stopped. His blue eyes welled up and spilled over. “I wanna see Mama.”

Something tugged inside me. I thought of Macey—how she would feel if she were separated from me and couldn’t understand why. “We can’t right now, Teddy. She’s sleeping.” The last, last thing I was prepared to do was put Teddy in the car and try to take him to the nursing center today.

Teddy sniffled, and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “The bus won’ go see Mama. I ask the man, say, I gone see Mama. She at the hop-sital. But the bus won’ go. It won’ go. I ride the other one, and the other one, but all the bus don’ go see Mama.”

“Is that why you were on the buses yesterday, Teddy? You were trying to get to the hospital?”

“Daddy Ed wan’ Mama,” Teddy went on. “Kay-Kay say she gone take me see Mama, but she don’ come no more. She don’ come. Kay-Kay don’ come. . . .”

“Teddy, who’s Kay-Kay?”

Teddy blinked, surprised. “Kay-Kay, she make good cookie for Daddy Ed. She give Daddy Ed pill . . . clean the floor, washin’ clothes. . . .” He stretched out the words, pantomiming the actions as he talked. “And the win-dow, and the jelly on the plate. . . .”

“Okay, so you have someone who takes care of you?” Relief flooded through me, although, judging from the condition of the house, she wasn’t doing her job. “Where does she live?”

Teddy shrugged.

“Do you have her phone number?”

Another shrug.

“Do you know her last name?”

Teddy shook his head, then said, “She jus’ Kay-Kay.”

Tucking the pill bottle in my pocket, I blew out a long sigh, then surveyed the stacks of mail and papers around the room. Somewhere in all of that, there was probably a checkbook, a bill from a home health agency, or a maid service that would allow me to track down this Kay-Kay.

Right now, the tightening in my head was growing, and nausea had begun to rock my stomach. I needed to get to my hotel, take some medication, and beat it down. “Okay, Teddy. I have to go check into my room, get my suitcases out, and rest for a little bit, but I’ll be back later. I’ll bring some take-out food to eat, and maybe by then Daddy Ed will wake up. We’ll try to find Kay-Kay and get her to come, and that will make things better, okay?”

Teddy crossed the room to the entryway and headed for the wide wooden staircase. “Here you room, A-becca. It all set. All fix, all set.”

“No, Teddy, wait.” Before I could stop him, he was bounding up the stairs three at a time, his heavy footfalls echoing through the cavernous entryway and into the living room. “Teddy . . .” The pounding in my head grew louder. Pushing it aside, I started up the stairs. From somewhere overhead, I could hear furniture squealing across the floor in the first room on the left. The room that used to be mine. When I came to the door, Teddy was trying to straighten the blanket on a bed. Various bookshelves and a sewing table—probably Hanna Beth’s—had been scooted to the edges of the room, and the bed, a desk, chair, and dresser formed an off-kilter arrangement in the center.

Teddy finished smoothing the blanket and placed the chair carefully under the desk, then smoothed his hands along the chair back, as if he were making sure no dust had settled there, that everything was perfect. The realization struck me like a splash of water, unexpectedly warm, yet inconvenient. Teddy had prepared this room, my room, for a homecoming. There was even a little-girl picture of me on the desk, one my mother had taken in the instant I jumped from the edge of a hotel swimming pool and sailed toward the water.

I moved into the room and picked up the picture. I could remember the moment it was taken. I was jumping toward my father, into his outstretched hands, just beyond the frame.

In the photo, I was looking at him, buoyant with anticipation, confident he would catch me before the water pulled me under.

I set the picture down, turned it away, so I wouldn’t have to look at it. Memories like that one, memories in which my father was an integral part of my life, in which I adored him, were the enemy. I’d learned from my mother that in cultivating anger, in nursing disdain, it was always more productive to stack up the negatives, to remember all the times he had disappointed me, failed me, chosen other things, other
people
over me. I’d created a past in which his leaving was only one more transgression in a long string of failings—something that was to be expected, eventually, considering the kind of person he was.

The swimming pool picture didn’t fit neatly into that accounting. It was easier to set it down facing the wall.

Teddy didn’t notice the picture; instead, he was looking at me, taking in my expression, his smile slowly drooping. He searched me, seeking some sort of approval, some hint of affection. “There a other room.” He flailed a hand toward the doorway across the hall. “This A-becca room, but there a other room.” He glanced around at the furniture, making plans to move it.

Pinching the tightness in my forehead, I tried to figure out how to explain to him that I couldn’t stay here. “It’s a nice room, Teddy. Thanks for getting it ready, but . . .”

His face lifted. Turning clumsily, he started toward the door, his bulky body shuffling from side to side. “You gone sit down. I gone get the suit-cate. Jus’ a minute. Jus’ a minute.”

“Teddy . . .” The protest was wasted. He was already clomping down the stairs, each impact booming through the house. I stood with the room swirling around me. I’d waited too long to take the migraine medicine.

Rubbing my forehead, I turned off the glaring overhead light and sank onto the edge of the bed. The soft, pink glow of sunset bathed the room, as down below the garage door closed, and Teddy came up the stairs again, my hanging bag bumping along behind him, the metal hanger making a high-pitched
ping, ping, ping
that felt like the squeal of a dentist’s drill. Lying down on the edge of the bed, I closed my eyes.

Teddy came in with my suitcases, muttered, “Ssshhhh.” I heard him carefully arrange my bags on the floor before he tiptoed from the room and quietly descended the stairs.

I grabbed my carry-on, pulled out the migraine medicine and a water bottle, took a pill, and lay down again.

I thought of the swimming pool picture, remembered jumping from the edge, taking flight over the water, then landing in my father’s arms. . . .

When I awoke, it was dark outside. The tide of pain in my head had receded, conquered by the medicine, or sleep, or both. A crocheted afghan lay loosely over my body. The desk lamp cast a soft glow. On the floor beside my suitcases, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich lay on a cake-and-punch plate next to a glass of iced tea. The tea was settling into a filmy mixture, clear on top, brown on the bottom, with swirls of bleeding color in between.
Heterogeneous solution,
I thought, momentarily flashing back to the worksheet Macey had brought home from class yesterday. She’d missed
heterogeneous solution
. Kyle came in early for family dinner night, and we talked about heterogeneous solutions, so Macey wouldn’t miss the question the next time. Kyle had always been the science whiz in the family.

I realized I hadn’t even called home yet, and I checked my watch. It would be after ten thirty there. Grabbing my cell phone, I turned it on, then dialed the number. Isha would be in her room next to the garage by now, off duty. Macey would be in bed, sound asleep. Kyle would be dozing on the sofa, watching the news with a Diet Coke and a bag of mini rice cakes. He’d changed his snacking habits lately, trying to get in shape. I’d thought it was a great idea, something we could do together—focus on eating right, maybe get up early some mornings and go to the gym or take a run down on the beach like we used to before the business, and parenthood, and life got in the way. Now I wondered if there was something sinister behind Kyle’s new focus on fitness.

The phone rang three times before someone picked up.

“Hello?” Macey’s voice was drowsy and thin, not her usual businesslike, adult-in-training phone greeting.

“Mace? How come you’re answering the phone so late, sweetheart? Where are Dad and Isha?”

“Isha’s asleep. Dad called and said he was going to be late, so she stayed up here and watched a movie with me. She fell asleep. She snores, by the way. Not a really bad kind of snore, but just a little whistly kind of snore like Grandma Macklin does. It’s funny. We rented
The Princess Bride
. It’s really good. I think we should buy a copy. I told Isha probably we could just keep this one. The movie store has that deal where if you find a movie you like, you can buy their copy for a used price. I told Isha—”

“Mace, why are you up watching a movie at”—I checked my watch to be sure—“almost eleven o’clock on a school night?”

Macey went temporarily mute. Through the phone lines, across thousands of miles, I could see the wheels turning. “It was a really good part, and I didn’t want to turn it off. It’s almost over now, though.”

“Isha let you start a movie after eight o’clock?” Even though Isha had only been with us a couple months, of all the au pairs we’d had she was by far the best about sticking to the rules. For a twenty-two-year -old, she was extremely mature and detail-oriented. Macey liked her, as well, so she was a perfect fit.

“Huh?” Macey was stalling. When she knew I wouldn’t like the answer, she usually asked me to repeat the question, so she could have more time to process. Smart girl. “Macey, why were you starting a movie after eight o’clock? Even if Isha didn’t tell you not to, you know better.”

“Oh, we started at seven,” Macey was quick to set me straight. “She said I could skip reading time, but just for tonight because I was kind of sad that you were gone and all. Tomorrow I can read double to make up for it. I read some in the car going to gymnastics today, too. I’m halfway through Harry Potter, and I just got it a week ago. Mrs. Nagle says that’s really good. She hasn’t ever had a fourth-grader read Harry Potter so quick.”