Five Days Left (26 page)

Mara

Mara and Those Ladies settled into their booth at the Wooden Table, Mara’s favorite restaurant. As they adjusted themselves, arranged napkins, found places to store their purses, Mara turned to Gina.

“Would you take Laks to church sometime?” she asked. “If she wants to go, I mean? And maybe even if she doesn’t? Maybe around middle school, or late elementary, when you get the sense she’s old enough to take in what they’re saying? Tom won’t mind. I told him I was going to ask you about it.”

“I’d be honored to,” Gina said.

“Thank you,” Mara said. “Oh, and remember we talked once about you reminding her to call Tom on our anniversary? And I think you said you’d have her do it on Mother’s Day, too? I was thinking, you should tell her to stop if he remarries. And Steph, you’re going to have to be the one to talk to my parents about being nice to any new girlfriend or wife—you know that, right? I mean, I can’t imagine them being anything but kind to anyone, but in that case, I don’t know—”

“Where’s all this coming from?” Steph asked, her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What aren’t you telling us? Did Thiry give you some news that things are moving faster, or—”

“Oh, no,” Mara said, backpedaling. “I just . . . think about these things, you know? Laks was talking the other night about how Susan’s family always says grace, and she wanted us to try it, and it made me think about how she might enjoy church. Or at least benefit from going a few times, seeing what it’s all about. And the other things just, I don’t know, came to me, I guess, at various times. And since you’re both here, and I actually remember them . . .” She didn’t mention she had written each down on a sticky note and reviewed them surreptitiously as they took their seats.

Steph twisted her lips as though she didn’t quite buy her friend’s explanation. Mara lifted her menu and before Steph could interrogate her further, Mara smacked her lips loudly and read a few items out loud. “They have the best filet mignon here. They wrap it in the thickest bacon. And the creamiest tiramisu. Oooh, but the chocolate brownie with warm fudge is so tempting.”

“I wish,” Gina said, looking down at her protruding waistline. “It’s going to be another house salad for me, with cottage cheese and fruit for dessert.” She put finger quotes around “dessert” and made a face.

“Well,” said Steph, “since we began the meal with all the maudlin talk about messages we all need to pass on to Laks from the one who’ll be beyond the grave”—she hiked a thumb at Mara—“I’d say this is as good a time as any to order something decadent enough to qualify as a last meal.”

Gina opened her mouth to chastise Steph but Mara put a hand on Gina’s arm and shook her head. “She’s right. I mean, why wait until the absolute last meal? Especially since my last meal will be through a tube. That’s not the way I want to savor my last bite of chocolate fudge!” As she spoke, she rooted through her purse for the small notebook Gina had given her ages ago to record things she didn’t want to forget. Gina smiled as Mara produced it.

Flipping through the pages, Mara said, “Here it is. I can’t remember where I found this—big surprise—but I knew at least one of you”—she
slid her eyes toward Steph—“would appreciate it. And this is the perfect occasion for it. It’s something Nora Ephron wrote, or said in an interview or something. Here goes: ‘When you are actually going to have your last meal, you’ll either be too sick to have it or you aren’t gonna know it’s your last meal and you could squander it on something like a tuna melt and that would be ironic. So it’s important . . . I feel it’s important to have that last meal today, tomorrow, soon.’”

“Perfect indeed!” Steph said, clapping her hands once and then holding them under her chin, Neerja-like. They all laughed and Mara winked at Steph, a silent thank-you for keeping the moment from becoming depressing.

“No tuna melt for me, ladies,” Mara said. She handed the book to Gina, who was wiping her eyes, having not fully escaped the depressing angle. Pointing to the quote, Mara smiled at Gina. “No house salad, either. It’s filet mignon and brownie time. Bacon and chocolate are the two essential ingredients in any last meal. And I’m having a martini, too. Dirty. What the hell, I’m not driving.”

“I’ll have the tiramisu,” Gina announced proudly. “That way, you can have some of each. What’s your next choice for entrée?”

Mara read through the menu again and chose the lowest-fat option she could find for her weight-conscious friend. “Um, I think the salmon with vegetables.”

“Bullshit,” Steph said.

“Eggplant Parm,” Mara admitted.

“One eggplant Parm, one tiramisu,” Gina said. “Done.”

“And after that?” Steph asked.

“Butternut squash ravioli with sausage. Extra sausage. And lemon meringue pie.”

Gina smiled and handed the book back. “It all sounds so much better than a house salad.”

As they ordered, Steph and Gina sounding proud when they announced their lunch choices to the waiter, each adding a fancy drink, Mara
silently rehearsed the speech she’d come up with in the cab earlier. It was part goodbye, part thank-you, part spoken love letter to two women who had been like sisters to her. It wasn’t adequate, the few words she’d come up with. But nothing would be.

When the waiter was gone, Mara took a breath and launched into her oration. She spoke about what Those Ladies meant to her. What a blessing their friendship was. How she’d never be able to put into words the degree to which she appreciated their loyalty, their honesty, their support over the past few difficult years—

“Jesus,” Steph interrupted. “I can’t take any more. Not after the messages for Laks and the last-meal stuff. Can it wait for another time? I mean, you’re not dying
tomorrow
, right?”

Gina gasped and Mara blanched. Mara recovered faster than Gina and gave Steph her most casual laugh. “God, I did sound dark, didn’t I?” She waved a hand, dismissing her macabre speech as silliness. “Thiry has me on this new head-shrinking drug,” she lied. “Makes me all sappy and dramatic. You think that was bad, you should’ve heard what I said to Tom last night . . .” She arched an eyebrow.

It worked. Steph leaned across the table, a strong hand gripping Mara’s. “Ooooh, now the conversation’s taking a nice turn. Tell me, just what did you say to hunky Tom? I can think of a few things I’d like to tell him myself.”

•   •   •

“Did you go through the twelve-step program?” Mara asked Harry as he drove her home from the restaurant.

“Nah. I’m old-school. Cold turkey on my own.”

“Wow. Impressive.”

“Not hardly. Took me twenty-five years ta get round to it.”

“So you’re not familiar with that bit in the program where people go around apologizing to people they’ve wronged in their lives?”

“Nah. Can’t say I am.”

“Well, I’ve been doing a little twelve-step of my own, this week. Not apologizing, though—thanking. People who’ve helped me, or who’ve been particularly important to me in my life.”

“Kinda like countin’ yer blessin’s, only you’re comin’ right out and thankin’ yours.”

“Kind of. And, Harry? I want to thank you, too.”

“Me?” he asked, feigning surprise. “I been particularly important in yer life?”

“I think you know you have.”

“Yuh,” he said, smiling. “Maybe I do.”

“I wasn’t happy to have to give up driving this week, to give up that control. Not that I need to tell you. But I’ve started thinking maybe there’s a reason it happened. And the reason was so I could meet you. I’m very happy I was able to spend this week with you. So, thank you.”

His smile widened. “Welcome.”

They drove the rest of the way in silence. When he pulled up in front of her house, she took an envelope out of her purse and handed it to him with the cash for the fare.

“What’s this now?” He turned the envelope over in his hands.

“It’s nothing, really. Just something I thought you could use.”

“Should I open it?”

She nodded and he opened it carefully, unfolded the typed letter inside and read the opening line. “Dear Caroline.” He turned quickly to Mara.

“It’s what I think you’d want to say to her,” she said. “It’s everything you told me, the way I think you’d write it if you could . . .”

“Get my head ta make the words come out how they sound in my heart,” he finished.

“Yes.”

She waited while he read the rest of the letter. When he was finished, he folded it carefully and put it back in its envelope, which he set on the passenger seat, under his jacket. “You’re right,” he said. “It’s exactly what
I’ve always wanted ta tell her. In all the words I’ve felt inside but could never get ta come out right on paper.” He shifted in his seat and leaned toward her. “Thank you. For doin’ this for me.”

“You don’t have to use the whole thing. Only the parts you think are good.”

“I’ll use every single word.”

She took his arm after he opened her door and they walked to the house in silence. When she started to turn the door handle, he put his hand on hers and stopped her.

“Why is it, I wonder, that you’re doin’ yer own little twelve-step program this week? Thankin’ people? Givin’ me this gift?”

She looked up at him and smiled. And then she leaned toward him and kissed him on the cheek. “Harry. You know the rules. No questions, no comments, no sympathy, no judgment.”

“Huh,” he said, frowning, and she could tell he was regretting his own rules. But he gave a small smile and nodded. “Okay, then,” he said, and started down the walk to the cab.

After a few steps he turned to her and said, “This ain’t goodbye, though, right? We’ll go ta the school again together on Monday? I’ll get ya a little after eleven?”

“Sure,” she lied. “A little after eleven. That’d be great.”

“See ya Monday, then.” And he turned around and walked to his car, thrusting an arm high in the air as he went.

Scott

Curtis had cried from the minute he woke up in the morning until long after they returned home from LaDania’s memorial service. Scott couldn’t calm him down, and Bray and Laurie didn’t do any better. Finally, Pete threw out a Hail Mary involving ice cream and the boy’s tears stopped for the time it took them to drive to the ice cream place and watch him inhale a gigantic sundae.

They started up again close to bedtime. Laurie took a shift cuddling with him on his bed until he cried for Scott, who stayed for well over two hours before Bray tagged in. Around eleven, Bray dropped onto the couch, spent. The boy was still whimpering a little, he said, but he was close to sleep. Scott went upstairs and poked his head around the door. Curtis didn’t stir, so Scott stole into his own room and slid into bed beside his soundly sleeping wife.

He lay beside her for ages, trying to coax his body into sleeping. He was beyond exhausted, yet the gears in his head would not stop spinning. He glanced at the rise and fall of Laurie’s shoulder and wondered if he should wake her. But what good would that do? Lifting himself carefully out of bed, he crept out of the room and down the hall, pausing at Curtis’s door. The boy was still splayed on his bed, legs spread wide, arms flung at right angles above his head. His breathing was slow, the
emotional toll of the last twenty-four hours having dragged him into a deep slumber.

Downstairs, Scott poked his head into the family room, where Bray lay sprawled along the length of the couch and then some, looking as comatose as his younger brother. The kitchen clock read five after one. He spotted his laptop on the table and wondered what the chances were that any of his friends would be online. 2boys was a night owl, and he’d been uncharacteristically sweet since Scott had given them all the tragic update late yesterday, but his boys always had Sunday morning hockey or lacrosse practice or both. LaksMom and her husband had a date night, and while it had never stopped her before from popping in with a short comment while she powered down from the night and her husband crashed, she had warned that she might not be on.

Muttering a silent prayer that Phoenix or flighty or SNW would be around, Scott carried the computer to the living room couch, opened the forum and clicked to the end of the day’s thread. They had been discussing religion last, he saw, either because that was the subject SoNotWicked had introduced in the morning or because that’s where the conversation had led over the course of the day. As a group, they weren’t the best about staying on topic. To Scott’s delight, the time stamps on 2boys’s and flightpath’s most recent posts showed they had posted only minutes ago.

Sunday, April 10 @ 1:08 a.m.

MotorCity wrote:

Hi all. Checking in to say the memorial service was good. LMan produced his body weight in tears and won’t be able to cry again for another six years or so, but he’s (finally) sleeping now and I think with time, he’ll be okay.

He hit “post field,” walked to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of scotch. He took a long sip, grimacing as the liquid burned down his
throat before returning to his laptop and hitting “refresh.” Bingo—friends awake and to the rescue.

Sunday, April 10 @ 1:12 a.m.

flightpath wrote:

@MotorCity—Thanks for the update. We’ve been thinking about you. My heart goes out to you and the little man, his brother and your wife.

Sunday, April 10 @ 1:15 a.m.

2boys wrote:

dude, been thinkin of you. i know the little man will be okay. kids are resilient. which doesn’t mean it’ll be easy—we have our share of motherless-boy tears here every now & then as you know. your guy’s got big brother to help him through, and that’ll help a lot. so how’s brother doing? and how you feeling about it all?

ps—note how i’m refraining from mentioning the drubbing the tigers took last night. see how sensitive i can be?

Sunday, April 10 @ 1:19 a.m.

MotorCity wrote:

@flighty—thanks. What’re you doing up so late, btw?

@boys—you’re a real gem for not mentioning the loss. As for how I’m feeling about it . . .

Scott lifted his hands from the keyboard. He wasn’t sure how he was feeling about it. He had been so consumed with the funeral, and with attending to Curtis, he hadn’t had a chance to consider it. Which was a good thing, now that he thought about it. It hadn’t been a cheerful day by any stretch but he hadn’t been aware of the knot in his stomach or the pain at the back of his head that had plagued him last night. Until now.

He walked to the front window, a hand on his neck, massaging.
Glancing up and down the street, he eyed with envy the blackened windows of his neighbors’ houses and imagined them all sleeping peacefully inside. He wondered if he would ever fall asleep easily again, after this. Or would he be up night after night, looking for someone to talk to online? Pacing. Regretting. Resenting.

He drained his glass and carried it into the kitchen. He couldn’t make a habit of this, he told himself. Insomnia was one thing, but drinking alone late into the night wouldn’t work long-term. He would let himself have a second glass tonight, given how hard today had been. But from now on, he would limit himself to one. He poured a double.

On the way back to the living room, he stole another glance into the family room, expecting to see a sleeping basketball player still stretched out and snoring on his couch. But Bray’s feet were on the floor and he was bent forward, head in his hands. Scott could hear him taking deep breaths as though trying to keep from throwing up. He cleared his throat and Bray’s head snapped up.

“Coach! I didn’t know you were still up.”

“I was on the computer. Couldn’t sleep. Guess I’m not the only one.” He smiled sympathetically. “Thinking about your mom? It’s got to be tough, man. I’m a lot older than you, and I still like having my mom around.”

“It isn’t her. I mean, I’m sad about her, for sure. But I’ve got to move on, take care of the family still around me. Curtis.” He struggled to give a confident smile, but his mouth ended up in a frown. And Scott had caught the strain in his voice.

“Something wrong?” Scott asked.

“No. Yes.” Bray sighed and leaned back against the couch, looking exhausted. “I don’t know. I thought I had it all worked out in my head, you know? But now I’m not sure. I talked to some of the guys at the church today.” Bray’s teammates, as well as his coaches, had made the trip from Ann Arbor for LaDania’s service.

“And?”

“And I was telling them how I was planning to quit school, come home and raise Curtis. And some of them got it straightaway. My roommates, you know, they’ve been on board all along. And some of the others, too. They’d do the same thing, they said, no question. But a couple of them were saying it’d be the biggest mistake I could make. And not only for me but for Curtis, too. And then the Johnsons came over, and Pastor John. And Mr. Johnson and the pastor, they got it right away, too, how I’d want to step up, keep him out of the foster care system.

“But Mrs. Johnson, she was not having it.” He leaned forward again, elbows on his knees, and let his forehead fall to his hands. “She said my quitting and looking after him is stupid. She said as much as I owe it to myself to keep going in school, I owe it to Curtis to let him be raised by people who know how to be parents. She was all on me about how thinking I can raise him myself isn’t putting him first at all. Letting real parents do it is the best for him. I thought quitting, moving home with him, was best. But Mrs. Johnson, she’s right about me not knowing how to raise him. And now I don’t know what I should do.

“Do you think I should do what she says, Coach?” He looked up at Scott. “Do you think I should let someone else take him—?” His voice cracked and he paused for a few seconds before speaking again. “I want to do what’s right. What’s best for him. And sure, I want to get my degree. Get drafted if I can. But sending him to live with strangers . . . ?”

He dropped his head again and covered his face with his enormous palms. “I don’t think I can do that to him, Coach. I don’t want to do the wrong thing by taking him myself. And I don’t want to quit Michigan. But strangers?”

Lowering himself to the couch, Scott set his glass on the coffee table and slid it sideways. Bray took a sip, made a sour face and pushed the drink back. “Don’t think throwing up is going to help me, but thanks.”

They sat quietly for a few minutes, and then Bray asked, “What do you think I should do?”

“I’ve been biting my lip for the past two days,” Scott said. “Gnawing
on it, really. Because you told me you wanted my support, and I promised I’d give it. And my wife ordered me to keep my mouth shut and keep my promise. You sure you really want to hear what I think?”

“Please.”

“I think Mrs. Johnson’s absolutely right,” Scott said. “I think you should stay in school. Not only for your sake but for Curtis’s, too. I know you think the right thing to do is for you to stop everything and look after him because you’re family. And I think you’re amazing for even considering it. But Jesus, Bray. I’m twice your age and most of the time this year I was in way over my head looking after the little man. He’s a great kid, but—”

“I know. He’s a handful.”

“He is,” Scott said. “And I would’ve had a hard time with him at thirty, let alone twenty. Especially if I’d been on my own. There were two of us here and we were so tired some nights we could barely keep our eyes open through dinner. It’s exhausting. All the homework and discipline and cooking and laundry and tuck-in time and . . . all of it. And you add work to that, and doing it without help? At twenty?”

Bray nodded slowly. “I could screw it up for both of us.”

“Anyone could,” Scott said. “But maybe someone who’s done it before, who has someone else to help, has a better chance of making it work.”

“I can see it,” Bray whispered. “I can see the sense in it. But if I send him to be with someone he doesn’t even know? I don’t know if I could live with myself.”

“I know.”

They were both quiet for a while, until Scott said, “Look, I don’t want him to be with strangers, either.” He took a deep breath, and another, trying to collect his nerves. He rubbed his hands over his jeans, from hip to knee, then the other way. He stood, walked to the fireplace, set his drink on the mantel. He picked it up again. Glass in his hand, he turned to the couch where a confused and anxious-looking twenty-year-old followed his every move.

He tilted the glass to his lips, feeling the scotch burn down his throat and into his stomach. The knot of tension that had been there since the day before loosened a little. Was it the scotch, he wondered, or was it that he was finally going to say precisely what his body had been urging him to say?

He cleared his throat. “What if you don’t leave him with strangers? What if . . . you leave him with me?”

“But I thought . . .” Bray stammered, looking confused. “I thought Laurie didn’t want . . . He’s been such a pain, and the new baby and all—”

“Maybe she’ll change her mind?” Scott said, shifting his gaze quickly. He took another sip of scotch, hoping to drown the doubt.

“You’d do that?” Bray asked. “You’d keep him till—”

“Until whenever,” Scott said. “Until you graduate, if the pros lose their minds and don’t take you. Or until you retire from the NBA, if they’re smart and snap you up. Or until forever, if you want to live your own life, have your own family. I’d understand it if you did. Anyone would. And you could see him anytime. Come here for Thanksgiving, Christmas, same as you did last year. Have him come see you for a week here and there if you want, or for the summer, or whatever. You could still be his brother. But you wouldn’t have to feel responsible. Stuck. Trapped. Whatever it is you’re feeling.”

“It’s all those things,” Bray whispered, running a massive hand over his head. “I feel bad. I feel like I’m a bad brother, a bad person, admitting it. But yeah, it’s all those things, like you said. Trapped. Stuck. There I was in the car yesterday, talking this big game about how I’d never do that to family, that’s not who I am. And it’s not. I don’t want to leave him stranded. But I don’t want to screw things up for him, either. I’m twenty years old, Coach. I’ve got no idea how to raise a kid. I’d mess it up. For him and for me.”

“I’ll talk to Laurie,” Scott said. “See if we can work something out. Okay?”

“Okay,” Bray said, wiping his cheeks. “But if she says no, I don’t want
you worrying about it. I’m crying now like a baby, but it’s only because it’s been a tough day, seeing Curtis cry so much, saying goodbye to my mom. Thinking about all of this. But this isn’t your problem, Coach, it’s mine. And I’ll deal with it, make whatever decision I need to—” His voice broke and he stared at the floor before dragging his eyes up again to meet Scott’s. “I’ll be fine.”

“I know,” Scott said. “But don’t decide anything yet, okay? Give me a little time to see what I can do. Give me until tomorrow night. I’ve got a little time left, before I take the little man to Monster Trucks in the morning, and after we get back. If I can’t figure out a way to make things work here, you can go to the hearing on Monday, tell the judge what you’ve decided. Just give me till then, okay?”

Bray nodded, his shoulders now shaking with sobs.

“Hey,” Scott said, sitting beside the young man again and reaching an arm around his broad shoulders. “That was supposed to make you feel better, not worse.”

“I do feel better,” Bray said. “I feel . . . I can’t describe it.” He wiped at the tears but they kept coming. “It’s just that since I heard about my mom, I’ve been thinking my life was over, you know? And now you’re saying maybe I get to keep living it. Curtis, too. Second time, Coach. This is the second time you’re stepping in to save us.”

Scott opened his mouth to answer. But no words came.