The Remedy for Regret (2 page)

So I picture his co-worker, another doctor I like to call Eddie, coming through those double doors with a weight on his shoulders that you can actually see. He walks over to my father and says those words movie doctors say when a patient dies.

“We tried everything,” Eddie says softly, laying a hand on my dad’s shoulder.

Joey, who has been standing the whole time, walks quickly over to my dad and sits down next to him. He wraps his arm around my father’s bent shoulders.

My dad doesn’t ask about me. But he probably thinks I am fine. I had been born several hours earlier, three weeks early, but with no complications. The trouble for my mother didn’t start until the very end of labor when she started to feel strange. For a long time I didn’t know what it was that had made her feel so sick. I tried asking my father about it—many times—but he would just smile a weak grin that had no sincerity in it and say, “It just happens sometimes.” I remember asking him when I was ten and he saying something like, “Tess, sometimes there are complications when a woman gives birth and no matter how hard you try, you just can’t do anything about them.”

“What kind of complications?” I had asked.

“It’s complicated, Tess,” he said after a long pause, not even realizing he was telling me the complications were complicated, nor that he was giving me the answer a doctor would give, not a father.

I tried asking Joey too, that day we went out for ice cream. I knew he knew how it happened. He was a dentist on base. All the medical personnel had to know how my mother died. Stuff like that didn’t happen very often. It had to have been discussed at every water cooler, coffee maker and cluttered desk in the hospital.

At first he wouldn’t tell me. He wouldn’t confirm that he knew what it was that killed her, but I knew he knew because he wouldn’t look at me when he told me I should just leave it.

“She died in childbirth, Tess,” Joey said. “It happens sometimes.”

“You sound just like my dad,” I told him and I stopped eating my ice cream.

“And she didn’t die in childbirth,” I continued, like I was desperate for someone to acknowledge I was not responsible for what happened to her. “She died afterward.”

Joey had sighed then. He stopped eating his ice cream, too.

“You can’t change the past,” he said gently.

I just sat there and said nothing. I didn’t know how to tell him I wasn’t trying to change the past. I was trying to understand it.

Then Joey sighed and said very quietly, “It was an embolism, Tess.”

The word struck me to the bone and I didn’t even know what it meant.

“What’s an embolism?” I whispered.

I could tell Joey was wishing he had said nothing. He picked up his napkin and spoon like it was time to go.

“It’s when something that doesn’t belong in the lungs gets in the lungs, Tess,” he said, not looking at me. “Promise me you will drop this. Promise me you will not mention this to your dad. I don’t know why he hasn’t told you, but he hasn’t. So I want you to promise me.”

When he asked me to promise him those two things, that’s when he lifted his head and looked at me.

At first I said nothing. That word just kept swirling around in my head.
Embolism. Embolism
. It made absolutely no sense to me. What did a woman’s lungs have to do with giving birth? My father had already told me everything about having babies. We had had the sex talk. I knew which body parts produced a child and which didn’t. It was like telling me she gave birth and then died of a gunshot wound.

But the more I thought about it the more I decided it couldn’t possibly have anything to do with me at all and I could live with that. And I did. For about five months. But that day at the ice cream parlor I thought I knew everything so I promised Joey I would drop it and that I wouldn’t mention to my dad that Joey had told me anything.

So for a little while longer, the black night ended in my mind with the man I have named Eddie standing by a weeping man, my father. Next to my father is Joey with his strong arm around him. Joey is trying to be brave for my father, but the tears are streaming down his face, too.

This is where it stops. I have never been able to adequately imagine the next minute, the next hour, the next day.

My father doesn’t ask about me. He thinks I am fine.

I
f I close my eyes I can almost feel the ocean breeze, hear the sounds of island birds and the melodic pull of the Portuguese language. Even on the coldest and windiest of Chicago days, I can taste the salt in the air if I close my eyes and imagine it. Sometimes I wish my dad had taken more pictures when he lived in the Azores. Other times I am glad he didn’t.

About a year ago, Simon told me that he would take me back to Terceira if I wanted to go. We were cuddled on the couch, enjoying expensive coffee while an early spring thunderstorm raged outside our apartment building. It was a rather tender moment. Up to that point Simon had not shown much personal interest in my private little world of sorrows, not even when he finally understood how much I had contributed to my mother’s death. I surprised him by telling him after just a moment’s thought that I really didn’t want to visit Terceira; that I was happy with the pictures I had in my head. If I were to go to the Azores and see the islands for myself, I might realize that the pictures in my head are all wrong. I’d rather believe that the way I envision my island is exactly the way it is than to actually see it and discover it is not that way at all.

Simon brought it up again this past Christmas, but that was the last time. I doubt it even crosses his mind these days. Now that he is locked within his own little world of sorrows, he has forgotten he had ever asked. And that he even thought of asking.

There are only a few photographs among my mother’s things, none of the island itself. I carry a photo of her in the canvas bag I bring to work every day. She is pregnant with me, but it is early into the pregnancy and the photo doesn’t show that nestled under her skin and muscle is my tiny, forming body. She is sitting on a cement step at the entrance to the little duplex my parents shared with two married lieutenants. I can imagine that behind my mother—behind the house—is the sandy coastline and beyond that, an endless expanse of ocean. But all you can see past her head is a door.

Dad stayed at Terceira after her funeral. He was expected to ask for a reassignment for humanitarian reasons. Joey told me he would have gotten one, too. But he came back, bringing my grandmother, his mother, with him. She stayed for six months. I was too young and new to go to England with him for the funeral. At least that’s what he told me when I was older. I think he was simply too anguished to care for me himself. Joey and his wife, Marlys, watched over me the four days he was gone.

Just a few months after I met Simon, we were at a restaurant, eating clams and linguini, and he asked me if I had family in England. Did my mother have parents who lived there? Did she have siblings? I spoke the answer quickly so that I didn’t have to dwell on the names or imagine the faces.

“Her father died when she was fifteen and her mother passed away a couple of years after I was born,” I said. “She has a brother who still lives in England. His name is Martin. We’ve never met. So, do you want to split some dessert?”

One of the things I have always liked about Simon is he never complains when I want to change the subject.

Now as I stand in the kitchen with our angry, hurtful words filling my head I am wondering what are some of the things Simon has always liked about
me
. At the moment nothing comes to mind. I look at the glass I am clenching in my hand. My fingers are turning white around it. I set it down carefully on the kitchen counter.

I should make Simon and myself something to eat, but I have no appetite. I start to wonder if Simon has eaten anything at all today when I see two bowls in the sink. One with severely dehydrated Cheerios stuck to the side, another with slightly less dehydrated Cheerios stuck to the side. Simon had a bowl of Cheerios for breakfast and one for lunch. A tired smile crosses my face as I imagine myself calling out to the other room, “Hey, how about Cheerios for dinner?” But then I hear the front door open and close. He has left.

I walk back into the living room and blink at the empty chair, then at the little table by our front door. Simon has not taken my car keys, though it didn’t really cross my mind that he would. He hasn’t driven since the night of the accident. I am trying to decide if it is good that he has left the apartment for a little while—even if only on foot—or if I should follow him to make sure he doesn’t try to find a way to hurl himself off the John Hancock building. I honestly don’t know what to do.

I ease myself into the fifty-dollar chair, warm from Simon’s body, wondering how to call out to God. Wondering if I can. Wondering if there is any point.

I think of the little church in Arkansas that sat on the corner of my street where I lived when I was twelve and I immediately see my friend Jewel’s father, the pastor, swaying as he prays to the God he loves. I remember being in awe while my other friend, Blair, whispered next to me, “He’s nuts!” I am reminded of how I envied that man’s faith.

God seems very far away to me right now.

Now that I am home, away from the boutique and my lovely beach scene, my mother and my island are floating away, too, being replaced as I sit in the chair with thoughts of Jewel Mayhew’s dad.

No, not Jewel’s dad. Her mother.

Spontaneous thoughts of Corinthia Mayhew unnerve me in a way that is difficult to put in plain words. Of all the people I have ever met, she is the one who, at the very thought of her, makes me want to step back and see if I have accomplished anything worthwhile with my life.

Corinthia is the first person I met when Dad and I moved into our rented, two-story brick house in Blytheville, Arkansas. It had only been a matter of days since Joey had breathed the word “embolism” and it was still swirling around in my twelve-year-old head. I didn’t want to move to Arkansas, especially in the middle of the school year. I had made friends in Omaha the three years we were there and like any twelve-year-old, I believed friends were more life sustaining than air and water.

Dad and I had made the drive to his new base in two days, dragging a little U-Haul behind our Volvo station wagon with the bare essentials. We lived in a cheerless temporary living facility, which everybody called the TLF, for the first eight days. The only good thing about the TLF was that I met Blair there; a twelve-year-old cynic like me who was brought kicking and screaming to Blytheville from a base in New York.

It was the first week in January and everything was gray, including my mood. Dad pretended not to notice. Or maybe he was too preoccupied getting settled onto a new base to notice. He brought me to see the brick house after my third day at my new middle school, which thankfully Blair was attending even though she was going to be living on base. Blair watched us leave the temporary living facility to go look at the house with contempt written all over her face. Her father, a B-52 pilot, was required to live on base in one of the dozens upon dozens of look-alike duplexes behind the TLF.

I liked the house well enough. Without our things inside, it was hard to imagine it being my home. Dad liked the fireplace and the built-in bookshelves. I liked the wood floors and glass doorknobs.

As Dad signed the rental agreement and talked over the utilities with the owner, I stepped outside into the barren backyard. It was gray and dreary.
Is there any place that looks good in January?
I was wondering.

I was gazing at a large tree at the edge of our backyard whose branches fanned out far into the adjoining yard. A waist-high picket fence bordered the two yards and I went and stood by it, leaned on it. I didn’t see or hear Corinthia Mayhew approach me from behind.

“In the spring it will be covered with white blossoms the size of dinner plates,” said a voice behind me.

I had jumped and then quickly turned around.

On the other side of the fence stood a tall, slender woman with creamy, chocolate-colored skin. She had deep brown eyes and her wiry black hair was swept up into a clip on the back of her head.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said, smiling. She was wearing a flowery skirt, even though it wasn’t much above thirty degrees outside, and a purple, woolly jacket. Over one arm she carried a black leather purse by its handle. It was nearly bursting with its contents.

“I’m Corinthia Mayhew.” She extended her free hand.

Everything about her had me mesmerized. Her voice with its heavy Southern accent, her deep brown eyes, her height, her bulging purse. And her name.

I shook her hand but could not say anything.

“And you are?” she said gently.

I blushed.

“Tess Longren,” I said.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Tess,” she replied. “Y’all movin’ in next door?”

She motioned with her head to the brick house.

I nodded.

“Well, we’ll be neighbors then!” she said, genuinely pleased. “That’s my house,” she said, using the arm that carried the purse to point toward a white house next door.

“I have a girl who must be about your age,” she continued. “You twelve? Thirteen?”

“I’m twelve. I’ll be thirteen in May,” I said, captivated by her purse. It has always been a thing with me. I’ve always been drawn to purses carried by mothers. It seemed silly when I was little and it still does. I could see a wallet sticking out of the top of Corinthia’s purse. It was fat with pictures.

“Well, my Jewel is twelve, too!” Corinthia said, beaming. “When are y’all movin’ in? Y’all with the air base, then?”

“The movers are coming tomorrow,” I said, already wondering what Jewel would be like and if I had already seen her at school and didn’t know it. I had never had a friend with such an unusual first name before.

“My dad’s a major in the Air Force. He’s a doctor,” I added.

“Well, isn’t that just fine,” she said. “We love having neighbors from the air base. We love to hear y’all’s stories of all the places you’ve lived. Me and the pastor—that’d be Samuel Mayhew, my husband; he’s pastor of the church on the other side of our house—we never lived anywhere but right here. The last family that lived in your house moved here from Spain! Imagine that!”

I glanced over at the church on the other side of Corinthia’s house. It was on the corner of the street. Simple and white with a tall, pointed steeple. I couldn’t see the sign that gave its name.

“You have other kids?” I asked. I am not sure why I asked this at this point. Maybe it was because, being an only child back then, I was overly curious about families with more than one child. I tended to be a little envious of friends who had brothers and sisters.

“I’ve got
five
,” Corinthia said proudly. “They are my whole world, they are.”

Corinthia looked back to her house like she expected to see five faces smiling back at her through the windows.

“How about you?” She turned back to me. “You got brothers and sisters?”

“No,” I said, looking back at the tree towering over our heads. “It’s just me and my dad.”

Out of the corner of my eye I could see her nodding her head, putting things together.
Would she ask it?
I remember thinking.
Would she ask about my mom?
I hated it when I could tell people wanted to know about my mother but were too chicken to ask.

Corinthia wasn’t too chicken.

“Where’s your momma, Tess?” she said gently. Simply.

With my eyes still on the tree I told her. “She died right after I was born,” I said.

For a moment, Corinthia said and did nothing. Then she reached out her arm and touched me on the shoulder. It was a gentle touch but I could tell there was strength there.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. “But I am glad your Daddy has you to look out for him.”

I turned to look at her. No one had ever said anything like that to me before; that it would’ve been far, far worse for my Dad to have lost us both that night.

“Tess, it would be my pleasure when the movers are done tomorrow if you and your Daddy would join my family and me for supper.” Her hand was still on my shoulder.

“Well, I’ll have to ask my Dad,” I stammered, wondering if Corinthia was this nice to everyone. I was already figuring she probably was.

“Of course, of course,” she said. “Tell him sixish, but we’ll wait for y’all if things are runnin’ late for you.” She dropped her arm.

“Okay,” I wasn’t sure what to say next. It seemed like our conversation was winding down. I turned back to the tree we shared between us.

“You ever seen a magnolia tree in bloom, Tess?” Corinthia said.

“No, I don’t think so,” I answered.

“The blossoms are as big as dinner plates.
Dinner
plates,” she said smiling up at the enormous tree. “Just you wait and see. When spring comes, you’ll see how beautiful the world can be after a long winter.”

Then she turned to me.

“Things will be beautiful again, Tess. After a time,” she said, and her eyes were bright with a message she was trying to convey to me.

Corinthia did not know it then, nor did I, that my life would take several unexpected and defining turns within months of meeting her; turns that would call to mind this message about holding onto hope when you can’t see what lies ahead. There was no way to know that five months later I would stumble across my mother’s medical records while looking for summer clothes, nor that my Dad would meet Shelley that June, nor that Jewel, Blair and I would find an abandoned, crippled infant on the steps of Jewel’s church in July, and that all these things would happen to me within the span of three months. Nor did I know that these three separate events were like strands of a common thread, tangled and indistinguishable as being connected, but joined at the middle nonetheless. I was unaware, even for years afterward, that the thread began and ended with three mothers and their children: My mother and me, the crippled infant and the mother who had abandoned him, and the woman who would become my stepmother and who would, in time, bear my father’s child and live. But all I knew then was that I was already troubled by many things and Corinthia had sensed it.