The Wally Lamb Fiction Collection: The Hour I First Believed, I Know This Much is True, We Are Water, and Wishin' and Hopin' (261 page)

“Oh, honey. Never mind.”

“No, what were you just going to say? Tell me.”

“What? Oh, just that . . . instead of coming home after work and eating supper with us, putting me to bed, he’d be out at the bars.”

“Who’s us?”

He’s getting warmer.

“Uh . . . what?”

“You said ‘instead of eating supper with us.’ You mean you and Uncle Donald?”

“Some nights, yes. But your uncle was pretty busy with all his high school activities. He’d be running some club meeting or at practice. He . . . that was how he coped with what had happened, I guess. By staying busy.”

“And
how
old were you?”

“When my mother died? Five.”

“And they’d just leave you alone? Without a babysitter or anything?”

“Well, no. . . . My cousin was living with us. He’d be there.”

“The one who got you guys out of the car that night? Kent?”

You just jumped, Annie. Did he see you jump?

“Uh, yes. Yes, that’s right. How did you—?”

“Because we read about it.”

“Read about it?”

“Yeah, Ari and me. Whenever we’d ask you about what happened that night, you never seemed to want to go there.”

“Oh. Well, honey, those were such painful memories.”

“That’s what we figured. But Dad never seemed to know much either. So one time, when we were in high school—”

“Who? You and your sister?”

“Yeah. We went to the library—downstairs to the microfilm machine. And we found all that stuff about the flood in the old newspapers. Read your mom’s obituary. Saw the pictures of the flood, the one of you and Kent at the hospital after they rescued you.”

Is this it? Is this where our secrets—

No! Stay calm. Breathe.

“Whatever happened to him, anyway?”

“I told you. He started drinking and—”

“No, not your father. Kent.”

Stop saying his name! “I . . . I don’t know, Andrew. They put me in foster care and . . . we lost touch. So I have no idea what happened to him. He moved away. Out of state, I think. And then after my Aunt Elaine died—his mother—after she died . . . He may be dead now, too, for all I know.”

Maybe. But I’m still in your head. Aren’t I, Annie?

“You should try Googling him. Maybe he’s on Facebook or something.” Relax those fists! Say something or—“But that must have sucked, huh? Having to go into foster care?”

“What? Yes. The uh . . . the family they put me with was okay, but they had kids of their own. The second family, too. It was hard always feeling like the outsider, the one who didn’t belong. I kept hoping my father would straighten himself out and take me back home, but that never happened. It was just a fantasy.”

“But he must have come for visits. Right? . . . Mom?”

I shake my head. “No, wait. I did see him once. They set up a visit at the Social Services office. But he was late, and when he finally did show up, he was drunk, so they escorted him out. I saw him for all of five minutes. . . . He sent me Christmas presents a few times at the beginning. Birthday cards. He’d mail them to the agency and they’d forward them to my foster family. But that stopped after a while. Every year I’d wait for them. Run out and get the mail, check the tags on all the presents under the tree.”

“How about Uncle Don? Did you see him?”

“Yes, he and I stayed in touch. He’d write me letters, visit during his college vacations. But the only other time I saw my father after he showed up drunk that time was when I was pregnant with you and your sister. He was pretty sick by then. Dying. He kept telling Donald he wanted to see me, so finally I went. We drove to this run-down old welfare hotel in New London where he had a room.” A shiver runs through me as I recall that room—the rippy window shades, the filthy sheets and brimming ashtrays. And that smell! “I don’t know, honey. I guess I should have gone to see him more often. After I was an adult, I mean. He couldn’t help it. It was a disease, right? But . . .”

“What?”

“It was just too hard. For one thing, I was still so angry with him for abandoning me. Choosing booze over his own daughter. And then when I got there that day, he looked so . . . I mean, if I had seen him on the street somewhere, I wouldn’t have even recognized him. Would have walked right past him. He’d been so handsome, you know? But now he was just this scrawny, pathetic old . . . And he had this terrible smell. He sat down next to me, took my hand in his and . . . his breath had this sickening sweet, fruity smell to it.”

Andrew says a word I don’t catch.

“What?”

“Ketoacidosis. We treat some of the older vets at the hospital—the Vietnam flameouts, mostly. A lot of hard-core alkies get that breath. They come in dehydrated, malnourished. Their body can’t synthesize glucose so their ketone levels spike. It’s a liver problem.”

“That’s what his death certificate said: liver cancer.”

“Makes sense. Hey, I’m sorry, Mom. I always figured you didn’t want to talk about things because of the flood. I didn’t know about all this other stuff. Must have been hard, huh?”

I nod. “Maybe I should have told you kids more about it if you wanted to know, but I guess I wanted to shield you and your sisters from it. . . . Hey, I made a lot of mistakes, Andrew. I just wasn’t a very good mother.”

“Yes you were, Mom. Don’t say that.”

“No, I wasn’t. The way I’d fly off the handle—at you, especially.”

He smiles. “Yeah, well, I gave you good reason.”

“No, you didn’t. I remember how scared you looked that day when I pulled over to the side of the road and made you and Ariane get out of the car. . . . And my god, now I find out that even my artwork scared you.”

“Yeah, well, your crappy childhood had to come out in some way. Right?” I’m so taken with his kindness, his understanding, that I reach out and touch his cheek. “I mean sure, you had your moments. But you were a damned good mother and don’t say you weren’t.”

Whether I was or I wasn’t, I appreciate his saying it. That’s something else about my son that’s different now: he’s more sensitive. I love him so much—I always have—but I need to be done with this conversation. “Look,” I tell him. “Your movie’s back on.”

“Oh, yeah. This is the part I was telling you about. See, she’s passed out from whatever she’s taken and he can’t revive her. Now watch.”

On the screen, Uma Thurman is on the floor and they’re hovering over her: John Travolta and some shifty-looking couple. The guy fills a syringe and rears back with it. Plunges it into Uma. I turn away. “No, look!” Andrew says. And when I look back, Uma’s eyes pop open and she bolts up, like a resurrected corpse. “Awesome, huh?” Why is he laughing? Why is this funny?

He puts his half-drunk beer and the empties back in the carton and stands up. “Okay, that’s the scene I was waiting for. I’m beat. Guess I’ll hit the hay. You want this on?” The remote’s in his hand. When I shake my head, he deadens the TV and the room goes dark.

“Everything’s ready up there, honey. I put on sheets for you. And a set of towels on your bureau.”

“Okay, thanks. Hey, you all right?”

I nod. Look over at Marissa, cast now in silhouette. “You know what? Let’s try and get her upstairs.” I stand. Go over to her and put my hand on her shoulder. Give it a little shake. “Marissa?”

“No!” she shouts. “Get away from me!” Her flailing hand hits me on the side of my mouth. It’s okay. It doesn’t hurt, and anyway she didn’t realize what she was doing. She’s sound asleep.

“Still a brat,” her brother says. “Seriously, Mom. Just leave her alone.”

“Okay.”

I follow him out of the room and up the stairs. When we reach the top, I tell him good night. Tell him I love him. “Love you, too, Mom,” he says. He’s at the entrance to the bathroom when he turns back. “Hey, Mom?”

“Hmm?”

“Casey and me? We broke up.”

I reach out to him. Place my hand on his arm. “Oh, baby, I’m so sorry. What happened?”

He shrugs. “It just wasn’t going to work out.”

“Who broke it off? You or—”

“I did. But hey, it’s okay. Better to realize it before we got married than afterward. Right?”

“Sure, honey, but—”

“I wasn’t going to mention it just before your wedding, you know? But I told Dad when I was up there, so . . .”

“What about your sisters? Do they know?”

He shakes his head. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll live. G’night.”

“Good night.”

He closes the bathroom door behind him. Poor kid. And poor Marissa, too, passed out down there. I go to the hall closet and grab one of the extra blankets. Go back down and tuck it around her. Do that much at least.

Back upstairs in the bedoom, I turn off the light and crawl between the sheets. Rest my head on these goddamned new pillows. It’s no wonder Andrew acted so sullen this evening. It wasn’t about Viveca and me. It was about his broken engagement. Oh god, I’m exhausted. I need to get some sleep. . . .
I mean sure, you had your moments. But you were a damned good mother.
Overall, maybe. But I could get so impatient, so frustrated. Half the time, I wanted them to just go away so I could get to my work. And they had to have picked up on that resentment. Kids are perceptive. But it’s like he said: they survived. They’re all okay in spite of my shortcomings.

Who are you kidding? They’re the walking wounded, all three of them. A broken engagement, a Dr. Frankenstein pregnancy. And your third one down there, blacked out. Black and blue. Face it, Annie. I screwed you up, and you screwed them up.

Go to hell. I hope you
are
dead.

And what if I am? Our secrets are still alive. What you and I know that no one else ever found out. That it was you who dropped the baby into that cold, dark water and—

She was crying, bucking against me. And so cold, so slippery. I loved Gracie. I couldn’t hold on to her.

Was that it? Or were you jealous of all the attention she was getting?

No! It was an accident.

And what about our other secret? The things we did when we were alone?

The things
you
did. I didn’t even understand what was happening. I was just a little girl.

A naughty little girl. Touching me where I wanted you to, letting me touch you.

I missed my mother. I was confused. It was all so confusing. Okay, relax, Annie. Breathe. Go to sleep. . . . But he’s right. He damaged me, and I damaged them—the three people I love most in the world. . . . And Orion: I hurt him, too. I was unfaithful to him with Viveca, and now to add insult to injury, I’m marrying her tomorrow in the town where we raised our kids. Where tomorrow our kids will stand there and witness . . . will witness. . . .

What’s happening? Why can’t I breathe? My lungs need air! Oh god, I feel so sick. What’s that noise? Oh god, it’s me! I’m shaking so hard that the headboard is banging against the wall. Get out of my room, Kent! Don’t touch me!
. . .
I’m cold. How can I be sweating when I’m freezing cold? Gracie was so cold, so wet. I couldn’t hold her. Am I having a heart attack? Is that why my heart is pounding? Why my fingertips are numb?

Scream for help, Annie.

No, I can’t! I’ll wake them up!

Then get out of bed. Go over to your phone and call for help. Call 9-1-1. But my legs won’t move. Why can’t I breathe? Is this what drowning feels like? Please, God, don’t let me die. I don’t want to die like this. Then pray. Yes, that’s right. I’ll pray. Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day . . . Give us . . .

Okay, it’s passing. I’m up. Walking over to my phone. Turning it on. I watch it light up. Watch my fingers skid along the keys. Press the numbers. Press “send.” . . . Why isn’t it ringing? Okay, there it goes. Two rings, three, four, five. Answer it, Viveca.
Please
answer it.

“Mmph. Hello? . . . Hello?”

Speak. Say something.

“Who is this? . . . Anna, is that you?”

“Help me.” It comes out in a whisper. Did she hear me?

“Anna? What did you just say? Sweetheart, is something wrong?”

“Help me.”

And she does. Soothes me with her calming voice. Names it: panic attack. She has me say the address. Says she’s going to get up now, get in her car. Put the address into her GPS and come to me. She’ll bring the Xanax, she says. She’ll be right here. She’s coming.

I’m downstairs, waiting at the front window, when I see her headlights. I unlock the door. Open it, let her in, and fall against her, sobbing. “I didn’t know what was happening. I thought I was dying.”

“It’s all right, Anna. I’m here now. Come on. Let’s get you up to bed. You’re all right now. I’m going to stay with you.”

“No, you can’t. I promised him.”

“It doesn’t matter.” She takes my hand in hers. “Come with me.”

At the base of the stairs, I stop. Look over my shoulder and into the living room. The recliner’s empty, the blanket’s on the floor. Marissa’s woken up and gone to bed.

“Come on now, Anna. Come upstairs. . . . That’s it. Now get under the covers. You feel cold. There you go. Good girl. Now just hold on a second. I’ll be right back.”

She returns from the bathroom with a cup of water. I take the pill she gives me. Swallow it. She gets into bed. Places her body against mine and holds me. Massages my temple with her thumb. “It’s all right now, baby. I’m here. You’re here with me.”

“I was up here, trying to get to sleep, but I started thinking about my kids. Worrying about them, and then, all of a sudden, I couldn’t breathe. I thought I was having a heart attack.”

“I know, sweetheart. But just try to relax now. Okay?”

“Andrew and I were downstairs. This movie was on, and Marissa—”

“Shssh. Close your eyes and rest.”

“He started asking me about when I was a kid. About things I never talk about. And then when I came back up to bed . . . Viveca, there are things that happened when I was little. Bad things.”

“Shssh. You can tell me about them, Anna, but right now you just need to relax and go to sleep.”