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“YOU SOUND WEIRD,” my daughter remarked when I answered her call the following morning.
"Exercise,” I confessed. I’d been doing some actress’s muscle-toning routine on the living room floor. “What's up?"
"Bad news," Chelsea warned. "Mrs. Zumstein died early yesterday."
"Oh my! What happened?"
"She fell out of her hospital bed and broke her hip. She survived that surgery, but they think a blood clot probably broke loose and caused a fatal stroke.”
I murmured something appropriate.
“Yeah,” Chelsea agreed. “Rotten luck, but it gets worse. Cissie says the doctor was extremely rude to Eric. Practically accused him of causing the fall. He was so rattled he phoned Cissie at her house."
"At least he didn't go over," I thought out loud. "How is she? Do you know?”
"Okay for now.” Chelsea explained that when she’d noticed Cissie bringing in her trash can, she had scurried out for hers just to check on her next-door neighbor. “That's when she told me about Eric's call."
"What had the doctor said to Eric?"
"That he doesn't believe Mrs. Z could have removed her IV by herself, not with a broken left wrist and her whole right arm in a cast. She'd been sedated, too.
“I don’t know, Mom. It does sound suspicious, but Eric said he wasn't anywhere near the room when it happened.”
I appreciated that my sensitive daughter preferred not to think ill of her private singing project, but I also remembered how frightened Maisie had been of her grandson after her original fall. So frightened she refused to let Eric accompany her to the hospital. At the time Maisie had believed Eric was her ex-husband, so I’d assumed her fear was part of her delusion.
The doctor's suspicions prompted me to have second thoughts. Mistaking a face was common among the elderly; failing to recognize physical danger was not. So it wasn’t impossible for Maisie to be wrong about who Eric was but perfectly correct about the threat he posed.
Although the second accident may not have directly caused Maisie's death, any fall at her age certainly held that potential—as anyone who'd seen how fragile she was would have known.
"The funeral is eleven on Saturday. You want to go?" Chelsea inquired.
We agreed to go together, but not for the same reasons. While I applauded my daughter for wanting to nurture Eric's talent, if he’d had anything to do with his grandmother's death, I wouldn’t hesitate to orchestrate his downfall. Would I hate for that to happen? Certainly. But for Maisie’s sake— and my daughter’s long-term safety—I would.
Still, my internal conflict disturbed me the rest of the day. I hammered down an exposed deck nail so hard that the impact bruised my hand. I scowled at the ground all the way through the park and back; and when the government census guy came knocking again, I slammed the door in his face.
***
BIG SURPRISE. What men did when they were gone all day wasn't the magic act Susan Swenson had been led to believe. The paycheck in her purse proved she could do it, too; and the revelation made her feel as if a larger, stronger woman had taken possession of her body.
She also saw her husband with fresh eyes. Watching him across the table as they ate a late supper, he seemed ordinary, like just another guy eating and drinking and talking about himself. Where was the powerhouse she’d married back in Minneapolis? When had he become a thin-haired, pasty-faced Clark Kent?
At long last the monologue about the fluctuating economy and how it irked Mike personally sputtered to an end, and Susan had her opening.
"Where were you this afternoon? I called your office, but you weren't there.” She’d been obsessing over how to deliver those lines ever since she’d spoken to the newspaper’s receptionist.
Shock registered on her husband's face in slow motion.
"It was the third time in three days, Mike. Where have you been?”
"I’m not listening to this shit." He grabbed his empty drink glass.
Susan dogged him to the kitchen. Leaned loosely against the doorjamb. "I'm just curious," she stated in what might have passed for a reasonable tone. "Why can't you answer me?"
Mike gave her one of his long-suffering sighs.
"I was working, Susan."
"Doing stuff for the paper." Even to her she sounded snotty; and, just that fast, super-Susan deserted her.
"Yes. Doing stuff for the paper. I work for the paper, remember?"
She was sniveling already, but now that she’d started, she needed to finish.
"The receptionist said Ernie’s been all over you for taking too much personal time. Is there somebody else, Mike? Do I need a lawyer? Tell me. I have a right to know."
"Oh, for God's sake, Susan. I've been looking out for you and Jackie. Same as always."
"But Cathy said..." The receptionist. The person who set this train wreck in motion.
"Cathy has a big mouth." Mike moved as if to leave the room, but he couldn’t get past. "Do you mind?"
This close he felt like the hot stove Susan’s mother had warned her never to touch.
Voice thin as glass, she asked if they needed to move again.
Mike put his hands around her arms. The chill of his drink glass made her shiver. "Don't I always take care of you and Jackie? Eh? Don't I?" The look in his eye resembled pity. "Don't I?"
Susan averted her face, tucked her chin tight against her shoulder, gave him the required, "Yes."
Victorious, Mike wheeled away.
Then he turned back, forced himself to speak calmly into the hair that covered her ear. "I'll kiss Ernie's ass for a week or two, put in a little overtime, and be back on track. Don’t worry, Suze. Okay? That's an order."
He clamped her in a tight, if not loving, embrace.
She was ready to let go first; but, as it was, she had to wait for him.
***
CISSIE VOIGHT ACHED to her bones. The baby had a summer cold, maybe even an ear ache, and until moments ago cried every time she was put down. It was midnight now, and little Caroline had finally—finally—succumbed to her own fatigue.
Cissie lay rigidly alongside her husband, facing the window to pretend she was alone. Unencumbered by concern, Ronald had begun to snore seconds after his head hit the pillow. He hated air-conditioning, or air-conditioning bills, he never said which, so the bedroom window was raised five inches—too narrow for Cissie to float through and fly away, open enough to suggest another world beyond these walls.
Ever since the first awful meltdown, each time Ronald came home had become a cruel game of Russian roulette. Some days Cissie got a husband who wanted nothing more than for her to be his wife. But too often a controlling tyrant came through the door, a man it took heaven and earth to please. And when he wasn’t pleased, the blows landed on body parts where a bruise wouldn’t show.
She wished she didn’t know how he portrayed her to their friends, but the information arrived second, and sometimes third hand—gossip disguised as concern, nosiness masquerading as advice. "Are you okay? Ronald says you've been acting strange ever since the baby, like maybe you need help." "What a catch that Ronnie is! You better look out or some young babe will steal him. Maybe even me." Ha ha ha.
Merely speaking to Eric on the phone was a terrible risk, but their conversations had become Cissie’s link to the outside world. Without the comfort of Eric's voice she feared she would lose her mind.
And now he was in trouble. She sensed it in the hushed way he told her about his grandmother's death. He sounded frightened, maybe even guilty. But of what? She refused to pursue the thought. He was her lifeline, and now she would be his.
Silent tears made cool trails across her cheeks. Life could be simple, she thought, if it weren't so complicated. In spite of everything, she still cared for her husband, still hoped and prayed he would become the husband and father he promised to be.
That he would hurt his child seemed unfathomable, but even the slightest chance he might raise his hand to Caroline became Cissie’s most compelling reason to stay. Men were being granted sole custody left and right these days, especially if the woman was a screw-up. And, as Ron was so fond of reminding her, she was a mess.