Chapter 16

Wednesday, February 26, 2014

Colleen

At about ten in the morning, I pull into the driveway of what remains of my home. The neighborhood is quiet. The clock I’d bludgeoned on the front yard is gone; if Eric saw it, he collected the pieces and never mentioned it. Which, actually, I appreciate. Over the past week or so, our interactions have been a bit friendlier. We talk every day to work through logistics: home renovation plans, insurance, the kids and who will bring them to the places they need to go to. I have been seeing the kids every day and cooking a few meals for them to eat at the condo (to supplement the frozen burritos and sugary cereal). Sometimes, I eat with them. Whatever else they eat is up to the three of them. Although I still remind Eric not to let the kids drink cola with dinner, because it does keep them awake.

Is this our new normal? It doesn’t quite feel normal. But it feels like something we can do for a while if we need to.

But today, standing before the front door of my home, my gentle, wounded house, I have a mission. The windows are boarded up, and the house looks like its eyes are gouged out. We used to enter through the side door into the kitchen, but that is where most of the damage is, so I go through the front, unlocking it with the same key I’ve used for years. The door swings open into the living room; it’s strange how unchanged it seems. The furniture is just where it was the last time I saw it. Bean bag chairs, the table, the big television. Everything covered with a gritty, black dust, probably from the smoke. There are signs that we used to live here—sloppy piles of board games and old issues of the Newburyport Daily News by the table; Ethan’s sneakers under the table, still sitting at odd angles, where he tossed them haphazardly sometime in the days before the fire. People did once live here. But now it all looks strangely abandoned.

It is cold in here, surprisingly so. The earliest the place could be livable would be late spring, but I don’t want to live here, not even then. I want a new home for me and the kids. Something small and cheap; we don’t need much space. I will get a job. I’ve never done more than front register retail before, working at a Talbot’s while Eric was in law school, but that counts as experience. And, I tell myself, I am trainable.

I wander through the house, and everything I see leads to a memory. The dining room table Eric and I bought used and refinished together. A wall with framed photos: our wedding day, my little girl holding her baby brother and flashing a broad smile—our boy and girl, so little—in bathing suits under a backyard sprinkler. The glass is tainted black from smoke, which makes it feel even more old fashioned, like it all happened in a different era. Which I suppose it did.

I leave the photos where they are but collect a few other things. Funny things. A pair of bronze bookends shaped like mallard ducks. Sturdy and unaffected by the fire, I like those; I need them. In a closet I spot a sack with a roll of yarn. A knitting project I started years ago but never finished. That I take; I’d like to do something useful with my hands. In the bedroom, under the bed, I find an old comforter sheathed in a plastic bag. I open it and take a sniff; I almost can’t smell the smoke, so I grab that too.

And in the back of my bedroom closet, so far back, I have to scramble to reach it, I pull out something else. A square-shaped something, wrapped loosely in an old sheet. I pull the sheet away and reveal an oil painting. The brushstrokes are spare; that was Mom’s style. It’s the beach at Plum Island, with the sloping shore on one side and the ocean on the other, and in between, a good distance from the artist, three small figures walk away, leaving footprints in the sand. The figures are dressed in hats and pants and sweaters, with scarves around their necks. Two tall children flank a smaller one in the middle, holding her hands.

The children are us. One child carries a bucket; that one is me. I was always collecting things to remember the day by. The tallest girl gazes out over the ocean. That’s Alex. And Riley in the middle; she is small, and we each hold one hand, lest she stumble over the cold sands of the midwinter beach.

I stare at the painting for a long time, studying the moments of color that my mother turned into a vision of a quiet walk on the beach. Gloves off, I run my fingers delicately over sharp tips and vales of hardened paint. What’s that called? Impasto, the texture of the paint on the surface of the canvas. I am seeking clues. The child who is me turns her face to look at Riley, and her lips are red and almost smiling. Alex’s face is turned toward the sea, her face visible in profile. She looks past the water, over the ocean’s surface for something far away. Riley is the only one whose face we cannot see at all; she is a hat and a flying scarf, a pair of hands reaching.

Mom is in the painting too, though unseen. She watched us, and this is what she saw: three little girls, so fragile in a big world, but determined to make their way across the sand in sneakers, one step at a time. This is a painting that only a mother would do—a painting by a mother who loved us.

And if she loved us this much, why did she do what she did? Why did she leave? I will never make sense of it.

I am sitting in the house that burned, where everything I knew and loved turned to ashes, holding a painting my mother made, and suddenly, a wave of grief goes through me. I want my Mom. She is on the other side of this object, on the other side of those brushstrokes, on the other side of so many years. If I rip the fabric off the frame and claw away at the paint, maybe I could sink down into the painting itself and see her. Just for a moment. That’s all I need.

Why did she do it? Every now and then, people in town used to ask me that, as though they assumed that there was one thing in her life that she just couldn’t handle. Maybe Dad was having an affair, or the family had financial problems, maybe three children overwhelmed her. Perhaps she just couldn’t take the cold gray of the northeast.

I don’t know, I told them. I wish I knew, but I don’t.

Suddenly, I am shivering. It’s time to go.

I load up the painting, the knitting, the blanket, and the bookends and scramble to my car. I pull out of the driveway and do not look back at the house or the neighborhood but drive through Newburyport to reach the place on the island, my home-for-now. Inside, I shed coat, gloves, hat, throw them on the floor, put the blanket and the knitting kit aside, and set the painting on the small table so that it is facing me. She started that painting in this place, on the beach outside my glass double doors. Funny to realize that, again, I am in the right place but at the wrong time. Twenty-five years earlier, and we would all be here together.

Why can’t we be together now, Mom? Just choose not to do it, and we’ll start over. Let’s have a—what do the kids call it?—a do-over. Maybe, if we all want it enough, maybe it will just be.

I look at the painting, half expecting it to respond. But the canvas keeps its secrets. I am festering here, in this place that has once again become too hot—these days, I am always either too hot or too cold. Am I in early menopause or am I having a nervous breakdown? Maybe both. I head out, slamming the cottage door behind me, and get into the car. Where will I go? Somewhere away from here.

When I have my coat on and my car keys in my hand, I get a text from Nate Hensler.

Can you talk?

I call him right back. “Hi,” I say. “What’s going on?”

“So, I talked to her,” he says. “I didn’t really plan to. I think she’d seen me watching her, which surprised me, frankly, because I’m pretty good at not being spotted.”

“How did she seem?” I say.

“She was in rough shape. I think she’d just had a bad date,” he says. “It was late, and she asked me to walk her home. Since then, I’ve learned that her agency fired her. I think it must be the drug use.”

I pace the room. “So she’s getting worse? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“She might be, yes,” he says.

“Oh, crap,” I say. “What do I do now?”

“I had a thought,” he says. “She and I kind of had a bit of a rapport that night. What if I approach her? She might actually be really glad to find out that someone’s thinking about her well-being. I might be able to persuade her that she needs her family’s support right now.”

I sit down in a chair and lean my head in my hand. I like the idea, but what if he’s wrong? What if she figures out what’s going on and pushes even further away? I don’t know that I can risk it.

“I’m not sure,” I say.

“I know it’s a gamble,” he says. “And given your family’s history, I don’t blame you if you decide against it. Obviously, I’ll do whatever you’re comfortable with.”

I squirm. I fidget. I run my hand through my hair and push on my eyes. “Damn it,” I finally mumble. “Okay, look. Talk to her. Tell her we’re worried, okay? Tell her we love her. Tell her that we are only here to help her. All right?”

“Okay,” he says.

“Just be careful,” I say. “Try not to . . . trigger her in any way.”

“I understand,” he says.

I hang up the phone. I’m mad now; I feel totally helpless. But I get in the car and drive. Somehow I end up in Peabody, of all places, at TJ Maxx, the Temple of Numbing Your Soul by Gazing at Planters and Pillows. I go inside; I appreciate being in a big, airy, well-lit store where they let you linger and peruse, let you float and stare into the distance. Nobody bothers you as long as you appear to be considering some kind of purchase, a handbag, a bedspread, Siracha plantain chips, or small tables shaped like the Buddha’s head.

I don’t know if I have made the right choice with Riley. Should I call Nate back and tell him to stay away, tell me where she is, we will go there and intervene? No, I keep telling myself. She’s keeping away from us for a reason. If I, or any of us, just barge in on her, would she talk to us? Run from us? Call the police? Fall apart? I just don’t know.

I leave without buying anything. Then, because it’s good for sightseeing, I head to Michael’s. I find myself in the aisle with the oil paints, just staring at the different colors. After standing there for a long time, I load up my arms with paints, a set of brushes, a can of turpentine, a flat plastic palette, a cheap easel, and a set of canvases. I pay for my purchases and head out.

Next, I head to Trader Joe’s and pick up a chicken Caesar salad in a plastic box and the ingredients for gin and tonics, then drive back to Plum Island. I mix myself a cocktail (in a rather large tumbler; but really, most of it is ice cubes), some gin, some tonic. I slice a wedge of lime and squeeze, then taste the concoction. It tastes bitter and sweet and fizzy and limey.

I nibble at the salad. I sit at the table in front of the painting, waiting for it to tell me what to do.

My second drink comes and goes, and then a third seems to happen.

I stare at the painting. “What do you have to say for yourself?” I finally ask the painting. It does not respond; it’s pretending to be an inanimate object. It thinks I’m going to fall for that. “You know what? You owe me an explanation. You owe us all an explanation.”

The painting does not blink, does not wince, does not even shudder slightly to acknowledge that I am speaking to it. “That’s how you’re going to play this,” I say. And then I am on the brink of tears. “Mom, for years I have been looking for you, some sign that you were with me. But you never sent one. I loved you the whole time, and I still do. I never learn, do I?”

Suddenly, the glass is empty, and I can’t remember how many drinks I’ve had, but I am surprised that this brand-new bottle of gin is just about empty. My head is swimming. Then I am lying on the floor, and I guess I’ve been here a while, crying for most of it, because my throat hurts and my eyes are burning.

I stare upward; I consider trying to push myself up, but that’s not an option right now because the floor is spinning like a carousel. I stay where I am and gaze at the ceiling, beams of bird’s-eye pine, how they whirl, so fast.

I wish I didn’t have to live through all this. It would be so easy to call everything done, just wrap it up. I have prescription painkillers left over from oral surgery—enough pills . . . don’t you think . . . on top of the gin . . . Maybe fill a bathtub . . .

“Only, I can’t!” I shout out loud. “I don’t get to do that, do I?” This time I do push myself up to standing, stumbling-standing, because actually, I am very drunk. “I have two children, Mom. And they need me. Not to mention Riley. I have no idea how to help that girl. You got any ideas? Of course you don’t. So, even though my life is crap—and believe me, it is!—I will be here for as long as my children need me. Even if it kills me!”

My hands on my hips, I feel fierce, defiant. If Mom were a ghost, I would not be surprised if she suddenly appeared before me, saying, “You can never understand what I went through.” But all I see is the room around me, and all I hear are the waves, crashing in measured rhythm on the shore beyond the cottage windows.

And that’s when the room starts spinning again; now the gin is fighting back. I race to the toilet just in time. The entire contents of my digestive system lurch out and into the Plum Island sewer system.

When my cell phone rings, I am still draped over the toilet’s edge, wiping my face with a damp washcloth. I’ve been there for a while, but I don’t know how long. I look around for my phone for a moment before I realize it’s in my hand.

It’s Alex. “Hello?” I whisper.

“Colleen, did you try to call me?” she asks.

When she asks, I remember that I did. That’s why I’m holding my phone. “Yeah,” I say.

“I’ve been trying to call you back,” she says.

“Sorry,” I say, leaning against the toilet and closing my eyes. “I’m a little under the weather.”

“Are you all right? Do you need me to bring you anything?”

My head is still swimming, and my mouth tastes of gin-flavored vomit. I start to fall apart again, but I am tired of crying, so I don’t. “Alex, the investigator found Riley.”

“He did?”

I tell her all that he and I spoke about, and what I decided. “Did I make the right call?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “Who knows if there even is a right. There’s just us doing the best we can.”

I grunt in agreement, and suddenly another wave of nausea goes through me. I hold the phone away from my face in case I throw up, but I don’t; I hold it down.

“You okay?”

“Sure,” I say, wiping the sweat off my forehead. “I just drank a bottle of gin and threw up at least half of it. I’m terrific.”

“Oh, Colleen. Gin is bad,” she says. “Are you going to pass out? If you’re at risk for alcohol poisoning, we should get you to the ER.”

I pull some toilet paper off the roll and dab my forehead. “No, I don’t need the ER. I just need to get it out of my system. Alex, I don’t want this to be my life.”

“Honey, you have a lot of major life stuff hitting you at the same time. This won’t last forever,” she says. “You’re going to get through this.”

I sniff. I blink. To hear her say it really does make me feel better. “You really think so?”

“I know it. Absolutely. But for now, let yourself fall apart. If you try to hold all this in, you’ll explode. But gin isn’t the way.”

I laugh. “I might be done with gin for the rest of my life,” I say. I sit back and wipe my head on a towel. “You know what? It’s been a really crappy winter.”

“I know,” she says. “I know it has. Hey, maybe you shouldn’t be out there by yourself. It’s kind of depressing. Come stay here.”

“Thanks,” I say. “But your house gives me the creeps.”

“Yeah, me too.”

I stand and go back into the main room, and again, I see the painting, which grips my attention as though it’s calling out to me. “Alex,” I say, suddenly. “Mom . . . she must have been in so much pain. Whatever I’m going through now, it’s nothing compared to what Mom endured. That she would leave us, that she would really go ahead with it.”

“Don’t try to imagine it, Colleen,” she says. “Mom’s pain was her own. It’s a place we should not go.”

Our mother’s pain, a place we should not go. I know she’s right. Mom felt her own pain so succinctly, in her grasp, it became diamond-hard.

“Don’t you have friends you could stay with?” she asks.

“No,” I say. I pour myself a glass of water from the sink. “I’m going to stay here. I’m getting used to it.”

“When’s the last time you saw your kids?”

“Yesterday . . .” I say.

“Okay, good,” she says. “Maybe you should get away with them. Disney or something. Do something really, completely fun.”

“They can’t,” I say. “They’re so busy with sports and so many things they won’t want to miss . . .”

“Ethan and Maddie can miss a soccer game to spend some time with their mom,” she says. “You need to do this for yourself, Colleen.”

“Maybe.”

“And, Colleen? I’m really glad you called. Call anytime. Even in the middle of the night. Even if I’m in another country.”

I guffaw at that one. If she’s in India, she won’t be available for her sister’s nervous breakdowns. Or anyway, I wouldn’t be.

“I mean it,” she says. “Okay?”

“All right,” I say. And I know she does, at least for right now. “Thanks.”