Once when the children were in grade school, Ellen and Don took them along on an early-fall weekend trip to Chicago. Don had a conference, so Ellen made lunch plans with friends and afterward took the children to the Lincoln Park Zoo. It began to drizzle, so they went inside a building in the Children’s Zoo, where the main attraction was a giant play structure made of steel cables and built to look like a spiderweb surrounding a tree.
Or something. Ellen, tired and ready to meet Don back at the hotel, thought the whole thing looked menacing—narrow crawl spaces tunneled around and around, nearly up to the ceiling, filled with children. The noise was shattering. Jane, naturally, kicked off her Keds and dove right in, climbing much higher than Ellen wished a five-year-old would. Wes hesitated, so she followed him around as he peered at curled snakes and little turtles in their glass-front habitats.
Ellen, craning her neck, could barely locate Jane amid the humid scrum of shouting children. So she didn’t pay as much attention as she should have when Wesley quietly said he would give it a try. Sure enough, her sweet unathletic Wes got stuck halfway through; she heard him crying, saw his little hands holding on to the wires. Ellen tried to call up directions, encouragement, but panic kept him in a tight corner high above the ground, not budging. So she dumped her purse and shoes and tried to go after him, scraping her knees on the rubber flooring, neck and back painfully torqued in the tight, wired-in tunnel.
But Ellen too became stuck, having taken a wrong turn—she could see Wesley trapped in a tunnel directly across from her, but was unable to reach him. Backed-up kids were calling at him—go, already!—and wrestling their way past Ellen. Parents below shouted that she was going the wrong way. She had a dire moment of breathlessness.
“Wes! Wes! Mommy’s right here!” But he showed no sign of hearing her.
Suddenly Ellen saw Jane, wriggling through the tunnels. She scooted on hands and knees, past much bigger kids, and swung herself up to the platform where Wesley clung to his corner. Ellen saw their heads close together. Jane tugged at Wesley’s pant leg, and again, until he edged away from his corner. Step by step, he followed Jane: around a curving wire tunnel, down a drop hole, across a long skinny platform. It took Ellen much more work to get herself out.
When they were all three on the ground again, she hugged both and then took Jane’s round little face in both hands. “You. You!” Jane had danced away from her, on to the next thing, but with a sly smile—I am awesome … when I want to be.
* * *
Ellen should have been thinking of that moment, the tucked-in smile on her daughter’s face, as Jane approached Michael in his hospital bed, two days postamputation. Each sight of his heart-shreddingly now-shorter leg, wrapped in white bandages, still made her gasp internally. But this was the first time Jane had seen him, so Ellen didn’t know how she would react. In fact, she was tensed for … what? Crying, screaming, some form of Jane’s emotional outbursts. She wouldn’t be so uncharitable, Ellen told herself, if she weren’t so scraped out from lack of sleep. Michael had been sunk down deep again into anesthetized sleep ever since the operation, in order for his body to process this new trauma. Ellen had spent most of the past two nights in the chair next to him, just in case. She wasn’t sure she had it in her to soothe someone else right now.
But Jane went quietly into the room with none of the hesitation Ellen felt. She slipped off her shoes and dropped her coat on the floor. For a moment she stood still at the foot of his bed, the hem of her long paisley dress quivering. Ellen held herself back, in the doorway.
“Can he hear us?”
“I don’t know, sweetie. They tell me to talk to him, but … I just don’t know.”
Jane nodded, slowly. And then she went to him and put her hands on his arm. She fit them gently, so gently, under the PICC lines, and walked them, one by one, up his body. She fluttered over his stomach and chest, over the faded green-print gown. She touched his jaw and cheek, she touched the top of his head and his still-strong shoulders.
Ellen opened her mouth—be careful—but said nothing. Jane’s face was wet, but calm. Her sock feet stepped silently, the loose dress that covered her swelling belly moved with her soft motions. She murmured things Ellen could only half hear: Oh. Oh, no. Oh, Mike. Mike. She didn’t stop touching him.
And then in a swift easy motion, she climbed into bed next to him. Held her body close to his, on the other side from his damaged leg, put her arms around him and her face close to his neck. Ellen backed outside and let the door close quietly.
In the hallway, she leaned against the wall and cried. A nurse passing by touched her shoulder briefly but didn’t stop. How had she missed this? That rich, flowing intimacy in her youngest child’s touch. It was almost too much to bear. And how Jane went right for what he needed, what she must have known he needed these past weeks, more than anything—that kind of loving touch, body to body.
But how could they not have told her! What they were to each other—how could she not have known? Ellen’s tears slowed to a stop. She found a tissue in a pocket and blew her nose. She should go back in. Jane really shouldn’t be in bed with him and if a nurse saw …
But for now she left them alone, together. Apart from her.
* * *
The peace didn’t last. Back in Mologne, Jane surveyed the room in distaste.
“What, we both sleep in the same bed? It’s a double, not even a queen!”
“Unless you want the couch, honey. It’s not exactly easy to get any room here.”
“Hey, question. It’s like a regular hospital there too, right? I mean, it’s not just for the soldiers.” Jane was pulling clumps of clothing out of her backpack.
“I’m not sure, why?”
“Well, I saw online they have an ob-gyn department, so I was going to see if I could, like, make an appointment.”
“Why?” Ellen sat down on the edge of the bed. “Are you all right? Is something wrong?”
“No, I’m totally fine, it’s nothing. But do you have a directory around here? Oh, and I guess there’s the insurance issue. Do you know if they’ll take yours?”
“Jane, what?”
“Don’t freak out. It’s just that … I realized I’m missing my ultrasound tomorrow and—”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Whatever, they have those machines everywhere, and it’s not like I need to know the gender right now, the way everyone gets all hung up on that—”
“Stop. Just stop. I cannot believe how irresponsible you are! How do you expect to take care of a baby if you can’t even—”
And they were off—zero to sixty. Back and forth on the subject of ultrasounds and whether or not they were important, whether they needed to be administered on or near the dates they were scheduled. Then there were the tangents on questions of whether Jane was taking her prenatal vitamins and folic acid pills, the ones Ellen had bought her (“I would, but they make me nauseated”) and whether she’d called any of the pediatricians on the list, researched car seats, or signed up for the day care waiting list at UW. No, no, and no, with increasingly incredulous reprimands from Ellen and stonewalling shutdowns from Jane in equal, opposite force.
Then Ellen, knowing it was the worst time to bring it up, brought it up. “This is Michael’s baby. Isn’t it? Let’s be honest about it so we can figure out what to do. Wes says—”
“If you already know, then why are you even asking me?” Jane mumbled. While Ellen had been pacing the small room, she had shrunk into a sullen ball on the sagging couch, picking at the ends of her hair.
“I saw you in there! Jane, I saw—”
“Oh, are you the only one who can love Michael, Mom? You’re in charge of how everyone feels and relates to each other, right, I forgot.”
“But how long have you two … I mean, why didn’t you even tell me?”
Jane snorted, a sound programmed to light up every one of the frustration clusters in Ellen’s brain.
“Was it … serious? Did you have plans…?”
“Mom. Be real. Plans for what? Dumbass Mike losing his leg and me getting knocked up? That’d be like the worst reality show ever.”
“So it is his.”
“God. Would you just give it a rest? But yeah, so back at home we were…”
“What?”
“It’s not like it had a name or anything. It was just … You know…” Jane flipped her hands vaguely around and Ellen had to restrain herself from shaking her. She felt so stupid, imagining Mike and Jane sneaking off to various rooms in the house—in her house!—and laughing at her, how little she knew. Clueless Ellen, such a do-gooder. She wished she could have it out with Mike too.
“A fling?”
Jane glared at her. And then retreated into a private showy smirk. “Sure, okay. Yep, call it a fling. Whatever label works for you.”
“I’m just trying to understand. There are more factors at work here than you’re thinking about. First of all, you’re not even a legal adult yet. And I’m the one supporting you. So—”
“So you deserve to know all my business, is that it? You pay, I tell?”
“Would you please focus on something other than yourself for once?”
“This is about me!”
“What about Mike? What is he supposed to do about it? How much can he be involved? Do you have any idea what his life is going to be like, once he recovers from this? How are you even going to tell him? When?” Jane was crying now, but Ellen couldn’t stop herself. “How can he possibly handle all of what he’s been through, and learn he’s a father on top of that?”
“I didn’t even say it was him!”
“You need to—”
“Shut up, Mom! Just shut up, okay?”
They were so loud and livid that neither heard Lacey knock on the door, if she even did knock. But there she was, astonished, and calling them both out.
“Hey. Hey! What’s going on?”
Ellen, instantly ashamed, grew quiet and tried to calm her red face, her thumping pulse. Jane was on her feet, still shouting.
Lacey came in and quickly shut the door. “Wait a minute. Don’t you shout at your mother like that!”
“It’s all right, Lacey. We’re just—”
“Take a breath. Take a full breath.” Lacey was at Jane’s side, Jane who was gasping with tears and fury. “That kind of screaming makes you hyperventilate, and it’s not good for mom, and it’s not good for baby. Plenty of time to hash it out later.”
“But she—”
“I know, I know. Long breath out. Like that, yeah.”
“I feel dizzy.”
“Honey—”
“Let’s get her some water. You drinking enough water, sweetie? No, you’re not.” Ellen rushed back with a glass from the bathroom tap, contrite. Jane did look woozy, and she hung on to Lacey’s arm as she was guided back down to the couch. She drank the entire cup without protest.
“When’s the last time she ate?”
“Oh my God, I don’t even know—we went right to SICU after I picked her up and—”
“I had cereal this morning before the plane,” Jane mumbled. She laid her head back on the couch. “Who are you?”
“Nothing since this morning?” Ellen exclaimed. “Why on earth didn’t you say something? We could have—”
“So let’s figure out where you’re ordering from,” Lacey said, cutting her off. “Chinese or pizza, Chinese’s faster.”
“Pizza,” Ellen and Jane said, at the same time. Jane smiled at her mother, and held out her empty glass for more.
* * *
Sometime later, the box of pizza was empty except for discarded crusts. Lacey was finishing her fourth beer, Ellen still on her first, and Lacey was just light enough to feel she could legitimately help herself to the last one in the six-pack. After all, Ellen just had one to be sociable, clearly. Did she ever dress down? Even at 10:00 p.m., after a knock-down-drag-out with her teen—now that girl had issues—the woman looked ready to pour tea at church. Gray wool slacks, soft sweater, small gold hoop earrings … and stocking feet. Yes, Ellen had slipped off her nice leather flats, but she was wearing stockings or knee-highs underneath.
Lacey sighed. Everything was packed up in her room, except the clothes she had on—these too-short jean cutoffs and a holey ARMY STRONG T-shirt of Eddie’s. No bra. And that chipped purple polish on her toes … well it wasn’t like she’d planned to stick around for dinner.
Jane was asleep in the bed across the room, snoring intermittently. She was still in her clothes, but Ellen had pulled the covers up over and smoothed her dreadlocks off her face. So, Ellen’s teenage daughter was a hot pregnant mess! Lacey felt bad, but she couldn’t help liking this new development. It made Professor Ellen just a little more approachable.
“Who’s the dad?” she whispered. “She’s not going to marry him or anything dumb like that, right?”
Ellen shook her head.
“Well, you better get his parents involved. Square away the money stuff right off the bat. They’ll make him contribute, even if he doesn’t have it himself. They’ll be so pissed at him, it’ll help your cause, believe me. They’ll pay up.”
“That’s not really—never mind.”
“Let’s face it, she’ll be better off on her own. I mean, I practically have a degree in this. You don’t want some deadbeat around. That’ll hold her back more than the baby.”
But why was Ellen so silent, so serious? Avoiding a straight look at her? Oh, wait.
“It’s not…?” Lacey pointed toward the door, in the general direction of Heaton Pavilion. Ellen kept twisting her paper napkin around a finger. “It’s his? Whoa. Holy shit.”
“Holy shit indeed,” Ellen said. “She won’t say one way or the other, which means it probably is.”
“And you knew nothing? That they were…? Huh. Well, that is some crazy incestuous shit there.”
“They’re not related! For God’s sake, Lacey!”
“I know, I know. I said incestuous, not incest.”
“Stop! Would you keep it down?”
Lacey went to the minifridge, cracked open the last beer, and brought it to Ellen. Who took it, to her surprise. Over the next hour, she got Ellen to talk about all of it: Jane’s history of drama with school, partying, cops (which Lacey could have guessed anyway). Michael’s shit-box aunt and bad situation. Their family’s taking him in when—not that Ellen said this outright—they should have been paying more attention to Jane. Ellen’s (naive) assumption that there’d be no hanky-panky. And why was it somehow worse to know that it had been nothing more than “friends with benefits”—Lacey was impressed Ellen even knew that phrase—rather than some big love affair. Why did it make her feel even more stupid and left out …
Then there was a long last weepy part, which Lacey couldn’t really follow, a lot about good and bad neighborhoods in Madison and no one went to college except Wesley (who’s Wesley?) and reading lots of books against the war and now she didn’t want to read any books at all, but she missed them, but they seemed so pointless now and what was she going to do about Jane? And the baby? What was she going to do about Michael?
Jane slept on, even while the thumping bass from the wall behind the bed increased in volume. Lacey and Ellen peered into the hall and saw a gathering of others, mostly women in bathrobes or sweats, out to investigate. One of them, a tired-looking woman with big hair, pounded on the door in question and unleashed on the occupants as soon as it was opened. She held her ground—totally unacceptable, gonna call the front desk, turn it off or I’ll—even when guys in wheelchairs kept rolling out of the room to argue with her. Chair after chair—“how do they all fit?” Ellen murmured—of shaved-head wounded soldiers maneuvered their way outside to protest they’d already turned down Jeezy twice so get over it. They were drunk, laughing, and after a while the woman just gave up and left. One by one, everyone wandered back to their rooms. A few little kids, up too late, danced around the hall in pajamas before being shooed back in.
Inside Ellen’s, Lacey said, “Who knows what we’re in for over in Building Eighteen.”
“When do you move?”
“Tomorrow. That’s why I was stopping by, earlier. See if you wanted my extra space heater. I got maintenance to give me an extra. Which is illegal, I’m sure.”
“And Eddie … how is he?”
Still fucked up. “He’s good. Really good in PT. They think he’ll go outpatient soon; maybe in the next week. I mean, they’re already talking about having him show up for formation.”
“And then … stay with you? In Building Eighteen?” Ellen’s shock proved it to Lacey; this was rushed. Sending a blind man off the ward that soon? But then again, she seemed to have no energy to fight it. The process, a dozen different entities setting Eddie’s course of treatment, was like a huge bulldozer. She could only lie down.
But the thought of him there with her, in whatever shabby room she’d been shunted off to, them together and alone and that soft crazy laughing, the two of them in bed together … Lacey wasn’t sure she could bear it.
“So what do I do?” Ellen whispered. She was staring at Jane in the bed.
“You don’t tell him,” Lacey said. Here was one thing, at least, that was clear. “Do what you have to do. But don’t let her put that on him. Not here.”
Ellen nodded. She knew.