Lifelines: Kate's Story (23 page)

“Darling,
I’m devastated, too.”

She
wouldn’t cry. A mature woman needed to be understanding...

She
held the phone long after he hung up. She felt so miserably, overwhelmingly
alone. She thought of her mother and father, whose romance had been pastoral,
untouched by the realities of the twenty-first century. Kate hadn’t needed to
compete with a Wendy for David. But Alain’s wife was his lifelong friend; her
feelings and needs must be considered at every turn.

If
it weren’t for Wendy ...

Jennifer
wished she could talk to her mother. She needed advice, but knew Kate would be
shocked at her daughter’s involvement with a married man. She wouldn’t see the
love or the rightness. Essentially naïve, Kate would see only the stereotype.

But
Alain didn’t owe Wendy his life. He owed her money and emotional support, but
it wasn’t fair for Wendy to expect more. Alain said his wife was a good person,
although she was accustomed to leaning on other people, but good people weren’t
as selfish as Wendy.

Jennifer’s
mother always insisted that most people were well-intentioned. Perhaps it was
true of Wendy. She probably didn’t realize how her selfishness hurt her
husband. If she really understood, she would step aside. What woman would want
to be tied to a man who saw her as a burden, and who loved another woman? If
Alain explained to his wife how deeply he loved Jennifer ... but Alain was too
kind-hearted to hurt Wendy.

A
lain and
Wendy Trudeau lived in a ranch-style house on Magnolia bluff. Alain had told
Jennifer they bought it three years ago, when Wendy became unable to manage the
stairs of their two-story home on Washington Lake. Although Alain missed the
lake, the city house was more convenient for Wendy.

It
didn’t surprise Jennifer that Alain sacrificed his wishes to Wendy’s needs; he
had looked after her since his freshman days, long before he became an Art
History professor.

When
she parked on the street in front of the Trudeau house, it took her several
minutes to get up the nerve to leave her car. Alain, she knew, would be at the
University for another two hours. The Taurus parked in the driveway argued
Wendy must be at home, although why have a car if she was so sick? Didn’t a
disease like multiple sclerosis make driving dangerous? Alain said his wife
used a wheelchair. Jennifer knew strong people in wheelchairs could heft
themselves in and out of cars with their arms, but how could a weak person
manage? Shouldn’t Wendy be in a home, or a long term care hospital?

Approaching
the Trudeau’s front door was harder than Jennifer thought it would be.
Ridiculous to be frightened of a crippled woman, but her hand trembled as she
rang the bell.

When
a moment went by with no sound evident through the door, Jennifer’s heartbeat
peaked and settled back towards normal. Either Wendy wasn’t home, or she was
asleep and hadn’t heard.

Perhaps
she couldn’t get to the door.

Maybe
she’d had a heart attack.

Then
the door opened and Jennifer’s breath froze in her throat. Alain hadn’t said a
word about beauty or her delicate thinness. She looked like a blonde Audrey
Hepburn, standing there with a
who-are-you
smile.

“Can
I help you?”

Wendy
lived in a wheelchair, didn’t she?

“I’m
sorry. I think I have the wrong house.”

“Who
are you looking for?”

“Wendy
Trudeau?”

“I’m
Wendy.”

“Oh
... I—could I—ah, come in? I need to talk to you for a minute.”

Wendy
would refuse. She would smile and shut the door on Jennifer. Just as well,
because how could she tell this woman with the incredibly childlike eyes to
give up her husband?

“Is
it about a charity? Come in. I’ve just made tea. Will you join me?”

Jennifer
followed Wendy into Alain’s house—warm hardwood floors, softly painted walls, a
Matisse print skillfully lit from an unknown source.

Wendy
walked so gracefully she couldn’t possibly have a debilitating disease. “I’ll
get the tea,” she said, gesturing to a brocade sofa.

Alone
in the room, Jennifer tried to imagine Alain and Wendy lounging here on a
Saturday evening. Would they talk or watch that monster television? More likely
Wendy would sit alone, reading, while Alain worked in a study somewhere else in
this house.

Why
wasn’t she in a wheelchair?

Had
Alain lied to her about Wendy’s illness?

Jennifer
paced the hardwood floor. Why didn’t they have rugs to ease the stark
nakedness? Her parents had hardwood floors, too, but area rugs softened the unrelenting
gleam of wood. Jennifer swung to pace back across the room. She heard a sound,
perhaps a kettle boiling.

She
should leave now, before Wendy returned.

Or
stay, but pretend to canvass for the cancer society.

From
the living room window, she stared out at the ocean. Magnolia Bluff, prime real
estate because of the view. Alain and Wendy ... oh, God, what if he’d lied about
sleeping with her? Did he go from his lover’s arms to his wife’s?

As
Jennifer turned away from the window, a gleam of metal slashed through the
room’s soft ambience.

There,
in a shadowy corner. A wheelchair.

“It’s
mine,” said a voice behind her.

Jennifer
turned to stare at Wendy. She couldn’t speak.

“Multiple
sclerosis,” said Wendy. She walked gracefully across the room, carrying a tray
filled with teapot and cups. “It’s in remission right now. Except for a bad
spell in January, I’ve been healthy all winter. I’m very lucky.”

Jennifer
didn’t know what to say to this woman who spoke so readily of her physical
weakness.

“Why
are you telling me this?”

Wendy
placed the tray on a table in front of the brocade sofa. “The way you stared at
my wheelchair. It must seem strange that I keep it here, but MS is
unpredictable. Today I can walk, but ... it’s reassuring to know that if I need
it, the chair isn’t far away.” Wendy sank down on the sofa and poured tea.
“It’s herbal tea. I hope you don’t mind, but I avoid caffeine. MS is a nervous
system disease, so anything hard on the nervous system is bad news. What did
you want to talk to me about?”

Wendy
wasn’t frail. She was confident and calm, well able to cope with her physical
problems. Jennifer accepted the herbal tea, which smelled like chamomile. She’d
always disliked chamomile.

“I’m
Jennifer Taylor.”

Wendy
nodded and took a sip of her tea.

Her
mother believed it was best to say things directly, but Jennifer had never
appreciated how hard the reality could be. Wendy sipped her nauseatingly
perfumed tea as she waited for her guest to speak.

“Your
husband and I are in love.”

When
Alain’s wife opened her mouth as if to speak, Jennifer swallowed and plunged
on. “We’ve been in love for a long time, since January. We ... you need to know ...
Alain’s afraid if he tells you, you’ll be ... your health will suffer. He worries
about you. We have an apartment together.” This wasn’t strictly true, because
Jennifer didn’t live in Alain’s bachelor suite. “We’re deeply in love, and we
want to marry, but Alain feels a duty to you.” She realized she’d looked away
from Wendy, as if afraid to see her eyes. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for
the baby.”

“The
baby?” Wendy’s Audrey Hepburn look had faded into a haggard face. “What baby?”

Jennifer
stood and set her untouched tea on the coffee table beside a brass parrot.

“Alain’s
baby, and mine.” She covered her belly with one hand, because this morning’s
nausea had proven her fertility. “I’m pregnant with Alain’s child, and we love
each other. He’s worried about hurting you, but you must see it’s wrong to
stand in the way of his happiness.”

“Must
I?” The look in Wendy’s eyes made Jennifer feel as if she’d stumbled into a
dark cloud.

“Alain
feels a responsibility to you, and of course he’ll continue to look after you
financially. When two people stop loving each other, like you and—when the
magic leaves a relationship, there’s no point, is there? Alain wants to be your
friend, but he needs to be with the woman he loves.”

When
Wendy stood, she seemed unsteady on her feet. Her smile, however, was glacier
solid.

“If
you’ve finished your tea, Ms Jennifer Taylor, I’d like you to leave.”

P
ork chops
and mashed potatoes. Richard was a sucker for plain meat-and-potatoes meals,
and until Rachel’s exams were over, she had cooked to his taste every night,
her textbook open on the kitchen counter to study while she played Little Mrs.
Housewife.

She’d
stressed about her exams during exam week, but when she told Richard, he just
said “You’ll do fine,” as if he didn’t give a damn. He thought about nothing
but that bloody Taylor Road house. The owners wanted to be in by the first of
May; that was his excuse for working Saturdays after he moved back home. Now
he’d started staying late at the job nights, after promising he’d be home
evenings.

She
couldn’t remember his exact words, but he had promised, and he’d gone back on
his word. The customer, he said ... the trim ... the carpets. But what about
Rachel? She’d done everything but flatten herself at the front door for him to
walk on, but he still worked Saturdays, still came home late nights.

At
first, after he moved back home, he would take her in his arms when she
snuggled up in bed. Then, she began to feel the difference, as if he watched
her, waiting for her to screw up again. They hadn’t had sex in three weeks.

Hadn’t
she begged, actually begged for him to forgive her? Did he want her to beg
every time? Should she beg for sex? Beg for him not to leave again?

Yesterday
he suggested she might want to work on his construction job for the summer. He
expected her to get her hands dirty, slave away at manual labor, for Christ’s
sake! This morning he’d promised he would knock off at four, but it was already
five-thirty. The lying bastard! One day, he’d walk out and leave her, and how
the hell would she finish school? Where would she live? She would have to go
back to work, just to live.

No,
damn him. She wouldn’t.

She
glared out the window, but the driveway remained empty. Maybe he’d had an
accident, she thought suddenly. He might be dead now.

If
he died, she would be a widow.

She
hurried to his desk and pulled open the center drawer. She lifted out the key
to the fireproof box where he kept valuable papers. Then, because she didn’t
want him to find her searching through his official papers, she turned off the
radio to hear if he drove up.

She
sat on the floor with the box.

Their
marriage certificate ... a copy of his will. He’d left everything to her. She
wondered how much it would be. She knew he’d mortgaged the house, and his
business owed money to the bank. If he died, she might get nothing at all.

Deeper,
she found insurance papers. Life insurance on the mortgage, thank goodness.
Another life insurance policy. She opened it and read the words: two hundred
and fifty thousand dollars, but if he died from an accident, the policy would
pay half a million.

On
the other hand, if he walked out, Rachel would be up shit creek without a
canoe. They’d been married two years, but he’d had the house and the business
before he met her. She’d read up on Washington divorce law, and she knew she
wouldn’t get half of everything in a divorce settlement when they’d only been
together two years.

He
would leave her.

In
the end, everybody left.

She
needed to talk to her counselor. She’d followed Kate’s advice the night she got
Richard to agree to move back in. John, the relationship counselor, was shit.
Rachel suspected he disliked her. He said he wouldn’t talk to either of them
alone, but he must have talked to Richard yesterday. She’d been late, and in
the session she saw that look between the men, shutting her out.

Kate
was the only person in the world who cared about Rachel.

Out
on the highway, she heard an engine slowing. Mac’s truck? The sound dropped to
silence, then she heard his wheels crunch on the drive. Why the hell did the
man never speed? Couldn’t he drive quickly into the driveway, pretend he was
eager to see her?

She
shoved his will and insurance papers into the fireproof box, turned the key,
and replaced the box. She heard his boots on the stairs outside before she
could shove the key into its drawer, so she stuffed it in her pants pocket.

She
got to the door just as it opened.

“Darling!”
She threw her arms around him, and pressed her breasts against his chest as she
lifted onto her toes to find his lips. “Dinner’s ready. I’m so glad you’re
home!”

In
her arms, Richard’s body felt wooden, like one of those totem poles at the
Indian village. She grasped his hand and tugged him towards the kitchen.