Lifelines: Kate's Story (34 page)

“You
don’t belong here.”

She
wanted to use his rejection as an excuse to dive back into her car and drive
away. Shove the throttle to the floor and not stop until she got home, back to
her own bedroom, to Mom and Socrates.

She
needed courage, but when she searched, she found only cowardice and a strong
urge to run. Maybe she could pretend to be Kate. It wouldn’t be real, because
she didn’t want to face Alain or his wife, or even herself. She wanted to
forget what she’d done, not face it.

So
fake it.

She
focused on a spot on the floor and thought of her mother’s quiet strong voice,
so powerful in moments of crisis. When Jennifer broke her leg at the age of
nine, she screamed with panic as she lay on the ground under the big dogwood
tree, until her mother came and took away her terror with only her voice.

Hang
onto her voice. Pretend.

She
didn’t know what to do with her hands. “They told me she’s—Wendy was on the
critical list, but she’s not now.” She stared at Alain’s clenched fists, afraid
now to look at his eyes. “Is she still in a coma?”

When
he didn’t answer, she looked up and saw the hatred in his eyes. She said, “I
told her you loved me. I told her I was having your baby. I wanted everything I
said to be true, so I pretended. I was wrong, terribly wrong, but I didn’t—” No
excuses, too late for excuses. “I want to put it right.”

“You’re
too late.”

“I
know that. I don’t mean—” Why was he here in the waiting room, and not with
Wendy? “Too late? You mean—she’s dead?” Pain ripped through her.

She
saw him shudder before he pushed himself to his feet. “She’s still in a coma,
whatever the hell that means. Her heart stopped, they resuscitated her in the
ambulance. They don’t know—there could be brain damage. They don’t know.”

He’d
been her lover, and she needed to go to him, to comfort. She sat down and
clasped her hands together in her lap. She forced herself to stare at her
hands, not Alain, who was saying, “I don’t want you here. I want my wife back,
and I want you gone.”

She
gulped and couldn’t get the words out until she pretended to be her mother.
“People in a coma sometimes hear what’s said to them. Have you talked to her?
Have you told her it’s a lie? Have you told her you love her?”

He
stared as if he hadn’t heard a word she said. She wasn’t doing much of a job of
faking courage and strength, because her voice shook so badly she sounded
drunk. “Let me talk to her. I did this to her. If I tell her I lied, maybe
she’ll hear. Maybe she’ll want to wake up.”

“Why
should she believe you?”

“Because
it’s the truth.” Pretend to be Kate, pretend. The mantra gave her strength to
stand and walk to him and touch his arm without flinching when he rejected her.
“If Wendy tried to commit suicide because of what I said to her, then she needs
to know that you love her. She needs a reason to come back. If she believed me
when I said you didn’t—and she must have—then she might not believe you, but
she’ll believe me. You have to let me try.”

“She’s
unconscious.”

“She’ll
hear me. Let me try.”

W
endy’s
bed seemed larger than most hospital beds, perhaps because of the guardrails
pulled up to protect her body. Her left hand was wrapped with gauze, and an
intravenous tube led from the back of her right hand. Jennifer’s own fingers
clenched defensively. She’d always hated needles, and the thought of a needle
in the spare flesh at the back of her hand seemed much worse than a needle in
the fleshy crease of her elbow.

Maybe
Wendy hated needles too.

The
intravenous line led to some kind of machine. Beside it, another machine beeped
in response to Wendy’s heartbeat, the only sign Jennifer could see that the
woman in the bed was alive.

Alain
blocked her with one arm when she stepped toward the bed.

Pretend
you’re Kate. Pretend you know what to do.

She
took his hand. It felt cold. “I won’t hurt her,” she promised.

You’ve
already hurt her.

He
stepped back and let Jennifer go to the bed.

“Wendy
... it’s Jennifer Taylor.” The machine beeped. She felt Alain’s eyes on her,
ready to silence her if she said the wrong thing. “Wendy, I lied to you.”

The
machine’s beep never faltered, but Jennifer’s legs began to tremble. She
gripped the top of the bedrail. “I wanted Alain to love me. I wanted a baby so
much I convinced myself it was true. There was never a child. I was never
pregnant, and Alain never loved me.”

Wendy
didn’t respond with even the flicker of an eyelid. Jennifer had been a fool,
thinking she could walk in and fix everything with a few words. How could she
have pushed her way into Wendy’s home to announce that Wendy’s husband didn’t
want her any more, that she—glorious Jennifer—would take over, and Wendy should
hand him over?

Alain’s
wife had walked away from the fight with a bottle of pills, as if Jennifer had
every right to her husband.

“Wendy,
can you hear me?” Maybe some people heard in a coma, but Wendy wasn’t
listening. “I should never have lied to you. I can’t explain why I did it. I
just ... it felt real to me. I was pretending, but it felt so real.” Alain felt
real, his hands on my body, his penis inside me, so deep I knew it must be
love.

Jennifer
shuddered and tried to bring her mother’s voice back.

“Alain
looks awful. I don’t know what he’ll do if you don’t come back. He hates me for
what I did to you. He loves you.”

If
he really loves you, he shouldn’t screw students and tell them he loves them.

It
didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now, except that Wendy mustn’t die from
Jennifer’s lies. She reached through the bars and put her hand on Wendy’s arm.
The flesh felt surprisingly warm, and she realized she’d expected Wendy to feel
cold, as a dead person would.

“You
can’t throw your life away just because I was too scared to be alone and I made
a big fantasy about myself and your husband. He’s not mine, Wendy, he never
was. If you want him, then for God’s sake, wake up.”

Alain
grabbed her arm. “That’s enough. Get out now.”

She
saw the fear in his face, and Kate’s voice said, “I told her the truth, now
it’s your turn. Sit down and tell her exactly what she means to you. Tell her
what I mean to you ... and what I don’t mean.” She shoved him into the chair.
“When the woman you love wants to cop out on her life, you’ve got no business
hiding in the waiting room. You told me you loved her; prove it to her.”

She
walked to the door without looking back, but his voice pursued her.

“This
is your fault. Your responsibility.”

She
got to the doorway before she turned back. She feared she would never forget
the sight of the woman in the bed, but strength pulsed in her veins alongside
the fear, as if Kate’s resilience had taken up residence inside her.

“I’m
responsible for my lies, for my arrogance in thinking I could force you to be
with me. But none of this would have happened if you hadn’t screwed around on
your wife in the first place. I made a mistake. When she wakes up, I’ll tell
her again. I’ll make sure she knows I lied.”  She wanted to go back across the
room, to place his hand on his wife’s arm, but she couldn’t control either his
emotions or his actions. “Call me if ... when she wakes up.”

Back
in the waiting room, she sat where he had and stared at the picture of two
children building a sand castle. The beach looked tropical, but she couldn’t
tell if the trees were palms. Was she waiting for a rustle in the corridor, a
nurse to tell her Wendy just regained consciousness? Or that she’d slipped
away, and left Jennifer and Alain to be guilty?

If
Alain came here to hide from his wife’s bedside again, she would force him back
into the room with Wendy.

The
door opened and a woman of about forty stepped inside, a man’s golf cap
clutched in her hand. “Is this the waiting room?”

“Yes.”

She
sidled in as if afraid to open the door all the way, and sat in the first chair
by the door. She didn’t set the hat down. Maybe she needed someone to talk to,
but Jennifer couldn’t be that someone, not now. She didn’t know if Wendy had
heard her, if she’d said the right words, if she’d helped or hurt. She saw a
telephone in the corridor and wanted to call her mother, but Alain would emerge
from that room eventually, and she shouldn’t see him again. She’d been wrong to
ask him to call her when Wendy woke. She needed to separate herself from Alain
completely. Once Wendy recovered, Alain must become Jennifer’s history.

She
used the telephone downstairs near the exit, and when her mother answered on
the second ring, she said, “Wendy’s still in a coma. I saw her, and I told her
the truth. I don’t think she heard.”

“Do
you want me to come?”

“No.”
She twisted the phone cord around her finger. “I didn’t know what to say to him
... to her. I pretended I was you, pretended I knew what to say.”

“Jennifer...”

“I’m
sorry I’ve been such a bitch lately. I’ve lied to you, too, about money. There
was nothing wrong with the car.”

“I
love you, honey. I’ll drive to Seattle. I can be there in three hours.”

“No.
I have to write some resumes. I lied about my job, too. It fell through, so I
need to find a new one. And—oh, shit! I’ve been screwing up everywhere. I
forgot to tell you Grandma called and said don’t come to lunch. You probably
drove all that way and—are you laughing?”

“I
forgot all about lunch with my mother until just now. Honey, are you sure—”

“I’m
okay. Not great, but I’m functional. I really do love you, despite the way I’ve
behaved this year. I was shitty about your—about Mac. I’m sorry I acted as if
you did something wrong. I came home and I guess I thought everything would be
the same, but Dad’s gone. Maybe I was jealous, because Alain doesn’t love me,
and you’ve got someone. I’m sorry.”

“Honey...”
She realized from the unevenness of her mother’s voice that Kate was crying.
“Honey, Mac and I aren’t—I’m proud of you, Jennifer. You’re a courageous
woman.”

Maybe
that’s what a loving mother did. When her kid really screwed up, she found a
way to be proud of her.

T
he
distorted lump of clay on the workbench looked nothing like Jennifer. Not that
Kate was committed to accuracy. Look at the piece she’d done of Socrates, and
she was fond enough of his sculpture she’d asked Mac to recommend an
electrician so she could get the kiln set up.

She
hadn’t phoned the electrician yet, but she would.

Meanwhile,
Jennifer ... she wished her daughter had wanted her to drive to Seattle. Easier
to be in Jen’s apartment, comforting her, than here and worried Jennifer might
be crying, or out somewhere driving too fast. If anyone had an urge to drive
wild through this night, it was Kate herself, and the damned clay hadn’t helped
at all. She knew, absolutely knew that to call Jennifer and ask, “are you sure
you’re okay?” would constitute interference. Kate’s job as a mature mother was
to keep her hands off the phone and let her daughter live her own life. David
would tell her they could trust Jennifer, but secretly he’d be shocked that his
baby girl became so obsessed by a married man that she lost touch with reality.

“But
she wouldn’t have, if you hadn’t left. It’s a bad time to lose your father,
when you first leave home.”

Socrates
opened his eyes and told her he knew she’d just spoken to someone who wasn’t there.
Kate wet a cloth in the bowl of water sitting at the end of the bench and
stretched it over the mess she’d created. Socrates didn’t follow her when she
left the modeling room. Tonight she called it a modeling room, but studio or
modeling room, it hadn’t helped her feel better about Jennifer.

Nothing
you can do about Jennifer right now, so leave it alone, Kate.