The Saving Graces (24 page)

   Eric's office is on Carolina Avenue in Capitol Hill, catty-corner to Eastern Market. I can walk there from my house, and usually I do, but today I was driving. And late. I know-as usual. I found a parking place that might or might not have been legal, and raced through the cold rain, not even stopping to open my umbrella. The building is an old-red brick town house converted to offices, and Eric's is on the top floor. I dashed right in, didn't stop in the waiting room to take off my coat, which was dripping wet.
"Sorry, sorry, the traffic, you wouldn't believe, plus no place to park, plus I was late anyway. Can I put this here?" Eric said yes, and I slung my coat over the radiator. "So, I'm here. At last." I flopped down in the big black lounge chair across from his identical big black lounge chair. Our vantages were the same, except that my chair sat next to the little table holding the always-f box of Kleenex. "How are you?" "I'm great. And you?" He always says that. With a searching smile that makes you think he means it, he's really great, but he'd rather talk about you than himself. An excellent quality in a psychotherapist. I know amazingly little about Eric, considering I've been seeing him once a week, more during emergencies, for the last seven years. He's forty-six, and he lives with a slightly older woman, that much I know. Lately it's been tense around his house. He let that Si1~ a couple of weeks ago, and it fascinated me. Out of all proportion. It was as if I'd finally located the whereabouts of my birth parent or something-it felt like I'd found out an important fact I'd never expected to, or I'd given up on.
"Well, I'm great, too," I said, "and- how often do you hear me say that? I've just come from Emma's, and that was pretty grim, but I still feel great." Eric shook his head wonderingly. "Something in the water?" "Must be." "So what's wrong with Emma?" "Well, that's the other reason I'm late. She sort of let her hair down, something she hasn't done in a long time. With me, anyway." Eric made his Go on face.
"Remember I told you she was in love with a married man?" That was all I'd said, though; I don't tell Emma's secrets. Well-once, to Curtis, just the bare fact that she liked Mick, but no details. And even that was an accident. Alcohol-related. "Well," I said to Eric, "nothing came of it, and I thought she was over him. Which was really deaf and blind of me, I see in retrospect." "She's not?" "No, she's just miserable, She isn't seeing anybody,

   and that's unusual in itself-there's always a man around somewhere with Emma. She's not writing. All she does is stay home. I told her she was in mourning, and she said of course, she knew that. She was so open about it, not hiding anything, which is also unusual. I think her only strategy is waiting, you know, lying low until she gets better. She's gone to ground, and that's definitely not her usual coping mechanism- with men, not at all. She says men are like dogs, as soon as one dies, you should go out and buy a puppy." "Fla." "So while I was driving over here I was thinking how much safer Emma's way is-staying home and grieving by herself-than, well, say, some of the ways I've used to get out of depressions." - - "Maybe her depressions aren't like yours." "I know, but Well, that was obvious-mine are chronic, Emma's are acute. Mine are clinical, hers are-whatever. But that cheered me up, what Eric had said. Itold him so.
"How come?" he asked.
"Well, because ... I beat myself up a Jot about making the wrong choices, doing crazy things. But everybody starts in a different place, and if you consider where I started..
"What? Go ahead and say it." "Okay." I took a breath. "I'm doing pretty well," He beamed. "Very good, Rudy. Very, very good." He looked so pleased, I thought of something else good to tell him. "Guess who got an A-minus on her planning midterm." "Hey!" "We had to design an urban backyard, only fifteen hundred square feet, with all the plantings and pavings, privacy screens, seating, terracing. I even designed a lit- tie fountain for mine. Anyway, I aced it." "That's terrific." "It was hard, too, I'm finding all the courses hard. But I love it, and I'm so happy I'm doing it. Thank you, Eric." "For what?" "Helping me get up the nerve." He opened his mouth to deny it-he always does-so I kept talking. "You did help me, and so did Emma, by nagging. Isabel, too, but in a different way. She never said anything, but I knew she thought I could do it. Not should do it, but could. She had faith. I didn't want to disappoint her- not that I would, not that she'd ever be disappointed in me, exactly, but-I just wanted to make her glad for me. I wanted to make her happy." Eric nodded in understanding. "How is she?" "Oh ..." I sighed. "It's hard to say. She's evasive. She always says she's feeling better, but she doesn't look well. I've heard that you can gain weight on chemotherapy, but she's losing. I think she might even be on some steroid, but she keeps getting thinner. It's alarming. She says it's her new diet, but I don't know, no one knows. Kirby might, but we don't. We Graces," "Does that bother you?" "What?" "That she tells Kirby more than she tells you?" "No, not me. It probably bothers Emma a little. Lee, definitely, but she's closer to Isabel than Emma and I are." Eric raised his eyebrows. -"In a way. Not in all ways. It's kind of complicated.
Anyway-" There's a clock on the wall over Eric's head; he keeps it there so clients can see it and pace themselves. It said I was over halfway through my session and I hadn't even told him the main thing. - - "Anyway-here's what I really wanted to tell you. I -think, I'm pretty sure, I'm going to confront Curtis and make him talk about our relationship." I laughed, I even clapped my hands at his expression. "I know, it's amazing, I'm amazed, too! Where's all this gumption coming from? Is it the drugs?" "What drugs?" "I mean the new antidepressant. That's the only drug I'm taking." "I should hope so. But you said drugs." "Force of habit." We laughed.
"Well, Rudy," he said, "this is very interesting. What do you think you'll say? Do you want to do some roleplaying?" "Umm . . . No, I don't think so." I could never tell him, but whenever we role-play and Eric tries to be Curtis, it's all I can do not to laugh. "I'm going to start by telling him I love him, which I do. You know, basically. But that I think some things haven't always been so healthy between us And that there are some patterns I d like to see us start working to break out of." Eric waited.
"Such as my needing his approval so much. His controlling me with his approval. Or disapproval. His possessiveness. My allowing him to be possessive-uk-ing it, even." Eric stroked his chin; he looked mesmerized.
"I'm going to tell him there are some things we do together that I don't think are good for us. Mutual arrangements. A symbiotic relationship, you could say." Emma says that's not as clichéd as codependent. "And. . "And?" "I'm going to tell him I want joint counseling. With anyone he wants, which probably means not you." He nodded readily.
"I wish it could be you. But Curtis won't, I can tell you right now-in fact, he won't want anybody, but I'm going to insist." I stopped, so we could both listen to the sound of that. Insist, "Well?" I said, "What do you think?" "I'm very pleased," he said, and I squeezed my hands together between my knees, so glad. "This is an excellent, excellent step."

   "I know. I'm very hopeful. He's been so good about the landscaping. Well, in the sense that he didn't forbid it or anything. He's not happy about it, of course. I think-" I sat back, deflated. "I think he thinks I'll bomb out, so why bother making a big deal of it. Oh, God, Eric, am I making a mistake?" "Rudy." "I know, but what if it makes things worse? What if I tell him all this and he . . ." "What? What's the worst that can happen? That he'll get angry with you?" "No. I'm used to that." "What, then?" "That he won't love me?" I said fearfully. "Is that the worst?" "You tell me." "I don't know! Oh, Cod." I scrubbed my face, sat up straight. "But I'm doing it, I'm doing it anyway. Tonight. Maybe." A little thrill of fear made my scalp prickle, but it wasn't debilitating; if anything, it was invigorating. "I'm doing it," I repeated. Talking myself into it.
"Good," Eric-said. "It's the right decision. Call me tomorrow, if you like. I'll be thinking about you." *** I wanted to make Curtis his favorite dinner, but we were out of veal. Instead I made lamb chops with a peppercorn crust, which he likes almost as well. I felt like the mother on Father Knows Best, buttering up the patriarch before she asks him if they can buy a new living room suite or something. I suppose I demean myself with these tricks, but we all do what we have to do. If fixing Curtis lamb chops made me look foolish, I could live with the embarrassment.
I don't know if it was the dinner, but by the time we ate he was in a fairly good mood. A little quiet, but that's not unusual. We ate in the kitchen-he likes to keep half an eye on C-Span (with the sound off) while he eats, and I don't mind much anymore. I've gotten used to it.
I was bursting to tell him about the grade I got on my midterm, but I kept it to myself. The method I'm using to make the landscaping course palatable to him involves keeping it out of his sight and hearing as much as possible. I'm always here when he gets home, I never study in front of him, never talk about the course or my teachers, my grades, the people I'm meeting in class. I especially never talk about where it all might be leading, what sort of job I might get when I've earned my certificate.
It's not easy living in two completely separate worlds. But so far it's working, and you can't argue with success.
After dinner, Curtis got his briefcase and carried it into the living room. A good sign. He'd work there while I did the dishes. Some evenings he works upstairs in his office, and then he's off limits, not to be disturbed. Working in the living room meant he was available; he was still in my world.
.1 came close to pouring myself another glass of wine. It was so tempting-but, no. It was normal to be nervous at a time like this. I would be much better off with a clear head than a glib tongue.
I brought him coffee in a special cup, One I made a few years ago as part of a tea service. I'd used a pale celadon glaze, trying to match with color the airiness and delicacy of the pieces. Really, I was getting pretty good at potting before I gave it up. I still keep my best pieces in the living room, in a little display that both cheers me up and makes me sad when I look at it, It reminds me that I had talent, and that I can't seem to stick to anything.
Maybe, I thought, handing Curtis his pretty cup, I'd take up potting again one of these days. Maybe, if he knew what it meant to me because I told him, he wouldn't mind the night classes, or complain about my wheel crowding out his exercise equipment in the basement. Maybe this conversation we were about to have would mark the beginning of a lot of new things.
Curtis said, "Is this decaf?" without even looking at his cup.
I sat down beside him, "Of course." He took a sip and smiled at me. "How was your day?" "Fine. Curtis?" "Hm?" Deep breath. "We have to talk." "Oh, no. The four most dreaded words in English," he teased. "What about?" "Us." He turned away to set the cup down, and when he turned back, his face was set and cold. "As you can see, I'm a little busy right now." "I know, but this is important." "So is this."

   "Curtis." I got up and moved to the chair on the other side of the fireplace. Distance and objectivity. I'd forgotten my speech, though. Already this was going badly.
"First of all, you know I love you. That's the main thing-that we love each other. But we have some habits, don't you think, some ways of behaving toward each other that aren't always so-helpful. I just feel we've let ourselves fall into some patterns that don't always work well." He stood up. He'd taken off his jacket; he looked so tall and handsome in his vest and shirtsleeves, his polka-dotted tie loose. But he rubbed his forehead with both hands in an odd way, as if he were confused or in pain. "Rudy. Please." "What?" "I'm not feeling very well." "You aren't? You were fine about two seconds ago." I was afraid that would make him mad. He didn't say anything, though. He went a few steps to the mantel and leaned his folded arms against it, keeping his face turned away from me.
I started again. "I just feel we need to discuss some things about our relationship. Any marriage can get- any couple can-just because it's easier, pretty soon you don't even think about what you're doing, and years go by and you realize-" I closed my eyes and did a breathing exercise. "I feel-I want-I'd like us to make some changes. Maybe. Or talk about it, at least. Curtis, are you listening?" "Rudy, not now." Even his voice sounded strange.
"What's wrong?" "Nothing." "Are you really sick?" "No, I just can't ..." I got up and went closer to him. Now or never. "I was thinking about couples counseling," I said in a rush.
"It might be just the thing for us. Get us talking, you know? I really think it might be good for us." I touched his back. He felt hot, damp. "Curtis?" I tried to see his face, but he kept turning. Finally I caught sight of him in the mirror over the mantel. "What's wrong?" To my horror, his knees buckled before he caught himself. I threw my arms around his waist.
"I'm all right." He stood up straight, pulling away. "I'm fine." He made his way to the couch and sat down carefully, turning off the lamp on the side table. - I sank down beside him, tried to take his hand. What was this? He still wouldn't let me look at him.
I saw a tear on his cheek before he could dash it away - it stopped my heart.
"What is it?" I whispered, terrified. "What's happening?" "I don't want to tell you." His voice was choked, as if his throat hurt. "Don't want you to know." "Is it something terrible?" He nodded. "Don't tell me." I put my hands over my ears. My skin felt like it was shriveling and puckering, pulling in like a leaf in a freeze. - - - - He didn't move, he sat with his shoulders hunched, his profile pale and frightened.
"All right," I said. "Tell me." "I might be dying." I laughed.
"I've known it since Tuesday." "Stop it. What? Stop it, I don't like that. What are you saying?" He looked me full in the face. "Curtis!" I screamed it, and he folded me up in his arms.
He shook and trembled, holding me tight. "My last checkup. I told Dr. Slater I was tired, that's all. A little dizziness sometimes, some pain in my stomach." "No, no-you didn't say anything-this didn't happen." My teeth began to chatter.
"I didn't think it was anything. Flu-I thought it was flu. I almost didn't even tell him. But-he ordered tests, and the blood test came back with too many leukocytes. Rudy-I've got CLL. Leukemia." "No, it's a mistake. Who told you? This is not true." "It's not a mistake:' His eyes were swimming.
"They're good doctors, Rudy, they're the best." "Where?" "Georgetown." "Oh, God." "Don't cry. I'm sorry. This is why I didn't tell you.
You've already got Isabel to worry about, I didn't want to add this." - - - Through a glaze of tears, I saw his strained, anxious face-worried for me, solicitous of me. I was crushing handfuls of his shirt, kneading his shoulders, unable to reconcile the thing he was telling me with the tough, alive feel of him.
"I don't have any other symptoms yet," he said steadily, keeping my gaze, not letting go of me. "That's a good thing-it means it might be progressing slowly. I could live for years and years and not even need treatment. Or-not. They can't say yet. It's too early to tell how it'll go in my case." "No, no, -no, no, no-" He pulled me close and rubbed my back, told me it was all right. It wasn't all right, it was an avalanche, the ceiling falling on me, rubble and dust and chunks of plaster:cutting off the air, covering me, heavy blows to my head, my back. I could hardly understand what he was saying, he sounded so muffled and far away.
"We can't tell anyone yet, Rudy. If they found out at work, I could lose my job. We can't afford that, not until it's unavoidable." "Not tell anyone?" I tried to concentrate on that. Not tell anyone? "That's crazy. Isn't it?" - "I know, but that's how it works. And anyway, I couldn't functiOn if anyone knew. Anyone but you-not my family, not yours, not your friends. Greenburg." "Oh, but-" "Promise me you won't tell them." "What?" "Please, Rudy. I just-I -couldn't take it yet. Can't you understand? I couldn't possibly talk about this with anyone but you. Promise. It's important to me." "All right." Oh my God, oh my God.
He held me again. "We'll fight together, darling. We'll be strong together." "Yes." "Us against the world, Rudy. The way it used to be." I didn't know what he meant. When? When we first fell in love? Those days in Durham when we didn't care about anything but each other, no one else existed. It's true that was the best, the safest time. We've been trying to get back to it ever since. And now we have.
He wanted to make love. I wanted to die. I let him do everything he wanted, and he wanted it right there, in front of the cold hearth wi-tb our clothes half on, half off-he likes it that way sometimes, he thinks it's wan- ton. I couldn't feel anything except fear and cold, as if a ghost was penetrating me. Nothing was real. Curtis could not be dying. What is leukemia, how does it kill you? Not-real, not real, I thought all the while he moved over me, not minding my passivity, accepting it without a question.
We lay on the prickly rug afterward, and I pretended it was a dream, I'd wake up soon and say, "Curtis, I dreamed you were dying-oh, it was awful, what a nightmare!" I turned to look at his peaceful face, his eyes closed, mouth relaxed. He looked different to me-less defined, insubstantial. Where was his solidity? His skin, his fingernails, the hair on his forearm, everything looked vulnerable and impermanent and tender. But he was smiling slightly, eyelashes fluttering. I had helped to put. that smile there, I thought. That would be my job. from now on. I wouldn't think about anything but that. We went upstairs together. While he showered, I thought of calling Emma. I almost did-I had the phone in my hand, Did my promise count? How could I not tell her? How could I not tell Eric! But I hung up and didn't call anyone. It's hard to explain why. In a way, I've betrayed Curtis for the whole of our marriage. He's a private man, intensely private, and at one time or another I've told secrets of his to everybody I love. - I won't now. This is happening to him, not me. If keeping it a secret makes it easier for him to bear, then how could I not be his accomplice?
"We'll get through this," he told me in bed, holding my hand under the covers. "You can't know how much better I feel now that I've told you. The last few days have been the hardest of my life." "Darling," was all I could say.
"Maybe I shouldn't have told you. Maybe it was selfish." "Oh, no." "But I couldn't help it. I started to feel dizzy, I was even afraid I might faint, So then there was nothing else I could do but tell you. It's nothing to worry about, the faintness, by the way. They told me there might be episodes like that from time to time. Night sweats, too. Fever." I pressed my face against his shoulder.
"And, Rudy?" "Yes." He switched off the bedside lamp. "I just want you to know. I asked them about secondhand smoke, and they said no, probably not." "What do you mean?" "I couldn't understand why this had happened to me. I tried to think-of anyone in my family-but there's no one. So-no genetic predisposition." "Secondhand smoke?" "It's all I could think of. But they said the chances that that had caused it were very slim. Almost nothing, in fact. So that's one thing you don't have to worry about." - He settled the covers over us, making me turn away from him. He put his heavy arm across my waist, his hand on my breast. "I'll sleep well tonight," he said against my hair. "Thank you, Rudy. 1 love you, darling." "I love you, Curtis." He fell asleep in no time.
I lay still, waiting until he began to snore before I crept out of bed and tiptoed into the bathroom. I had a nearly full bottle of Noludar, because I hadn't taken any in months. I shook out four and swallowed them with tap water. Four was safe, since I wasn't drinking. Yet. All sorts of bad habits were smiling at me, though, waving, dying to get reacquainted. It was hard to know where to begin.