The Weight of Heaven (28 page)

cello player, had graduated summa cum laude from her Ph.D. program, had been a well-respected therapist. Not to mention a loving,

wonderful partner to him and a devoted, vigilant mom. Which is

why he couldn’t understand what had made her doze off after knowing that Benny had a fever. He believed her when she’d said that

the fever had come down by the time she’d fallen asleep, but surely

she could’ve slept in Benny’s room for one lousy night? The worst

part was, he couldn’t mention this resentment to anyone. He had

tried voicing his thoughts to Scott the day before the funeral, but

his older brother had stared at him before saying, “It’s not Ellie’s

fault, Frankie. It’s nobody’s fault. You heard what the doctor said.

A few hours wouldn’t have made any difference.” But he couldn’t

accept that. A few hours might have made all the difference in the

world. A few more hours of antibiotics, fluids, blood pressure medicine—who knows how much that would’ve helped? If nothing else,

he would’ve received Ellie’s phone call sooner, and that would’ve

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perhaps meant an earlier flight home and more precious time at his

son’s bedside.

He turned in bed, knowing he should go downstairs to be with

Ellie, who had gotten up hours ago. But he didn’t, pinned onto the

bed by another memory, one that he had previously swept away

into an unlit corner of his mind. But now it fueled his simmering

resentment against Ellie. The night before the miscarriage, he remembered, she had gone out with some friends from grad school.

They had gone to a dance club where a salsa band was playing. Ellie

had come home at two that morning, happy and tired and bragging

about how she had danced for three hours straight. Six hours later,

the spotting had begun. She had miscarried the baby a few days later,

and although no doctor had ever made a connection, he had dimly

wondered if the dancing had contributed to the miscarriage. Now,

he felt a fresh wave of anger at the memory. Careless, she’s so careless, he muttered to himself, even while the rational part of his brain

told him that he was being unfair. But he also felt anew the freshness

of the loss of the baby. At the time, they had been devastated but not

inconsolable—Benny was the bright star in their lives, and they told

each other that they would try again and even if it didn’t take, they

were already blessed with a beautiful boy. But now, Frank felt the

absence of the baby. How much more bearable this Sunday would

be if there was a reason to get out of bed—a little blond-haired girl,

maybe, who would’ve come in and kissed her daddy and urged him

not to sleep away the morning.

He opened his eyes and peered at his watch. Eleven o’clock. He

groaned and closed his eyes again. He couldn’t remember a day

when he’d slept in this late—it would’ve violated every doctrine

in the Church of Benny to have let either of his parents laze around

in bed until eleven. But this was the first Sunday in seven years that

he was home without Benny in the house—Ben jumping up and

down on his parents’ bed until they realized that asking him to quiet

down was like asking a gushing fire hydrant to suck back its water,

Th e We i g h t o f H e av e n 2 0 3

and grumpily submitted to his demands; Benny racing through the

house until the walls shook with the sound of his excitement; Benny

pestering Ellie to make waffles and pancakes for breakfast until she

gave in; Benny making a list of all the things he wanted them to

do with him that day before they’d even had a chance to say good

morning to each other. And best of all, best of all, Benny climbing

into bed with them at six o’clock on Sunday mornings and snuggling between both of them. If it were winter he would burrow his

tiny body into Frank’s, looking for all the world like a little kitten

seeking shelter in a warm kitchen. And then Frank would feel

something soft and liquid in his chest, something almost feminine,

what he imagined was what a woman felt like when she was breastfeeding. Cuddling with Benny made him reappraise everything, reshaped his body, made him realize that everything that he thought

had belonged to him—his muscles, his heart, his strong hands, his

broad chest—actually belonged to his son. It gave his body a different purpose, as if his hands were designed for the sole purpose

of cradling Benny; his stomach a burrow where Ben could wiggle

in for warmth; his chest a pillow for Ben’s sweet head. He would lie

awake, stroking his son’s hair, smiling at Ellie on the other side of

the bed, knowing that she was feeling the same intensity of emotions that he was. It bound him to her, this knowledge, in a way that

he had never felt connected to another human being. Their lovemaking had always been a language, expressive, full of words and

pauses and the resuming of an ongoing conversation. But even that

communion paled before what he felt toward Ellie when they shared

their bed with their son. Benny completed the conversation he had

started with Ellie years ago.

He heard a loud crash downstairs and was on his feet before he

had even opened his eyes. Damn, he thought as he raced down the

wooden stairs. Ellie’s hurt herself. His stomach muscles clenched

at the thought of finding Ellie injured or in pain. “El?” he called.

“Where are you?”

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There was no answer. But instead, he heard another crashing

sound and raced toward the kitchen. At the doorway, he froze. Ellie

was standing in front of the sink, surrounded by shards of broken

glass. Every few seconds, she was systematically picking up a dinner

plate or a glass and dropping it into the stainless steel sink, barely

flinching as the object shattered and glass flew toward her face. By

the look of it, she had already destroyed a considerable number

of plates. Her face was red and streaked with tears, her hair wild.

Frank took one step toward her and then stopped as his wife brought

another plate crashing into the sink. “El,” he yelled, and seeing that

she had not heard him, “Ellie. Stop. Stop.” He covered the distance

between them and grabbed her wrist, making her loosen her grip

on a wineglass. “Babe. Stop. What’re you doing?” He tugged at her

wrist, turning her toward him and making her step away from the

sink.

The sound of the splintering glass was replaced by the sound of

Ellie’s broken, anguished sobbing. “I miss him,” she said. “I can’t

stand the silence in this house.”

He pulled her toward him, and she buried her face in his chest,

crying loudly. He flinched, each sob landing on him like a blow,

reminding him of his own impotence and powerlessness. His wife

was in anguish, and he had no way of helping her. He, who from

his meager grad student stipend had bought Ellie a new car when

her yellow Ford finally bit the dust. He, who had bought this gorgeous Arts and Crafts bungalow simply because Ellie had fallen in

love with it while they had walked past it one evening. He had approached the owners the next day, and as luck would have it, they

were an elderly couple who had been thinking of moving into a retirement home. By then, he knew Ellie’s tastes well enough to know

that she would love the dark wooden floors, the crown molding, the

cherry cabinets. And so, even though he knew the money would

be tight, he went ahead and purchased it. Surprised her with the

deed to the house on their first wedding anniversary. Early in their

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marriage he had made a promise to himself—that he would do everything in his power to make sure that Ellie never regretted her

decision to marry him.

But now she was asking him to resurrect their dead son, and he

had to look into those dark eyes, eyes that were mad with pain and

anguish, and admit failure. His own grief, his own sense of loss, was

already unbearable. He felt his body sagging under its weight and

had no idea how he could hold up under the weight of Ellie’s torment. He looked away. He felt burdened by the desperation that he

saw in his wife’s eyes. Not this time, he wanted to say. He had been

there for Ellie when Anne had had a breast cancer scare. When her

father had needed a bypass. When one of her patients had attempted

suicide. Each of those times he had been able to prop her up, to rise

to the occasion, to ask the right questions of the doctors, or say

the right words to his wife. But now she was asking him to fill the

silence of a long Sunday afternoon that uncoiled before them like

barbed wire, and he didn’t have a clue how. Now she was asking him

to make up for the absence of Benny, and his toolbox was empty, his

hands broken.

“Babe,” he groaned. “Oh, my God, Ellie.”

They stood in the middle of the kitchen, holding each other. Sunlight poured in, danced on the shards of broken glass, and mocked

their misery. Moments passed. Frank felt a shudder start at the base

of his spine and travel up the length of his body. He held himself

rigid, but it was too late. His body spasmed and then he was sobbing

in loud, open bubbles of grief. He shook in Ellie’s arms, arms that

felt like a boat built out of twigs, unable to carry the oceanic power

of his sorrow. “I’m sorry, El,” he blubbered. “I don’t know what to

do or say to help you. I can barely manage to . . .”

She covered his face in kisses. “I know,” she said. “It’s okay. You

don’t have to be strong for me.”

But he did. And failing to be strong made him feel ineffectual,

less manly. He ran his palm over her face, wiping away her tears,

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and realized the futility of his gesture even while he did so. There

will always be more tears, he thought. This is merely the first

Sunday in a lifetime of Sundays to come—open, unplanned days

that would have no purpose or shape or meaning. Days stretched

before them like a banquet they had no appetite for. “I’m going to

call Jerry and Susan,” he mumbled. “Maybe we can go over there

for a few hours.”

She turned to him with the expression of a stray, wounded puppy.

“Bertie’s home,” she said simply, and he knew immediately what

she meant. Bertie was twelve, but his loud, shouting presence would

inevitably remind them of Benny. He cast his mind around, searching for a harmless Sunday afternoon activity that would divert their

attention, that would make them forget for ten minutes what had

happened. He came up with absolutely nothing. He resented having

to be the one to come up with a plan.

“Frank,” she said suddenly, an expression on her face he’d never

seen before. “I had a weird dream last night. I dreamed that—this

will sound weird, I know, but I dreamed that we both drink this

pink liquid—it looked like Pepto-Bismol or something—and we’re

able to see Benny again.”

He knew immediately what she was saying, what she was asking,

what she was proposing, and his heart raced. Ellie was too proud to

actually say the word
suicide
but he knew her well enough to know

that she was testing the waters, feeling him out, measuring the depth

of his desperation. He knew what it had cost her to share this with

him, saw from the sly, crazed expression on her face how little she

was in control of her own emotions, how fervently she was hoping

he would agree even while praying that he would not. Ellie was a

therapist—by profession and by personality she believed in the endless, bountiful possibilities of life, in redemption, in affirmation, in

hope as a moral obligation. For her to even think about suicide, let

alone mention it, meant that she had stared into the heart of the universe and seen only black. That, like him, she could only imagine

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the stupefying blankness of an endless row of aimless Sundays. Followed by six more days each week. That, like him, waking up without Benny was like waking up knowing that the sun would not be in

the sky that morning. Pointless.

He reached out and raised her chin so that she was looking deep

into his eyes. “No Pepto-Bismol for us,” he said. “We’re not those

kind of people.” Something flickered in her eyes, but he couldn’t

read it. “Are we?” he added and when she didn’t answer, “El. Are

we?”

“No, I guess not.”

He stared at her for another moment. “You’re all I got in this

wide world,” he said quietly. “If you have any feelings for me, you

gotta make me a promise right now.”

She said nothing.

“Ellie.”

She shook her head. “Forget I ever said anything. Like I told

you, it was a weird dream.” And then, “I promise.”

He realized he’d been holding his breath. “Okay.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Can we go for a long drive somewhere?”

He let out a sigh of relief, glad to be asked for something he could

deliver. “Sure, baby. Anything you want. Tell you what. You go

shower, okay? And I’ll—I’ll just sweep up this mess in the sink.”

Ellie made a rueful face. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

They left the house an hour later to go for a drive. That became