I might need this more than Lizzie does.
And so, as the light dims outside and the shadows fade across my ceiling, I chat with a lonely grandmother thousands of miles away. Lizzie loves to cook, she tells me; the boys’ favorite meal is my famous pot roast (not really famous), and she bakes cream cheese brownies every year for the fire department. There used to be a cat—here I tell her about Punch—but now she has a rabbit, a brown girl named Petunia. Though not a film buff, Lizzie likes cooking shows and Game of Thrones. The latter surprises me—pretty gritty.
She talks about Richard, of course. We all miss him very much. He was a teacher, a Methodist deacon, a lover of trains (with a big model set in our cellar), an affectionate parent—a good man.
A good man and a good father. Suddenly Alistair steps into my mind. I shudder, wade deeper into my wineglass.
GrannyLizzie: Hope I’m not boring you . . .
thedoctorisin: Not at all.
I learn that Richard was not only decent but responsible, and managed all the house work: maintenance, electronics (William brought me an “apple TV” I cannot work, Lizzie frets), landscaping, bills. In his absence, explains his widow, I feel overwhelmed. I feel like an old lady.
I drum my fingers atop the mouse. It isn’t exactly the Cotard delusion, but I can propose some quick fixes. Let’s solve this, I tell her—and instantly my blood runs warm, the way it does when I’m walking a patient through a problem.
I take a pencil from the drawer, slash a few words onto a Post-it. At the office I used a Moleskine notebook and a fountain pen. Makes no difference.
Maintenance: See if there’s a local handyman who can visit weekly—can she do that?
GrannyLizzie: There is Martin who works at my church.
thedoctorisin: Great!
Electronics: Most young people are good with computers and TVs. I’m not sure how many teenagers Lizzie knows, but—
GrannyLizzie: The Roberts on my street have a son with an ipad.
thedoctorisin: He’s your man!
Bills (a particular challenge for her, it seems; Paying on line is difficult, too many different user names and pass words): She should Choose consistent and easy-to-remember logins for both—her own name, I suggest, or a child’s, or a loved one’s birthday—but switch out some of the letters for numbers and symbols. W1LL1@M, for example.
A pause.
GrannyLizzie: My name would be L1221E
I smile again.
thedoctorisin: That’s catchy!
GrannyLizzie: Laughing Out Loud.
GrannyLizzie: The news said I could be “hacked”, is that something I should worry about??
thedoctorisin: I don’t think anyone will crack your code!
I should hope nobody would, anyway. She’s a septuagenarian in Montana.
Finally, outdoor work: Winters are really really cold here, Lizzie notes, so she’ll need someone to clear snow off the roof, spread rock salt on the front walk, shear icicles from the gutters . . . Even if I am able to go outside, it’s a heck of a lot of work to get ready for winter.
thedoctorisin: Well, let’s hope you’re back in the world by then. But either way, maybe Martin from church could help you. Or kids from the neighborhood. Your students, even. Don’t underestimate the power of $10 an hour!
GrannyLizzie: Yes. Good ideas.
GrannyLizzie: Thank you so much, Doctor Anna. I feel SO much better.
Problem solved. Patient helped. I feel as though I’m glowing. I sip my wine.
And then it’s back to pot roast, and rabbits, and William and Beau.
A light in the Russell parlor. I peek around the side of the desktop screen and see that woman walk into the room. I haven’t thought about her for more than an hour, I realize. My session with Lizzie is doing me good.
GrannyLizzie: William is back with shopping. He better have bought the donuts I asked for!
GrannyLizzie: I have to go stop him from eating them.
thedoctorisin: Please do!
GrannyLizzie: Have you been able to go outside yet, btw?
btw. She’s learning Internet slang.
I splay my fingers, fan them over the keyboard. Yes, I’ve been able to go outside. Twice, in fact.
thedoctorisin: No luck, I’m afraid.
No need to go into it, either.
GrannyLizzie: I hope you will be able to soon . . .
thedoctorisin: That makes two of us!
She signs off, and I drain my glass. Set it on the desk.
I push one foot against the floor, set the chair slowly spinning. The walls revolve before me.
I will promote healing and well-being. I did that today.
I close my eyes. I’ve helped Lizzie prepare for life, helped her live it a little more fully. Helped her find relief.
I will place others’ interests above my own. Well, yes—but I benefited, too: For nearly ninety minutes, the Russells retreated from my brain. Alistair, that woman, even Ethan.
Even Jane.
The chair drifts to a halt. When I open my eyes, I’m looking through the doorway, into the hall, into Ed’s library.
And I think about what I haven’t told Lizzie, what I didn’t get to tell her.
53
Olivia refused to return to the room, so Ed remained with her while I packed, my heart booming. I trudged back to the lobby, where the flames were simmering low in the grate, and Marie dragged my credit card through a reader. She wished us folks a pleasant evening, her smile absurdly broad, her eyes wide.
Olivia reached for me. I looked at Ed; he took the bags, slung one over each shoulder. I gripped our daughter’s hot little hand in my own.
We’d parked in the far corner of the lot; by the time we reached the car, we were starchy with flakes. Ed popped the trunk, stuffed the luggage inside, while I swept my arm across the windshield. Olivia clambered into the backseat, slamming the door after herself.
Ed and I stood there, at opposite ends of the car, as the snow fell on us, between us.
I saw his mouth move. “What?” I asked.
He spoke again, louder. “You’re driving.”
I drove.
I drove out of the lot, tires squealing on the frost. I drove into the road, snowflakes thrilling against the windows. I drove onto the highway, into the night, into the white.
All was silent, just the hum of the engine. Beside me, Ed gazed dead ahead. I checked the mirror. Olivia was slumped in her seat, head bobbing against her shoulder—not asleep, but eyes half-shuttered.
We coasted around a bend. I gripped the wheel harder.
And suddenly the chasm opened up next to us, that vast pit gouged from the earth; now, under the moon, the trees below glowed like ghosts. Flakes of snow, silver and dark, tumbled into the gorge, down, down, lost forever, mariners drowned in the deep.
I lifted my foot from the gas.
In the rearview I watched Olivia as she peered through the window. Her face was shiny; she’d been crying again, in silence.
My heart cracked.
My phone buzzed.
*
Two weeks earlier we’d attended a party, Ed and I, at the house across the park, the Lord place—holiday cocktails, all glossy drinks and mistletoe sprigs. The Takedas were there, and the Grays (the Wassermen, our host told me, declined to RSVP); one of the grown Lord children put in a cameo, girlfriend in tow. And Bert’s colleagues from the bank, legions of them. The house was a war zone, a minefield, air-kisses popping at every step, cannon-fire laughter, backslaps like bombs.
Midway through the evening, midway through my fourth glass, Josie Lord approached.
“Anna!”
“Josie!”
We embraced. Her hands fluttered over my back.
“Look at your gown,” I said.
“Isn’t it?”
I didn’t know how to respond. “It is.”
“But look at you in slacks!”
I gestured to my pants. “Look at me.”
“I had to retire my shawl just a moment ago—Bert spilled his . . . oh, thank you, Anna,” as I tweezed a length of hair from her glove. “Spilled his wine all over my shoulder.”
“Bad Bert!” I sipped.