Now there was this thing in her stomach that was doubling her over, enough pain to make her shake, and then it would pull back and let her breathe. If she’d had the sense to go to her doctor three days ago when it started she could have driven herself over, but after three days of not eating she was too weak to drive anywhere. She could call Fodé and ask him what to do, Fodé was a doctor, but she was perfectly capable of having that conversation in her head without bothering him on the other side of the country: he would tell her she should call a friend and go to the hospital, or, short of that, call an ambulance. She didn’t want to do either of those things. She was so tired she felt lucky to make it to the bathroom, to the kitchen for a glass of water, and then back to bed again. She was eighty-two years old. She imagined her children might use this particular stomach pain to answer their questions about whether or not she could continue to live alone in her house or whether she’d have to move to a facility up north someplace near Albie. She couldn’t go to Jeanette, people moved to Brooklyn to fall in love and write novels and have children, not to get old, and she couldn’t go to Holly, though she imagined dying in the Zen center might come with spiritual advantages.
Then on the second day it occurred to her that maybe this pain, whatever it was, could answer the question of her future in a larger way: maybe this pain that felt like it was killing her would actually kill her. Her appendix was still in there somewhere, and while appendicitis seemed like the kind of thing schoolchildren died of on camping trips, it was possible that hers had hung around all these years in order to detonate late in the game. That wouldn’t be the worst thing, would it? Peritonitis? Not as quick as dear Jim Chen going out in a parking lot, but still. When she was having a better moment she found the key to the lockbox, the title to her car, her will. Only a person in deep denial about the future would work her entire life in the legal profession without having a good will. Everything she had was divided three ways. The house, long since paid for, had ticked steadily up in value, and there were savings. Once the kids were out of school she never spent what came in. She laid everything out on the kitchen table and sat down to write a note. She didn’t want it to seem like a suicide note because she was most definitely not committing suicide, but she thought whoever came to the house eventually should find more than the car keys and her body. She looked at the pad of paper she used to make grocery lists. The top was lined with cheerful daisies dancing in their pots above a series of chaotic pink letters that spelled out Things To Do. She had never stopped to think about how stupid it was to buy a pad of paper that said Things To Do but she didn’t have the energy to go look for a plain white sheet. The pain was ramping up again and she wanted to go back to bed.
Not feeling great.
Just in case.
Love, Mom
That was good enough.
Albie was the single distraction from what, on the third day, she had rather hazily decided was a very intelligent plan. He had called too many times to check on her, and how she explained the situation to him had everything to do with where the phone call fell in the cycle of pain. A few times she simply hadn’t answered. The idea of picking up the phone had overwhelmed her. But then she did answer, and he told her to get up and open the front door. He said that Franny Keating was coming over to see her.
“Franny Keating?”
“She’s in town visiting her father. I asked her to come over and check on you.”
“I know people who can check on me,” Teresa said, sounding pathetic even to herself. She did have friends, she had just made a decision to stay home and experiment with dying.
“I’m sure you do but I was tired of waiting for you to call them. Go open your door. She’s going to be there in a minute.”
Teresa hung up the phone and looked down at herself in her zip-front cotton robe, what her mother had called a model’s coat back in Virginia. She’d been wearing it for three days and it had been crushed by restless sleep and perspiration. She hadn’t taken a bath or brushed her teeth or looked in a mirror since this all began. Franny Keating coming to the house was not the same as Beverly Keating coming to the house, but at this moment Teresa was having a hard time distinguishing the two of them in her mind. Beverly Keating, who was Beverly Cousins, who was now Beverly-something-else, Teresa couldn’t remember what Jeanette had told her other than she’d married again after Bert. Beverly-Something-Else was so bone-crushingly beautiful that even now, fifty years later, it hurt to think of it. Beverly was always in the pictures the children brought back from summer, as if Catherine Deneuve happened to wander by while they were playing in the pool or swinging in swings and stepped accidentally into the frame as the shutter snapped. She did not want to die thinking of Beverly Keating’s beauty. Beverly was younger than Teresa too, not by a lot but it mattered. Beverly wouldn’t even be eighty yet.
A wave of pain broke over her and she had to cling to the back of the recliner to remain upright. It was deep in her pelvis, top to bottom, hip to hip. Uterine cancer? Bone cancer? Could it come on this fast? If she didn’t answer the door the Keating girl would call her father. Albie said she was visiting her father. He would be old himself by now but he would call some cop friend over to break down her door. That’s the way cops work: straight from thought to battering ram. She could feel the sweat breaking out over her scalp. Her short gray hair would be soaked through in a minute. She let go of the recliner and made it over to the front door. Every step made her swear in her head, sonofabitch, sonofabitch. She used it as a mantra, a focal point to calm her breathing, the way Holly had taught her. She opened the front door wide and unlatched the screen, then, having no speed to work with, shuffled back to change her clothes and splash some water on her face. She was hoping there was mouthwash. She didn’t think she had the energy to brush her teeth.
It wasn’t five minutes before she heard a voice, “Mrs. Cousins?” and then five seconds later, the voice was more familiar, “Teresa?” She heard the screen door open.
“One minute.” She pulled up her track pants and pushed her feet into sneakers, ran a towel over her head. It hurt. Her hair was so short but who did she have to impress? Jeanette said she looked like she was coming back from chemo. Holly said she looked like a Buddhist nun. Albie never mentioned her hair.
“It’s Franny,” the voice said.
“I know, Franny. He told me.” Teresa closed her eyes, waited, inhaled sonofabitch, exhaled sonofabitch. It helped a little.
When she came into the living room there were two of them there, a blonde and a brunette. The blonde was aggressively natural, gray in her ponytail, no makeup, a cotton top that tied at the neck with a string. The brunette had more polish but the truth was you wouldn’t look at either one of them twice. Neither was as pretty as Holly or Jeanette. Teresa pushed her mouth into a smile by the sheer force of will.
“This is my sister, Caroline,” the blonde said. “I hope you don’t mind us coming over. Albie was worried about you.”
“He turned out to be a worrier,” Teresa said. She was trying not to pant. “It’s strange, when you think about all the worry he caused us, that he would turn around and worry.”
“I guess it happens,” Caroline said.
Teresa looked at them for a long time. She had seen so many pictures, heard so many stories. Caroline was the aggressive one, Franny placating. They both made good grades in Catholic school but Caroline was smarter. Franny was kinder. “I know this sounds crazy but have I ever met you girls before?” One of them finished law school and one of them dropped out. She couldn’t say she remembered which was which but she could sure tell by looking at them.
“Cal’s funeral,” Franny said. “I think that was the only time.”
Teresa nodded. “I wouldn’t remember it then.”
“How are you feeling?” Caroline asked. Straight down to business. She had authority. Teresa had the feeling that if she lied about anything Caroline would walk over and poke her in the stomach.
“I’ve been sick,” she said, putting her hand on the chair. “But I’m getting better. I’m up now. It’s hard when you get to be my age. Little things knock you out.”
“Wouldn’t you like to see a doctor?” Franny asked.
Had I liked to see a doctor, Teresa thought, I would have seen one. But she wouldn’t be nasty. There was nothing wrong with these girls. Albie had asked them to come. It wasn’t their fault. “No,” she said.
The smarter one squinted slightly. “We’re here. We can drive you over to the hospital. If you have to call an ambulance at eleven o’clock at night it’s going to be a lot harder. I’m sorry to say this but you don’t look great.” Miss Rational Argument. She’d probably already made partner.