Left Neglected

Chapter 22





It’s the night of our anniversary, and Bob and I are going out to Pisces, our favorite restaurant in Welmont. I’m so excited. There will be no food served on plastic trays or out of Styrofoam containers; there will be no macaroni and cheese or chicken nuggets on the menu; there will be no children crying or whining or parents begging them to eat their macaroni and cheese and chicken nuggets; and there will be salt and a wine list on every table. It’s been a long time since I’ve enjoyed a civilized meal in civilized company. My mouth is watering already.

“Everyone’s out tonight,” says Bob as we inch along Main Street, desperate to find a parking space, stalking pedestrians who look like they might be leaving, annoying every driver behind us.

We pass by a handicapped parking space, which is empty and so very tempting. But we don’t have a handicapped parking permit, and I don’t want one. For the same reason that we call Charlie’s Concerta pills vitamins, I don’t want to own license plates or a sticker or any sort of paper sign stamped with that picture of a stick figure in a wheelchair. I am not a stick figure in a wheelchair. Bob supports this philosophy and applauds my healthy self-image, but right now, I’m wishing we had that space. Bob slows down to a crawl as we approach Pisces and then stops, double-parked, right in front.

“Why don’t I let you off here, and I’ll keep circling?” asks Bob.

“Sure, I’ll just hop out and run in,” I say, not budging.

“Oh yeah,” says Bob, realizing that I don’t hop and run anywhere anymore. “They really should have a valet.”

We eventually find a spot in front of The Cheese Shop, four blocks away. Four long blocks.

“What time is it?” I ask.

“Six forty-five.”

Our reservation is at seven. Fifteen minutes to walk four blocks. It’s going to be close. I look down at my feet. I wanted to wear heels, but both Bob and my mother insisted that I wear my Merrell mules. They look ridiculous with my dress, but thank God I didn’t get my way. I’d never make it four blocks in three-inch heels.

Bob opens my door, unfastens my seat belt (we’d definitely lose our table if I had to unbuckle myself), hoists me up by my armpits, lifts me out of the car, and plants me onto the sidewalk, where my granny cane is standing at attention, waiting for me. I grab onto my cane, and Bob grabs onto my left arm.

“Ready, m’lady?” he asks.

“Let’s go.”

And we’re off, a couple of turtles racing to dinner. I’ve never before been a slow walker. I don’t amble or stroll. I throw it into fifth gear, and I go. And I’m not unusual in this respect around here. I think most Bostonians walk quickly and with purpose. We’ve got things to do, important things, and lots of them, and we’re running late. We don’t have time to dillydally, chitchat, or smell the roses. This may sound self-important, rude, or even unenlightened, but it’s not. We’re most likely being practical and responsible and just trying to keep pace with everything that is demanded of us. And besides, from November to May, those roses aren’t in bloom anyway. It’s freezing cold outside, and we’re walking as fast as we can to get back inside where the heat is.

Like tonight. Tonight the temperature has dropped into the low twenties, and the wind whipping down Main Street is soul stiffening. It doesn’t help matters that I buttoned only the top two buttons of my wool coat before I gave up, rationalizing that we’ll barely be outside for a second. If I didn’t have Neglect, I’d be game for running. But I do have Neglect, and so we plod along. Cane, step, drag, breathe.

The sidewalks are brick and unpredictably uneven, and they slope down and then up again with every cross street, making this terrain far more challenging than the yellow-lined hallways of Baldwin or our rugless living room floor. With every step and drag, I thank God for my cane and Bob. Without either one of them, I know I’d be sprawled out on the cold, hard ground, humiliated and late for dinner.

More so than usual because it’s the week before Christmas, the sidewalks look like high-speed consumer conveyor belts. Oncoming shoppers whizz by us at an enviable clip, while the foot traffic behind us clogs, impatient at our heels, until a slight break in the oncoming lane allows them to weave past us. It’s the typical demographic—women with newly manicured nails and newly done hair, boutique clothing store bags slung over one elbow, garish yet expensive purse slung over the other, and teenagers, always in packs of three or more, always carrying iPods and iPhones and sipping mocha Frappuccinos, everyone spending lots of money.

In the few moments here and there that I dare to steal a look up at the approaching crowd, I notice that no one looks directly at me. Everyone walking by us either has tunnel vision narrowly focused straight ahead at some pinpoint in the distance or is looking down at the ground. Embarrassed insecurity swells in my stomach and then scrambles to hide itself. Let’s face it. I may not have a picture of a stick figure in a wheelchair tattooed onto my forehead, but I’m handicapped. These people aren’t looking at me because I’m too awkward to look at. I almost tell Bob that I want to go home, but then I remind myself that most people walking in downtown Welmont (myself included) don’t typically make eye contact with anyone, especially if those people are fighting through a crowded sidewalk on a cold night, which everyone clearly is. It’s not personal. The embarrassed insecurity in my stomach apologizes and excuses itself, leaving only an intense chill and a building hunger. Pisces is one tantalizing block away.



BOB REMOVES MY COAT, GETS me safely situated in my chair, and takes a seat opposite me. We both exhale and smile, grateful to be in one piece, finally warm, and about to eat. I take off my pink fleece hat, hang it on the handle of my granny cane, and tousle my hair with my fingers as if I were scratching a dog’s belly. Although by no means long, my hair is now just long enough that it looks like it has an intentional style, rather than looking like it’s growing back after being shaved because I needed emergency neurosurgery. Catching my reflection in the mirrors at home looking like Annie Lennox still jolts me with the split-second flash, Who the heck is that? But there’s a little less gawking and dissociation each time. Like with all the changes that have been thrust upon me in the last month, I’m getting used to it, redefining normal. I do love that my hair looks great without needing to blow it dry, straighten it, spray it, or fuss with it in any way. I simply shower, towel dry, dog belly scratch, and I’m done. I should’ve shaved my head ages ago.

As is typical for a Saturday night, Pisces is full, seemingly recession-proof. From where I sit, I can see a young couple on a date, a table of serious-postured men and women in suits, and a large table of boisterous women—ladies’ night out. And then there’s me and Bob.

“Happy anniversary, babe,” says Bob, handing me a small white box.

“Oh, honey, I didn’t get you anything.”

“You came home. That’s all I wanted.”

That’s sweet. But I also didn’t get him anything yet for Christmas, and since I’ve now just given him “coming home,” I’d better get cracking. I study the white box for a second before lifting the lid, grateful that he either had the compassionate foresight or not enough time and left it unwrapped for me. Inside is a sterling silver bracelet with three dime-sized discs attached. Three charms engraved: Charlie, Lucy, Linus.

“Thank you, honey. I love it. Will you put it on for me?”

Bob leans across our small table and holds up my left wrist.

“No, I want it on my right wrist where I can see it.”

“But it’s for your left. The jingle of the charms will be good for helping you find your left hand.”

“Oh. Okay.”

So it’s not just a thoughtful anniversary gift, a sentimental piece of jewelry. It’s a therapeutic tool for my Neglect. A cigar is never just a cigar. He fits the clasp and smiles. I waggle my right shoulder, which in turn automatically moves my left shoulder, and sure enough, I hear my wrist jingle. I’m a sheep with a bell around its neck.

“You know, if you’re trying to help me recognize my left hand, diamonds are more noticeable than silver,” I say, offering a not-so-subtle hint for future rehabilitative trinkets.

“Yeah, but they don’t make noise. And we can add more charms on the different links.”

I’ve seen these clinking clunkers crammed with ornaments on the wrists of other women—hearts, dogs, horseshoes, angels, butterflies, representations of each child. I’m not a collector. I don’t own Hummels, Lladrós, Bobbleheads, Elvis memorabilia, coins, stamps, none of it. I look at the pleased smile on Bob’s face and see that I’ll now be collecting silver bracelet charms. I wonder if Annie Lennox wears one of these things.

“Thank you.”

Bob’s iPhone buzzes against the surface of the table, and he picks it up.

“Work,” he says, reading a text message, his expression journeying through increasing stages of concern.

“No. Oh, no. Oh, jeez,” he says.

He pecks out a response with his index finger, pressing much harder than is necessary, his face clenched into an intense grimace. He stops typing, but now he’s tapping and scrolling, probably reading email, his face still holding on to whatever bad news came in on that text message. Now he’s typing again.

His hair, which is normally stick straight and military short, is well overdue for a cut, cowlicked at his forehead and wavy along his ears and by the nape of his neck. He’s also grown a beard, which I’m never a fan of because it hides his handsome face and scratches up the kids’ delicate skin when he kisses them. He looks tired, but not tired from lack of sleep, although I’m sure he’s not getting enough. He looks weary. Poor Bob.

I’m done studying Bob’s face, but he’s not done with whatever he’s gotten sucked into, so I decide to people watch. The young couple next to us is sharing a bottle of champagne. I wonder what they’re celebrating. The young woman laughs a flirtatious and contagious cackle. The young man leans over the table and kisses her. She touches his face and then explodes into laughter again.

I smile, infected by their romantic energy. I return to Bob, wanting to share the young couple with him, and recognize the hypnotic, impenetrable intensity of his focus. He’s really gone now. His body may be sitting across from me, but this Bob’s a pod, a hologram, an avatar of the real Bob. My smile fades. I wait and wait. The intrusion of work into our personal lives isn’t an unusual phenomenon, and it’s never bothered me in the past. Heck, a month ago, we’d both be sitting here with our heads down, bewitched by our phones, two avatars having dinner. But I don’t have anything to text or any emails to read or anyone to call, and I’m feeling increasingly lonely, self-conscious, and bored. The young couple next to us lets out another raucous burst of laughter, and I almost shush them.

Our waitress appears, snapping Bob out of his trance, saving me from myself. She introduces herself and the specials and asks if we’d like anything to drink.

“I’ll have the house Shiraz,” I say.

“Really?” Bob asks.

I shrug and smile, wondering if he’s going to try to coerce me into a ginger ale. I’m not not allowed to drink alcohol, but I’m sure Martha wouldn’t approve. I know I still have to manage four blocks back to the car after dinner, and I probably shouldn’t drink and granny cane, but it’s just one glass. I want to have a normal dinner with my husband, and normally I would order a glass of wine. Actually, we’d normally split a whole bottle, and I’m only going to have one glass, so I’m not completely throwing caution out with the dishwater, or whatever the saying is. I want to celebrate, and it’ll relax me. I deserve to relax for a minute. Everything I do now is about looking left, scanning left, finding left. I want to hold a glass of delicious red wine in my right hand and toast to my anniversary with my lovely, if slightly hairy and rude, husband. I want to eat, drink, and be merry like the young couple next to us.

“I’ll have the same,” says Bob. “We can probably get our order in now, too.”

We know the menu by heart, which is especially handy tonight because that means I don’t have to struggle to read the left page or the left side of the right page or ask Bob to read it for me. We order our usuals.

“You back?” I ask, nodding at his phone.

“Yeah, sorry. Looks like there’s going to be another layoff. Man, I hope my head’s not on the chopping block.”

“Would that really be the worst thing?” I ask. “You’d get severance, right?”

“Not necessarily.”

“But everyone else has been getting three to four months.”

“Yeah, but that well is going dry, if it isn’t already.”

“But say you did get four months, that wouldn’t be so bad.”

“It wouldn’t be so good, Sarah. I’ve invested too much of myself to have it all be for nothing. I’ve got to hang on. The economy’s going to turn around at some point. It has to. I’ve got to hang on and see this through.”

It seems that while I’ve been praying for Bob to lose his job, he’s been praying to keep it. I don’t know if God is much of a mathematician, but my guess is we’ve been canceling each other out, like when I vote Democrat and Bob votes Republican. I do understand and admire his drive to succeed and never give up. I’ve got that same natural will to win, but while I’ve got it in my blood where levels fluctuate from time to time, Bob’s is rooted in the marrow of his bones.

“What did we do for our anniversary last year?” I ask, hoping to move our conversation away from Bob’s job.

“I don’t remember,” he says. “Did we come here?”

“I can’t remember. We might’ve.”

We got married in Cortland, Vermont, nine years ago. We picked the week before Christmas because it’s such a festive and magical time of year there. Lights, bonfires, Christmas carols, and good cheer all seemed to be celebrating our union in addition to the coming holiday. And we spent our honeymoon skiing on freshly packed, wide-open trails for an entire week, knowing that everyone else and their kids would be coming after Christmas.

The downside to having married this time of year is that our anniversary now tends to get lost in all the hoopla that surrounds preparing for Christmas with young children. It’s also year-end performance evaluations time for me, which means I’m even more slammed and preoccupied than usual. So our anniversaries have been less than monumental events.

We give up on our doddering memories and talk about the kids. I talk a little about my outpatient therapy and carefully avoid talking about Berkley or my mother. Meanwhile, every few seconds, Bob glances down at his phone, which is sitting there in plain sight on the table in front of him, silent but begging to be touched. He looks tortured, like a recovering alcoholic staring down his favorite martini. I’m about to suggest that he either check it again or put it away when our meals arrive.

I ordered the grilled beef tenderloin with horseradish whipped potatoes and roasted asparagus, and Bob got the Nantucket sea scallops with butternut squash risotto. Everything looks and smells amazing. I’m starving and ready to dig in, but then I’m stumped and embarrassed, realizing that I didn’t think my dinner choice through.

“Honey, I can’t eat this,” I say.

“What, is there something wrong with it?”

“No, there’s something wrong with me.”

He looks up and down between me and my untouched meal, trying to figure out what I’m talking about, using the same analytical thinking he brings to any high-priority work problem, not seeing it. And then he does.

“Ah. Here, let’s switch for a minute,” he says.

He swaps my plate for his, and I eat a few of his scallops and some of his risotto while he cuts my meat. I feel foolish as I watch him cut my entire tenderloin into neat, bite-sized pieces, like I’m an incapable child. The young couple next to us burst into more laughter. I look over my shoulder, discreetly eyeing them, my insecure ego assuming that they must be laughing at me, the thirty-seven-year-old woman who can’t cut her own meat. The young woman is still laughing, wiping tears from her eyes, and the young man is grinning as he lifts his glass of champagne. I can’t figure out what was so funny, but it clearly wasn’t me. They’re so into each other, they probably haven’t even noticed that Bob and I are here. I need to get a grip.

“Here you go,” says Bob, re-swapping our plates.

“Thank you,” I say, still feeling a bit sheepish.

I stab a piece of my precut beef tenderloin and pop it into my mouth. Bob does the same with a scallop.

“How is it?” asks Bob.

“Perfect.”

We finish dinner, too full for dessert, and wait for the check. My glass of wine turns out not to have been the best idea, not because I feel buzzed (although I do just a little), but because I now have to go to the bathroom, and there’s no way that I can hold it until we get home. But I really don’t want to use a public restroom. I try to put it out of my mind and think about something else. I really want to go to Vermont soon. I really want to go back to work. I really want to go home and go to the bathroom. It’s no use. I won’t be able to hold it four long blocks plus the car ride. If I thought a thirty-seven-year-old woman needing her husband to cut her meat looked embarrassing, imagine the sight of a thirty-seven-year-old woman wetting herself in the middle of Pisces. The young couple next to us would definitely roar over that one.

“Bob? I need to go to the ladies’ room.”

“Uh, okay. Let’s get you there.”

We maneuver past the young couple, who I swear still don’t notice us, through the labyrinth of tables, past a tight spot where we block a waitress with a tray full of food and a barely disguised look of impatient irritation, and amble into an empty corridor. Cane. Step. Drag. Breathe. Hold.

We stop in front of the door to the ladies’ room.

“You okay from here?” Bob asks.

“You’re not coming with me?”

“Into the ladies’ room? I can’t go in there.”

“Sure you can. No one will care.”

“Fine, then let’s go into the men’s room.”

“No, okay. But what if I need you in there?”

“Then call for me.”

“And you’ll come in if I call you?”

“I’ll come in if you call me.”

“And you’ll wait right here at the door?”

“I’ll be right here.”

“Okay. Here I go.”

Bob holds the door open, and I carefully make my way inside. The sinks are in front of me and to the right, which means that the stalls must be somewhere to my left. Of course. Scan left, look left, go left. I find them. There are three regular stalls and one handicapped. The handicapped stall is large with plenty of room for walking in and turning around and would be the stall that any of my therapists would tell me to use. But it’s also the farthest away, and I really, really have to pee. And I’m not handicapped.

I make it to the first stall and push the door open with the forward step of my granny cane. It swings open and then swings back, banging into my cane. I inch forward until I can’t move anymore and am now standing over the toilet. For the first time in my life, I wish I were a man.

But I’m not a man, so I begin the painstaking process of trying to turn around and sit down. This is where the grab bars at Baldwin and the ones installed in our bathrooms at home always seem to magically appear in just the right spot, exactly where I need to cling on for dear life. There are no such generously placed handholds in a public restroom. The door has no doorknob, only a flimsy metal latch, and the toilet paper dispenser is now somewhere to my left and so completely useless to me.

After a lot of banging around, grunting, and muttering to myself, I manage to turn around and slide my underwear and pantyhose down. I hear the toilet paper spin in the stall next to me. Great. I’m sure whoever it is can’t imagine what I’m doing. Forget about her. You’re almost there. I decide my best route to the toilet seat is to slide my hand, slowly and carefully, down my granny cane, like a fireman down the pole, until I land. Miraculously, I make it squarely onto the seat.

When I finish, I realize, to my complete horror, that I’m stuck here. I must’ve knocked my cane forward during the landing because it’s now leaning against the stall door, out of reach. I try to visualize standing up without it, without a grab bar, without a moderate upper-body assist from a highly trained therapist, without Bob, but when I do I see myself either falling headfirst into the metal stall door or falling backward into the bowl.

“Bob?” I yell.

“Uh, no, it’s Paula?” says the woman in the stall next to me.

Paula flushes.

“Bawwwb?!”

I hear Paula’s stall door fly open and her feet walk toward the sink.

“Hi, how are ya? Nice dress,” says Bob.

“Uh, I uh,” says Paula.

“Sorry, it’s our anniversary, and we can’t stand to be apart,” he says.

I laugh and hear Paula’s shoes scurry out of the room. The stall door gently swings open, knocking my cane back toward me. I grab it. And there’s Bob, grinning at me.

“You called?”

“Can you please help me out of here?”

“Ready?”

He lifts me by my armpits and drags me out of the stall.

“You should’ve seen the look on that woman’s face,” he says.

We both burst into laughter.

“She couldn’t get out of here fast enough,” I say.

We both laugh harder.

The ladies’ room door opens. The young woman from the table next to us enters. She takes one look at Bob holding me up by my armpits, glances down at my feet, gasps, spins on her heels, and rushes back out.

Bob and I look down. My underwear and hose are lying limp around my ankles. We both lose it. I haven’t laughed with such abandon in Bob’s arms in a long time.

“Well, babe, I don’t think we’ll ever forget this anniversary,” says Bob.

No, I don’t believe we ever will.