All That's Left of Me Read online

  “Well,” I say. “Isn’t that amazing.” I wish I could build a rocket that would transport me to another dimension, a dimension where cerebral palsy didn’t exist.

  “He needs you to give him a haircut.”

  I turn to Colin. He stands at the stove staring down a pot of water. The pot is unfazed.

  Josh throws his head back and grimaces. “Aye doe.”

  “Yes, you do,” Colin replies.

  My husband is right. Josh is long overdue. His dark-brown hair is starting to curl around the nape of his neck. He has beautiful hair, my son. I grieve the possibility that no woman except me will ever run her fingers through it.

  “Dad’s right,” I say, gaining my feet. “I’ll do it on the weekend.”

  “No,” Joshua argues. Josh has trouble pronouncing his n’s, but ironically or not, he has no problem with the word no. “Aye wah g’ t’ th baba.”

  I shake my head as I cross to the stove. I nudge Colin to jolt him from his fixation on the pot of water. “A watched pot never boils.”

  “Your mom,” he says and moves away from me as though my nearness is an affront. But again, he’s right. This is my mother’s expression. I realize I would sound just like her if my words didn’t possess an underlying sense of despair.

  “Aye wah g’ t’ th baba,” Joshua repeats. I want to go to the barber.

  He smacks the armrest of his wheelchair for emphasis.

  I won’t be swayed by his adamancy. I’ve grown accustomed to the gaping stares, the averted glances, the petty sympathy, and mock empathy my son inspires. But the callousness we received from an unwitting and unwitty patron of the barbershop on our last visit is something I cannot endure again. Joshua is inured to such flagrant insults. But I’m not. I am a host for unthinking cruelty. Every mindless barb against my son is like a sharpened blade thrust into my heart.

  “You don’t like my haircuts?” I ask as I reach for the carton of oatmeal from the cupboard.

  Josh doesn’t answer. His eyes are on the TV. He’s watching but also avoiding my question.

  Colin takes a seat at the table as I stir the oatmeal. He withdraws the pipe from his bathrobe and places the end between his teeth. He used to smoke every morning, filling the bowl with his own blend of sweet-smelling tobacco and savoring each hit while reading his paper. Colin hasn’t lit the pipe since his father died of emphysema some six years ago, but neither has he lost the need to feel the beloved mouthpiece on his lips. He bites at it and draws on it, like an adult pacifier. The ritual soothes him, calms him, readies him to face the day. I envy him.

  Were there something in my life that would offer me calm, I would take part in it at every opportunity, but I have found nothing. I smoked cigarettes for six months, took yoga for twice as long. I tried meditating every morning for two years, but never reached quiet mind or enlightenment or whatever it is you’re supposed to strive for.

  Long ago, I found relaxation in books; I read voraciously. But that ended with motherhood. Before then, actually. Kate’s was a difficult pregnancy, and I was constantly distracted by the aches in my stomach and the spots of blood in my underwear and the constant worry that I would lose her. I couldn’t get through a chapter, a paragraph, a sentence without rereading it a second or third or fourth time, and at last I would give up and lay the book down and instead of reading, I would wallow in the fears of my own making.

  And after she was born, perfect and wailing, I still couldn’t relax enough to immerse myself in a book. I tried, but it was useless. I purchased whatever novel was popular at the time and sat myself down while Kate slept, hoping to carry myself away with the words of another. But within moments, I would find myself at her crib, obsessively listening to the sound of her breathing, making sure there was no obstruction in her airway.

  Josh’s pregnancy was easier; I could get through an entire article in a parenting magazine without stopping, and I was heartened. Perhaps, perhaps, I could find my way back to my lovely books. But then I gave birth, and that thing happened, that thing that forever altered the shape of my son’s life and my own, and I haven’t read a single paragraph since, save for medical instructions and report cards and the fruits of my boss’s labors. But those don’t count.

  “Are you all right?” Colin asks.

  I stir brown sugar, heavy cream, and a dash of vanilla into the oatmeal, then pour it into the two awaiting bowls. Then I turn to Colin, who gazes at me expectantly. “Fine. I’m fine.”

  I carry the bowls to the table and set them in front of Colin and Joshua respectively. I take my place beside Josh to feed him. Katie used to do this, feed her brother, every morning before she left for school. They sat side by side trading insults, which I allowed because of their obvious fondness for each other. She doesn’t do this anymore. Not since she met him. That boy who she says is not her boyfriend but whose every text sends her running to his side, anxious to please him. He is the cause of her angst and the growing discord between us.

  I scoop some oatmeal and move the spoon to Josh’s lips. He rolls the oatmeal around in his mouth before swallowing.

  “Mmm. Goo’, Maah.”

  “Thanks, Josh.” I give him a moment to clear the first mouthful. “It’s just strange,” I say. “You know, not to have that constant barking. I hope Charlemagne’s okay.”

  The air doesn’t thin. No lightning strikes. But save for the cartoon on the television, there is silence. As I lift the spoon toward Josh’s mouth, I see that he is giving me a strange look. I glance at Colin. His pipe has stilled within his grasp.

  “Who’s Charlemagne?”

  “Shrma wa’ th fr emp i Wa Ewru si th cops a th Womuh Umpa.” Charlemagne was the first emperor in Western Europe since the collapse of the Roman Empire.

  My son is a font of information, gleaned from the internet with the aid of his caregiver, Raina, whom we chose because of her extensive work with cerebral palsy patients. He forgets nothing.

  “I’m talking about the Krummunds’ puppy, Charlemagne,” I say. “I told you about him, Josh. I showed you his picture. Brown-and-black fuzz. Remember?”

  Again, I am met with confused silence from both sides.

  “What puppy?” Colin withdraws the pipe from his lips and pushes his paper aside. Josh’s head jerks backward, and his mouth curls into a frown.

  Their confusion becomes mine. “The puppy they got a week ago? The one that hasn’t shut up for more than three minutes at a stretch? The one you said should have his voice box removed?”

  “Maah, thas mea.” Mom, that’s mean.

  “I didn’t say it, Josh. Your father did.”

  Colin’s brow furrows. He worries the pipe in his hands. “The Krummunds don’t have a puppy, Emma.”

  THREE

  “But they do,” I insist. I saw him. I touched him. I felt the razor-sharp puppy teeth trying to pierce the flesh of my fingers. What is going on? “They got him from Paw-Tastic Pets.”

  Colin shakes his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “M’ eithe.” Me neither.

  “Are you guys kidding?” I glance back and forth between my husband and my son, searching their faces for a hint of amusement or mischief, but I realize they are not playing a joke on me. The not-right feeling returns with greater intensity. I stand and drop the oatmeal onto the table. The spoon clatters against the side of the bowl. I back away from the table, away from Josh’s curiosity and Colin’s concern.

  “Maah?”

  “Emma?”

  “You saw the dog, Colin,” I say sharply. Colin shakes his head slowly, and I mimic his action at triple speed. The kitchen is too bright.

  My cell phone. Louise took countless pictures of Charlemagne and me on it. I walk to the kitchen counter on heavy legs. The blisters on my instep throb. I grab my cell phone and swipe it to life. Ignoring the two sets of eyes on me, I scroll through my pictures. Up and up and up through the gallery of photos.

  Joshua is homeschooled. Colin and I tri
ed to put him in public school, hoping that such an assimilation would be beneficial to his social growth and awareness, but it was not a good experience for any of us. We looked into private schools, hoping that a sizable monthly tuition would ensure the necessary accommodations. We were disappointed with the choices, but also relieved we wouldn’t need to take a second mortgage. We settled for homeschooling. Raina has a degree in education. She is responsible for the daily care of my son, his physical and occupational therapy, and his schooling as well.

  He isn’t confined to our home, but his outings are limited. So I make a point to visually record any and all things I think he might find interesting, those images that might stimulate him. I think of my cell phone as a conduit to the world at large for Josh.

  My hands shake as I scroll backward through the images, the myriad images, the picture I took of a latte from Starbucks when the combination of foam and espresso created an unlikely flower; the shot of Mr. Mosely, the elderly security guard at my firm, wearing a pair of Groucho Marx glasses, holding a fake cigar; the sunrise from two weeks ago on a morning when I couldn’t sleep. No puppy. No Charlemagne. Up and down I scroll, back and forth through a sea of images captured for my Josh. No black-and-brown ball of fuzz. I still feel my husband’s questioning gaze and my son’s skeptical look.

  I know I showed Josh the pictures of Charlemagne. I know I did.

  “I must have accidentally deleted them,” I say, more to myself than to them.

  “Emma.” Colin’s voice, steady, calming. “Have some coffee.”

  I don’t want coffee. I want to know what happened to Charlemagne. Charlie. I set the phone down.

  “I’m going next door.” Resolute, especially for me. I stride to the back door, purposeful, until Colin interrupts me.

  “The Krummunds are gone, Emma. They left for the lake on Saturday. We’re getting their mail for them.”

  I don’t look at Colin, nor do I glance at Josh. I’m cold all over. Dots of sweat erupt from my forehead, my upper lip. My calves seize. My arms are useless appendages.

  I wish they’d never gotten that godforsaken dog!

  No. It’s not possible. I’m dreaming. I’m asleep thinking I’m awake.

  “You had a dream, honey,” Colin says. “That the Krummunds got a dog. Must have been a very intense dream, eh? Right, Josh?”

  “Tha happeh t’ m ah th’ tiee,” Josh agrees. That happens to me all the time.

  But it wasn’t a dream. This past week of incessant barking was not a dream. The feel of Charlemagne/Charlie’s fur through my fingers, his teeth sinking into my flesh, his sandpaper tongue . . . those were not a dream.

  “I’ll feed Josh,” Colin offers. His tone is neutral. It doesn’t betray the worry he feels. His wife has gone mad. His wife has conjured puppies from thin air.

  Colin. So steady. So clearheaded. A neutron bomb could explode in our living room and my husband would calmly suggest we break out marshmallows for roasting.

  “That would be great,” I say. I grasp the cell phone so tightly the muscles in my hand ache. “I’d like to get to work on time for a change.”

  “I’ll wait for Raina,” Colin replies. His gaze lingers on me for a moment longer, then he scoots his chair around the table toward Josh.

  “Ah y’ kay, Maah?” Are you okay, Mom?

  No. I’m insane. I’m having a breakdown.

  Appropriate smile. “I’m fine, honey. Just tired. Your dad’s right. I had a doozy of a dream.” Irreverent chuckle. “But I’m fine.”

  He may or may not believe me. It’s hard to tell with Joshua. He squints at me, then turns his attention to Colin and the spoon moving toward his mouth.

  I make my escape without pausing to kiss Josh’s head, which I usually do. Panic chases my footsteps. I am unable to sort out the last ten minutes of my life, unable to formulate a coherent thought. I only know I have to move.

  What is going on?

  I keep walking, through the living room, past the breakfront, the top of which is crowded with family pictures, of the kids at various stages of their lives—Josh always in his wheelchair, Katie always in a striking ensemble. Colin and me, our arms around each other, wearing smiles I barely recognize.

  I reach the foyer, my pumps clacking on the cracked tile floor, and grab my jacket and purse from the closet. I head for the back door, then remember I left my car at the curb last night because Kate’s un-boyfriend took the liberty of parking in the driveway, barring my access to the garage.

  As if he thinks he has a right to my driveway. As if he thinks he has a right to my daughter.

  I swallow my resentment and retrace my steps through the house.

  As I reach the front door and grasp the doorknob, I hear Josh call out, “Maah?” I pretend I don’t hear him, then pretend I don’t feel guilty for pretending, and step outside into the sunshine.

  I hope the fresh air will give me some kind of clarity, a metaphorical slap in the face that will return me to my senses. It doesn’t.

  I shuffle down the ramp that leads from the porch to the path and glance past the handicapped van on the right side of our driveway. The Krummunds’ house has that look of abandonment. They are gone. No Charlemagne/Charlie. No SUV or trailer. Louise and her tribe have gone to the lake.

  A seed of hysteria begins to bloom in my gut.

  Our front walkway is made up of redbrick pavers, set down long before Colin and I bought the house. Roots from the oak tree in our yard snake through the lawn and under the pavers, pushing up edges, creating an uneven and often dangerous path to the sidewalk.

  The pavers are much more of a threat to me when I’m wearing pumps, but I can’t slow my pace. I need to reach my car, to climb behind the wheel, to slam down on the gas pedal and be gone from here. Because I’m not asleep, and it wasn’t a dream, and the longer I linger in the absence of barking, the more certain I’ll be that I’m losing my mind. But in my haste, I catch my toe on that one paver that protrudes more than most, and over I go, arms flailing unsuccessfully for purchase on thin air, my purse and jacket sailing all the way to the brink of the sidewalk.

  My knees take the brunt of the fall and pain bursts from my kneecaps all the way to my hips. The heels of my hands are raw, stinging. I know without looking that my stockings are shredded, but I’ll be damned if I’m going back into the house to get another pair. Richard will have to deal with me barelegged today.

  The tree roots, gnarled and gray, peek through the pavers. This is not their first triumph. I’ve fallen dozens of times since we moved in. I have a scar on my shin from landing on an abandoned trowel. For years, I’ve been asking Colin to remove the tree and the root system. Another husband might see a gushing wound on his wife’s leg, or abraded palms or battered knees, and immediately remove the offending item. Not Colin. Another husband whose mother-in-law recently died as a result of a fall might take action, if only for his wife’s peace of mind. Not mine. I curse him under my breath as my thoughts race. Why haven’t you done what I asked you to do? How many more times will this happen? I wish you took that damn tree out when we first moved in!

  I crawl to my feet. For the few seconds during my tumble, I’d forgotten about Charlemagne/Charlie. The silence of the morning assaults me with renewed force. My Honda Civic beckons from the curb. I stumble down the remainder of the walkway, my heart pounding, my ears throbbing painfully with nothing to fill them. I carefully step off the curb and circle the car, unlock the door with trembling fingers on bleeding hands. I lower myself behind the wheel, my ruined knees protesting, and yank the door shut behind me. I take deep breaths.

  If Charlemagne were barking, I wouldn’t be able to hear him within these confines of tempered glass and steel. For a moment, I imagine he is still there, hidden behind the Krummunds’ front door, scratching and yelping to get out.

  But he isn’t.

  Deep breaths don’t calm me. The seed of hysteria in my stomach has grown to a closed fist; tension radiates outward through my entire
body. A flutter of movement in my peripheral vision catches my attention. The curtains in the front window sway slightly. Colin must have been watching me. Not for long. Surely if he’d seen me fall, he would have come outside to help me. But long enough to see me frozen behind the wheel, staring sightlessly through my windshield for several minutes. I can only guess what he must be thinking, wondering.

  I put the key in the ignition and slowly pull away from the curb.

  FOUR

  I live in a town, not a city. A suburban enclave filled with people who prefer less noise, more space, and better educations for their children. It could be anywhere. It could be nowhere. The name is irrelevant, much like my life. A huge metropolis thrives some forty miles away. I used to go there often. Now I only see its tall buildings and neon lights on the television screen.

  I drive by rote, not consciously aware of stop signs or pedestrians or the other cars around me. I don’t remember the moment I left behind the flower-named streets of my neighborhood and entered downtown, but within ten minutes of starting my car, I’m parked at a meter on Main Street.

  Long rows of lovely three-story brown and beige and gold brownstones line both sides of the street. The ground floors are made up mostly of storefronts, while the second and third floors are walk-up apartments. Sometimes I think I’d like to live in one of those apartments. If I didn’t have a family, I could. How simple it would be to have only a few rooms to clean, a superintendent to fix things for me, peace and quiet. In another life, perhaps.

  My office is five minutes from here. If I head there now, I can make it on time. If I do what I know I must, I will be late.

  I shut off the motor and drag myself from the car, leaving my purse behind. I loop my key ring through my fingers and scan the street.

  At 8:25 a.m., downtown is coming to life. A stoop-shouldered septuagenarian sets an A-frame sign on the sidewalk in front of his shop. SPECIAL! VEAL CUTLETS $5.99/LB. A few paces down, an Asian woman places a bucket of impossibly purple carnations on a display riser. Beyond her, a pink-aproned girl writes the smoothie of the day on a whiteboard. On the other side of the street, a swarthy middle-aged man rearranges comic books on a wooden rack. A couple of hoodie-wearing teenagers watch him from the nearby stoop, smirking and smoking, even though they can’t be old enough to buy cigarettes. A group of schoolchildren from the year-round private academy around the corner is led across the crosswalk by two unsmiling women. The children’s plaid skirts, khaki slacks, and white shirts look crisp and starched and too warm for summertime.