Emily, Alone Read online

  The doctors weren’t convinced, and kept her for more testing, moving her to a semiprivate room that overlooked the row houses of Bloomfield. Here, at least, they were given a window. Clouds drifted above the bridge that arched across the valley to meet Bigelow Boulevard. Five stories down, the rainy blocks were gray, the stoplights on Liberty Avenue the only color.

  When the EMTs had wheeled Arlene out of the Eat ’n Park, Emily asked if she could go with them. No, it was against regulations, but she could follow them, and so she’d dug through Arlene’s pocketbook for her keys and braved the slick streets. She hadn’t been scared, fueled, she suspected, by adrenaline. Now when the nurse recommended she retrieve a few things from Arlene’s place to make her stay more comfortable, Emily wanted to say that was a onetime deal, and not repeatable. They could tow the car. She’d take a taxi home.

  “Will you make sure my purse is safe?” Arlene asked.

  “Of course I will,” Emily said.

  “You’ll probably want your robe and slippers,” the nurse prompted. “Most people like their own PJs better than ours.”

  “If you could bring my book. It should be on my nightstand. Either there or on the end table by the loveseat. And would you mind feeding the fish? They only need three pinches of the dry stuff. You’ll see it by the tank.”

  Emily left with a list and a clear mission. She would drop the Taurus there, pick up Arlene’s stuff and take a taxi back. The hard part would be parking on the street. She hoped there would be a long, empty stretch of curb so she could just coast into a spot. It didn’t have to be right in front of her door. She had no qualms about leaving it half a block away. Personally she didn’t consider the neighborhood the safest, a buffer between Wilkinsburg and Swissvale, but Arlene left the car out every night.

  She took the easiest route, through Shadyside, avoiding Penn Circle. It was drizzling, misty. Maybe the rain had kept people in, because Fifth Avenue wasn’t bad. As she passed the Arts Center and the green expanse of Mellon Park, she thought she was lucky. She kept up with traffic, watching for the flare of taillights ahead, braking when she was supposed to brake. No one rode her bumper, no one honked. It had been so long since she’d driven, and yet, after this morning, she found she was much less fearful behind the wheel than riding beside Arlene.

  She’d been worried for nothing. This time of day Arlene’s street was deserted. She angled the Taurus toward the spot at the bottom of Arlene’s stairs and rolled up as close to the curb as she dared. There, she thought, turning the car off, but when she tried to pull the key out, it wouldn’t come.

  She pushed it in, knowing on some cars you had to, but it did nothing. She’d canceled her triple-A, and she could see herself being stuck here and having to call a garage.

  She twisted the key, as if to switch the car on again. Nothing. That didn’t make any sense, and she checked the gearshift. The stubby Day-Glo arrow pointed to D.

  “For Pete’s sake.” That’s what she got for being so pleased with herself.

  With Arlene’s things, she didn’t have a hand for an umbrella. She cinched tight her rain hat, ducked her head and trundled up the stairs. On the porch she had to set everything on a lawn chair so she could fit the key in the lock, then gather it all in her arms and haul it up another flight. She was winded, and thought that Arlene was lucky she hadn’t passed out here and broken her neck.

  At the top, the stairwell turned and there was another door, unlocked, that opened on a narrow hallway that led to the apartment proper. The place was laid out strangely, having been fashioned from what must have once been a spacious home. The whole idea of a duplex went against Emily’s nature. She couldn’t imagine living above someone, her every footstep registered. She appreciated her neighbors, she could even say she’d loved Louise and Doug, and Ginny and Gene Alford, and Isabel and Ev Conroy, Dotty and Fred Engelmann, the whole old gang, but she didn’t want them listening to every move she and Henry made. It was just one more aspect of Arlene she would never understand.

  Inside, the apartment was dark and smelt of old smoke. The only light came from the windows, and, glowing a lurid undersea green beside Henry’s mother’s Baldwin upright, boxy as a coffin, the humming aquarium. On the walls, mercifully obscured by the gloom, hung the awkward, misbegotten still lifes Arlene had painted for her adult ed classes—painstakingly shaded apples and pears and wine bottles that, instead of taking on volume, remained flat as cave drawings. She and Henry had one themselves, a group of pockmarked, foreshortened oranges relegated to Henry’s office. While Emily spent more time with Arlene than with anyone else, their social life was a public one, made up of dates, occasions and entertainments. It was rare that they encroached on each other’s privacy, and creeping alone through her sanctuary felt like trespassing. She wondered if Arlene’s neighbor was downstairs, silently marking her progress.

  She used the kitchen as a base, dropping the stuff on the table and draping her rain hat over the spigot, then went through the rooms, flicking on lights. The place was tidy as a hotel suite, every surface cleared off and polished, and Betty wasn’t scheduled till Friday. As someone who waged her own never-ending war against clutter, Emily was envious, and at the same time suspected this level of neatness was excessive and possibly neurotic, a by-product, like her own, of not having enough to do.

  The bedroom was a museum, each piece of furniture an heirloom. On the cherry dresser, in heavy silver frames, as if they were hers, leaned the familiar senior portraits of Margaret and Kenneth wearing the shaggy hairstyles of the seventies. Arrayed before them like pawns were smaller pictures of the grandchildren, and, unframed, the most recent Christmas photo from each family, though not a single shot, Emily noticed, of her.

  She found Arlene’s book on her nightstand—a British whodunit Emily had lent her. It sat squarely atop a compact leatherette Bible with gilt-edged pages, a kinked silk ribbon holding Arlene’s place. For a second Emily thought the Bible was Henry’s, which she kept by her own bedside for those stormy nights she couldn’t sleep, but no, there was Arlene’s name embossed on the cover. Arlene had given similar Bibles to Margaret and Kenneth on their confirmations, and then the grandchildren, extending the tradition into the new century, though, as gifts, they never elicited the proper gratitude. Emily considered bringing Arlene’s along with her mystery, but she might think it presumptuous of her, and anyway, it would be safer here. Emily had heard horror stories of things disappearing in hospitals.

  She plumbed Arlene’s dresser drawers for a bra and underwear and a pair of socks. Her robe and slippers were in the closet, along with dozens of hatboxes from decades past, and while Emily was tempted to snoop, she knew how upset she would be if Arlene pawed through her things, and shut the door. In the bathroom she gathered her toiletries, zipping them into a monogrammed Dopp kit.

  Feeding the fish was simple. She lifted the lid, dropped in three pinches of vile-smelling flakes and watched them spread atop the water.

  “Eat up,” she said, because at first the fish weren’t interested. It was only after she’d closed the lid and backed away that they rose to kiss the surface. As the flakes absorbed moisture and sank, the fish darted to intercept and suck them in.

  Arlene gave her fish names and spoke of them as if they had distinct personalities. Emily couldn’t tell them apart. The catfish were catfish, the angelfish, angelfish; the rest were whatever they were. She’d always thought Arlene would enjoy a real pet like a cat, but whenever she brought it up, Arlene said she couldn’t stand the hair and dander, not to mention the problem of the litter box. Emily saw her strict neatnik’s need for total control as limiting. She was missing all the fun. Pets were meant to be affectionate and messy, like Rufus, someone to love who loved you back regardless of your shortcomings. The best Emily could say of the fish was that they were decorative, pleasant enough to look at but not the most heartwarming companions.

  Her job done, she called a cab. “Five minutes,” dispatch said. She turned out the li
ghts, leaving the apartment exactly as she’d found it.

  Rather than stand in the cold, she waited inside the front door. After fifteen minutes she climbed the stairs and called to see what the holdup was.

  “He’s on his way,” they promised.

  “I could have been there by now,” Emily said, because it was true.

  She also wanted to get Arlene some flowers, and the hospital gift shop would be punitively more expensive than the Giant Eagle. She thought—not seriously—of canceling the cab and driving herself, but then she might have to come back in the dark, and she didn’t want to risk that.

  Arlene would be all right. She’d seemed fine, yet Emily kept seeing her mouth moving, trying to form words—“waaah luuhh wuuh”—just before she pitched forward. There were no warning signs that Emily could remember, not like Henry with his coughing fits. She was afraid it was a stroke, that Arlene would end up talking out of one side of her mouth like Louise, or wheelchair-bound like Cat Osborn, but at the hospital she was her old self, joking—only partly in apology—that she must have given Emily quite a fright.

  The Taurus sat at the curb. The keys were in her bag. She could stop at home and let Rufus out and make sure he had water.

  “This is silly,” she said to the wet sycamores.

  She was still dithering when the taxi appeared at the end of the street, making the decision for her.

  On the way over, she noticed that the cabbie drove no better than she did. She resented the meter, and though the man offered to help with Arlene’s things, she declined his offer, tipping him the minimum 10 percent.

  “You’re a lifesaver,” Arlene gushed, as if she’d crossed the Sahara. She was propped up, watching the same soap opera as her neighbor, her lunch tray pushed to one side, the Jell-O untouched. They were going to take her for some sort of scan in about ten minutes.

  “You must be starving,” Arlene said. “You should get something from the cafeteria.”

  It was her way of asking Emily to stay, as if she’d just popped in to drop off her things. Emily hung up her coat to show her she wasn’t going anywhere. She helped her with her robe, then moved the chair so they could both watch TV.

  Her positioning was strategic. From where she sat, she couldn’t see the gash on Arlene’s forehead. More than anything, the sheer size of it disturbed her. She could picture it healing, but not without leaving a disfiguring scar, and again she thought of Louise, the long days they reminisced, laughing in that blank room, until visiting hours ended, both of them knowing she would never come home. She wondered if Arlene’s insurance would cover plastic surgery, or whether, at her age, they wouldn’t even bother.

  “Do you have any idea who these people are?” Arlene asked, pointing at the TV.

  “They all seem to wear a lot of makeup,” Emily said. “Especially the men.”

  She was hungry, but waited until the nurse came for Arlene before taking the elevator down to the ground floor, and then was disgusted by her gummy grilled cheese and lukewarm tomato soup. The flowers at the gift shop were preposterous, and had seen better days. Somehow she’d make it to the Giant Eagle tomorrow.

  Upstairs, Arlene wasn’t back from her scan. Emily stood at the window, looking down on her kingdom. It was nearly four, and the sky was beginning to deepen. Rufus had probably knocked over the garbage to communicate his disapproval. She went back to her chair and watched CNN until it repeated. Worried that something might have happened, she searched out the nurses’ station, but they couldn’t tell her anything. She went back to her chair, then the window, then the chair again, this time for the local news, though by now her mind was running through the awful possibilities and she could hardly concentrate.

  When they finally rolled Arlene in, she was groggy from the sedative.

  “We’re going to let her sleep now,” the nurse said, pulling the curtain closed.

  Visiting hours ended at eight. She recommended that Emily go home and come back in the morning. “I’d say you’ve both had a long day of it.”

  She wanted to stay so she would be there when Arlene woke up, but the woman was right, she was worn out. She took a cab, sitting downcast in the back, and tipped the driver begrudgingly.

  The house was dark, the front walk puddled. The storm door stuck, frustrating. By the glow of the streetlight she fitted her key into the lock, setting off Rufus. When she opened the door, he spun and spun on the runner, growling a needy greeting, prancing, frantic for her attention.

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes. It’s very exciting.”

  MYSTERIES OF THE BRAIN

  The doctors couldn’t find what was wrong with her. It wasn’t something as obvious and catastrophic as a stroke or a brain tumor. For lack of anything better, they were calling it an episode, as if there might be a whole series of them. At her age, as Emily updated Margaret over the phone, relaying what Arlene had told her, it was likely a combination of several smaller problems. For a start, she was probably dehydrated, which was common in the morning. They also thought she was suffering from low blood sugar. Emily herself felt faint and headachy when she didn’t eat, and, like her, Arlene had a habit of skipping meals, substituting coffee or sweets. It was one of the great dangers of living alone.

  “She did look thinner this summer,” Margaret said.

  “Plus who knows how much damage the smoking’s done. You know she used to smoke the unfiltered ones. Those were the real coffin nails, those old Pall Malls. It’s a miracle she’s lasted this long. Your father smoked the same brand. He stopped around the time I was pregnant with you because I literally couldn’t stomach the smell, but he must have smoked a good fifteen years. I’m sure that had something to do with what happened to him.”

  “She’s in good spirits, though?”

  “You know Arlene, she acts like everything’s peachy. She doesn’t see why she has to be there. She can’t smoke, that’s her big complaint. Speaking for myself, I’d be terrified. I’m sure she’d appreciate a call.”

  “I’ll try her when we’re done. How are you holding up? Do you need me to come down and help out?”

  For weeks Margaret had stonewalled her about their plans for Thanksgiving. Now she was ready to drop everything, and Emily was unaccountably jealous. More out of pride than spite, she promised herself not to broach the subject.

  “That’s kind of you to offer, but I don’t think it’s necessary. We’re hoping she’ll be home by the weekend. They’ve got her on fluids. You should see her, she’s hooked up to more monitors. I’m sure it’s costing a fortune.”

  “You let me know if you need me.”

  “I’m fine, just a little shaken, naturally. You should have seen the look on her face. For a second I honestly thought she was dead. I’m lucky I didn’t have a heart attack myself. They sent a very nice bouquet, the Eat ’n Park.”

  “That was nice of them.”

  “We’re very loyal customers.”

  This wasn’t meant as a prompt, but Margaret dutifully asked for Arlene’s room number.

  “So,” Emily said, “that’s all the excitement on this end. What’s going on in your neck of the woods?”

  “Not a whole lot.”

  It was her standard answer when she didn’t want to talk. Too often she acted as if Emily’s calls were an inconvenience, as if she were keeping her from urgent business. As a teenager she’d been distant and secretive, then for years as an alcoholic, hiding her sickness from everyone. Emily expected her to change after rehab, for the two of them to admit their mistakes and become closer, yet she still held Emily off, mistrustful, as if her own mother’s interest in her life was suspect.

  “How’s Sarah?”

  “Good, I guess. I haven’t talked to her in a while.”

  “What’s a while?”

  “She was supposed to call on Sunday. She’s not always good about that. Okay, I know what you’re going to say.”

  “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

  “Anyway,” Margaret sai
d, “she’s fine. She and her roommate are volunteering for Obama, so they’re never around.”

  “Does he really need the help in Chicago?”

  “This is at his headquarters, so it’s national. She’s very excited.”

  “She should be careful not to exhaust herself. How’s Justin?”

  “Good. He’s got midterms this week, so he’s keeping busy.”

  “How about you?”

  “I’m hanging in there. Thank you for the check, by the way.”

  “You’re welcome,” Emily said automatically. She wanted to ask about her job prospects, had the question formulated and cued up in her mind—Any movement on the job front?—but at the last second decided this wasn’t the time. Instead, she asked, “Have you decided what you’re doing for Thanksgiving?”

  She hadn’t meant to, not at all, and now it was too late to take it back. Her intent wasn’t to force a confession from her, but the initial silence which met her words let Emily know they were unwelcome.

  “Sarah’s break’s so short we can’t really go anywhere, even if we could afford to. We’re going to have a nice, quiet dinner here at home, just the three of us. You’re welcome to join us, you and Arlene. We’ve got room, that’s not a problem.”

  “That’s all right,” Emily said, because it wasn’t a proper offer, just a sop, and once she’d said, “I love you,” and gotten off, she wondered why she’d brought this insult upon herself. For a while she sat in Henry’s chair, pinching her lips between her thumb and forefinger, pondering what perverse urge made her ask Margaret the one question she’d specifically forbidden herself. Flopped at her feet, Rufus raised his head to look at her, then let it drop back to the carpet. In the corner, the grandfather clock ticked off another minute, its brass pendulum swinging back and forth behind the glass.