After the End(73)

“You OK, hon?” Jada says.

There’s nowhere to go, on a plane. No retreating to the ladies’, or ducking out for a walk around the block. Hiding from the public, from colleagues, from yourself. “I’m fine.” I smile brightly, and because Jada has never had to hide behind a smile, that’s all the reassurance she needs.

It’s Lars who isn’t convinced, whose eyes follow me as I get myself a glass of water and drink it right down. Lars who waits until Jada is dealing with a passenger, to say, “What happened?”

And perhaps if he’d asked, as Jada had, whether I was OK, or said Are you sure, or Is there anything you need? I’d have closed him down. I’m fine, yes I’m sure, no thank you. But he asked the right question. He asked What happened?

I watch the clouds beyond the window. “My son died. The court ruled that he should be allowed to die, even though my husband disagreed.”

“That was you.” He says it quietly, almost to himself.

“That was me.” I look at him, and I feel my face twist into tears. “And I think I got it wrong.”





thirty-three





Max


   2016


Now get dressed.” Mom stands outside the bathroom door, holding clothes she’s taken from the suitcase I’ve barely touched in the two months since I arrived. Jeans, T-shirt, socks . . . all neatly folded, like she’s sending me to summer camp. I guess I should feel something—shame, perhaps, that my mom’s picking out my clothes—but there’s nothing there. I’m numb.

“Later. I’m going to take a nap, I still don’t feel well.” I pull my bathrobe tighter around me, but she pushes the clothes at me, removing her hands so I have to take the pile or let it fall. I’m tired, I need to sleep. My body clock has gone crazy, with something that can’t still be jet lag but may as well be. At night I lie awake, anxiety seeping like poison through my body, watching the clock mark every hour of the sleep I won’t see. In the day my body screams for rest, moving reluctantly from bed to sofa and back again, seeking the over-hot weight of the pink comforter. My eyes are hollow and I’m out of shape, with the long nails and overgrown beard of a vagrant. I look in the mirror and see a man I don’t know.

I walk past Mom to my room, then stop short. I turn back and glare at her. The pink comforter is gone, the bed stripped, the mattress bare.

“Laundry day,” she says brightly, like she doesn’t know what it’s doing to me.

“Christ, Mom, I’m sick!” I drop the pile of clothes on the floor and bang my fist against the doorjamb. She flinches, but stands her ground, and I hate myself for taking this out on her. “I just can’t shift this virus, I . . .”

You’re a failure.

I cover my face with my hands, my fingers splayed and my nails digging into my scalp. I hear a choking sound and realize that it’s me. Mom puts a hand on my arm.

“You’re not well, Max.”

“I’ve been telling you that for weeks!” I shake her off, but she steps forward and puts her arms around me, squeezing me tight like she hasn’t done in years because I’m the one who’s done the squeezing. She’s getting old, she should be taking it easy, not washing my sheets and getting my clothes, and holding me to stop me from breaking.

You’re a failure.

The tears come from deep inside me. Hot, shameful, pathetic tears that leave me angry and exhausted. And Mom holds me till I’m done, and then she gently pulls away and I see she’s crying too.

“Tell me how to help you, Max. I can’t bear to see you like this.”

But my throat is too tight to speak, and even if it weren’t I don’t have anything to say. There is nothing she can do. Nothing anyone can do. I stumble like a drunkard into the room, and fall onto the bed, curling into a ball. I hear Mom crying and I want to pull the comforter over my head, but she’s taken it and I don’t know if it’s her I hate, or me.

“Oh, Max . . .” She’s still crying, tears lacing her words. “I lost that little boy too, you know.” And I want her to hold me again, I want to cry in her arms and tell her how much I miss Dylan and Pip, but I can’t because I’m a failure. A screw-up. A waste of oxygen.



* * *





A week after Thanksgiving she tries again.

“The faucet’s dripping—can you take a look?”

I’m on the sofa, watching The Price Is Right, my pajamas changed for near-identical gray sweatpants and T-shirt. “Call a plumber.”

“Sonia Barking, come on down!” Drew Carey beams from the TV like he’s saying See how much happier I am than you! How much more successful!

“I can’t get anyone. It’s only a washer. Please, Max, it won’t take a minute.”

It takes thirty.

“I’m going back to bed.”

“Since the toolbox is out anyway, how about fixing that loose carpet at the top of the stairs?”

“I know what you’re trying to do, Mom.” I stalk past her and up the stairs. She follows me, and I feel a sharp stab of guilt as I realize she’s lugging the toolbox up with her.

“I almost tripped this morning. Gave me quite a scare—the idea of tumbling right down to the bottom.”