Recursion(42)

“It’s going to storm in the mountains today,” Dorothy says, still watching the black clouds.

Helena lets out a deep, trembling breath. “Looks that way, doesn’t it?”

“I used to hike in those mountains with my family to a place called Lost Lake.”

“I remember that. I was there with you, Mom.”

“We would swim in the freezing water, and then lie out on the warm rocks. The sky was so blue it was almost purple. There were wildflowers in the meadows. It doesn’t seem that long ago.”

They sit in the silence.

Lightning touches the summit of Longs Peak.

Too distant to hear the thunder.

Helena wonders how often her father comes to visit. Wonders how hard it must be for him. She’d give anything to see him again.

Helena brings all of the photos over and takes her time showing each one to her mother, pointing to faces, saying names, recalling moments from her own memory. She starts to pick out memories she thinks her mother would count as her most special and important, and then realizes it’s far too intimate a choice to make for another person. She can only share her own.

And then the oddest thing happens.

Dorothy looks at her, and for a moment, her eyes have become clear, lucid, and fierce—as if the woman Helena has always known has somehow fought through the tangle of dementia and ruined neural pathways to see her daughter for a fleeting breath.

“I was always proud of you,” her mother says.

“You were?”

“You are the best thing I ever did.”

Helena wraps her arms around her mother, tears streaming.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t save you, Mom.”

But when she pulls away, the moment of clarity has passed.

She’s staring into the eyes of a stranger.





BARRY





June 2010–November 6, 2018

One morning, he wakes up and it’s Meghan’s high school graduation.

She is salutatorian; she gives a great speech.

He cries.

And then an autumn comes when it’s just him and Julia and a very quiet house.



* * *





One night in bed, she turns to him and says, “Is this how you want to spend the rest of your life?”

He doesn’t know what to say to her. Strike that. He knows. He had always blamed Meghan’s death for his and Julia’s demise. It was their family—the three of them—that united him and Julia. When Meghan died, that bond disintegrated in the span of a year. Only now is he able to admit that they were always doomed. His second journey through their marriage has just been a slower, less dramatic death, brought on by Meghan growing up and pulling back and making her own way in life.

So yes, he knows. He just doesn’t want to say it.

This relationship was meant for a specific time, and no longer.



* * *





His mother dies exactly the way he remembers.



* * *





Meghan is already at the bar when he arrives, sipping a martini and texting someone. For a moment, he doesn’t see her, because she is just another beautiful woman at a chic Manhattan bar, having an early evening cocktail.

“Hi, Megs.”

She sets her phone facedown and slides off the stool, embracing him harder than usual, pulling him in close, not letting go.

“How are you doing?” she asks.

“It’s fine, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

She studies him dubiously as he takes his seat at the bar and orders a San Pellegrino with a small dish of limes.

“How’s work?” he asks. She’s in her first year as a community organizer for a nonprofit.

“Insanely busy and amazing, but I don’t want to talk about work.”

“You know I’m proud of you, right?”

“Yes, you tell me every time you see me. Look, I need to ask you something.”

“OK.” He sips his limey mineral water.

“How long were you unhappy?”

“I don’t know. A while. Years maybe.”

“Did you and Mom stay married because of me?”

“No.”

“You swear?”

“I swear. I wanted it to work out. I know your mother did too. Sometimes it just takes a while to finally call it a day. You may have contributed to our not noticing how unhappy we were, but you were never the reason we stayed.”

“Have you been crying?”

“No.”

“Bullshit.”

She’s good. He signed the separation agreement in his lawyer’s office an hour ago, and barring something unforeseen, a judge will sign a divorce decree within the month.

It was a long walk here, and, yes, for much of it he was crying. That’s one of the great things about New York—no one cares about your emotional state as long as there’s no blood involved. Crying on the sidewalk in the middle of the day is no less private than crying in your bedroom in the middle of the night. Maybe it’s because no one cares. Maybe it’s because it’s a brutal city, and they’ve all been there at one time or another.

“How’s Max?” Barry asks.