Saving Meghan(13)
The group shared personal dramas as well as medical ones, which was how Becky knew that certain spouses, some so-called friends, and even a few bosses believed to differing degrees that her group perpetuated sickness. These doubters accused group members of uncovering new symptoms out of fear they’d lose the ties that held them together should they or a loved one become well again. Becky encouraged her virtual friends to stay strong and ignore the naysayers—without revealing that her husband was one of them.
Picking up the glass of wine parked beside her, Becky took a long drink before she began contacting Meghan’s teachers. Sophomore year had been considerably less demanding, and she anticipated gathering a daunting amount of makeup work her daughter would need for what appeared to be another missed week of school. Or maybe it would stretch into two. Since returning from the hospital, Meghan hadn’t had the energy to do much more than shower and get dressed, and even those simple tasks proved overly taxing. Her daughter risked repeating the eleventh grade if she missed much more school.
Becky took another sip of wine, letting the fruity taste linger before swallowing it down. She moved from corresponding with Meghan’s teachers to trading Facebook messages with Veronica Del Mar, a friend from St. Petersburg, Florida, whom she’d never met in person. Veronica had a daughter near Meghan’s age who was still awaiting a diagnosis for her chronic gastrointestinal issues. Becky recapped the latest episode with Meghan for Veronica’s benefit, typing out in Facebook’s Messenger application her terrifying ordeal at the airport and Carl’s mounting frustrations with her, Meghan, and the whole damn situation.
VERONICA: They’re always frustrated. They don’t get us. It’s not in their DNA.
BECKY: I’d like to think other fathers wouldn’t give up so quickly on their daughters.
VERONICA: Two years is hardly quick.
BECKY: True.
VERONICA: Are you in couple’s therapy?? Might need it. I didn’t do it and regret it (sort of) … It’s actually been easier since Don moved out. At least he’s not questioning everything I do for Ashley.
Becky knew Don only from Veronica’s Facebook pictures. When Don stopped appearing in her albums, Becky got an inkling something was up. Sure enough, Veronica soon posted a status announcing the end of her decades-long marriage. What people did not understand (but those like Becky and Veronica knew all too well) was that chronic diseases spread viruslike to other members of the family, leading to a different sort of sickness.
BECKY: Any new news for Ashley?
VERONICA: No. Treatment options turning into a friggin’ “Choose Your Own Adventure” book. “If you want to try neural stem cell transplantation, go to page 61. If you want to opt for another course of intensive antibiotics, turn to page 81.” Nobody knows, and Ashley is bad as ever.
BECKY: I’m so so sorry.
She tagged her message with a series of sad-face emojis and prayer hands that seemed a bit tacky given the gravity of Ashley’s illness, but to this crowd, it represented a proper expression of her feelings. A ding sounded Veronica’s reply, but Becky’s attention had drifted to the door of her office, where Carl had appeared holding a tumbler of whiskey in his hand. An avid athlete and all-around thrill seeker, Carl seldom took to drinking, but Becky had noticed a subtle shift as the occasional cocktail became a nightly nightcap, then two.
“Hey, babe. Whatcha doing?” He knew exactly what she was doing, but for some reason, tonight, he did not seem irritated.
“I’m chatting with Veronica.”
Carl had come to know Becky’s virtual friends with a familiarity usually reserved for people he’d run into at the supermarket.
“Any news for Ashley?” Carl knew the kids’ names, too.
“No, nothing,” Becky said, resisting the urge to glance at Veronica’s last message. Carl had not shown her much attention lately, and it was so surprising and refreshing to receive even a little bit that she did not want to break the spell.
Despite all their recent struggles, the ups and downs typical of any marriage compounded by two volcanic upheavals in their lives, Becky still found her husband to be incredibly attractive. He had on a faded T-shirt that showed off muscles honed on the mountain bike, not in the gym. His jeans had a small hole in the knee, but they remained his favorite pair, comfy like well-worn pajamas. He was barefoot. His wavy hair may have lost some of its body but, unlike Becky, Carl did not bother trying to hide the gray. Carl’s jawline was once cut like a piece of polished granite, but had eroded with the years. Even though his smoldering dark eyes had grown lines like hers, and his abs no longer drew glances at the beach, Becky had no trouble seeing the younger man who had captured her heart.
He strode over to her desk and put a hand on Becky’s shoulder. His touch sent a shiver through her body. They had sex with the frequency of an eclipse, and fumbled through intimacy as though it were a forgotten college course, but there was tenderness in Carl’s touch; she did not just imagine it.
“Listen, babe; I owe you an apology.”
Carl knelt beside Becky, evoking a memory of the last time he’d been down on one knee, a diamond in a jewel box and hope in his eyes. She was new to her real estate venture back then; lucky to have one of Carl’s homes as her first listing.
“I’m sorry,” Carl said.
The apology took Becky by surprise. Usually those were her words, not his. I’m sorry not to give you the attention you crave, or cook for you, or clean, or make love, or be any fun at all, or do any of the things I used to do. I’m sorry I’m not any of that anymore.