Beside Herself Page 4

  “Yes, and you can call me Hannah,” she said for the millionth time. “Is Richard okay?”

  “Yes, yes, Mr. Bent is okay this morning. We just have the usual soap problem.”

  “Oh, of course,” Hannah said. Normally she would look at Joel here, too, to let him know all was basically well. But she didn’t. “I just got a bunch of Palmolive. I was going to drop it off this morning along with the plaque, but we had a hard night, and I was delayed. I’ll come now.”

  She could almost feel everyone around her gasp: She was leaving them? But she had to. If she didn’t, if Richard didn’t get his preferred (or really demanded) soap, he wouldn’t relax, which would mean nobody would relax. When he was upset, his booming and highly recognizable voice filled the whole unit.

  “Okay, Hannah,” the nurse said, calling her by her first name, until the next time, when she would go right back to calling her Mrs. Bent. Then she added apologetically, “He won’t let us bring him out of his room until he is bathed, and he won’t let us bathe him unless we have the proper soap.”

  “Yes, I totally understand, this is my fault. I never should have let the supply get so low. I’ll be there within the hour.” She hung up and looked around. “Where’s Ridley?”

  “She fell back to sleep,” Lincoln said.

  “Okay, then this might be a good time to go see Grandpa,” she said to Lincoln. “Do you want to come?”

  Bringing him along would slow her down, but she knew being asked might be all he needed to not feel she was abandoning him again.

  “I better stay here,” he said. “I’ll make sure everyone is okay. I think Daddy should sit down.”

  She again looked toward Joel, who was still standing in the same place. Did she have to do literally everything around here?

  “Joel,” she called to him. “Sit on the couch.”

  He nodded and shuffled toward their burnt-orange corduroy couch, which they always meant to replace but loved too much to actually do it. Now she wondered if she had been sitting on that couch when he had been at the hotel with Tara. She tried not to think about that right now. She had to keep moving. She turned toward Monica just as Joel sat down, put his head back, and closed his eyes.

  “You probably want to go home, right?” she said gently. “You haven’t been home all night.”

  “I’m okay,” Monica said. “I was planning on coming at noon today anyway, remember?”

  “Yes, of course,” Hannah said. There was no camp today, Joel was supposed to be at work, and Hannah had planned to swim before her scheduled afternoon work meeting—she was just finishing a project for the redesign of a Center City hotel lobby. Today was supposed to be the last meeting, the debriefing. “Thank you. I can’t thank you enough.”

  Hannah walked over to Joel and sat down next to him. He didn’t open his eyes, and she had to fight the urge to poke him meanly.

  “Will you be okay while I take the soap?” she asked, trying not to sound hostile. She didn’t want to alarm Lincoln or do anything to make Monica wonder if something was wrong, beyond the obvious.

  Joel nodded but didn’t say anything.

  “I’ll be quick,” she said. She got up just as Lincoln was heading their way with a plastic cup filled with red liquid. Under normal circumstances, she might question what the red liquid was, but really, she just didn’t care.

  “You have to stay hydrated,” she heard Lincoln say to Joel as she sprinted up the stairs. Hannah glanced in Ridley’s open door and saw she was sleeping peacefully on top of her covers. She backed away quietly and was reaching for the bag full of Palmolive soap just inside her room when she had an idea. Could she fit in her swim? She would feel so much better. Maybe she would even have more patience to deal with all of this. She found her Speedo and threw it in her backpack with a towel. She made a quick call to reschedule her meeting for later in the week. Then she headed back down the stairs. Joel looked a little better now, and she wasn’t sure if it was real or if he was faking it for Lincoln, but it made her feel better. Despite everything she felt bad for being cold and distant when he was so low, but he deserved it—he’d done this. If he had held up his end of the bargain, she would be her usual warm self.

  “Keep drinking,” she called as she moved toward the front door, hoping nobody would notice the backpack she had slung over her shoulder. Then she was out the door and free.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “He’s there!” Dani said, slightly breathless and dripping wet.

  Hannah had felt her shoulders begin to relax as soon as she’d stepped inside the Christian Street Y and smelled the chlorine from the pool. She wanted a few minutes to think and be alone; she didn’t want to deal with other moms. She knew she was being irresponsible, stopping to swim before going to the nursing home, but she needed to do something to feel more grounded. Swimming wouldn’t take away what had happened, what Joel had done, but at least she could escape for a few minutes. She would keep it short.

  “Who?” Hannah asked as she searched for the combination lock she usually kept in the front pocket of her backpack.

  “Who? Are you really asking?” Dani said, her hands on the hips of her kiwi bikini. She looked more ready for the beach than the lap lane at the Y.

  Hannah slammed the locker door shut, her towel and wallet in hand. She had given up on finding the lock. “Yes, I’m really asking.”

  “Lance.”

  “Seriously?” Hannah asked, hearing the snark in her voice and regretting it immediately. Dani had a boy Ridley’s age and a girl Lincoln’s age. Even so, she always looked good, ready for the day, never wore yoga pants or even had her hair up, at least not that Hannah ever saw.

  “You’re no fun,” Dani said, turning and heading to her locker. Dani was right: Hannah was no fun.

  “Sorry, I’m sorry, it’s been a hard day.” All the moms went crazy for Lance, who was an incredibly handsome lifeguard—great body, olive skin, deep-brown eyes, thick brown hair that he kept a little longer on the top. Actually, his hair reminded her of Joel’s. How many times had she had that exact thought—that she didn’t have to admire Lance like everyone else did because she had the most handsome husband waiting at home for her?

  Lance wasn’t even much younger than they were. The story—which was widely told—was that he was a single dad who’d chosen to move to the city from the Jersey Shore to be near his parents and get help with his kids. The number of kids he had changed every time she heard the story, ranging from one daughter to two sets of twins with lots of combinations in between. At the Shore he’d headed the beach patrol, or whatever it was called there, and was an EMT during the winter, and apparently this was the closest he could get to the water. He never seemed annoyed or sad that he was in a windowless room. The mystery, which everyone guessed about but nobody had a definite explanation for, was why he was a single dad. Hannah thought he was nice enough, but he wasn’t what motivated her to swim, unlike the others. One time, when he’d been on a break and gone into the sauna for a few minutes, Hannah had seen Dani and Felicia, another mom, literally follow him in. Honestly, she thought they were being ridiculous.

  “Actually, on second thought, I might head back out with you,” Dani said. “I still have some time.”

  Hannah resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Great,” she said instead, nicely this time.

  Hannah let Dani go first, even though she knew the lanes could be full, and in a perfect world she would like to be back in the locker room in twenty minutes or so. She had to get to Richard.

  She closed her eyes briefly as the humid air hit her face and was surprised to find the pool completely empty. She could hear the chorus of Van Morrison’s “Brown Eyed Girl” playing in the background.

  “Hello, ladies,” Lance called from the stand. “It’s so quiet in here I thought I’d play some music. But if it bothers you or it messes with your swimming mojo, I’m happy to turn it off.”

  “No, no,” Dani called. “I love it.”

 
Lance looked to Hannah.

  “Fine with me,” she said.

  “Okay, ladies, well, keep in mind I welcome requests.”

  “Oooooh,” Dani squealed. “Do you have any Bob Marley?”

  “I certainly do,” Lance said, scrolling through his phone.

  Hannah got into the pool at the shallow end and swam under two ropes to the farthest lane. She eased on her goggles, which luckily had been left in her bag from her last visit, and began to swim. After four laps of freestyle she slowed down and did the breaststroke for a while. She noticed Dani was standing below the lifeguard stand, talking to Lance, but his eyes were on the pool and, since she was the only one swimming, on her. Now “Tupelo Honey” played on the Bluetooth speaker. Hannah had to admit she loved this song.

  After six laps of the breaststroke, she moved to the backstroke, which always made her nervous that she would hit her head or her hand on the wall. She came up short every time, whipping around awkwardly to see how close she was. On her third length she saw Lance was kneeling at the edge of the pool waiting for her.

  “Oh, hey,” she said, startled.

  “Hey,” he said smoothly. He had such a calm voice. He looked tan, even though, if the story about him was correct, he hadn’t been to the beach much or at all this season, and he was quite fit up close. “I hope you don’t mind, but I noticed you struggling with the backstroke. Not struggling—you have nice form—but not feeling confident enough to finish the length. Am I right?”

  She grabbed on to the smooth edge of the pool. Their faces were just inches apart. She smelled mint. “Yes, you’re right.”

  The first notes of Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds” rang out, and Dani practically moaned. They both looked over at her as she stood, her eyes half-closed, swaying to the music. Hannah almost felt sorry for her and for the first time wondered what her marriage was like. Lance smiled at Dani and saluted, and she smiled at him, still moving to the music. He turned back toward Hannah.

  “So this doesn’t have to be a guessing game,” he said in such a way that she wanted to know what came next. “Look up.”

  Hannah didn’t understand. “What?”

  “Look up,” he said again, now pointing toward the high ceiling. She did, and she saw a string of red and white flags across the top of the pool. Lance pointed toward the shallow end, and she saw a similar string. She had noticed the flags before and always thought they were a nice decoration to go along with Lance’s miniature fake palm tree that he had attached to the stand. She knew vaguely they also served a real purpose, but she had never bothered to learn what that was.

  “The flags?” she asked.

  “Exactly,” he said. “They tell you you’re almost there. They’re placed five yards from the end of the pool. Now all we have to do is figure out how many strokes you take in that space.”

  We?

  “Okay,” she said. “How do we, or how do I, do that?”

  He looked around the pool. “There’s nobody here,” he said. “I’ll get in the pool and help you figure it out.”

  She moved back as he eased in, barely making a splash.

  “Let’s go to the shallow end,” he said, heading that way. She followed, doing the breaststroke behind him. He stopped under the flags and gestured for her to go to the edge of the pool.

  “Okay,” he said. “I can tell you that from here to here is five yards, so just take your normal strokes, and I’ll count.”

  She suddenly felt self-conscious but pushed onto her back and did the backstroke all out. After five strokes she was about to give up, thinking she must have misunderstood what he wanted her to do, when she felt his hand on her arm. She popped up.

  “Five,” he said. “For you it’s five. When you see the flag overhead, do five full strokes, and you’ll be there.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it,” he said, pushing himself out and up to standing in one motion. When she realized she was watching him, she turned her head sharply and pushed off, not quite ready, doing the wrong stroke, then flipped around to do the backstroke and tried his trick, which worked beautifully, though she was frazzled and out of breath. She swam four more laps, and as she stood in the shallow end to check the clock, a group of older women came in carrying small bright-pink hand weights. She guessed they were here for water aerobics.

  Dani was still swaying to Bob Marley—now it was “One Love.”

  “Hey, are you going to swim anymore?” Hannah called to her.

  She stopped moving and sighed. “No, I don’t think so,” she said. “It’s back to reality.”

  “Me too,” Hannah said. “I have to go visit my father-in-law at the nursing home.”

  “Oh, that’s even more reality than I have to deal with,” Dani said, following her into the locker room. Just before they turned in, they stopped and waved to Lance. He was surrounded by the older women, but he noticed them and gave them the peace sign. As they turned away, Hannah heard one woman ask if he had any Frank Sinatra songs on his thingamajig.

  Ninety minutes after she had left her house under the guise of taking the soap to Richard, she arrived at Saint Martha’s. Her hair was still wet, and the bag of soap blew against her in the humid breeze as she made her way to the entrance. She ignored Joel’s second call since she’d left. The first had come through while she’d been swimming. She just didn’t want to talk to him. She made a deal with herself—she would answer Monica’s call instantly, and if Joel bothered to call five times, she would answer it then. She knew if something was really wrong, she would hear from Monica.

  She tucked her phone into the back pocket of her jeans and nodded to the people in wheelchairs out on the porch and to others inside the lobby, which was still decorated for the Fourth of July. Every single person she nodded to smiled, and she got a pit in her stomach thinking how nice they were and how sad they were and how little it took to make so many older people happy. She checked in at the desk and walked around to Richard’s unit. She heard his deep, reverberating voice the minute she turned the corner.

  “Soap poisoning has long been a problem in our country,” he boomed in what she thought of as his official tone. It was the voice he’d used for the Nightly News. She walked faster. “It can happen when people use a product of which they don’t know the ingredients or when certain ingredients are mixed. It can also happen simply when choosing a poorly made product.”

  Hannah practically jogged into the common area to find Richard in his wheelchair, completely dressed and groomed and combed, wearing a suit, which he insisted upon, and his signature plaid bow tie. The only hints that he was not actually out in the real world were the subject matter and his brown fuzzy slippers. His audience surrounded him, some in wheelchairs, some on couches, and one person on what looked like a gurney, listening intently to his every word.

  “Palmolive has long been a trusted brand in these United States,” he continued. Hannah shook her head. She knew she couldn’t interrupt him, and she also knew he knew he wasn’t actually anchoring the news. This was his way of communicating with his peers, and his voice was so familiar, so mesmerizing, he could literally be saying anything, and people would listen. The last time this had happened—or at least the last time Hannah was aware of—Richard had talked about the wild quest for his slippers. Before that it was 9/11, and before that it was about when the Berlin Wall had come down. She was beginning to wonder if Richard did this more often than she realized.

  “Oh, hey.” Reuben came up behind her, indicating that she should follow him. He was Richard’s social worker and had been since he’d arrived at Saint Martha’s. If you wanted to know anything about anything, Reuben was the one to ask.

  “He’s dressed,” she said as soon as they were away from the crowd. “I’m so surprised.”

  “Yeah, he was especially upset this morning; he wanted to get going, so I just ran to Rite Aid and picked up a bar of Palmolive. It was easy.”

  “Oh,
wow,” Hannah said, feeling even worse than she already had for fitting in a swim. “That seems like it’s above and beyond the call of duty. Thank you. Can I pay you for it?”

  “No, no,” Reuben said, waving her off. “It was my pleasure. Do you want some coffee?”

  “Sure,” Hannah said, wondering how it was that he was always so kind and never made her feel like he should be doing something else while he talked to her, even though that was undoubtedly true.

  “Follow me,” he said. They walked back through the common area, where Richard was now talking about an industrial accident in a soap factory. His audience was equally as rapt as before. Hannah stopped and waved to him. Richard nodded formally and kept talking, but just before she turned to follow Reuben, she saw him smile.

  At the end of the ramp leading toward the lobby, Reuben turned left, into a small conference room where they had met many times before, officially and unofficially, to talk about Richard. There was a pot of coffee and a bunch of mugs on a side table. He chose one that said Basilica of the National Shrine of Mary, Queen of the Universe and one that said You Are My Sunshine, poured coffee into each, and held them both up to let Hannah choose which one she wanted.

  “I’ll take Queen of the Universe, I guess,” she said, reaching for it and taking a sip. “Where is it from?”

  “Oh, I’m glad you asked,” Reuben said, indicating that they should sit down. “This is actually my mug collection; I finally decided to bring it in. You know the old saying, ‘If you want to say something, say it with a mug,’ right?”

  “Um, no,” Hannah said. “I’ve never heard that.”

  “I’m just kidding,” Reuben said, chuckling. “Strangely, I’ve found the residents love the mugs. The other day when Mrs. Sokolov was under the weather, I brought her the mug with the big umbrella on it, filled with tea, of course, and she loved it. Another time—well, you don’t need to know all this. I will tell you that the mug you are holding is from a church that was started in Orlando, Florida, to serve all the tourists who came to Disney World. Cool, huh?”