The Good Life Read online

  “Eileen’s always been a good cook,” said Sam, “all through our married life.”

  Eileen looked at her husband, who appeared to have no recollection of the morning’s events. Even before he got sick, he was always able to put unpleasantness behind him. Throughout their forty-eight years together, he had rarely stewed about anything. Worrying, he said, was a waste of time. If something is bothering you, he had told Eileen many times, do something about it or forget it. The rest of the meal was spent in relative silence. Everyone, hungry, ate quickly. Nate got a second helping for himself and his grandfather, and Mike allowed an insistent Eileen to refill his plate. After everyone was done, Lauren stood and began clearing the dishes from the table. Nate stood and, announcing he and Sam were anxious to get back to watching the documentary about World War II on the History Channel, helped his grandfather out of his chair. “Hadn’t we better do the dishes?” Sam said to Nate. “After all, the women prepared the meal.”

  “You’re right, Gramps,” said Nate. “I’m ready if you are.”

  “You two go ahead and finish the war,” said Eileen. “I’m happy to do the dishes. Selma—bless her heart—has already done the heavy work.”

  “Are you sure, Eileen?” asked Sam, using her name for the first time in weeks.

  “Yes,” said Eileen, kissing him on the cheek.

  Mike stood. “Do you want to join us, Mike?” asked Sam.

  Mike looked at his father-in-law, again wondering what was behind the mask. What was it that Nate saw? Sam had been an intelligent man, who could speak about the stock market and current events as ably as he had about the farming industry. When they had spent time at the farm over a number of Christmases, it was Ann who had been uncomfortable, restless, not Mike. But things had changed in the last year, rendering Sam unable to talk capably about anything. Mike had always surrounded himself with exceptional people, from his hockey teammates in college, to his study group in business school, to his inner circle at Dilloway. “No thanks,” he said. “I’m going to head back into my office.”

  “Dad,” said Nate. “Dilloway can survive for an hour without you.”

  “Young man,” said Sam, “you need to treat your father with respect. It’s his hard work that paid for the food that sits in your stomach.”

  “Thank you,” Mike said to Sam.

  “And a father who spends no time with his child is not really a father at all,” said Sam, shifting his gaze to Mike.

  “Okay, then,” said Eileen to no one in particular. “I’ll just get started on those dishes.”

  “I’m ready,” said Lauren, pushing the leftover sausages from their platter into a plastic storage container.

  “And I know you are, my dear,” said Eileen. “But I want you to run off and do something with the rest of your day. Saturdays are precious.”

  Lauren hesitated. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive,” said Eileen. “You know how I like to putter in the kitchen.” Lauren kissed her grandmother and disappeared into the hallway. Selma tucked the newspaper under her arm and said she would walk down to the guesthouse with Nate and Sam. And then it was quiet; no one else said a thing while Nate helped Sam with his coat and then guided him out the back door with Selma following. Feeling oddly foolish, Mike took his hands out of his pockets and walked out of the room.

  CHAPTER 19

  Her head throbbing, Ann rolled over in bed and looked at the clock. It was almost five in the morning. She closed her eyes, trying to summon the energy to get out of bed and walk to the bathroom, where she could pee and take a handful of Advil. She silently counted to ten, then sat up. Big mistake; her head exploded with pain. She lay back down on the pillow. “Sally,” she whispered to her friend sleeping next to her.

  A light sleeper, Sally opened her eyes and blinked a few times. “Yes?”

  “Be a darling and get me some Advil,” said Ann.

  Sally threw back her covers and got out of bed. She yawned and stretched and then went into the bathroom. “Where are they?” she asked, looking around in the dimness and long shadows cast by the night-light plugged in next to the far sink.

  “On the counter somewhere,” said Ann. “And bring me a glass of cold, cold water.”

  Sally grabbed the bottle of pain reliever with one hand and turned on the tap with the other. She stuck her finger in the running stream and, when it was cold, filled the glass next to Ann’s toothbrush. She took them to Ann, who had propped herself up on her pillows.

  “Four should do the trick,” she said, holding out her hand.

  “Four?” asked Sally, who had shaken one tablet into her hand. “I think you’re supposed to take just one, two at the most, at a time.”

  “And I want four,” said Ann, reaching over and taking the Advil bottle from Sally. Sally watched her friend take the tablets and swallow them. Then she drank the water. Ann put the glass down on the bedside table, lay back on the pillows, and closed her eyes, hoping that if she didn’t move the feeling of nausea would pass.

  “Are you okay?” asked Sally, still standing next to the bed.

  “Barely,” whispered Ann.

  “Are you getting up now? Do you want to talk?”

  “Good God no,” said Ann. “Get back into bed.”

  Sally walked around to her side of the bed and got in. She pulled the covers up to her chin and turned away from Ann. “Let me know if you need anything,” said Sally, eyes closed. A bucket, thought Ann, at that very moment. She bolted out of bed and ran to the toilet, where she vomited up the Advil and paltry remains of lunch from the day before. Sally was two steps behind her. “Are you all right?”

  Ann wiped a string of saliva from her chin with her wrist. “No,” she said, her head a funeral pyre.

  “What can I do?” asked Sally.

  “Go back to bed,” said Ann. “This will be over in a minute.”

  Quickly, Sally left the bathroom and got back into bed. From there, she could clearly hear Ann retch another three times. Jesse was right: Ann had had too much to drink. It was so hard to keep track, especially on vacation, when glasses were replenished before they were empty, when beach drinks frequently tipped over and sank instantly into the sand. Ann could drink like no one Sally knew, male or female, but she had never seen her like this. What in the world would cause someone to drink enough alcohol to expel the contents of her stomach? It was so raw and demoralizing. She reached over to Ann’s side of the bed and fluffed her pillows.

  Several minutes later, Ann returned to the bed. The pain had moved from the back of her head to her temples: boom, boom, boom, boom. Ann lay back and closed her eyes. “I hate this,” she said.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Sally.

  “Don’t be sorry,” said Ann. “You didn’t do anything.”

  “That’s right,” said Sally. “I did nothing to stop you or help you.”

  Ann turned her head to face her friend. “I did this to myself,” she said. “There is nothing you could have done.”

  “Can I do something now?”

  “No,” said Ann. “This will pass. Go back to sleep.”

  Sally, Paula, and Jesse had been up for almost three hours before Ann got out of bed. They’d left her a note before heading out for an early morning walk on the beach and then breakfast at Fred’s, a local restaurant recommended by the man sweeping the cement pathways. They’d changed into their bathing suits and were just about to head back to the beach—after Jesse assured Sally and Paula that time was Ann’s best friend at the moment—when Ann walked down the stairs into the living room. “Good morning,” said Jesse, giving her friend a slight smile.

  “I’ve had better,” said Ann, walking past them and into the kitchen area, where she grabbed a pitcher of orange juice from the fridge and poured herself a glass.

  “How are you feeling?” asked Paula.

  “Not very good,” said Ann. “Are you all heading to the beach?”

  “We were thinking about it,” said Sally. “But we’
re happy to stay here instead.”

  “No, no,” said Ann, waving her hand in front of her. “You all go ahead. I’ll join you a little later.”

  Paula and Sally looked at Jesse. “Go on to the beach,” she said, gently shooing them. “I’ll stay here and get Ann going.”

  “I’ll stay with you,” said Sally. “I’m happy to lend a hand.”

  “I don’t need a hand,” said Ann. “I need a large glass of tomato juice with two raw eggs in it. Run down to The Beachcomber, Sally, and get one from Eduard, will you? Tell him I want a large.” Delighted to have an assignment, to be of use, Sally followed Paula out the door, down the path, and out of sight.

  “So,” said Jesse from the couch. “Are we going to talk about this?”

  Ann looked at her friend. “I think we’re going to talk about it whether I want to or not.”

  “Come sit down,” said Jesse, patting the seat cushion next to her.

  Ann sat on the end cushion, facing out; Jesse sat at the other end, her body angled toward Ann. “What’s going on?”

  “What do you mean?” said Ann, looking out the sliding glass door.

  “With your drinking,” said Jesse. “I think we need to talk about your drinking.”

  “I’ve always liked my liquor,” said Ann, folding her arms across her chest. “You know that about me.”

  “We all like our liquor,” said Jesse. “There’s a big difference between enjoying a few drinks and drinking enough to make you physically ill.”

  Ann looked at Jesse with hard eyes. “We’re on vacation, Jesse,” she said. “Ease up.”

  “I don’t think being on vacation has anything to do with it,” said Jesse. “I think something’s bothering you.”

  “Here we go,” said Ann. “The psychology major has a field day.”

  Jesse smiled at her friend. “You can poke fun at me all you want,” she said. “I’m not going away. This issue is not going away, Ann.”

  Ann stood and walked over to the door. “God, how long does it take to make a tomato and egg?”

  “Sit down, Ann,” said Jesse. “She’ll be back any minute.”

  Reluctantly, Ann walked back to the couch and sat. “Honestly, Jesse, I feel like crap,” she said. “I really don’t think I’m up for a lecture.”

  “And no one said I was going to give you one,” said Jesse. “I just want to talk about what’s going on.”

  “There’s nothing going on.”

  “There is most definitely something going on if you are drinking enough alcohol to throw up,” said Jesse. “You told me about getting sick in San Francisco. You got sick last night. Yesterday, you were absolutely consumed by where and when you could get your next drink. That’s not normal, Ann. That’s not the Ann I know.”

  Ann sat back and sighed. “I don’t know,” she said, combing her sticky hair with her fingers. “Sometimes I feel like my perfect life has gone to shit.”

  Sally, holding one of Ann’s favorite hangover remedies and smiling like a child holding a tray of cookies she had baked herself, opened the sliding glass door. “It’s absolutely beautiful out here,” she said, handing the drink to Ann. “I think the fresh air and sunshine would do you good, Ann.”

  “We’ll be there in a little while,” said Jesse. “You go on ahead and warm up our beach chairs.”

  Sally bit her lower lip. On the one hand, she thought Ann should be talking with her. But on the other, she didn’t want to undo what Jesse had started. And selfishly, the warmth of the sun and the breeze off the ocean were a million times more enticing than the salmon-colored walls of Ann’s living room. “Run along,” said Jesse, making up Sally’s mind for her.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive,” said Jesse. “We’ll join you soon.” Dismissed with honor, Sally picked up her straw beach bag, walked out the open door, and jogged down the path to the beach.

  “You can run along, too,” said Ann, taking a long sip from her large red drink. “I’ll be fine here.”

  “How,” asked Jesse, “has your perfect life gone to shit?”

  Ann set the glass down on the table. “Oh God,” she said. “I don’t know.”

  “Well,” said Jesse, coaxing, “when did you start to feel this way?”

  Ann put her hand to her head. “Probably when my parents arrived.”

  Yes, thought Jesse. “It’s incredibly stressful having long-term guests, especially parents,” she told Ann. “You’ve been under a lot of pressure.”

  “Stressful doesn’t even begin to get at it,” said Ann, picking up her drink. “Every time I walk into my kitchen, my kitchen, my mother is there. She’s baking dessert with Lauren. She’s whipping up a casserole for dinner. She’s doing dishes Emma should be doing. She’s just there.”

  “She must like being in your house,” said Jesse, “being near you.”

  “I think she likes making me feel inadequate,” said Ann. “She knows I don’t cook, so she goes out of her way to show me just how comfortable she is in the kitchen. I think there’s evil intent there.”

  “Really?” asked Jesse. “She doesn’t seem evil to me.”

  “Believe me,” said Ann, “you haven’t seen the look on her face when she sets the homemade cake down on the center of the table after dinner—pure smugness.” Ann took another sip of her drink. “God, that’s good.”

  “Maybe it’s just pride,” offered Jesse. “She likes to cook and is proud of her work.” Ann shrugged. “Maybe,” continued Jesse, “she likes to cook because she can control things in the kitchen. Maybe being there gets her away from her husband, over whom she has no control.”

  Ann narrowed her puffy eyes at her friend. “I think you’re reaching.”

  “I’m not saying your mother is aware of doing these things,” said Jesse. “It’s just an idea.”

  “She’s always loved to cook and bake,” said Ann, fingers at her temples. “Way before my father got sick.”

  “And so now she throws herself into it with extra zeal,” said Jesse, sitting forward in her seat. “It gives her pleasure.”

  “I’ll give you that,” said Ann. “I know it gives her pleasure.”

  Jesse stood and walked into the kitchen area. “I’m going to make some coffee,” she said. “You want some?”

  Ann shook her head. “This,” she said, holding up her tomato concoction, “is all I can handle right now.”

  Jesse opened the coffeemaker and found a filter already in it. She opened the bag of ground coffee on the counter and spooned some into the filter. “We haven’t talked much about your father,” she said, filling the carafe with water. “He’s quite sick, isn’t he?”

  “He’s out of his mind,” said Ann. “It’s like every wire in his head is crossed.”

  “That must be hard for you,” said Jesse, switching on the coffeemaker.

  “It is hard,” said Ann, taking another sip of her drink. “I can barely stand to be in the same room with him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s so difficult, Jesse. He is so far removed from the father of my childhood. I hardly recognize him.”

  “Have you discussed how you feel with your mother?”

  “She’s got eyes, Jesse.”

  “Have you talked about him at all?”

  Ann finished her drink and set her glass down on the side table. “Not too much,” she said softly.

  “This is part of the issue here, Ann,” said Jesse. “You need to face what’s in front of you.”

  “Which is what?”

  Jesse joined Ann on the couch. “Your history,” she said. “Your childhood. The parents who raised you. Your father who was so strong and is now so weak.”

  Ann looked out the sliding door. “Jesse, talking to my dad is like talking to a turnip. And discussing him with my mother would be uncomfortable.”

  “For her, or for you?”

  “For both of us. This isn’t easy, Jesse. None of this is easy.”

  “Like your life
has been for the last twenty years without them.”

  Ann stood up. “Look,” she said. “I’ve given them a home. I pay their bills. I put up with my mother’s holier-than-thou attitude. I don’t need this, Jesse.”

  “It’s okay to admit you don’t have a close relationship with your father and that you miss it.”

  “I haven’t had a close relationship with my father, or my mother, for that matter, for—as you so smartly pointed out—twenty years.”

  “And why is that?” asked Jesse. “And does that make you happy?”

  “How can I not be deliriously happy with my life? I’ve got everything.”

  “Except a relationship with your parents and a meaningful connection with your past.”

  “We’re different people,” said Ann, walking into the kitchen area. “I moved ahead while they stayed behind. We have nothing in common anymore.”

  “Except your entire childhood.”

  “I left the fat girl on the farm thirty years ago.”

  “Maybe your mother is still looking for her,” said Jesse. “I think she’s a lot more interested in your time than in your money.”

  “My life is already full,” said Ann, setting the empty glass in the sink and turning to face Jesse.

  “Full of what?” asked Jesse.

  Ann widened her eyes and gave her friend a reproachful look. “It’s full of everything anyone could ever want or need,” she said, before walking past Jesse on her way out of the room. Knowing Ann would not be back and knowing better than to follow her, Jesse stood. She walked into the kitchen and rooted through the cupboards until she found a plastic travel cup with a lid. She filled the mug, snapped on the lid, and switched off the coffeemaker. Then she walked back into the living room, grabbed her beach bag from the floor, and stepped outside into the sunshine. She closed the sliding door gently behind her.

  Upstairs, Ann got a glass of water from the bathroom and set it down on her bedside table. She climbed onto the king-sized bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. She was shaking, freezing. She opened and closed her legs in a scissors motion in an effort to warm the cool sheets. But still she shook. She turned onto her side and drew her knees up to her chest. And then she was crying, tears spilling out of her eyes and moans pushing out of her mouth. “Oh God,” she said, flipping onto her back so her lungs could fill with air. “Oh God, help me.”