Left Neglected Part 23

"Where is this from?" I ask.

"The gas station."

I take a sip. It's terrible. I resume crying.

"I want to be able to get my own cup of coffee," I whimper.

"I know. I know you do."

"I don't want to be helpless," I say, my crying intensifying as soon as I hear myself say the word helpless.

"You're not helpless. You need some help. They're not the same. Here, let me help you all the way up."

"Why? Why are you helping me?"

"Because you need it."

"Why you? Why now? Why would you want to help me now?"

She takes the coffee cup from my hand and replaces it with her hand. She squeezes and looks me in the eye with a steady resolve I've never seen in her before.

"Because I want to be in your life again. I want to be your mother. I'm sorry I wasn't there for you when you were growing up. I know I wasn't a mother to you then. I want you to forgive me and let me help you now."

Absolutely no way! She had her chance, and she abandoned you. What about all those years you needed her? Where was she then? She's too selfish, too self-absorbed. She's too late. You can't trust her. She had her chance.

Shush.

CHAPTER 24.

Come on," I say through a mouthful of toothpaste. "Stay."

Bob and I are in our master bathroom. I'm leaning against the sink, getting ready for bed. Bob is standing behind me, getting ready to drive back to Welmont. He's also watching over my brus.h.i.+ng, just like he did a few minutes ago with Charlie and Lucy.

The kids can't be trusted to brush their teeth without parental supervision. Charlie will go into the bathroom and forget why he's in there. He'll draw on the walls with the bath crayons or spin the entire toilet paper roll into an irreversible heap on the floor or start World War III with his sister. Lucy never forgets why she's been sent in there, but she's sneaky. She'll wet her toothbrush with water, place it back in the holder, and then spend the next twenty minutes practicing different facial expressions and talking to herself in the mirror. So we can't send them into the bathroom alone and expect any kind of dental hygiene to happen.

We keep them on task with verbal reminders. Brush the top. Get all the way back. That was too fast, you're not done. We sometimes sing "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star," and they brush for the duration of the song. And Bob flosses for them.

Now it's my turn. I can't be trusted to brush my teeth properly without supervision either. It's early in the evening for me to be getting ready for bed, but Bob wants to get me settled before he leaves.

"I can't," he says. "You're not brus.h.i.+ng the left side."

Staring at my face in the mirror, I poke my toothbrush wildly around in my mouth, hoping to make incidental contact with the left side. G.o.d knows I can't get there on purpose. Unless I concentrate really hard, I'm not at all aware that the left side of my face exists. And at the end of the day, it's really hard to concentrate really hard on anything.

No matter what time of day it is, the nonexistence of the left side of my face creates less than desirable consequences. I sometimes drool out of the left side of my mouth and don't know it until someone (my mother) dabs me with a napkin or one of Linus's bibs. While a little s...o...b..r sliding down the chin is arguably cute on Linus, I'm quite sure it does nothing good for me.

I now also have a reputation for unknowingly h.o.a.rding partially chewed wads of food in the pocket between my left teeth and gums, like I'm a chipmunk collecting nuts for the winter. This is not only gross, it's a choking hazard, so my mother does a "chipmunk check" several times a day. When I've been found guilty of h.o.a.rding, she either clears the food out with her finger or hands me a gla.s.s of water and asks me to swish and spit. Either way, the solution is just as gross as the problem.

And I have an expensive collection of cosmetics that no longer sees the light of day. Mascara, liner, and shadow on one eye, blush on one cheek, and lips colored in ruby red only on the right side made everyone noticeably scared of me. I asked Bob to apply my makeup for me only once-I looked like I should be walking the red-light district. Since my options seemed to be limited to deranged lunatic or prost.i.tute, I decided that we'd all be better off if I kept my makeup in the drawer.

So, needless to say, brus.h.i.+ng my teeth on the left side isn't my gold medal event. Bob always makes me give it a Girl Scout try, and then he does it for me. I poke around, accidentally jab the back of my throat, and gag. I retch over the sink, spit, and hand the brush over to Bob.

"Is anyone else going in?" I ask.

"I doubt it. Maybe Steve and Barry."

Senior management at Bob's company told everyone on Christmas Eve that they'd be shutting down for the week between Christmas and New Year's-a forced, unpaid vacation for the entire staff, an effort to save costs during an annually slow week for many businesses, even in the absence of a recession. From what Bob has told me, Steve and Barry are insane workaholics, even by our standards. Steve loathes his wife and has no kids, and Barry is divorced. Of course they're going in. They have nothing better to do.

"That's crazy. Stay. Take the week off. Ski with the kids, watch movies by the fire with me. Sleep. Relax."

"I can't. I have a ton to do, and this is the perfect chance to catch up. Now stop talking so I can brush your teeth."

Because of all the layoffs, Bob is short-staffed and has been doing the work of three other employees plus his own job. I'm amazed that he's able to do this but also concerned about the toll it's taking on him. Aside from the time he spends helping me and the kids in the mornings before school and in the evenings before bed and the handful of hours he sleeps each night, he does nothing but work, easily logging eighteen-hour days. He's burning the candle at both ends, and I'm worried that at some point there'll be nothing left of him but a puddle of wax.

I raise my right hand, signaling that I need to spit.

"So you're going to work for no pay instead of spending the week with us," I say.

"I'd love to stay, Sarah, but I've got to do everything I can to keep this company and my job alive. You know I have to do this."

Each time my mother brings in the mail at home, and I see the white envelopes stacked on the kitchen counter, the scary dark pit in my stomach deepens, becoming darker and scarier. Even if Bob keeps his job and his salary, if I don't go back to work, we're living beyond our means. The bills keep coming in like a relentless winter storm, and we're starting to get snowed in. And if Bob loses his job without another position lined up before I'm able to return to Berkley, then we're going to have to start making some dark and scary choices. My heart races, acknowledging what my mind is too chicken to imagine.

"I know. I understand. I just wish you could stay. When's the last time we both had a week off at the same time?" I ask.

"I don't know."

We haven't been on a weeklong family vacation or a vacation away together without the kids since Lucy was a baby. Whenever I could take a week, Bob couldn't. And vice versa. We most often ended up taking vacation days in dribs and drabs and for reasons that can hardly be considered a holiday, usually when Abby was away or called in sick. With the exception of this year, when I used up all of my days sitting bedside at the lovely Baldwin Resort Hotel, I've never taken all of my allotted vacation time in a given year. Bob never uses all of his either. And this time doesn't roll over to the following year; if we don't use it, it's gone forever.

For the first time, this behavior strikes me as absurdly sinful. Our employers offer to pay us to spend five weeks a year together, away from our desks and meetings and deadlines, and every year we basically say, Thanks, but we'd rather work. What's wrong with us?

"You sure? The company can't sink or be saved this week, or they wouldn't have shut the doors. You're exhausted. Stay. Ski. Rest. A week off would be so good for you."

"Open," he says, floss wound around his fingers and seeming a little too pleased with having the power to shut me up.

I cooperate, and he begins flossing my teeth. There's no way I could do this myself. I'd probably have better luck training my right big toe to hold one end of the string while flossing with my right hand than trying to get my left hand to partic.i.p.ate in this task. But I'm not willing to look like a chimpanzee for the sake of my dental health. So thank G.o.d that Bob flosses for me, or I'd probably be toothless by the time I'm forty.

I watch his eyes concentrating on the inside of my mouth. Before I left Baldwin, I cried every time I pictured Bob taking care of me like this. I grieved the imagined loss of our equal partners.h.i.+p, for the lamentable burden forced upon him as my caregiver, embarra.s.sed for our pitiful fate. But now, when I actually see him taking care of me, I feel none of what I imagined. I watch his calm and tender concentration, and my heart swells with warm and grateful love.

"I can't, babe. I'm sorry. I'll be back end of the week."

Pre-accident me nods, understanding the life-and-death stakes completely. He's doing exactly what I would've done. But I'm worried more about him than his job right now and can see what pre-accident me is blind to-that he and his job are, in fact, two separate things. Finished with my teeth, we walk together over to the bed. Bob retrieves my pajamas from the dresser.

"Arms up," he says in the same playful tone we both use with the kids.

"How'd I do?" I ask, not knowing if my left arm obeyed the command.

"You tell me."

He taps my charm bracelet, and I hear the jingle coming from somewhere near my thighs, not up above my head. I'm not surprised. Whenever I ask both arms, both hands, or both feet to do something at the same time, it's as if the sides compete to see who gets to do it, and the right side always wins. When my brain hears arms up, the gun goes off, and my right arm sprints to the finish while my left arm, knowing it's way out of its league, doesn't even bother inching one fingernail over the start line, paralyzed in place, awed by the magnificent abilities of my right arm.

Come on, left arm, lift UP!

I imagine my left arm answering in a voice similar to Eeyore's. Why bother, the right arm's already there. I wish my left side would realize that this isn't a compet.i.tion.

Bob pulls my b.u.t.tonless wool sweater up over my head, down my left arm, and off. Next he reaches behind my back to unclasp my bra. He never had a second's hesitation undoing my bras while we were dating, but now they befuddle him. I guess motivation matters. The side of his face is next to mine as he pinches at the hooks. I kiss his cheek. He stops working at my bra and looks straight at me. I kiss him on the lips. It's not a sweet kiss or a thank-you-for-brus.h.i.+ng-and-flossing-my-teeth kiss. And it's not one of our hurried, courteous good-bye kisses. All my wanting-wanting to recover, wanting my job back, wanting to ski, wanting Bob to stay, wanting him to know how much I love him-is in that kiss. He goes there with me, and I swear I can feel his kiss in my left toes.

"You're not going to seduce me into staying," he says.

"You're not staying," I say and kiss him again.

He pulls my bra off without any further struggle, helps me onto the bed, and slides my pants and underwear off. He takes off his clothes and lies on top of me.

"We haven't done this in a long time," he says.

"I know."

"I'm worried I could hurt you," he says, stroking my hair with his hand.

"Just don't pound my head against the headboard, and I'll be fine," I say and smile.

He laughs, revealing how nervous he is. I reach behind his neck and pull him toward me for another kiss. His bare chest, broad and strong and smooth, feels so good against mine. And the weight of him on top of me. I'd forgotten how much I love the feel of his weight on top of me.

I didn't think this through before I kissed him, but even in this most pa.s.sive of positions, I need to actively use my left side. My right leg is wrapped around him, but my left leg just lies there on the bed, a lifeless lump of flesh, not aroused one bit, and my asymmetry is making it difficult for Bob to get into the groove of things, so to speak. And although I'm game for trying all kinds of wacky rehabilitative tools and techniques for reading and walking and eating, I refuse to allow any kind of red ruler, orange tape, granny cane, therapeutic s.e.x prop into our bedroom. I want to have normal s.e.x with my husband, please.

"I'm sorry, I can't find my left leg," I say, feeling suddenly overcome with the wish that it were a prosthetic, and I could simply detach the useless thing and chuck it to the floor.

"That's okay," he says.

We manage to get going, and I notice that Bob is holding my left leg, pus.h.i.+ng up on it from under my knee, balancing me out, reminding me of how he held my leg when it came time to push during the births of our babies. My mind wanders into memories of labor-contractions, epidurals, stirrups, episiotomies. I catch myself and snap out of it, realizing that this kind of imagery is completely inappropriate and counterproductive for what I'm doing.

"Sorry my leg is so hairy," I say.

"Shhh."

"Sorry."

He kisses me, probably to shut me up, and it works. All intrusive and self-conscious thoughts dissolve away, and I melt into his kiss, under the weight of him, from how good he feels. This might not be perfectly normal s.e.x, but it's normal enough. And kind of perfect, actually.

Afterward, Bob dresses, helps me into my pajamas, and we lie back down next to each other.

"I miss doing that with you," he says.

"Me, too."

"How about a date in front of a roaring fire when I get back?"

I smile and nod. He checks his watch.

"I'd better get going. Have a great week. I'll see you on Sat.u.r.day," he says and kisses me.

"Come Friday."

"I'll be here first thing Sat.u.r.day morning."

"Take Friday off. Come Friday morning."

"I can't. I really have to work."

But he paused ever so slightly before he spoke, so I know there's a c.h.i.n.k in the armor.

"Let's shoot for it," I say.

We stare at each other for a suspended second, both realizing what happened after the last shoot.

"Okay," he says and pulls me into a seated position facing him.

We both c.o.c.k our fists back.

"One, two, threeeee, shoot!" I say.

Bob's paper covers my rock. I lose. But Bob doesn't celebrate his win.

"I'll take half a day on Friday. I'll come up early Friday evening," he says.

I reach for his hand, pull him toward me, and give him a huge one-armed hug.

"Thank you."

He tucks me in under a thick fleece blanket and down comforter.

"You good?" he asks.

It's not my bedtime, but I don't mind going to bed early. I've been getting tons of sleep since coming home from Baldwin, at least nine hours each night and another hour or two in a nap each afternoon, and I'm loving it. For the first time since I can remember, I don't feel exhausted when I wake up in the morning.

"Yes. Please drive safe."

"I will."

"I love you."

"I love you, too. Sweet dreams."