No. Probably not. That’s why she left, because I made her feel like I don’t believe her. I’m sure it’s not literally true; Caroline always exaggerates everything so much. But if she—”
The elevator dinged, the doors parted, and we saw my mother coming down the hall. I watched her, trying to see if there was something about her that would confirm or deny what Caroline had just told me. But she was only my mother, the woman signing my report cards, applauding my first ride on my bike without training wheels, chopping onions with a match held between her teeth to keep from crying, carpet-sweeping the living room, standing at the foot of my bed to hold Anthony as a newborn, her hand protectively cradling his head with great skill and care. I had to talk to Caroline’s husband. If not her therapist.
My mother had changed clothes, combed her hair, regained her regal bearing. But as she came closer, I saw a look on her face I couldn’t quite decipher. “I just saw Caroline on the way out,” she said. Neither Steve nor I said anything back. “She’s going home, she said. She’s not coming back.”
“Ah,” I said, as though it made perfect sense. As though it were what I’d been waiting for.
“I do not understand that child,” my mother said. “I never have and I never will.”
“She’s going home to her house?” I asked.
My mother nodded. “I’m going in to see your father. I’m going to tell him something came up for Caroline at work that she’s got to go home and take care of. He doesn’t need to know she didn’t care enough to see him come out of the hospital tomorrow.”
“Well, she’ll be over, I’m sure,” I said.
My mother looked at me, angry. “You know what I mean.”
“I’ll tell you what,” I said. “I’ll go over there. I’ll go to her house and talk to her.”
“You want me to come?” Steve asked, and I shook my head no. I pressed the button for the elevator. “Tell Pete where I went. I’ll see you later.”
10
ANTHONY WAS RIGHT: I HAD TO GET A CELL PHONE. I was standing at a bank of phones in a hall adjacent to a road-stop restaurant. I was squeezed between two callers: one a young dark-haired woman hunched over the receiver who apparently was attempting to have a secretive conversation, the other a wiry trucker sucking hard on a cigarette and yelling that he couldn’t possibly arrive on time, no, he could not possibly arrive on time; where was Phyllis, put Phyllis on the line, she was the only one in the whole place that knew what was really going on, where was goddamn Phyllis?
On the way to Caroline’s, I had suddenly wanted to talk to my friend Maggie, to hear a voice from home saying that everything there is fine, everything there is still the same. I thought if I could hear her voice, I would be better able to visualize my house: the late-afternoon sunshine that makes an ellipse of light against the living room wall, the folded piles of fabric on my sewing table, the wooden spoons standing at attention in my kitchen, the doors to the kids’ rooms open halfway. I’d be able to see the hydrangea blossoms heavy on their bushes in the backyard, the treehouse that Hannah reads in. In addition to comforting myself with such images, I wanted to tell Maggie what had gone on, to ask her what she thought I should do. She was very good in situations like this.
But she wasn’t there.
If there is one thing I can’t stand, it’s being in dire need of talking to a girlfriend and having her husband answer the phone and say she’s not there. Then you have two problems: the person you so much need to connect with is not available, and you have to rearrange your emotions to converse with a man. There is not a thing in the world wrong with Maggie’s husband. Doug is affable and generous and a good cook to boot. But he is of the Y-chromosome school of emotional receptivity. So instead of trying to tell him what was going on, I took in a deep breath, turned down the anxiety flame, and said, “Okay! Well, I’ll just try later.” And then, in as friendly and even a tone of voice as I could muster, I said, “So what are you doing home in the middle of the day?”
“It’s Saturday,” he