Douglas Kennedy - Five Days

‘Because?’

‘Because. Billy would have been my stepson, had everything worked out as we — I — had hoped. Because I felt so sorry for Richard. Because I still feel so insanely confused about my feelings for him. Part of me still loves him. Part of me is finally somewhat angry about it all — which I know you will tell me is “good”, because you think my inability to express anger has caused me to throw up these blockages that have stymied my life, right?’

‘You tell me.’

Oh God, how she wielded that line all the time like a scalpel.

‘I am still so incredibly hurt by what happened, and how his panic cost us both so much. Part of me thinks, What a coward. Part of me also thinks, What a sad man. Part of me also thinks, Thanks to Richard I was able to get out of my marriage. Right now, I so feel for him. He loved Billy. His son’s life was such a tragic one.’

I fell quiet for a few moments. Then:

‘A day or so after reading the piece about Billy’s suicide I sent Richard an email. Short. To the point. Telling him how what he was now going through was the worst thing that could befall a parent, and how I was thinking about him as he negotiated this very terrible period.’

‘Did he reply?’

I shook my head.

‘Did that bother you?’

‘We can’t script anything, can we? I mean, it’s not a novel, where the writer can make happen anything actually happen. But, yes, there was a big part of me that wanted Richard to call me up, tell me he had never stopped loving me, that the loss of his son had finally freed him from any sense of ongoing emotional guilt when it came to the wife he’d never really loved, and — then — he shows up on my doorstep and, voilа, the happy ending that never really arrives in life.’

‘But say that did happen? Would you open the door to him now?’

‘Yes, I would. That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t be a little wary as well. But what we discovered in each other that weekend, what we shared. I am not going to diminish it by saying I spent those three days living a middle-aged romantic hallucination that had no bearing on actual reality. Better than anyone — because I have taken it apart so much with you — you know that, for me, this was so completely real. As I know it was for Richard as well. So I can say something really obvious like, “Life is sometimes so unfair.” But the truth is, we are usually so unfair to ourselves.’

‘And knowing that now.?’

I shrugged again.

‘I still mourn what should have been. Just as I know that I can now do nothing about it. Maybe that’s the hardest lesson here — realizing I can’t fix things.’

‘Or others?’

‘That too. And now you’re going to tell me, “But you can fix yourself.”’

‘Can you?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘An honest answer.’

The only answer.

I moved into the new apartment. All the furniture I’d ordered from assorted secondhand shops around Portland arrived over a forty-eight-hour period. Ben and his two friends — Charlie and Hayden (both stoners, but sweet) — chipped in and bought a bottle of champagne to mark the occasion. Charlie had a van. He kindly drove up to Damariscotta to collect all my clothes and books. I had arranged with Dan a time when I could return to the house and pack up my library — maybe four hundred volumes — and the things we had agreed in principal that I could take with me. Charlie then transported them down with me to the new place — where the three boys also insisted on lugging everything up the stairs for me. Then we opened the champagne and toasted the great job they had done (the place really did look airy and light). After paying them each $1,000 cash I insisted on taking them all out to a local pizza joint. When I slipped off to use the washroom at the end I came back to find the bill had been paid.

Walking back to the apartment afterwards with Ben — Charlie and Hayden had decided to head off to a late-night rock joint — he let me know that ‘my friends think I have a cool mom’.

‘I’m hardly cool.’

‘That’s your take. But I’m with Charlie and Hayden — you’re cool. And the stuff you’ve chosen for the apartment — way cool. But hey, if you want to think otherwise. ’

‘Thank you.’

‘Berlin in three days.’

‘You excited?’

‘Excited, terrified, worried, a little cowed by the idea of me at the art academy there.’

‘“Cowed ”,’ I repeated. ‘Good word.’

‘Like mother like son.’

‘I am going to miss not having you down the road. But I also think this is going to be fantastic for you.’

‘And I’m going to insist that you come spend a week with me over in Berlin.’

‘I won’t be able to ask for any time off until the New Year.’

‘Easter then. The academy’s closed for a week. I sent an email to them last week. They will rent out dorm rooms to family members of students for very little. If you book now you can find a Boston — Berlin airfare for around five hundred bucks.’

‘You’ve really researched this, haven’t you?’

‘Because I know you, Mom. And I know that, though you would empty your bank account in a second for me and Sally, you hate spending a dime on yourself. And if allowed you’ll talk yourself out of this trip.’

‘You do know me too well, Ben.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

Four days later, Sally arrived down in Portland by bus. We went out for Japanese food — and she stayed the night at my new apartment, telling me:

‘So you’ve been secretly reading design magazines for years, Mom.’

‘It’s hardly designer. Everything came from junk shops.’

‘Which makes this all way cooler. My only question now to you is, why didn’t we live this way when we were a family? Why didn’t you do this for us?’

Did I feel a stab of guilt? Initially yes. But then another thought came to me; a thought which was, for me anyway, an articulation of a certain truth.

‘Because I didn’t realize we could live this way. Because I spent years stymieing my imagination, my horizons. I don’t blame your father for that. It was me, myself and I who kept myself so hemmed in. And I feel bad about that.’

‘Well, it’s not like I’m going to blame you for the rest of my life. But when I finally get my own place I am going to demand payback. and get you to help me design it.’

The next morning we drove up to Farmington to collect Ben. He had just one duffel bag of clothes and one case full of art supplies for his year in Berlin. En route to Boston he announced that he wanted to stop by Norm’s Art Supplies to pick up a half-litre of Tetron Azure Blue to pack along for Berlin.

‘You mean,’ Sally asked, ‘you don’t think they sell paints at that way-too-cool Berlin art school you’re heading to?’

‘I’m sure I can easily get an azure blue over there, but not Norm’s. So indulge me here.’

‘What do you think I’ve spent my life doing?’ Sally asked.

‘So speaks the refugee from cheerleading.’

‘By the time you get back next summer I’ll be a Goth with a shaved head and a biker boyfriend.’

‘Is that a promise?’ Ben asked.

Traffic into Boston was terrible. We only had a few minutes to spare by the time we reached Norm’s. Ben had phoned ahead — and when he explained he was leaving for Berlin that night, Norm broke a rule and agreed to have the paint mixed and ready to go before getting paid for it.

I found parking outside his shop.

‘You’ve got to see this place,’ I told Sally, and we ducked inside.

‘So I get to meet the whole family,’ Norm said.

‘Just about,’ Ben said, and there was an awkward moment thereafter which Norman cleverly broke.