“I’m not strong,” I protested. “And I’m not brave.”
“But you are,” she said. “When I look back at the past year, and all you’ve gone through, I’m not sure how you made it. I watched you become the father I always knew you could be. I saw you at your very lowest after Vivian left. And I watched you pull yourself back up. All while launching a business and the struggles that entailed. Not many people could have handled the past six months the way you did. I know for a fact that I couldn’t have.”
“Why are you telling me this?” I asked, uncomprehending.
“Because I’m not going to let you stop doing what you need to do, just because of me. That would break my heart.”
“I’m going to be here for you,” I said. “You can’t talk me out of it.”
“I’m not asking you to abandon me. I’m asking that you continue to live your life. I’m asking you to be strong and brave again. Because London’s not the only one who’s going to need you. Liz is going to need you. Mom and Dad, too. One of you has to be the rock. And while you might not believe it, I know in my heart that you’ve always been the strongest of us all.”
CHAPTER 24
December
When I think back on Marge as a teenager, two things come to mind: roller skating, and horror films. In the late eighties and early nineties, roller skating was giving way to Rollerblading; but Marge stayed true to the old-fashioned skates that she had owned as a child – I think she had a soft spot for the disco roller rinks of her early childhood. Weekends during her teenage years were spent almost entirely on skates, usually with her Walkman and headphones on… even, remarkably, after she got her driver’s license. There were few things she loved more than roller skating – unless it was a good horror film.
Although Marge loved romantic comedies like I did, her favorite genre was horror, and she never missed seeing the latest horror movie in its first week of release. It didn’t matter to her if the film had been panned by critics and the public alike; she would happily watch it alone if she couldn’t find a fellow enthusiast, as devoted to the genre as a groupie to her favorite band. From Nightmare on Elm Street to Candyman to Amityville 4: The Evil Escapes, Marge was a true aficionado of horror, highbrow and low.
When I asked her why she loved horror movies so much, she merely shrugged and said that sometimes she liked to be scared.
I didn’t get it, any more than I did the allure of rolling around with wheels on your feet. Why would someone want to be scared? Weren’t there more than enough scary things in real life to keep us awake at night?
Now, though, I think I understand.
Marge liked those films precisely because they weren’t real. Any fright she felt in the course of the film was quantifiable; it would begin, and then it would end, and she would leave the theater, emotionally spent yet relieved that all was well in the world.
At the same time, she’d been able to confront – albeit temporarily – one of the hardwired emotions of life, the root of our universal instinct toward fight or flight. By willing herself to stay put despite her fear, I think Marge felt that she would emerge stronger and better equipped to face down whatever actual terrors life had in store for her.
In retrospect, I think that Marge might have been onto something.
Vivian had returned with London on Sunday evening. Before she left, she hugged me, a longer hug than I’d expected. In it, I could sense her concern, but strangely, her body no longer felt familiar to me.
London had enjoyed her visit, but this time she mentioned that she had missed both her fish and Mr. and Mrs. Sprinkles. As soon as she got home, we went up to her room, where she told me that she’d had Thanksgiving dinner in a mansion. I guessed that Vivian had introduced our daughter to Spannerman in reaction to seeing London hug Emily at the art studio. To Vivian’s mind, no doubt, I’d violated the taboo first, which gave her the right to do so as well.
I suppose I should have cared more, but in that moment, I didn’t. I was worn out, and I’d known that London would meet Spannerman sooner or later anyway. What did it matter if it was this weekend, or the next time she was in Atlanta?
What did anything matter anymore?
While London was occupied with the fish, I decided to clean the hamster cage, since I’d let it slide while London was gone. By then, I was accustomed to it, and it took no time at all. I ran the mess to the outdoor garbage can, washed up, then went back upstairs, where London was holding Mr. Sprinkles.
“Are you hungry, sweetie?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “Mommy and me ate on the plane.”
“Just making sure,” I said. I took a seat on the bed, watching her, but mainly thinking about Marge. My sister wanted me to keep living my life, to act as though nothing had changed. But everything had changed and I felt hollowed out, as empty as a junked oil drum. I wasn’t sure I was capable of doing as Marge asked, and wasn’t sure I even wanted to.
“Guess what?” London said, looking up.
“What, sweetheart?”
“For Christmas, I’m going to make Auntie Marge and Auntie Liz a vase, like I did for Mommy. But this time, I want to paint fishes on it.”
“I’m sure they’ll love that.”
For a moment, London seemed to study me, her gaze unaccountably serious. “Are you okay, Daddy?”
“Yeah,” I answered. “I’m okay.”
“You seem sad.”
I am, I thought. It’s all I can do not to fall to pieces.