Chapter Three

Marlowe drove to visit her daughter Alyssa, who would have been thirty this year. Thirty. She would have been two years older than Marlowe when Marlowe gave birth. It was possible that Marlowe would have been the grandmother of a two-year old right now, and maybe a grandchild would have made a difference in her relationship with Blake. A daughter alive would have.

It had been thirteen years since Alyssa died, which also meant it had been eleven long years of the loosening of Marlowe’s marriage. She had always attributed her marital problems to having a child ripped from her life, one day, without warning, poof! It was unbelievable the way everything unfolded. The officers at her door. The trip in the squad car to the coroner’s office. Looking at the face of her beautiful child, still. Vanished. A body so full of life only hours before, Marlowe thought momentarily that she could simply puff breath back into her, and they could all go home.

Blake never recovered from Alyssa’s death, not that Marlowe really had. But at least she felt she had made strides. They had both poured themselves into their work — best to keep busy and not acknowledge the awful terribleness — but Blake continued to hold his anger, twisted, within himself. Through meditation and frequent visits to “see” Alyssa, Marlowe had begun to accept what had happened — to the extent that any mother could accept the death of her only child.

Regardless of how either of them managed their emotions, there was one truth: Marlowe and Blake may have grown apart, but they remained married. They vowed to stay together through good times and in bad, and they lived true to their vow. Blake was a country boy and she was a city girl, but they had both been raised in Catholic families where divorce was not an option. You married for love, and you married for life. Marlowe hoped that, deep down, they still truly loved each other; but was never quite so sure.

Alyssa’s death did a number to both of them. They retreated into separate places within their homes: Blake to his den, which had become plush with a flat-screen TV, a mini-bar, his desk of course, and his computer, and the most comfortable sofa he could find. Why, the man could come home from work, take dinner in the den, and he wouldn’t need to surface for hours.

Marlowe had the run of the kitchen, which looked out onto Lake Michigan, and the great room, which was the definition of a great room. They lived in Winnetka, in a house tucked off Sheridan Road abutting one of the largest lakes in the world. It was like living on the ocean, minus the palm trees, plus seasons. The trees planted around the property masked the homes on either side, and their house felt like an oasis from the world. It was a relatively contemporary styled home that made itself known vertically, four stories. The back of the house was a sheet of glass, so that from each floor there was a sweeping and grand view of the glistening lake, three trees and no more. The great room — the one Marlowe had claimed for herself — was one of the rooms with the floor-to-ceiling windows. It was a peaceful retreat where Marlowe could read, grade papers, and feel connected to something greater than herself.

A few days after Alyssa’s death, Marlowe searched for a sign from her. She wanted to know that Alyssa, wherever she was, was okay. That sign came to her one day as Marlowe sat, looking out the window of the great room. In the large expanse of sky, she saw Alyssa’s face — her amber eyes, brown hair, fair and freckled skin — smiling at her. Alyssa’s face was huge, and her body was cloaked from limb to limb — wrist to ankle — in purple. It was as if she floated in a kite, which continued to grow and grow until she took up the entire sky, still smiling and peaceful, covering the world with love.

It seemed Alyssa had traveled far beyond her home and far beyond the plot in the ground.

- – - – -

Years ago when Marlowe and Blake chose Alyssa’s plot, the grounds nearby were relatively vacant. Now there were headstones everywhere — flowers, balloons, and every so often, a bottle of beer. The tree that was just a sapling when they buried Alyssa now provided shade during the summer and beautiful foliage in the fall.

When Marlowe arrived, she did what she always did: set her purse next to the marker, and laid flat on her back, eyes toward the sky. More often than not, she’d think, Someday, I’ll be here with you, and that thought made her whole. Only today, she realized that the one to be next to Alyssa would be Blake. It made Marlowe wish, just for an instant, that she were hit by a bus. She wanted to have that prime spot near Alyssa, not moved over a space. She indulged herself with the thought of suicide, but knew she would never go through with it.

How was it that at fifty-seven years old, she would outlive her entire family? And she began to talk, in silence, to Alyssa:

Oh, Alyssa. If you only knew. Dad got diagnosed with a brain tumor today. Can you believe it? A brain tumor. It’s Stage Four. He’s going to die. What’s strange, though, is that I’m feeling kind of numb about it. Okay, so I did walk out on the luncheon earlier, but maybe that was just nerves. I mean, everyone dies. Everyone. Look at you. You did. And you seem to be doing okay. I’m the one who’s suffered from it. And I’m going to suffer again.

Only, I wonder if I really will.

You dad and I haven’t been close in a very long time. Not since you died. You know that. We just drifted apart. How is his death really going to change things for me, anyway? I’ll have more space to myself, and really, that’s about it… Gosh. That sounds awful. It’s as though he’s dead to me already.

I can’t let him die like this. I can’t let our marriage die like this. We were once so happy. In the last years of his life, he loses a daughter, throws himself into work, and then dies of a brain tumor. How depressing. And what does that say about me, as a wife? I’ve failed. I’ve let go of things. I’ve let it all slip away. Maybe this is the universe’s way of giving us a chance before everything is all over. I need to make things right. He only has a few months. Maybe I can make them the best months — the most meaningful and the most love-filled ones. We were so close when we were young. That’s got to still be there. No one deserves to die unhappy. After all the suffering and pain and loss he has endured, there needs to be some measure of happiness and light at the end. He deserves it.

Thank you, Alyssa. You always know what to do.

And don’t worry. I’ll make sure he comes to visit. Maybe we’ll send a balloon. Love you.

And with that, she drove off. Next stop: butcher.

- – - – -

For their first date, Marlowe prepared a chicken in white wine reduction for Blake. It was her grandmother’s recipe, and the only one she knew by heart. She hadn’t made it for him in years, and decided today was the day.

She picked up the freshest bird she could find and made her way next door to the liquor store, then to the produce market for crisp green beans, russet potatoes and herbs. Comfort food. That’s what they both needed.

She imagined setting a candle-lit dinner and reminiscing about their fondest, happiest memories. She imagined telling Blake how sorry she was that they didn’t work things out between them sooner. She imagined him saying he wanted to make the most of things, too.

They would kiss, they would peer into each other with that wonder they used to share, they would make love. Maybe for the last time. And if it were, she promised herself it would be the best time.

- – - – -

When she arrived home, Blake’s car was already parked in the garage. He must have quit and come home early. Good for him, she thought. She also felt a sigh of relief that he was able to go to work and come home safely. Marlowe was not interested in having him drive anymore. He’d have to surrender to that, which meant surrendering control, which Marlowe would not be easy for him.

She unloaded the groceries from the car to the kitchen, placing everything exactly where they belonged. It was only four o’clock, still a tad early to prepare dinner. She didn’t hear Blake downstairs, and assumed he was working in the den upstairs. She turned on the kettle and the small television in the kitchen. Maybe something mindless on TV would settle her thoughts.

As she settled at the table, she realized that she was still wearing her clothes from the luncheon. So she went upstairs to the bedroom to change, removing her blazer and unbuttoning her shirt as she walked.

As she ascended the stairs, she thought she heard sounds coming from the den. A seizure, she thought. She raced to the top of the stairs, and stopped herself. It sounded like Blake was panting. Was he masturbating? She couldn’t remember the last time the they had made love, and though she never caught him in the act, was sure he masturbated. How could he not?

And at once, she felt like a horrible wife. Here was her husband, the man she had met when they were kids in college, dying of a brain tumor and having to masturbate because she was never in the mood for it. She slunk to the bedroom, where she closed the door and found her pajamas. Maybe tonight wasn’t the night for a big dinner.

- – - – -

She waited for several minutes in her room. She didn’t want to embarrass Blake, catching her leaving and wondering if she had heard. She laid on the bed and thought of taking a nap, and closed her eyes.

- – - – -

The bedroom door snapped open.

“I’ll be right there..” said Blake.

Marlowe popped awake. “Blake?”

“Marlowe?”

Blake was naked.

“Blake?” called a voice from the hall. A woman’s voice. And then her body appeared. The smooth, thin body of a girl no more than twenty-five years old. It was Erin, the paralegal. “Oh my God,” she said. Erin tried covering her body with her hands.

“I’m getting a towel!” said Blake, running to their in-suite bathroom.