I’ve also discovered that in order for me to write seriously, I need to block out a few quiet hours in a row every single day. This is not happening and will not be happening for me in my life in the foreseeable future.

What I do know is that I outlined this little bugger as a screenplay, and a screenplay it shall be.

Wishing NaNoWriMo and NaBloPoMo a fond farewell and happy trails….

“She drove me home,” Blake said as he wiped himself with the towel and put a second around his waist.

“Oh, well then that makes all of this just peachy, doesn’t it?” asked Marlowe. “She ‘drove you home,’ sounds like it was a good trip!” Marlowe jumped from the bed to her closet where she snatched the first pair of pants and shirt she could find, and marched into the den seeing Erin getting dressed.

“You lousy WHORE!” Marlowe screamed. She took off down the stairs and to her car.

- – - – -

Her car. What was with her car today? How many times had she sat in the driver’s seat wondering where in the hell she was going? She threw it into reverse and took off.

It was still nearly the middle of the day. Close to rush hour. Maybe she should drive into the city. Less traffic. Although the reverse commute, she heard, was getting to be just about as bad as the standard one. She was still wearing her pajamas, and had flung the pants and shirt on the passenger seat.

“I need to go somewhere to get myself together,” she said to herself. “You’re gonna be fine. You’re gonna be fine.”

But after a few moments, she quickly pulled over to the side of the road. “You’re gonna be sick!”

Exiting the driver’s side, she ran in front of the car to the passenger side to throw up. Coincidence had it that she parked next to a sewer drain, and as the images of naked Erin and Blake kept replaying in her head, the contents of her stomach took a direct route to the water treatment facility. When she was done, she noted there was nothing she had to wipe herself off. Nothing but her pajamas. Opening the back door of the sedan, she jumped into the backseat, and removed her shirt  — all this on the side of Sheridan Road, one of the busiest streets in the suburbs as cars whizzed by — so she could wipe her face.

She finished changing in the back and decided the next destination would be a garbage can where she could dispose of the vomit-smelling clothes she was wearing when she found Blake cheating on her.

She was driving south on Sheridan — the route she was most familiar driving, the route to work. She pulled her Volvo sedan into the long driveway of the Grosse Point Lighthouse, a National Historic Landmark kept-up by the Garden Club of Evanston. The grounds were relatively empty.

She threw her clothes in the garbage, and because the lighthouse was a public park, used the public restroom to wash her face, rinse her mouth and wash her hands. She returned to the car to call Charlotte.

“I need your help,” said Marlowe. “I just caught Blake with a paralegal.”

“What?”

“With his paralegal. The young one. Erin. They were having sex!”

“Oh my God. Where?”

“Our house.

“Oh my God.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Where are you? I will come meet you.” And within a few minutes, Charlotte arrived. She parked her car next to Marlowe, entered Marlowe’s Volvo.

Marlowe had a different tenor to the conversation now. “I just need to think this through,” she said. “This is not the time to panic. No rash decisions. I just need to think.”

“The guy’s an asshole, Marlowe. I don’t care if he’s dying. He’s an asshole for doing this to you.”

“The nurse did say that your personality changes when you have a brain tumor.”

“You’re not making excuses for him. Please tell me you aren’t going to start making excuses.”

“I’m not making excuses. I’m just trying to figure it out.”

“Do you even know how long this has been happening? I mean, was it the first time?”

“I have no idea.”

“He could have been doing this for months. Maybe weeks.”

“Maybe. But it just doesn’t seem like him. I honestly think it’s the brain tumor.”

“I honestly think you’re in denial.”

Marlowe’s cell phone rang. It was Blake.

“Don’t answer it,” said Charlotte.

“I’m not gonna.” Marlowe had set Blake’s ringtone to the tune of their first dance, Misty. She couldn’t handle hearing it, and clicked the phone off entirely.

They sat together in silence for many minutes.

- – - – -

“I need to take money out,” said Marlowe. “I need to take like five thousand dollars and open another account. I can live off that and save some until I get paid again. People live on professor’s salaries, right?”

Marlowe and Charlotte had only known a lavish lifestyle, thanks to their successful careers of their husbands.

“Take out ten thousand. Stick it to the bastard,” said Charlotte.

“Okay. I’ll take out ten thousand dollars and put it in an account. I’ll rent a place. Or find a hotel. I’ll find a hotel until I can find a place to rent.” And then Marlowe began to cry. “Charlotte, I just can’t go back there. Never. I can never go back there.” They hugged.

“Stay with me. Don’t go to a hotel. Stay with us until you figure out a plan. You shouldn’t be alone. This is hard. This whole thing is hard. We’ll help you,” said Charlotte.

“I can’t stay with you. You and Bill, you don’t need to get dragged into this awful mess.” said Marlowe.

“One night.”

“What will Bill say?”

“Who cares what Bill says. You’re my closest friend.”

“But Blake’s his.”

“True, but you didn’t get caught with your pants down.”

“Fine. One night. Tomorrow I’ll find a place I can stay for a while.”

- – - – -

The Peters’ home was tucked deep into a tree-filled neighborhood in Lake Forest. It was originally built and owned by the Montgomery family of Montgomery Ward’s, and the Peters were fanatics about keeping the wall coverings, the furniture, and the fixtures authentic. Charlotte and Bill filled their home with pictures of their kids, knickknacks from their travels, and sentimental items from relatives passed so that their expansive home felt darling and not so much like it was trying to show off. It felt substantial and cozy all at the same time.

A welcoming aroma of a simmering beef bourguignon led them through the front door by the nose. Charlotte, who Bill had nicknamed “the Julia Childs of the slow cooker,” was a huge fan of the contraption, and over the years, perfected dozens of entrees.

“It smells delicious,” said Marlowe.

“Thank you,” said Charlotte. “I’ll show you your room.”

Marlowe was thankful that a hearty meal would await them after she got settled and wondered how Charlotte — so successful professionally — still managed to be the consummate homemaker.

The guest room was the rear room on the second floor. It was something out of a Martha Stewart magazine: a subdued color scheme filled with all sorts of textures, nubby to sheen, and detailed with thoughtful accessories like a carafe for water on the nightstand and lavender-scented sachets in the empty dresser drawers.

“You’ll need pajamas,” said Charlotte. “I’ll go and get some. And perhaps a robe?”

“That sounds great.”

“There’s an extra toothbrush and towels in the bathroom around the corner. Let me know if you need anything else.”

Marlowe stepped into the bathroom, which she was thankful was attached to the guest room. Fully stocked, it had extra razors and tooth brushes, travel-sized toothpastes and soaps, sewing kits, eye masks, all sorts of sample-sized lotions, fragranced bath oils, soaps. There was absolutely nothing at all that Marlowe could have desired that wasn’t here.

Why did she ever agree to stay with the Peters? The place was too perfect. Something out of a magazine. The people who lived here didn’t have dead children, brain tumors or naked women running around the house. Not that any of that made life more comfortable for Marlowe, but it certainly made things more real. Marlowe started the bath. Maybe if she surrounded herself in perfumed bubbles, just for a little bit, she could escape into perfection.

- – - – -

Bill came home at seven o’clock just as Marlowe and Charlotte finished setting the table for dinner. Over the years, Bill had gained weight. Hadn’t they all. But Bill had gained more. Like he said, Charlotte was the Julia Childs of the slow-cooker, and Bill was her ever-ready epicurean. He had grown comfortable in their relationship, and his body showed it, which was no matter to Charlotte whose very soul loved his essence.

He walked through the door, kissed Charlotte, and then turned to Marlowe to give her a hug.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. His words were perfect. They were exactly what she needed, and Marlowe broke down in tears. She backed away from him, more aware than ever of being close to another woman’s man, though nothing even faintly resembling anything at all every sparked between Marlowe and her best friend’s husband. Marlowe was on guard.

“I’ll be fine. I’ve survived worse,” she said. It brought everyone to a dead silence.

“Well,” punctuated Charlotte, “we’ve got dinner all set.”

“And it smells like heaven,” said Bill.

“Let’s eat,” said Charlotte, and they sat at table.

- – - – -

Between the wine pouring and food passing and light conversation, Marlowe had internalized that social protocol demanded she and no one else break the ice about her predicament. The longer it took for her to bring it up, the more tension and loss for words everyone seemed to have. Bill was here now, and as an impromptu guest in his house, it was nearly mandatory that she more than mention it. The thing was, Marlowe knew that Bill would have a different take on the situation. There was no way that he and Blake didn’t speak. Like Charlotte and Marlowe, they were the best of friends.

“Thank you for sharing your home,” she said. That was easy enough. She could do this.

“Certainly,” said Bill. “Anything for you, Marlowe.”

“I’m assuming you’ve spoken with Blake,” she said. There. She said it. It was out there. Happening. She could do this.

“Yes. I have,” he said.

“I see,” and her voice trailed off.

“He feels horrible,” he said.

“Horrible that he cheated or horrible that he was caught?” she said.

“I’m not going to defend him,” said Blake. “It was wrong and I told him as much.”

“Good.”

“You should talk with him.”

“I believe he needs to talk with me. An apology for starters.”

“He said he did try to talk with you, but you stormed out in a big hurry.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Like I said, I’m not defending the guy, but you two need to talk.”

“Did you tell him I’m staying here?”

“No.”

“Good. Don’t. I’ll be out of your hair in the morning and you won’t have to be put in the middle of this.”

“Marlowe, the man is dying. He’s flipped his lid. Talk with him.”

“He knows how to get in touch with me,” she said.

“The I suggest when he calls, you pick up the phone,” said Bill.

]]> http://discoverydraft.wordpress.com/2009/11/05/chapter-four-real/feed/ 1 cms8741 http://discoverydraft.wordpress.com/2009/11/04/chapter-four/ http://discoverydraft.wordpress.com/2009/11/04/chapter-four/#comments Thu, 05 Nov 2009 01:57:11 +0000 cms8741 http://discoverydraft.wordpress.com/2009/11/04/chapter-four/ ]]> —- Will update tomorrow —-

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.

]]> http://discoverydraft.wordpress.com/2009/11/03/chapter-three/feed/ 3 cms8741 http://discoverydraft.wordpress.com/2009/11/02/chapter-two/ http://discoverydraft.wordpress.com/2009/11/02/chapter-two/#comments Mon, 02 Nov 2009 21:21:52 +0000 cms8741 http://discoverydraft.wordpress.com/?p=71 ]]> President’s Hall was one of those little nuggets on the Northwestern campus that was kept for only the most noteworthy events. Thousands of students and hundreds of faculty could spend their entire Northwestern careers without having stepped foot in the room; not many knew about it.

The space was a dark space: deep blue carpeting with some kind of filigree pattern in an equally dark hue covered the floor, enormous and thick exposed wood beams stained a brown so dark that it bordered on black supported both the walls and ceiling, and the maroon curtains weighed down the windows so that the outside looked more like an idea than something that could possibly exist.

The initial purpose of President’s Hall was to be the board room for the University which was founded in 1851. Over the years, the board had grown in scope and purpose, and in turn had outgrown the space. President’s Hall became a formal lounge, with five distinct seating areas that included a couch, two end tables each with its own lamp, and a set of club chairs flanking either side. The few staff members with access to the room occasionally used it to catch some shut-eye on their breaks, but only if they could get past “The Eyes.”

The University had named the room President’s Hall because it became the repository for the oil paintings of each president of the University. Some of the paintings had the characteristic of the eyes following you as you moved across the room, as if the ghosts of past Presidents had you under their watch and, residing in such a dark place for so many years, were generally none-too-pleased with anyone.

To be honest, this was probably the main reason why no one knew or utilized President’s Hall. It was just too freaky.

But freaky or not, today was one of those rare days that the University flipped on the lights, removed the couches, and put together a special event: a luncheon to honor Dr. Marlowe Brown. The tables and chairs that filled the room were draped with white linens and set with fine china, as if this lightness could somehow counterbalance the room’s natural oppressive nature. At the far end, an elevated stage and podium bearing Northwestern’s purple and white crest had been erected, and from one wall to the other hung a banner that read “Marlowe Brown, Ph.D. – Distinguished Professor of Ethics.” A bouquet of purple and white balloons flanked either side of the banner, trying, again, to make things feel festive.

But there was not enough levity — and this, even their best try, was still a poor performance — to lighten the spirits of Dr. Marlowe Brown.

By the time she arrived, most of the guests were on their second round of hors d’oeuvres. Already engrossed in food and conversation, the party didn’t notice Marlowe stealing herself to the bathroom. She reviewed her hair and make-up, and reminded herself that when she woke-up this morning, no life-altering changes had occurred. If she could simply block-out the whole morning at the doctor’s office, she could make it through the luncheon without a hitch. All she had to do was sit, eat, and talk. These, she thought, encompassed three of her greatest strengths. She loved sitting especially when paired with eating, and she enjoyed the volley of impromptu conversations. Plus, her speech was fully prepared and rehearsed. She was a professor, damn it: talking to a room full of people was her forte. Smoothing out the last bit of hair, she felt confident enough to go in and wow them.

The hall was filled with the Philosophy Department’s faculty, their guests, and, of course, the president himself. Charlotte found her right away. “Marlowe!”

“Hi!” They hugged.

Charlotte Peters, Ph.D. was chair of the Philosophy Department, Marlowe’s supervisor and her closest friend. “Everything okay? I tried calling.”

“Oh, no. Everything’s fine,” replied Marlowe. “Sorry I didn’t get the call. My phone must have been off.”

“Where’s Blake?”

“Work.”

“Well,” said Charlotte, “we knew he was iffy. Sorry he couldn’t be here.” The words took on more meaning for Marlowe than was intended, but why would Charlotte have known?

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” said Charlotte.

“I don’t know if I can handle a surprise,” Marlowe replied. The voice she used sounded in jest, but she meant every word.

“Oh, you’ll like this,” and Charlotte took Marlowe by the hand, through the crowd until they came upon Charles Pasternak, the current President of the University.

“Marlowe,” he said. “What an honor. Congratulations.”

“Thank you. To tell you the truth, I’m quite humbled.”

“I wanted to be the first to let you know,” said President Pasternak, “that the Philosophy Department received an anonymous gift yesterday in your honor.”

“Wow.”

“Yes. It was 1.5 million dollars.”

“What?”

“The donor’s financial institution wired it yesterday under strict orders that it remain anonymous. This gift would be a big deal for anybody, but especially for Philosophy. Aren’t many major donors there.”

“I’m floored. I have no idea what to say,” said Marlowe.

“Well, think of something. I believe you have a speech to give,” said President Pasternak.

“Any idea who it could be?” asked Charlotte.

“No, not off the top of my head,” though she wondered if Blake would have given it, suspicious that his days were numbered. At the same time, it seemed out of character. But they say that about brain tumors — people’s personalities change. Maybe he did do it.

“Marlowe?” Charlotte asked. “Everything okay?”

“I’m fine. Just wondering who it could have been.”

“Would be nice to know,” said President Pasternak. “Not that we’d publicize it. But it would be nice to know.”

The serving chimes saved Marlowe from the awkward pause that was about to occur. Lunch was served.

- – - – -

Marlowe’s table included President Pasternak, Dean Runkles, Charlotte and two other professors from her department. Marlowe was grateful to be seated right next to Charlotte. The two had a subconscious Siamese connection: when Marlowe faulted in conversation, Charlotte picked up so well that even the two of them didn’t notice the save.

When the servers began placing desserts at the table, Charlotte had her cue. She ascended the stage to the podium, calling the audience to order. “It gives me enormous pleasure to introduce this year’s recipient of Northwestern University’s Distinguished Professor Award, Dr. Marlowe Brown.

“Today we recognize Marlowe’s professional achievements over the course of her thirty-five year career, and as for me, on a personal note, I recognize her as an intrepid colleague and dear friend. Some twenty-five years ago, when I joined the Department of Philosophy, I had the opportunity to assist in the search and ultimate hire of our newest faculty member. It so happened that my husband Bill attended law school with Marlowe’s husband Blake, and the rest is history.

“Hiring Marlowe was one of the best hiring decisions I’ve made, if today’s tribute is any measure. The majority of those present voted that Dr. Brown receive the honor of Distinguished Professor, and, just yesterday an anonymous donor awarded the Department of Philosophy 1.5 million dollar gift in her honor.”

The crowd erupted in applause, masking Charlotte’s final words, “I give you Dr. Marlowe Brown.”

- – - – -

Distinguished Professor in Ethics. This was a crowning achievement not only for Marlowe, but for the tiny department. Philosophers weren’t major players at the University — they weren’t the engineers, the journalists, the actors. The philosophers were this small group of students dedicated to understanding what was true, right and fair — ideals that seemed totally removed and isolated from the details of daily life. It had been years since the University bestowed the Distinguished Professor award to anyone in her department, and she knew that not only her reputation, but that of the department rested on this speech.

And yet, at this moment, she could have cared less.

“Wow,” was all she could say. The words weren’t coming. She took a breath, and looked at the audience. There was Charlotte, grinning ear to ear, beaming with pride; and President Pasternak; the two tables of philosophy professors; and the rest of the academic faculty interested to hear her talk.

She worked from memory. “Indeed, what a great honor it is that you have chosen to confer the award of Distinguished Professor on me,” and she couldn’t continue.

Everything came rushing at her — Dr. Zeman’s “no mistake,” Charlotte’s “sorry Blake couldn’t be here,” President Pasternak’s “you’d better think of something,” and all these God-damned eyes of dead people staring at her as if to say “your husband’s next.”

“I’m sorry. This is hard for me to say,” she apparently favored a preface, “but I got some very terrible news this morning about my husband’s health.” The room fell silent. “It overshadows this warm, welcoming, wonderful event you’ve put together for me. I feel awful not celebrating with you, but I’m sorry. I just can’t.”

She stepped off the stage, wiped her eyes, looked straight back toward the doors and kept walking until she reached her car.

- – - – -

Finally in the sanctity of her automobile, Marlowe buried her head in her hands and cried. There was a knock at the passenger side. It was Charlotte.

“Let me in,” she mouthed. Marlowe unlocked the doors.

“What happened?”

“Blake has a Stage Four, incurable brain tumor.”

“What?”

“There’s no hope. We just have to wait it out. Probably a few months and that’s it.”

“Have you gotten a second opinion?”

“It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to understand what’s happening when you look at the picture of his brain.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah.”

Charlotte held Marlowe’s hand.

“You should take some time off.”

“No.”

“Look at you. You can’t teach like this. And you need to be with Blake.”

“I’ll be fine. I just need a day. I need to digest this a little more. I’ll be fine. I need my work. It’ll keep me sane.”

“What about Blake?”

“What about Blake? I don’t know why this is so upsetting to me, to be honest. It’s not like we’re that close with each other anymore. I didn’t even have the faintest clue he was even sick! That’s how close we are.”

Charlotte didn’t know what to say to console her, or if Marlowe was in a place to accept consolation.

“Take the rest of the day off.”

“Can’t. I’m handing mid-terms back at my three o’clock.”

“Mid-terms can wait. I’ll call the students myself. Take the day off. You have a lot to digest. And don’t come tomorrow, either. Take the week. This is tough stuff. Take as much time as you need.”

“I’ll be here tomorrow.”

“Whatever you want. But call me.”

“I will.”

Charlotte left the car, leaving Marlowe to again wonder where in the world she would drive next.

]]> http://discoverydraft.wordpress.com/2009/11/02/chapter-two/feed/ 1 cms8741 http://discoverydraft.wordpress.com/2009/11/01/chapter-one/ http://discoverydraft.wordpress.com/2009/11/01/chapter-one/#comments Mon, 02 Nov 2009 01:21:35 +0000 cms8741 http://discoverydraft.wordpress.com/?p=49 ]]> “It’s a brain tumor.”

Marlowe had never quite decided which way was better to hear bad news, with a bit of a preface — “what I’m about to tell you may be hard to hear,” “the prospects don’t look good,” “this is not going to be easy, but…” — or getting straight down to business. The preface really gets the blood adrenalized, but the straight news feels like a sucker punch. Apparently, Dr. Zeman had his druthers.

“Stage Four.”

Marlowe didn’t feel sure that she comprehended Dr. Zeman. Something felt off. Was she really in this quite plush doctor’s office with such truly remarkable Persian rugs? And look at those antique African masks hanging in triptych over the credenza. If this were the way he decorated his office, Marlowe was dying to see the inside of his home. No, not dying. Curious. Extraordinarily curious. And then the doctor cut-off her thoughts: “If I were you, I’d think about how I wanted to live out my next few months, not years. I’m sorry to have to tell you this.”

She nodded with a smile and thought, the “I’m sorry” at the end — now there’s an interesting way.

Wait. Was she smiling? She was. Stop.

Look.

And there he was. Blake. Her husband, graying in that silvery way that only the handsomest do, looked stalwart against the onslaught of words Dr. Zeman flung at him. Why didn’t Blake tell Marlowe about his symptoms earlier? Why was this the first time she was sitting in a doctor’s office with him?

He bit his bottom lip. “Damn it.”

“Blake.” Marlowe attempted to reach for his hand, but knew his body language too well to continue pursuit.

His green eyes sent lasers straight to the core of Dr. Zeman, as though the doctor were responsible for the size and placement of the tumor. “You’re absolutely sure.”

“This explains your migraines, the vomiting, seizures…”

Seizures? Marlowe was stunned. He had been having seizures, and she didn’t know it?

“…and plus, it’s right there on the MRI. No mistake.”

The words “No mistake” took on its own existence, and blanketed them with a damp heaviness.

“I would begin to make arrangements,” Dr. Zeman continued, “for palliative care at home. I would make sure your will is in order. See family. And in whatever ways possible to enjoy the days you have left.”

“Well, this day’s a fuckin’ hoot,” said Blake. “A real fucking pleasure.”

Dr. Zeman paused before continuing. “Do you have any questions for me?”

They were both too stunned to reply.

“You have my number. Feel free to call. I’ll send the nurse in to give you some information and set-up your follow-up visit.”

And as though Dr. Zeman had lived this moment a thousand times before with a thousand other patients sitting right where Blake sat, the doctor stood, tapped his fingers on his desk, and left the room.

Marlowe turned to Blake. “Don’t say a word,” he said.

“But–”

Violently, he replied “Shh!”

And there they sat. In silence. Staring at the clock, their shoes, until the nurse arrived.

- – - – -

Blake walked in front of Marlowe at a furious pace through the hospital lobby and to the main entrance, where he presented his ticket to the valet.

“Just a sec’,” Marlowe said. “I’ve got one, too.” She scrounged around her purse to find her ticket, all the while regretting that she never had a special place for things like valet tickets, cell phones and keys. She always needed them quickly and now, all eyes were on her. “You know, go ahead. I’ll find it when you get back.”

“No, Marlowe, do it now while the man’s still here. While we’re young.”

“It’s too much pressure!” She nearly screamed the words. And she felt tears swarming beneath her eye lids.

“Oh, Jesus, Marlowe. Get yourself together,” Blake admonished. He snatched the purse from her and produced the pink valet slip. With two tickets in hand, the valet had his charge.

“You know, I want to feel bad for you,” said Marlowe, “really, I do. But this doesn’t give you license to be a complete ass to me.”

He ignored the comment.

“I mean, what am I supposed to do now?” she asked.

“Go to work,” he said. “Don’t you have a luncheon? Go to work.”

“And what about you? Are you going to work?”

“Of course I am. I have to quit.”

And with that, she could resist her tears no longer.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Blake? You didn’t tell me about anything!” she said.

“What did you need to know? That I was having headaches? Everybody has headaches. The nausea, the vomiting, the headaches — I’m carrying an insane caseload.”

“But you had a seizure,” she said. “How many did you have? More than one? How many?”

“After I had the first one — it was only two weeks ago at work — I made an appointment. We ran the tests, and here I am.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“What was I supposed to say?” asked Blake. “It’s not easy to face this, you know.”

“I know.”

“And those bastards. Those fucking bastards. I worked my tail off for them. I’m so fucking close to retirement.”

“Do you think you should be driving?” Marlowe asked.

Blake glared at her.

“I mean, I can drive you,” she said.

“I got myself here just fine. I can get myself to work.”

“Maybe now, with everything going on, maybe it’s not such a good idea.”

“It’s fine.”

“Then see if you can have someone drive you home, Blake. I don’t feel comfortable.”

“Oh, you don’t feel comfortable? Let me try to remember again: this is about you.”

Blake’s car rounded the entrance’s cul-de-sac.

“Just please have someone drive you home,” Marlowe called to Blake as he paid the valet. And in a moment, he was gone.

- – - – -

The car’s dash read five minutes to ten. The luncheon didn’t start for nearly an hour and a half. Maybe she shouldn’t go. No, that’s not an option. She needs to go. She must go. But she couldn’t go like this. What to do?

- – - – -

Marlowe allowed her subconscious to drive, and it took her to the one place she needed to be, a place she hadn’t been since she was a student at Northwestern University: her willow tree. In her fondest memories of college, the tree had made a home for her, a place of respite. Its branches dangled low, softly touching the grass all around. The only way to get “inside” was to part the curtain of leaves.

From there she could peer out through the vines at the large pond and the ducks who lived on it. She could hear the fountain set at the pond’s center, circulating water; she could hear snippets of conversations of people walking on the nearby path. She reflected; she journaled; she studied philosophy under that very tree decades and decades ago.

Marlowe wondered who else knew about this tree, apart from Blake. The willow tree sat nearly next to the student union — there were just too many people coming and going for no one else to notice this cozy little spot. But on all the occasions that she took to visit while she was in school, the tree was always there alone, waiting for her.

Such was the tree that day. Waiting.

They both had aged. Marlowe’s fiery auburn hair had been replaced with a bright grey. Her once fine, delicate skin had become mottled with age spots. It was harder to sit down and get up now, and she would never consider spending the night under the willow’s branches as she had in college. Who knew what it would do to her back. The last time she sat beneath that tree was a quarter-century ago.

But still, she felt that she was the same Marlowe as ever. Age couldn’t touch her sense of wonder, and she was thankful for always having that childhood optimism within her.

That sense of optimism came in handy today, because her tree had changed, and the change was dramatic. The willow’s weeping branches no longer swept the ground, but rose high at least six feet. Her first thought was that the grounds crew had trimmed the branches, with each snip, plucking away at her solitude. She imagined them stinking from sweat, talking about the lottery, and with grime on their hands, shearing her darlings who were useless to defend themselves. Was this even the same tree?

She stepped back several paces and realized. The tree had grown. It was different now. She was different now than those many years ago. Life happened. She wished she visited more often.

Marlowe walked toward the edge of the pond, using muscle memory to recall how she used to access that cozy space between the pond and the tree. She thought she found it. Perhaps. But here, now, things were not the same. She felt completely vulnerable, available for every passerby to see, in plain view.

More than that, there was barely enough room for her. Branches that used to hang low started at least half a dozen feet higher now. The trunk had become enormous, which flung the vines past the edge of the pond. The tree no longer had a spot for her. She had been gone. It moved on. But had she?

Here she was, standing on the ground where she used to daydream. None of her dreams included what happened today. In fact, she never dreamed of a time that she and Blake would be so distant that she wouldn’t know there was something wrong.

When they were both in school together, she had taken Blake here. One warm fall day, he rested his head on her lap while she tousled his curly locks and they talked about the future. They both wanted lots of kids; Christmases in Colorado with a ten-foot tall tree in the middle of their gigantic foyer to greet guests; friends visiting from far-away countries for whom they would throw lavish dinner parties and talk about politics, the arts and the intimate details of their lives. The topic of their jobs didn’t once come up during that conversation all those years ago, but that was all they had to talk about now. Their jobs.

In recent years, talk about their jobs included what their work entailed, but even that depth of conversation had trailed away. Now, they talked solely about the daily function of their lives — “what time do you need to get up for work tomorrow?”, “what time do you think you’ll be home tonight?”, “your cell phone rang; I think it’s work” — and their lives both revolved around their jobs. Which reminded Marlowe. She had work to do.

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