Out With The Old, In With The New. Nancy Thompson Robards
case. For now, she can wait.
“I’ll be home after the game tonight. Are you sure you and Caitlin don’t want to come?”
I shake my head.
“Awwwwww, Mommy. I want to go.”
“No, you were too hard to wake up this morning and you have school tomorrow. Another time. A weekend game, perhaps.”
Corbin stands, kisses Caitlin on the top of her head. “Come to think of it, I’ll be pretty late. After the game, there’s a reception at Harvey’s Bistro for the new general manager. I need to put in an appearance. New management could decide on a new team physician. I need to stake our claim.”
I steel myself against the queer swirling sensation in my gut. Everything is fine. He will go to his game. I will go to Palm Beach.
Everything is fine.
Alex and Rainey are surveying the loot from our shopping spree and settling into our luxury suite at the Breakers as I punch numbers on my cell phone. It’s only seven-thirty. Our dinner reservation is for eight, and I want to call home and say goodnight to Caitlin before it gets much later.
The phone rings. I settle back against the padded headboard waiting for someone to answer, watching Rainey model a new dress she bought in a shop on Worth Avenue.
Rainey twirls. Alex gives the thumbs-up sign. She doesn’t have kids or a husband—which, she says, is a good thing, given the fact she can’t even hold together a relationship with her mother. They haven’t spoken in ten years. That’s sad. I can’t imagine what I’d do without my mother, but it’s Alex’s life. She says she’s perfectly happy having only to check in with her law office’s answering service.
Rainey’s only child, Ben, will graduate from high school in May. He probably won’t realize she’s gone for the weekend until she gets back and tries to torture him with photographs.
Rainey’s a pro when it comes to cameras. She’s by far the most creative of the three of us. She’s argued that point with me on more than one occasion, giving me credit for my “decorating flair.” But my panache, as she calls it, does not hold a candle to what Rainey can create with a lump of clay and the artistic equivalent of a funky manicure set. She’s amazing. By default—and because Alex and I didn’t even bother to bring a camera—she’s the official photographer of the tenth annual girls’ getaway.
She snaps a shot of me with the phone pressed to my ear. I’m counting the rings on the other end of the line. Seven…eight… A couple more and the answering machine will kick in, but in the nick of time Caitlin picks up the receiver. Her little voice sings, “Hello, Hennessey residence.”
“Hi, sweetie.”
“Mommy! When are you coming home? I miss you.”
“Pumpkin, I haven’t been gone twenty-four hours. How can you miss me already?”
“I just do. Don’t you miss me?”
“Of course I do, but I’m having fun, too. We went shopping today and had our nails done. We just checked into our room.”
“Did you get me a surprise?”
“I sure did.”
“What color did you get your nails painted?”
“Natural.”
“Just like always. When you get home will you paint my nails pink?”
“I will. Maybe I’ll even find a special bottle of pretty pink polish to bring home to you.”
“Ohhhhhhhh! Don’t forget, okay?”
“All right, sweetie. Can you put Daddy on the phone for a minute?”
“No.”
No? My heart kicks against my breastbone, and I sit up and scoot to the edge of the bed. “Why not?”
“He’s sleeping.”
What? In all the time I’ve known this man, he’s never napped. “What’s wrong? Is he okay?”
“I think so.”
A bad feeling creeps into my veins. Caitlin isn’t a baby, of course, but if he’s sick he should’ve called my mother to come help, rather than leaving her to fend for herself while he slept. I turn toward the window. It’s dark outside.
“How long has he been asleep?”
“I dunno.”
“Have you had dinner?”
“No, and I’m hungry.”
I stand up. It’s nearly bedtime. I knew this trip was a bad idea.
“Take the phone into him and tell him Mommy wants to talk to him.”
Rainey and Alex have stopped their shopping show-and-tell and are staring at me.
“He’ll get mad. Just like you’re mad.”
I take a deep breath and soften my tone. “I’m not mad, honey. I’m concerned about Daddy. And you. I’m sorry if I sounded angry.”
I walk into the living room, away from my audience. “Honey, put him on the phone, and then I’ll talk to you again before I hang up. Okay?”
A few moments later, a groggy voice croaks, “Yeah? Doctor Hennessey.”
“Corbin, it’s me. What’s wrong?”
He grunts. I picture him sitting up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and running his hand over his eyes and through his hair in one motion. “Oh, Kate. It’s you.” His voice is breathy. “I thought it was the hospital. Oh God… I didn’t mean to sleep so long. I just…passed out.”
Passed out? I quell the mother tiger urge to tear into him. You don’t pass out when you’re taking care of a child. Staring at the maroon-velvet-striped wallpaper, I silently count to ten and give him the benefit of the doubt. “Are you sick?”
“No. I was…tired.” His voice tightens on the last word. “I’m entitled to take a nap every once in a while.”
“I’m not saying you aren’t. But it’s seven-thirty, and your daughter hasn’t even eaten dinner. When you’re caring for a six-year-old, entitlement gets put on hold for the weekend.”
He snorts.
The urge to ask if I need to come home wraps around me like a scratchy wool blanket begging me to throw it off my shoulders and onto the table. But I draw it tightly around me and endure the itch.
“It’s only two days. Come on, you can handle it.”
The long, drawn-out silence underscores every mile that stretches between us, until I can’t stand it anymore.
“Corbin, she’s only six. If you have to check out, or pass out or whatever you did, take her to my mother’s house so someone’s looking after her, okay?”
“Oh, for God’s sake—” He draws in a heavy breath. Lets it out. “You’re right. You’re always right, Kate. I’d better get in there and start cooking. Have fun shopping. Goodbye.”
“Don’t forget the—” click “—lasagna in the refrigerator.”
I look at my phone. Call ended.
He hung up on me.
Oh! Irritation simmers in the pit of my stomach, threatening to rage into a full boil. I squeeze the phone until my knuckles turn white and stare at it as if it will channel all my anger back to my husband and reach out and slap him. What is his problem?
A vision of my daughter’s face pops into my mind. We didn’t even get to say good-night. I start to call home again—
“Everything all right?” Alex asks.
I