Going Home Part 7

"Good morning, sleeping beauty. Breakfast's on the table." I felt more like sleeping ugly than sleeping beauty, and the smell of the bacon made me feel sick. The nausea I felt reminded me again of the day before. My nerves were obviously falling apart.

"Hi, Mommy. We made you waffers."

"Waffles. And you're all dressed. Looks like you two have been up all night." And I felt as though I had, but I had to put a good face on it, for Sam at least.

I got up and brushed my teeth and felt a little better after that, and the waffles were good. I ate two and Sam was thrilled.

"Aren't they delicious, Mommy?"

"Terrific, Sam." I cast a brief glance at Chris, but he was busy cleaning up the kitchen. "What's everybody doing up so early?"

"I have to be on location at six, and if you still want to go to the city we've got to get moving. I'm already late." He looked at me pointedly across the room.

"Fine. Thanks. I'll get Sam's stuff packed up, and I'll be dressed in ten minutes." Blue jeans and a shirt. I had nothing to do in town anyway. Except congratulate Joe Tramino for his good judgment.

Sam looked downcast as we left, and I tried to get her to sing songs as we wound our way over the mountain road. I was grateful for the fog; I didn't have to see long sweeping views of Stinson and Bolinas stretching behind me as we left. All we could see was a brief patch of road ahead of us, and the fog-crowned hills stretching above us.

The roads were deserted at that hour, and we were in the city in thirty minutes. Chris pulled up in front of my apartment and gave Sam a piggyback ride to the front door.

"I'll be seeing you, podner." She looked as though she were about to cry, and then he leaned down and whispered something in her ear which sparked a smile on her face like a sunburst.

"Okay, Uncle Crits. Good-bye." She ran into the house and slammed the screen door as I turned to Chris.

"What did you tell her?" I wanted to know. I didn't want him telling her any lies about his coming back. "I want to know."

"None of your business. It's just between the two of us. And I have a message for you too. Only that this isn't the end. And don't waste your time thinking this is it, because it just plain isn't. I won't let it be. Do you hear me?" He stared into my eyes for one long moment and then kissed my forehead before he turned his back, walked away, and drove off.

He had made a big mistake. For me, it was all over.

I dropped Sam off at her old playgroup at nine and was pleased to see that she didn't seem to mind being back. And then I went home to unpack.

I also had to call all the advertising agencies I did free-lance work for and tell them I'd moved back to town. And then what? Cry, maybe? Yeah, why the h.e.l.l not?

But as it turned out, I sat around the house drinking coffee until I picked Sam up at school and we went to the zoo. I couldn't face the suitcases or the calls to the agencies, it was too depressing. We ate dinner at the Hippo on the way home, and Sam and I had a minor fight over the menu.

"But I don't like gorillas, Mommy. They're scary."

"It's just a hamburger, Sam. They only call it a gorillaburger."

She was dubious, but she finally decided to try it, threatening me with an instant walkout if it turned out to be scary. Apparently it wasn't, and the hamburger and French fries disappeared in minutes, while I tried hard to hide a smile.

We went home in the fading light of what had turned out to be a very pleasant summer day, and I gave her her bath and put her to bed. But I knew that sooner or later it would catch up with me. Chris was gone.

"May I come in?" My heart soared as I saw the s.h.a.ggy blond mane poke through the door. "You should lock your door."

"And you should listen to what people tell you. I told you to stay away." But I was so glad to see him there that I felt like throwing my arms around him. His absence had weighed on me like a hundred-pound backpack all day.

"You're full of s.h.i.t, Gill. And anyway, I had to come back. I promised Sam." He had already sprawled on the couch and was looking pleased.

"Well, you shouldn't have."

"I'm taking you both back to Bolinas tomorrow. I figured the day in town would do you good."

"It did. And we're staying."

"In that case, so am I. But it's asinine to let the place in Bolinas just sit there empty."

"So don't let it. Go back. I don't care where you stay."

"Oh really?" He had gotten off the couch and was walking slowly to the chair where I was sitting, smoking a cigarette, and shaking inside. "Well, it just so happens that I care plenty where you are, Mrs. Gillian Forrester. And I want you to be with me. Have you gotten that message yet?" He was leaning over my chair, with a hand firmly clenched on each arm of the chair. His face was lowering slowly toward mine and I knew that he was going to kiss me. "Chris, don't!" I shoved at his chest but he kept right on coming at me anyway, and then he kissed me. "Stop it!"

"No, you stop it. This has gone far enough. I'll eat crow for the next week. But I'm not going to let this thing get out of proportion. So get that into your head." And with that, he swept me out of the chair, carried me into the bedroom, and dumped me on the bed.

"Chris Matthews, get out of this house!" I stood on the bed and shouted at him, but he swung his arm gently in the air and knocked me down on the bed. And then in one swift movement, his body was on mine, and the end was over. We had begun again.

"Are we going back to Bolinas this morning or not? The weather looks lousy, by the way." We were in bed, and we could see from the window that the fog was in again.

"I don't see much point, Chris. I have three jobs next week, and Richard is picking up Sam on Friday anyway. Let's stay in."

"Okay." He was being very amenable.

"But I want to stay here, not Sacramento Street." Chris's place.

"Why?"

"For a number of reasons. For one thing, there's no point feeding Sam stuff that's going to make waves with her father. I'd just as soon she not be able to tell him we've moved out of our place and into yours. It was different in Bolinas. And . . . well, the other stuffs not important." But it was to me. I just didn't want to be someplace where I'd know he had already slept with a hundred different girls. Some of them in the past three months. Even Bolinas still had a faint sour taste. I wanted to stay at my place in the city.

"I think you're silly. But I'll go along with it. I've got a lot of work to do anyway."

So we spent the next week in the city, living at my place, and putting the pieces of the broken dish back together. I was surprised how easy it was, but that was because of Chris. It was impossible to stay mad at him, he had the charm of an irresistible six-year-old boy, and besides, I loved him.

At the end of the following week, I got Sam's bags packed again, shooed Chris out of the house, and we sat down to wait for Richard, Sam's father. He had called to tell me that he had to go to Los Angeles on business and he would fly up to San Francisco to pick her up at noon on July 15. Which meant he planned to get to the house by two o'clock on that date. And when Richard said that, he meant it. He was as irritatingly punctual as ever.

It was then July 15, and he arrived promptly at two-ten, looking painfully neat and well put-together in a dark gray suit, with a navy and white striped tie, white shirt, and highly polished black shoes. It was an odd feeling to watch him come in the door and realize that this had been the man I had been married to and had once gone home to at the end of each day. He seemed like someone from another world. And I suppose I did too. I was no longer the Gillian he had known.

"She's all set." I tried to keep my voice firm and wear a cheerful face for Sam's benefit. But I hated to see her leave for six weeks. The days would seem so quiet and empty without her.

"You look well, Gillian. You've been out in the sun?"

"Yes. Across the bay." I kept it deliberately vague, and was struck again by the inane conversations we had had since the divorce. What did we used to talk about? I really couldn't remember.

"I have a list of where Samantha and I will be for the next six weeks. And if you move around, please send my secretary your itinerary so we can reach you in case of emergency." His face looked like a dry bone.

"Don't worry about it. You'll be hearing from me. I'll be calling Sam." He didn't look overwhelmingly pleased at that, and I stooped to give Sam a giant hug and a big mushy kiss as she stood at the door.

"Good-bye, Mommy. Send me some pretty cards . . . and say good-bye to Uncle Crits!" . . . Whoops . . . I saw Richard's eyes register the name and look toward me.

"Nice to see you, Richard. Have a good trip. Good-bye, sweetheart. Take care."

I waved as the limousine pulled away from the curb and Sam's small face shrank at the rear window as she waved back. It was going to be lonely without her.

The phone was ringing as I came back into the house, and I picked it up, grateful for someone to talk to.

"Can I come home yet? Has the big bad wolf gone?"

"Yes, and so has Sam. I feel lousy."

"I figured you would. I'll be over in ten minutes and we can leave for Bolinas as soon as you want." Suddenly the memory of the girl Chris had slept with didn't bother me as much, and I wanted to go back. The sour taste had faded in the course of the week in town, and I wanted to get out of my apartment. It would be gloomy as all h.e.l.l without Sam clattering around.

Chris was as good as his word and was standing in the living room ten minutes later with a large bottle of wine in each hand.

"I wasn't sure if you'd want red wine or white. So I brought both. Want a drink?"

"You bet. Several. And then let's go." We each had two gla.s.ses of the red wine, and then we were off. Back to Bolinas. Alone this time, and in remarkably good spirits.

9.

The next month was once again like something out of a dream. Neither of us got many calls to go into the city and we spent most of our time hanging around the beach, lying in a hammock under the big tree next to the house. And making love.

I had one job in town during the entire month, and Chris had two. Which made finances tight, but we were happy. I pitched in my alimony, and Chris didn't seem to mind the financial a.s.sistance.

We had a glorious time. I got into doing some painting, Chris took what seemed like a thousand rolls of film of me in the nude, and the days flew. Brief, frozen letters from Richard told me that Sam was well, and she seemed happy when I spoke to her.

The episode of the girl in Chris's bed never repeated itself, and he was more devoted than I'd ever dreamed. Joe Tramino had been wrong. And Chris and I didn't have a care in the world. Except one small one. I had had what appeared to be sun poisoning twice and food poisoning four times. And in between I had a fair amount of dizzy spells. It didn't seem like anything serious because the rest of the time I felt fine, but Chris wanted me to see a doctor.

"It might be an ulcer, Gill. Why don't you come into town the next time I go in. That's in two days. You could try for an appointment now."

"I just think it's nerves. But if it makes you happy . . . okay, I'll go."

I made the appointment the day before we went in and tried to forget about it. I didn't want anything to be wrong. Life was so good just then.

"Rise and shine."

"What time is it?" I felt like h.e.l.l again, but I didn't want to admit it to Chris.

"It's seven-thirty. That's plenty late enough. Get up. I made you some coffee." He was painfully matter-of-fact about the morning, and I tried not to show how I felt as I closed my eyes and attempted not to gag on the coffee fumes.

We left the house at nine. He had been delayed looking for stuff for his shooting, and I was glad. I felt better by the time we left, but I knew the drive over the hairpin turns on the mountain road wouldn't help. They didn't.

"You look lousy, Gill. Do you feel okay?"

"Sure. I feel fine." But I must have looked green. I felt it.

"Well, I'm glad you're going to the doctor anyway. My sister had something like you and she ignored it for a year. The next thing I heard she was in the hospital with a perforated ulcer. And that's no joke."

"I bet it isn't. Is she okay now?"

"Sure. She's fine. So don't worry. But at least you'll know." . . . Yeah . . . at least I'll know. "I want to take you by the house sometime before we go back to the beach. You can see if there's anything you want me to do before you move in. I have Sam's room all picked out too. I hope you like it." He gave me a shy, nervous look that made me smile from deep in my heart. I felt like we were about to be married. There was that funny almost-newlywed feeling about the way he talked about the house.

"I told my landlord I was giving up my place on September 1. He said it's no problem to rent furnished places, so he'll have a new tenant in no time. I'm glad. I felt s.h.i.tty giving him such short notice." We had waited till the last minute to discuss it, but things had in fact "worked out," as Chris had put it earlier. "I can't wait."

Chris leaned across the seat and kissed me, and we drove into town making small talk and telling bad jokes. I was feeling fine again and we were having a lovely time.

He dropped me in front of the Fitzhugh Building in Union Square a half an hour early, and I decided to go to I. Magnin's across the square to pa.s.s the time.

I noticed a mime on the corner and laughed out loud as I saw him imitate my walk, and then I disappeared into the fairyland delights of the elegant store.

I was briefly tempted by the men's department to the right of the entrance, but decided against it. Chris wouldn't wear anything I'd find there anyway. Somehow they didn't look like they'd carry denim shirts. I smiled to myself and walked on until a row of ladies' sweaters caught my eye, and I started to sift through them.

Twenty minutes later, I emerged wearing a new red turtleneck in a thin silk knit, and reeking of a new perfume. I needed something to give me courage. I had the feeling that what I was going to hear wasn't going to be easy to take.

I checked the directory on the ground floor of the Fitzhugh and found the doctor I was looking for. Howard Haas, M.D., Room 312. The Fitzhugh was a medical building, and as I rode up in the elevator I had the funny feeling that I could walk into any door in the building and come out all right. But my appointment was with Dr. Haas. My doctor in New York had recommended him when we came out.

I gave the receptionist my name and took a seat with six or seven other people. The magazines were dull, the air was stuffy, I was starting to get nervous, and the new perfume was beginning to make me feel sick.

"Mrs. Forrester, this way please." It hadn't taken long.

I followed the nurse to a heavy oak door at the rear of the office and followed her as she stepped inside. There was something laboriously old-fashioned about the entire scene, and I expected Dr. Haas to wear horn-rimmed gla.s.ses and be bald. He wasn't though. Instead he looked as though he were about forty-five and played a lot of tennis. He had only slightly graying hair and a warm blue-eyed smile as he shook my hand.

"Mrs. Forrester, won't you sit down?" In spite of the winning smile, I was thinking of saying no, but I didn't have much choice.

"Thank you." I felt like a child called in front of the princ.i.p.al in a new school. I didn't know what to say next.

"Let's take down a little of your history first, and then you can tell me your problem. If there is a problem." He smiled at me again, and I reeled off my vital statistics, which seemed hardly worth putting down. A tonsillectomy when I was seven, a lot of earaches as a child, and Sam. That was about it. "That all sounds very healthy. Now, why did you come to see me?"

I told him about the dizziness, the nausea, and the vomiting, and he nodded, without making notes. He didn't seem impressed.

"And when was your last menstrual period?"

"My period?" I had wondered about that, but I think I hadn't wanted to know. "It was a few weeks ago, at least I think it was." I was feeling faint as we sat there.

"You think it was? You're not sure?" He looked at me as though I were very stupid.

"No, I'm sure of when it was, but it only lasted a few hours."

"Is that unusual for you?"

"Yes." I would have been amused by his tone, but I couldn't be. He was speaking to me as though I were a very young, slightly r.e.t.a.r.ded child, and his words came across the desk in slow, painfully deliberated tones like slow-motion tennis b.a.l.l.s.

"What about the period before this one?"