SC-Epilogue, Part 3b

Dec 1994 – Nov 1995

✧ ✧ ✧

Susan Renée Hughes blessed us with her presence on a balmy Sunday in December 1994. She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, even red-faced and slightly confused. She wasn’t grumpy or even suspicious. She was our first baby with dark hair, and she looked back at me like she couldn’t understand why we were the same. Then she sighed and decided I was probably okay, especially if I looked like her.

Nana C. moved to my side and smiled at the little girl. I knew a hint when I felt it, but I wasn’t ready to give up my newest daughter. Still, I couldn’t exactly say no to an octogenarian force of nature who wanted to hold her great-granddaughter.

“Would you like to…?” I offered.

She reacted with almost convincing surprise. “Oh, may I?”

I slid Susie into her arms.

“Oh, how precious. She looks just like you.” She smiled down at the little girl and cooed, “You were supposed to be a boy, but we’re glad you aren’t.”

Susie screwed up her face and looked like she wanted to cry. Then she caught sight of me and settled immediately.

Nana C. laughed softly. “She’s going to be a daddy’s girl.”

“I think they all are.”

“Mmm. And whose fault is that?”

Later that evening, after everyone had left, Christy’s doctor returned to check on her. I made a point to tell him about her history of postpartum depression.

“Why’s this the first time I’m hearing about it?” he chided her gently. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Most women experience some form of baby blues. It’s natural.”

Christy glared at me, but it bounced off my armor.

“This is a bit more than ‘baby blues,’” I said. Then I described some of what we’d gone through after Laurie and Emily. The doctor listened and nodded gravely.

“Your hormones might take a while to find their balance,” he said to Christy. “And untreated depression is bad for you. It’s bad for your baby, bad for your husband, and bad for your other daughters.”

“What do you recommend?” I asked for both of us.

“Let’s just keep an eye on things,” he said. “Postpartum depression can be unpredictable. It can happen with every child or only one. The second but not the first, for instance. Or the first two and not the third. It can take a few weeks or even a few months to manifest. And it may not ever. Her body and hormones may recover naturally, and this will be the last time we worry about it.”

“Well, just in case…” I told him about the counseling and medication after Emily.

“I’m not crazy,” Christy grumped. “I don’t need drugs to be normal.”

“No one said you’re crazy,” the doctor said reasonably. “If a medication helps, it isn’t a mental problem—it’s a chemical imbalance. You’d take medication if you had high blood pressure, wouldn’t you?”

“I suppose, but—”

“Or insulin if you had diabetes?”

“Yes, but—”

“This is the same. If you suffer from depression, many times it’s a chemical in the brain that causes it. Sometimes it isn’t, which is why we recommend counseling too.”

Christy pouted mulishly.

“Keep an eye on her,” the doctor said to me. “If she suffers from”—he listed a number of symptoms I was all too familiar with, as well as several we hadn’t experienced, thank God—“make an appointment with my office. And here’s my pager number.” He took out a business card and wrote on the back. “Any time, day or night.”

I nodded gratefully and pocketed the card.

He leaned in to meet Christy’s eyes. “Your physical and mental health are just as important as your baby’s. You can’t care for her if you don’t care for yourself first. Now, I don’t think we should worry just yet, but let’s schedule more frequent checkups once you leave the hospital, hmm?”

He glanced at me to make sure I was onboard, and I was, a million-billion percent.

“Why’d you tell him?” Christy griped after he’d gone.

“Because I’m not going to watch you suffer. Not for six months or six minutes. Not in silence, not at all.”

“I’m not crazy.”

“I know.”

“I don’t need pills, either.”

“Maybe not,” I conceded. “But if you do, you’re going to take them.”

“You can’t make me.”

“I can, and I will.”

Her mood changed abruptly, and she began to cry. “I’m not crazy.”

I slid my arms around her and rocked her gently.

“I’m not crazy,” she repeated like a small child. “I’m not. I’m not crazy.”

✧ ✧ ✧

Christy made it almost six weeks. The normal baby blues passed and she seemed fine, but she was lying to us and lying to herself. I missed the signs at first, since they happened so gradually. I was also busy with a project for school, so I saw what I wanted to see.

When I finally started putting the pieces together, I realized that Christy had sunk into a funk. She suffered from mood swings, insomnia, and irritability. She drank more, and she cried at night. She started watching home shopping networks again, and she bought things until I canceled her credit card. She argued or sulked, sometimes both at once.

Worst of all, she didn’t seem interested in Susie. I had to remind her to nurse, and I changed Susie’s diapers and gave her baths more than Christy did.

Wren saw what was happening, but she couldn’t do much to help. She had to work during the day and was usually worn out at night. Trip was too busy even to lend moral support. Harvard MBA students were the cream of the crop, and he was struggling for the first time in his life.

At least Wren’s salary allowed them to hire a real nanny for their own kids, although it was a blessing and a curse. Christy’s life was easier with only our children to look after, but she loved Wren’s kids and felt like a failure because she couldn’t take care of them too.

I nearly killed myself trying to do everything for us on my own. I stopped going to the gym and went grocery shopping instead. I kept the older girls busy with coloring books and rocked Susie while I made dinner. I even started doing the laundry so Christy could catch up on her sleep. I felt like Mr. Mom and Mr. Dad, but what else could I do?

Christy insisted she was fine and would recover if I just gave her time. I gave her two more weeks. Then I called the doctor and took her to the emergency room. I didn’t know what else to do. He prescribed antidepressants and counseling, like Kara’s psychiatrist friend had done. Christy didn’t want to take the pills and didn’t want to see the therapist, but I told her she didn’t have a choice.

She gradually recovered over the next few months, and things returned to normal, but “normal” was a relative thing. She took care of herself and the girls, but she wasn’t the same as before. The drugs killed her libido, so I had to jerk off in the shower if I wanted any attention. Her artistic urges cratered as well. Her sketchbooks collected dust, and half-finished statuettes sat on the shelf in her little studio corner. She wasn’t quite a robot, but she wasn’t my Sunshine anymore.

✧ ✧ ✧

I went through my own crisis at the same time, my dark night of the soul. I thought about leaving Christy and even divorcing her. I hadn’t signed up for a sexless marriage or a wife on antidepressant autopilot. I still loved her, but I couldn’t go on like things were.

Worse, I’d met someone at school. I’d known her from the beginning, but we’d always run in different circles. She was a decade younger and without any real-world experience. But then everything changed when we started working on a project together.

We connected over the usual things, a love of art and beauty. Our friendship blossomed into something more, something very intense and intimate. We never crossed the line into actual sex, but we both wanted to.

She fed my ego in addition to my fantasy life. She was young and very pretty. She thought I was brilliant. She was full of life and excited about the future, our future. We didn’t argue about money or kids or anything else. I was miserable at home, but I could forget about my problems when we were together. I could be happy again.

I lay awake at night, wondering why I stayed in a marriage that was over. It was, wasn’t it? I tried to convince myself to leave, but I couldn’t bear the thought of life without my little girls. Besides, an idealistic part of me wanted to try and fix things with Christy. After all, hadn’t I sworn to love her in sickness and in health? What kind of man would I be if I abandoned her and our daughters at the first sign of trouble? Granted, it wasn’t the first sign, but no one had ever said marriage would be easy.

I eventually told my female friend that I wasn’t going to leave my wife and family. I loved her and didn’t want to break her heart, but I also loved Christy and our girls. My friend said she respected my decision, although things changed between us. I wanted to stay friends, but she started avoiding me, and I blamed Christy for the emptiness in my life.

✧ ✧ ✧

Christy and I started seeing a counselor together, a woman named Kay. We also saw her separately, and she helped me realize how angry I was. I blamed Christy for lots of things. Some were her fault and some weren’t, but my anger was a sign of depression.

“You need an outlet,” Kay said. “One where you can connect with your wife instead of avoiding her. Why don’t you try dancing instead of boxing? You enjoyed it back in college.”

“Yeah,” I said, “but dancing has a couple of bad memories for Christy.”

“Do you want to tell me about them?”

“Not really.”

“That’s what we’re here for, though, isn’t it?”

“I suppose.”

She waited. She was very good at it.

“I… um… was seeing someone else,” I admitted. “For a couple of months. When Christy and I were first engaged.”

“Mmm. Go on.”

“How much has she told you about our lifestyle?” I asked obliquely.

“The swinging? Enough.”

“You disapprove?”

“No, not at all. I think it’s healthy. For you, at least. And… I’ll be honest, I’ve never encountered a couple who’ve made it work. Not long-term like you have. But you and Christy both have a healthy mindset about it. I think it’s one of the strengths you should focus on. But let’s get back to this other woman. Were you actually dating her?”

“She thought we were.”

“What about you?”

“Not at first,” I admitted, “but… yeah, maybe we were.”

“So it was more serious than just sex.”

“Yeah.”

“She was your dance partner?”

“She was an instructor. But she was also my partner. In more ways than one, I guess.”

“What happened?”

I told her the short version of the Terri story.

“Ah, I see,” Kay said. “So you thought Christy was cheating, and she thought you were.”

“More or less.”

“Were you?”

“In my head…? Not really. But… yeah, maybe. I guess I wondered if Christy was the right choice.”

“Was she?”

“What do you think?” I said, a touch sarcastically.

Kay made a note and then dropped a bombshell. “Would it surprise you that she was excited when I mentioned dancing?”

“A little, yeah,” I admitted.

“She wanted me to tell you. I think it would be a good way for you to reconnect, without your daughters. That’s important to couples, to have a life where you aren’t ‘mommy’ and ‘daddy’ all the time.”

“I suppose.”

“Christy also needs the activity. She doesn’t do well in situations without physical stimulation.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said. “You mentioned that in the joint sessions. But that’s your department. She doesn’t do well in any situations at the moment.”

“I know,” Kay agreed. “I’m going to speak to her physician about reducing her medication. Part of her problem is that she’s ‘on autopilot,’ as you said.” She made a note. “I also think it will help her libido. Your sex life is important to both of you. It’s important to every couple, but you and Christy have a much deeper need for sex than most people.”

“You can say that again,” I muttered darkly.

Kay laughed, which wasn’t the reaction I’d expected.

“What?”

“Oh… let’s just say that your answer wasn’t the first time I’ve heard it.”

“Christy said the same thing?”

“I couldn’t say,” Kay said aloud, but her expression was answer enough.

“I like how you do that,” I said.

“Do what?”

“Skirt the line. Ethically. You can’t tell me what Christy said in confidence, but you can tell me that I already know the answer to my question.”

“It’s a trick you learn,” Kay admitted. “And I can tell you things if Christy gives me permission.”

“Like the dancing.”

She nodded.

“Anything else?”

She pursed her lips, and her eyes crinkled with a smile.

“Well, you have my permission to tell her anything I say. I don’t like hiding things from her. I’ve been doing that too much lately.”

Kay nodded and made a note.

“And tell her that I’d love to start dancing again. With her, duh! But you knew that.”

Kay smiled and suggested, “You can tell her yourself.”

“Because that’s what couples do?”

“That’s what couples do,” she agreed.

✧ ✧ ✧

We found a ballroom dancing group across the river in Beacon Hill. The people were mostly older couples, although a surprising number were single, widows and widowers looking for love. A couple of the older gents even thought they had a chance to score with the mother-daughter duo who ran the group. They didn’t, but I gave them an A for effort.

Christy and I mostly ignored everyone else. She loved the movement and flow of dancing, and I loved the feeling as she came alive in my arms again. Our relationship didn’t change overnight, but things were definitely headed in the right direction.

Our sex life started to improve as well, especially after her doctor reduced her antidepressant dosage. We didn’t go back to being teenagers again, but we went from sex once a month, maybe, to once a week and then once a night.

Kay also agreed when I suggested a vasectomy, although Christy argued. I was happy with the children we had, while she wanted more children.

“Why don’t you freeze some of your sperm?” Kay suggested. “That might be a good compromise.”

Christy wasn’t convinced. “What good will that do?”

“It’s called ‘in vitro fertilization.’” Kay explained the process. “So you can have more children if you decide to later, but you don’t have to worry about birth control now. Your physician thinks that will help with your hormone balance as well.”

“Besides, we can get back into swinging,” I said, “and I won’t have to worry about getting anyone pregnant.” Kay and I had discussed that part in private, and Christy reacted predictably. She sat forward, her eyes bright.

“We can start swinging again?”

I nodded. “Not just with friends, either. We can meet new people if we want… new women.”

“Like the one who pierced my nipples? Oh my gosh, Paul, you have to meet her. And,” she added coyly, “she has some piercings I want to show you.”

“Hold on…,” I said, “you want another piercing?”

“Or two,” Christy agreed.

I reacted with mild alarm. “Where?”

Christy glanced at Kay but then lowered her eyes. “Um… can we discuss it later?”

“Fair enough,” I agreed. Then I had an idea. “Maybe you can get your piercing while I’m healing after the vasectomy.” I didn’t know what she wanted done, but I was fairly sure it would affect our sex life.

“So we’ll both be out of commission at the same time?” Christy said. “I suppose. Only, I should probably get them done at different times.”

“Them?”

“I told you,” she said, “I want two. For… um… different reasons.”

“Sure,” I agreed vaguely.

“And… you said we can try swinging with other women?” Christy hinted.

“Absolutely.”

“Oh my gosh, you have to meet this one I know from the park. My radar goes off like crazy every time I talk to her. Only, you know how I am. I can’t seduce women like you.”

Poor Kay had to cover her mouth to hide a smile at Christy’s sudden enthusiasm.

“Will you do it?” Christy asked earnestly. “Seduce her for me?”

“Let’s do the other things first,” I chuckled, “but then we’ll see.”

“Oh, oh! And there’s a woman from church. She’s a lot younger—like, nineteen or twenty—but you should see the way she looks at you. I think she might be like me, only she never had anyone like you to corrupt her properly. She’s…”

✧ ✧ ✧

The phone rang one day in November 1995, and I answered it.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Paul, it’s Susan.”

“Susan! Hey, great to hear from you.”

She’d come to Boston after Susie had been born, but we hadn’t spoken since. And she usually called my mother, not me, so I knew something was up.

“Is everything okay?”

“No. It’s Granville. He’s sick. He’s been sick for a while—his liver—but the doctors say it’s time.”

That sounded ominous. “Time for what?”

“Time to make him comfortable. For the end.”

I sat down. I hadn’t thought of Granville in years, but the news still managed to affect me.

“He asked me to call you,” Susan added. “He wants to see you.”

“Sure, of course! I’ll fly down. Is tomorrow soon enough? Or should I come tonight?”

“Tomorrow’s fine. But don’t wait any longer. He doesn’t have long.”

We talked a few minutes longer, practical arrangements, and then said goodbye.

Christy stuck her head into the living room. “Who was on the phone?”

“Susan.”

“Is everything all right?”

“What? Oh, yeah, she’s fine. But Granville’s dying.”

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. Do we need to visit him?”

“I do,” I said. “I don’t think you and the girls need to come.”

“We can—”

I shook my head. “They’re too young. Besides, they never met him.”

“You’re probably right. But what about Trip? He might want to see him too.”

“I doubt it, but I’ll ask him. And if it’s just me, I’m tempted to fly myself instead of commercial. They have a flying club down in Norwood.”

“Can you still do it? With your license, I mean. It hasn’t expired or anything, has it?”

“No. And my medical’s still current. I’ll have to check out with an instructor, but that’ll only take an hour. Piece of cake.”

She grinned.

“What?”

“Pilots. You sound just like my dad. My brothers too.”

“There’s a reason you married me,” I said.

“You’ll have to remind me. Tonight? After the girls are asleep?”

“It’s a date.”

Her eyes flashed. “Or a not-date.”

✧ ✧ ✧

Trip was busy with a project for school, but he’d never been that close to Granville in the first place, so I rented a plane and flew down alone. Susan met me at the airport. She wore jeans and a sweater that showed off her figure, even under a jacket.

“You look great,” I said, “like a brunette Farrah Fawcett.”

“Thank you.” She smiled but then frowned in puzzlement. “What made you think of her?”

“She’s in Playboy this month.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. It just came out. I saw it before I left. And you look better, even in clothes.”

“I don’t know about that,” she demurred with an easy laugh.

“You do. Trust me.”

“Good genes, I guess. My father looked forty until the day he died. I just wish I didn’t feel so old sometimes.”

“You’re… what? Fifty-five?” I scoffed. “That’s still pretty young. Besides, you’ll always be young in my heart.”

She rewarded me with a sideways grin. “My, it’s getting thick around here.”

“I mean it. You look awesome.”

“And you still say the sweetest things.”

We shared a smile of genuine warmth. Then she gestured toward her car and started walking. She’d finally traded her trusty old station wagon for a new Jeep Cherokee. It looked exactly like the one I’d bought a decade earlier.

“Some things never go out of style,” I mused aloud. “Just like some women.”

I threw my garment bag into the back and climbed into the passenger seat.

“Not that I mind,” Susan said as she pulled out of the parking lot, “but is there a reason you’re being so appreciative?”

“Just being polite,” I said. “But… maybe it’s ’cause I realize how lucky I am. I mean, you saw something in me all those years ago.”

“The constant erection?” she teased.

“Well, yeah. But I hope it was more.”

“Oh, it was. I don’t remember the specifics, though. They’re lost to time.”

“Like everything else,” I agreed. “But still… some things haven’t changed.”

“Such as?”

“How I feel about you.”

“Well, the feeling’s mutual.” She rewarded me with a smile, and we drove in companionable silence until she turned onto the road to town instead of the one that led to Granville’s.

“He had to sell the big house,” she explained.

“Why?”

“Money.”

“I thought he had family money,” I said. “The Blair fortune. I always assumed…”

Susan shook her head. “It was mostly gone by the time he inherited, and he always lived beyond his means. He mortgaged the house—twice, as a matter of fact—and he couldn’t afford the upkeep anymore.”

“That’s too bad,” I said. “I hope the new owner appreciates its history.”

Susan pursed her lips. “Oh, she does.”

“Wait… You bought it? Why?”

“The price was right, although it needed a lot of repairs. And…” She glanced sideways. “I had to renovate it for what I wanted. I hope you don’t mind that I used a local architect. You and Trip were busy in Atlanta.”

“It’s fine. Did you turn it into a B&B or something?”

“No, even better. It’s a group home for battered women. Fitting, don’t you think?”

I chuckled. Granville had never abused women physically, but he was a diehard (and oblivious) member of the patriarchy. His brand of sexism wasn’t a felony or even a misdemeanor, but it was abuse all the same.

“Truth be told,” Susan said, “I’ll be sorry to see him go. We never saw eye to eye on women’s rights, but he was a good man in many ways.”

“He was,” I agreed.

“Still is,” she amended.

She parked in front of a tidy postwar house that looked like it belonged in rural England more than a small town in South Carolina. Granville’s long-time housekeeper answered the door. Beatrice greeted Susan warmly and then made a fuss over me as she took our jackets.

“I didn’t believe it when he tol’ me you was coming,” she said in tones of pure molasses.

“Susan called, and I came,” I said.

“I bought lemons, jus’ in case. I’ll fetch you a lemonade. Fresh squeezed, like you like. And for you, Mrs. MacLean?”

“Please, Bea, you’ve known me forty years. It’s about time you call me Susan.”

“M’yes’m,” Beatrice said without any intention of doing so. “Sweet tea? With a touch o’ lemon?” She made it sound like a question, but she clearly knew what Susan liked.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Bea?” Granville called from the next room. “Show our visitors into the parlor.” His voice was reedy and weak with age, but still full of southern character.

“Go on in,” Beatrice said. “I’ll bring yo’ drinks.”

The “parlor” was really the living room of the small house. I suspected that Beatrice kept the master bedroom for Granville and lived in the spare bedroom instead.

Granville himself looked much the same as I’d seen him last, although his monogrammed shirt was rumpled and stained, and his bowtie was a clip-on. I couldn’t hold it against him, though, since he was confined to a hospital bed. His body matched his voice, thin and weak, and his white hair was limp instead of the mane it had once been.

Beatrice brought our drinks and then disappeared into the back of the house. Susan and I sat and talked with Granville for an hour, although he did most of the talking. He was still a windbag, still a narcissist. Some things never change, after all. He knew he was dying, though.

“Cirrhosis,” he said. “I say, I tried to get a transplant up in Charlotte, but they judged I wasn’t a good candidate.”

“I’m sorry to hear,” I said.

He waved it away. “I’m too old to change. It’s time for your generation, my boy. Well, yours and Susan’s. Why, I remember when she was just a girl. Now, her father and I…”

We listened for another half-hour, until Beatrice interrupted.

“You need to rest a little, Mr. Granville, before you have yo’ dinner.”

“It’s Wednesday,” he said to us. “Bea’s made pork chops and collard greens, haven’t you, Bea?”

“M’yessir.”

“It smells delicious,” Susan said graciously. “We’d love to stay, but Paul’s doing some work for me at home.”

It was a polite fiction, but Granville nodded like he was my mentor again. Beatrice simply looked grateful. I suspected that his reduced fortune didn’t cover things like groceries for entertaining. We said our goodbyes and promised to visit again.

Granville wasn’t entirely coherent when we saw him the next day. Still, he smiled when I patted his hand. The hospice nurse arrived while we were there, and she explained in the hall that his liver and kidneys were shutting down. Beatrice wrung her hands as she listened.

Susan asked, “Is there anything we can do for you?”

“No’m, but thank you.”

“Do you have somewhere to go? When the time comes?”

“This here house,” Beatrice said. “He lef’ it to me in his will.”

Granville lapsed into unconsciousness that evening and died peacefully in his sleep the following afternoon.

I felt a sense of loss, but I didn’t shed any mawkish tears. And I certainly didn’t have any illusions that he’d molded me into the man I was today. My parents, Susan, and Joska deserved credit for that. Still, Granville had definitely been a mentor and an ally when I’d needed it most.

He was a complicated man, difficult to like but impossible to hate. In the end, he’d been my friend, warts and all.

✧ ✧ ✧