Family Matters Read online

  I didn’t tell her my plan, just that Mom’s move would be soon. We pretty much celebrated all night long, every way we could think of, and watched the sun come up like a couple of kids after the prom. We laughed, shaking the sand out of our clothes, and got dressed under the blanket.

  I walked home whistling. A quick shower to get the sand out of some awkward spots, and I was off to work. The old lady has an aide during the day to keep her from setting her hair on fire or something equally insane. She enjoys having someone new to torture. If she napped, the aide could start packing up Mom’s stuff. I left whistling too.

  I had two calls that morning. The first was the home, saying I should get Mom moved in the next twenty-four hours or I’d lose the place. Music to my ears. I got ready for the rest of my life to begin.

  Call number two was Amber, sobbing. Her aunt at the nursing home died last night. Sure, she was completely gone, mentally, but she’d been a wonderful aunt before that and everyone loved her. “And she was the reason we met, remember?” Like, yeah, I did. I was never gonna forget that day. And I always thought she wasn’t on the lost-all-their-marbles floor from the way Amber talked about her.

  I felt my heart stop beating for a couple of seconds.

  Through the sobs, she went on, “There’s something wrong here, honey. They aren’t telling us the truth about what happened. I know it. Two other people died at the same time. Two more! Dammit, I’m not leaving it alone until I get some answers.”

  DEAD LAST

  Deirdre Verne

  MICHAEL opened the bag, checked its contents, and handed it to the UPS driver. The driver cross-checked its tag with the one pinned to Michael’s chest and said, “Let’s hope ‘052003’ is your lucky number.”

  “If you see me again, give me a shout out,” Michael said, knowing full well it was nearly impossible to spot a friend, much less a stranger during the New York City Marathon. With 45,000 participants and hundreds of thousands of spectators lining the streets of New York’s boroughs, the race was an impenetrable stream of human lava oozing its way with unstoppable force to the finish line. The momentum was electric and exactly the type of raw energy that Michael craved. He extended a frostbitten hand through the cinched sleeve of his nylon athletic gear.

  “Name’s Michael.”

  “Good luck to you, Michael,” the UPS man said, depositing Michael’s gym bag into a bin of runners’ belongings headed to the finish line.

  Luck and lots of it, Michael thought. He looked solid for a fifty-year-old but he wasn’t in top form and he expected this race to hurt. Regardless, he needed time alone. Time to think, to put it all together, or rather take it all apart and reassemble it into what he thought he wanted. At least that was what he told Margo last night.

  “Run, Michael,” she’d said. “Run as hard and fast as you can but don’t fool yourself into thinking the answer will miraculously come to you as you step across the finish line.”

  He’d watched Margo carefully folding his long sleeve T-shirt into his bag. She grabbed a tube of lip balm and pushed it into the zipper pouch. The routine of life, he thought, as his wife of fifteen years reflexively considered his post-race chapped lips.

  “Stop,” he said, as her fingers wrestled nervously with the zipper. “You don’t have to do this for me.”

  “You mean I don’t have to do this anymore,” she’d answered flatly, leaving him holding the bag.

  Now Michael pulled his lips inward, letting the waxy film slide across his teeth. The wind was bitter, and he had an unbearable hour to wait until the second wave of runners was released at the Staten Island end of the Verrazano Bridge. Come on, he thought. Feel it. That’s what you’re here for.

  He tilted his shoulder forward and shimmied into the crowd, selecting a spot that would put him safely on the upper deck of the bridge. The newbies often made the mistake of corralling to the far left of the lower bridge. The view, although less spectacular, seemed like a fair trade at the start of his first race given the sudden bursts of rain. He recalled how a more experienced runner had jerked him back from the bridge railing while pointing to the bright sky.

  “It’s not a sun shower,” the helpful runner had advised. “It’s the rain of anxiety.”

  Michael remembered staring transfixed as golden speckles of urine caught wind, sprinkling unsuspecting runners. Never again, he thought, as he held firm to his premium place on the top tier of the Verrazano. It still shocked him that otherwise upstanding people found the mounting tension of a marathon reason enough to relieve themselves off the side of a bridge, but that was standard procedure. It shocked Michael even more when the runner beside him finished his business, leaving an errant droplet on the tip of Michael’s sneaker.

  “Seriously?” Michael glared at the man. The two held eye contact for an uncomfortable second, and Michael quickly categorized him as an aggressive runner and one to avoid. There was always one.

  Michael turned his back on the offensive runner and took in the crowd, an eclectic mix of genuine athletes, weekend warriors, exhibitionists and champions of causes. It was exhilarating in its disconnected cohesiveness—all orchestrated by the single blare of a cannon’s blast.

  Michael shook his frigid limbs into ready mode, tossing his head from side to side to loosen his neck muscles. This was not like any other race.

  “You don’t have to do it,” Margo had said,” but I’d feel better if you activated your phone app.” Margo was referring to the GPS marathon phone tracker that allowed friends and family to follow a runner’s progress en route.

  Michael fidgeted with the phone. “It’s not like you can’t come.”

  “Not this year,” she’d replied, sticking a safety pin through his race number.’ If we’re going to try this separation then we’ll have to start at some point. I just want the option of checking in virtually.”

  Now Michael reached for his phone and considered calling Margo. Old habits. He jogged in place for distraction, focusing on a runner decked out in a clown outfit. Michael turned to high five the clown, when a particularly chatty young woman caught his ear.

  “Are you nervous?” she asked. “I’m kind of jumpy.”

  “First time?” Michael said, more a confirmation than a question.

  The woman tightened her ponytail for the second time. Her feet shuffled in place. “Is it that obvious?” she asked, as if her blown cover would send her to the end of the line.

  “First timers are talkative,” Michael said. “You’ll settle in after the first few miles.”

  “You look so calm,” she said.

  More like vacant, he thought, but how could he express his feelings of absolute despair to the ponytailed woman. Calm? I’m leaving my wife, he wanted to cry. The only thing consistent about his past races was Margo’s unfailing presence at the southwest corner of First Avenue and the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge, a few blocks south of their apartment. Over the years, his times had changed, the weather had varied, but Margo had always been waiting for him.

  “I guess I won’t be there,” Margo had said last night, nursing her glass of wine. She was a reluctant participant in the details of their separation, but it was her determined sense of self-preservation that brought her to the table. She refused to be with someone who didn’t want to be with her.

  “It’s not that I don’t love you,” he said. “I just can’t do this anymore.” He blamed his dysfunctional emotional state on 9/11. Although he’d made it out of the first tower safely, he could not come to terms with the fate of his co-workers and friends.

  “It’s called survivor’s guilt,” Margo said. “The problem is you’re literally running from it.”

  “I don’t know what else to do.” He pushed his pasta-loaded plate to the side. “Are you going to be at the building?”

  “Father Ryan and Rabbi Feldman asked if I could make myself available,” she sighed. Michael understood. Margo had mentioned that the new owner might take advantage of the marathon to draw attention and
support to the community center.

  It had been an unfortunate turn of events. Their block, a sleepy residential street, had always been cozy with a family feel and both a church and synagogue. Margo was president of the neighborhood association, a role she thought would include organizing potluck dinners and squabbling over Halloween curfews. Before she’d submitted her first receipt for new spring planting, the association had been presented with a proposal to build a Muslim community center in one of the less desirable buildings at the corner of First Avenue.

  Michael remembered their first fight about the community center two years earlier.

  “Vote no,” he’d barked as he slammed the newspaper on the table.

  “Michael, that’s not you talking,” Margo had said, referring to the effects of his post-traumatic stress.

  He jabbed his finger at the photo of Margo with its divisive headline calling the center Midtown’s Ground Zero. It was a blatant reference to the controversial mosque planned near the former trade centers.

  “You’re already being hated in five different languages,” he said. “Have you listened to our voice mail?”

  “I know,” she’d said, tears flooding her face.

  Thinking about the messages now on the bridge turned his stomach. He wanted to be more understanding, but since 9/11 he’d developed an uncontrollable anger, often taking his wrath out on Margo. In the last six months, the community center proposal had spun out of control, requiring endless meetings. There were urgent gatherings at all hours, turning their tiny apartment into command central. Margo’s approachable but confident demeanor made her the perfect negotiator. Neighbors had started to listen to Margo, as did city officials looking toward reelection. Margo had even been approached as a candidate for the local school board.

  “Why are you doing this?” he’d asked last night. “How could this possibly make it better for us?”

  Margo had looked up from her plate, her eyes wide with surprise. “9/11 didn’t just happen to you. It happened to all of us. It happened to me.” He could see her face crumpling as she gathered the plates. “I thought I lost you that day. Maybe I wasn’t in the tower, like you, but I need a way to make sense of this too.” She was right, he’d thought, and it agitated him. Maybe that was the problem. Being with Margo forced him to face his issues.

  Michael’s anger resurfaced now as he was jostled from behind. The ponytailed woman and the clown were in front, but he didn’t see the aggressive runner until he turned around.

  “Hey, lay off, buddy,” Michael yelled. The guy shoved past Michael as if a few steps’ lead would make the difference in a twenty-six mile race. What a weirdo, Michael thought.

  He found a new location just as the cannon blew, triggering waves of explosive cheering. A spray of helium balloons was released into the air, mimicking the weightlessness the runners felt at that moment. A thought crossed Michael’s mind, an unexpected but pleasant thought: What if Margo was waiting for him as always?

  The runners surrounding him started to move forward, but the idea of seeing Margo left him unable to move. One runner, thinking Michael was deaf, gestured silently to him that the race had begun. And just like that, he felt a surge of energy as his feet fell into motion, pounding rhythmically with the crowd.

  He spotted the ponytailed woman halfway up the bridge and shouted, “Did anyone tell you the first mile was uphill?”

  “I guess I know now.” She wiped her brow. “Keep finding me, okay?”

  “Sure thing,” Michael said as they reached the summit, and thousands of runners spilled out below them, creating a pulsating mosaic of colorful jerseys. The forward motion of the marathon carried Michael and the ponytailed woman effortlessly into Brooklyn, where Michael caught the first few notes of the Brooklyn Academy of Music band.

  He ran toward the music, a rousing rendition of Sinatra’s “New York, New York,” while Brooklynites belted out the lyrics and raised their morning coffee cups in honor of the participants. Like most marathoners playing the endurance mind game, Michael liked to compartmentalize the race into segments. The first seven miles through Brooklyn were a slam-dunk. At the twelve-mile mark, the density loosened as faster runners took the lead. He planned to be one of them. By the fifteenth mile, fading stamina would pick off the first of the casualties. Michael visualized the remaining runners being catapulted forward by the reward of the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge and the entrance to Manhattan. There it was again, the image of Margo waiting for him on the other side. Maybe it was the adrenaline teasing him. Michael didn’t care. He had been void of emotion other than anger for so long, he allowed himself the warm sensation.

  Michael looked up to see the Williamsburg Savings Bank, a glorious art deco building anchoring the end of the first leg. One of New York’s finest was chaperoning a pedestrian when Michael suddenly pitched head first into a tangle of limbs. A sharp pain radiated up his thigh as his left knee took the weight of his fall. His palms skidded along the street, giving the impression he was diving into an empty pool. Runners trotted right over him.

  “Are you okay?” the officer asked.

  “I’m sorry.” Michael dabbed blood off his chin. “I must have caught my foot on the pedestrian. Did I hurt him?”

  “No, he crossed just fine,” the officer replied just as the pony-tailed woman caught up.

  “Oh my God,” she gasped. “Can you finish?”

  Michael took account of his injuries and shrugged. He stepped off the sidewalk, half expecting his damaged leg to give. It did, but it wasn’t pain that caused the tremor. The aggressive runner had stopped a few paces ahead and was staring directly at Michael.

  In that moment, Michael realized who tripped him. He took off at top speed, ignoring his weeping knee and throbbing elbow. He bolted past the ponytailed woman, who seemed utterly confused. His nemesis was in sight and Michael kicked into sprinting mode.

  Here I come, Michael thought. Two more strides and I’ve got you. Just as the guy was in striking distance, Michael reached out, skimming his back with the tips of his fingers. Something was wrong. As Michael’s hand ran the length of the man’s back, he felt a solid lump at his waistband. At Michael’s touch, the aggressive runner shot forward, gun and all.

  Michael slowed his pace. He was breathing too hard. This didn’t make sense. He’d gotten into scuffles with runners over the years, more so since 9/11. Think straight, he said to himself, grappling with the events of the morning. He had started the race feeling uneasy. The rude runner was aggravating and most likely a jerk, but maybe not the cause of his fall. The lump at his waistband—probably a cell phone. Michael put his hand on his own phone and suppressed the urge to call Margo.

  There was a security checkpoint ahead where runners were required to show their race numbers to the camera. Michael started to relax when he remembered the New York Road Runners club ran an exceptionally organized event. All 45,000 runners were tracked at a series of locations along the route, and Michael was sure there was a downloadable form for reporting aggressive participants. If he had any more trouble, he would sift through hours of video to identify and report the aggressive runner.

  Michael unzipped his sweat jacket to prepare for the camera. He caught sight of his aggressor fumbling with his safety pins. The man tossed something to the ground, and for a split second, Michael considered that he might be destroying his number to avoid being reported. He watched as the man turned his face away from the lens allowing his chest to fill the frame.

  The man spun around, jogging backward, letting Michael see his race number. This guy is a wack job, Michael thought as he repeated the tag silently to himself—052003. He had no problem committing it to memory. It was his own number. He touched his tag in disbelief. The guy was wearing his number.

  Michael’s joints locked, shortening his stride to mere steps. He hobbled over to a water station but his hands were trembling so ferociously the paper cup folded at his touch. He smeared what was left of the water over his swollen tongu
e, gripping the card table for support.

  “You look horrible.” The ponytailed woman grabbed two cups of water. She downed one and held the other to Michael’s lips.

  “Come on. We’ll go slowly,” she said.

  “Something terrible is happening,” he mumbled.

  “Anyone can have a bad race,” she said.

  “No, it’s something else.” Michael led the ponytailed woman to the side. “Did you see a guy shove me on the Verrazano?”

  “He was rude. In fact, I thought maybe he was the one who tripped you by the bank.”

  “He did,” Michael said. “I know this sounds crazy, but he tore off his number and now he’s wearing mine.”

  “That’s impossible. Why would he want to be you?”

  Michael shook his head and started to jog. “I don’t know. I’ve done everything to avoid him but he keeps finding me.”

  “Maybe he wants you to chase him? Break up the monotony of the race.”

  “Then that’s what I’ll do.” Michael turned to the ponytailed woman. “Look, my name is Michael Marsh. Can you find a race coordinator and tell him what you saw?”

  “I can do that,” she said, and before Michael could retract his request, she set off to look for a race official.

  Michael started to run again when he realized he didn’t have to push so hard. Whoever this runner was, if he wanted Michael to follow him then he’d need to show himself. By mile twelve, he saw the man barely walking a half-block ahead. Michael decided to test his theory by narrowing the gap. He sped up, falling within a few paces, when the man apparently caught peripheral sight of Michael and took off like a bullet.

  Michael lengthened his stride, and sure enough, the man materialized a short distance ahead. Michael felt as if he were bungeed to the bumper of an erratic New York City cab. The pattern continued for the next two miles until the route took a hard left at the Queensboro Plaza subway stop. The elevated walkway above was jammed with spectators.