Fools Rush In

I reminded myself that I should be over this sort of thing. Still, I couldn’t help saying, “Well, of course she’s making a mistake.” Closing the refrigerator, I asked, “How are Sam and Danny?”

“They’re all right. Sam seemed very sad, though.”

“I’ll go visit them later,” I offered.

“That would be nice, honey. Oh, Daddy wants to talk to you. Howard, it’s Millie.”

“I know who it is,” my father said. “I’m going to the plumbing supply store, punkin. Anything you need?”

“No, thanks, Daddy. I’m all set for now.”

“Well, I need some pipe. The Franklins’ septic system overflowed last night and their yard’s a mess. I told them Scott tissue only, but who listens, right?”

“Serves them right, then. I don’t think I need anything, but thanks, Dad.”

“Okay, baby. Bye-bye.”

“Bye. Have fun with the cesspool!” I answered, knowing he would. My father owned Sea Breeze: The Freshest Name in the Business, a robust septic service company, and he loved his job with the kind of zeal usually displayed only by missionaries or NFL cheerleaders.

Pleased with the sense of familial closeness, I hung up the phone. Then, with great moral fortitude, I readied myself for the next step of my plan to win Joe Carpenter.

As a medical doctor, I obviously knew that there is only one way to lose weight, and that is to burn more calories than are consumed. I’d put myself on prison rations, hence the dearth of anything good to eat in my house. My self-control lacked gusto. If I bought Ben & Jerry’s Heath Bar Crunch, arguably the finest ice cream on earth, I would eat the entire pint in one sitting. With this fresh start of mine, I had resolved to improve my eating habits, and therefore I hadn’t bought anything fattening or sugary or buttery—in other words, anything good. To facilitate the weight-loss process, to enter the golden realm of the physically buff, I had also decided to start running.

Running, I surmised, was easy. Just put on sneakers and go, right? Very little skill required in running. I had all I needed. Running bra, check. Nikes, check. Black running shorts, check. Not the spandex kind. Dear God, no! These were a nice, loose, breathable fabric. Cute T-shirt, check. This one said Tony Blair Is a Hottie. Gaze upon Joe’s picture, check. Sigh dreamily, check. And out the door I went.

I’d never really exercised before. At all. Oh, I played a little softball as a kid, as it was something of a religion around here, but I never did aerobics or Jazzercise or Pilates, as did, say, sister Trish. And the difference showed. Trish, who was thirty-five, looked about twenty-three, with toned, tanned arms, tiny waist, firm bottom. As an adult, I had been too engrossed in college, med school, etc., to spend any time on my physical well-being. Residents are notoriously unhealthy. We eat Twinkies and call it a meal. Sleep for four hours and call it a night. Exercise? That’s something we advise for our cardiac patients. It’s not for us, silly.

After a minute or two of vague stretches, I walked down my long dirt driveway and onto the road. Since the Cape was pretty deserted in March, I was fairly sure I’d be safe from unwanted spectators. It was overcast and cool, a good day for running, I thought. Off I went. Trot, trot, trot. Not bad. Easy, in fact. Mercifully, no coordination was required. Trot, trot, trot. It was pretty cold, and my bare legs and arms stung in the damp, raw air. I passed my neighbor’s driveway and continued down the road, finding that I had to breathe through my mouth now. My stomach jiggled. I wondered how far I’d gone and glanced at my watch. Four minutes.

I tried to distract myself, get into the zone, by looking around at the pretty sights. Twisted locust branches clacked together in the salty breeze. I came up to the lighthouse, its bright red-and-white tower starkly beautiful against the gray sky. Ouch! A sharp pain lanced through my left side. Run through the pain, Millie, I coached myself. Pain is weakness leaving the body. My feet slapped the pavement. Nine minutes now. The cold air scraped my throat, and I was not encouraged to hear my lungs convulsively sucking air. Agonist breathing, we call it on the hospice ward. Had I run a mile yet? Was I doing something wrong? Was my oxygen saturation dangerously low?

I lurched to a stop, bending over and wheezing pitifully. Just taking a breather, I consoled myself as my heart thundered sickeningly in my head. After a couple of minutes, I regained my composure. Off I went again. Immediately, the wheezing was back. I tried to concentrate on breathing…how hard could it be? In, out, in, out, in, out, oh Jesus, I was hyperventilating! And now I could hear a car! I feigned athleticism and forced myself to lengthen my stride in case it was someone I knew. Smiling through the incredible pain, I waved, which caused my shoulder to spasm and cramp. The car passed. Crisis over.

No, not over. A hill loomed ahead. Keep the feet slapping, Millie. Don’t stop now. This hill didn’t look like a hill to the na**d eye; it was more of a grade, really, but as far as I was concerned it was Heartbreak Hill. I imagined myself in the Boston Marathon, that pinnacle of all athletic events, often imitated, never duplicated…and here comes Millie Barnes, that’s Dr. Millie Barnes, ladies and gentlemen, from beautiful Cape Cod—

Was I about to lose control of my bladder? And/or throw up? My watch said thirteen minutes. Clearly, it was broken. At the top of Heartbreak Hill, I turned around and started back. Ah, this was easier, except that I was hyperventilating again. Calm yourself! I commanded. The hill, so horrifically long on the way up, was far too short on the way down. My legs were as supple as oak beams, and my shins practically mewled in agony. The pain in my side had yet to go away, and my shoulder cramp had now spread to my neck, forcing me to tip my head at an awkward angle.

The lactic acid in my body was building up to toxic levels. I imagined them diagnosing me at the ER in Hyannis. “Christ, what happened to her?”

“She was running, Doctor.”

“How far?”

“Almost a mile, Doctor.”

Damn it! If I stopped now, I knew I would never again attempt this stunning torture. Think of Joe, I ordered my brain, think of being na**d with Joe and having a fabulous body. “Oh, Millie, you’re in such great shape,” Joe will sigh reverently as he gazes upon my…my…my neighbor’s mailbox! I was almost home! And yes, there it was, home sweet home, my own beloved washed-out driveway! I staggered into it and careened to a stop. Knees buckling, legs shaking uncontrollably, T-shirt soaked, throat dry and rasping, fighting off the dry heaves, I wobbled drunkenly into my house and collapsed into a kitchen chair.

Here she is, ladies and gentlemen! Dr. Millie Barnes, winner of the Boston Marathon! I looked at my watch again. Twenty-eight minutes, 1.7 miles. That was awesome! I had done it. My convulsive gasping took a while to stop, but after all, what a workout! After twenty minutes or so, I heaved myself out of the chair and downed a glass of water.

Then I made the large mistake of looking in the full-length mirror. My face was a shocking shade of red. Not pink, not flushed with the glow of a good workout, not even just red. A shocking shade of beet-red. The whole face, just one solid color. My eyes were puffy from sweat irritation, my lips chapped and flaky white, providing the only break from the Crayola crimson. My sweaty T-shirt clung to the doughy skin of my upper extremities and neck. My legs were red and wind-burned, better, I supposed, than the chalk that was my normal skin tone. Oh, well. I was a work in progress, after all.

I took a hot shower, forced out far too soon by the tiny water heater’s shortcomings. As I made myself a pot of greenish herbal tea, I decided to call my sister. After all, her marriage officially ended today, and I thought I should be, well, sisterly. Still…Trish scared me a little. I remembered her hissing fury when Gran’s will had been read. Trish had received several thousand dollars, a pittance compared to what this house was worth. That was the last time I’d seen her.

After a few minutes of sifting through papers on my desk, I found her number. The strange area code gave me a pang. She was pretty far from home, our Trish.

When I’d been in college, I’d called her fairly often for Danny updates, as I adored my nephew, but after he was six or seven, Trish would just put Danny himself on, knowing the true purpose of my call. Or I would talk to Sam, who would give me blow-by-blows of Danny’s Little League games, parent-teacher conferences, clarinet lessons, etc.

“Hello?” As always, she sounded impatient.

“Hi, Trish, it’s Millie,” I said, immediately uncomfortable.

“Oh, Millie. Hi,” she answered. “What’s the matter?” I could picture her fidgeting next to the phone, no doubt with many better things to do than talk to her younger sister.

“Nothing’s the matter,” I answered, pouring my bilious tea. The aroma of herbal sludge filled the room. “I, um, I heard your divorce was final today and I wanted to see how you were doing.”

There was a pause. I could sense her irritation coiling like a rattlesnake. “I’m fine,” she said briskly. “Never better.”

I gritted my teeth. Wishing I hadn’t called, I nevertheless forged on. “Well, you know, you were married for a long time, and I just thought…”

“Millie, I’m happier now than I’ve been in years. Just because you belong to the Sam Nickerson fan club doesn’t mean that we made each other happy, okay? This is what I want. Avery is what I want. Not Sam. Sam is boring.” There was no greater crime in my sister’s eyes than being boring.

“Right,” I answered. “It’s just that…I thought you might be down. Seventeen years and all. Thought you might be feeling a little melancholy, but I can see I was wrong.”

“That’s right.”

“Okay, Trish, great talking to you. Have fun in the Garden State.”

“How are you?” Trish asked unexpectedly.

“Me? I’m good. Great, in fact,” I answered, immediately assuaged by the unforeseen attention. Such was the plight of a younger sibling.

“How’s Gran’s house?” she asked with only a moderate amount of hostility.

“It’s getting there,” I answered. “Is there anything you want? Maybe an afghan?”

“God, no, Millie. Please.” We were back to normal.

“Well, I’m going over to see Danny later, and I’ll tell him you said hi,” I said, hoping to inspire some guilt. It didn’t work.

“I called him earlier. He’s coming to visit again next weekend.”

“Oh.” Our conversation was clearly over. We said our uncomfortable goodbyes and hung up.

Trish and I were as different as two who shared a gene pool could be. While I had battled crooked teeth and fat as a youth, Trish had floated through adolescence, untouched by eating disorders, pimples or bad hair choices. Trish had been captain of the cheerleading squad. I had been president of the science club. Trish had been prom queen. I’d taken honors biology. She’d dated the football hero. I’d dated not at all.

In order to dispel the feeling of incompetence and frustration my sister inspired, I next called Katie Williams. We’d been friends since kindergarten, when she’d thrown up on my desk, a bonding experience that has withstood the test of time. There’s something irreplaceable about a person who’s known you since you lost your first tooth, bought your first bra, had your first drink. Katie knew about my undying love for Joe, my plans, Trish, everything. Being the single mother of two little boys, she seemed to enjoy hearing about topics other than potty training and Bob the Builder. And of course, she got free medical care, courtesy of her sons’ godmother (that would be me). At any rate, Katie was my sounding board as I plotted, ranted, raved and fantasized about Joe Carpenter. She had always been extremely tolerant of this.

Katie listened with false compassion and far too many laughs to the account of my first athletic attempt, sympathized about my sister and agreed to come over for coffee the next day with my godsons. After we hung up, I got dressed, hooked up my CD player and danced around to U2, pretending to be Bono for two songs. Then I finally stopped stalling and got into my car. Time to go see Sam and Danny.

They lived on the other side of town in one of Eastham’s most picturesque neighborhoods. When my nephew was three or four years old, Sam’s parents had died in a car accident, the result of a drunken teenager smashing into them on Route 6. Trish, Sam and Danny had moved into Sam’s parents’ house three weeks after the funeral. My sister had begun remodeling immediately. A year later, the house was unrecognizable. They’d gutted it almost completely, and in its place now stood a modern, angular structure with huge windows facing the bay. Sam had taken a second job to help pay the bills.

The modern house was not at all my taste, though I had to admit it was very impressive—large, open, lots of glass and deck space. But it was the view that made your heart stop. The house overlooked a tiny bayside beach. Water stretched out to the horizon, dotted with wooden rowboats and seagulls, cormorants, the occasional swan. You could hear their constant cries, a melody of sea birds, if you will, that blended with the omnipresent wind and gentle lapping of the waves. At low tide, you could walk almost a half mile out, and at high tide, the water was deep enough to swim. Sea grass waved gracefully, deep green in the warm weather, golden in the winter. People, even we hardened locals, came to the beach to get a glimpse of the sunsets that glorified the sky each night. This was what my sister had left for Short Hills, New Jersey, where I hear they have an impressive mall.

I parked my car in the crushed-shell driveway and ran up the steps. Sam was a cop, and when he was not making the world safe for the rest of us, he worked part-time for a landscaper. His own gardens were spectacular. Even now in March, unexpected green things popped up to relieve the gray and brown of the dormant flower beds. In a few more months, people would be stopping on the street to admire my sister’s former showplace.