When Peter Redmond first called him, Mike thought something was wrong with Fairfax. Or more specifically, with her test results from last month.  Maybe the good outcomes from July were actually bad, the lab had initially misread the sample, or something like that.  Mike had thanked God for the second batch of bone marrow aspiration and biopsy numbers: they were close to the first go-round’s analysis.  Again, a reading of “not likely,” meaning not likely to be MDS.  Dr. Redmond had advised them the same as last time: let’s just keep watching this.  Plan for another test later in the year.

It had been some good news in what had turned out to be a crummy summer.  COVID plus civil unrest plus hurricanes (Laura, the latest to smash Louisiana).  The Memorial Day “pestilence” party (as Mike silently referred to it), had brought his wife to her lowest point yet.  Fairfax’s one attempt at socializing was a mistake (and way too expensive, thanks to those coolers she insisted on buying).  But the party was not nearly the disaster that she was making it out to be, he thought.  So what if trolls on social media were calling you a “super spreader”?  Jack showed Mike the comments, and they were obviously from people who just wanted to stir up trouble.  Who were these jerks?  Certainly no one their family knew or cared about!

And, the bottom line was, the Figueroas had contained their contagion, Mike felt sure of it.  All the party guests had quarantined, and heck, even Angela had convinced the mother of that Ben guy to lock him in his room for another week.  Well, not lock him in, exactly, but curtail his outside activities.

And, yes, Angela did contract COVID-19, but she’s done fine with it.  Mild sore throat and cough, that kind of thing.  The same degree of illness that her son had, as near as Mike can tell from texting her briefly.  On a positive note, Nate has continued to test negative for the virus.  Angela said she’d banished him to the guest room, delivering his meals on a tray wiped with Purell.  Mike had chuckled when he read her text, but knowing Angela, she wasn’t kidding.

Still, the news that another person had contracted the virus because of their Memorial Day party sent Fairfax down a rabbit hole of… what would you call it?  Well, plainly stated, you’d call it despair.

The blues.

His normally cheerful, energetic wife had taken to staring at the backyard for long periods of time or lying in bed, looking at the television, gazing at the same page of one of her magazines for endless minutes.  Mike has never seen her this disconnected before.  Even in the middle of chemotherapy, for God’s sake, she’d been more alive.  Managed a faint smile, ruffled the hair of their boys.  Let him hug her.

Who was this person his wife had become?

So, when Peter Redmond called, Mike was on edge about Fairfax, worried that the other shoe was not only going to drop but be kicked into the river. Instead, Peter replied calmly when Mike asked that Fairfax’s blood tests were still fine.  He then said he wasn’t calling about the tests, and there was a pause on the line, at least five seconds.  A bubble of time, Mike yearned to pierce with another question.

So, have you noticed something different about Fairfax?

Because surely Peter Redmond would have noticed.  He was one of her doctors. Mike could confide in him, ask for advice.  Maybe what was going on wasn’t as bad as it appeared.  Maybe she would snap out of it, once she got used to the boys being away again—Will over at UF, Jack, back at Davidson.  Just this past weekend Mike had driven their youngest to North Carolina, dropping him off as part of a staged batch of student arrivals.  Fairfax had begged off the trip, saying she “didn’t want to go through that again.”  Her words had bruised his good mood.

True, the Davidson drop-off was kind of heart wrenching. The school didn’t want anyone other than students walking around campus, so Mike left Jack at the curb with his minimal belongings—he had none of the black and red accessories Fairfax had designed for his freshman year.  In fact, she showed no interest in room decor this go-round, and the spartan bundles Jack starting schlepping up the dorm steps only increased Mike’s gloom as he waved goodbye.  Another year, another milestone that Fairfax should have been part of.

Yet, Mike couldn’t help but understand his wife’s need to hibernate, to retract her head like a turtle.  The impulse totally made sense, and this was where COVID-19 triumphed—at rendering traditional ways of thinking nebulous, unclear.  It took pot-shots at normal logic and reason.  For instance, if it’s a hazard to be out and about, it makes sense to stay inside, safe, out of a contagion’s way, Staying inside keeps you healthy.  So, the resulting lower energy and mood of confinement were simply byproducts of good health in this topsy-turvy environment.  In other words, any depression Fairfax might be suffering was in service to the greater good.

Right?

Mike almost plunged in, almost asked this question of Peter Redmond, MD.   But he stopped himself, because…well, lots of reasons.  HIPAA, for one.  Dr. R. may not be likely to discuss his patient with her husband without her present, although oncologist Dr. Simpson had diplomatically answered Mike’s solo queries in that “old school physician” way for years.  And he hadn’t had to ask Simpson many questions, really.  Fairfax had been so open with Mike about her breast cancer—he felt he knew everything she knew about what was going inside her body.

Inside her mind.

It pained him to realize his wife had sealed herself off this summer, during this crap year of 2020—cellophaning her inner thoughts—and, now, Mike wasn’t sure how to broach discussions, light or dark.  She seemed so unreachable, miles deep within herself.  Physically healthy, with good test results to prove it, including two (and counting) negative COVID tests.  But, mentally…well, not the same.

When they shook the trees, all the nuts rolled to Florida.

No! Not helpful!  Fairfax was not a nut, no one was a nut these days.  Not her, or that fiancé of Nancy’s.  Adam.

Mike exhales, fingers the edge of his cell phone.  It’s really not fair.  Along with scrambling our decision-making skills, this pandemic has left each and every one of us vulnerable to the demons inside us.  The invisible devil from without fosters the devil within.  Creating an environment where there’s bound to be fallout.

Like sadness.  Uncertainty.  Regret.  Withdrawal.

Right?

That was Mike’s silent question to Peter Redmond.  The one that he didn’t ask, stopped himself from uttering to his wife’s physician.  He felt some shred of Lucinda holding him back from asking.  His mother schooled her boys in keeping up appearances.  Because to admit a weakness would reveal too much about his family. His marriage. Flaws, vulnerability.  The Figueroas are far from perfect.

And, anyway, Redmond asked him a question instead of vice versa.  One Mike did not expect.

Peter Redmond wanted to know Nancy’s cell phone number.

As Mike sat silent on the line, the doctor went on to explain.  Said he’d deleted her mobile number after they quit dating.   And her number from work now went to some kind of lengthy phone tree for remote staff that didn’t seem to have Nancy as an option.

The thing was, Peter had seen Nancy out walking her dog several times this summer, they’d chatted, and…well.  Here, he had seemed at a loss for words, had cleared his throat several times before continuing.

“She had said if I ever wanted some company at the dog park, she was game, to give her a call, so…” Redmond stopped talking then. There was a lull on the line.

Mike eventually coughed up Nancy’s number, but he had to stop himself from blurting out “Are you crazy?” to the poor guy. To think that an intelligent man like Peter Redmond would take seriously a comment like that! The woman is engaged to be married, heck, would have been married already if not for Corona.  What was the guy thinking?

Even Max, lovesick Max, seems to have gotten the message about Nancy.  He finally departed Jacksonville last month, headed for Miami.  Before he left, he said he didn’t know when he’d be back.  Mike noticed that his brother’s eyes looked tired– his thick lashes had thinned, there was a downward pull to his mouth.  Max had shared that he had had a conversation earlier that day with Nancy that made him want to leave town.  Mike hadn’t pursued that topic further, in part, because Lucinda kept calling Max’s cell, pestering him to get on the road.  She was eager to have him home—Mike could understand that—Lucinda hadn’t seen her youngest since March. Four months was the longest those two had been apart in well…perhaps they’d never been apart that long, Max never straying too far from the apron strings.

Yet, now that his brother is gone, Mike finds that he misses him.  Or maybe he’s just missing that guy vibe, the band of brothers thing they had going on here this summer.  Max, Will, Jack, him.  It had been oddly satisfying once Mike had started joining in their soccer watches and video game marathons; Jack even got them hooked on geo-gaming. The male liveliness in the family room (shouts, bets, burps) belied the quietness in the rest of the house.

The parts where Fairfax existed.  The trapped air of an unmade bed.  The unfluffed fug of the couch.

Have you noticed something different about Fairfax?

He looks at his phone again.  All it would take is a quick text ahead of time.  Ask her if she could speak on the phone at some point.  Mike doesn’t know why he’s so nervous; he’s contacted Nancy before about Fairfax. He’s comfortable with his wife’s friend; heck, they even made up a catch phrase during the last high school reunion (“there’s something wrong with the ficus”) to rescue each other from uncomfortable conversations.  Nancy is no stranger to imperfection—she seems to understand the mixed-up soul, to appreciate the offbeat.  And she’s the female friend Fairfax is closest to.

Still, by voicing a concern out loud to another human being, even one so sympathetic, you make it real.  You make it into a Big Deal. And he and Fair have had more than their share of Big Deal problems during the last five years, major health concerns, that Mike doesn’t want to add another possibility of one into the mix.  The slightest flicker of hope that he could be mistaken, simply paranoid, makes Mike want to put his phone away.  Go find Fairfax and force her to sit beside him on the couch, watch a movie, eat pizza.  But still, he knows if she does comply, it will be without joy. As a stone.  Or a husk of herself.

Mike rubs his eyes with the back of one hand.  Okay, time to set aside any misguided pride and just reach out to the one most likely to understand. As he begins to type the message to Nancy, he feels something in his chest loosen in relief, like a stone giving way to the cool stream.

Nancy–you available to talk this afternoon?

of course! anything in particular?

have you noticed something different about Fairfax?

I thought you’d never ask