The best part of all of this mess is that she has her boys home. Fairfax is sorry that Jack’s freshman year got cut short, he was enjoying Davidson so much. He’d joined a fraternity (which surprised her), was running track again, even had a sort of girlfriend, although Fairfax isn’t really sure if it’s romantic or just platonic. She’d overheard Will teasing him about a spring semi-formal, how Jack had let his date pay for their dinner. “Nothing wrong with that,” her youngest had drawled. “She’s cool.”
As for Will, he said he sure was glad he wasn’t Class of 2020, because they got shafted—no graduation ceremony, just the flimsy virtual variety. Next year, he said, will be epic. This year’s seniors will return to celebrate with his class in 2021. His best friend is already trying to book the Swamp on University Ave for a party next year.
Fairfax can’t think about next year yet. This one is requiring all of her strength to get through.
The shut-down of life, the constant cancellations, are weighing on her. No matter that all that she reads/watches/digests says that isolation and quarantine are the tools to stay healthy. The priest in the virtual service she watches regularly now (more consistently than her church attendance ever was) emphasizes that the time of the virus is meant to improve us—prayer-wise, practice-wise, faith-wise.
But the acres of time available now for contemplation, for soul searching? Fairfax yearns to fill them with tasks. She never thought she would say this, but she misses her errands, the driving here and there, popping in with a casserole for a sick neighbor, popping out to fill up the SUV’s tank.
Even the dry cleaning runs. How Fairfax misses the give and take, the dirty to clean exchange, of Mike’s suits! Now, that he’s working from home, he lives in three striped polos and the same pair of washed-out red shorts.
And prior to the Corona virus, the worry about her bone marrow results had already started the year off in a strange vein, no pun intended. Borderline (though “very very,” thank God) for potential myelodysplastic syndrome (MDS), warranting watching carefully, monthly visits. Peter Redmond placed her in the “very low risk” category for this bone marrow deficiency—blood cancer, really—and gave her the diagnosis with a smile on his face. Fairfax couldn’t return the smile. Instead, she felt her heart cave in.
Gee, thanks, chemotherapy. To have come through breast cancer (still with clear tests there, thank goodness) only to face cancer in her very marrow?
Are you serious?
By “you,” Fairfax meant God. At least, at first she did.
She was angry, she admits it now. But, as she went through the phases of processing the possibility of being sick again, the emotions returned with the root familiarity of riding a bicycle. The shame, the blame, all of it. Which Fairfax had learned through her breast cancer battle were fruitless in the end. Those thoughts got you nowhere.
Because God was not to blame, and neither was she. What she had learned the first go-round with cancer could help her this time. Should it happen, which it wouldn’t. Fairfax prayed for her marrow to stay on the straight and narrow. These words always brought a smile to her face.
And a comforting epiphany: Our bodies are part of the natural world, which God set free long ago.
Fairfax says this to herself now, like a mantra. What it means to her, clarifies and grows in assurance day by day. She is mineral, vegetable, animal, created by God, living in the natural order of the world. The world which, in a time unique for each creature, will ravage her body and mind. Nothing man-made can ever end this process. Ever.
Yet the soul of her, that spark of creation which belongs to God, can survive anything the natural world throws at it. Even death.
And how does her soul, her sparkly True Self live on? By believing in Itself. That is, by believing in God, in all of His incarnations.
We are meant to live amid beauty and danger and succeed.
“Succeed” to Fairfax used to mean “survive.” Specifically, to live until her boys left home for college. This time ‘round the spiral staircase of illness, it might come to mean something else.
She’s tried to articulate these evolving thoughts to her husband, with mixed results. A nod from Mike, sometimes a follow-up question from him, but usually just silence and a smile.
The truth is Fairfax thinks that she’s gotten to a place, a level of self-understanding, which Fig hasn’t yet reached. Or had to reach. Though Mike’s blood pressure problem was a wake-up call to his own mortality, that’s under control now; he seems to have forgotten the scariness of the beast of disease.
Bodily illness. And the lessons it teaches.
Well, that’s not exactly true, Fairfax realizes now, as she places chicken breasts topped with onion and peppers in the oven. Their entire family, even Will and Jack, are facing the scary beast of COVID-19, though at a remove. No one they know has contracted it, but it’s gotten them all thinking about getting sick. How the ‘rona starts off, how it finishes, dependably killing the elderly. Incubating in Generation Z, spreading silently from grandson to grandmother, God forbid.
And then, just so all ages will take it seriously, slaying a healthy middle-aged person here and there.
Scaring us all.
Fairfax sets the timer on her phone for one hour. She doesn’t want to overcook the chicken, (because, stringy tacos), and she’s found that she can’t be relied upon to keep track of something in the oven without a reminder. Fairfax’s mind wanders and muses its way here and there, and before you know it, a lovely meal is charred black. As for the timer on the new double oven, she gave up trying to figure out the gadget—she kept setting it for the unit she wasn’t using.
Which wouldn’t matter anyway, Fairfax realizes now. A timer is a timer—it still marks an hour.
She shakes her head. Whatever. Her phone is easier to use. Fairfax places it on the kitchen island, making sure the volume is sufficient, then pads barefoot over to the living room sofa. She hears the boys and Max talking in the family room, watching some kind of gaming show on TV, a young male with headphones screaming as he raids a pirate ship. Her oldest son finds these irritating clips on YouTube, streams them through the USB doodad stuck to the side of the screen. Why anyone would be entertained by watching another person play a video game, instead of playing the game themselves, Fairfax will never understand. Well, for that matter, she can’t even understand why anyone finds joy in those games anyway—virtual domination being fake in the first place. So what does it matter who wins?
Whoops and the slaps of high fives come from the family room. Max is yelling as loudly as the virtual pirate.
Max. Fairfax cannot believe he has not gone home to Miami, to his poor mother, stuck there in that house with her antagonistic sisters-in-law, all worried to death about Corona. Max showed up in early March (just before the shutdown), and never left. Even though Lucinda has begged him to come home, he is saying it’s not safe for him to be around her. He might unwittingly bring back a Jacksonville strain of COVID-19 and endanger the health of Luce and Aunts Dolores and Raquel. Surprisingly, Mike agrees with his brother.
“I think it’s better if he stays here and doesn’t go cruising back to Miami. I bet you fifty bucks one of them would get sick as soon as he walked in the door,” he told her yesterday when she delivered a sandwich to his study. Her husband had been in constant WebEx meetings since the quarantine started. “Max is the perfect carrier for a bug like this—picks it up from a gas pump in Melbourne, infects Raquel.” He grinned and then rubbed at his mouth. “Sorry, I shouldn’t laugh about it. It’s a serious thing.”
Fairfax had smiled too. Raquel was the worst worrier of the trio. “She’d be sick before he even walked in the house,” she replied. The simple truth was, though, that those Cuban women were as tough as nails, despite their demure appearance—Fairfax doubted this virus could take down any of them.
But it was probably prudent to keep Max away from them, for at least another month. Until Florida crested the public health wave, and the virus started to dissipate.
Besides even if there were no virus, Max would be determined to stick around Jacksonville through the end of April. Fairfax hasn’t told Mike, but the real reason Max has struck camp on Mallory Street is he wants to be here for Nancy’s wedding.
Fairfax wasn’t even sure Nancy had invited him, but the list in Google Docs showed his name. She chalked it up to Nancy being kind, having a soft spot for Fairfax’s quirky brother-in-law. Who obviously still has a crush on the meeting planner who, at long last, was going to marry the one who got away.
But, as the virus broke in March and April arrived, the news worsened; the confines of life locked down like iron gates, Max’s grin grew as large as his personality; now he is as relaxed and happy as Jack and Will. They flop back on couches and are in no hurry for this thing to end. The purpose and resolve the virus lends to lazing around appeals to all three.
COVID-19 is effectively ending everyone’s current commitments. And Max is intrigued, he confided to Fairfax last night, by what is going to happen to Nancy’s wedding. Scheduled to take place in two weeks’ time.
Because he doesn’t think there will be a wedding. She will cancel it, he said.
Despite all the meticulous planning on Fairfax’s part, venue confirmed, flowers ordered, cake designed with a subtle Duval High School theme in play. After all the effort and decision-making, which Fairfax had freely given, with that rare energetic joy that comes from creating a beautiful event for a beautiful friend.
Despite the work, the intense soul-searching and relationship heavy-lifting that Nancy had taken on. The choice to say “yes,” to someone. To all of him, the good and the bad, the bad being a hard pill to swallow, but one that Nancy had determined that she could handle after all. Had done so much self-examination about it, that she accepted his proposal of marriage on Christmas Eve without hesitation.
Adam Ainsley’s wish to make Nancy Plumb his wife; he said he’d wanted that since he was sixteen. Nancy found she couldn’t say no, she told Fairfax. Her lips would only form the word’s opposite.
It was a cliché to say, but Fairfax had called it a Christmas miracle.
Finally, things were working out for her friend, in spite of her wayward spirit, her strong self-sufficiency. Her fear (yes, Fairfax knew in her gut it had been fear) of being one-half of a whole. Nancy was choosing the right path, the path Fairfax firmly believed that God had always intended for her—that of connection, life partnership.
Nancy couldn’t, shouldn’t refuse Adam. Because he was a good guy, after all. A misunderstood man. Misunderstood because of his mind, his illness.
Her friend’s relationship with Adam had also been an object lesson for Fairfax. She’d hated Adam from afar; for his broken promises to Nancy’s mother, his elusiveness, the slipperiness of him.
His behavior reframed through the lens of bipolar depression made perfect sense. Adam’s meanderings called out in pain from the negative space of truth.
That old maxim pops into Fairfax’s mind now whenever she thinks of Double A. Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a brave battle. So true. Let this be a lesson for her. Don’t ever forget it.
Fairfax sighs, then flops down on the couch. At least her hip is no longer sore; the first bone marrow test last year had bruised the joint considerably, and she’d limped around like an old lady for two months. She must be due for another biopsy sometime soon, she’s not sure, but Peter said they’d use the other hip this time.
Once again, Fairfax says a prayer of thanks for Dr. Peter Redmond. She’s not just a cog in the medical wheel with him, not just another patient to run through a list of protocols, forcing her into treatment because of a consensus of some far removed physicians. He listens to her, looks at her skin, into her eyes. He asks questions, discusses her energy level. Sometimes, Fairfax feels like Peter has some kind of super sensor, x-ray vision perhaps, to see right through to her very corpuscles.
She finds she’s missing Dr. Redmond this week with a longing usually reserved for her husband and sons. Fairfax had been scheduled for an office visit today, but last week his receptionist canceled it due to COVID. Said she’ll call back in May to reschedule. Fairfax immediately called Peter on his cell, and he assured her she’d be fine missing one appointment. She was staying the course, according to her most recent blood test, no changes, so just hang in there, and soon routines would get back to normal.
“How soon?” Fairfax had asked him, surprised by the catch in her own voice. Well, it makes sense—these cancellations are upsetting. It’s one thing to miss a haircut or two, quite another to postpone a medical matter.
Or a wedding.
“From what I’ve been reading, end of July is looking good,” Peter had answered.
“July! That’s too long to wait to see you—“
“Hey, Fairfax, I meant things should be fairly back to normal by then, virus-wise. I’ll see you much sooner than that, I promise, even if I have to make a house call.”
Her breathing had recalibrated, soothed by his tone. For the thousandth time, Fairfax thanked the Lord for Dr. Redmond.
She does so again now, lying on the couch, with her eyes closed. The late afternoon sun streams through the French doors, touching her face with just the right amount of heat. Her body feels loose, relaxed. She imagines her hip as a primed joint, a ball in socket, rotating and adjusting with ease. Well-oiled. Hmm. An aroma of spicy chicken is filling the downstairs rooms. Pepper and cumin and meat, which always gets her boys asking how long until dinnertime.
When do we eat, Mama? I’m hungry.
Soon, guys, soon. Eat these carrots and hummus to tide yourself over—better for you than Cheetos.
Fairfax hears one of them now, heavy footsteps across wood, then tile, then wood again. She feels and smells the unwashed male presence, his body blocking the sunshine. Fairfax’s eyes open slowly, expecting to see Jack or Will. Instead, it’s Max, standing there, holding out a phone to her.
“I heard your phone go off.” He’s got that silly grin on his face again.
“It’s the timer,” she replies, wiping at her mouth. It’s wet with drool. Lord, had she fallen asleep? “I didn’t hear it. Dang.” Fairfax sits up, places the balls of her feet on the worn Oriental rug.
“No, it’s not the timer,” Max says. “It’s Nancy. I answered. Hope you don’t mind.” He grabs her hand, presses the phone into her palm. “I think it’s important.”
The knowing look on his face bothers Fairfax. Max imagines way too much drama in Nancy’s life. Most of the time, her friend just wants to plan a lunch together or something. Well, not since COVID, of course.
Fairfax lifts the phone to her ear and pipes, “Hey” at a volume much too loud. She swallows, clears her throat. “What’s up?” she asks, softly.
Nancy starts to speak, and the tears in her voice are unmissable, score one for Max. Out of instinct, Fairfax stands up and starts tracking through the living room to the foyer, and then up the stairs. “Hold on, one sec,” she advises her best friend as she strides toward solitude. Something is wrong with Nancy, and Fairfax cannot sort it out with all the listening male ears downstairs.
As she clicks the Master bedroom door closed behind her, Fairfax swears she hears footsteps on the staircase.
Max, coming to eavesdrop, to see if his prediction of yet another cancellation has come true.
