Being Bob, Act XVIII

Being Bob

Act XVIII, Scene I

“Women may fall when there’s no strength in men.”~ Romeo and Juliet, Act II, Scene III

Dusk had settled discreetly upon the quiet street as Dr. Robert Terwilliger arrived home from the clinic. Pulling into the driveway, he noticed only an old oil stain where the other car should be.

Cecil’s probably out grocery shopping, he mused, parking beside the empty space so his son could reclaim it upon his return.

A chilly wind that smelled of rain greeted Robert as he exited the car. It had been overcast since dawn, though he was sure the air had been lukewarm and still up until now. But then, he had spent most of the day inside a sterile medical facility. Perhaps the weather had finally made up its mind to fulfill the forecast of rain.

His heart as heavy as his steps, Robert trudged slowly toward the front door, the conversation with his other son replaying on a loop in his head.

It’s for the best, he told himself for the umpteenth time, his affirmation also on loop. For extra measure, he reminded himself that he had a callback number for the nice family that had taken Bob in, and they knew how to reach him as well. The number to the clinic was enough; no sense in giving them his cell or home phone. The old second-generation mobile device was little more than an upgrade from the standard doctor’s pager, only used in emergencies, and his home phone was… well, not a good idea, to put it delicately.

Robert looked up. The aging but stately two-story house looked dismal against the backdrop of tombstone-grey sky. No light shown from any of the windows, upstairs or down. He paused, knowing this could mean one of two things: either his wife had felt well enough to go out for some fresh air with their son, or she had gone to bed early. He prayed the latter wasn’t the case, fearing the cold she’d come down with recently had weakened her further.

It was dark inside the house; darker than he had expected, somehow. The bay window in the living room allowed a narrow strip of fading daylight to pass through the parted drapes, only to be swallowed by the gloom not far beyond.

He sensed her presence before he heard her ragged breathing. Robert felt along the wall for the light switch. He winced when the light came on, his eyes readjusting from the former darkness.

She sat on the sofa, clad in a pink terrycloth robe, facing the window. The hand that rested on the arm of the sofa gripped an empty teacup, next to which sat a vase full of dead flowers on the end table. Robert’s face fell. The bathrobe was always a bad sign. It meant she hadn’t felt well enough to get dressed.

“Judith? I have something for you.” Tacking on a fake smile, he stepped forward, holding up a colorful bouquet of daisies, carnations, freesias and snapdragons.

Slowly, she turned weary eyes toward him, fixing on the flowers with a joyless stare. Robert closed the distance between them and bent to kiss the top of her head. A single hair came away, attached to his lip. He picked it off discreetly.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, offering her the flowers again.

Judith stared back at him, unmoving, blue eyes sunken and shadowed in her pale, gaunt face. Her hair, once buoyant as a cloud, had become unkempt and lusterless. While strawberry blonde dye fought a losing battle against the natural greyness of age, the hair itself had thinned considerably; some curls loosening while others grew untameably frizzy. Several fallen strands lay strewn about her shoulders and the back of the sofa. Robert tried not to look at them. As a doctor, he knew it was important to pay attention to such minute details, but he was finding it increasingly difficult to do so as of late.

“How am I feeling?” Judith spoke in a low voice devoid of emotion. “About as good as I must look to you right now.”

“You don’t look that – ”

“Save your breath,” she growled, reverting her gaze back to the window, to the dying light beyond. “And save the flowers for my funeral.”

Robert sighed. “Now how am I supposed to do that if I’m already dead, hm?” He picked up the antique vase from the end table and headed into the kitchen. There he discarded the dead flowers from the previous week and filled the vase with clean water. A minute later, he returned the porcelain vessel, now brimming with vibrant new flowers, to its dust-outlined place on the end table.

“Women tend to live longer than men, and seeing as I’m four years older than you, in all likelihood, you’ll be burying me!”

Judith snorted, ignoring the cheerful bouquet beside her. "The fool doth think he is wise," she muttered, quoting from As You Like It.

“The lady doth protest too much, methinks,” Robert answered back with a line from Hamlet, smirking.

Judith smirked back. “You speak an infinite deal of nothing.” A line from The Merchant of Venice.

Robert smiled back sincerely, relieved to see he was finally getting a rise from her. “Madam, you have bereft me of all words. Only my blood speaks to you in my veins.” A quote from the same play.

To his dismay, Judith sneered.

“You dare speak to me of blood?” she hissed. “Of the healthy blood in your veins whilst mine will soon be the death of me? What cruel mockery is this?”

The last of the grey daylight from the bay window had faded from her ashen face, giving her a cadaverous appearance, the fire in her eyes betraying the life still strong within.

Robert winced, but stood his ground. “You are not going to die, Judith,” he said firmly. “Hodgkin’s has a high survival rate, compared to most cancers. I know the treatments have been rough on you, but you have to give it time. This cold is only setting you back because your immune system has been compromised. Once you’re over it, another round of chemo will –”

“NO!”

A shattering sound coincided with her shout as the vase crashed to the floor. Shards of porcelain lay scattered amongst severed snapdragon heads and daisy petals.

Judith was on her feet now, chest heaving, gaunt face livid with rage. “No more! I can’t – I won’t take another treatment! I’d sooner die than suffer that hell again!”

Robert stared at her in shock. “Please don’t talk like that, Judith,” he whispered. “You’re the strongest person I know, but right now you’re being irrational.”

“IRRATIONAL?! I am not –”

Her words were interrupted by a sudden coughing fit that wracked her frail body. Robert took her in his arms, giving her every ounce of support he could manage, both physically and emotionally. Judith buried her face in his chest, hacking violently. The cough slowly subsided, turning into breathless, muffled sobs. He felt her tremble weakly.

The front of Robert’s shirt grew wet with his wife’s tears. Judith’s sobs quieted as a light rain began to patter against the bay window, a sound that soothed them both. When she finally looked up at him, her eyes and nose were red from crying. It was the first time in weeks that he’d seen any color in her face. It would have been a welcome sight, were it not for the cause. Cradling her face in his hands, he used his thumbs to brush strands of damp hair from her cheeks.

“I am not going to lose you,” Robert whispered. “I promise.” He pressed a tender kiss to her clammy forehead. “You’re going to make it, love. I know it. And I think you know it, too.” He smiled down at her.

Judith smirked back. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

“You still haven’t told Bob.”

“How do you know that?” she asked, suspicious.

Robert’s smile faltered. “Er, because he’s never mentioned it in any of his letters,” he said carefully, “and I’m fairly certain that his mother being diagnosed with lymphoma would be a big deal to him. Big enough that, perhaps, he’d finally come home.” He gave her a pointed look.

“And disrupt his opera career? God forbid!” Judith scoffed. “He’s finally turning his life around and following his true passion. No, I won’t burden him with my issues. Not now.”

Robert sighed.

“If you say so, dear.” It took everything he had not to blurt out the news of Bob’s amnesia. No, he would not burden her.

Taking her hands in his, he glanced down, puzzled.

“Where’s your ring?” he asked, his thumb caressing the spot where her wedding band should have been.

Judith looked down also, if only to avoid his questioning gaze. “In my jewelry box,” she murmured. “It kept slipping off.”

Robert laced his fingers through hers and squeezed her hands. They felt bony. She was getting worse.

 

 *   *   *


Scene II

"Children wish fathers looked but with their eyes; fathers that children with their judgment looked; and either may be wrong." ~ William Shakespeare 

Cecil returned shortly after Judith went to bed. After putting the groceries away, he found his father sitting in the den, reading a letter. Glancing over his shoulder, he recognized the elegant cursive immediately.

“She’s writing him again already?”

Robert grunted in the affirmative, eyes never leaving the letter. Cecil took a seat in an adjacent armchair, letting out a sigh.

“You haven’t even answered her last two letters, have you?”

Robert echoed his sigh. “Not yet. I haven’t had the time nor the willpower.” He set the letter down on his desk, took his glasses off, and rubbed his tired eyes.

Cecil frowned. “How much longer do you intend to keep up this charade? It’s wearing you down, Father. Anyone with eyes can see that. Besides, he doesn’t deserve to have you covering his sorry arse.”

Robert replaced his glasses with a scowl. “For the last time, Cecil, I am not doing this for Bob. I’m doing it for your mother! If he would actually bother to write once in a while…”

“But he never does!” Cecil snapped. “And why? Because he doesn’t bloody care!”

“I’m sure if he knew she was sick –”

Cecil snorted. “Fat lot of good it would do. Mum doesn’t even want him to know.” He ran a hand through his sandy curls, still damp from the rain. “They’re both so stubborn. I’m glad I didn’t inherit that trait.”

Robert resisted the urge to snort back. “Well, if you didn’t inherit your mother’s stubbornness, I should hope you inherited my compassion.”

Cecil stared at him like he’d just sprouted feathers. “Compassion? Huh. Is that what we’re calling it now? I suppose lying to your wife and mail fraud are too wordy?” He leaned back in the armchair and steepled his fingers together. “You know the latter is a punishable offense, right? I mean, if you don’t care for morality, you should at least care for the law.”

Robert smirked. “That didn’t stop you from trying to kill your brother, now, did it?”

Cecil rolled his eyes. “Please. I was merely trying to persuade him to see my point of view.”

“At gunpoint?”

 “It was either me or the Mafia,” Cecil answered casually. “Remember, I was hired to replace the chief engineer who mysteriously disappeared after striking a deal with the Springfield Mafia to finance construction of the dam. When Fat Tony and his cohorts came to extort funds that I didn’t have, they threatened to blow up the dam. Bob found the money I’d managed to scrape together before the deadline and accused me of embezzling! So naturally I thought the gun I’d brought as protection would convince him to stay out of harm’s way while I dealt with Tony.”

Robert nodded with a wry smile. “So naturally you locked your brother and two innocent children inside the dam that was set to be detonated.”

Cecil shrugged. “I was under a lot of pressure. And that is the precise reason why I never followed in your footsteps, Father. Being a doctor would have been the death of me. I don’t know how you manage it.”

“I actually fare pretty well, so long as no one in my family is a patient of mine.” He leaned forward in his chair, fixing his son with a grave look. “I know your mother, and I know the truth would devastate her. I’m lying to her out of love.”

Cecil studied the older man’s face, observing the deep lines and shadows, seemingly carved from stone. “But what if Bob actually makes contact? What then?”

“He won’t,” Robert replied firmly. He sat back in his chair. “I know. I spoke to him today.”

Cecil’s mouth dropped open. “Bob? What happened? Where is he?”

“Still in the States. He has amnesia. Retrograde. The American family he’s staying with called my office this afternoon and told me. They put Bob on the phone.”

Here Robert paused, his gaze drifting toward the dusty old medical tomes that lined a nearby bookshelf. He seemed to age then, years in mere seconds, a faint light dying in his eyes.

“We only spoke for a minute, but, based on what I heard, I’m afraid there’s little hope for a full recovery.”

Silence, punctuated by the soft drum of rain on the window, filled the room. Cecil shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“So, what does this mean for Bob? Is he coming home?”

Robert shook his head. “I told them it wasn’t a good idea to send him here, but I didn’t elaborate. He’ll stay with his friends, blissfully ignorant of his mother’s condition, and I’ll call to check in on him from time to time. There’s nothing more I can do. Amnesia either cures itself, or it doesn’t. I believe it’s best for all of us if he just stays put in America until…” he trailed off, unsure of how to finish.

“But Mum –”

“She’s not getting better, Cecil,” Robert snapped. “The odds are rising against her. She didn’t respond well to the last round of treatments, in case you hadn’t noticed. They’ve weakened her immune system, and now with that bloody cold –”

Without waiting to hear another word, Cecil sprang up from his chair and left the room, but he could not leave quickly enough to keep his father from glimpsing the tears in his eyes.

*   *   *


Scene III

Robert yawned.

It had taken longer than usual to finish the letter to Judith. Copying his eldest son’s handwriting was a big enough challenge on its own, but to channel his mindset, to actually try being Bob, was something else entirely. How else could he make his letters seem so authentic?

The doctor was exhausted, but pleased. Pleased that he had managed to compose yet another letter that would continue to convince his wife that their prodigal son was still of sound mind and cared enough to write.

He’d been covering for Bob ever since Judith was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s lymphoma. That had been nearly a year ago, and in that time, not a single one of the letters she had trusted him to mail mentioned her illness. The omission of such a monumental fact was one of the few things that helped to assuage Robert’s guilt over the ruse. One lie in exchange for another. That, and Judith’s happiness. If it made her happy to correspond with Robert “Junior” on a regular basis, then it was all worth the trouble.

It was nearly midnight by the time Robert climbed into bed beside his wife. The satin sheets and comforter enveloped him like a heavenly cloud. Judith had fallen asleep hours ago. She lay on her right side, facing him, the picture of tranquility. One could hardly guess at the war that raged within her. Though pale and thin, with even more lost hairs than the night before strewn across her pillow, she was still beautiful. Robert smiled. She would always be beautiful to him.




Act XIX: nevuela.deviantart.com/art/Bei…