Around seven, after waiting around for hours, she wandered into Mitch's den, where Teddy and Marsha had left things a big mess. So thoughtless of them. The computer screen had colorful fish on it that swam back and forth as the sound of water gurgled out of the speakers. She punched a button and a menu came up. She couldn't exactly see it, but she knew what was on it. Office something. Windows something. AOL something. Quicken something. She bet their whole life was in that computer, and she'd never dared to look in it. Never. Even the simplest bills had waited until Mitch had gotten around to printing them out.
She'd always been a little phobic about the computer, and she'd always accepted the deal. She had a husband who was fussy about privacy. The house had been her territory. Finance had been Mitch's territory. Now she was angry that Teddy and Marsha had been the first invaders of it, had thought they had discovered some terrible secret about her and were eager to believe it. She had no idea how many hours they'd been looking into his files, or how much they thought they'd learned. She shut off the computer and went upstairs to take a bath and brood some more. She did this for quite a while.
At nineA.M. she dressed in a pair of pants that were now too loose and a blazer she'd grown out of years ago that fit her again. She was eager to get to the hospital. She had a thousand things to do, a sick husband to visit, doctors and lawyers to consult. Enough brooding, she now had to take charge of her life. It occurred to her that she didn't want Marsha and Teddy in the files again, so she went back downstairs and locked the den, then slipped the key into her pocket. She was fully alert now. She took the stairs two at a time and marched into Marsha's room without knocking.
Marsha's room was the timeless fantasy of sweet femininity. The wallpaper was pink with white stripes. The printed chintz on the bedspread and chairs was cheerful sprigs of pink rosebuds. The curtains were frilly dotted swiss. The single bed had a canopy that dated from Marsha's childhood, when her daddy had been hopeful that with the right incentives she'd snap out of her prepubescent doldrums and turn into an Ivy League preppy. This room, too, was a total mess. The navy skirt and baby blue twinset (that Cassie now saw was cashmere) were twisted up on the floor as if Marsha had wrestled out of them. The pile of clothes she'd worn all week was heaped on the ruffled chair. More cashmere. Partially flung over it were two towels that still looked wet. The room smelled intensely floral, as if a bottle of expensive perfume had been spilled in there.
Marsha was sleeping with the bedspread over her head. Only a very little of her hair showed at the top. Cassie approached the bed cautiously. Then, feeling like the wicked witch of the West, she suddenly pulled the covers all the way down to the foot of the bed. She was startled to see that Marsha was sleeping in one of her father's undershirts and a pair of his boxer shorts. The twenty-five-year-old was hugging a small Curious George that her daddy had given her when she was about four. Marsha's identification with her father was clear. This hurt Cassie even more.
"Time to go see Daddy," she said.
"Huh?" Marsha didn't move.
"It's time to get up, Marsha, honey. We have to go visit Daddy."
"What time is it?" Marsha mumbled into the monkey's head.
"It's late. It's nine-thirty."
"Nine-thirty!" Marsha patted the area around her, searching for the covers. When she couldn't find them, she gave up and curled around her pillow.
"Marsha, get up." Cassie stamped her foot.
"I just went to sleep," she grumbled.
"It's not my fault you stayed up all night."
"What's the rush? Has there been a change?"
"I want to be with him. I want to see him," Cassie said. Did she ever.
"Fine, just ten minutes." Marsha turned over and stuck her thumb in her mouth.
Cassie circled the bed to talk to her on the other side and saw that Marsha was refusing to open her eyes. "Marsha, sweetheart. I want to go now."
"It's too early. They won't let you in."
"How do you know?"
"Tom told me. We're meeting him at eleven-thirty."
"Really. When was that arrangement made? I don't know anything about that," she said.
Marsha rolled over on her back and spoke with her eyes closed. "Mom, go take a nap. Everything is being taken care of. You don't have to do a thing."
"What?" Cassie was very alert now.
"Teddy and I have talked about it. I've talked with Tom, daddy's neurologist. We're on top of everything. You just concentrate on healing that new face of yours." Still with her eyes glued shut against the day, Marsha spoke in a tone guaranteed to insult a retard. It hit Cassie like a jolt from the electric chair. Her yellow hair practically stood on end with shock. Her children were excluding her from her own tragedy.
"How dare you talk to me like that! Get up right now," she cried.
"Mom, don't overreact. We know what we're doing." Marsha turned over again.
"You think I don't know what I'm doing! Get up!" Cassie marched around the bed and grabbed the pillow from Marsha's arms. This violent action opened Marsha's eyes.
"What's the matter with you?" she said irritably.
"I'm the mother here. I'm the wife. You don't make any decisions for your daddy or me, you understand that?" Cassie hopped up and down on one foot. Her energy had returned with betrayal. This was her and Mitch's life, not their children's.
"Look at you." Marsha sat up and rubbed her eyes as if she couldn't believe it. "You look bad and you're acting crazy, Mom. You're not up to this."
"Don't you dare talk to me like this." Cassie couldn't stop hopping.
"Well, look at you. You're out of control. You're not qualified."
"I'll show you out of control, Marsha Sales. Don't think you can social work me." Cassie turned her head and caught sight of herself in Marsha's full-length mirror. The Noh mask of wrath with the bloodshot eyes and porcupine stitches around her ears animated by the frenzied dance stopped her mid-sentence. She did look crazy. What was happening to her? What was happening to all of them? The heat left her. She sat down abruptly on the bed. Her face looked the same, but when she spoke, her voice was calm. "Your father and I love you very much, Marsha," she began.
"But…," Marsha said bitterly, clearly expecting the usual reservations from her mother.
"But even though Daddy is in intensive care, I am still The Mother. We can talk about certain things as a family, but I am in charge here. From now on, I will be the one to look after the financial situation. Let's face it. This is my problem, not yours."
"Mom, with your record, I don't think that's a good idea," Marsha muttered sarcastically.
"I wouldn't jump to that conclusion so fast, young lady," Cassie retorted through her teeth.
"Okay, what am I missing?" Marsha raked her fingers through her hair. "Crazy Mom, or what?"