“Hey.”
“No, it’s nice. I mean, it doesn’t look like you yet.”
In Hingham, she painted every room as soon as they moved in. Golden yellow, bird’s-egg blue, sea-foam green. Warm and cozy walls embracing every room. Here, all the walls remain unpainted, white. And the furnishings, artwork, and knick-knacks are sparse and neutral, the same items they hastily filled the place with right after they bought it, in time for the first tenants.
“I like this,” he says, referring to the glass bowl on the coffee table, filled to heaping capacity with white, round rocks. She finds them everywhere.
“Thanks.”
“I like it here. I always thought we’d end up here. Together. Someday.”
“Me, too.”
“We had all kinds of great dreams, before . . .”
Before. The word hangs in the air alone, refusing further company.
He leans over the table and picks up one of the rocks from the top of the pile. He holds it in his fist and closes his eyes, as if he’s making a wish. He then opens his eyes and his hand and returns the rock to the bowl.
“It’s getting late,” he says, checking his watch. “I’ve got to go if I’m going to catch the last ferry.”
“You can stay, if you want.”
He tips his head and studies her, not quite understanding the invitation.
“The guest-room bed is already made. It’s no problem.”
He looks relieved. And disappointed. “You sure?”
“Yeah, we can go to The Bean in the morning before you go, like old times.”
He smiles. “I’d like that. And more wine if you have it.”
IT’S LATE. OLIVIA’S been in bed for a couple of hours now, and she’s still awake. She hears the guest-bedroom door open and David walking in the living room. Then she hears the creak of the back door opening. She hears the screen door thwap shut. She waits and listens. She waits and hears nothing. She gets up, walks through the living room, opens the back screen door, and steps outside. David is lying on his back on a blanket on the grass, staring up at the sky.
“David?”
“Hey.”
“What are you doing?”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
She walks over to him and lies down on the blanket next to him. It’s a small blanket, and she finds it difficult to lie next to him without touching him. She pins her elbows to her sides.
“The stars here are awesome,” he says.
“Yeah. I love the sky here.”
“I’ve never seen them like this. And that moon. It’s incredible.”
The moon is just shy of fully round, bright yellow-white and glowing, the man-in-the-moon face on its surface clearly visible, the sky immediately around it lit daytime blue. The rest of the sky is ink black, dotted all over with brilliant white stars. She finds the Big Dipper first, then the Little Dipper, and Venus. That’s all she knows. She should really learn more about the constellations.
They continue to stare at the sky. Her eyes adjust, and more stars appear. And then, unbelievably, more. Stars behind stars, dusty hazes of light, layered galaxies of energy existing, burning, shining, unfathomable distances away from them. She pictures David and herself in her mind’s eye as if viewed from above—two tiny, breathing bodies lying on a blanket on the grass on a tiny island thirty miles out to sea. Two tiny bodies who once dreamed of a life together, who had a beautiful boy together, now lying side by side on a blanket on the grass, observing infinity.
“See that?” He points, drawing the letter W with his finger on the sky. “That’s Cassiopeia.”
“Amazing.”
A clear night sky on Nantucket truly does amaze. If it’s even noticeable enough to draw attention upward, the sky at night doesn’t amaze in Hingham. It won’t amaze in Chicago either. She thinks about David living there, surrounded by skyscrapers and city lights, walking along the edge of Lake Michigan and looking up at the sky on a clear night and seeing only darkness when Olivia can see all of this.
It’s a cool night with no mosquitoes thanks to a steady wind. Olivia shivers, needing more than her sleeveless, cotton nightgown. David moves closer to her so that their shoulders, hips, and legs touch. He laces his ringless fingers through hers; her hand accepts his. The touch of his body, the heat from his hand, familiar and comforting, warms her.
“I miss you,” he says, still staring up at the sky.
“I miss you, too.”
“I signed the papers.”
As she has witnessed before, it takes David longer to arrive at acceptance, but he eventually gets there. And here he is.
She squeezes his hand.
“I needed to see you, to be sure you’re okay before I go,” he says.
“I am.”
“You are.”
“You will be, too.”
They hold hands and watch the night sky. The moon, the stars, the heavens, the universe. It’s a sky that could almost make her believe in God again, that the incomprehensible is actually divine order, that everything is as it should be.
If only.
CHAPTER 14
Startled awake, Beth sits straight up in bed, holding her breath, eyes wide, listening. What was that? She looks at her alarm clock: 3:23 a.m. There it is again. Her nerves jump. She sits straighter, eyes wider.
Someone is walking around downstairs, someone heavy-footed, someone big, not one of the girls. She hasn’t locked anything, not the house or the car, since she moved here. No one she knows does. Only summer people lock their houses and cars on Nantucket. Anyone could walk right in. There it is again. Someone is here. A thief? A rapist?
Jimmy?
She leaves her bedroom, her heart pounding, wishing she weren’t the only adult in the house, that she could send someone else to investigate the sound. She stops at the top of the stairs and listens. She doesn’t hear anything. Maybe she imagined it. She’s been having such vivid dreams lately. Maybe she dreamed the sound. As she turns to go back to bed, she hears the floorboards creak. Not imagined. Not a dream.
Before braving the stairs, she notices Jessica’s tennis bag in the hallway. She unzips the bag, pulls out her daughter’s tennis racket, and holds it in front of her as if it were a sword. She’s not sure what good a tennis racket will do her if she finds an actual thief or a rapist in the house (she’s never had a strong serve), but it feels at least mildly reassuring to hold on to something.
Aiming her racket-sword in front of her, she tiptoes down the stairs, through the dark living room, and into the kitchen. At the count of three, she flips on the light, and there he is, smiling, looking caught. And really drunk.
“Jimmy, what the hell are you doing?”
He blinks and squints and cups his hand over his eyes like a visor, trying to adjust his vision to the bright kitchen lights after fumbling around in total darkness. His face is sweaty, his Red Sox hat is on backward and crooked, and he reeks of cigars and booze.
“I came to give you this.” He holds out a white, greeting-card-size envelope.
“Oh, no. You can go tell your girlfriend that my birthday is in October, and I don’t want any more cards from her, ever.”
“It’s from me, and she’s not my girlfriend.”
Beth’s heart stops. If he says, She’s my fiancée, she’ll beat him to death with this tennis racket. She swears to God she will.
“We broke up. I moved out.”
Blood returns to her head. She loosens her grip. “Well, I’m sorry it didn’t work out for the two of you, but you can’t just come back here.”
“I’m not. I just wanted to give you this.” He thrusts the card toward her.
Apprehensive of touching whatever is in that envelope, she cautiously holds out her racket-sword, and Jimmy drops the card onto the head. Extending the racket well out in front of her as if she were carrying a dead mouse or something gross and potentially poisonous, she walks the card across the kitchen and flips it onto the table.
“Th
ere, I have it. You can leave now.” She points her racket-sword at the door.
“Can we talk first?”
“No, you’re in no condition to talk about anything.”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t smell fine.”
“Please.”
“It’s the middle of the night.”
“I need to talk to you.”
“You’ve had months to talk to me. You only want to talk now because your girlfriend kicked you out.”
“She’s not my girlfriend, and she didn’t kick me out. I left. I ended it.”
“You have to leave,” Beth says as forcefully as she can without raising her voice. She doesn’t want to wake up the girls.
“Will you open the card before I go?”
“No.” She turns to walk out of the kitchen. If he won’t leave, she will. It’s the middle of the night. She’s going back to bed.
“Beth.” He grabs her free hand, stopping her. “Look at me.”
She does.
“I miss you.”
“Good.”
“I really do.”
“You only miss me now because you’re alone.”
“I’ve missed you the whole time.”
“You have to go.”
Still holding her hand, he pulls her into him and kisses her.
He tastes like sweat and beer and cigars. She should be repulsed and offended. She should kick him out on his sorry, drunk ass. She should whack him over the head with her racket-sword. But for some illogical reason, she drops her weapon and melts into his kiss.
Now he’s pulling her nightshirt off, and she’s letting him. He’s still kissing her, scratching her face with his beard, and she’s kissing him back, and somewhere in her head, an outraged part of her is screaming, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! But another part of her is quite calmly replying, Shhh. We’ll talk about it later. Now be quiet and unzip his pants.
The next thing she knows, they’re on the kitchen floor. She’s naked, and his pants are down below his knees, his shoes and shirt still on. In the fifteen years that they’ve known each other, they’ve never done it on the kitchen floor. In fact, Beth’s never been naked anywhere in the house but in her bedroom and bathroom.
The whole shebang is urgent and hungry and straight to the point and, despite the pain of the hardwood floor against the bones of her spine and its being over in about a minute, surprisingly good. Completely foolish and probably regrettable, but surprisingly, undeniably good.
Her ears prickle. Did she just hear one of the girls upstairs? Oh my God, she and Jimmy made too much noise, and now one of the girls is probably on her way downstairs to see what’s going on. Beth pushes Jimmy off her and scrambles back into her underwear and nightshirt.
“Quick, I think the girls heard us,” she whispers. “Pull your pants up.”
He listens and doesn’t move. “I don’t hear anything.”
He’s right. Everything’s quiet.
“You have to go.”
“Okay, but can we talk?” His pants are still around his knees.
“Not now. Another time. When it’s daytime, and you’re not drunk, and you have your pants on.”
He smiles at her, that crazy smile that still undoes her. “Okay.”
“Now go.”
“Okay, okay. Where’s my hat?”
“There.” She points to the counter where she threw it.
He fixes it onto his head, forward and straight this time. “I missed you.”
“Go.”
“Okay.” He walks to the front door. “I’ll see you later, right?”
She nods, and he leaves. She hopes he’s sober enough to drive wherever he’s staying. She wonders where he’s staying. She wonders what he wants to talk about. She wonders what on earth just happened here.
The part of her that will have to face Petra and the rest of her friends, even Georgia, feels ashamed and stupid about what just happened. The part of her that has felt constantly threatened, like it had been thrown unasked into an unfair competition with that tramp Angela, feels victorious about what just happened. But the rest of her doesn’t know what the hell to make yet of what just happened.
She walks over to the kitchen table, picks up the card, and opens it.
Beth, I’m sorry. I love you. Please take me back.
Yours, Jimmy
CHAPTER 15
It’s ten thirty in the morning, and Beth is in the library. She’s writing. What she’s writing began as a short story, inspired by a dream, but it’s fast growing into something else, something more substantial, either a collection of related stories or a novella or maybe even a novel. She doesn’t know yet.
She’s writing about a boy with autism, but his story is different from those of The Siege or The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time or any of the other books that she’s now read about autism. The story she’s writing is about a boy with autism who doesn’t speak, and yet she’s telling it from his point of view, giving a voice to this voiceless child.
This morning, she is writing in her notebook instead of on Sophie’s laptop. She can write significantly faster than she can type, but even with a pen, she’s struggling to move her hand as fast as the words appear in her imagination, gripping her pen so hard her fingers cramp. She pauses to shake out her hand and look over what she’s written about how her character believes his mind works.
I’m always hearing about how my brain doesn’t work right. They say my brain is broken. My mother cries about my broken brain, and she and my father fight about my broken brain, and people come to my house every day to try to fix my broken brain. But it doesn’t feel broken to me. I think they’re wrong about my brain.
It doesn’t feel like my knee when I fall outside in the driveway and break the skin, and the broken skin bleeds and hurts and sometimes turns pink and white or blue and purple. When I fall and break my skin, it hurts and I cry, and my mother sticks a Barney Band-Aid on my broken skin. Sometimes the Barney Band-Aid loses its sticky in the tub and comes off, and the skin is still pink and broken, and I’ll get another Barney Band-Aid. But after a few tubs, the Barney Band-Aid will come off, and the broken skin will be fixed.
My brain doesn’t hurt, and my brain doesn’t bleed. My brain doesn’t need a Barney Band-Aid.
And it’s not broken like the white coffee mug I knocked off the table yesterday that split apart into three pieces when it hit the floor and that my father said he could glue back together but my mother said to forget it, it’s ruined, and she threw the three pieces that used to be one white coffee mug into the trash. Broken things are ruined and go into the trash.
My brain didn’t fall on the floor, it didn’t split into three pieces, and it doesn’t belong in the trash.
And it’s not broken like the ant I stepped on and cracked and flattened so it couldn’t move anymore, making it dead. Dead things are broken forever. That ant is broken, but my brain isn’t. My brain can still think about the ant and remember the sound of its body cracking under my shoe, so that is my brain still working.
My brain isn’t dead like the ant.
I wish I could tell them that my brain isn’t broken so they could stop crying and fighting and people could stop coming to my house to fix me. They make me tired.
My brain is made up of different rooms. Each room is for doing a different thing. For example, I have an Eyes Room for seeing things and an Ears Room for hearing things. I have a Hands Room, a Memory Room (it’s like my father’s office, full of drawers and folders and boxes with papers), a New Things Room, a Numbers Room (my favorite), and a Horror Room (I wish this room would be broken, but it works just fine).
The rooms don’t touch each other. There are long, looping hallways in between each room. If I’m thinking about something that happened yesterday (like when I knocked over the white coffee mug), I’m in my Memory Room. But if I want to watch a Barney video on the TV, I have to leave the Memory Room and go into Eyes and sometimes Ears.
Sometimes when I’m in the hallways traveling to a different room, I get lost and confused and caught In Between and feel like I’m nowhere. This is when my brain feels like maybe it’s a little bit broken, but I know I just have to find my way into one of the rooms and shut the door.
But if too much is happening at once, I can get into trouble. If I’m counting the square tiles on the kitchen floor (180), I’m in my Numbers Room, but if my mother starts talking to me, I have to go into my Ears Room to hear her. But I want to stay in Numbers because I’m counting, and I like to count, but my mother keeps talking, and her sound is getting louder, and I feel pressure to leave Numbers and go inside my Ears Room. So I go into the hallway, but then she grabs my hand, and this surprises me and forces me into Hands, which isn’t where I wanted to go, and she’s talking to me but I can’t hear what she’s saying because I’m in my Hands Room and not in Ears.
If she lets go of my hand, I can go into Ears. She’s saying, Look at me. But if I look at her, I have to leave Ears and go into Eyes, and then I won’t be able to hear what she’s saying. So I don’t know what to do, and I’m wandering the halls, and I can’t make a decision on where to go, and I’m In Between, and that’s when I get into trouble.
If I hang around in the hallways too long and don’t get safe inside a room, I can get sucked into the Horror Room, and it’s not easy to get out of there. Sometimes I’m locked inside that scary room for a long time, and the only way out is to scream as loud as I can because sometimes my really loud scream can pop open the door and push me straight into Ears.
The sound of my own voice screaming is the only thing that can get rid of everything else.
My voice makes screams and sounds but not words. But this isn’t a broken room inside my brain. I talk to myself with words inside my brain just fine. I think I might have broken lips or a broken tongue or a broken throat. I wish I could tell my mother and father that my voice is broken but my brain is working, but I can’t tell them because my voice is broken. I wish they’d figure it out on their own.