She closes the gate. With the card and envelope squeezed in her fist, she marches up the stairs, emphasizing each loud step as she heads toward Jimmy’s snoring.
CHAPTER 2
Olivia strips down to her underwear and changes into sweatpants, socks, and her oldest, favorite Boston College sweatshirt. Drier but still freezing, she hurries downstairs to the living room and presses the button on the remote to the fireplace. She stands in front of the instant blaze and waits and waits, but it doesn’t throw off any noticeable heat. She touches the glass with the palm of her hand. It’s barely warm. It was David’s idea to convert the fireplace to gas. Better for the tenants. More convenient and less messy.
Although they’ve owned the cottage for eleven years, she and David have never actually lived here. They bought it as an investment just before the housing market boomed and prices skyrocketed. David, a business major who reluctantly stepped into his family’s real estate business after college, is always keeping his eye on properties with potential. He’s all about location, location, location. He looks for a fixer-upper in the right neighborhood, buys it, hires contractors to renovate the kitchen and baths and to paint the interior and the exterior, then he sells it. The goal is always to flip it fast, a SOLD sign on the front lawn and a tidy profit sitting fat and pretty in his pocket.
But Nantucket was different for David. With almost 50 percent of the island designated as conservation and “forever wild,” leaving only half of the almost fifty square miles buildable, David wasn’t interested in flipping this house. He assured Olivia that the property value would never dip below what they paid for it. The house is nothing special, a modest three-bedroom cottage with little remarkable about any of the rooms or layout. But situated less than a mile from Fat Ladies Beach, it’s a highly desirable vacation property, and David correctly guessed that they would always more than cover their annual mortgage payments with summer rentals.
It’s a smart investment for our future, he’d said, back when they could so blissfully imagine a future.
They stayed in the house for a week or two each year in the shoulder seasons, usually in October, but stopped coming altogether after Anthony turned three. Pretty much everything stopped after Anthony turned three.
A violent gust of wind screams in the distance, sounding to Olivia like a small child crying out in pain. The windows rattle, and a cold breeze dances along the skin of her bare neck. She shivers. Nantucket in winter. This is going to take some getting used to.
She rubs the palms of her hands together, trying to create some friction to warm them. Dissatisfied, she wonders where she might find a blanket. She’s only been here nine days, and she’s still learning where everything is, still feeling like a guest in someone else’s home. A stranger at the inn. She searches the linen closet, finds a gray, woolen blanket she vaguely remembers buying, wraps it around her shoulders, and snuggles into the living-room chair with the mail.
The bills are still sent to their house in Hingham, a small, suburban town on Boston’s South Shore, so she hasn’t yet received anything but home-repair-service advertisements, local election postcards, and coupon flyers, but today she knows she has some real mail.
Before even opening the first, she knows it’s a book from her old boss, Louise, a senior editor at Taylor Krepps. The envelope has a yellow forwarding-address sticker on it. Louise doesn’t know that Olivia has moved to Nantucket. She doesn’t know about Anthony either.
She doesn’t know anything.
Olivia hasn’t worked as a junior editor to Louise in self-help books at Taylor Krepps Publishing for five years now, but Louise still sends her advance reader copies. Maybe it’s Louise’s way of keeping the door open, of trying to entice Olivia back to work. Olivia suspects Louise has simply never gotten around to taking her off the mailing list. Olivia’s never hinted to Louise that she’d ever come back; it’s been a couple of years since she’s sent a note thanking her or commenting on a book, and even longer since she’s read any of them. But they keep coming.
She doesn’t have the heart or stomach to read anybody’s self-help anymore. She’s no longer interested in anyone’s advice or wisdom. What do they know? What does it matter? It’s all bunk.
She used to believe in the power of self-help books to educate, inform, and inspire. She believed that the really good ones could transform lives. When Anthony turned three and they were told with certainty what they were dealing with, she believed she’d find somebody somewhere who could help them, an expert who could transform their lives.
She scoured every self-help book, then every medical journal, every memoir, every blog, every online parent support network. She read Jenny McCarthy and the Bible. She read and hoped and prayed and believed in anything claiming help, rescue, reversal, salvation. Somebody somewhere must know something. Somebody must have the key that would unlock her son.
She opens the envelope and holds the book in her hands, rubbing the smooth cover with her fingers. She still loves the feel of a new book. This one is called The Three Day Miracle Diet by Peter Fallon, MD.
Hmph. Miracle, my ass.
She used to attend conferences and seminars. Please, expert Dr. So-and-So, show us the answer. I believe in you. She used to go to church every Sunday. Please, God, give us a miracle. I believe in you.
Sorry, Dr. Fallon. There are no miracles, she thinks, and tosses the book to the floor.
She holds up the cardboard envelope from David next, staring at it for a long moment before carefully tearing the tab and upending it.
Three white, round, perfectly smooth rocks fall into her lap. She smiles. Anthony’s rocks. And three of them. She shakes the envelope. There aren’t any more. He would’ve liked that there are only three and not one or two or four. He loved things that came in threes. The Little Pigs, One-Two-Three-Go, Small-Medium-Big. Of course, he never said the words to her, Mom, I like the “Three Little Pigs” story. But she knew.
She rolls the three small rocks in the palm of her hand, enjoying the cool, smooth feel of them. When she’s done with the mail, she’ll add them to the glass bowl on the coffee table already containing at least fifty more of Anthony’s white, round rocks. A shrine in a bowl.
Anthony wouldn’t have liked his rocks in Olivia’s bowl on the coffee table, however. He preferred them lined up like perfectly straight rock parades on the floor, all over the house. Heaven forbid Olivia should ever clean up and put his rocks back in his box in his bedroom. But sometimes, she couldn’t help herself. Sometimes she simply wanted to walk through the house and not kick through a rock parade. Sometimes she simply wanted to walk through a normal house. It was always a huge mistake. They didn’t live in a normal house. And change, however small, was never Anthony’s friend.
She peeks into the envelope and sees a folded piece of stationery.
Found these three under the couch.
Love, David
She smiles, thanking him for taking the time to send her three rocks, for knowing she’d want them. And the Love, David. She knows these words aren’t throwaway or insincere. She still loves him, too.
The rest of Anthony’s rocks are in his box, now in her bedroom. It was one of the few things she insisted on bringing with her on her final trip over, and it was no small feat getting it here. She lugged it, sweating and questioning her sanity, from the backseat of David’s car to the ferry in Hyannis, from the ferry to the taxi in Town, from the taxi to her bedroom here. More than once she thought about dumping the rocks overboard on the way over, freeing herself from the physical and emotional burden of carrying all the damn rocks. But they’re Anthony’s damn rocks. Beautiful damn rocks collected from the beach and obsessively lined up in rows by her beautiful boy, now artfully displayed in the glass bowl on the coffee table.
So the damn rocks came with her. She left behind her cookbooks, her collection of books she helped edit at Taylor Krepps, all of her novels. She didn’t take any of the furniture, the appliances, or any dishware. She
left Anthony’s clothes still folded in his drawers, his bed unmade, his Barney DVDs in the TV console cabinet, all of the educational toys he never played with, his toothbrush in the holder in the bathroom, his coat on the hook by the front door.
She brought her clothes, her jewelry, her camera, and her computer. And she brought her journals. Someday, she’ll have the courage to read them.
She also left all of her photographs—her college album, their wedding and honeymoon albums, the collection of arty shots she used to take of sunsets and trees and seashells, the best of which adorn the walls of their house, Anthony’s baby album. She left it all with David. She feels as if that life didn’t happen to her. It happened to some other woman.
She kept only one picture. She looks up at the eight-by-ten photograph framed, matted, and hung on the wall over the fireplace, that one picture that took many hours over many days of patient waiting to get. She remembers how she sat cross-legged in front of the refrigerator, camera over her face, finger on the button, ready to click, waiting. Waiting. Anthony passed by her many times, skipping on his toes, squealing and flapping his hands. Each time she held her breath. She didn’t move. He didn’t look at her.
One day he sat down only a couple of feet in front of her and spun the back wheel of a toy truck with his index finger for at least an hour. She didn’t get up and demonstrate how to play with the truck appropriately. See, Anthony, the truck goes vroom, vroom. She didn’t redirect him. She didn’t move. He didn’t look at her.
With each attempt, her knees, arms, and ass would eventually ache and scream for her to shift position. Her mind would try to talk her out of it, too, mocking her for wasting another morning sitting on the floor like an idiot. She ignored herself and sat, silent, unthreatening, invisible.
Then finally, it happened. He looked directly into the lens. He was probably thirsty, looking to the refrigerator, wanting juice. It was probably a complete accident, but she clicked the button before his eyes darted away. She looked at the LCD display, and there they were. His eyes! Wide-open windows into a shiny, clear day. Not disconnected or wandering eyes. Deep, dark, melted-chocolate-brown eyes belonging to her little boy, looking at his mother. Seeing her.
She sits on the living-room chair with the mail in her lap and loses herself in his eyes, wiping tears from hers, grateful for the chance to look into them and see real meaning, even if she doesn’t understand what that meaning is, even if it was only one moment in almost nine long years, and even if she only ever saw them like this through her Nikon lens and then on two-dimensional paper. She’s grateful to have it.
She wipes her eyes again with the edge of the blanket and turns her attention to the last piece of mail, a manila envelope from the law offices of Kaufman and Renkowitz. Olivia slides out the stack of papers and reads the top of the first page.
Separation Agreement for David and Olivia Donatelli
She closes her eyes and listens to the wind and rain banging at the windows, pounding on the roof, raging all around her. She tucks the blanket over her feet and holds on tight to the three rocks still inside her hand. Like everything, this storm can only last so long.
CHAPTER 3
Facing away from her side of the bed with their puffy down comforter pulled up to his chin, Jimmy is still sound asleep.
“Jimmy,” Beth says loudly, just shy of shouting, startling even herself.
He lurches upright. “Huh? What?”
Jimmy doesn’t wake up well, never has. His thinking is all jumbled at first, staggering around and bumping into the walls of his skull as if he’d just thrown back six beers. He wouldn’t be able to recite the alphabet or the full names of his three girls within the first few seconds of waking. He might not even know he has three girls right now. She hesitates, giving him a minute to let the fog clear from between his ears. Or maybe she hesitates because she’s giving herself one more minute of not going where they’re about to go.
“What is it?” he asks, rubbing his eyes and nose.
“What’s this?” She throws the card and envelope at him, aiming for his head. But they’re like a poorly constructed paper airplane, fluttering weakly onto his lap instead of smacking him in the face. He picks up the card.
“It’s not my birthday,” he says, still rubbing his eyes.
“Open it.” She shakes with anticipation as he does.
“I don’t get it.”
“Don’t act dumb. Who sent this?”
“Hold on, let me get my glasses.”
So now he’s dumb and blind. What next? Deaf? As much as a part of her doesn’t want to hear his answer, another part of her can’t resist it, compelling her toward what feels inevitable.
Jimmy reaches for his glasses on the night table, puts them on, and reads the card again. He opens and closes and opens it, studying it as if it were a crossword puzzle or one of Sophie’s algebra problems, like it’s some kind of test.
It is a test, Jimmy. It’s a test of your integrity. This is a test of your character.
She watches his face as he keeps his eyes focused on this most mysterious riddle, refusing to look up at her. He’s stalling.
“It’s not the tax code, Jimmy. Who sent this?”
“I have no idea.”
He’s looking at her now. They pause here, eyes locked, unblinking, unmoving, nobody saying a word. A showdown.
Jimmy ends it by getting out of bed and tossing the card and envelope into the wastebasket. He then walks past her and down the hall. She hears the bathroom door shut. Apparently, he’s said all he has to say about the card. Incensed, adrenaline now surging through her veins, she retrieves the card and envelope from the wastebasket and storms down the hall to the closed bathroom door.
Manners stop her with her hand on the doorknob. She and Jimmy aren’t one of those couples who share bathroom intimacy. She doesn’t floss while he sits on the toilet, he doesn’t chat with her while she’s in the shower, she doesn’t change tampons while he shaves. She wouldn’t normally go in. They don’t have that kind of marriage.
But what kind of marriage do they have? She shoves the bathroom door open and stares at him as he stands over the toilet.
“Jesus, Beth, can you give me a minute?”
“I’d like a real answer.”
“Hold on a second.”
“Tell me who sent this.”
“Wait.”
He flushes. He turns and faces her. She’s standing in the doorway, arms folded across her chest, blocking the way out. He’s wearing nothing but plaid boxers and glasses, his hair mussed, his hands hanging heavy by his sides, looking vulnerable, defenseless. Caught.
“You don’t know her.”
The joints of her legs suddenly loosen, and she leans into the doorframe, steadying herself. She feels like she’s standing on train tracks, tied to the rails, staring at the oncoming train, so close she can feel the hot wind on her face from its relentless forward motion.
“Who is she?” she asks with slightly less demand and a lot more fear clinging to each word.
“Her name is Angela.”
There it is. He admits it. This is really happening. He’s cheating on her with a woman named Angela. She fights through crashing waves of dizziness and thickening nausea, trying to picture Angela, but she can’t come up with a face. She’s not a real woman if she doesn’t have a face. Maybe this isn’t really happening.
“Angela who?”
“Melo.”
Angela Melo. It’s the dead of winter on a fourteen-mile-long-by-three-mile-wide island. Everyone knows everyone. But he’s right. Angela Melo. She doesn’t know her. Petra will.
“Do you call her Angie?”
He sighs and fidgets his feet, his face struggling, as if only now has she asked him something too personal. “Yes.”
She focuses on the blankness of the white tile wall behind him, unable to inhale. Jimmy’s been having sex with a woman named Angela Melo. Angie. He’s been naked with her, kissing her mouth, her breast
s, her everything. She wonders if he uses a condom, but she’s too embarrassed and disgusted by the thought to ask him.
She walks back to their bedroom and sits on her side of the bed, not sure of what to do or say or feel next. She wishes she could go back in time and undo this. Crawl back into bed, wake up, and start the day over. And not get the mail. Jimmy has followed her and is standing over her, waiting.
“How long?” she asks.
“A while.”
“How long is a while?”
He hesitates. “Since July.”
She doesn’t know what she was expecting him to say. She hadn’t developed any specific suspicions or scenarios in her imagination. A few stolen nights. Maybe a month or two. Since July? She ticks off the months in her head. Too many stolen nights for her to count or imagine. Hot tears start streaming down her face.
Damn it, Beth, don’t cry. Don’t fall apart.
She doesn’t want to feel like a victim. Like a cliché. But she can’t help it. She gives in and sobs on her side of the bed against her own will while Jimmy continues to stand a few feet away from her.
“Do you love her?” she asks, choking out each word, shaken and airy.
“No.”
She studies her hands in her lap, her engagement and wedding rings on her finger, rings that came with vows that didn’t protect her from this, afraid to look at him, to see if he’s telling the truth or lying. He’s been lying to her for months now, so maybe he’s lying about this. Would she know the truth if she saw his eyes? What does she really know about him now? Ten minutes ago she would’ve said, Everything.
She closes her eyes and retreats into crying. Something has to happen now. She can’t simply walk downstairs, finish her cocoa, and vacuum the house.
“I think you should go,” she says. “I think you should move out.”
He’s still. Beth quiets her crying and holds her breath, holding on for his reply.
“Okay.”