“Then why didn’t you get an annulment or a divorce?”
“I couldn’t do that to Bibi. She’s the way she is because of me.”
“How is that possible? You didn’t cause her mental illness.”
“Schizophrenia runs in her family, and I didn’t find out right away. We got married so quickly. We met, fell in love, spent one long weekend in a hotel in Rio, and got married on a whim. She didn’t think to tell me that when she was a little girl her mother was institutionalized or that her grandmother had killed herself decades ago. Bibi might have meant to hide her family history from me, or she might have thought nothing like that would happen to her. She wasn’t one to worry about the future. She was brave and funny, and she didn’t care how the world saw her.”
I couldn’t help noticing the tenderness in his voice as he spoke about his wife as she had been. I recalled with a sharp pang how he had called her “angel” — the same term of endearment he had given me.
“Remember that night I told you Bibi had never even tried drugs before she met me?” he asked. Then, more bitterly, “I’m a corrupter of young women.”
I nodded.
“I’ve always felt responsible for… for this.” He pointed up toward the third floor.
“Responsible?”
Nico reached out to smooth my hair. I pulled back. “Don’t pull away from me like I disgust you. You’ll break my heart.”
“Why do you feel responsible?”
“Guess. You’re smart. Figure it out.”
“Do you think the drugs the two of you used caused her schizophrenia? Or brought it on prematurely?”
“I can’t know for sure,” Nico said, “but it’s a strong possibility. Cocaine can do that — trigger schizophrenia if it’s in someone’s genetic makeup. And then there were all the other things we tried — acid, mushrooms, ecstasy, Jack Daniels — in all sorts of combinations. If I hadn’t pressured her, surrounded her with wild parties and hangers-on, just looking to win us over… If I hadn’t —” His voice broke. “She’d never tried anything before I met her, but she wanted to be a part of my world. I promised I’d watch out for her, I’d never let anyone harm a hair on her head.”
I thought for a while. “She was a model, right? Aren’t they exposed to a lot of drugs and parties too?”
“She wasn’t a model when I met her,” Nico said. “She was a waitress. I got her connections, started her down that path. The schizophrenia might have taken years, even decades, to kick in if it weren’t for me. Maybe it wouldn’t have happened at all.” A long silence ensued. “Say something. Do you think I’m a monster?”
How could I sit so near him — his eyes burning with sadness, his shoulders slumped with the weight of his history — and not stroke his hair, not kiss his forehead, not hold him in my arms? Just sitting there, hands in my lap, not reaching out to him, was the hardest thing I’d ever done in my life. “No. I don’t think you’re a monster.”
“Then let me hold you. Let me kiss you.”
“I still have questions,” I told him. “Why do you keep her here when you know she’s dangerous?”
“What else would I do with her?” he asked. “Have you ever been inside a mental institution?” He clapped a hand to his forehead. “God forbid. Of course you haven’t. You’re the sanest person I’ve met in my life.”
“Aren’t there some nice ones?” I asked. “For rich people?”
“There are bad ones and worse ones. I couldn’t stand to see her put away… to have her live out the rest of her life among strangers. And, well… since I’m owning up to every sleazy thing I’ve ever done in my life… I wasn’t just thinking of Bibi. If I’d sent her away, the press would have gotten wind of it. ‘Rock Star Hides Wife in Mental Institution.’ I’d be the villain. Instead, I coasted for years on ‘Rock Star Pulls Life Back Together.’ ”
“Won’t the press find out the truth now?”
“No doubt,” Nico said. “It doesn’t take too much imagination to see what the headlines will look like. ‘Famous Musician Locks Wife in Attic.’ And, then there’s the inevitable ‘Bigamist Lies to Child Bride.’ ”
“Oh, Nico. How is that going to affect your tour? And your album?”
He laughed incredulously. “My tour? My album? How like you, Jane. You catch me lying to you and the entire world, and you’re worried about my PR.”
“Then why did you lie? I understand why you hid things from the press. I don’t think it was the right thing to do, but I get why you did it. But why did you lie to me?”
For a long moment he said nothing. “Would you have married me if you knew?”
I didn’t know how to reply.
“Would you have fallen in love with me?” he asked.
I hesitated. “I might have. Yes, I think I would have no matter what.”
“But would you have ever let me touch you if you knew I had a wife? Or would you have run straight back to the agency and found yourself a new job?”
“I… I don’t know.”
“In the beginning, my romantic history was none of your business, none of anyone’s business. Then, suddenly, I was in love with you and wanted to make you love me. And then I knew you loved me back, and all I wanted in the world was to marry you. It seemed like such a simple thing. Everyone should be entitled to happiness, even me. Don’t you think so, Jane?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know. I need to go someplace quiet and think.”
“Someplace quiet? You want to go to your room or out for one of your walks?”
I shook my head.
“What if I put you up in a hotel for a few days?” he asked. “You could rest there and order in room service. You could think everything through and then come back to Thornfield Park.”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“You can’t be thinking of leaving me.”
I didn’t respond.
“Why would you even consider such a thing? We don’t have to get married. We can live together, travel around the world. We could buy a house on the Mediterranean. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? We could live anywhere, as far from Thornfield Park as you like.” He studied my face. “This isn’t about my being a married man, is it?”
“A little bit,” I told him.
“I’ll get an annulment tomorrow.”
“All these years you chose to stay married to Bibi,” I told him. “That tells me something.”
“I had no reason to get an annulment. I never thought I’d want to get married again. How could I know I’d meet you?”
His words caused a spasm of grief at my core.
“You loved her enough to stay married to her,” I said. “If she weren’t schizophrenic, you would still love her… and it’s not her fault.”
“It’s my fault.” Nico’s face contorted.
“It’s not anyone’s fault,” I said. “And there’s that whole ‘in sickness and in health’ part of the marriage vows.”
“You can’t know what it’s like. It’s complicated.”
“I’m not judging you,” I said. “But I could never be a home wrecker.”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, the home was wrecked a long time ago — long before you stumbled into it.”
“The press would judge me too. I’d be the jailbait who stole Nico Rathburn from his sick wife.”
“I’m not going to let those parasites decide how I live my life anymore. If I can say ‘fuck the press,’ you can too.”
“You lied to me. More than once. You lied to me this morning. On our wedding day. How could I ever trust you?”
He didn’t answer, because there was no satisfactory answer. “So you don’t love me then?” he said finally.
All this time I’d been struggling to hold back my emotions because I knew he wouldn’t want to see me weep. Now, though, I couldn’t help myself. Tears gave way, and I spoke through sobs. “I do love you. More than ever, now that I know everything you’ve been through. But that’s beside the point.”
“Beside the point?” He rose to his feet and crossed the room. “Beside the point?” He faced the bow window, with its long view of the front yard, the pond, and its resident swans. “Anything I’ve done since the moment I met you — the good and the bad — has been out of love. That includes the lies I told. I was wrong, I know. I shouldn’t have done it. Maybe you’ll have trouble trusting me for a while, until I prove to you I’m not what you think I am. I’m not a liar. Not really.” He walked back to me. “Let me prove it to you.” He fumbled in his pocket, brought out a handkerchief, and handed it to me. “Let me make it up to you.”
I wiped my eyes and blew my nose, trying to think straight. Though Nico had lied to me, I knew he’d done it out of love. I believed him when he promised he’d never lie to me again. But something gnawed at me and kept me from giving in. It was the tenderness in his eyes and voice as he’d spoken to Bibi, the trusting way she’d looked at and spoken to him before she’d seen me. She wasn’t the woman he’d married, and yet she was. If he could only get her to take her medication, she could be her old self again. And then what? Who would I be if I stayed with Nico, betting Bibi would remain unwell, hoping she’d continue to spit out her pills? As much as I wanted to reach out to Nico, I couldn’t forget the loving look I’d seen pass between them. And then I thought of her hatred for me, her bared teeth, the way she called me whore, and the way, for a moment, I’d felt the label was deserved. I remembered how that morning Nico had distracted me with my desire for him, how he’d made me push my doubts aside. Given how much I wanted him, could I ever trust myself to make the right choices?
I waited a moment to see if the gnawing feeling would pass, but it didn’t. I got to my feet. “I need you to promise me one thing.”
“What is it? Anything.”
“Promise me you’ll take good care of Maddy. Treat her the way you have lately — like your daughter, not your ward.”
He looked stricken and then furious. “You think you can just run away from me? Just like that?” He grabbed my wrist — not hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to show that he could hold me against my will and there was nothing I could do about it. “I could make you stay.” His eyes glowed with rage.
For a moment, I was afraid, but the fear passed. “You mean you could lock me in a room and keep me there?”
His grip tightened. Then, suddenly, he released me.
“You’re leaving me?”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t care how much you’re hurting me?”
“I do care,” I said, and stood on tiptoe to smooth his hair and kiss his cheek. Then I walked straight to my room and locked the door behind me.
CHAPTER 21
After a night of strange and vivid dreams, I woke just before dawn. I had packed before I went to bed: a few changes of clothes, my pearl earrings, the passbook to my savings account, my paints and brushes. I left behind the clothes Nico had bought me, the paintings I had done at Thornfield Park, and my small collection of books; these were luxuries I didn’t have room for in the small suitcase I was taking with me. On my way out the door, I stopped in the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of water, and made myself a sandwich for the journey.
I slipped out of the house quietly. The lawn was wet with dew, and as I hurried downhill, I found myself immersed in morning fog. The grounds smelled like fresh air, newly mowed grass, and the first hint of autumn. At the bottom of the hill stood the guardhouse. I dreaded the thought of passing it; what if Nico had ordered the guard not to let me leave the grounds? The guard on duty was the same one who had smiled at me the day I first met Nico. He gave me a questioning look as I approached but pushed the button that opened the gate, saying only “Good morning, miss.”
It was a very long walk into town, so I planned to call a cab once I’d gotten off the road that led to Thornfield Park. If Nico had wanted to find me, it wouldn’t have been hard; he’d simply have to go in one direction and send someone else in the opposite. I didn’t think he would hunt me down and drag me back. Still, I was troubled by the violent anger he’d shown me — if only for a moment — the night before. How strange it was to fear being forcibly returned to Thornfield Park, the place in the world I loved most. But I was afraid, as though my will were a very high, thin branch from which I was dangling, a branch that could snap at any moment.
My head down, I hurried toward town. Eventually I came to a cross street and turned off the main road, zigzagging into the heart of a housing development I’d never seen before. There I found a street corner — Hyacinth Avenue and Rising Sun Drive — and called information on my cell phone for a cab company. The dispatcher promised to send someone right over. The cash I had in my wallet — several twenty dollar bills — seemed like enough to cover the cab fare with a bit left over.
The morning was colder than I had expected. I dug a sweater out of my suitcase and jogged in place awhile to keep warm. It took almost half an hour for the cab to arrive, long enough for me to second-guess my decision to leave and to have qualms about heading out into a world where nobody, not one soul, cared about me. I thought of Nico, angry and sad and possibly desperate, and of how easy it would be to turn around and go to him. But then I thought of the sound of Bibi’s voice when she had called his name, like someone happy to see a dear, old friend, and how gently Nico had covered her with the blanket when she’d succumbed to the hypodermic. Something in me froze at these recollections. Was I jealous? Maybe, but as I waited on Hyacinth Avenue in the morning chill, it felt like more than that, as though the higher part of my nature was telling me to walk away from something that could do me harm, something that could erode my soul and my sense of self. It felt like I was doing the right thing, and maybe I was.
When the cab pulled up, its driver was in no mood to speak. Once I’d told him to take me to New Haven, he turned up his talk-radio station, which was fine with me. My hastily conceived plan was to lose myself someplace anonymous and urban. I didn’t know much about New Haven except that Yale was there and a good portion of the city was poor. Somewhere between the wealthy students and the poor townies, I hoped I could blend in and find work.
Beyond New Haven loomed New York City. If all else failed, I could take a Greyhound from the smaller city to the larger one. For the time being, though, Manhattan was out of my reach. Rent there was exorbitant, and I couldn’t turn up on my sister’s doorstep. Even if I convinced her to take me in, I could be tracked down there too easily, and I knew my sister couldn’t be trusted to keep a secret from someone as rich and famous as Nico. Also, the obvious way to find a new job — Discriminating Nannies, Inc. — was out of the question. They would want a reference from my previous employer, for one thing. For another, their office was the only one on the planet through which Nico would be fairly certain to find me, if he wanted to. I had to start fresh somewhere. New Haven would be the place.
“What street?” the cabbie asked as we entered the city. The best answer I could come up with was Yale University, anywhere on campus. Fall semester had apparently begun; students swarmed across the road at every crosswalk. He pulled over on a tree-lined avenue and let me out. I stood for a long time, clutching the handle of my suitcase, while students my age walked past talking animatedly, backpacks slung over their shoulders, looking as if they had never in their lives experienced a moment of not knowing exactly where they were headed.
CHAPTER 22
I spent that afternoon trying to set up interviews for apartments I had found through Yale’s off-campus housing service. It was discouraging work. For one thing, rents were higher than I expected. I left voice-mail messages at five of the six group houses that were more or less in my price range; an actual human being picked up the phone at the sixth house and told me tersely that the room had already been rented. I was beginning to see how naive I’d been to think I might have a place to sleep lined up by nightfall. Even if someone had wanted to speak with me, how attractive a housemate would I be with no job and no money other th
an what was in my measly savings account?
By midafternoon it occurred to me that what I should have done first was line up a job. I found my way to a main drag near campus and began going door to door. The first HELP WANTED sign I ran across was in the window of a pizza parlor. A bored-looking counter girl gave me an application to fill out. I stared at it a long time, realizing the obvious: I had no address to put down, no experience in food service, no references except for a couple of teachers back at college and the families I used to babysit for, and no way to account for the hole in my résumé where Nico Rathburn had been. I did have a phone number, but as I wrote it in, I realized I couldn’t remember the last time I’d paid my phone bill, which probably meant the bill was on its way to me at Thornfield Park. Before long my payment would be past due and I wouldn’t be able to use my cell phone.
By the time I handed in the application and the counter girl assured me the manager would call if he was interested, I could feel panic beginning to set in. As badly as I needed an apartment and a job, what I needed most of all was someplace to sleep that night. Back out on the street, I found a bench outside a grocery store and sat down to call information on my cell phone. I found a Motel 6 in the New Haven area, although its distance from where I was standing was a mystery I’d have to solve later. The cost of a one-night stay brought me up short. At that rate, it wouldn’t take long for me to burn through most of my savings. Then where would I get the money for a deposit on a place to live?
I had eaten the sandwich I’d packed for the road long ago. It tasted like home, and as I swallowed the last few bites I had felt like crying. Walter’s sourdough bread seemed like my last link to safety, comfort, dignity, and people who cared about me. As miserable as I was beginning to feel, I realized that worries about where I would sleep and how I would earn money had so far that day driven out the pain of missing Nico. I was almost out of cash and would have to find an ATM soon — one that would probably have a huge withdrawal fee — but I resolved to use the last of the money I had with me to buy something to eat.