One-two-three. One-two-three. One. Two. Three.
My mother reads my favorite story, and my world sings.
CHAPTER 31
“So why aren’t you writing today?” asks Petra.
Beth and Petra are sitting at a corner booth at Dish, splitting a heaping plate of sinfully rich and fattening lobster mac-n-cheese. It’s early afternoon on a Wednesday in November, and the restaurant is dead. The two people who came in for lunch left an hour ago. This is how it goes midweek in the restaurant business on Nantucket in November. Petra will limp along until Christmas Stroll, then close down until April 1.
“I think it might be done,” says Beth.
Petra’s eyes widen, excited.
“Really? You finished your book?”
“I don’t know, I’m not sure. I’m taking some time away from it so I can see it clearly and then decide if it’s really done.”
Petra mutters a laugh through a mouthful of lobster and macaroni.
“What?” asks Beth.
Petra swallows.
“What you just said. Are you talking about your book or your marriage?”
Interesting. Beth wonders if the two are in any way related.
“I have this homework assignment from our marriage counselor that I haven’t touched that I should’ve done like two months ago. I made Jimmy cancel our next appointment because I didn’t do it yet. I don’t know what my problem is.”
“Maybe you’re afraid of what you’ll discover.”
“Maybe.”
“Probably.”
Petra looks straight into Beth’s eyes, straight into Beth in a way that most people never do. Her gaze is focused, unrushed, unafraid to stay there, and kind.
“I think I’m scared he’d cheat on me again.”
“He might.”
“If I take him back, I’d wake up every morning and think, ‘He could cheat on me today.’”
“He could, but that was true before he actually did, you know. Every day is a commitment and a choice, for both of you.”
“I know, but he chose to cheat. I’d worry after every little fight that he’d be off with someone again. Every time I see him, I think, ‘You slept with another woman.’ And I picture them together. It’s disgusting, and I can’t help it. I feel obsessed about it. I wish I could erase it.”
“Do you still love him?”
“Yeah, but I hate him, too.”
It’s true. Beth loves him, and she hates him. She misses him and never wants to see him again. She’s disgusted by the thought of him, yet she can’t stop thinking about that night on the kitchen floor.
Petra sighs.
“I just wish I knew what to do,” says Beth.
“Do what you’re doing with your book. Take some time away from thinking about it, guilt-free. Then go back to it with a clear mind and fresh eyes when you’re ready.”
Beth nods. She discovers a big hunk of lobster hidden in the creamy cheese and stabs it with her fork.
“But what do you think?” asks Beth.
“About what?”
“Jimmy. Do you think I should take him back?”
“Only you can answer that.”
“But what would you do?”
Petra scrapes a crusty, caramelized section of macaroni and cheese from the side of the dish and eats it. She drinks her water and wipes her mouth with her napkin. Beth waits. Petra smiles with her lips closed.
“Petra? Really, I want your advice.”
Petra raises her eyebrows and says nothing.
“That’s what I’d do,” she finally says. “Stop all the chatter. Stop looking outside yourself for the answers. Get quiet and still and ask yourself those homework questions you’re so afraid of. Whatever you find in that space, that’s the truth. That’s your answer. That’s what I’d do.”
Beth sighs, disappointed but not surprised. She should’ve known that Petra wouldn’t do her homework for her.
“You’re too wise to be single.”
Petra laughs.
“That’s exactly why I’m single! No, I’d love to share my life with someone, have a family. I will. I just haven’t invited it yet. I’ve been so focused on Dish and all these people who need their jobs and taking care of my mom and dad. But someday. Someday, I’d like to have what you have.”
“Had.”
“And have. I’d be lucky to have what you have.”
Beth smiles, grateful for the reminder. She has three beautiful, healthy girls, a lovely home, great friends, and a possibly finished first novel. She has so much. She checks her watch.
“Oh my God, I have to go! I have to pick up the girls.”
Beth wraps her bright purple scarf around her neck, grabs her bag, and hugs Petra good-bye. “Thanks for an amazing lunch.”
“Anytime,” says Petra, hugging her back. “So good to see you.”
“You, too.” Beth rushes for the door, not wanting to be late.
“You’ll figure it out,” says Petra, but Beth is already outside and doesn’t hear her.
IT’S TUESDAY EVENING, the week of Thanksgiving. Beth and the girls have just finished eating macaroni and cheese for dinner, but Beth doesn’t feel at all satisfied. Petra’s lobster mac-n-cheese has probably ruined the Kraft version for her forever. She browses the refrigerator for something else, maybe something sweet, but nothing appeals to her.
All three girls are in the living room. Sophie has the remote control and is in charge, scrolling through the On Demand movie options while Jessica and Gracie yell out different titles. They have no school tomorrow and nothing going on tonight—no basketball practice, no play rehearsal, no home-work. Beth is grateful to have a relaxed night with no schedule and no one to drop off or pick up, and, if they can ever make a decision, a movie to watch with her daughters.
She starts a fire in the fireplace and pops a bag of popcorn in the microwave. The girls are still watching trailers, undecided. Beth grabs a blanket and tries to get settled on the couch next to Grover, but she’s feeling inexplicably restless. She stands up and looks out the kitchen window. It looks cold and dark and entirely uninviting, yet, for some reason, she needs to get outside. She grabs her coat, hat, scarf, gloves, and a flashlight.
“I’m going for a walk. I won’t be long. Don’t start the movie without me.”
“Okay!” says Gracie.
Hypnotized by the TV, Sophie and Jessica don’t even acknowledge that their mother has said anything. Gracie can tell them where she is if they ever wonder.
It’s a dark night with no moon, but the stars are amazing, and it’s not as cold as she expected. She points her flashlight in front of her and walks, not conscious at first of a destination, but after a couple of minutes she has one. Fat Ladies Beach. It’s a bit farther than she’d planned, but she’ll walk fast.
She’s walking on the dirt road, focused on the uneven ground within the beam of light in front of her, the visible puffs of her breath, the tempo of her breathing coordinated with her pace. She can’t see anything to either side of her, but she knows her surroundings well, the flat, grassy, uncultivated, and mostly treeless landscape that looks like African savanna. It feels good to walk, to move. She spends most of her days, her entire life really, sitting—at the kitchen table, in her car, in her seat at the library. Sedentary. Stuck.
Her exposed nose and cheeks are freezing cold, and her eyes are watering from the wind on her face, but otherwise, she’s bundled well. She feels her heart beating hard, the muscles in her legs burning. She’s both hot and cold, holding two opposing energies at once, sparking something within her that feels unfamiliar but exciting.
She reaches the beach, which feels far enough without walking along it, but before turning straight around, she stops for a minute to simply take it all in. She turns off her flashlight and listens to the waves, which sound to her like the earth itself breathing. She tips her chin up and stares at the starry sky, at its vast, complicated, unfathomable enormity but also at its simple, a
ccessible beauty, its existence explained by the logical laws of physics and, at the same time, ultimately, utterly unexplainable.
She’s the only person here. She’s completely alone, yet she feels strangely and beautifully connected to everything. Two opposing energies, held within her, sparking something.
It’s time to go home, to blankets and popcorn and a movie with her daughters. She’s off the beach and back on the dirt road when her flashlight catches two glowing white lights, like two fallen stars hovering just above the earth, and she stops fast in her tracks. It’s a deer, an adolescent, positioned directly in her path only a few feet in front of her. They both stand still, face-to-face, breathing and bearing witness to each other for at least a full minute. Beth observes its black nose, its perky ears, its long, erect neck and wonders what the deer sees of her. And then, without warning, it takes off into the dark and wild Nantucket savanna.
Back at home, the girls had grown equally annoyed and worried by Beth’s absence. They’re ready now. They’ve been waiting. But first, Beth makes root-beer floats for them and a mudslide for herself. Then they all settle into the couches under blankets and watch Marley & Me, a movie they already own and have all seen at least three times.
It’s late when the movie ends, and Beth goes to bed shortly after she tucks her girls in. It normally takes her a while to fall asleep, at least a half hour of tossing, the day replaying, tomorrow already tugging at her sleeve, but tonight, the walk and fresh air must’ve tuckered her out because she falls straight to sleep.
An hour later though, her eyes pop open. She’s fully awake, her heart pounding, demanding something of her. She gets out of bed. She finds a sheet of paper and a pen. She draws a cross, creating four squares, and writes. She can barely write fast enough. Words she didn’t know she had within her pour out.
When she finishes, she looks over the four squares. She reads the entire sheet three times. There it is, her homework assignment completed. Her answer. She reads it one more time and knows what she needs to do.
WHAT I NEED TO FEEL WANTED
Choose to spend time with me (instead of sleeping late, smoking cigars outside alone, staying out past closing, sleeping with other women)
Be happy to see me
Compliment me every now and then, something more specific than “you look nice”
Never cheat on me again
WHAT I NEED TO FEEL HAPPY
My girls
My friends
My writing
For you to see and appreciate the love and care I give to our family/household
A neat house
Spending time off this island, in a big city or near mountains
Believing I deserve to be
WHAT I NEED TO FEEL SAFE
Knowing my girls are okay
Not going into debt ever again and always being able to pay the bills
You never seeing Angela again
Believing you would never cheat on me again
WHAT I NEED TO FEEL LOVED
Hugs and kisses
Hearing you say the words “I love you”
CHAPTER 32
Olivia stands over the kitchen counter where two dozen glass jars filled with hot, homemade cranberry jelly are cooling in pans of water. She’s been in busy motion for two weeks, ostensibly preparing for winter. She stored the deck furniture and the grill in the shed. She raked the yard and turned off the water to the outdoor shower. She ordered a dozen books and a case of her favorite merlot. And she’s been cooking.
She’s made old favorites—pasta fagioli, clam chowder, butternut squash risotto, and black bean soup—and she’s tried new recipes, Pad Thai and lobster macaroni and cheese, insane quantities of food for a woman who lives alone and never has company. She’s been cooking every day, creating gallons of savory dinners that are barely tasted before being aliquoted into plastic containers and stacked neatly in the freezer. Once the freezer was full, she turned her attention to cranberries—cranberry-walnut bread, orange-cranberry muffins, and now cranberry jelly.
She tells herself that all this cooking is good planning. If it’s a harsh winter, if it’s a season of nor’easters, if she gets snowed in (she still only owns that one, small sand shovel), she won’t need to leave the house for food. But this is just what she tells herself. In truth, the cooking has been necessary for other reasons.
She started cooking right after she read the letter from David. The first recipe she turned to was the pasta fagioli, the one she knows by heart, the soup her mother used to make on Saturdays. Her eyes burned as she chopped the onions, and she welcomed the stinging tears. She cried while she chopped the garlic and the celery and the tomatoes. She sobbed while she stirred in the broth and the beans, then she stopped when the soup was done. She did the same thing while making the black bean soup, the tomato bisque, and the meatballs, but when she got to the onions for the butternut squash risotto, she ran them under cold water, wiped her eyes with her shirtsleeve, and finished the recipe without weeping.
She’s done crying, emptied out, but she keeps cooking. It seems the only thing to do to keep herself sane. Fill a pot, fill the void. She keeps her hands moving, stirring, chopping, pouring. Her hands move through the steps for making cranberry jelly, and she can think about David and his letter without becoming leveled by it. She’s read through it, dissected it, and cried over it so many times now, she knows it as well as her mother’s recipe for pasta fagioli.
Dear Liv,
I wanted to write you rather than call. It seems somehow more proper, and I wanted you to hear this news from me before anyone else. I’m getting married. Her name is Julie. She’s a math teacher. I met her here in Chicago. I know it’s fast, but it feels right. I feel ready.
I wish I could’ve gotten back to this place with you, Liv. I’m sorry that I didn’t. I know I didn’t give my best self to you and Anthony. I guess I got a bit lost in all that we went through. I forgot how to be happy. I think we both forgot.
I hope this news doesn’t hurt you, but I know it probably will. That isn’t my intention. It never has been. I wish every day that you’re okay, that you find happiness again, too. Call me if you want.
Love,
David
Now that the initial shock of the letter has worn off and onions no longer trigger hours of soul-scrubbing tears, other, less explosive feelings have been taking their due turns. Where she’d felt content to be alone the minute before she opened David’s letter, she now feels abandoned in her solitude. She checks to see if the jelly lids have sealed, and she feels scared of being alone forever.
A math teacher named Julie. She sounds young. And pretty. And for some reason, blond. Olivia removes the jars one at a time from their water bath and wipes each one dry against her apron with her jealous hands.
They’ll probably have children. She pictures David holding a baby swaddled in his arms, a house full of kids who belong to him and not her, a big family. These pictures in her mind, vivid and achingly beautiful, punch the air right out of her, as they always do, and she wishes she could somehow stop imagining them. She holds on to the edge of the kitchen counter and waits to either breathe or cry. Today, she breathes.
She reads the letter in her mind again, and it’s the sound of David’s voice she hears. His voice is light and happy. He’s happy, and he’s found a woman named Julie he can share his happiness with.
He’s right. She forgot about happiness. At first, it wasn’t a priority. Anthony had autism, and every ounce of energy went into saving him. Her happiness was irrelevant. Then it didn’t seem appropriate. How could she be happy when they were living a tragedy? And then, just when she was starting to realize that happiness and autism could coexist in the same room, in the same sentence, in her heart, Anthony died, and happiness was no longer a concept she could fathom.
He died, and for a long time after that worst of all mornings, she replayed his death in her mind, unleashing the massive sorrow that still clings to those im
ages, consuming her in a tsunami of devastated grief every day. She thought she would do this forever, that she should do this forever. Her grief was her daily duty, her misery a humble tribute to her son.
But reading her journals has helped her to remember more than that morning. There was more to Anthony’s life than his death. And there was more to Anthony than his autism. So much more. She can think about Anthony now and not be consumed by autism or grief.
But not being consumed with grief is a far cry from being happy. She stacks the jars of jelly on a shelf in the pantry but keeps one on the counter. She pictures David now, and he’s smiling. The image changes from David to Anthony. They have the same mouth, the same dimpled cheeks. Anthony smiling. It’s an easy picture to sustain, an accessible memory, real. For all his frustration and aggression and inability to communicate, Anthony was mostly happy. It was his nature. Given time, it’s David’s nature, too.
She cuts a large slice of bread, slathers the jelly on it, and pours a glass of merlot. She gets comfortable in the chair in the living room in front of a glowing fire and takes a bite of the bread. Her homemade jelly is sweet and tangy, scrumptious.
She listens to David reading his letter in her head while she looks at Anthony’s picture on the wall and decides she’s done cooking. After two weeks of chopping and dicing and sautéing and sobbing, she’s finally done with it all. She’s done and left with a freezer stocked full of comfort food and a vague yet real feeling of hope.
If David can find happiness and begin again, maybe she can, too. Happiness. Shared happiness. Maybe it’s human nature. And all she has to do is invite it in.
As she eats her bread and jelly and considers this new outlook, she gazes up at her photograph of Anthony on the wall. She drinks her wine and admires her collection of white rocks in the glass bowl on the coffee table in front of her—Anthony’s rocks, plus the rocks she’s collected here on Nantucket and the one Beth’s daughter gave to her. She leans over, chooses a rock from the top of the pile, and holds it in her hand. It feels unexpectedly warm in her palm, as if someone had already been holding it.