by Cecilia Lyra
I look around the room for signs of Elle. If they’re in a committed relationship, there must be something of hers here. A drawer with her clothes. A novel she left behind. A sexy negligee under the pillow. Or worse, a pair of pajamas—pajamas imply the comfort of familiarity.
I take a step closer to Craig’s nightstand. It’s simple, modular: brown wood, two drawers. I am snooping. There’s no other word for it.
I open the bottom drawer first. It’s like looking inside the drawer of someone’s desk at work. Scattered pens and folders. A box of paper clips. A stapler. Boring, impersonal items.
And then I see it. The bright color. Nana’s curvy penmanship.
I count three turquoise envelopes in total. One says, To my granddaughters, Cassie and Julie. The other two say Craig and Stephan Meyers.
Dad.
Fifty-One
Cassie
Monday, July 23rd
Christina is asking me if Daniel is worth it. A dumb question—and she knows it.
I am settled in Nana’s rocking chair, staring at the ceiling. I’ve done nothing but mope today. I’m blaming my indolence on my sprained ankle. Really, the culprit is my heart.
“Yes,” I say. “Of course he is.”
On my phone’s screen, I see her nodding. “Why?”
“Because I love him.” I look down and catch my reflection in Nana’s gilded, antique mirror. It looks darker somehow, less shiny. I have no idea how to clean it. I look unpleasantly unkempt. Frizzy hair (I blame the humidity), dark circles under my eyes (insomnia), and red burn marks on my shoulders and left arm (the sun).
“You also love your career,” she says. A statement both obvious and unhelpful.
“Your point?”
“My point is that you’ve both agreed to take risks in order to be together. You with your career, Daniel with his daughter. You’ve done your part by talking to Claudia. What about him?”
“He talked to Tatiana,” I say, adjusting my earbuds.
“And was summarily convinced to preserve the happy marriage charade for another seven weeks because of some party.”
Christina’s logic is irritating. Also, summarily is a stupid word.
“What are you saying?” I ask, looking her in the eye.
“Daniel is stalling,” she says. “And you know it.”
“You don’t know that.” And then, in a quieter tone, “You can’t.”
“You’re right. I can’t. But that’s what it seems like. I think you should convey to him in no uncertain terms that you are not comfortable waiting until after Labor Day to be together. And if he doesn’t understand, then I think you should consider ending things with him.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
Because I love him. Because he’s my person. Because what we share is different, once-in-a-lifetime. Magical. I used to think that didn’t exist, but it does. Since Daniel left on Saturday morning, I’ve been analyzing every aspect of our relationship. I was objective about it, too. I took a step back, assumed nothing. Contemplated our time together. He loves me. I love him. I still think there’s something I’m missing, but whatever it is it’s not about how much we love each other.
“He’s not lying about his feelings,” I say. “We’re together all the time. He knows everything about me, I know everything about him. I know he loves me. I’m closer to him than I ever was to anyone. Even Julie, and she and I were inseparable when we were younger.”
“What does she think of all of this?” Christina’s tone is impatient. I’m glad I haven’t told her about Tatiana’s phone call, about the woman named Jill. I’m beginning to think I shouldn’t have told her about Ava’s party.
You’re not the first mistress he’s had and I’m sure you won’t be his last.
It has to be a lie. I was their therapist—I would’ve known if he’d been unfaithful. But no—I know that’s not true. My patients don’t always tell me everything. For whatever reason—trust issues, denial, a misplaced sense of embarrassment—people often tuck away bits of information from their therapist.
“Let me guess: she agrees with me,” Christina says.
“No,” I say. “She knows it’s complicated.”
“Of course she does. She’s seen firsthand how messy these things can get. You both have. That’s what baffles me about your situation, Cass. Never in a million years would I have pegged you for the type to get involved with a married guy.”
“I love you, Tina. But we’ve had this conversation before.”
“I know, I know. But you worked things out with your sister. That’s progress. I thought maybe you’d come to your senses about Daniel, too. It’s time to move on with your life.”
“Daniel and I have made progress.” I feel my skin prickle in irritation. “He asked Tatiana for a divorce.”
“Is he still living with her?”
“You know he is.”
“Then that’s not progress.”
I let out a heavy sigh. This isn’t a productive conversation. We’re talking in circles. I tell her I have to go. She doesn’t argue with me. Tells me to take care and we hang up. We haven’t argued, not exactly, but there’s an unacknowledged tension in the air.
Wine. What I need is a glass of wine (or two). I scan my eyes through Nana’s cellar. There’s a Gewürztraminer I’ve had my eye on since I got here, chilled at precisely 45 degrees. But maybe I should wait until Julie gets home. She may think she prefers beer, but that’s only because she hasn’t found the right wine for her palate. Julie’s palate favors sweet with a hint of citrus: lychee, grapefruit. She’ll appreciate the Gewürztraminer.
Thinking of my sister makes me consider Christina’s question—what does Julie think of my relationship with Daniel? I don’t think she’s ever told me, not explicitly.
Christina has shared her opinion: in her mind, my relationship with Daniel is a cry for help. Sophie cast a formidable shadow in my parents’ marriage. She was invisible, but powerful. And I grew up watching her wield this power. My mom’s drinking. My father’s “business trips”. Julie’s existence kept a secret from me for nine years. This was all because of Sophie—directly or indirectly. All because my father loved her. Christina’s theory is that I’ve chosen to be the other woman because, in a twisted way, I crave power. It’s either that or you’re a masochist, she once told me. Why would you knowingly set yourself up for heartbreak?
Christina is one of the most intelligent people I know. And it’s not that I can’t see the logic in her thinking—I can. But she’s wrong. My relationship with Daniel isn’t informed by my childhood trauma. Just the opposite. I grew up feeling both neglected and trapped. Daniel is my safety blanket, my oxygen. I have no legal claim to him. No ring, no marriage certificate. And yet he’s mine. And I’m his. I know this in my bones. I know this, even now. I’m swimming in doubt and insecurity—but not about how much I love him or how much he loves me.
At the end of the day, isn’t that all that matters?
These are the thoughts circulating my mind when Julie’s name pops up on my phone. “Hey,” I say, picking up.
“You have to come over.” Her tone is low, urgent.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Just come. There’s something you have to see.”
Fifty-Two
Julie
Monday, July 23rd
There’s one letter I have to steam open before calling Cassie. The one for Dad.
Dad doesn’t know that the pictures sent to Katherine came from me. He assumed it was Sophie, and she never corrected him. It cost her, too. I’m sure she and Dad would still be together if she hadn’t taken the blame for me.
I still have nightmares about that night.
It began with an email from Cassie saying she never wanted to see me again. No explanation, no apology. My reaction still surprises me: I raced to her house. Well, raced is too optimistic a word. It took me nearly two hours to get there—I had to get on a train and then on a bus
. As a part of my dad’s invisible family, I’d never been to the house on Claybrook Road before, had never been anywhere near the old-monied suburbs that was Dover, Massachusetts—but I knew the address by heart. I used to daydream about living there, about sharing a room with Cassie. In my fantasy, Katherine was gone. Not necessarily dead. Just gone. Peacefully. Definitively.
The house was something out of a storybook. Arched entryway flanked by white columns, a red double door, two chimneys. Inside, it had every feature I fantasized about—warm, wood-paneled living room, gourmet kitchen, a sprawling staircase—and some that were beyond my wildest dreams—a gym, a theater room, five bedrooms.
Cassie wasn’t there: she’d already packed her bags and left. I never knew where to. (Nana had said she was safe but wouldn’t divulge any details.)
I talked to Dad about Cassie’s decision. I was sure he’d be on my side, that he’d help me convince her to let me back in. I’ve always been his favorite. I was wrong.
“She doesn’t want to see you,” he’d said. It was the first time he’d spoken to me in such a callous tone. The first time he didn’t sprinkle his sentences with ma petite. I tried to be understanding of his grief, but his words cut deep inside me. I was used to having an absent father, not a cold one.
“Please, Dad?” I asked. “I just need to talk to her.”
“She doesn’t want to see you,” he repeated, more harshly this time. “Sophie killed her mother.”
I did not correct him, did not take responsibility for what I’d done.
Later, it occurred to me that his characterization was grossly unfair. The pictures hadn’t killed Katherine—the affair had. And that was on him, not on Sophie. Sophie wasn’t the one with the official family. The one who insisted that their relationship be kept a secret. That was all Dad. But at the time I’d been so wrapped up in my own sense of guilt that I did not point this out. I’m not sure I would have even if I’d realized his hypocrisy at the time.
I spent the next few days in a fog of guilt and dread. I felt like it was only a matter of time until my secret was revealed. Until I was unmasked as a monster. I missed Cassie—I kept having conversations with her in my mind, kept dreaming about her showing up at my apartment and embracing me—but in a sense, every day I spent apart from her was a relief. It meant she hadn’t found out. I knew that she’d confront me when she did. And I knew that whatever fury she directed my way would be well-deserved.
My dad showed up at our apartment two weeks later. He was there for Sophie.
“You bitch,” he said. “What the fuck were you thinking sending her those pictures?”
It was the first time I saw my dad use that kind of language with my mom. He’d always been so gentle before, so caring. It made me think of the fights Cassie had witnessed as a child, and how terrifying it must’ve been for her.
Sophie seemed unafraid.
“Whatever happened was your fault, Stephan.” She slammed the door on his face.
I knew the toll that took on her. I knew how much she loved him.
Still, she did not let it show. She held her head up high and moved on with her life. Everyone did. Dad moved to Seattle. Cassie followed her dream of becoming a psychologist. Even I moved on—on the outside, anyway. I went to college, I got married.
But now, as I hold Nana’s letter to Dad, I realize that a part of me is still seventeen years old, stuck in that nightmare, filled with dread.
Fifty-Three
Cassie
Monday, July 23rd
Our father is in Montauk. The letter proves it.
“It doesn’t actually prove anything.” Julie looks at me with big, sugary eyes.
“Nana says so herself,” I say, stabbing a finger on the blue paper. Nana’s words sit under my fingernail: Now that you are here, you must guide the girls through this arduous journey. They need their father. “She makes reference to another letter. One he obviously already got or else it would be inside Craig’s drawer.”
Julie chews on her lip. “Maybe he’s still on his way.”
“I saw him.” My tone is harsher than I intended. I have no sympathy for my father, but I do feel for Julie. I understand why she doesn’t want to come to terms with him being on the island: it means he could’ve seen her if he’d wanted to. “Maybe Nana asked him to give us space,” I offer.
“You don’t believe that.”
“You’re right, I don’t. I think he’s a selfish jerk who hasn’t told you he’s here because he doesn’t think of anyone but himself.”
“Volume,” she says, whispering, jutting her chin towards the family room. The kids are inside watching some movie. I can hear the telltale sound effects of cartoons. We’re in Craig’s kitchen, which is small but cozy, with blue walls and white backsplashes.
“Sorry.” I shoot her an apologetic look. I blame Craig for this mess—not his kids.
As if she can read my mind, she asks, “But if Craig knows he’s here, why hasn’t he told me?”
I have no idea. What I do know is this: when Craig gets home, I’m making him tell us everything. I’ve waited this long out of respect for Julie, but no more. But I’m not about to say this now. It’ll just add to her anxiety.
“They’re dating,” she says. “Craig and Elle.”
I feel my expression softening. “You asked him?”
“Ben let it slip.” Her tone is barely audible.
“Oh, Jul.” I lean in to give her a hug. “I’m sorry.”
“I feel so stupid,” she says, her head buried in my neck. “It doesn’t even make sense that I’m this upset. It’s not like we’re together.”
I pull away from our embrace to meet her gaze. “Feelings are feelings. They’re not bound by logic.” It’s something I often say to my patients. It’s liberating, in a way. To accept that the emotions you experience aren’t right or wrong—they just are.
I want to add that Craig is an idiot. Julie is perfect: kind, gentle, creative. Not to mention stunning. Elle might be attractive—and she is; very attractive—but Julie is the most beautiful woman in the world. Plus, she’s a genuinely good person. Too good, in fact. Too forgiving. Too understanding.
I shouldn’t complain. I’m lucky she forgave me.
“I just hope she loves them,” she says, leaning her elbows against the countertop.
“Who?”
“Ben and Kiki.” Her eyes are glued to the eggshell white ceramic tiles on the kitchen floor.
“Oh, honey,” I say. Now my heart is breaking. “I know you don’t want to hear this right now, but maybe this is for the best.”
“You’re right,” she says. “I don’t want to hear that.”
I smile. “Fair enough.”
But then she frowns and adds, “Remember when you told me to find out what makes me happy?”
I nod.
“Craig would’ve made me happy, I think. God, how stupid am I for thinking that?”
“Not stupid. Nana agreed, remember?” I don’t add that I’m upset with Nana for planting this seed in Julie’s heart to begin with. Leave it up to her to play Cupid from beyond the grave.
“But now I’m wondering how she even knew that?”
I shrug. “She knew both of you well?”
“Maybe,” she says. “Can someone know you when you don’t know yourself?” A pause, she looks up and then blinks back tears. “Because I feel like I don’t know myself.”
“Most people don’t.” I squeeze her hand. “And that’s OK. Better than OK, actually. It’s what makes life worth living. Finding out who we are.”
“You said I used to be more like Elle, at least my clothes were. Look at me now.” She pauses, glances down at her green silk blouse and slacks. “I look like a Stepford wife.”
“Not entirely. You have a flower in your hair.” I gesture to the daisy sitting prettily next to her pearl earrings.
“I grabbed it on the way here.” A sad smile spreads across her face. “It was lying on the beach, closer to th
e bushes. It felt like such a shame to just leave it there. It was so…beautiful.”
“You used to do that when we were girls.”
“I did?”
“You don’t remember?”
“No.” She’s silent for a moment. “I guess I had to erase so much of who I was to make room for the person Patrick wanted me to be.”
“Maybe being here is allowing you to reclaim that person, then.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” she says. “I used to think of it as the Nana-effect, but maybe it’s the Montauk-effect.”
“Maybe it’s you and me. What Nana taught us. What we taught ourselves, too.”
“I like that,” she says.
“I do, too.”
Fifty-Four
Julie
Monday, July 23rd
The voices coming from the foyer are getting louder. Or Cassie’s voice is, anyway. She’s confronting Craig. I want no part in it, which is why I’m sitting on the couch in between Kiki and Ben. They’re both still entranced by the TV, but if Cassie raises her tone even a little bit more they’ll be able to hear her. I look for the remote, but I can’t find it.
I get up from the couch and manually turn up the volume. My ears prick up when I hear my name. I step out of the family room. Craig and Cassie can’t see me from where I’m standing. I can’t see them, either. But I can make out what they’re saying.