Pretty Things

by Janelle Brown

  I nod. Outside, the pine trees rustle and sway. It has been warm for the better part of the week and much of the first snow has melted, leaving only icy crusts on the needles and slush along the drive. Another storm is due before the holidays, only a week away.

  “And there’s one more little thing.” He closes his eyes, embarrassed to meet my gaze. “When she left here, Ash took the car, right? So…”

  * * *

  —

  Michael drives out the following afternoon, in a new silver BMW SUV that we buy him at the dealership in Reno. Once I would have thought nothing of a purchase like this—a trinket, a toy!—but now the expense feels like a splurge. I have to learn to live within my new means, I remind myself, as I drive back over the summit alone. Michael won’t care, will he? All he needs is books, and coffee, and me.

  When I get home the house feels oppressively silent without him. I walk through the empty rooms, pick up things that Michael has left behind: a sweater that I press to my face that smells of spice and cigarettes; the charger for his cellphone, which he left plugged into the wall by the bed; a water cup with the imprint of his lips along the rim. I press my lips against the outline, like a besotted schoolgirl.

  I flop down in the library, the coziest room in the house. With Michael gone (To Nina? Despite his assurances, I worry), my internal chatter is starting up again; the whispers of self-doubt are back. I pull out my sketchbook and flip through the pictures of dresses, but they look flat on the page now, derivative and dull. Are these really any good? What if Michael’s just flattering me because he doesn’t want to hurt me?

  I put the sketchbook down and go hunt for my phone; finding it hidden in the drawer of a sideboard in the parlor. I can’t help myself: I click on the Instagram app for the first time since we were married. There, I see that the world has continued apace even as my life has taken a radical left turn. Maya and Trini and Saskia and Evangeline are off in Dubai, wearing Zuhair Murad sundresses as they pose on the backs of camels. Saskia has uploaded a photo of herself in a leopard-print bikini with the phallic thrust of the Burj Khalifa tower rising up behind her; it has 122,875 likes and a long stream of comments. Beeaaautty—Maravilhosa—That bod is on fire—Girrrl, ur so hot can u follow me back?

  When I click over to my own Instagram feed I see that my following has dropped again, dipping below 300,000 for the first time in three years. The natives are getting restless—Yo V, where u at these days? You on a social media fast? We want clottttthhhhhes—and I realize that I’m in danger of obsolescence.

  Do I care? I wait to feel jealous of my old friends, or like I’ve lost something meaningful, but I feel nothing. No—I feel superior. I’ve finally learned to turn off the cameras and live in peace. (Again, her voice! I wish it would go away, even when it’s right.)

  I force myself to put the phone back in the drawer. And then a moment later, I pick it up again and dial Benny’s number.

  It rings for a long time before Benny answers. I wonder if they’ve taken his cellphone away again, but eventually he answers. His voice is thick and slurred. Have they increased his meds again? “Benny, I’ve got news.”

  He’s been ignoring me for weeks now, my texts all going unanswered. He’s still mad at me. He still thinks I drove his one true love (good grief) away from him.

  “News about Nina?”

  “No. Jesus, Benny. Let that go.”

  I can feel him pouting. “OK then, what? You’ve finally come to your senses and are getting out of that hellhole? Burning Stonehaven to the ground?”

  “Not exactly,” I say. “I got married.”

  “Married.” There’s a long pause. “To whatshisface? Victor? I didn’t know you two were back together. That’s great.”

  “Not him, Jesus God, no. To Michael.”

  An even longer pause. Finally, he speaks: “You got me. Who’s Michael?”

  “The writer? Who was staying in the caretaker’s cottage?” Nothing. “He’s Irish? Old family? I told you about him.” Still nothing. “For chrissake, Benny. He’s the guy who came with Ashley—with Nina. When she left, he stayed. And we…well, we fell in love. I know it sounds strange, but I’m really happy, Benny. I really am. The happiest I’ve been in a really long time. And I just wanted you to know.”

  The pause this time goes on so long that I start to wonder whether he’s fallen asleep on the other end of the line.

  “Benny.” There’s a sinkhole opening inside me, and with every moment of silence it widens.

  “I heard you.”

  And I know what he’s thinking, because he’s my brother. And his soundless whisper of doubt exposes the fear I’ve been avoiding myself. “Benny…?”

  There’s a strange sound on the other end of the line, a strangling cough, or maybe it’s a laugh. “You married a guy you know nothing about?”

  “I know enough,” I say. “I know how I feel.”

  “Vanessa,” he says slowly. “You’re an idiot.”

  * * *

  —

  I remind myself that this is Benny’s disease speaking: a version of the same pessimism and paranoia and nostalgia that has torn his life apart. And yet, his words are a kind of poison, which seeps into my happiness and threatens to destroy it. You married a guy you know nothing about?

  Do I? Do I know anything about Michael other than what he’s told me himself? Of course I don’t. I haven’t met his family, or spoken to his friends (other than her!). And yet I also can’t disregard this sense of knowing and being known that he’s given me: that he is the only person who has seen Vanessa Liebling as I really am, outside of the elaborate trappings of my name and public image. The truth of that emotion trumps his uncorroborated autobiography.

  And yet. A day after hanging up on Benny in a huff, I find myself sitting in front of my computer, surreptitiously doing research on my new husband. I type Michael O’Brien into a search engine and get…nothing. Or rather: way too much. There are thousands of Michael O’Briens, maybe tens of thousands: dentists, musicians, spiritual healers, financial advisers, party clowns. By adding some parameters (teacher, writer, Portland, Irish) I find his LinkedIn profile, with a list of the schools he’s taught at, as well as a basic personal website with some of his poetry, a black-and-white portrait, and a Contact button. The same things I found on my original cursory Google search before we’d even met, but nothing more.

  I try searching O’Brien and Ireland and castle and am relieved to discover that yes, there is a castle that belonged to the noble clan of O’Briens. In fact, there appear to be eleven, so it’s not clear which O’Brien castle belonged to his particular branch of the family.

  And that’s it. If there’s anything else about him online, it’s been drowned in a sea of other Mikes and Michaels and O’Briens. He has no Facebook profile, no Instagram feed, no Twitter handle. But I already knew that about him. He warned me that he has no interest in putting his life out there for the world to see. And I get it, I do! (Now I do, at least a little.) A desire for privacy shouldn’t be cause for suspicion; privacy used to be something people even valued, once upon a time.

  I stare at the blinking search field, feeling sticky and soiled. I sense something tenuous and vulnerable on the line, something that could be so easily broken if I’m not careful. So it’s almost a relief when there’s a clatter from the front of the house and then I hear Michael calling out my name. He’s home, a day early. I shut the whole thing down and dash away from the computer, saved from the precipice.

  And there he is, my husband. His new car outside is crammed full of cardboard boxes, and the smell of exhaust and roadside food lingers on his clothes as he throws his arms around me and squeezes me tight to his chest.

  “How was Oregon?”

  “Torture,” he says. He sounds despondent. “It’s going to take longer than I thought to sort the whole mess out. My credi
t has been utterly destroyed. She cleaned me out. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  “You’ll start over,” I murmur. “With me. It’s OK. I have enough money to cover the both of us.” For a while, I think, but don’t say out loud.

  I can hear his slow, measured breaths, the steady drum of his heart. “I’m so embarrassed, Van. I’m so sorry to have to put you through this.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I say into the soft flannel of his shirt. “It’s hers. She’s a monster.”

  “You saved my life, really. I can only imagine how much worse things might have gotten if you hadn’t exposed her as a fraud. What if I’d actually gone ahead and married her?” He shudders. Then he tips my head up and studies my face. “You’re my savior. This place is like heaven. I couldn’t wait to get back to you.”

  See? I have no good reason to doubt him.

  29.

  Week Four

  MICHAEL IS SPENDING MORE and more time on his laptop, writing. He has moved from his favorite position on the couch in the library, next to me, and instead now works at the desk in my father’s old study. “Better for my back to sit on an actual chair,” he tells me. (I understand! Really I do!) He’s moved a space heater in there, and closes the door to keep the room warm. When I pass by I can hear the clatter of keys, the murmur of his voice as he sounds out words. At dinner, he’s distracted, as if he’s left most of himself back in the overheated study. When I call him on this he looks startled.

  “Sorry, honey. I should have warned you that I get like this when I’m on a roll with my writing.” But he reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “This is a good thing, though. I’m inspired. You’re inspiring me. My muse.”

  I’ve always wanted to be a muse!

  I wander into the study one evening and catch him working in the dark. His face is buried in the screen, so immersed in what he’s typing that he fails to notice me entering the room in my stocking feet. I’m almost around the desk when he finally registers my presence just a few feet away. He looks up with alarm, the blue glow from the screen illuminating the shock on his face; and then he quickly snaps the lid of his laptop shut.

  He puts a flat hand on the computer, anchoring it to the desk, then looks up at me with a frown. “No peeking,” he says. “I’m serious.”

  I slide into his lap and tug playfully at the lid of the computer. “Come on,” I say. “Just one chapter? One page? A paragraph?”

  He shifts his weight so that I slide off his lap and end up back on my feet next to him. His features are shadowed in the gloom, but I can tell that he is annoyed. “I’m serious, Vanessa. When people read my work-in-progress it makes me self-conscious and then I can’t write at all. I need to work in a vacuum, without anyone’s judgments or opinions.”

  “Even mine?” I hate that I’m pouting, but I can’t help it.

  “Especially yours.”

  “But you know I’m going to love what you write. I love your poetry.”

  “See? This is what I mean. You’ll love it no matter what, which means I’ll end up wondering whether or not I can trust your opinion, and then I’ll start second-guessing myself. That makes it even worse.”

  “OK, OK, I get it. I’ll leave you to it.” I turn to stalk off but he grabs my wrist before I get far.

  “Vanessa.” His voice is cajoling. “This isn’t about you.”

  “But she read your work. She said so.” I am surprised by the spite in my voice.

  His hand tightens painfully on my wrist. Am I being too petulant? Do I sound whiny and jealous? I wish I could take it back, but it’s too late. “Why are you still worrying about her? Vanessa, you have to let that go. And besides, no, she didn’t get to read what I’m working on now. She saw some old material, against my better judgment, but I’ve got something new in the works.”

  I tug my hand away. “Forget I said anything.”

  His voice softens. “You shouldn’t be jealous of someone who didn’t actually exist, you know. Especially her. It’s really not worth getting worked up about.”

  “I’m not.” I’m lying. I’m upset. He shut me out. That’s not supposed to happen, is it? Not when you’re in love; when you’re supposedly seen?

  He’s not a fool, so he knows I’m lying, too. Of course he registers the anger in the way I stomp up the stairs and climb straight into bed, even though it’s barely eight o’clock. I wait for him to come to me, but he doesn’t. It’s the first time we’ve gone to bed separately since we’ve been together.

  I lie in the icy sheets, shivering. Our first argument: Was it my fault? Am I too shrill, too controlling? Have I fucked everything up for good? I know I should go apologize and beg for forgiveness, but an old, familiar inertia descends. The dark curtain, falling around my bed, and I find I can’t muster the will to get up; so instead I curl up under the velvet coverlet and cry myself to sleep.

  * * *

  —

  When I wake up, it’s pitch-black, and the faint radioactive gleam of the old alarm clock tells me that it’s close to midnight. Outside, a winter wind has picked up. I lie in the bed, my eyes raw and puffy from crying, listening to the groaning of the pines and the rattle of ice on the windowpanes. I can hear the wind whipping around the corners of the house, a faint high whistle like a distant train rushing through the dark.

  And underneath that—the slow, steady thrum of human breath. I roll to my side and reach out for Michael, but the bed is empty. And only then am I aware of the shadow falling over me, a spectral presence here in the dark, silently watching me from across the room. I sit up, gripping the sheet to my chest and think—Ghost!

  But of course, it’s just Michael. He walks slowly over to the bed, his laptop gripped in both hands.

  “You scared me,” I say.

  He sits down on the edge of the bed next to me, then unfolds the laptop. It flicks to life, illuminating the room with a pale blue glow. “Peace offering?” he says. He holds the computer out toward me.

  I take it gingerly. “You changed your mind.”

  “I was being unreasonable,” he says. “But you have to understand that I was burned pretty hard by Ashley.”

  “Nina,” I correct him.

  “See? I don’t even know what to call her.” He wrinkles his nose. “You get why I’m having a hard time learning to trust again? But I also don’t want you to think that I’m keeping secrets from you. That’s not our relationship. You aren’t her, I need to keep reminding myself of that. So…” He pulls open a document on his home screen. “Read. It’s just a little snippet, but…you’ll get the gist.”

  The laptop is warm in my hands, as if it’s alive under my palm. “Thank you.” I’m a little weepy: This is more like it. All is forgiven.

  He stands over me while I read, studying my face as I scroll through his words.

  My love—ohmylovemylove. When I look at her, her green eyes stirring in that feline face, the words (worlds) whirl within me. My beauty my love my savior. All my life I’ve been a wanderer but she makes me still. Life pivots around us. A shared center, two people one point, it is within and it is without but always it is us us us and we need nothing beyond that.

  It goes on like this for paragraphs. My first reaction is one of dismay. It’s not very…good, is it? Nothing like the lovely poetry that he’d quoted to me in the bedroom. Nothing like the Maileresque masterpiece I’d been envisioning. But I take a beat, second-guess myself the way I always do: Just because it’s un petit étrange, not to my taste at all really, who am I to judge? (Postmodern literature: Just one of the many classes I failed at Princeton.) I sense Michael studying my reaction, the tiny twitches of my face illuminated by the glowing screen; and it’s then that I am able to summon the only important realization, the one that makes my judgment of his writing skills irrelevant.

  “It’s about me?” I whisper.

/>   I can’t really see his face, but I feel his cold hand on my cheek. “Of course, it’s about you. My muse, remember?”

  “I’m touched. Really.” But when I try to keep reading the next page he gently tugs the laptop from my hands and chides me. “You can see the rest when I’m done.”

  * * *

  —

  His words inhabit me as I dream that night, and are still in my head when I wake the next morning. My love—ohmylovemylove. I fly out of bed—alive again!—and go to find him.

  But he’s gone. In the kitchen I find a note by the coffeepot: Drove to the store to get the paper. His laptop is sitting there on the kitchen island, emitting a faint whine. I run my hands over the lid, feeling the hard drive vibrate under my palm. I shouldn’t. He trusts me!

  I just can’t resist—I flip the lid open. Just to see! If it’s still open to the document, I’ll let myself read one page only, I tell myself. Just to see what else he’s written about me. That’s hardly a betrayal.

  But the screen is locked. I toy with the password field for a moment, fingers hovering over the keys, and then realize that I have no clue what his password might be. All those significant names and dates and numbers that comprise a person’s personal history—I’ve yet to familiarize myself with any of them. I don’t know Michael’s mother’s maiden name, or his childhood pets, or his favorite sister’s birthday. I’m frozen, standing there, realizing that my husband is still a mystery.

  (Is it possible I’ve been too impulsive, for once? Did I get myself into something I wasn’t prepared for? I stand there spinning with self-doubt.)

  But numbers and names mean nothing, I remind myself. They lend us a false sense of security, the belief that verifiable facts are a girder against the loss of love. As if a person will never leave you once they know the name of your favorite teacher, your mother’s star sign, the age at which you lost your virginity. All the ephemera that forms the ladder of our identity—where does it ultimately lead? We act as if it’s meaningful, but it says nothing about the state of our hearts.