by Lisa Duffy
They froze, panting . . . then not breathing . . . and then it came—the ringtone piercing and shrill; the back pocket of Bent’s pants, crumpled on the floor, flashing bright white in the dark, the sound loud in the quiet room.
Then the echo upstairs, softer, right on top of where they lay.
“Fuck,” Bent whispered, scrambling out of bed, pulling on his pants while Quinn frantically searched for her dress under the sheets.
She followed Bent to the hallway, looked over his shoulder at Libby’s face, saw the look in her eyes. Now a lie wasn’t an option.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say. I didn’t expect John to just show up—”
“Do you love him?” Libby interrupts.
“Of course. He’s my husband. It’s just . . . complicated.”
“I meant my father.”
Quinn studies her. “Libby, that’s hard to . . . I can’t answer—”
“Because he loves you.” Her voice doesn’t leave any room for doubt. As if Bent’s love for Quinn is a fact.
“Libby, what just happened . . . that doesn’t always mean two people are in love.”
Libby snorts and Quinn sighs, looks at the ceiling.
“That didn’t come out right. I just meant that ideally—”
“I have to go.” Libby walks to the door, opens it, looks back at Quinn.
“What you said before about the baby. You know, about not wanting your husband to stay just because you’re pregnant. Because he feels he has to.” Her eyes flicker to Quinn’s middle. “It’s not just you that has to live with that.”
“What do you mean?” Quinn asks, but she’s already out the door, closing it gently behind her, leaving Quinn alone in the house.
She’s suddenly cold, a chill overtaking her body, as though she were naked in the thin cotton dress. Libby’s words swirling in her head.
She walks into the bedroom, sits on the edge of the bed, but the scent of them together lingers in the room, the mattress warm under her hands.
One of Bent’s socks is on the floor, and she stands up and walks into the kitchen, her body close to the walls, as if she’s safer, not so exposed. Her heart pounding.
She hears their muffled voices upstairs. Bent and John above her, the leg of a chair scraping against the floor. Heavy footsteps cross the ceiling, and she tenses, waits for the sound of a doorknob turning or someone on the back stairs, coming down to her door.
She doesn’t ponder it—just moves—noiselessly grabbing her keys and phone in one hand, her sandals in the other. She turns all the lights off for reasons she can’t put into words, only pausing in the front hallway to make sure she’s alone before she slips outside.
John’s truck is parked in front of her car on the street, a dark hulking shadow. She slides behind the wheel of her own car, tosses her phone on the passenger seat. The air reaches her lungs only when she pulls away from the curb, presses the gas pedal until the car lurches away from the house.
She doesn’t know where she’s going. With the radio off, the car is silent, only the quiet hum of the engine edging her thoughts. Scenes from the night flashing in her mind.
John’s figure in the doorway and Libby standing on the steps looking at Quinn and Bent, with those eyes. Full of something just out of reach—something Quinn can’t quite grasp.
But her mind keeps stuttering over one moment. When Bent had stood in the hallway on the other side of her closed door. Before she’d opened it. Before they’d ended up in her bed.
She rewinds and plays it over and over, slowing it down until every movement, every word, is in front of her.
The sound of Bent’s hand on the door, the soft thud that might have been a knock—but was it?
Or had he just leaned against the frame, heavily, as if he knew he couldn’t come in? Not knowing she was right there, a foot away, waiting on the other side.
She was the one who opened the thick door separating them, moved closer to him, his head still down, not looking at her until she’d said that word: Stay.
Stay, she’d said.
The fuel light on her dashboard lights up, and Quinn slows down, looks around her. She’s on the other side of town, near Madeline’s house. She follows the winding street until it turns left onto the cul-de-sac.
When she pulls into the driveway, the house is dark but the motion light on the garage flashes when she passes under it, and by the time she’s at the side door, Lucy is peering out at her. She puts a hand over her heart, opens the door, and pulls Quinn inside.
“You scared the life out of me. It’s so dark here compared to where we live—Quinn, what’s wrong? It’s a million degrees outside, and you’re freezing!” She takes her hand off Quinn’s arm and leads her into the living room.
“Sit,” she says, and pulls a blanket off the chair and wraps it around Quinn’s shoulders. She disappears and returns seconds later with a box of tissues and puts them on the table, pulls one out, and offers it to Quinn.
Quinn reaches out, confused, until her fingertips touch her cheek, the wet path of a tear running the length of her face. She doesn’t remember when she started crying.
They sit in silence while Quinn wipes her face, gets her breath under control.
Madeline is sleeping on the couch across from them, a bucket on the floor next to her, a glass of water and a bottle of Tylenol on the table.
“I knew she was drunk, but yowza,” Lucy says, following Quinn’s eyes. “I almost called my brother to help me get her inside. Luckily the threat of that alone was enough to get her out of the car.”
She pictures Bent. Libby walking past him. Okay, Dad.
“I wish you had called him,” Quinn laments. “I bet he does too. We made a mess of things.”
Lucy’s brow wrinkles. “Back up—you two were dancing together. Having fun, I think? Then we left; I dropped you off. What am I missing?”
“He came home. And into my apartment . . . and we . . . well—” She twirls her hand.
Lucy’s eyes go wide.
“And then my husband showed up. You know—the one who’s been missing? His name is John, by the way. Bent calls him Luke. Confusing, right? That’s what happens when your husband has a completely different life. And you know what the funny thing is?” She sniffs, grabs another tissue from the box. “The funny thing is—and it’s not really funny at all—it’s not that I just don’t know who he is anymore. I have no idea who I am anymore. I’m a complete stranger even to myself!”
She wads up the tissue, throws it on the table. Looks at Lucy, who’s waiting, as if there might be more.
“Oh, and I’m pregnant,” she adds, out of breath.
Lucy snaps her fingers. “Now that I knew!”
Quinn blinks. “How did you know?”
“Desi’s my sister,” Lucy says matter-of-factly, and stands up. “Too bad you can’t drink. I’ll have one for both of us.”
She disappears into the kitchen, and Quinn sinks further into the chair, exhausted. She hopes she hasn’t made Lucy uncomfortable—she’s Bent’s sister, after all—but holding it all in is impossible now.
Stay, she’d whispered to Bent. And he had.
And now everything is different. Nothing can return to the way it was before she said it. Before he stepped through the door, lay down in her bed.
Lucy returns with a mug in one hand, a tumbler filled with amber-colored liquid in the other.
“I put honey in your tea. It’s not bourbon, but it’ll have to do.”
Quinn thanks her, puts the mug to her lips, lets the steam warm her face.
“There’s something I didn’t tell you,” Quinn says.
Lucy’s head tilts back. “There’s more?”
“Not with me. It’s Libby. She called when Bent was . . . in my apartment. And then John showed up. She was in the hallway when he just appeared out of nowhere. Anyway, I know you’re protective of her—and I feel awful. I mean, she’s a kid.”
She waits for Lucy to react, s
teadying herself for her to be upset, but Lucy sighs, shakes her head.
“I know I’m overprotective. I can’t help it! Bent’s always telling me not to baby her. But you know, he’s a guy. He’s all—shake it off. Toughen up! Just like my father raised him. I overcompensate sometimes. Always have, I think. Her mother was not exactly nurturing.”
“Was Libby close to her? She doesn’t talk about her very much.”
“Libby wanted to be. She’d try so hard. When Bent was on one of his training weekends, I’d stop by, and Sarah would be in one of her moods. Locked in her bedroom or taking a bath. Libby would always say things like We should be quiet so we don’t bother Mommy. Now, this is a kid who was born easy—I’ve always said that about Libby—never difficult. Played by herself. Well mannered. Of course, we saw it right from the beginning. Sarah had no interest in holding her even as a baby—but then Libby was four, five, then eight, nine—I mean, it wasn’t postpartum depression.”
Lucy brought the glass to her lips, swallowed. “I remember one afternoon, I dropped off dinner, and Libby was drawing her mother a picture. To the best Mommy in the World, it said on the top. A rainbow underneath it and a big yellow sun—these golden rays shooting out. A house with flowers out front. And a puppy off to the side. Sarah took one look at it, and the first thing that comes out of her mouth is that Libby can forget about a puppy—how they’re just like kids—too much work.” Lucy’s eyes fill. She shakes her head.
“Sarah wanted to be taken care of. And my brother did that when they were first married. And then Libby came along; there just wasn’t enough of him.”
“It reminds me of my father,” Quinn says. “I was close to my mom growing up, and I always felt my father was jealous somehow. Like I was taking her away from him.”
“I think I could have forgiven Sarah for that,” Lucy says. “If I’d thought she loved Bent so much that she was jealous of Libby. But it wasn’t that. She wasn’t happy with her life. Had all these dreams but never any desire to work for anything. Wanted to be a model. Then an interior designer. Suddenly she was an artist—spent a fortune on private classes—then, poof, that’s over. She left them—emptied the bank account, blew it all on some harebrained get-rich-quick scheme. Not a dime in her pocket when she came back.”
Quinn looks at Lucy. “Bent said that she left. But I thought she came back because she was sick.”
Lucy snorts. “Well, that’s true. But she also came back because she would have been homeless. Libby thinks they moved in with me because of the medical bills, but that’s not true. Bent worked double shifts for years trying to dig them out of that hole. Anyway, don’t worry about Libby. She’s got a good head on her shoulders.” Lucy stops, studies Quinn. “And you have a tired head on your shoulders. You should close your eyes. Worry about all this stuff tomorrow.”
“I think I’m going to crash here for the night. I can watch her if you want to go home.” She points to Madeline.
“Are you kidding? Look at this place. I mean, the chi is all off, but Maddie agreed we’d fix that.”
“Maddie? I’ve known her for five years, and I’ve never heard her call herself anything but Madeline.”
“Maybe have more martinis with her. She was Maddie after one. By the second, I don’t think she remembered she had a name.”
Quinn laughs, unfolds from the chair, and picks up her mug.
“Leave it,” Lucy says. “I’ll clean up. Go to bed.” She tucks her legs under her body, smiles at Quinn.
Before she knows what she’s doing, she bends down, presses her lips against Lucy’s cheek.
“Thank you,” she whispers, and Lucy pats her shoulder, gives her a quizzical look, as though she’s not sure what she’s being thanked for.
Upstairs, Quinn tiptoes into the twins’ room.
Nate has a Band-Aid on his forehead, a reminder of the spill he took on his bike earlier in the week.
She’s not surprised to find them in the same bed—Nick’s, of course, the older sibling. Even in sleep, he’s the great protector. His arm thrown around Nate’s shoulders, a leg drawn up as a shield. His small limbs create a cocoon: a safe place for his brother to lay his head and rest and heal.
She lies down in Nate’s empty bed, pulls the cover over her, sleep tugging at her until she closes her eyes, the picture Libby drew for her mother lulling her to sleep.
Rainbows and hearts and sunshine, a puppy in the background. A house with flowers out front.
19
Libby
When I shut Quinn’s door behind me, there’s about a five-minute time gap when I stand in the hallway, completely paralyzed.
I want to call Jimmy, but I don’t want to interrupt if Flynn is there. I can go upstairs, like Bent asked me to, and sit in my room while Quinn’s husband, this John Luke person, talks to my father.
Or I can take Desiree’s car and go back to Sully’s. Maybe get Desiree to make me some food that doesn’t involve skinless grilled chicken.
I’m debating this when my phone dings and a text from Jimmy appears.
U around? He’s gone
I think for a minute. Text back.
Want company?
Seconds later, a thumbs-up drops in. I text back that I’m on my way and walk out of the house.
I don’t think while I drive. Just put the windows down and turn on the radio, let the music dull my brain. The streets pass in a blur, headlights stinging my eyes, and by the time I’m at Jimmy’s house, there’s a dull ache behind my eyes.
Jimmy’s sitting on the top step on the porch. He stands up when I get out of the car and walks down to meet me.
“We’re in luck,” he says. “House is empty for once.”
We walk upstairs, and he shuts the door behind us.
“Want to sit?” he asks, pointing to the couch.
“This is going to sound weird. But do you mind if I lie down in there?” I point to his room. “I get migraines and I can feel one coming on. Sometimes I can catch them if I just lie in the dark.”
“Oh, yeah. God, sure. Come on.” He leads me by the arm into his room, and I kick off my shoes, the pain in my right temple stopping me from caring that I flop on his bed, my head on his pillow. He pulls the blanket over me, reaches over, and turns the lamp off.
“Can I get you anything? Water? Tylenol or something?”
“Just sit.” I tap the end of the bed with my foot, even the small movement making me dizzy. “Talk to me. Tell me about Flynn.”
“You sure? I can just leave you alone. You can sleep.”
“No. Stay,” I say. “Please.”
The mattress dips, and I feel his leg against my foot.
“Nothing really to report with Flynn. He showed up sober, far as I could tell. Came from work. Hadn’t even gone home yet. He gave me some story about how he pulled his hamstring working out and one of the guys on the basketball team gave him the pills. When I told him I dumped them, he said he was glad. That they made him feel like shit anyway.”
“Do you believe him?”
When he doesn’t answer, I lift my head, squint at him. It’s so dark, I can’t even make out his outline. “You there?”
“Sorry,” he says. “I shrugged. Do I believe him? The brother in me says yes. The addict says no. I can’t tell you how many times my mother cried in front of me. Begged me to get help. Said part of her would die if something happened to me. I’d make promises I knew I wouldn’t keep. She’d leave the room, and I’d be digging through her purse looking for cash to score something.” He pauses. “You sure I’m not bothering you?”
“I like the sound of your voice. Reminds me of my dad when I was younger.”
I hear him snort. “Just what every guy wants to hear from a girl lying in his bed.”
“Don’t be a pervert. My dad used to sit with me when I got migraines. He’d talk to me. Tell me stories.”
“Addict stories?”
“War stories. Not like blood and guts. He was just back from Ir
aq and he’d tell me what things looked like. Smelled like. Stuff like that. My mother took off around then, and everyone was convinced my headaches were from that. I think I started getting them because Bent was gone and I was alone with her. When he came back, the migraines eventually stopped. But I used to pretend my head hurt just so he’d sit with me. Stupid, I know, but I used to love to just lie there and listen to his voice. You know, hear about what he did over there.”
“I don’t have any stories like that.” He’s quiet, and I feel the bed dip again, his hand by my head, searching for something. “But—I do have this.”
The flashlight from his phone turns on. He holds his book up. “I folded the pages with my favorite parts.”
He opens the book, starts to read, and stops. “Wait. Close your eyes. Pretend I’m your dad,” he says, and when I look at him, he falls over, laughing.
“Now I see how you and Flynn are brothers. You’re both sick. Just read, will you?”
He clears this throat, and I think he’s going to fool around again, speak in some fake voice. But when he reads the first sentence, it’s just him, and I close my eyes and listen.
“ ‘. . . a true war story is never about war. It’s about sunlight. It’s about the special way that dawn spreads out on a river when you know you must cross the river and march into the mountains and do things you are afraid to do. It’s about love and memory. It’s about sorrow. It’s about sisters who never write back and people who never listen.’ ”
He pauses. “Are you awake?” he asks.
“Mm-hmm. Keep going,” I mumble, his voice getting farther away, my body slipping into sleep.
“Okay, this one’s kind of long. Here goes. ‘To generalize about war is like generalizing about peace. Almost everything is true. Almost nothing is true. At its core, perhaps, war is just another name for death, and yet any soldier will tell you, if he tells the truth, that proximity to death brings with it a corresponding proximity to life. After a firefight, there is always the immense pleasure of aliveness. The trees are alive. The grass, the soil—everything.’ ”