by Lisa Duffy
He stops, “That’s amazing, isn’t it? I wish I could write like this. Okay—sorry. I’ll stop talking and just read.”
He clears this throat. “ ‘The trees are alive’—wait, I read that already. Hold on. Okay, here we go. ‘. . . You feel an intense, out-of-the-skin awareness of your living self—your truest self, the human being you want to be and then become by the force of wanting it. In the midst of evil you want to be a good man. You want decency. You want justice and courtesy and human concord, things you never knew you wanted. There is a kind of largeness to it, a kind of godliness. Though it’s odd, you’re never more alive than when you’re almost dead.’ That’s good, right? I’ll find another one. Wait a sec.”
I hear pages turning, miles away, his voice rhythmic, my limbs weightless, my mind blank, until the only noise I hear is the sound of my own heartbeat.
What feels like minutes later, my eyes open. A light turns on above me, over my face. My mouth is dry, my neck stiff. I sit up, look around, confused until I make out Jimmy next to me. He’s sound asleep, his back turned to me, the book wedged between his body and the wall.
My phone is ringing on the night table, two feet from my head, the screen glowing with my father’s name.
I freeze, too scared to reach for it. Afraid to see how long I’ve been sleeping. More afraid to see how many times my father has called.
I grab my phone, see that it’s past one in the morning. My screen is filled with missed calls from Bent and a text from Flynn.
UR father was here! where the hell r u
I get up slowly, trying not to wake Jimmy. He turns on his back, but his breathing is deep, and I slip out of the room, close the door quietly behind me. The house is dark, silent.
I pause in the living room, look at my phone, wonder if it’s worth it to call Desiree and find out if she told Bent about Jimmy, when the lamp next to the couch turns on and something moves out of the corner of my eye.
I jump, press my body against the wall.
There’s a guy leaning up on one arm on the couch. He squints at me and sits up.
“Sorry,” I whisper, raising my hand and hurrying to the front door. “I didn’t know anyone was there. I’m just leaving.”
My hand is on the knob when I hear him say, “Hey—Winters.”
I turn around, and Quinn’s husband is looking at me. He’s naked except for boxers, his hair in all directions.
“You’re her, right? Bent’s kid?”
I nod, and he picks up a pack of cigarettes from the table, fishes one out, and lights it.
He sucks on the cigarette, blows it out. “That your boyfriend?” He tilts his head at Jimmy’s door.
I shake my head, and he lifts an eyebrow. He leans over, picks up his watch, and squints at it.
“Your dad know you’re here?” he asks.
I swallow, glance at Jimmy’s door. Picture him reading to me, just because I asked. There’s no way if Bent finds out that I was here tonight, I’m ever coming back.
“Does Quinn know you’re here?” I ask.
He gives me a surprised look, studies me for a moment. “All right. I get it. My lips are sealed.” He’s grinning, as if this is all a joke, and I feel my hands clench.
“You can’t show up at my house . . . her house . . . and just expect her to take you back.”
He blinks, sits up straighter. “Look, kid. This has nothing to do with you. Besides—no more surprise visits. Your father told me to lay low until I hear from him.”
I pull the lock on the door and step through.
“Hey, Winters,” I hear him say.
I turn, and he glances at Jimmy’s door, back at me. “Be careful,” he warns.
“Of what?” I ask, but he doesn’t answer, just reaches up and clicks off the lamp, the room going black. I shut the door, and then I’m taking the stairs two at a time.
Wishing I was already home.
20
Quinn
She hasn’t been sleeping for what feels like more than an hour when something slams into her body. She opens her eyes to see Nate straddling her as if she were a pony, peering down at her, his face one big smile.
“Kinny’s in my bed!” he yells, looking wildly at Nick, who’s standing over her with a gap-toothed grin.
Nick is shirtless, his hands casually stuffed in the pockets of his striped cotton pajama bottoms, as though he’s used to waking up to random women appearing in his bedroom.
“Hi, little man,” she says, and he giggles, hurls his body on top of her legs, pulling his brother over. They’re a mix of legs and elbows. Quinn covers her head with her hands, scoots out from underneath them while they wrestle at the end of the bed.
“I’m hungry,” Nate says, his appetite more important than the whys and hows behind Quinn’s presence in his bed.
Her phone is dark, the battery dead, but she knows it’s probably not even six in the morning yet; the sky is an inky dark blue through the porthole window in the nautical-themed bedroom.
She gets out of bed, leads them downstairs to the kitchen.
The couch is empty—Madeline must have made it upstairs to her bedroom as some point. Lucy’s car is still in the driveway, and Quinn hopes she’s in the guest room upstairs instead of the den, where she knows the boys will want to watch TV after they eat.
They take their time making breakfast. Quinn sips a hot mug of decaf while the boys mix the batter. She lets them take turns standing on a chair in front of the pan, flipping the half-dollar-size pancakes.
After they eat, she cracks open the door to the den, peering in to see if Lucy is on the pullout, but the room is empty. She cleans up the kitchen while the boys watch cartoons. She’s putting plates in the dishwasher, when Madeline walks through the door with Lucy behind her.
“Oh my God, Quinn,” Madeline gasps. “You’re a saint.”
She’s wearing a plush white bathrobe over silk pajamas. She walks over to the table, the belt on her bathrobe hanging at her sides, the ends sweeping the floor.
“Hello, boys,” she calls out, and winces.
They appear in the doorway, and she waves to them. “No, no—stay in there. Mommy’s still waking up,” she says, looking relieved when they disappear into the room.
Lucy walks over to Quinn, squeezes her arm.
“Go sit. You’re not on duty today. I wanted to get up with the boys—I guess I forgot how early kids wake up. Another?” she asks, pointing to Quinn’s mug.
She nods and sits at the table across from Madeline, who moans, puts her head in her hands.
“I must have dreamed we dropped you off, Quinn. See, this is exactly why I don’t drink.”
“You weren’t that bad,” Lucy lies. “And you didn’t dream it. We did drop Quinn, but her missing husband showed up, and she wanted to get out of there.”
Madeline looks up. “What? Whose missing husband?” She looks at Quinn. “John?”
“It’s a long story.” Quinn sighs as Lucy puts the fresh mug in front of her and sits down at the table.
Madeline looks from Quinn to Lucy, back to Quinn. “Well, I’m certainly not in a rush.”
Quinn leans back in her chair, looks down at her front, the soft cotton of her dress creased over her belly. It’s time, she thinks.
Time to tell the story of her life.
She looks up at the two women in front of her and starts at the beginning.
She leaves out the part about her and Bent.
But everything else, she tells them. The miscarriage. The deployments. John’s disappearance. The pregnancy.
When she finishes, an hour has passed.
The twins have gone upstairs to get dressed. A lone piece of bacon sits on a plate in the middle of the table, and Madeline picks it up, nibbles on it. Lost in thought, as though she’s processing what Quinn’s told her.
“Well, I feel like a jerk,” Madeline blurts. “You come here every day and take care of my boys. My children! And I’m so self-absorbed that I h
ad no idea your husband is missing. And I’m on you about feeding the boys more fiber!”
“It’s not your fault—it was just easier to not talk about it,” Quinn explains. “Really—it was nothing to do with you. I just wasn’t ready to talk about it until I understood it. If that makes any sense.”
Lucy nods. “She’s right. There are subjects I avoid discussing for the same reason. Some things you just don’t want to talk about until you’re good and goddamn ready.”
Quinn and Madeline wait for her to continue, but she just looks at them, sips her coffee.
“Well if there’s anything you need, Quinn. Anything. I mean, for God’s sake, we’re family at this point. The boys . . . me . . . we’d be lost without you—what the hell!” she says, looking out the window over Quinn’s shoulder. “Why is there a police car in my driveway?”
Lucy moves the curtain aside. “Oh, it’s just Bent,” she says, and Quinn feels her insides twist.
She brings her mug to the sink, busies herself with washing it, letting her hair hide her face while Madeline opens the door and Bent steps in.
She runs a dish towel over the mug, aware that she’s concentrating on it more than necessary while Bent stands only a few feet away from her, making small talk with Lucy and Madeline.
She feels his eyes on her when she reaches up to the cabinet to put the mug away.
When she turns, he’s looking at her, and she holds up her hand as a greeting, not trusting her voice.
“Can I talk to you, please?” he asks, and maybe it’s the uniform he’s wearing or the formal tone he uses, but she follows him out the door, as though declining isn’t an option.
He walks to the driveway, leans against the police car, and waits for her to reach him. She stops a few feet from him, and he doesn’t move closer, just stands across from her.
“I’m sorry to just show up here,” he says. “But I need to talk to you.”
She looks at the house behind her and back at him. “How did you even know I was here?”
“You didn’t get my messages? I called last night.”
“I haven’t checked my phone—the battery’s dead.”
“Oh, well. Probably for the best—I was sort of rambling. Libby was late coming home, and I couldn’t track her down. I called thinking you might know something, and then I called Lucy and she said you were here. She was going to wake you, but Libby walked in.”
“Is she okay? What happened?”
“She’s fine—that’s not why I’m here. Look, I’m sorry about last night—all of it. And you were right—that’s your home. I want you to feel safe there—no—I need you to feel safe there. When I found out you left, it just . . .” His voice trails off; he shakes his head. “John won’t be back. Not until you’re ready to see him. And I won’t bother you. Last night was—it’ll never happen again. I promise. Just come home.”
She looks down at her feet, trying to find the right words. “Thank you,” she says finally. “For asking John—”
“Quinn, don’t thank me,” he interrupts, his face pained. “Say anything you want to me, but don’t say that.”
She looks up at him, but he won’t meet her eyes. He turns and walks to the car just as the back door opens and the twins pile out, racing to the police car. They swarm him, begging for a ride, and he tells them to go back inside and ask their mother, that it’s fine with him.
Madeline is already on the porch, and she calls to him, asking if he’s sure—maybe just a quick one around the block, and Bent holds his hand in the air, opens the back door, and the boys pile in.
“Seat belts,” Bent says to them, and shuts the door.
Quinn walks to the porch and stands next to Madeline while Bent turns the police lights on, then the sirens. She sees the boys through the windshield, their fists in the air, cheering.
“The world needs more men like him,” Madeline says wistfully before she turns and walks in the house.
Quinn stays on the porch, watches as the police car disappears down the street. She stays even after she can no longer see the flash of the lights through the trees.
Stays even after the lonely wail of the siren fades.
21
Libby
Bent is walking out the door at three in the afternoon for a double shift when he stops to say that today, Desiree is in charge of me.
I put down the book I’m reading and look at him, and he shrugs.
“Lucy’s at work and I want someone here in case you get another migraine.”
“It’s been, like, six days. I can’t stay locked in this house forever.”
Bent sighs, stares at my forehead as though he’s searching for some sort of clue.
It’s the same argument we’ve been having every day since I came home late from Jimmy’s. I’d lied and told him I was at Katie’s. That she’d come home from the Cape for the night and we were watching TV when I felt a migraine coming on and then we’d both fallen asleep.
Now he’s convinced the migraines I used to get when I was younger are back, even though it’s the first one I’ve had in years.
Bent and I were upstairs earlier this week when Lucy launched into a lecture about migraines. How emotions manifest in the body and the importance of managing stress, which is why I had to spend the next few days telling Lucy, over and over, that no, I wasn’t upset about anything, and yes, I’d tell her if something was bothering me.
“You’ll talk to me, right?” she kept asking, until Desiree shouted from the kitchen, Ask her again and she’ll be talking to a dead body.
Then Bent chimed in that all the arguing wasn’t helping, and Desiree appeared in the doorway, glaring at me because I was the worst liar in the universe.
Later, she pulled me aside and hissed in my ear, “A migraine? I give you my car. I keep my mouth shut about who you were with. All you had to do was come up with a halfway decent lie. And that’s what you come up with? A migraine? Happy fucking house arrest.”
There was nothing to say because she had a point—I hadn’t remembered how worried Bent was back then. Add Lucy’s tendency to overreact and it’s been the longest week of my life.
Bent crosses the room, kisses the top of my head. He’s been working more than usual this week and using the back stairs instead of the front to come and go. It’s obvious he’s avoiding Quinn—which really isn’t necessary, since she’s barely been around either.
“I’m bored out of my mind,” I say. One last-ditch effort before he leaves.
“Well, invite Katie over,” he says. “Only this time tell her to stay awake.”
Then he’s gone, through the kitchen and out the door, the sound of his keys jangling while he walks making Rooster lift his head up, a hopeful look on his face.
“No rides today,” I whisper, and he huffs, rests his chin on the arm of the couch, and shuts his eyes.
I listen to the sound of Bent’s truck pulling out of the driveway, the rumble of the engine growing fainter until I can’t hear it anymore.
A minute later, the front door whips open, and Desiree walks in, scans the room, and zeroes in on me.
“I heard the warden leave,” she snaps. “Why are you still lying there?”
“I can’t go out. He said only Katie could come over.”
“Does this girl even exist? Or did you just make her up to cover your ass?”
“Of course she exists. You’ve met her, like, a million times. She’s just down the Cape. Besides, who cares if I said I was with Katie or Jimmy—I was just sleeping. And I did have a migrai—”
“Honestly, don’t even say that word! Don’t even whisper it to me. Florence Nightingale upstairs won’t shut up about it. Thinks you should be on suicide watch or something.”
“Well, they are stress-induced,” I mumble defensively.
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing. So you don’t care if I go out?”
She sighs, walks to the front door, and puts a hand to her ear.
“Do y
ou hear the sound of that?” she asks. “It’s your goddamn freedom. Now get the hell up and do something.”
The door slams behind her, and minutes later, I hear her footsteps on the porch stairs, and just like that, the house is empty for the first time in days.
I get off the couch and walk into the kitchen. My phone is on the counter, and there’s a text from Jimmy, saying that he hopes I’m not climbing the walls.
We talked on the phone the morning after my migraine—he’d called me in a panic, saying he felt awful for falling asleep. But Bent knocked on my door, and I hung up quickly.
If I had a car, I’d drive over and see if everything’s okay, but I want to see if Flynn’s around. When Bent couldn’t find me the other night, he showed up at Flynn’s house, hoping I was there. Apparently, Flynn was having a party out back, and Bent almost walked in on it. Now Flynn’s mad at me, even though I’ve sent him a bunch of texts apologizing.
I press his name on my phone, and he answers after it rings almost a dozen times in a voice that’s less than friendly.
“You’re alive,” he says. “Good to know.”
“Look—I know you’re mad. But I haven’t been able to get out of the house since Sunday, and I didn’t want to just keep texting back and forth. Come by and we can talk.”
“Right—so your psycho father can rip into me again?”
“Flynn, he’s not even home. Just come.”
“Walk over here if you’re so gung ho on talking,” he says stubbornly.
“Fine, I will—” I start to say, but the phone goes dead.
I sigh and grab Rooster’s leash and spend the next five minutes coaxing him off the couch, and we finally make it outside, turning right toward Flynn’s house.
We make it three houses down the street before Rooster starts sniffing and circling a patch of grass between the sidewalk and the curb. I wait while he does his business, and when he’s finished, I clean it up, tie the bag closed.
Sully steps out from behind the truck in his driveway, a garden hose in his hand. He stops the stream of water directed at the hood and grabs his chest like he’s having a heart attack.