The boat slapped over the wake of a pontoon boat and the red wine splashed onto Amy’s jeans.
Eliza giggled. “That’s why we drink white instead of red on the boat.”
“Good thinking.” Amy smiled at Eliza, feeling they’d found common ground—sinking, but common.
Eliza’s straight hair flew around her face in a halo of caramel gold. Her skin was free of makeup and her clear blue eyes held no malice. They were, if anything, empty and waiting for approval: a child looking for a compliment.
The wind picked up, and the kids jumped the wake of the boat. Amy waved at Jack and he gave her a thumbs-up. She looked at Molly, her hair splayed around her face, her legs in a wide squat behind Alex, her head back in laughter. The Jet Ski came sideways over the wake and leaned precariously; Molly sailed off the back—a beautiful raven in flight. She landed sideways in the water as the Jet Ski turned in on itself. Alex shut the motor off when Molly’s body went underwater with a sickening thud as some part of her made contact with the Jet Ski. She popped to the surface; her head lolled back on the headrest of the life jacket.
Amy didn’t react; she sat on the seat at the back of the boat with her wine in hand, and watched Molly, who looked so peaceful resting on her back, rocking to the motion of the water. Before the next millisecond came and realization set in, Amy actually smiled at her daughter bobbing in the water, admiring her beauty and poise. Alex, Jack and Lisbeth on Jet Skis resembled hazy images of people in the background of a snapshot.
Nick shut off the boat and flew to the back, dove in the water before Amy even moved. As he pulled Molly to the side of the boat, Amy stood and screamed. Phil jumped in, pulled his daughter from Nick as they simultaneously reached the boat.
Molly shouted, “My arm! Dad, let go of my arm. It’s broken . . . or something. God, it hurts so bad.” Molly scrunched up her face.
Nick hoisted himself onto the back running board of the boat and lifted Molly under her arms. Phil pushed her from behind until she landed on the back of the boat. Amy saw Molly’s face—pain and tears were evident. Nausea rolled over Amy and she dropped her wine; the glass shattered on the fiberglass basin and no one noticed.
Nick sat down next to Molly. “I’m going to take your arm now.”
“No!” Molly’s voice was strangled, an animal’s wail.
“Don’t touch her.” Phil climbed onto the running board. “It’s broken.” He reached for Nick’s arm.
Nick did not look at or answer Phil. He grabbed Molly’s chin, lifted her face. “Look at me. I’m going to check your arm.”
Amy felt her body swell as she stood in the center of splattered wine and broken glass. She froze watching Nick’s hands on her daughter’s face.
Nick positioned his hand under Molly’s elbow and moved it around, asked her to flex and rotate her arm. Phil lurched toward Nick, and for a second Amy thought Phil was going to punch him, wrestle him to the ground. But Phil only reached for his daughter, wrapped Molly in his arms as Nick backed away from them and jumped into the basin of the boat.
Molly lifted her arm as if she couldn’t believe it was attached. She looked at Nick.
“Is it okay?”
“It’s fine, just bruised. You have full range of motion and you can move it on your own. You’ll have a nasty bruise there.”
Eliza stepped forward now, boat keys dangling in her hand. “It’s one advantage to Nick’s time in the forest. He knows a lot of first aid.”
Phil looked up at Nick, nodded at him, then looked over to his wife. “Amy, you okay?”
They all looked at her now. Even she’d forgotten she was there.
“I’m just fine. Don’t you think we should take her to the hospital or something . . . a doctor?”
“No, she’s fine.” Nick’s voice was soft, low—the sound he had once used when he was explaining something to Amy when they were alone. “If there was a break or fracture she wouldn’t have been able to move it like she just did. It might be sore later . . . nothing a little Tylenol won’t cure.”
“Okay . . .” Amy looked at the mess at her feet. She waved her hand over it. “I’m sorry, really sorry.”
Eliza glanced down at the wine and shattered glass, then threw a towel over it and smiled. “We’ll deal with that later. Let’s just get home and eat.”
“Good idea.” Nick grabbed the keys from Eliza and started the motor.
The boat bobbed in the wake until Amy realized everyone was staring at her.
“What?”
“Darlin’,” Nick said, “you need to sit down before we can go.”
“Sure. Sure.”
Amy sat, motioned for Molly to sit next to her. Phil’s arms were still wrapped around her as he brought her over to Amy as if holding fragile porcelain. Molly and Phil sat down and Phil put an arm around Amy, leaned down, whispered in her ear, “You okay?”
Amy whispered in return, “Sure. Molly flew off the Jet Ski. I broke Eliza’s crystal. No biggie.”
Phil squeezed her shoulder. “Don’t worry about Molly. She’s fine. Just fine.”
Amy decided not to tell him that it wasn’t Molly she was actually worried about.
Dinner appeared on the hewn-log dining table as though prepared by magic while Amy took a long, hot cedar-scented shower. She wasn’t sure when the dinner had been cooked or how it ended up on the table. Eliza was the perfect hostess and Amy felt she was the slack guest as she appeared from the back hall, clean and dressed in a pair of old jeans and a white T-shirt—her official at-home apparel. She glanced around the table. Everyone except Nick was there, staring at her, obviously waiting. She was fully clothed, yet felt completely naked.
“Oh, my. Dinner is ready. I would’ve helped.” She reached up to the base of her neck.
Eliza motioned for her to come to the table. “You feeling okay, Amy?”
“Great, just great. Sorry if I kept you waiting.”
“Not at all.” Nick appeared from the kitchen. “I believe they’re waiting for me—late as usual.”
Amy wanted to hug him. She walked toward the table and stood where Eliza pointed: between her children, across from Phil. Nick and Eliza stood at the head and foot of the table; bowls of steaming food were scattered across like pebbles. Large, slate-colored plates sat next to silverware decorated with deer antler handles; burning bark-covered candles looked as though they had been carved from small tree trunks. Black-eyed Susans filled a blue vase in the center of the table.
Amy sighed. “This is all so nice. The food looks delicious. I really am sorry I didn’t help.”
Eliza reached her hand behind Jack, touched Amy’s arm. “We wanted to give you some time to . . . we were worried you might be a little shaken up.”
“Well, I was fine,” she said.
Eliza tucked a strand of hair into her ponytail. She was “dressed” for dinner: gray cotton slacks with a pale blue linen blouse that closed down the front with small pearl buttons. Amy fingered the bottom of her T-shirt, tried to smile. She was disoriented.
Phil added to the humiliation. “You still look a little pale.”
“Why, thanks, honey. I was hoping I looked pale.” Amy glanced around the table; seven sets of eyes stared at her. Her skin prickled with the peeled-off feeling Nick used to give her.
“Look, I just got scared for a minute there. It’s my daughter. I’m not used to Jet Skis and—”
Nick spoke up, turned the faces from her to him. “Let’s eat. Can’t let all this good-looking food go to waste now.”
Molly grabbed Amy’s hand. “Mom, I’m so fine. Really.” She placed her elbow in Amy’s hand, moved it back and forth. “See?”
“Yes, I see.” She kissed her daughter’s elbow, kissed her cheek. “Let’s eat. I’m starving,” she lied.
Chairs scraped across the pine floors as the group sat in unison—orchestrated seating. Amy thought now would be a g
ood time to scream; instead she sat and smiled.
Eliza looked around the table. “Phil, you’re our guest. Would you please bless the food?”
Amy glanced at Phil; he didn’t like doing this in public. Praying at home, at their scarred table, was great, but he considered it an act of showmanship elsewhere. Still, he bowed his head and offered a simple prayer of thanks for family, friends and food.
Eliza lifted her head. “Thank you, Phil. Let’s move the food clockwise.”
Amy suppressed a “Yes, ma’am,” and lifted the bowl of okra in front of her. The evening began to unfold as conversation swirled and laughter began to fill the cracks of unease. The red wine Amy drank came from a crystal goblet that never seemed to empty as the kids told stories about their friends, about escapades in college.
Jack told the story of his friend Billy, who’d jumped off the ledge at the rock quarry into the water below and broke his wrist.
Eliza interrupted. “He’s lucky that’s all he broke.”
“Yes, ma’am, he is. But guys jump off that rock all the time and don’t get hurt. It depends on how you hold your hand or your arms,” Jack said, demonstrating with his arms held straight down at his sides.
Eliza held her fork, full of pork tenderloin, in the air. “How high is it?” She placed her fork down on the plate.
“I’m not exactly sure.” Jack turned to Lisbeth. “Do you know?”
“Forty-five, fifty feet, something like that.”
Eliza looked at her daughter with a glance that would have shriveled Amy’s own soul, but Lisbeth must have been used to it, because she didn’t flinch at her mother’s question.
“You’ve never jumped off it, have you, honey?” Eliza said.
“I’m a scaredy-cat, but Jack did.” Lisbeth touched Jack’s shoulder.
Jack gave Lisbeth a playful punch on the arm. “Thanks, babe.”
“You jumped off that, young man?” Eliza’s tone held obvious concern for her daughter’s future.
“Yes, ma’am, once.”
“He was perfectly safe, Mother. Really. He knew what he was doing.”
“People break their backs, or their necks, jumping off that thing.” Eliza looked at Nick. “I remember reading about some guy at Saxton when I was in college—he jumped and broke his back or something terrible like that.”
“That was Jim Foley,” Nick said. “But he was—what? One guy in thirty years? He was a great guy. He just overestimated his ability—tried some crazy stunt off the highest rock.”
“Well, I do not want our children jumping off that thing.”
Alex rolled his eyes, popped okra in his mouth with a flick of his finger.
“Use your fork,” Eliza said, without looking up or changing her expression. Did she even know she’d said it?
“Dad.” Alex swallowed and leaned down the table toward Nick. “I bet you jumped off it when you were at school, didn’t ya?”
“Alex, my boy.” Nick’s voice took on the tone he had once used to break up fights at Hank’s Pool Hall—a tone that simultaneously held strength and playfulness, and could reduce even the most testosterone-fueled aggression. “I don’t think that is your mother’s point. I do believe she was trying to tell Lisbeth not to—”
“Oh, please,” Lisbeth interrupted. “I already jumped, okay? Okay?” She reached for Jack’s hand. “We jumped holding hands. It was not a big deal. We jumped off the lowest rock. Just drop it, Mom.”
Eliza took a deep breath. “Dear God, Lisbeth.” She looked to Amy as if it were her fault that Lisbeth, the dearest one, had jumped.
“I jumped in college.”
Amy turned to see who had just confessed such a sin when she realized she herself was speaking. “I still remember the way my stomach tingled like it was too heavy and didn’t want to jump with me, like it would stay up on the rock while I jumped. I remember.” She turned the antler fork around in her hand. “My friends were down below, floating on black inner tubes that seconds before had seemed huge and safe, but now looked like black doughnuts with open mouths. They were screaming, ‘You can do it. You can do it.’ Carol Anne had on a neon bikini we’d bought together at JCPenney. My throat had a little flutter at the bottom. Then I jumped into the water. My breath was sucked out of me.” Amy paused, took a breath. “Then I popped out of the water. I only did it that one time. Just once.”
Amy dropped her fork on the white linen napkin, looked up to see silverware paused in midair, wide eyes unblinking. She closed her fist in her lap, the thing she did when attempting to stop a flow of unwanted words. It usually worked.
She hadn’t said the worst part out loud, had she? That she’d jumped with Nick, that it was how love felt—then. Not solid and grounded as it did now. Then, love was like flying—fearful flying without breath—through the air, weightless.
“Very cool.” Lisbeth spoke low, a whisper across the silent table.
“Yeah, Mom. How come you never told me?” Jack asked.
“You never asked.” Amy smiled at her son and didn’t dare look at Nick. “You think you’re the only one who had fun in college?”
“Obviously not.” Jack turned to Nick. “Did you ever jump, sir?”
“Well, since I can’t seem to avoid the question—yes, I believe I did.”
“I’m sure you did,” Amy said, her clenched fist not doing its job.
“And, Amy, do you remember such an event?” Eliza asked.
Amy placed a forkful of mashed potatoes into her mouth; the food tasted like the inside of a dried apple. She held up her hand to show she had food in her mouth, couldn’t talk. They were all patient, willing to wait for her answer while she chewed and swallowed. Eliza held her head straight, not a single hair out of place. Jack lifted his eyebrows; Phil leaned back against his chair, his soft jawline now set.
Nick finally spoke. “That was all before Jim broke his back.” He turned to his daughter. “Your mother is right, Lisbeth. You shouldn’t—”
“Whatever.” Lisbeth waved him off. “Let’s change this stupid subject.”
“Let’s,” Nick said.
“So.” Eliza coughed, took a long swig of her wine and looked at Phil. “So tell us a little about yourselves. How did you two meet—you went to college together?”
“Actually, we didn’t,” Phil said. “We’re from the same hometown.”
“Oh.” Eliza pursed her lips, looked at Nick.
Amy smiled. “I went home for a college break and well—”
“The rest is history?” Eliza smiled.
“History,” Amy said. “Yes, history.”
“Now how did you two meet?” Phil asked Eliza.
Eliza pushed away the plate containing her barely touched food with her forefinger. “We met on a state-sponsored trip to Costa Rica—it counted for an entire semester of school credit, for an internship on reforestation.”
Phil rubbed the back of his neck. “And you?” He motioned with his hand toward Eliza. “You were in reforestation . . . whatever that is? Sorry if I’m having a hard time picturing this.” He smiled at her.
Eliza laughed. “I know, I know. Hard to see, isn’t it? The truth is that my major was business. But my daddy said if I wanted to come work for his company, I had to have some practical experience—prove to the board I was worthy.” Eliza rolled her eyes. “And so I looked at all the internships and picked the one with a beach—Costa Rica.” She laughed and Amy wanted to roll her own eyes, but instead she closed them, wished herself at home.
“Granddad made you go to Costa Rica?” Lisbeth leaned into the table. “I never knew that.”
“No, he didn’t exactly make me. I picked the trip, but I wanted to prove I could work for him when I graduated. And because it’s a publicly held company I had to prove it to more than just him.”
Amy opened her eyes. Ah, the magic words: “publicly held company.” Phil would be
drooling now.
“Which company would that be?” Phil asked.
“Sullivan Timber. It’s—”
“The largest timber company in the southeast,” Phil said.
“Yes. How did you know that?”
“I’m a stockbroker. We manage that account for quite a few clients. It’s done well. How long have you worked for them?”
“Well, that’s the funny part. I never even went to work for them. I met Nick on the trip to Costa Rica and we fell madly in love and”—she glanced at Amy—“as you said, the rest is history. So the trip was worth it.”
Amy couldn’t help it: she wanted to avoid Nick, but she looked directly at him. He stared at the table; then instead of turning to his wife, he looked across the table at Amy. Her blood was warm as it filled her cheeks and neck.
“What did you do after Costa Rica?” Phil asked Nick.
“Well . . .” Eliza began for him. She covered her mouth with her hand. “Sorry,” she said from behind her palm, “bad habit.”
“I did—still do land-use planning, protected-area development, wildlife utilization and other boring things,” Nick said.
“That’s not boring,” Amy said. “It sounds—”
“Interesting.” Phil finished for her. “Did you stay in Costa Rica?”
“No.” Nick turned to his son. “You kids wanna clear the table for us?”
“Sure, Dad.” Alex stood. “Thanks, Mom. It was great.”
The four kids loaded up their arms with dishes and empty serving bowls, then walked to the kitchen, talking about a Scrabble game in which they’d beat their parents by a million points.
“Where did you go after Costa Rica?” Amy asked, before she could decide whether she really wanted to know.
She could have said what she’d once known—what Nick had wanted to do, what they had wanted to do—but she had no idea of the valid answer now. She wanted to stand up, walk away, but how could she when her legs were made of nothing more than the blue-black air outside the French doors? She had as much command over her body as she did over the wind and water of the lake. She wanted to hear his answer and she wanted to scream against it.
Losing the Moon Page 7