He stepped on the bottom rung behind her; she kicked backward. “Get away.”
He jumped to the carpet, stood at the bottom of the ladder; she disappeared into the vacant space of the attic.
Alex opened his bedroom door; the rap music’s volume increased. He stuck his head out into the hall. “Hey, Dad.” Alex nodded toward the attic. “What’s up with Mom?”
“I guess she forgot something in the attic.” Nick glanced at his son’s jeans hanging low enough on his hips to show his boxers. “Are you going with us to the Christmas party in that?”
“No way, Dad. I’m not getting dressed up and driving an hour and a half to hang out with Lizzy’s stupid boyfriend, who she’ll chase off in a week or two anyway. Plus, I have a wrestling match in the morning. You’ll be there, right?”
Nick cut a punch to Alex’s shoulder. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
“You missed one a few Thursdays ago—first time, Dad.”
Nick smiled shakily. The night he drove to the school—to Amy. “Won’t happen again, son.”
Alex shut the door behind him, and the music, improbably, went up a notch.
Nick stared at the scrap of lace in his hand, then up into the black space of the attic. The light flicked on and boxes scraped across the floor, sounding like squirrels had invaded the attic. What could she be looking for? She had already decorated the house for the holidays—this was always done, no matter where they lived, the day after Thanksgiving. It was a routine as dependable as roasted turkey and pecan stuffing—the taking down of the Christmas boxes the morning after Thanksgiving. It wasn’t even discussed anymore, just as January second marked the return of the boxes to the attic.
Eliza spent days on end perfecting the house for the five-week period the decorations would hang. She took pictures of certain arrangements so she would know where to set them the next year. She added to the knickknacks, china and Santa paraphernalia every year. She required Nick to string the multicolored lights and he waited to be told where to hang them.
He couldn’t figure out why her anger sent her to the attic now. He’d retrieved every single box two weeks ago. The only things that remained up there were storage boxes from her youth: old horseback-riding trophies, faded swim-team ribbons and yellowed yearbooks from her privileged childhood.
He turned away, dropped the remnant of her dress on the floor. Let her be angry; he’d pushed it one step too far by bringing up the telegrams. He should’ve tried to find and contact the lawyer himself, not asked his wife. She tolerated enough, but the single moment of tenderness he felt for her had allowed him to believe there was enough in her to bear another question, another wondering about Amy; as if what was important to him could not hurt her.
“Fool,” he mumbled to himself and walked to the bedroom. She was probably retrieving a present for the Reynoldses; she wouldn’t show up without a hostess gift. She was doing what she did best in the face of conflict: avoiding it.
In the bedroom he entered his closet—they had his and hers, another way to keep conflict to a minimum. She never opened his closet, except to put away his clothes. Years ago she’d stopped complaining about the way he scattered his clothes. He pushed aside the suits, wondering if he should wear a suit or just khakis and a button-down shirt. He hated suits. If he’d wanted to wear one, he wouldn’t have gone into land preservation. He pulled a pair of khakis from the bottom rack, pressed by Eliza. He leafed through the top rack of shirts and chose a Tommy Bahama shirt with red and green palm leaves—a gift from Eliza’s mother, and as Christmassy as he could get tonight. He was severely lacking in holiday spirit.
His mind was not on Christmas, on its meaning, on family. All this—all of what he was surrounded by now—was somehow transparent gauze compared to the solid existence of Amy. Sometimes he looked at his house, at his bedroom, at his wife and wondered how things so vaporous could appear so solid.
He started to the slam of the attic door, forgetting for a moment where Eliza was. In his boxers, he walked into the bedroom carrying his clothes. He dropped his pants and shirt on the bed and looked at Eliza . . . but not Eliza. The woman who stood at the foot of the bed, her outstretched hand holding wrinkled papers, was some façade of the woman he’d married. She was blanched, her face pinched in on itself. Her cheeks were splotched; makeup ran in grotesque furrows.
Something was drastically wrong; the world seemed to tilt, disorienting him. Routine Eliza behavior broken and panic rising—that was all he knew.
“You want to know so bad? To know what happened to your precious Amy, why she didn’t show up? Because I . . . I . . . I never sent the telegrams. That is why.” Eliza held out her hand and opened her palm. Crumpled yellowed papers fluttered to the floor.
His own strangled reply was as incoherent as his understanding. “What . . . ?”
“What part of this don’t you understand?” She kicked at the papers. “I didn’t send them. Miguel gave me all the grunt work to do . . . all the communication, letters, phone calls, filing, telegrams, all of it. He thought I sent them, thought I called her dorm and home. I was the one who told him I couldn’t find her. I thought by now you’d understand why, that you’d see it was for the best, that I gave you a life she never could have given you. Hell, I gave you a life, period. You would have rotted in that jail for who knows how long if I hadn’t.” She turned from him, sank to her knees in a puddle of silver fabric.
He leaned down and lifted the papers from the floor, stared at the words he’d written almost twenty-five years ago, words he still remembered . . . begging words.
“No . . .”
Eliza lifted her head. “Yes. You can’t stand it, can you? Now you have your reason to hate me. You’ve been looking for one for years. Now you have it.”
He should tell her he did not hate her, but he couldn’t. He could only ask the one question that bubbled its way to the surface of his disbelief. “Why?”
“Why?” she shrieked. He recoiled at the intensity. “Because I loved you. I saw that I was the one who really loved you, that what you had with Amy was . . . obsession and infatuation. I saw no other way to make you see that I was the best one for you. I spent the entire trip, that whole three months, trying to make you see . . . really see me. But you wouldn’t. Amy this, Amy that . . . go home to Amy. You couldn’t even enjoy the trip, what was right in front of you. When the accident happened, I saw it as a sign—a way to save you in more ways than one.”
“You decided . . . what was best for me?”
“I knew—I know what is best for you.”
“Why now? Why tell me now, after almost twenty-five years? Why now when I can’t do a thing about it?” He moved toward her.
She held her hands up as if to ward him off. “I had actually convinced myself that you were over it . . . over her. I decided I would never tell you what I did—that it would give you all the reason you needed to hate me. But you can’t let go of her, and whether I tell you or not, she . . . she has a hold on you, or you on her, that I’ll never be able to break. God, I just wanted to believe . . .” She stood now, wiped her face with her hands. “I know this is the moment when I should apologize, offer you my sincerest repentance for what I did wrong. But I can’t. Because I still believe I did what was right for you. She could never, ever have loved you like I have, like I do. She could never have put up with your moods and your habits. She couldn’t have given you the life I have. I prayed so hard that you would be over this by now, that it was the purpose in Jack and Lisbeth dating. But as usual, I was wrong.”
“Dear God, Eliza. Why would you pray when you act like a god—a god who can control others’ lives?” In a trance, as his flimsy life became even more transparent, Nick slowly dressed himself in the clothing he’d laid out for the party.
“I didn’t believe I was God, Nick. I just loved you . . . love you like no one else can, or ever will. Can’t you see that? What I did was f
or us.”
“No. I see a woman I don’t know—at all. A woman who is capable of . . .” He zipped his pants and went to the bedroom door, his steps careful. He felt as if the very floor might crumble beneath him.
“Where are you going?” Her voice rang with uncontrolled desperation.
He turned and lifted the scraps of paper from the floor. “I don’t know.”
“We have a party to go to. We’re going to be late.”
“What?” She used duty to stay the panic; he’d seen it a thousand times with the kids. They would come to her with a problem, a bad grade, trouble with a coach, and she’d move them to the next task and the next, never truly addressing the problem, but preoccupying them.
“We have a party and we’re going to be late.” She sounded like a broken record.
“You are cracked, Eliza. You want to just wipe your face and go? You have lost it.”
“We have to show up for the kids.”
He shook his head in disbelief, neatly folded the papers, then placed them in his pocket and turned away.
“Don’t go,” she said.
He turned back to her. “Your dress is ripped.”
She looked down at the hemline, picked it up and stared at it. By the time she looked up, he was gone.
Chapter Twenty-two
Amy sat in her robe on the faded blue vanity chair and slid open the makeup drawer. She was never one for wearing much makeup, but a Christmas party required a little bit more care. She began to rub the foundation across her face. The lady at Saks had said it would smooth her complexion, but all she saw was how the spiderweb lines around her eyes caught the beige cream in clumps of obvious age. She leaned closer to the mirror, stared into her own eyes. She flicked on the milk-glass lamp with the lacy shade, looked closer. Yes, there was another line in her forehead, and the age spot next to her eye—it looked like a melted freckle—had grown larger.
The eyelash curler stuck on her lashes, and she cursed the entire beauty routine. When she was done applying makeup, she stepped back from the mirror, satisfied she’d done all she could with her face, then walked to the bed where her dress lay. She picked it up and shook it out, slipped it over her head, then walked to the full-length mirror in the armoire in front of the bed. She pulled her hair up and let it fall. Down, she would wear it down. She shook her head, vaguely satisfied with her final appearance.
She walked into the foyer as the doorbell rang, its chime muffled by the excessive Christmas decorations. She glanced up at the grandfather clock: five after seven—someone was early. The red-and-green-plaid engraved invitation had said seven thirty, not seven. She glanced around the foyer for Phil, but didn’t see him. She wanted him to answer the door; she wasn’t yet in the mood to entertain. She just needed twenty-five more minutes.
But there was no ignoring the face that peered through the door—staring at her in cut-glass octagons of eyes and facial features. Damn.
Amy pasted on a teeth-baring smile and opened the door.
Eliza, in all her glamorous glory, stood on the front porch. Her full-length red coat fell to the ground, her hair spilling over the crimson shoulders in a platinum waterfall.
“Oh, Eliza, it’s so good to see you. You’re early.”
“I thought it would take longer by car. You live a little . . . closer than I thought. I’m sorry I’m so early. It was too cold to sit in the car.”
“Oh, that’d be crazy. Come in. Come in.” Amy stepped aside and swept her hand across the foyer in what she hoped was a welcoming motion.
Eliza stepped in and stomped her feet, as if there were snow on her pale gray pumps.
“Let me take your coat.” Amy held out her hand.
“Thank you.” Eliza attempted to unbutton her coat and her hands shook, unable to maneuver the large fastenings.
Amy leaned over the banister, called up, “Jack, Molly . . . come on down.” They were responsible for the coats, putting them in the guest room, hanging them in the closet. She turned back to Eliza, who was still struggling with the buttons.
“My fingers are really cold,” Eliza said.
“Let me go get you a cup of hot tea. Would you like that?”
“Actually a glass of white wine would be even better.”
“Well,” Amy turned to the kitchen, “I was just headed that way for one myself. I’ll grab two. Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.”
Amy walked as fast as she could without looking rushed through the parlor to the kitchen. She pushed the door open and exhaled with a grunt.
Celia looked up from a silver tray, where she was placing toasts with cream cheese and salmon in an artful display. “You okay, ma’am?”
“Argh, I have a guest who’s early. I can’t find Phil, and I desperately need another Chardonnay.”
Celia laughed. “Coming right up.” She wiped her hands on her apron and reached for the wineglasses. “Ma’am, you look absolutely beautiful tonight.”
“It’s amazing what a shower and some makeup will do.” Amy smiled, shooed her hand at Celia to move aside. “Celia, I can pour my own glass. But now I need two.” She began to walk toward the lined-up bottles of wine, soldiers ready for the battle of the Christmas party.
The golden liquid poured into the crystal glasses, Amy walked backward out of the kitchen, opening the swinging door with her hip. She returned to the foyer holding out a glass of wine while sipping her own. “Here, Eliza.”
Eliza stood in the middle of the foyer, her coat draped over her arm, scanning the surroundings. “You have a beautiful home. Very sweet . . . it must be what? A hundred years old?”
“Yes, I’m glad you like it. We love it. It has a great history and a lot of charm. Molly thinks it’s haunted—by good ghosts, of course.”
“How . . . nice.”
“Oh, look, you’re still holding your coat.” Amy leaned again over the banister and called louder for her children.
“We’re coming, we’re coming,” came a chorus of voices and pounding feet as they appeared in the foyer, Jack in front.
“Oh, Mrs. Lowry . . . hi.” Jack held out his hand for her coat. Molly mumbled hello behind him, rolling her eyes at Amy.
Eliza handed Jack her coat. “Hello, Jack. Where’s Lisbeth?”
“She said she was coming with you.”
“She did?” Eliza looked at Amy, then back at Jack. “Well, she wasn’t at the house when I left and I thought . . . I thought she drove separately earlier today.”
“No.” Jack shifted the coat in his arms and stepped down onto the landing. “She told me she was gonna shop for a dress, then come with you. Did you leave early?”
“I did. Yeah, I did. I drove around a little, got gas . . . you know, and I wanted to make sure I was on time, with it getting dark so early and me not knowing where I was going. Oh dear, I better call the house.” She turned to Amy. “Do you have a phone I can use?”
“Of course.” Amy pointed into the parlor. “Right there on the side table. It’s portable if you want some privacy.”
Eliza looked at her, glanced up then down. “That is a beautiful dress you’re wearing. It’s silver.”
“Yes . . . thank you.”
“I had on a silver dress tonight—it even had silver lace, but it ripped right before I left.”
“Well, the dress you have on is gorgeous.” Amy glanced at Eliza’s full-length black dress and surmised it probably cost more than Amy’s first car.
“Thank you . . . this old thing.” Eliza walked toward the parlor while looking down at herself, as if trying to remember what she had on. “Well, I just need to find out where Lisbeth is.” Eliza looked at Jack again. “Have you heard from her?”
Jack glanced at his sister, then turned and smiled the all-fake smile his mother recognized. “I’ll go check my cell phone, see if she’s tried to call.” He started up the stairs, handin
g his sister Mrs. Lowry’s coat. “Will you hang that up for me, sis?”
“Sure, bro.” Molly stepped down to the foyer and leaned in to whisper to Amy as Eliza headed for the parlor, “She seems a little out of it.” Molly rolled her eyes toward Eliza as she hung up the coat. “Just like her daughter.”
Amy grabbed Molly’s hand and pulled her into the back hall. “You don’t like Lisbeth?”
“Don’t you think she seems a little prissy, kinda, I don’t know . . . spoiled and needy?”
“Molly, you don’t even know her.”
“No, I don’t. Whatever. By the way, Mom, you look gorgeous.”
“Well, thank you. I need to find your father and see if he thinks so.”
Molly twisted away, then turned back, bit her lower lip and asked, “Where’s Mr. Lowry?”
“I have no idea.” Amy averted her eyes from Molly and glanced at the pine-bough-covered hall console, picked up a miniature skater, and rearranged the grouped display on its tinfoil surface. “I like your dress, too. Good choice tonight.”
Molly ran her hand down the front of her red mesh dress; a black slip-dress peeked from behind the holes of the mesh and fell to the ground in soft folds. “I borrowed it from Lindsey. You like it?”
“I do. And I bet you look a hundred times better in it than she does.”
“Yeah, right, Mom. She’s like the homecoming queen.”
“You look like a queen to me.”
Jack came up from behind Molly. “Queen Molly does the Christmas party. Sounds like a porno flick.”
“Oh, gross, Jack. You are just so disgusting.” Molly stuck her tongue out at him.
Amy twisted her son’s ear; she had to reach up to do this now. “Jack Reynolds, what are you learning in college?”
Molly leaned over and straightened her brother’s tie. A flood of love filled Amy’s belly, overflowed to her throat, where she stopped the tears that would embarrass her children.
She placed her hand on Jack’s arm. “Did you find Lisbeth?”
Losing the Moon Page 19