The door swished shut as the nurse left. The door clicked again and Amy felt the prickle of someone staring at her. She opened her eyes.
Eliza stood in the doorway, her hands stuffed into the pockets of her long black coat. “Looks like you’re going home.”
“Yes.” Amy’s voice cracked.
“I wanted . . . I was going to stop by sooner, but . . .”
Amy held up her hand. Shame made her want to crawl under the bed, pull her head into her sweater. She could not look at this woman. The skin below Eliza’s eyes was dark, surely stained from a broken heart. My fault. My fault. Amy heard the drumming mantra in her head.
Eliza walked into the room, stood next to the bed. “I know you don’t want to see me, but there are a couple things I want to say . . . a couple things you should know.”
“No, Eliza. It’s not that I don’t want to see you. I can’t. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to . . . I’m sorry.”
“Will you listen to me? If I talk, will you just promise to listen?”
“Yes.” Whatever this betrayed woman asked, she would supply: repentance through acquiescence.
Eliza sat, not removing her coat, on the same chair Phil had been sitting in for the past three days. She took a deep breath as if she were about to jump from a high-dive. “I’ve always known that Nick still loved you, so most of this is my fault. As you probably know by now, I didn’t mail those telegrams twenty-five years ago. I don’t know what made me believe this betrayal would never come back to haunt me, that I could . . . force Nick to love me through such lies—and still have a good marriage. But I did. I thought I was doing the right thing.”
Amy sat up, swung her feet to the ground.
Eliza wept, but neither her body nor her voice betrayed the tears falling down her face; Amy wondered if Eliza was even aware of them.
“I believed, still do, that I love Nick better than anyone else can. That I love him more than he has ever been loved. I saw no other option but to save him, for me. Not to save him for any other life, but for one with me. So I used everything I had. I knew that the accident happened in order to bring us together and sending those telegrams would have ruined that. You would have come, I know.”
Amy didn’t answer.
“Amy, you think you know the whole story—I’m the bad one, the evil one who kept Nick from you. There’s more to the story than he told you. I was in the truck when the accident happened. We all were, all seven of us.”
“I know. She was drunk,” Amy said. She didn’t want to hear this story again—the story of the drunken woman who wandered into the road as Nick swerved and hit her, killing her.
“Yes, she was. And this saved his life—saved us. Amy, Nick was also drunk.”
“What?”
“I made sure the police didn’t test him. I told them he was the only sober one and that’s why he was driving. I told them he didn’t even . . . drink.”
“Oh, God.”
“We were all out celebrating our final night. We couldn’t wait to get home. Nick couldn’t wait to get home to you. I spent the entire three months trying to prove to him that we—he and I—were right for each other, but I don’t think he even noticed that I was there. Amy this, Amy that. Until finally, you never answered the telegrams. Then, until three months ago, I never had to listen to Amy this and Amy that again.”
“I’m . . . sorry.”
“No, I didn’t come here for your apology. I came to tell you the whole story so you would know the truth. If you make decisions on half-truths, they aren’t real decisions, are they? I found that out the hard way. Nick decided to be with me, love me, only after he thought you were gone. But he based that decision on a half-truth . . . well, not even half. And look where I am now. Amy, I saved him. I did. He would still be in that jail for vehicular homicide. He would still be there.”
“You hid the truth for him.”
“Yes. I made a bigger deal out of his injuries . . . steering the police away from the fact that he was . . . slammed. Luckily for him, his leg was fractured, his ribs broken, and while they were busy making sure those injuries weren’t life-threatening, while they were getting X-rays and trying to save the other woman’s life, I made sure they knew he was sober, the good guy, the designated driver.”
“Everyone else knew, though.”
“We all swore our silence. The school and Mr. Rivera all thought the best option was to tell anyone who asked that he and I had decided to stay . . . to work for the preserve. It was our last class credit anyway . . . so we both graduated. Nick graduated in jail.”
Eliza stood, then sat again. “Did he tell you he was drunk that night? Or did he just tell you the other woman was?”
Amy closed her eyes. “No, he just said that you saved him by bringing in a lawyer from the States who was able to work with the lawyer in Costa Rica and track down this woman’s companion that night.”
“She was leaving a house belonging to a man she should not have been with. It took a long time to get a confession from the man who was with her. It ruined his life, too. His wife and children left him and moved to Brazil. The whole thing was horrible, so horrible.”
“You did this to save Nick?”
“Yes.” Eliza stood and looked down at Amy. “Do you know where he is?”
“No.”
“He came home the morning you got lost, told me what happened, and left. I haven’t seen him since.”
“No . . . I have no idea.”
“You will. He’ll come to you. When he does, tell him—”
“No.” Amy held up her hand.
“I don’t blame you, Amy.”
“I do.”
And she did. She blamed herself and the stain spread wider, longer, deeper as Eliza walked out the door.
The bedroom at home looked empty, although it wasn’t. The sleigh bed she and Phil had bought together in Charleston was still there, made up with the faded-flower Irish quilt and tossed pillows. The bench, clean laundry piled on it, sat in the same spot against the wall. The book she’d left a million lives ago still lay on the bedside table.
Phil carried her bag into the room. She stopped in the doorway. All of his familiar belongings that had once made her feel secure were gone: no tray of coins and pens on the dresser, no suit coat over the chair. She swung around; his bedside table was empty, dusted clean. Abandonment and panic rode on a trail of muscles beginning in her hands, and numbness spread through her body.
Phil looked up from the bed where he was unpacking her hospital suitcase in small, neat piles.
“You left.” She walked into the room and leaned against the dresser as the isolation, the separation, weakened her.
“What?” He looked up.
“Your stuff . . . it’s gone. You left.”
“No, I just moved into the guest room. I thought you might want me to . . . leave the room. I wanted to give you some time to rest.”
She shook her head. “No. I don’t want you to . . . sleep in there. I will. If you want to be away from me, I’ll sleep in there. I can’t have you leave . . . our bedroom.” She folded her hands over her face as the enormity of what she’d done, long looming on the horizon and avoided in the thrumming machinery of the hospital, approached with immense weight.
“No, Amy. I’ll stay in there for now.”
She sat on the side of the bed next to him and held up her hand. “Can we talk?” She didn’t know what she was going to say, she just had to say or do something.
“When you’re ready.”
“I’m ready.” She dropped her hand.
He looked at her and shook his head. “No, you’re not.”
She choked on the coming tears. “I’m so sorry. I can’t explain it. I don’t know what happened. I didn’t know where I was, who I was. I don’t know how to tell you. . . . I don’t know how to make it up. I don’t kno
w . . .” The old feeling—the one from her life before she was an adulteress—the feeling that she had to rush out the words, finish quickly or he wouldn’t hear her, overwhelmed her.
Phil turned away from her and started to leave the room. She wanted to scream, Listen to me. Just listen to me. But she didn’t. She couldn’t say it before—and didn’t deserve to say it now.
He turned back to her. She didn’t recognize his set, hard face.
“Listen, Amy. I told the kids and anyone who asked that you went to Oystertip for research, got confused and lost, then headed the wrong way in the marsh.”
“Why? Why did you protect me like that?” She dropped her head back down.
“I wasn’t protecting you. The truth is yours to tell if you want.”
“You were protecting me.”
“I was protecting me . . . the kids.”
“Same thing.”
He sighed. “Amy, the doc said you still need a lot of rest. I’ll take Molly to tennis this afternoon. Go back to bed. I’ll be in to check on you.”
“I don’t want to go to bed.”
“Then read, rest. I have to go to work. I have to . . . leave.”
“Of course you do.” She sank into herself, leaned back on the pillows. Anger prodded her for recognition, but it was his turn to be angry—she had nothing to rage at; he was the offended one.
He left the room without kissing her, without touching her. She lay down on top of the unpacked pile of clothes and sleep crawled upon her. Phil had never, ever walked out of their bedroom without kissing her. Then again, she’d never run off and slept with an ex-lover.
She made an effort to piece together how she had arrived here; one step forward, back two, over one and here she was. She could only see betrayal in the looking back, not the stepping ahead; in the forward movement she had seen nothing but her own reasons.
She still couldn’t believe she’d done it—the memory of it nothing more or less than the memory of other times with Nick, twenty-five years ago. The night on the island hid in shadow—in the same gauzelike, fragmented pictures as the memories of college: separate from her, part of her.
The phone screamed from across the room, across the shadows behind her eyelids. She sat up too fast, sending a shock wave of pain down her left side where the worst of the cuts were still raw. Oddly, the pain felt good. At least she felt it, knew she deserved it. For eighteen years she’d watched the way the late-afternoon light fell on the bed, on the pillows and on the scratched wooden floors; the amber light was the sign of evening. How long had she been asleep?
She reached for the phone, groaned as her sweater pulled a bandage loose. “Hello?”
“Mom? Did I wake you up?”
Jack’s voice flowed across the line and instead of relief, she experienced a new and surging flood of guilt. “Hi, hon. No, I’m awake. Totally.”
Jack laughed. “Don’t lie, Mom.”
Don’t lie. Don’t lie.
“Okay, so you woke me. But I’m glad to hear your voice. What’s up?”
“I’m in between classes, but I wanted to check on you. Dad said he took you home today.”
“I’m great. More important, how are you?”
“How in the world did you end up in the middle of the marsh? You’re smarter than that.”
Don’t lie. Don’t lie.
“I just got confused . . . very confused and lost.”
“Okay . . .”
“So how are you?”
“Good. I hate my freakin’ chemistry class. Lisbeth and I are totally over-—she’s dating some Sigma Nu geek.”
“She’s already dating someone else? I thought she was so heartbroken she couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, would wait until she was shriveled and old for you to come back to her.”
Jack laughed, and for a moment she forgot her own pain as she submerged herself in her son’s good humor. “That’s what she said . . . dying, you know, just dying. But she found someone to relieve the pain, I guess.”
“Well, that’s not true love. You can’t just . . . fall in love with someone else that quick—if it’s real.”
“That’s exactly what I said.”
“That’s what . . .”
That’s what Nick did, just fell in love with someone else. That’s what I did.
The realization was so complete she almost spoke it out loud.
“I can’t wait to see you this weekend. Study hard. I’ll see you Friday night.”
“Okay, Mom. Get some rest.”
“I will.”
“I love you, Mom.”
Would he, if he knew what I had done?
“I love you too, Jack baby.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
She was prolonging her illness, willingly settling into the mind-numbing darkness of sleep. But the looming guilt was more than she could bear. Phil avoided her; he left whatever room he was in whenever she entered it. Communication consisted of exchanges of facts and needed information.
A week passed in an aberrant mix of days and nights, but she allowed sleep to confuse her. Then she stared at the empty pillow next to her at five thirty Friday morning and figured it out: she’d work her way out of this hole, prove her worth. She rose from the bed, showered, ripped the bandages off her side and ignored the pain. No use in complaining about it; time to fix all this. Time to fix it.
She dressed in her pearl gray wool slacks with the matching blazer over a black V-neck sweater. She slid on gray suede pumps and walked to the kitchen to cook omelets, biscuits and sausage, squeeze fresh orange juice. She set the breakfast table with the fine china, brought out the real silver and cloth napkins—no eating at the breakfast bar in a hurry, no quick half-toasted bagels for Molly and Phil. She would labor her way out of this crisis and make Phil listen to her. She would prove her value and stamina; prove . . . she loved them. There was no other way for Phil to know, since she couldn’t tell him; he wouldn’t believe her.
Molly stumbled into the kitchen at six thirty, rubbing her eyes, pulling at the tank top of her pajamas.
“Mom, what are you doing? I don’t have to get up for like another half hour and you are banging away down here, and you’re all . . . dressed up. Did I miss something?”
“No, hon.” She kissed Molly on the side of her mouth. “I just wanted to get up and cook you and Dad a special breakfast. I feel so much better . . . and I missed getting up with you.”
“Wow. This is a lot of food.” Molly looked around the kitchen, waved her hand over the table. “Is someone else coming or something?”
“No, it’s for you and Dad.”
“Jeez, I can barely choke down a Pop-Tart in the morning.”
“Not this morning. We’re all going to sit down and enjoy each other, enjoy breakfast. Then, starting today, I am going to clean out every single closet in the house—get our lives in order.”
“Don’t you dare touch my closet. No way.”
“Hiding something, Molly?”
“No, I just have everything the way I like it. The last time you cleaned out my room, you threw away all the good stuff and kept all the stupid baby stuff. I never did find my bird’s nest.”
“It smelled.”
“Just stay out of my room.”
“No promises.”
“I’m getting a lock and keeping the only key. Lucky Jack, you can’t get into his dorm room.”
“Go get ready for school. I’ll wake Dad up for breakfast.”
She dropped the last omelet on a vintage transfer-ware platter and placed it under the heating lamp. It felt good to use the dishes she usually saved for special occasions. She would begin her redemption right here, right now, and not stop until she had earned it.
She climbed the stairs, her high heels clicking on the hardwood, to the guest room door. She turned the handle; it was locked. S
he knocked gently.
“Yes?” His voice called from the bedroom, like an echo from far away.
“I cooked breakfast . . . I want you to come down to breakfast.” Amy used a voice she hoped sounded normal, maybe even cheery.
Phil opened the door, his hair sticking up on one side, dark circles under his eyes, the impact of her betrayal on his face. Tears welled up in her eyes.
“I made . . . made breakfast.”
He rubbed his cheeks. “I’m really not hungry. I have an early staff meeting.”
“Can’t you eat just a little? Sit down with me and Molly?”
“The staff meeting is a breakfast, Amy. You know—every Friday morning.”
“Oh, yeah. Why do you have to be there so early today? Usually you don’t have to go until seven or so—you have time to sit with us for a second.”
“No, I have to lead the meeting. I have to be there early, and I’m already running late.” He shuffled toward the guest bathroom. Her heart fell to the pit of her stomach in one long lurch as he entered a bathroom meant only for those who were transient. He turned his back on her and anything she had to say.
“You have to head up the meeting?” She wanted to hang on for one more minute, talk him into staying—maybe even listening.
“Yes. I got a promotion last week—head of the division.”
“Oh, Phil.” She leaned toward him, instinct taking over; she reached to hug him. He stood with stiff arms, then patted her on the back.
“Congratulations. You didn’t tell me. You—”
“I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“Okay. I’ll cook us a huge celebratory dinner tonight. What do you want? Steak, shrimp, tenderloin? I’ll whip up your favorite buttermilk pie. Jack’s coming home tonight for the weekend. We’ll have a big family dinner.”
“I’m taking Jack camping tonight . . . I promised him.”
“Well, then we’ll all go. Family camping. We haven’t done that in . . . years.”
“No, Ame. I’m taking Jack. Listen, I have to shower. I’m late. Really . . . I’ll talk to you after work today.”
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