• • •
We eat our crème brûlée because it’s in front of us, but as soon as the bill comes, I sign and we’re gone. I’ve had too much to drink, too, but I’m our best bet to drive, because Elizabeth is in rare, rare form—possibly in as bad a shape as I’ve ever seen her. I guess breaking ties with a twenty-year-old boy-toy might prompt flashbacks to being twenty years old and dumb, too, and all the stupid decisions people make, and all the senseless twists of fate that leave us sad and lost despite having zero perspective. Even so, her revelation was particularly disturbing, because I should have known it. I should already know all of the most traumatic moments branded in her brain, so I do wonder what else she’s been holding back all this time. Compassion overrides the wondering, of course, and I ask, “How are you doing?”
With a mile to go, Elizabeth rolls down her window and leans against the door, eyes closed and mumbling to herself. She goes on and on for some time before saying, “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Should I pull over?”
She moans.
“Can you make it five minutes?”
She moans in the affirmative, so I accelerate and zip through neighborhoods until we reach ours, and maybe I did take those corners too hard, because Elizabeth really does look like she’s about to vomit all over my leather interior. She stumbles out of the car, exits the garage, and heads directly to the hosta leading to our side yard. She leans over it in full yack position, but the sensation must have passed quickly, because she swats at my ankles when I try to hold her hair. By the time she stands again, she is reasonably composed.
“After you.” She gestures hard toward the house.
I take her hand and lead her through the garage, up the steps, and into the kitchen. Once inside, she keeps on walking—through the kitchen and den, unlocking the sliding glass door and leaving it all the way open. I follow. She kicks off her shoes and drops her shawl thing on the ground, but she’s still wearing her dress when she steps onto the diving board and walks out to the end.
“Elizabeth?”
She looks at me—a slow, seductive meeting of the eyes, a coy invitation to a secret we haven’t yet shared—and she hooks me, and she knows it, so she leaves me to my longing and sends her gaze back down to her feet, forehead aimed toward gold-polished toes hanging over the edge of our board. Underwater lights project auroras on her legs. A full moon christens her head with drops of silver. I sit in a lawn chair, slip off my shoes, peel off my socks, and Elizabeth dives.
18.
Hungover doesn’t cut it. Lobotomized and beat the hell up is more like it. Every muscle aches from that goddamn rowing machine. Every brain cell throbs from overindulgence. My mind is mush, my senses dull, and I wasn’t half as drunk as Elizabeth last night, so I don’t know how she’s functioning. To be fair, she’s barely functioning. I feed her acetaminophen and go outside to fish her underwear from the pool filter. She doesn’t know how it got there. She doesn’t remember what we did out there, so I remind her that we did everything. Elizabeth probably doesn’t remember telling candlelit stories at Lemongrass, either, and maybe that’s for the best. All of that talk of Shae and vacuum filters was a little unhinged, and I’d just as soon forget it, so we shampoo our heads and face Monday, even though I happen to like Mondays. They’re instilled with the power to reset. There are days like that, specific times like that. Midnight on New Year’s Eve. September of a school year. Every single Monday morning. Some people dread them. I relish the clean slate, the scrubbed record, the fresh start—although, to be fair, this start is brutal.
Simone shows me an aluminum sculpture she found at a local gallery: an origami-style swan in brushed metal. All angles.
“Interesting,” I say.
She deflates an inch or two. “You don’t like it.”
“It’s not quite Elizabeth.”
“Too pointy?”
“Too cold.” I pat her arm and take my clipboard from her hands. “Keep looking. You’ll find it.”
Elizabeth may not need diamonds, but she does deserve better than a tin swan for having weathered these clichés with me, coming out on the other side, by my side. We’ve maintained a delicate degree of tension—courtesy of the things we don’t know, the things we hope the other doesn’t know, the things do we know—and I’ll be damned if we aren’t better for it.
“Doc?”
“Yes?”
“Just a heads-up: I overheard Nurse Lindsay this morning saying something about a butterfly needle being caught in the flap of the sharps receptacle. She unjammed it, but then she said something about how she never uses butterfly needles, and Nurse Clem said the same, that he always uses straight needles too, so they were like, ‘Well then, who the hell used this butterfly needle and didn’t even dispose of it properly?’ But don’t worry.” One corner of Simone’s mouth turns up in a half smile. “I covered for you.”
“Covered? I didn’t—wait, why would you say that?”
“You know.” She wobbles her head and smiles with both sides. “Because of,” and she whispers, “when Nick was here.”
“You didn’t need to do that. You don’t even draw blood.”
“Neither do you.”
“True. But more important, there is nothing to hide with Nick coming here. It was just a normal visit.”
“So I should tell them?”
“No,” I say. “No, let’s not. Nick had some private concerns. That’s all. You did the right thing.” She beams, and I ask, “What did you tell them, exactly?”
“I said I was stocking inventory and a butterfly needle fell out and landed on the floor, and that I figured it was contaminated, so I unwrapped it to dispose of its parts properly. They believed me and taught me how to keep the flap from jamming.”
“That was nice of them,” I say, although I’m not exactly grateful for nosy nurses. I could have handled it, but Simone is so proud of herself—I’ve never met a gal who loves feeling useful as much as this one—so I humor her. “And it was very nice of you. Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” she says, and she winks. “No one has to know.”
Maybe I contort my face, but I don’t say anything—I’m too baffled by her goofy grin when she pivots and hurries off. This full moon sure is getting to people. Whatever that means.
• • •
It’s nearly dinnertime when Jonah returns from his mother’s after all of one night away. His duffle bag is slung over his shoulder. He’s carrying an empty pickle jar full of herbs and a few zinnias from Vanessa’s garden.
“These are for you,” he says to me, or maybe Elizabeth. “From Mom.”
“That was nice of her,” Elizabeth says.
Generic pickles. Kosher dills.
I ask, “Where’s your sidekick?”
Elizabeth washes sage, mint, and fennel; finds a small crystal vase and fills it with water; then goes about rearranging Vanessa’s zinnias into something presentable.
“I don’t know,” Jonah finally answers. “I was going to ask you the same question.”
Elizabeth pretends not to care, but not me. I go out of my way to show I don’t care, asking, “How would we know what Nick’s up to?”
Jonah shrugs. “You saw him last.” He turns toward the stairs, duffle bag in tow.
“Wait,” I command. “He’s not with you?”
“I came straight from Mom’s, remember?”
Elizabeth moves next to me with her arms crossed against her chest.
“Yeah,” I say. “So? What, did you leave Nick there?” It would be funny—maybe even too perfect—if Nick started in on Vanessa now that his run with Elizabeth is over. Wouldn’t it just be too sweet if Vanessa’s meathead husband gave Nick his comeuppance?
Halfway up the stairs, Jonah finally gives us his full attention. “What are you talking about? Nick didn’t come to Mom’s house.”
Well, I’ll be damned.
Elizabeth blanches, and I know what she’s thinking. She’s thinkin
g, He saw us. I’m thinking the same, to a different effect. We’re both imagining how we looked—our bodies in and out of water, glowing in the light of a snow-blinding full moon—but Elizabeth will be worrying about Nick’s feelings, and whether he believes she only dove to get his attention, to trick him into looking through a window, to force him to watch. Such worries, however, miss the point entirely, because the beauty of our show was its spontaneity and purity. We salted Nick’s wounds without meaning to. Our behavior was human nature, plain and simple, and by reclaiming my wife in front of Nick’s eyes, we reset the animal order around here. We did it together, Elizabeth and me. She’s paralyzed, though, so I’m the one who has to ask, “Where was Nick, then?”
Jonah rolls his eyes, lifts his shoulders, so annoyed with his father’s stupid questions. “Here, right?”
I can’t help myself. It’s a riot. “Here all weekend?”
“I assume so.” He gives Elizabeth a dirty look. “You guys didn’t know that?”
Elizabeth says, “Relax, Jonah,” but I can’t hold back. I laugh out loud and throw my arm around her shoulder and kiss the top of her head as she whispers, “It isn’t funny.”
But it is, and I say, “He is one stealth son of a gun.”
Jonah winces—embarrassed of me or for me, out of ignorance either way—and shakes his head all the way up the stairs, mumbling, “Unbelievable,” or something like it.
“Glad you’re back, Son,” I call after him.
Though he still thinks he’s too cool for most things around here, Jonah allows, “Me too,” before slamming his bedroom door.
“Me three,” Elizabeth mutters. She brings one hand to her mouth, as if silencing herself.
“Hey.” I give her body a playful shake, and she wobbles in my arms, then falls against me. “It’s okay,” I assure her. “If he saw us, he saw us. It’s our pool, our house. He should have made his presence known.” I give her shoulders one last squeeze and leave her to recover. “He’ll get over it.” I snap a mint leaf from the wad of drooping stems and dirty flowers in this pristine cut glass, and I crush the leaf between thumb and forefinger, electrocuting the air with a bright, biting scent that brings to mind lamb chops on Easter Sunday and that neon-green jelly my father kept in the back of our fridge. “There are ants in these.”
Elizabeth snaps at me, “Well, shake them out.”
“Your grandmother’s crystal is too nice for this mess.”
Elizabeth grabs the entire bouquet with one hand and transfers it back to the pickle jar. The empty vase casts rainbows on our granite countertop. “I’m sorry,” she says, kneading her eye sockets with the heels of her hands. “I feel like I still haven’t recovered from last night, and that’s the only small vase I have.”
“Hey, we have those square ones from the party. The centerpieces?”
“Yeah. You’re right. Shit, I need to return those to Luna. I’ve emptied out most of them. They’re in the garage. I put a few in the guesthouse, too. Help yourself.” Walking away, she tells me, “I’m getting my book.”
Her avoidance of Nick is an olive branch in itself—an honored term of our unspoken covenant: a silent pact to erase him from our lives. She’s given me an in, though, so I say, “I’ll get one from out back. I can check on Nick while I’m at it.”
Elizabeth nods but doesn’t look at me.
And so, once again, I cross my lawn, but this time it’s just a lawn—not the bottom of the ocean, not a bad dream—and this time, Nick is just annoying, not haunting. I bang on the door, but he doesn’t answer, and I couldn’t care less what he’s up to today, so I let myself in, once again.
The room is as bright and clean as it was a few days ago, and atop the tiny table by the door, the printouts about emotional distress are still folded in quarters, unread. There’s coffee in the pot, socks at the end of the bed, and there’s a trace of something putrid that grows stronger as I move down the hall toward the bathroom, stronger still when I open the door.
Half a dozen glass cubes filled with soggy stems are lined up along the backsplash, just below the mirror, their milky, moldy water smelling of shit. I grab one and leave the rest for him to manage, and when I tell Elizabeth how gross Nick is, she makes a sour face and goes back to her book. Without looking at me, she says, “It’s supposed to storm later.”
“Is that right?” I dump the rotten bouquet, pour the funky water down our drain. Nick might have walked straight to the bus station after our talk. Maybe he’s at Mayo already, getting a valid opinion, putting an end to my fun.
Elizabeth holds a hand to her face. “Oh God, that does smell awful. Would you lower the umbrella before it starts?”
I squeeze organic dish soap into the glass cube, flushing it with hot water and suds scented with peppermint and eucalyptus. Nick left his computer here, but kids travel light these days. Ultralight. “The umbrella,” I say. “Yeah, sure.”
Upstairs, Jonah’s bedroom door opens and closes. He comes clunking down with his keys in his hands, and when I ask about Nick’s whereabouts, he blows me off, and when I ask where he’s going, Jonah blows me off again.
Elizabeth says to him, “Please tell us so we don’t worry.”
“For a drive,” he answers, and she nods, and they leave me out of it, then Jonah’s gone.
I fill the clean glass cube with cool water and add Vanessa’s flowers, then place the arrangement in the center of our dining room table, where we ought to eat more often, setting places with placemats and cloth napkins. I don’t even realize that I’m staring through the sliding glass door, out to the backyard, until Elizabeth says, “He’ll turn up.”
19.
It rains all night and well into the morning. Forecast says showers all week.
My deltoids and pecs are twice as sore as they were yesterday, and something’s wrong with my hamstring, and it’s monsoon season, apparently, but if Elizabeth mentions the weather again, I’m going to scream. Weather chatter is good for humoring cashiers or old men or acquaintances at mandatory networking events. Elizabeth and I should be digging deeper, discussing topics like What to Do When Your Houseguest Goes Missing, despite the fact that, days ago, I never wanted to hear our houseguest’s name again. Even now—even in his absence, his vanishing—he’s manipulating my time, staking space in my mind, so screw him. And anyway, I’ve got nothing to hide. I did him a favor. He thanked me. Maybe he’s on his way back from visiting that clinic in Tijuana, and he’ll say, “Dr. Hart, great news! False alarm.” So maybe I should go ahead and pack his things and change the locks before he has a chance to reboot his shenanigans, except that I’m supposed to be moving on already. I have work to do, a life to maintain, weather patterns to monitor.
The rain finally lets up on my drive home from work, but it’s only a tease of a reprieve from this Chicken Little feeling I can’t quite kick, because even when the sky clears and brightens the world, as soon as I pull my car into the garage, my internal world dulls all over again. More damage, more hassles: a dark streak of water staining the floor draws a line to the northeast corner of the ceiling, where a leak has sprung.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mumble, launching damage control, clearing the storage crates away from the mildew trail in-the-making, hoping the crates aren’t filled with electronics, documents, photographs.
Elizabeth panics when I knock on her office door to tell her there’s an emergency, but she’s almost relieved when I say it’s a leak, so I call it a flood to make it sound serious so she’ll take me seriously. She starts hounding me with questions—How deep is it? Do we need a pump? What about outlets? Should we kill the breaker?—and I tell her to settle down. “There’s no standing water,” I say, “but it’s a mess. Do you have that contractor’s number? It’s probably the damn gutters.”
She’s opening drawers to search for the phone number on old bills, when she says, “I told you we needed to have them cleaned,” without looking up.
“You were free to arrange the
cleaners yourself.”
“You said you’d deal with it, remember?”
“Let me know when you find that phone number,” I tell her, and head to my own office to crack open my ancient Rolodex—so old it’s almost new again, probably hipster heaven, who knows—and flip business cards alphabetized by vocation. Somewhere between Electrician and Exterminator, my father’s voice creeps into my head. It says, You’re paying other men to do a man’s job now?
I twitch and bypass Groundskeeper.
Irrigation. Mechanic. Painters. Plumber.
Too much heavy lifting? Too messy for you?
Roofer.
What kind of man can’t fix his own house?
Windows.
No son of mine.
“Forget it,” I shout to Elizabeth.
She steps out of her office and asks, “Forget what?”
“That phone number,” I say. “I don’t need it.”
“You found it?”
“No. I’m going to clean the gutters. I’ll fix the damn leak myself.”
She hardly reacts—probably because it’s high time I offered. I exit through the garage, acting put out, like being needed is a burden, when in a carbon-dense place inside of me, I’m thrilled to say, I’ll do it myself, for a change.
I move our cars out of the garage to clear space for the mess I’m about to make. Elizabeth stays in the house and doesn’t complain when ladders bang walls as I unhook them from ceiling mounts. She doesn’t check on me when I drop an open box of golf balls on the ground while searching for the PVC extension to my backpack leaf blower, which needs fuel, so I fill it and get a little high from the fumes. The attachment is nowhere to be found, though, and now I seem to remember loaning it to Gabriel next door before he moved. Thanks a lot, Gabe. Whatever. I’m young and agile and perfectly capable of leafblowing from a ladder.
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