by Grace Palmer
Eliza had a sudden pang of missing her father. Pulling her phone from her Gucci clutch, she dialed his number. It rang and rang, but no one answered. Dad was terrible at answering his phone. She’d try again later. He’d know just what to say to put this all in perspective.
She turned the corner and reached her apartment building. The doorman, Manny, gave her a nod and a hello as she walked in. She smiled at him and kept going towards the elevator.
From there, up to the twelfth floor, marked in the elevator button array with a “P” for “Penthouse.” The doors opened and let her into the hallway. She walked down to her unit.
She was about to put her key in the lock when she noticed that it was open already. That was strange. She was a thousand percent sure that she’d locked it before leaving that morning. And Clay had gone out to that client site in Brooklyn, hadn’t he? So he wouldn’t be home yet. That left a few options, none of them good. Had the superintendent come in for something? But he wouldn’t do that without telling them. He knew better than to cross a Type-A Wall Streeter tenant, much less a pair of them. Maybe an intruder, then?
Eliza took a deep breath and retrieved the pepper spray she kept on her key chain. She’d only had to use it once before, in her earliest months in the city, when a cracked-out mugger thought he had her cornered and frightened. It had done the job nicely that day. Since then, it had lain dormant. But she wasn’t afraid to pull the trigger again if necessary.
She pushed the door open. It swung inward on silent hinges. Slipping out of her high heels, she set them aside in the entry hallway and crept deeper into the apartment. The foyer ended a few feet farther in and opened into an open-floor-concept living room/kitchen combo. The floors were a dark wood. Modern furniture was dotted sparsely around the space, all done in muted grays. The light fixture overhead looked like floating bubbles. It had cost a fortune.
She turned her gaze to the hallway that led towards the bedrooms. Art lined either wall, mostly expensive abstract pieces devoid of color. But Eliza’s eyes were rooted straight ahead. She definitely heard noises now. A shuffling, a sniffling. The scrape of a chair. Who on earth was in her apartment?
She paused outside the guest bedroom door. Solid oak, imported—Italian, if she remembered correctly. Or was it Brazilian? She wasn’t sure. The doorknob was bronze and gleaming; they’d had cleaners in here a day or two ago, the best in the city. From within, the shuffling noises continued. It was definitely a person. Sniffling for sure. Snorting? Inhaling?
Oh no.
Eliza let her hand holding the pepper spray drop to her side. She pushed the door open, defeated even before she saw what lay in wait within the room. She knew already, before the door opened and revealed the ugly truth.
She didn’t even blink when she saw Clay seated at the desk pushed up against one wall. She didn’t cry out when she saw white powder lined up in neat little rails on the wooden desktop and caked under his nostrils. She just sighed as she took in the straw in his hand, and the wide, red-rimmed eyes he was looking at her with.
“El-Eliza, you … what? I mean …”
What could she say? Clay’s drug use had been a blip on the course of her otherwise perfect life. She’d assumed at the time it was the one and only blip she would have to deal with for a while. That was what—fourteen months ago? Maybe longer. She was suddenly having difficulty keeping track of time. Not usually a problem for a businesswoman like Eliza Benson. But dates and times were swimming around her head, refusing to lie down in order.
However long ago it had been, the facts of the scenario were still relatively straightforward. Clay liked using drugs. Cocaine, to be specific. Was it uncommon in their line of work? No, of course not. Half the young kids applying for associates jobs were only in it because they’d seen The Wolf of Wall Street, starring Leonardo DiCaprio, and surmised that the financial industry was basically a reckless bacchanalia of drugs and partying. Plenty of bankers operated at a relatively high level while—well, high.
Clay was not one of them.
He was a schmoozer in everything but title. Meaning that his job was to wine and dine clients, to court new ones and maintain strong relationships with the bank’s current roster of tech CEOs and hedge-fund stars. Meaning that he spent a lot of time at expensive dinners and on expensive yachts. That was why he had such a close link to the firm’s CEO, and why he’d had sufficient gravitas to call in the helicopter pad favor for their engagement. Meaning, also, that he spent a lot of time around temptations of various ilks. Powerful men liked powerful distractions, it seemed. Clay didn’t have the backbone to say no to drugs. Eliza had picked Clay up from the back exit of a club one night, drugged out of his mind. She’d distributed hundred-dollar bills to everyone in sight to keep things on the down-low. When he’d woken up the next day, he’d apologized profusely and sworn it would never happen again.
When, of course, it did happen again, he’d actually been the first to suggest rehab. She’d said okay to that. Two weeks in the Arizona desert and he came home with a fresh somberness in his eye. At the time, it seemed like that was that. Competent Clay was back, and Cocaine Clay was a thing of the past.
Now, she saw that that was a lie.
Her fiancé was an addict. Correction—the father of her baby was an addict. He loved drugs more than he loved her, and even if he knew about their baby, Eliza was fairly certain that Clay would love drugs more than him or her, too. So she didn’t bother giving him the choice.
She threw four things at him. The first was her engagement ring. It was a good throw—she didn’t make All-American and All-Academic softball teams for each of her four years at Penn for no reason. The ring hit him in the chest with a plink. Clay just blinked and looked down at it where it landed in his lap.
The second, third, and fourth things that Eliza threw at her now-ex fiancé were each of the handful of pregnancy tests she’d stuffed in her purse. Since the moment in the Goldman Sachs bathroom when she’d known—just known, as clear as day, long before she’d hustled to CVS and confirmed it as a cold, hard fact—that she was pregnant, she’d harbored a stupid, never-gonna-happen fantasy that she would come home and show Clay the tests, and that everything would change. She’d imagined that he would see that little plus sign and the shell of his emotionless exterior would crack, revealing the Prince Charming in an Hermès tie who had been hiding within him all along. He would love her with a warmth that she knew she needed. Like a husband loved his wife, not like a shark loved blood. A chorus of angels would sing and rainbows would beam through the window.
She knew that wasn’t actually going to happen, even though a part of her really earnestly wanted to believe it. But she’d never anticipated that reality would burst her bubble quite so viciously.
“I am leaving, Clay,” she said calmly and simply. “Our engagement is off. Do not call me. Do not text me.” She didn’t know where she was going, but she was going somewhere for sure. Anywhere but here.
He looked down at the pregnancy tests and the engagement ring in his lap and his face settled into something alien and unrecognizable.
“Okay,” he said meekly. He didn’t sound that sad at all.
On her way out of the apartment, with a hastily packed weekend bag in hand, her phone buzzed. She answered at once. It was Brent. He told her the news.
“Okay,” she said through a throat that felt tight. She didn’t know what else to say, though “Okay” seemed like a terrible reply. Outwardly, she knew she sounded like a robot, like a heartless monster—like Clay, even. But inside, she felt far more than she knew how to put into words. So she just said, “Okay,” and nothing else. The world outside looked far colder and grayer than it had on her way to work this morning.
She knew where she was going now, at least.
She was going home to Nantucket.
15
Mae
“Eliza’s coming home,” Brent said.
“What?” Mae hadn’t heard him. She was lost in thought
. They were still sitting in the hospital, though there wasn’t really any reason for them to be there anymore.
He repeated what he said.
“Oh,” said Mae. “That’s good.” Her voice was vague and distant. She knew that Brent needed her, but it was just so hard to focus. She’d used up the last reserve of strength she had when she’d told him to call Eliza. That had been an uphill struggle, just getting the words out of her mouth. But Brent was her baby boy, her little one, and even though he was a trooper and not really such a baby or so little anymore—when had he gotten so old and weary?—she still knew him. He needed her. As her children arrived one by one, they would all need her, too.
This wasn’t how she pictured this weekend going. It wasn’t so long ago that she’d been buzzing around the kitchen, doing her little hummingbird tasks—oh no, oh no, that word hurt too much now. She’d be quite happy if she never saw a hummingbird again. That was Henry’s word for her. She didn’t want to hear it anymore.
Her sadness was weird. She’d never spent much time wringing her hands over unpleasant futures. Mae Benson, neé Warner, was not a worrier by nature. So she just didn’t have the mental infrastructure to really take all of this in at once. As far as she was concerned, that was just fine. There’d be lots of time to take it all in later. Lots of lonely moments, quiet ones that Henry had once filled and wouldn’t be filling any longer. Oh my. The house would be so quiet. She’d been looking forward to stepping back into her own home, but now the thought filled her with a gray sense of foreboding. His clothes would still be in the closet. And she knew for certain that he’d left his coffee cup in the sink before he left the house that morning. She was forever yelling at him not to do that, but he was forever forgetting. She wouldn’t have to yell at him about it anymore.
Oh my.
“Mom?” Brent said. She looked over to him. They were seated side by side in the waiting room chairs. Goodness gracious, were these things uncomfortable. They certainly were not designed to bear the weight of a grieving old woman. Mae felt so gosh darn old all of a sudden. Just a few hours ago, she would’ve replied to anyone who asked that she was a spring chicken with a second wind. “Look at me!” she would’ve said, laughing, spreading her arms wide. “All the pep is still in my step!” Now, though, the mere thought of getting out of this chair seemed impossibly exhausting.
“Did you say something, dear?”
Brent nodded. “I said, Holly’s here.” He pointed towards the hallway. Holly was standing there. She was holding both Alice’s and Grady’s hands. Pete was standing a couple feet apart from them. Mae thought that was a little odd. Pete was such a sweet man, and he so loved her Holly. Holly was biting her lower lip. She’d done that ever since she was a kid whenever she was worried or sad. Mae had a flashback to Holly as a little girl, playing house with her dolls, pigtails flopping side to side as she ran around and made mud pies at the beach. What a sweet thing she’d been. Still was.
“Hi, Mom,” Holly said. She rushed over, kids in tow. Alice and Grady looked confused. Mae reached out and stroked each of their cheeks in turn. Brent helped Mae to her feet so she could hug her daughter.
“Hello, honey,” Mae murmured. That took so much effort to say.
“I’m so sorry, Mom,” Holly cried. She buried her face in her mother’s shoulder. Mae patted the back of her head absentmindedly. She stared out the window on the far wall as she held her middle daughter and let her whimper for a few moments longer. The rain had stopped now. It was just another quiet Nantucket night in April.
Eventually, Holly let go and stepped back, holding Mae at arm’s length. “Are you okay? Have you eaten? Did you have any water today? You never remember to drink water.”
Mae chuckled softly. It felt strange coming out of her mouth. “You are me, aren’t you? Always mothering the rest of the world.” Holly blushed, and Mae chuckled again, though she didn’t really feel like laughing. It was true; Holly had always been the most domestic of her children. It didn’t surprise anyone in the Benson clan when she married Pete, her high school sweetheart. Nor did it surprise them when she had two beautiful children in quick succession. Holly had been ready for motherhood practically from the day she was born. Mae smoothed down one of Holly’s flyaway hairs. “Don’t worry about me, darling.”
“Of course I’m worried about you, Mom!” Holly cried. Pete stood off a few feet away, wringing his hands and looking down. Mae could still remember when he’d asked Henry for permission to marry Holly. She’d been peeking around a corner—guiltily, but she just couldn’t help herself sometimes; she was so curious by nature—and remembered just how humble and honest Pete had been. He’d sworn to work hard and provide and be a good husband and son-in-law. He’d kept those promises as far as Mae knew, so the sense of awkward distance she could feel between him and Holly was strange. She made a mental note to ask about it later.
“Mom, I’m hungry,” Grady whined. He tugged at Holly’s shirt. Mae and Holly looked down at him. His shirt was disheveled and his face was drawn with exhaustion.
“Grady, not the time!” Holly hissed.
“No, no, it’s okay,” Mae cut in. “Let’s go home and get you some food.” It felt good to be able to focus on a little task like that. Her own version of one step at a time. First—get home. Then—feed Grady. She had chicken nuggets in the freezer for him. That was easy. It was straightforward, and heaven knew she needed a straightforward path to walk down right now. She’d zapped her battery dry while talking to the doctors and the Coast Guard and then Brent. Putting chicken nuggets in the oven would be restorative in the strangest way. It would feel like normal, on a day where nothing else had been.
Pete led the way down the hall. Mae followed. Alice held her hand as Grady scampered along ahead of them. She heard Brent and Holly whispering behind them as they wound their way outdoors.
The sky overhead was studded with stars. The parking lot was mostly silent. Mae could just barely hear the waves crashing on the beach. “I’m parked this way, Ma,” Brent said. His head was bowed, like he couldn’t bear to look at her. He reached out and pulled her into a hug. If Mae closed her eyes, for a brief second it felt like she was hugging Henry. Brent had the same build as her husband, the same broad shoulders and big barrel chest.
But when she opened her eyes, she saw Brent’s green eyes, the same as her own, rather than Henry’s baby blues. “Okay, darling,” Mae said. She didn’t have the strength to say much else. Brent looked down for a moment longer, then turned and walked over to his pickup. She watched as he clambered in, pulled out quickly, and drove off.
“This way, Grandma,” Alice said. Mae took her granddaughter’s hand again and went off towards where Pete had pulled the SUV around. She climbed in and they went back to Mae’s house.
It was a short drive, fifteen minutes or so. When they pulled into the driveway and Pete killed the engine, the silence felt very heavy, like a knit blanket. Mae didn’t like it very much. She waited as Grady leaped out of the car and held the door open for her. For all his energy, he was a good boy. Holly and Pete had done a good job raising him thus far. He had the same twinkle in his eyes as Henry.
Mae smiled and patted her grandson’s cheek gently. “Thank you, Grady,” she said as she stepped down. She walked up to the door, unlocked it, and let them all inside. The house was still, and the silence in here was even heavier than it had been in the car. The smells were the same though, and home was still home, so she did what she always did when she returned. She put her keys on the seashell-shaped key hook that hung by the door, slipped off her shoes on the “Welcome to Nantucket – Make Yourself at Home!” mat that had always lain just inside, and went to flip on the kitchen lights.
The kitchen wasn’t that big, but it was homey and it was hers. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered to life. She could hear the buzz of the refrigerator running. She knew there was a chilled salad inside, and a bottle of wine with Holly’s name written all over it. Plus apple juice and ch
icken nuggets for the kids, and a six-pack of Coors for Pete. Mae started to explain all that to Holly, but her daughter just shushed her. “It’s okay, Mama,” she said. “I’ll handle it all. What can I get you?”
There were an awful lot of answers to that question. A time machine would top the list, but Mae wasn’t quite ready to offer such a quippy answer yet. Get me my husband back was far too morbid, and Mae had never been morbid. What to say, then? What did she want?
“I think I’ll just go upstairs and freshen up,” she said finally. That seemed reasonable, and it seemed straightforward, too. Go upstairs, splash some water on her face, touch up the tiny bit of makeup her vanity insisted upon every day. Perhaps change clothes; the dress she was wearing stank of hospital disinfectant. Belatedly, she noticed, she was still wearing an apron, for crying out loud. Those nice Coast Guard men must have thought she looked so silly.
“Okay, sure thing. I’m gonna pour some wine for you too, okay?” Holly said. Her brow was furrowed as she searched Mae’s face. Mae knew that her daughter was holding back plenty of tears of her own, for her sake. She touched her face just like she’d touched Grady’s. She tried to say with her fingertips what she was having a hard time saying with her words: Thank you, I love you, I’m hurting too, we’ll make it through this together. Any and all that stuff. She couldn’t say for sure whether Holly got the message. She hoped she did. A grieving child required nothing more than her mother’s love.
But, for right now, Mae needed just a moment of stillness away from everyone else. She’d been surrounded by people since Brent had first knocked on her door. It would be nice to just step inside her bedroom and shut the world out for a moment.
She turned and left the kitchen. She mounted the stairs one by one. Her knee creaked. Had it always done that, or was that recent? Mae wasn’t quite sure. She supposed it didn’t really matter. She gripped the handrail carefully as she made her way up, past her children’s old bedrooms, and down to the master at the end of the hall. Stepping inside, she shut the door behind her.