She smiles, remembering. "He gave me the camera with the condition that I had to take his photo, every day we were together. It was a joke really. But it became a thing. I could wallpaper the Washington Monument if I printed all of my photos of him. It sounds absurd now, but he was exactly what I needed. He had such a warm and caring nature. My parents were so cold. Then I became pregnant. Well, you know the rest." She stops abruptly.
"Finish your thought."
"I was in Afghanistan when I learned I was pregnant. I considered grabbing my cameras and running. I had my own money. But I loved him. I thought I loved him. Is that love? I don’t know any more, John. No matter how bad it was, I couldn’t stay away. I was so weak. I killed my baby by staying with him.”
Anna’s tears flow silently and John pulls her to his side. Eventually, they walk to her deck and sit in lounge chairs watching the stars.
"Want to get drunk?" John asks.
"Nah."
"Chocolate?"
"Nah."
"Movie?"
"Nah."
"Karaoke?"
"Nah."
"Bed?"
"Yes, but not yet. Just this." She takes his hand and they watch the night sky together.
The next day, John and Anna are anxious to lighten the atmosphere and clear some cobwebs, so they take a walk into town and go for pancakes. Later, they drag Anna's chaises into the sand and opt for a beach nap, still exhausted from the draining night before. Anna wakes mid-afternoon and John's chaise shows just the indent from where he dozed a few hours earlier. Must have gone in for a pee or a drink. Anna decides to go for a quick swim to get the sleep out of her eyes. She wades into the clear, warm, low tide waters and plunges into a small wave, coming up on the other side in deeper water. She swims out a ways, floating, enjoying the gentle current. She hears him yelling in the distance.
"Anna… Anna…" He is running the beach looking for her.
"John, I'm here," she hollers, trying to wave in water a little too deep to stand. He can't hear her and she is forced to watch him for a heartbreaking moment frantically searching the beach for her.
Finally he sees her waving, fighting the current to meet him. "John I'm here. I'm here. What's wrong?" He is pale and blinking way too fast. She searches his face for answers and grasps his arms, "John what is it?"
He shrugs her off. "Fuck," is all he says. “Fuck.”
She decides he'll talk when he is ready and takes his hand, guiding him back to the chairs. She dries herself with a towel and then lies to face him, waiting. He sits back in his chair with feet on either side, still in the sand. He looks ready to take flight at any moment. He visibly fights for calm.
"I thought you left me. Left the island. I went in for five minutes, came back and you were gone. I didn't see you on the beach. I checked your house. I didn't even look to see if your car was there. I just assumed you ran. Away. From me and all this," he says gesturing a hand back and forth between them.
John's agony tears at Anna's heart. He is working hard, making real strides to manage his trauma and his anxieties, but it all simmers just below the surface, ready to boil over at the slightest provocation. She imagines last night’s shared stories were the impetus for today’s irrational panic.
"John, I give you my word. I won't do that. And I know that you won't. I am here until our last goodbye on the steps of 517, exactly where we met, exchanging keys, in June. I swear this to you.
"I'm a fucking wreck," he admits.
"But you aren't a fucking wreck all of the time. You are a fucking wreck very infrequently actually. Last night you told wonderful stories of Sarah. And you told them beautifully. That was not a wreck of a man talking. You seem to have stopped your late night swims. Give yourself some credit for progress."
"You knew about that?" he asks.
"I did notice. Yes."
"I'm not doing that anymore." He finally raises his legs onto the lounge chair, sitting back and relaxing.
"I didn't think you would really run off. That was more about me than you."
"I can't remember. Is that one projecting or transference?" She wonders aloud.
"Projecting."
They sit catching their breath as normal resets. "We've gotten far too serious. I have just the thing to lighten the mood around here. I'm kicking you out after dinner tonight, then come to my room at exactly ten p.m."
He laughs. "Does that mean you’re cooking tonight?"
"Certainly not. Let me rephrase. I'm leaving your house after dinner tonight and I would love you to come by at ten p.m. Sharp," she adds for good measure.
John grills trout, potatoes and zucchini, and grinds a Chimichurri with his mortar and pestle. "There is nothing as sexy as a man with a pestle in his hands." She kisses him deeply, slipping her hands into the back of his jeans.
"Later, when you come to my house..." she starts.
"At ten o’clock?" His face is close to hers and he can feel her breathing. He could stay like that all night.
"Ten sharp, yes. You’d better be ready for a long night. You might want to rest up.”
He kisses her and slowly slides her dress up, but she breaks the embrace. "You’ll have to wait till later my love."
After they eat dinner, Anna runs off the deck, jogging back to 517, calling over her shoulder, "I hate to eat and run, but so much to do.” She shares a wave and a well- blown kiss.
John watches her run. He doesn’t know Anna’s plans for becoming a mother, but there is a part of him that wants to ask Anna to forgo having a child, at least for a few years but he knows enough about infertility to understand how her chances for conception will reduce as she nears forty. He won’t ask her to risk that. Thinking of the joy he feels at Clara's smiling face, he knows Anna must feel that joy too. Could I handle it? Could I be with Anna while she has a baby? With therapy and a prescription or two? He isn't managing his anxiety well. The panic he felt hours before, running the beach, is proof enough. He isn't there. He isn't even close.
Reconnecting with Clara is his first priority. She deserves to have the best possible version of him, not a stressed out lunatic on the constant verge of panic waiting for the worst imagined horrors to happen to his family. He found a small house a few blocks from Brian and Stephanie's. The school system is the same so Clara can split her time between the two houses. The irony is she’ll grow up like a child of divorce, juggling two homes. He wonders if having three loving parents can make up for the loss of a mother. He hopes it can. Losing Anna is going to be painful, but finding his life with Clara makes him happier than he could have imagined.
It is eight o’clock so he does the dishes, wipes the counter for longer than necessary and then reaches for his mobile. He has been meaning to make this call for months. He pours a small bourbon and presses the number for his mother. His phone sends the call.
He can hear her tears before she speaks. "Johnny? Johnny is that you? It's Johnny." she calls to his dad.
"It's me, Momma." His guilt for causing her tears and her pain turns his stomach.
She cries quietly, unable to find words. He hears his father taking the phone. "Johnny, I'm putting you on speaker. We're both here and we are so glad you called." Conrad Halloway keeps his voice conversational like this is their regular Sunday call. You would never know they have not spoken in well over a year and a half.
"Johnny how are you doing?" John has a strong suspicion they receive daily, maybe hourly reports, from Brian and Stephanie, maybe Lynn too.
"I'm good Dad. Really, I am doing well."
"We are so glad John." Jane sniffs into the phone.
"How are you?" John asks. He has missed their voices.
"These past months without you have been extremely difficult. We miss you and we've been worried sick." Conrad answers truthfully.
"I am so sorry for that."
"No John. No apologies." Jane is firm.
He continues anyway. "I have to. I have been avoiding this for too long, so I need
to get it out.”
“Say whatever you need to say John,” Conrad answers.
John wants to get it all off his chest, “Mom you knew things were bad and I couldn't see it the way you did. Sarah was a complicated woman. I thought having you there would make things worse. You know how she was. I just couldn't see it."
Jane stops him. "You have nothing to apologize for. I do. I didn't understand Sarah at all and I didn't try to. She was grieving for her parents her whole life. I should have tried harder. If I had she might have wanted me there when things got bad for her. She might have trusted me, and things might have been different. I blame myself for that every day."
John loses himself to the memory while Jane talks.
He remembers how they lower Sarah into the ground and all John can think is that her casket looks like a bar. He doesn’t know who chose the dark, glossy, wood, trimmed in brass, but it looks like a fucking bar. Sarah would hate it. He passes Jane and Conrad on his way out. Conrad touches his arm to try to stop him from going, but John shrugs him off without a glance. His legs take him toward the main road, so he can look for a car to get him the fuck out of there. John leaves everyone standing graveside watching after him and jogs toward the intersection. If he moves fast, he can get away before anyone registers that he is leaving. Not leaving the funeral, but leaving. A kid in a minivan waits at a red light. John holds out a $100. “I’m not a pervert. I just buried my wife and I need a ride.” The boy waves him in, takes the $100 and drives John home.
Even before the reception at Brian’s house begins, John is already clearing his own house, still in a suit, throwing every memento from their lives into piles on the curb. He tosses photo albums and wedding pictures, candlesticks bought in Bermuda, a painting from San Francisco, china from their wedding, CDs and DVDs listened to and watched together, books read. He shuts off his phone to stop the endless buzzing.
He packs every possession of Clara's into plastic bins. Her clothes, her toys, her diapers. He packs the blue bear mobile she would reach for in the mornings, the rocking seat where she napped by the window, her bunny sheets and fluffy pink towels. He packs Goodnight Moon and dresses she will grow into at twelve months, eighteen months. Dresses he will never see her wear. He fills his SUV, leaving the bins by his brother's garage. No good-byes. He signs power of attorney papers and guardianship papers.
He calls Goodwill to collect the furniture and the rest. He saves the rocking chair where Sarah rocked Clara to sleep on the good days. Where he would hold his baby after her bath, little body wrapped in a soft towel, smelling of everything right in the world, rocking, looking into each other’s eyes. He puts the chair through a living room wall and then smashes it to pieces with his foot.
In the end, he patches the wall and paints it over. He packs one bag with a few clothes, no photo, no lock of hair. He sells his car at a nearby lot and takes a cab to the airport. He buys a ticket to Argentina, because it is the next international flight out. John sends one text to Brian, before he crushes the phone under his heel. She’s yours now.
"John we are so happy about the house in Chicago," Jane says, bringing him out of his memories.
"Me too. I feel really good about it."
"Johnny will you come and see us? We miss you so much." Jane sounds hesitant not wanting to ask for too much.
"I miss you too,” John says.
"You know we are having our September Shindig in a few weeks. Clara and the others will be here. Will you come? Stephanie said you have a wonderful friend. Will you both come?"
The thought of leaving this oceanfront paradise turns John’s stomach.
"Don't answer now, just think about it," Conrad suggests, ever sensible.
"We'll call on your birthday Johnny. We love you so much," Jane says before saying goodbye and ending the call.
John drains his bourbon and then a satisfied smile spreads. The burden of Atlas is lifted from his shoulders. The relief makes him want to run to 517 and tell Anna. He remembers their plans and decides to save it for another time.
John enters Anna's bedroom at ten sharp. The only light is the glow from a dozen candles. A low rhythmic melody plays. She is naked, wearing a mask over her eyes, hair framed with large curls. She is covered in bronzer, sparkling like a Greek goddess. She hands him a mask. "I don't want your performance affected by worry about these getting into the wrong hands," she explains pointing to the camera topped tripod in the corner."
His performance is perfectly unaffected.
John awakes later than usual and Anna bows out of their morning run. "I have a few bits and pieces to catch up on, emails and that sort of thing." She still glows.
With weak knees, John takes a quick shower to rinse off the residual bronzer and heads out.
When he is gone, Anna tosses the bedding into the washer, wondering if she destroyed it. That was well worth it. She adds some bleach then sets the photos from last night’s festivities to upload to her laptop, glancing at the first few. She calls her agent in New York to set up some fashion shoots when she gets there in September. Pem has volunteered to host Anna for the immediate future. Her place on the Upper East Side is enormous and she is rarely home. She would like Anna to stay indefinitely. As much as Anna appreciates the offer, becoming permanent roommates at thirty-six is unappealing. Anna tries to reach Pem to chat but leaves a voicemail. She calls her realtor to see if the buyer settled on her Ellicott City home yet. Thank god the power of attorney transfer to her lawyer has taken that off her plate. A check will be sent to her via registered mail. All things are in order.
Despite the fact it is too soon, Anna takes a pregnancy test out of the box and follows the package directions. No. She is disappointed. She wonders about the statistics for a thirty-six year old woman getting pregnant without interventions. She sighs. Well, if anyone can do it, he can, remembering the photo of John bracing her high against the wall, buried deep inside of her. She fights back a pang of guilt about lying to him and moves the clean sheets to the dryer.
John runs clear headed and long. He feels good, maybe a little sore from some of last night's maneuvers. She is indeed a goddess, he thinks, recalling the scenario. She has a knack for helping find the best in him. He wonders if he will be able to keep all this up without her. He was still in such a shitstorm the day they met. How much of this is Anna? he wonders. The progress he has made in the last few weeks is real, but his situation is still precarious. He needs to find some professional help when he gets to Chicago, for Clara's sake. He has put that off for too long.
John has come to rely on Lynn as well, but in a different way. Once a week or so, John visits her office or the cemetery on a Sunday morning. Their easy conversation has helped him to stop hiding and shine a light on everything that has been holding him back. He thinks their friendship has been good for Lynn too. On a run last week, he saw her chatting with the owners of Dock of The Bay outside of Starbucks. She is remembering how to be with people.
John considers a visit to Austin. His knee jerk reaction is to say no. He can't leave Anna. Could she join him? There are still a few weeks left to consider it, so he decides to let that sit.
When he gets to 516, John goes up to shower before breakfast. Anna has been busy. His bed is covered with prints of their memorable evening together. He makes the shower a cold one and then goes back to Anna's for an encore.
A week later Anna asks John if he would consider a birthday trip. "I'd love to take you to a little place Pemberley told me about in Savannah." Anna books a night at the Bohemian Hotel on the Riverfront and they drive to Savannah on August fifteenth.
"Have you ever been to Savannah?" John asks.
She had not.
"I'll drive."
The ride is almost three hours. They alternate songs from their playlists, battling for best dance song, best first kiss song, best wild sex song, best seduction song, best song to wake up to, best song to fall asleep to, best beach song, most inspiring song. Best seduction song forces
a roadside detour, on a blanket in a field, surrounded by tall swaying grass.
They arrive in Savannah mid-afternoon, check in at the hotel and go to the lounge for a drink by the water. The riverfront is crowded with tourists, shopping among local artists. Passengers disembark from a riverboat and take pictures of each other in front of the red water wheel. A candy store nearby releases a sugary perfume into the hot afternoon air.
John orders a bourbon and ginger. Anna hesitates when ordering and awkwardly asks the patient waiter for a lemonade. She is pregnant, John realizes and his breathing stops short. He notices for the first time today that she is literally glowing. The skin on her face is smoother and her color is brighter. It is so cliché. He excuses himself politely and walks into the men’s room. He splashes cold water on his face, gripping the sides of the sink, gritting his teeth and breathing hard. Asshole, he tells his reflection. When he gets back to the table, he throws down a twenty and looks at Anna’s innocent face with cold fury. “I’m going.” He offers no explanation and walks out.
He goes straight to the room, strips and gets into a hot shower, trying to wash away the raw rage. Thirty minutes later, John comes out of the shower, dripping, with a white towel around his waist. He opens the door to release the steam and Anna sits on the bed, waiting. His eyes are full of anger. His skin is patched in red from too much hot water. She sits with hands on her lap, hair draped over her shoulder, looking as harmless as a Sunday school teacher.
“I won’t desert another baby,” he says with a finality that could start or end the conversation.
“John, I lied to you,” she offers, turning her chin to face him.
Circling The Shadows Page 15