The Fifteen Wonders of Daniel Green

by Erica Boyce

  Ben shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I don’t understand—”

  “It’s true,” Eli says. Out of all of us, Ben’s the only one who doesn’t look surprised to hear his voice, low and deep. “I found this video interview one night when I was up late, looking for jobs. A cousin of mine told me to check out this link, see if they were hiring. He meant it as a joke, I think.”

  Ben looks down into his lap, the tops of his ears turning red. I tell myself not to watch him.

  “It was one of those interviews where they put the guy’s face in shadow so you can’t tell who it is. One of the things he talked about was why. You’d think at least some of them would be a-holes about it—excuse me,” Eli says to Allison, Maggie, and me, “but really, the way he talked about it, it seemed like their hearts were in the right place. Enthusiastic about the art and all, I mean.”

  Ben hmphs and leans back in his chair.

  “It’s just so strange,” Allison says again. She starts biting on one of her chipped nails.

  “And Sam wants this done before he…gets much worse,” Maggie says to the center of the table.

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  “Do you think Daniel can do it? I mean, do you think there’s enough time?” Maggie looks at me then, her eyes shrewd.

  I find I can’t say anything. The room is silent save for a thin thread of music escaping from Nadia’s room.

  “You know,” Allison says, “I always thought we had you to thank for our marriage. If it weren’t for you encouraging me to give Ben here a chance, I might’ve been up and out of the state before he even got up the courage to ask me out.”

  I look up at her, bewildered. I have no memory of this. I felt so much older than her at the time, so lost, in no position to give her advice. Nor am I sure what this has to do with crop circles. She and Ben are staring at each other, a little smile curving between them from across the table.

  “You say Daniel’s doing it alone,” she says, “but I bet it would go faster if he had other people with him.”

  I look from her to Maggie to Eli, and now, all of them are smiling. I want to say no, that other people knowing about it would spoil the surprise, that Sam would be disappointed. Really, I’m not sure that it would, that he would. This small pocket of people helping with his vision might make him happy. Daniel will almost certainly be upset—furious, even. He’ll be gone soon enough, though, a passing breeze forgotten.

  “We want to help,” Allison says, placing her hand over mine. There’s no room for a response.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Nessa

  I want to swallow the words back down as soon as I say them.

  Theresa clears her throat once. “Well. I think you and I both know I can’t fix you, not really.” She leans forward, and her voice warms. “I’m certainly happy to chat, though.”

  I smile and hope she sees it as sincere. “That would be great.” Daniel was right: it’s been a while since I talked to a therapist, and I do need one now, before I face my dad. Part of me wishes it weren’t Daniel’s mother, but beggars can’t be choosers.

  Nick excuses himself to take the roast out of the oven, and by the time we’re passing tiny new potatoes and browned brussels sprouts at their long dining room table, their conversation has revved back up again.

  Not Daniel, though. He’s as quiet as ever, quieter than usual. He leans in so close to his plate, his nose almost touches it, and he shovels food into his mouth. Theresa keeps glancing over at him while she tells me about their recent vacation to Mexico.

  “I’m telling you guys, they’ve got fauna like you wouldn’t believe,” Nick says as he cuts big wedges of cake (the dessert is also store-bought, he told me). It’s like he’s describing a woman’s body, and Daniel grins.

  “Daniel, remember when we went to Costa Rica and your dad was so distracted by those beetles, he didn’t notice the monkeys had stolen his lunch?” Theresa asks.

  I bite my lip, but the sullen spell over Daniel has somehow broken, just like that. “It took him ten minutes to even look up,” he says, and she shines.

  “So,” she says as I’m cleaning the last of the cake crumbs off my plate with the back of my fork, “Nessa. Should we head back to my office and have a little talk?”

  Nick draws my plate out from under me.

  I stand up, though my stomach grips tight around every bite I’ve just eaten. Daniel watches me uneasily from across the table, and it’s not clear if his eyes are saying he’s sorry or giving me a silent pep talk.

  Her office is pretty much how I imagined it, a Zenned-out version of Ricky’s. The walls are a soft gray, and photos of Daniel are scattered across her desk. She moves one of them a centimeter to the left before she sits down, a silver-framed print of a very small Daniel curled up under a tree, frowning down at a book. An orange-and-white cat gets up from the armchair facing the desk, flexing its back. It weaves between my legs twice before sipping daintily from the rock fountain burbling in the corner.

  “That’s Luna,” she says.

  “Right,” I say, though Daniel hadn’t mentioned her.

  Before I get a chance to ask how long Luna’s been around, Theresa says, “Please, have a seat.”

  I perch on the edge of the armchair, its springs pressing against my tailbone.

  “You have OCD.” She folds her hands together and drapes one leg over the other.

  Onward. “I was diagnosed almost ten years ago. My compulsions are mostly hand washing, in really hot water.” I hold my hands up, and the adhesive on my bandages tugs sharply at my palms, at the many layers of scars underneath. “It used to be confessing to my mom, so at least this one only hurts me and not anyone else.” I pause and smile lamely. “I’m on Luvox every day, Xanax on bad days, Ambien on really bad days,” I continue into the silence, ticking them off on my fingers.

  Theresa’s a little stunned by the flood of information, but she does an admirable job of covering it up. When I stop talking, she tucks a stray hair behind her ear and reaches for a pen. Finally, she says, “And have you tried any other medications?”

  “Yes.” I stare down at my hands, bend and flex. There were the pills that seemed to sever the connection between my neck and my skull. The ones that anchored me to my bed, as if the sheets and blankets were stiffening concrete, the sun through the windows painful. And there was the time in the shower, with the razor in my hand, when it cut cleanly through my skin and I wanted it to. When the blood beaded up like a stoplight, I threw the razor away, into the corner of the tub, and let the water rush over my shin, running pink to clear.

  I look back up at her. She’s dropped her pen on the desk, and it rolls over to the edge and falls to the floor. Luna jumps and hisses, offended. Theresa startles at the sound and clears her throat, touches her hair, waiting for me.

  I start again. “This is the only combination that works. Most of the time. I mean, I know there’s no such thing as cured, but my obsessions are mostly in the back seat now, not driving. It only gets bad during stressful times, like…like now.”

  At this, she says something soothing, like I knew she would. I run my hands up and down my arms for something to do. She straightens in her chair. Luna takes this as an opportunity to leap into her lap.

  “Daniel may have told you I’m a family and couples therapist.” It sounds like a question, but he didn’t, so I don’t answer. She waves a little—it’s all right—cat hair floating between her fingers, and continues. “So I’m not too familiar with the treatment plans for individual illnesses, and I would highly recommend you schedule a visit with your therapist,” she says, tucking her chin down and peering up at me, like she’s wearing glasses.

  I nod away the lecture I know I’ll get if I refuse.

  “That being said, I have used cognitive behavioral therapy in the past, and I read a bit about its applications in
OCD. Would you like to do a little now?”

  As the sun sets outside the window behind her, she walks me through an exercise, one that I first did with Ricky. I know the rules already, but her voice is so soothing, like the stars in the sky hovering over you from the passenger’s seat. On my twelfth time through the exercise, I decide it’s been enough and tell her my levels are down, though panic still tightens its hands around my throat. She studies my face, as if she can see the truth in the color of my cheeks. I keep my gaze level. The truth is, it still helps, lobbing my pebbles into the pool of another person and watching her rippled surface fall back into stillness.

  She sighs and turns back to her computer. Without lifting her eyes from the screen, she says, “You and Daniel are close friends?”

  I start to speak, then pause. “I guess so,” is what I come up with. “We didn’t meet until a few weeks ago, but we’ve spent a lot of time together on the road and everything.”

  She picks at something in the palm of her hand and says quietly, “Is he happy, do you think?” She glances up at my face, which is, unfortunately, a little bit stricken, and says, “I know I should know. I spend my entire career reading people, but there’s something different about figuring out your own son.”

  I find my voice. “Yeah, I think he’s happy. Yes. He loves what he…does.”

  “I should have been more supportive of him when he said he wanted to become a farmer, like my dad.” She runs her hand over Luna’s back, and the cat purrs, impassive. It occurs to me that Theresa has no idea, that Daniel’s never told her about the crop circles. “I didn’t understand it, why he would want to do that to himself, and all of the sudden, I felt I didn’t understand him, either. And now I’m afraid he’ll never tell me anything at all.”

  Her eyes meet mine. I shift in the chair. She removes Luna from her lap, shaking the stray hairs off her hands.

  “Well,” she says, “should we get back?” She stands, and I follow her out of the office.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Molly

  For a moment, I catch myself growing giddy at Allison’s table, as if we’re planning a surprise party. I let the excitement sweep me away from the worries, from the small voice asking if Sam will find out. We decide that when Daniel and Nessa get back and I hear them whispering on the front porch, I will call Allison. I will let the phone ring twice and hang up, and that will be her signal to wake Ben and call Eli. It’s not clear why we need a signal and why I can’t simply tell her on the phone, but Allison seems convinced that if I speak, I’ll wake Sam. Maggie and I glance at each other at that, and she bows her head quickly while I bite back my lip. We both know that Sam is all too used to sleeping through our late-night conversations. I’m afraid of pricking a hole in Allison’s joy, though, so I say nothing.

  When Maggie and I stand up to leave, Allison hugs me like always, and to my surprise, Ben follows suit, folding his long arms around me.

  “We’ll come by tomorrow to keep working on those fields, okay?” he says.

  I nod into his chest, tears stinging the backs of my eyes.

  Sam is sitting at the kitchen table when we get home, huddled close over the newspaper. Maggie and I had been laughing over the ridiculous signal system, and she pauses when she sees him, but I just smile.

  “Been painting the town?” he says.

  I go as close to the truth as I can. “We were just over at Allison Remy’s.”

  He chuckles, expecting something about her buffalo chicken.

  “Ben and Eli have very nicely offered to help us out with the fields while you recover,” I say. There’s no need to tell him they already spent a full day doing so yesterday while he slept. I can feel Maggie watching me.

  He frowns, but then his face relaxes when he decides what this is really about. “That will keep them busy while they look for another lot to buy.” He nods firmly into his paper, case closed.

  Maggie and I look at each other and grin.

  That afternoon, we order pizza from the place the kids used to like. Maggie dabs fruitlessly at the pools of grease in the cheese, and Sam brags that mine was better, that one night ages ago when we turned my bread dough into a crust and set the smoke alarm screeching several times trying to get the right char on the bottom.

  Afterward, on the couch, Maggie says, “So, Molly.” She reaches into her jacket pocket, and something crinkles. When she pulls out the paper, its battered envelope, the flap I’d left sealed finally torn sloppily open, I lose everything. “I found this in the back seat of your truck this morning.”

  Sam’s face lights up, expecting news, a joke, excitement. He doesn’t remember throwing it away, dismissing it as junk mail.

  “Oh?” I say and clear my throat. I attempt to sound neutral and bland. “What is it?” I’m begging her to notice, to understand. He doesn’t know.

  “It’s the letter from that small business nonprofit. About the loan? God, it’s a few weeks old by now. I don’t know how you missed it.”

  At last, she sees Sam. He’s staring at me, mouth open. And then she looks at me, too, and the disapproval is sharp in her eyes.

  My fingers twitch, and I pack them into fists.

  “You know,” she says slowly, sandpaper across my skin. “The loan. For the bakery you wanted to open.”

  “A bakery?” Sam repeats.

  “It’s nothing,” I tell him. “A silly dream. I knew we couldn’t afford it, so I didn’t bother telling you. I only wrote that organization because Maggie wouldn’t let me alone.” I don’t look at her. I refuse.

  “I see,” he says.

  I stare at my lap and wait for more, but nothing comes.

  Finally, he says, “Well.” He plants his hands on the arms of his chair. “I’m tired. Think I’ll go take a nap.”

  Neither of us moves to help him. Together, we watch him move up the stairs, one step at a time.

  “How could you?” I hiss when he is gone. “You knew I hadn’t told him. You think that’s what he needs right now? His feelings hurt by some pointless secret?”

  “Which secret?” She turns to me, and she doesn’t look ashamed or sorry. “The one about your visits with Charlie? Your damned cigarettes? The fact that you have ambition, and somehow you’re stupid enough to think he doesn’t know that?”

  We stare at each other, frozen in something close to hatred. Then she drops the letter on the couch next to her and rubs her eyes. “You’re right,” she says. “I’m sorry. It’s not my place. But I’d kill for what you have.” She stands and walks toward the stairs. “And you keep fucking it up.”

  When she’s gone, I sit alone, shaking. How dare she? Now, of all times? Wasn’t she my friend? Didn’t she encourage me?

  In a few breaths, I am still. She is my friend, yes. She was Sam’s friend first, though. It was unfair of me—probably unbearably so—to forget that.

  I consider napping on the couch to avoid them both and slip away into sleep for an hour or two, but I’d rather not wake to them above me. Upstairs, in our bed, Sam is already asleep, curled up on one side. I watch him as I smooth lotion over my arms, papery skin catching and skidding under my hands. His breath is shallow and painful, no more full, strong snores. I pick up my knitting from beside the bed and walk back down the stairs, as carefully as I can.

  * * *

  I decide to make pancakes—breakfast for dinner, Sam’s favorite. I watch the puddles of batter bubble and set in the pan while Maggie teases Sam about his painkiller lollipops. They have barely spoken a word to me.

  A knock comes at the door, three sharp taps, with the screen a rattling aftershock. I put down the spatula and scrape a stray dab of batter from my hand. “That must be Ben confirming things about tomorrow,” I say to nobody in particular.

  When I open the door, my breath escapes.

  “Hi, Mom,” Charlie says. His hand is propped a
gainst the doorway as though he’s already preparing to push off. And his face, his face. It’s still the same one that told me stories about his day at nursery school, but it’s pasted over with that same defensive frown he’s worn since high school.

  “Charlie,” I say, and it’s strange, finally giving a voice to the word in my head. Then, before I can stop myself or wonder if Sam can hear me, I say, “I thought Nessa said you couldn’t come.”

  “Yeah, well,” he says, “our plans changed.” And then he shifts to one side, and I see the man standing behind him, tall, dark, and bracingly handsome. He waves a small wave.

  It takes a moment to place him. When I do, I say, “You must be Zach! Please, come in. So rude of me to leave you waiting.” I hold out my hand to shake his as they pass, but instead, he puts his arms around me, my hands caught close to my chest like a prayer. He smells like citrus and my son, and I wish I could stay there.

  Though Charlie has never introduced us, I know about Zach, of course. For some reason, Nessa doesn’t think I do, and every time I ask her about Charlie, her mouth purses, and her eyes shift. I busy myself with something else while she recovers.

  It was a little more than a month ago, in the height of summer—wedding season. Sam was out in the fields, and I’d just slid my third loaf of bread for the church bake sale into the oven. My face was still flushed from the heat of it when the phone rang. When I heard it was Charlie, my heart raced with fear and joy. I brushed my hand over my head, dismayed at the bits of hair that had broken free of my bun.

  “Is everything okay? I mean, how are you?”

  “Yeah, it’s fine.”

  I mined his voice and found it eager, excited even, but there was a shaking edge there, too.