by Nicole Bokat
“That is totally bizarre,” Cate agreed. “And creepy. Isabel’s probably right, that the email was from a disgruntled fan, someone wanting attention. Occam’s razor. The simplest solution tends to be true.”
“That doesn’t explain what the person saw. What if it wasn’t a dog I hit? What if, in that split second when I couldn’t see anything, a body flew into the bushes?”
“You would have felt the impact.”
“It happened so quickly. I was being so careful, going slowly. It was his headlights.”
“I’m sure, it wasn’t your fault.” Cate tilted her head, her eyes large and warm and seeking goodness. “I’ve been with you in a car. You go forty miles an hour on a highway.”
“That’s an exaggeration!”
“I’m not judging. It’s just the way it is. You’re afraid of speed. You were a fantastic skater and gymnast. But when Mrs. Corrigan asked if you wanted to join the gymnastic team you said no, you didn’t want to get hurt.”
“That was because of Ally Lee!” Natalie cried. A girl in the high school who fell on the uneven bars during a competition with another school and took a semester to recover. “I agreed, if Corrigan needed someone on the mat.”
Cate laughed. “I know. You didn’t want to be on the uneven bars, even though you were amazing.”
“I couldn’t deal with that,” Natalie said and stared at her yellowish tea, “not after everything.”
“Exactly. You wanted control after your mom died. No one could blame you for that.”
Years ago, she’d revealed to Cate the ritual she’d performed after her mother’s death, one that continued until pregnancy, when her body changed in ways she could no longer govern. She’d observe herself in the mirror each morning and run her hands down her stomach, the insides of her thighs, the cords in her neck. It had been important to check that she was lean and fit, ready to out-chase disaster. People could disappear in a flash. The body was just a vessel, one that required vigilant attention. The touch of her own skin and muscles had pacified her. She’d told Cate and no one else, not even Isabel, whom she didn’t want to worry further. Certainly not Marc.
Natalie asked, “Was I like that before my mom died, a control freak?”
Cate closed one eye as if to improve her vision into the past. “Never a freak. You were prepared and focused, not afraid. You did double axels like a pro.”
“I’ve been trying to get those six months back, the ones leading up to when my mom died. I’m wondering if I seemed already different to you before, more stressed than usual?”
“Umm. You were private about what went on at home. But, yeah, you seemed tense.”
“Did I ever say anything about going to boarding school?
“What?” Cate asked, voice pitched high. “Nothing like that. Why?”
“I had a weird memory.” Natalie lied, glimpsing at the rooster clock on the wall behind the counter. She couldn’t risk losing Cate’s respect. “I probably mixed things up.”
“You were worried about your mom. You said she and your step-dad were fighting a lot.”
“Was I fighting with my mom, too?”
“Not that you told me.”
“Anything else … from that time?”
“You did say you overheard your mom and stepdad arguing about her taking pills.” There was a nervous edge to Cate’s tone. “You were scared about that, that something bad would happen to her.”
“I guess I was right. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy.”
“That’s not what I mean. Your mom, that wasn’t your fault.”
Wasn’t it?
eight
—
ON CHRISTMAS DAY, NATALIE WAS ALONE. ISABEL AND GEORGE had invited her along to George’s parents’ home in Wellesley, but she’d declined. There was only so much charity she could accept and, truthfully, she preferred her plan: eating leftovers while binging on Lifetime movies about single corporate managers hitting their heads and waking up in another life as a wife and mother, humble and happy. These sorts of mindless films would run one after the other, blotting out the hours.
Natalie had spent the night before with her sister and brother-in-law, a quiet dinner, prepared by Fresh Direct. Since Hadley was born, this had been the tradition. Her husband and Isabel tolerated each other, but Marc adored George. His brother-in-law, with the spiffy Harvard MD and comprehensive understanding of the nervous system, would ask Marc to reset the cable box or rejigger the mail program on his iPhone, and they’d discuss the newest MacBook Pros. Was Marc helping Elizabeth’s brother or uncle or mother with their gadgets now?
Even before the anemic sun tapped the window with its fingers, Natalie was inspecting her phone for texts from Hadley. The last one from her daughter she’d already seen: Merry Xmas Eve. All good. The cousins are nice. Nice was bland and unrevealing, meant to avoid stoking pain in Natalie. Hadley had exhibited her practiced nonchalance, shrugs and slumping shoulders, and monosyllabic answers if prodded about how she felt. This would be her first time spending the holidays surrounded by strangers. But Natalie knew.
The single child role in the family, Hadley was bestowed with lonely “princess” status. Isabel always lavished her with expensive gifts: a collectible Barbie in a pink satin gown, a signed first edition of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, a bison leather backpack. She’d engaged her in discussions of her favorite characters, starting with Ariel from The Little Mermaid, then Meg from A Wrinkle in Time, and, of course, Hermione Granger—right up to Emma Woodhouse. But still, there were no cousins, no brothers or sisters.
So, the prospect of Elizabeth’s relatives, the promise of nephews and nieces close to her in age, caused Hadley to squeal on the phone. “There are, like, dozens of them. No idea. Could be hot. Are there hot guys in Ohio?”
Natalie stared at the screen. Nothing new from her girl yet—well, for God’s sake, it was too early. Marc was supposed to bring Hadley back in the evening so she could go to Sophie’s annual party, but still—she’d be in Brookline, in Natalie’s territory.
There was the usual junk in her inbox along with a Season’s Greetings e-card. It was a photo of a sliced fruitcake laid out on a holly-lined platter with the text: To my favorite Food Mortician. Hope to see you again soon. XO, Simon.
Natalie grinned and slid her hand under her pajama pants. She might be a mortician, but she wasn’t dead. But, then, she stopped herself. The email address. No, it wasn’t bbGodfrey. Of course not. She typed the words she hadn’t meant to say. What does the guy on the road know? Just as she was about to hit send, she saved to drafts instead.
Take a breath. Don’t get mixed up with this man.
Natalie pressed the ten-minute meditation setting on the Wired Happy app. Seated on her bed against her backrest, she started the relaxation routine. Her legs were slightly apart, arms away from her body. Her shoulders sank and her feet flopped to either side of her. She “observed the belly as it rose and fell. You are being healed, cradled by the sky. You are floating on the wind.” She felt the strain in her muscles lessen and focused hard on pushing away the clack and clutter of her thoughts.
Isabel’s voice called her listeners to attention with the swirl of chimes, the swish of a breeze. “Imagine you are in a place you love.”
That would be her childhood home when her mother was still alive, the two girls decorating the Christmas tree, always a tall, dignified pine whose long branches swooped into the air. She and Isabel hung the strands of popcorn and tinsel, the candy canes, and the red and green balls. Isabel would unwrap the two glass figurines that had belonged to Sigrid’s family in Norway. One was female with long yellow hair and wings so sheer they seemed like they might break just from the weight of fingers pressing against them. The other was an elf with a round belly, a white beard, and a red pointed hat with a tiny Norwegian flag in its hand.
A dull beeping replaced the hypnotic sounds. Natalie opened her eyes. She’d forgotten to turn off her phone and saw her daughter’s
name and number on the screen. It was only 7:45 a.m. Quickly, Natalie paused the meditation. “Hads, you okay?”
“Can you come get me soon?” Her daughter’s voice was small but serrated with anger.
“I thought you were having fun with Elizabeth’s relatives.”
“Yeah, I was.”
“What happened?”
“I just want to come home.”
Natalie swung her legs over the bed. “Did Dad say it was okay?”
“I don’t give a shit what Dad says.”
“Hads, what’s wrong?”
“Dad asked Elizabeth to marry him at midnight.”
Natalie gasped, the sound of a swimmer who’d held her breath under water too long. Her eyes darted around the room at yesterday’s coffee cup and the heap of pants on the floor. A sweater had caught in the drawer of her dresser, a black bit of wool peeking out. She’d been passing a house aglow with holiday lights when her husband had proposed to another woman. Was Marc a polygamist now?
“We aren’t divorced yet.”
“I know, Mom.”
“He did this in front of you?”
“I was in my room.”
Her room. As if Hadley lived in this other house.
“I saw it this morning, the ring.”
“I’m on my way,” Natalie said.
SHE DROVE THROUGH her ex’s quiet suburb, wiping her eyes and nose on the sleeve of her jacket. Sobs burst forth, as if a valve had loosened in her.
Up the block from the house, she parked the car without turning off the engine. She texted Hadley, I’m here. When she received the response, K, coming, she eased her car forward. She stared at the twin pine trees guarding the red door. The house itself was the creamy white of a wedding cake. Why hadn’t she noticed this before? The trees were the bride and groom figures. For their ceremony, she and Marc had opted for a dessert buffet of cookies and petit fours. But would Elizabeth wish to go the more conventional route: a tiered cake with garlands piped into the fondant? Maybe they’d marry in a quaint colonial church, the pews filled with her legion of relatives. The family he’d never had and had sworn he neither missed nor yearned for.
Natalie wanted to shatter the engagement ring with a hammer—while it was on Elizabeth’s finger. She wanted to smash every digit of the woman’s hands, so she’d keep them off of her husband. She thought of those black spaces on the Pet Scan images and didn’t care if her own brain lacked cheerier colors.
Natalie closed her eyes. You are being renewed and regenerated. When she opened them again, Hadley was on the pathway, Marc by her side. She clenched her hands together. You are being eviscerated, crushed into dust.
Hadley tugged at her hair as she walked. “Thanks, Mom,” she said as she slid into the passenger seat, backpack by her feet. She quickly closed the door, a gesture of solidarity.
At her window, Marc knocked lightly. Natalie noted with satisfaction that his face was rounder and his chin less defined than the last time she’d seen him. “Elizabeth loves to bake,” Hadley had announced. “If I lived there, I’d have a stroke from all the fattening crap.”
Maybe Marc would have that stroke.
Natalie pushed on the button until the glass slid an inch down, no more, as if face-to-face with a dangerous criminal.
“Sorry you had to come all the way out here,” he said. “I would have brought her back.”
“Obviously, she didn’t want to stay till you were ready.”
“I guess Hads told you our news.”
Our.
She felt so diminished, a speck of a woman viewed from an ascending plane.
“Yep. Didn’t know you were into sister wives.”
“Huh?” A look of confusion flashed over his eyes.
“Polygamy, Dad. It’s a Mormon thing.”
“Obviously, I mean, we’re waiting till after the divorce,” he stammered. “Elizabeth is fine with a long engagement.”
“I’m so relieved,” Natalie said, above the Congo drum of her heart. “Are you for real, Marc?”
“I was going to tell you myself.”
Hadley raised her voice. “Can we go now?”
“Sure can,” Natalie said.
She tore from the curb without waiting for Marc to say goodbye.
Hadley slid her seat to a reclining position, everything long, legs and neck, mass of curly hair. She shut her eyes, not even bothering to stick in her ear buds. “Maybe I won’t go to Sophie’s party tonight.”
“You’re definitely going.”
“Mom, what about you?”
“Jessa invited me to come over,” she lied. “She’s having some friends for dinner.” Jessa, the food stylist she worked with, who would be spending the day with her husband, child, and in-laws. Natalie was determined, no matter what it entailed, not to be a burden to her child. She would not be the stone around Hadley’s neck pulling her to the ocean floor.
“I like her. She’s good for you, Mom.”
Natalie noted her daughter’s sad smile and felt wounded for her.
LATER THAT EVENING, after her daughter was gone, Natalie dragged her quilt from her bed to the couch and draped it over her knees. Dust particles danced under the standing lamp. The area rug revealed a hole the size of a quarter. There was none of the adornment—stockings and garlands, wreaths and potted poinsettias—she envisioned at Elizabeth’s house.
She reached for her phone, paused a moment, then sent Simon a different message, one of her photos of Crème Brûlée, the torched burnt sugar on top, a spoonful of the rich, luscious custard scooped out. Happy Holidays to you, too was all she wrote.
Isabel was at a celebration in Beacon Hill given by George’s wealthy colleague at Mass General. She would be standing in the living room of the doctor’s row house, champagne flute in hand, perhaps wearing her new snakeskin pumps. Isabel’s cell would be tucked away in her leather clutch. There was a good chance she wouldn’t even hear Natalie’s distress signal.
She texted: Marc proposed to E.
Immediately: What? Sister Wives!
Laughter bubbled up. Natalie drew the phone closer to her face.
She typed back: Sorry to bother u @ soiree.
Please. All beta-amyloid & tangle talk. Sushi good though.
U talking to big docs?
Isabel sent an emoji of a toilet. Conversing with nice towels, Matouk, EC, very fancy.
Here Natalie had pictured her stepsister in a glamorous pose when she was with her panties around her ankles, peeing in an up-scale bathroom. EC?
Egyptian cotton.
She smiled at the thought of Isabel checking the labels for fabric, trying to distract her. So sick of Marc. Ready to start over.
Good! Isabel shot back with an accompanying smiley face.
Thx for helping me rewire my pathways!
Ha!
Enjoy dementia.
Love you.
You too.
She turned on the television and flipped through the channels. There were hundreds, newscasts and football games, reruns of NCIS and Storage Wars, endless movies with Santa, elves, and Scrooge in the titles. Changing images quickly was relaxing, like staring at a hypnotic black and white spiral. It was a quirky habit Marc found endearing until he didn’t.
For years, they’d sit together on the couch, watching either the news or a dramatic series they’d stream. Some nights he rubbed her feet, others she draped her legs over his lap, and that was enough. She should have suspected he was already gone when he positioned his computer across his thighs, leaving no room for her. She’d had trouble deciding among all the services to which he now subscribed. “What can you possibly be looking for?” he’d asked during the final months. “That you haven’t passed over ten times already?”
Even though she’d switched off the heat, Natalie was perspiring. The blood was hissing in her veins. Would Hadley be in the wedding, a bridesmaid in a pastel pink dress with a crinoline and lace hat chosen by Elizabeth? Would Natalie be required to take h
er daughter shopping for her husband’s wedding, or would Elizabeth micromanage, schlepping Hadley to bridal boutiques on Newbury Street and beyond?
When her front bell rang, Natalie startled. She wondered if Hadley, upset with Sophie again, had gotten a ride home.
“Who is it?” she asked into the intercom.
“It’s me,” Isabel said.
“Hey, what are you doing here?” Natalie buzzed her in, almost giddy with gratitude.
She opened the door and peered out into the hall.
And there was Isabel in a liquid silver cocktail dress under her unbuttoned calfskin coat, the scent of her perfume filling the vestibule. “I come bearing gifts. Merry Christmas!”
She smiled, motioning to her stepsister. “Don’t be silly. You gave me that wonderful book last night. And that incredible bag for Hadley at Thanksgiving, which she can’t get over.”
Natalie’s gift was an edited version of a landmark book, a tribute to a famous photographer. She’d rifled through the pages of erotic portraits, many of bare breasted, ropey-thin women. She stopped when she came to a nude model lying in bed, the sheets stripped away. This image, the hollow of the belly under the ribcage, the long legs and swing of hair, kindled something in her.
“Your mom loved her work,” Isabel said. “We cracked up when she dragged us to that exhibit of the nudes. You were only eleven, but I was old enough to behave.”
Her mother, at the museum, lozenges of light on the pine floors from the slatted window roof, pointing to the pictures hanging in front of them. “Now these are art.”
Natalie had giggled at the sight of the woman’s asymmetrical breasts, the nipples staring straight at them, like a horse’s eyes. Next to her, Isabel had squeezed her hand and mouthed, “So gross.”
Now, Isabel reached out her palm upon which sat a small box wrapped in holiday paper. “Go ahead, take it.”
Natalie tore off the red ribbon and twinkly foil. Inside was a velvet box that sprang open to reveal a black stone with a greenish tint, held in place by a wispy white band. “Jesus, Belle!”
“It’s actually not Jesus. It’s just a diamond. I didn’t think a clear one was appropriate. But you deserve one more than the woman I shall not name.”