by Nicole Bokat
“Got it,” he said, entering information on his phone.
“Thank you. I promise to let you interview me about Isabel’s program, anything you want.”
Natalie would be honest about her own struggle with the positive psychology movement. But she wouldn’t hurt Isabel, her other mother, the one who would never have sent her away.
fifteen
—
MARC HAD AGREED TO LET HADLEY GO TO CARA’S PARTY AND, right on time, the next morning, he buzzed the intercom to Natalie’s apartment. She glimpsed her ex-husband in profile on her building’s steps, his hair clipped shorter than usual. He was hatless, and the tips of his ears were a stinging red from the cold. He wore the goose down jacket she’d bought him for his birthday the year before he left her and thick gloves she’d never seen before.
Natalie pressed her finger on the button quickly, then took it off, not wanting to talk to him. “Your father’s here,” she called to Hadley.
When her daughter didn’t appear, Natalie found her standing at the kitchen sink. “Do I have to go, Mom? I’m beat from last night.”
“I know, honey. But this was the arrangement.”
Hadley kneaded the toe of her boot into the floor tiles, stuffing a flake of cereal into the grout. “Guess I can nap while Elizabeth bakes her ‘famous’ sugar cookies with M&Ms. Not exactly the Best Pastries in Boston, like you get to shoot, Mom.”
Natalie caressed her child’s cheek, battling vengeance (see what you’ve done to her, Marc?) and magnanimity (you don’t have to defend me, Hads). “Where’s Dad in all this? I need to talk to him about doing other things with you.”
“Nah, not your job.”
“It is my job. Wait here.”
Hadley’s sigh was one of a weary elder.
When Natalie heard the knock on the door and opened it to see Marc, she had that strange sensation of his duality. He was her husband and not her husband, as if this was an identical twin or a clone of the man she’d been coupled with for two decades. His mouth, the mouth she’d kissed more times than she could ever count, was set, a barrier to intimacy. His lashes were dusted with snow. “Hey. Where’s Hads?”
“Hiking the Appalachian Trail.”
“Is she ready, Nat?”
“Sure. Always at your beck and call.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “What’s wrong?”
Natalie felt an opening inside her, a vertiginous release, as if a bottle of noxious chemicals were uncapped. “She’d like to spend time with her father, not always with his mistress. Oh, I’m sorry, fiancé.”
“We’re very aware of how hard it’s been on her. We’ve been taking Hadley to places she suggests, new restaurants, shows in town. Elizabeth insists on disappearing for part of every visit, so Hadley can be with me.” He lifted his chest up. “We’re very aware what a hard transition this has been.”
We, we, we.
Natalie said, voice wobbling, “Elizabeth has all the answers when it comes to my daughter. No more Pride & Prejudice or sugar cookies.”
“That was Hadley’s choice. And she ate half-a-dozen cookies last time. She doesn’t want to hurt you by saying she likes anything about Elizabeth.”
Fuck you, Marc. Fuck you. Fuck you.
Was he right, were Hadley’s complaints and protestations, all for show? Did she like Elizabeth for the ordinariness of her choices, her big Hallmark channel family, her ability to make Marc happy?
“Dad,” Hadley said quietly, from behind her. “I’m ready. Let’s just go. Love you, Mom.”
They left in a hurry, a mash up of Hadley’s goodbye hug and Marc’s hustling their daughter out the door. The look in her child’s eyes: as if Natalie were an injured animal wrapped in a box and left at their front door.
Natalie stood in the hush of her solitude. The only sound was the sizzle of the radiator. The motto from Isabel’s latest handout ran through her head: CURE: Connect (with friends), Understand (your signature strengths), Re-frame (your life story), Empower (yourself ).
The easiest of these tenets was the first one. She called Cate, trembling from heartbreak. Marc’s proclamation of his unity with Elizabeth was a deep stab. “Hey,” she said when her friend answered. “I’m thinking about going to a gallery later in the city. You up for a trip?”
“Sorry, kiddo. I’m on call as chauffeur all day.”
“No problem. Get together soon?”
“Love to. You okay?”
“Yeah. Go ferry the boys.”
Natalie rushed to get out. Coat on and bag with Hadley’s shopping list inside, she shoved her feet into her boots. The pharmacy—anywhere out in the world—was a good enough destination. When she reached the center of town, this town they’d chosen together—she and Marc—Natalie parked in the village’s main artery. She passed the pizza parlor, the bagel place, and The Cow Jumped—an upscale children’s clothing store with cotton snowballs, giant paper snowflakes, and scarves in bright multi-color stripes on display. Every single spot she’d frequented with him.
In the drugstore, she retrieved Hadley’s piece of paper from her pants pocket, on which was scribbled: deodorant, tampons, Burt’s Bees lip balm. Her cell rang, and Jeremy Sonnenberg’s name lit up.
“Hi,” she said. “This is a surprise.”
“I have something for you.”
“Wow, that was quick.”
“Easy assignment.”
Staring at the word “beeswax” on the yellow chapstick in her hand, she said, “I can’t really speak now. I’m at the store.”
“You have time later?” he asked, so easy. She couldn’t gauge anything from his tone. “Want to meet?”
“I was going to go to an exhibit on Commonwealth.”
Saying it, she realized this was her plan. Maybe viewing art would help her understand her “signature strengths.” It was hard to count her pictures as anything more than good commercial work. But she could try again, someday, to capture personal narratives, aim for life in motion.
Jeremy said, “I’ll meet you there. Just name the time and place. We can grab a bite afterward.”
“Are you sure?”
“Hey, I’m a sophisticated guy.”
She would have smiled but her body was on animal alert, watching for predators.
NATALIE GAVE HERSELF an hour alone before Jeremy’s scheduled arrival. Walking down one corridor of the Photography Retrospective on Women Past and Current, she wondered whom she would choose as a subject if she ever dared to try. Hadley? Well, of course, ultimately her daughter would be the most beloved subject. But it might be better to start with someone less precious, a model or an acquaintance. Less at stake if she failed. Thinking of Jeremy’s face—the way his eyes crinkled at the edges, his chapped upper lip with just a dab of blood on it, the laugh lines that rippled from his mouth like waves when he smiled—she felt that spark again. Could she try some candid shots of him?
She moved slowly through the hall to rest in front of Imogen Cunningham’s Edward Weston and Margrethe Mather, 1923. The artist’s portrayal of the couple—shot from a side-view, both man and woman with their eyes closed, she with her head tipped back in sensuous abandon—had resonated with her mother. Margrethe Mather, with her curved hands and neck, was abdicating herself to Weston. Natalie felt a wave of repulsion: something in Mather’s fluttering hands, in her submission, how it appeared to consume her. Hadn’t her mother done the same with Garrick, despite his relentless work schedule, her suspicion of an affair with Ellen, her turning to sleeping pills to function?
Natalie forced her attention to the next image in the gallery, Ilse Bing’s Dancers, Ballet Errante, 1933. An anguished dancer posed, curled on her knees, while a caped female hovered in the background, face in shadows, a guardian angel figure. It was as if Bing had captured the story of Natalie and Isabel.
Egocentric. Personalizing everything.
She moved to another photograph. She could admire this one without identifying with the lip-puckering, wind-
blown Marilyn Monroe. She heard a man say, “Nice gams.”
She turned to see Jeremy, standing next to a shot of three women walking on a boardwalk in bikinis and high heels. His parka was unzipped, revealing a forest green sweater with the tag hanging from it. She smiled at this mistake, one Marc never would make.
“Very shapely,” she agreed. “Didn’t realize you were here.”
“I’m sneaky that way.”
Natalie hugged her arms around her torso. “Should we go somewhere to talk?”
“Let’s take in some culture first.”
Probably, he was stalling, fearful she would unravel once he presented his findings. He might want to enjoy this time, their easy banter. But, she reminded herself, he didn’t know her, what she was capable of.
“Umm,” he said as he approached the famous 1899 platinum print, The Manger, a nativity scene of a mother in a shawl, which covered her nursing infant at the breast and cascaded to the floor. Sunlight broke through the window of the wood stable, illuminating the headpiece, sheer as a wedding veil.
“I love this one,” Natalie said. “It’s so peaceful.”
“It’s pretty, a little too romantic for me.”
“You are cynical.”
“You have no idea,” he said. “Now these I love!”
Jeremy opened his hands. Before him hung three black and white shots titled Incarceration. Natalie read the plaque below. They were part of a recent series, by a young photographer who’d spent over a month documenting the lives of female prisoners in the California system. The first was of a Hispanic teenager, staring vacantly into the camera. There were deep scars in her arms below the elbows, marks that indicated self-cutting. She was enormously pregnant. The next shot was of an older woman, her face a wreckage of skin, lips pursed in a scowl.
“These are good,” Natalie agreed.
“This reminds me of my ex-girlfriend.” Jeremy pointed to the third picture: a woman in a kerchief, with a piercing stare, middle finger raised.
“Uh oh. I hope you don’t say that about all your exes.”
“Nah, just Greta,” he said. “This woman looks happier than Greta was with me at the end. Can’t say I blame her. I was no prize to live with.”
What would the camera reveal that she didn’t want to know?
“You guys lived together?” she asked.
“Yeah, for a while. She left me a few months after Alex died.”
His sister had died two years before, so maybe Jeremy had recovered from the breakup. Although, unlike Simon, he didn’t seem over anything, grief spouting from him like seepage.
Natalie said, “That sounds hard.”
“Yep. I was depressed and pissed off most of the time.”
“But you got to keep the dog?”
“Nope. Reed came afterwards. He’s not even a year old yet.” When she said, “Aw,” he grinned. “I bet you’d love him.”
She nodded, unsure if this was just another sweetener to get information out of her.
“You think these two would profit from Isabel’s workshop?” Jeremy gestured to the photos. “They look like good candidates.”
Natalie stared at the older woman with the scrunched-up expression, a lifetime of misery shining out of the one eye not in shadow. “I think they’re too damaged.”’
“Some people are.” He tapped her elbow. “C’mon, let’s get outta here.”
Natalie followed him around the corner. They descended steps to a restaurant below street level. The place was dark with aluminum furniture and a long, cobalt blue bar. Various beer bottles, with a variety of colorful labels, lined the glass shelves in back of it. Natalie watched the three college-age guys at the next table, drinking and grunting with laughter.
“So, what did you find out?” she asked, jittery.
Jeremy cleared his throat. “I lucked out with Sigrid Walker. She was in MMHC, the most obvious place. For almost a month in ’72. Those old paper files should have been destroyed years ago, but no one has gotten around to it. Happens all the time.”
“What’s MMHC?”
“Massachusetts Mental Health Center.”
“What was wrong with her?” she asked.
“Major depression.” He drummed his water glass with his fork. “As far as my contact at records could determine, she was only hospitalized the one time. She had a course of ECT.”
With a shiver, Natalie realized, “Electric shock?”
“Yeah, intense.”
Natalie imagined a mouth guard being inserted between coral lips—the color of the lipstick in the couple of pictures Isabel had of her mother—a set of electrodes being placed on Sigrid’s pale forehead, followed by a seizure, which caused her eyes and mouth to clench in pain. Her gut whorled, and she put both hands over her belly. “I had no idea.”
“You must have suspected when you asked me to do the research.”
“I didn’t have any details; no one talked about her much in my family. Isabel had overheard things, whispers.”
“What did you know about her?”
“Sigrid died when Isabel was five,” she said, starting from the beginning. “Her dad never mentioned her, not in front of me.”
“What about your mom?
Natalie shook her head. This was the real beginning, then. “I asked her once, and she said that Isabel was mixed up.”
“Can you bring it up now?”
“She died when I was thirteen.”
“Crap. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you. And thanks for cracking the case for me, so to speak.” The muscles in her face were sore when she smiled.
“What about Isabel? Is it taboo?”
“Nothing is. But, I don’t want to upset her. That day we met for coffee, I remembered something … from when I was a kid,” she said, unbraiding the knot gingerly, “a connection between Sigrid and me and my mother.”
“And Isabel?”
“Well, she was shaped by losing her mom, sure. We had that in common.”
“Of course,” he said. “It makes sense the field she chose.”
“Yes. She’s devoted to helping people. I went through a really rough patch when I was a kid, after my mom died, and she saved me. I mean, emotionally.”
His eyes were large, a deep umber brown. “No wonder you’re so loyal to her.”
“Other than my daughter, she’s my only family.”
“I get it. So, was this helpful?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“Not a problem.” Jeremy bit into his burger, which the waiter had just delivered. He wiped ketchup off of his fingers with his napkin. A kind of hopped-up energy emitted from him. “I have information about the accident in Grand Cayman. There were a few significant car crashes that night, but only one in the area you gave me.”
It seized her, a hand around the neck. She stared into the glass at the lemon wedge. When photographing a slice, she’d dip it first in water to keep it from browning before placing it on the plate.
He asked, “Were you the one driving?”
“Yes,” she said, twisting the skin between collarbones. “It was me.”
He nodded. “I figured.”
“What did you discover?”
“A fifteen-year-old girl named Grace Cooke was out walking not far from Turtle Farm Road in the East End of the island and was hit.”
She felt the floor tilt forward as if the room were rocking. “Is she alive?
“She survived the crash. Was that the name of the street you were on?”
“No idea. I went back but didn’t see a sign anywhere.” Had Isabel? “How badly was she hurt?”
Jeremy flicked a tortilla chip with his thumb and second finger, as if it were a bug he wanted to shoo away. “It wasn’t great. She suffered internal bleeding, a ruptured spleen, and facial lacerations.”
“Jesus.” Natalie was swooped up into the eye of the panic, dizzy-headed, feeble-limbed. She pawed her pocketbook, fingers on wallet, on keys, on pack of Juicy-Fru
it, on cell phone and on the bottle with two Xanax jingling when she clutched it.
“Because she was underage, I had to do some digging. Her name was kept out of the newspapers—also, the extent of the injuries.”
Natalie remembered the black taffeta sky, and that it was hard to delineate where it met the road. Could the girl have blended into the night so that Isabel had never caught sight of her? Where was Grace when the three of them—Isabel, she, and Simon—surveyed the area?
“We looked everywhere. There was no one on the road,” she said.
The plastic bottle was in her lap, and she pushed her palm down, trying to unscrew its immovable cap. It didn’t budge.
“Who was with you?”
“Isabel and some man in the car behind us. They thought I hit a dog.”
“But you didn’t actually see anything there?”
“No, I swear. How did the girl get to the hospital?”
“There’s no record of who brought her in, but it wasn’t a 911 call. No ambulance was dispatched.”
“We didn’t call, well, obviously,” she said. “It was so dark, even with the headlights on. We never saw anyone. I guess she could have been thrown into the bushes, somewhere we couldn’t see.”
Was she speaking too quickly?
He studied her for a moment and then said, “This girl was seriously injured and driven to the hospital.”
“Maybe she was screaming and someone else heard her, someone out walking?”
He looked askance. “In the pitch dark? I guess anything’s possible.”
Natalie stared at her soup, the thick bright slices of okra, the shavings of onion, the shiny bits of tomato and bright green peppers, the chunks of chicken and sprinkling of rice. The bowl of food shimmered with beauty. She should eat. It was after two and she’d skipped lunch. She tried a spoonful, which was so spicy she needed to sip her seltzer right away. She ate one more anyway, for strength.
“I’ve gotten these anonymous emails,” she said. “They’ve worried me. The person claims he knows there was blood on our car and mentioned Isabel by name. The last email was the worst. It said: ‘Who leaves someone on the road to die?’”
“Seriously?”
“Yes.”