She should leave, she knows, sitting here alone, no matter the sort of smile he just gave her, no matter what she might do once she gets to her room. Whether the smile was meant to be more intimate, or meant to simply thank her for being so in love with Jack, she should get up, walk out to her slatted door, and close it. If she turns her head in just this instant, she could see the door, and that might be enough to get her to get up.
She wonders if he’s ever wondered what she does when she leaves them.
When she leaves them, the three of them are nearly all she thinks about.
He’s slow returning. Waiting, she thinks, hoping she’ll be the one to decide to keep things as they are. Let it stay just a thing that happens, moments that pass between them, that they can keep without losing anything of what they already have. Him: the family, the whole grown-up life he’s built with Annie. Her: the pieces that she gets when one or more of them is somewhere else.
She doesn’t leave, though. She’s too young to walk to her room and close the door behind her. She’s too desperate to be touched. She’s too hungry for the looks he gives her—the looks that have become more and more frequent, have begun lasting longer, that she thinks about when she can’t sleep at night—to be made manifest across her skin.
Perhaps, though, she thinks, he’ll simply sit and ask her what’s happened in the movie since he left. And she won’t know and she’ll have to mutter something about nodding off or she’ll just pretend to know and make it up. And he’ll give her an easy out. He’ll say, You must be exhausted, Nor. And then, chastely, she will leave him, unfolding her legs from beneath her and folding the blanket that now sits atop her and placing it back on the couch. She’ll walk toward the door that now she cannot bring herself to look at. They’ll nod at one another. She’ll say, Good night, Jeffrey. She’ll go to bed with one of her mom’s books.
Spring 2013
What happens next: They’re sitting, both of them facing the window, and then he turns toward her. His hands, which up till now have sat chastely at his sides, reach around her waist; they’re both lying on top of the covers, their legs still hanging awkwardly over the edge. He’s slow and careful, silent. His size seems to disallow him the use of all his strength.
She wishes she were slightly less sentient as it happens. She wishes she were able not to notice the way he fumbles too long with the condom, the way he squints as he comes close to her, his glasses set on the table by the bed. She wants to stop him to ask him what he’s gaining from this. If he could teach her something. If he could promise her when this is over something fundamental will have shifted from either him to her or her to him.
Fall 2011
What happens next is far less formal, far messier, far more terrifying, and the whole time she wishes she didn’t already know that only bad things will come in the end. Because even during and then after, even when the first intimations of what must be pre-and then present and then postcoital bliss settle in to dull the sharp edges of her brain, she still knows what she’s done.
They fall slowly into one another. He slips underneath the blanket with her. He—by more degrees than her, with more deliberate force, though she also comes toward him—reaches up to touch her face. His hands aren’t as warm as they’ve been in all the moments leading up to this one. They create in her a sharp intake of breath; her limbs loosen. His hands climb up under her shirt and she gasps as they reach under her bra and latch onto her breasts.
The whole thing happens in the same room where they’ve just sat with Jack, where they’ve been eating, where soon Annie will sit when she comes home. All the windows are still open and the rain pounds on the roof, the AC pumps. Outside, a palm frond cracks free of its tree and slaps hard against the window, and Ellie startles underneath him and Jeffrey doesn’t stop to ask if she’s all right.
He’s less gentle than she expected. He’s quick and as he comes she wonders if he hasn’t timed the whole thing perfectly, to be sure his wife doesn’t walk in, to be sure he still has time to shower. To be sure that he has Ellie fucked and safely put to bed before his wife comes home.
Spring 2013
She brings her face up close to his, hoping he’ll wake up and also grateful for his sleeping. She gets up quietly and pulls her pants back on. She puts on her bra and shirt and coat. She lets herself out of the apartment with one more glance at Charles naked, half of him under the covers, half of him twisted on top of them.
She goes straight down Amsterdam, block after block. At some point, she crosses through the park. She heads east, not thinking where she’s going. She has on boots, her too-big bag slung over her shoulder; her feet start to ache from the pounding, one foot, then the other, the whole right side of her body stiffening with the extra weight of all her books. She stands on Broadway and watches the rows of lights change from green to yellow to red, then back again. Around Twentieth Street she decides that she needs water, more air. She covers the last few avenues to get to the river and finds a bench. She watches the water move and the moon bounce off it in bright patches. She’s close to Caitlin’s, thinks of calling her, realizes she can’t.
Fall 2011
“I don’t want to hurt anyone.”She winces as she says it. She sounds like a little girl.
He stops smiling. He turns his legs off the couch and reaches for his boxers. Her hand slips from his. The weight of the cushion shifts up on her side as he stands.
She stands up, but she’s not sure where to go. She pulls her clothes on. Her sweater reaches down to the middle of her thighs and she stands on tiptoes, wanting to seem larger than she is. She shakes her head and her hair’s a mess around her shoulders. She gathers it with her free hand and ties it on top of her head.
She looks at him once more before she escapes to her bedroom. There’s something cruel and a bit sad that she hasn’t seen before in the way his eyes are set. That’s where Jack is different: he has something better in him. That’s where Annie is.
Spring 2013
“I got an apartment,” says Stephen. Maya’s been walking around all night. This is the second morning in a row that she’s come home after sunrise.
She wants to ask how long he’s been looking. Where else her husband’s been while she’s been with Charles. She feels comfortable and calm next to him for the first time since long before their daughter left.
He tried at first, right after, when she hardly spoke, when she took leave from work, only answered when Ben called. Stephen would come and bring her back to bed with him when she’d wandered into Ellie’s room; he’d wake her carefully, knowing that she startled easily, rubbing a foot or shoulder while whispering to her that it was him, that he’d just come to bring her back to bed. He would take her hand and lead her back under the covers. Sometimes he would even hold her briefly, staying silent as he did. Other times he sat and talked, his body very close to hers, about nothing, really, just to keep her from brooding. But in the weeks or maybe months that he kept trying, Maya simply refused to listen, to feel better, to feel anything at all.
He’d made her laugh once, too early. They’d just had sex. She hadn’t meant for it to happen. It was two months after Jack died. Stephen had reached for her and they’d both undressed. She’d felt him moving, slow and careful, the familiarity: his face, his hands, his mouth. She’d been relieved by how untouched she remained even as she felt herself start coming: her underwear still hanging on an ankle, her camisole still covering her chest. He’d slipped it up and kissed her stomach. She’d reached her hands up to his face and held it still. He came quickly. It had been so long. He’d dipped his forehead into her chest, still inside of her, “Like a fucking teenager,” he’d said.
And the way he’d said it: like he was sorry, embarrassed. Before she realized it, she’d laughed. And she’d been terrified by this, this moment. By feeling like all that had happened hadn’t happened after all. She’d been terrified by the implication that they might somehow have moments when they didn’t remember, that t
hey might still get to live. She’d slipped out from underneath him, quickly, not willing to look at him. She’d pulled her clothes on, gone into Ellie’s room. It would be months before she allowed herself to lose control like that again, to laugh, to smile accidentally. She wouldn’t, in all the months that followed, let him reach for her like this again.
“Where?” she says now. They are New Yorkers. All that’s happened, and she’s curious about his choice of real estate.
“Broadway and 122nd.” Across the street from work.
She nods. “Easier commute.”
“I think it’s better, Maya.”
She holds her hand up to her mouth. “Yes.”
She reaches up and places her fingers softly on his cheek, just above his chin.
His chin is warm, clean-shaven.
He reaches up and takes her hand.
“We’ll be okay,” he says.
She purses her lips and then turns them up at the corners. “Stephen,” she says.
He pulls her close to him. They can do this now, she thinks, now that they don’t have to anymore.
That Day
They go in the evening when the beach is almost empty. It’s never too cold to swim. The water’s like a bathtub, it’s so warm. The sun sets behind them. The sky is pinks and blues and purples. Ellie wants to be inside it. She wants to climb up over the dunes and dive into the clouds. She’s taken all three of the oxys. There’s no point any longer in pretending: she’s fucked up now; this is who she is. Jack is with her, as he always is now. If anything, his presence makes her feel capable of more, not less. He’s smiling at her, all slightly crooked teeth and short round limbs. He’s excited to go swimming in the evening—his mom is at the restaurant; his dad is with clients until nine—laughing at the faces Ellie makes as they drive to the ocean. Both of them are barefoot. She has not put on a bathing suit and neither has he. It’s a thrill for him; he seems as high as she is. High on wearing his shorts into the ocean, on not being forced to put on sunscreen or a hat or the long-sleeved SpF 50 shirt. Ellie wears shorts too, an oversized T-shirt. She wishes briefly it were the four of them. She’s just stoned enough to fantasize about the family they would be: her, Annie, Jack, and Jeffrey, forgetting for a minute how she might not fit. They’ve also not brought towels. They walk barefoot over the hot asphalt of the parking lot. Jack squeals and Ellie lifts him up and twirls him in circles. An older couple sits at one of the picnic tables on the wooden platform that leads out to the beach. They have a small basket that folds open and they smile at Jack and El as they twirl past them. They wear sun hats—red for the man and yellow for the woman—Ellie stares a minute at the spots on both their hands. Such great colors. She tries to take a picture with her eyes so she can paint it later when she’s back alone inside her room. Swim swim swim, says Jack. There’s a sign up on the lifeguard stand that says NO LIFEGUARD ON DUTY: swim at your own risk. Swim swim swim, says Ellie back to Jack. She lifts him high up in the air and her mind is calm and clear and happy. The moment her feet touch the water she thinks, Yes, this. She puts Jack down so they can run out to where the shore drops and the water gets deep together. They race, and water splashes up over their ankles, then their calves, then up their knees, and then the sand drops down quick and both of them tread water, big drops splashing, Ellie wishing they could always always always stay like this. She dives down under, chasing Jack. He flails and gets free of her. She dives down deeper and he swims, quick and sure, outside her grasp. The waves are lolling in. Those big soft mounds that hardly break, just building into blue-green mountains, then sloughing back before they make it in to shore. It’s so warm under the water, but not the awful stifling hot that it is back on shore. Ellie only comes up because she remembers oxygen is necessary, because she hears Jack laughing and wants to have hold of him again. “Jack!” she calls. She has his ankle. He splashes hard in her face and he’s free again. Her eyes sting. She closes them and dives down deeper. Her mind clears. She doesn’t think of Annie or of Jeffrey. She doesn’t think of Ben or of her dad. She lets the water rush all through her. She feels warm and full inside. She reaches the bottom, runs her hands along the sand, and then burrows her face in. She plants her palms and pushes herself back up to the surface, kicking hard, in awe of her legs’ strength. When her head breaks up—she breathes in one full breath—she’s facing west and sees the pinks and oranges and purples. The clouds are thin strips through the colors and she calls to Jack to look.
The Next Day
Stephen had itemized what happened in as clear and certain terms as he could. There had been a riptide. These came often, especially that time of year. The tides were highest, least predictable, in September. The water often deceptively calm. The boy had been pulled out and under. He was small and must have struggled, panicked. Ellie’d swum in the opposite direction and hadn’t seen or heard him. By the time she’d gotten to him: his brain had been too long without air.
M,
He was so wet right after. I used to carry him sometimes. He’d fall asleep in the car, or on the couch, and I loved the feel of him against me, warm and quiet, as I brought him to his bed. But he was heavier than he’d ever been.
The water tried to pull me down as I dragged him. It was windy and the tide kept pulling me back out. As we came in to shore I got hit with a wave and I remember thinking if I could just stay standing he would be okay. I kept looking forward to the moment he’d be fine again.
I think she tried to think it wasn’t my fault. She held my hand in the ambulance at first. I was crying and I wouldn’t … I couldn’t let go of him. But as she watched him and once she really looked at me—I couldn’t focus, couldn’t get warm, couldn’t make sense—she just turned away and didn’t speak to me or look at me again.
Sometimes I think I want to call her. Sometimes I try to write it down. But I don’t think there’s language for the sort of sorry that I am.
Every day I see the therapist. We all see him every day, between the self-serve frozen yogurt most of us subsist on and avoiding talking to one another, the walks around the grounds that are too pretty, like they’re trying to make up for all the awful shit that we’ve all done with perfect plants. The therapist says I have to re-imagine the experience. He says I have to take account of my actions, understand my culpability, situate myself within the context of this thing I’ve done. He has masks along the wall of his office, big dark angry pieces of wood that I stare at when I can’t look at him. He sits with his leg crossed over his knee like we’re just talking about some small gripe I have with you guys, like I’m just some wayward girl who likes boys and drugs. What I want is for him to scream at me. I want him to tell me how to fix it, to fix me, even though I know he can’t. I sit there staring at those masks and think fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou for not making any of it better. And then I think, fuck me.
The other day I laughed at something. This guy made a joke in group that wasn’t even funny, but I laughed. It was like my body wanted to remember what it felt like, to make that sound, to move that way. I felt awful after. I hid in my room in case anybody noticed, in case anybody here cared what I did, or what I’ve done. But sometimes now whole minutes pass in which he isn’t all I think about. I think about you or Dad or Benny. I think about a book or a TV show, random, stupid shit. I think about all the time I might still have in which I have to figure out how to keep on living. It feels almost totally impossible. It feels like all that’s left.
El
Ellie has on jeans and flip-flops. She looks young to Maya, far too thin.
Ellie’s mom looks scared.
Maya grabs tight to her daughter.
Ellie stands very still and breathes in the scent of Mom.
They drive out to the beach without anybody talking. Maya stares at El at every stop. Twice: the blare of horns behind them as the light turns green and they still haven’t gone. Ellie turns to her the second time. Same eyes, same nose, but Maya’s still afraid to look at her too long. She almost g
rabs her daughter’s hand, but stops. They park at the least-used beach access Maya knows: two worn dirt spots for cars, no shower, a path straight through the dunes. Both of them are barefoot. The path is overgrown. Large flaps of leaves slap their thighs and shins. An errant branch gets caught in Ellie’s hair. The ground levels off up by the dunes and then dips steeply. The water’s soapy, choppy; whitecaps form and trickle in. A long time, Ellie and her mom stay far from where the water meets the sand.
“El,” says Maya. Her daughter wears a tank top and Maya watches as her shoulders rise and fall. Maya grabs her hand. She loops an arm around her daughter’s waist and pulls her to her. She brings her back against her chest and holds her still.
Acknowledgments
THANK YOU to my parents, who’ve loved me, always, who love so much our little girls.
To my agent, Amelia Atlas, brilliant reader, prolific emailer, extraordinary listener, thoughtful talker-off-a-ledger, most trusted lovely guide.
To my editor, Katie Adams, who knew exactly how to make this book what I’d always hoped that it could be.
To Cordelia Calvert and Peter Miller, for your meticulous thoughtfulness.
To my teachers: Rob Devigne, Lecia Rosenthal, Victor LaValle, Deborah Eisenberg, Christine Schutt, Heidi Julavits, Ben Metcalf, Richard Ford, for your boundless stores of generosity.
To Steven Luz-Alterman, for saving me.
To Bryant Musgrove, most constant trusted reader, writing soul mate, first ever champion, dear, dear friend.
To Elena Megalos, Sanaë Lemoine, Eliza Schrader, Natasha Suelflow, and Yurina Ko, baby holders, playground goers, sidewalk chalkers, subway sharers, couch sitters, dinner makers, apartment lenders, ice-cream bringers, endless versions of the first ten pages readers, the best talkers, who taught me all community could be.
Hold Still Page 21