21
Caroline
When you’re a child, the day after Christmas is such a let-down. All the presents have been opened, the decorations look like has-beens, all the best cookies have been eaten. There’s nothing left but a string of empty days of vacation until school starts up again.
I liked school. The routine had a clarity that I found comforting, and I was very successful at it. I hesitate to say this, because it’s certainly not flattering—but I think I liked being told what to do. Or at least, I liked knowing exactly what the teachers wanted so I could give it to them. Looking back, I do not think this is optimal. Maybe it would have been better to be like Wilson, fighting my way through, arguing and getting Cs and even the occasional F, inviting a parental shitstorm of disapproval onto my head.
Maybe it would have been better to be the black sheep, all things considered.
It’s too late for this kind of thinking. The past is the past, that’s the point I keep feeling a need to belabor.
I decide to FaceTime Rebecca, hoping to catch her alone. Knowing Wilson, he’s out on the beach looking for women to pick up. He’s an utter shit, no question…but that doesn’t mean she’s good enough for him, or even close.
“Hey, girl,” Rebecca says, picking up on the first ring. “How was your Christmas? How are you?”
I laugh. I’m trying to figure out where she is from the blurry background. Inside, probably their hotel room. “I’m good,” I say. “Christmas is sort of a drag, once you pass twenty. Don’t you think? Wilson get you something extravagant?”
“We haven’t opened our presents yet. Doing that when we get back tomorrow night.”
“So,” I say, wading right in, “Wilson tells me he’s seeing a therapist. Big step, huh?”
She sucks in some air and nods. Her asymmetrical haircut drives me a little insane and I wish I could take a pair of good scissors and even it out.
“Yeah, but it’s good,” Rebecca says. “Get those monsters out from under the bed. That’s gotta be better, right? Everything out in the light of day?”
She has no idea the kind of chill that sends through me. Everything out in the light of day…oh no. No. That wouldn’t be good for anyone.
“I guess,” I answer, with a little shrug. “Though wow, it can be tough on a marriage, you know? I’ve seen it with some of my friends—when all that old shit bubbles up to the surface? The spouse is left holding the bag when she wasn’t even involved in any of it.”
Rebecca doesn’t say anything. She looks like she’s thinking that over.
“I mean, shit, I have no idea what he’s gonna come up with,” I continue. “I’m just saying I’ve seen some friends wish they hadn’t started turning over rocks to see what was underneath.” I shake my head slowly, then worry I’m over-playing it.
Rebecca, bless her heart, is looking pensive. “Well, yeah. I guess I can see the risk. Your friends…did they…how did things end up?”
“Not together anymore,” I say. “Well, let me know if I can ever be of any help.” I cringe a little at being such an obvious piece of shit. Quickly I move on to innocuous topics to throw her off the scent.
One thing I’ll give my sister-in-law—she’s rocking that bikini. I think she does yoga pretty much every waking moment, so her body’s really fit and perky. Even her pregnancy bump looks sleek.
“Listen,” says Rebecca after a few minutes of small talk. “I’m gonna shoot down to the beach and get a swim in before dinner.”
“Absolutely. Just wanted to check in. Wish Wilson a merry-merry for me.”
She waves and the screen goes dark.
Okay, I planted a seed. But I have no confidence that thing is going to sprout.
In another lifetime, another world, Rebecca and I might have been friends, even though admittedly, not to give Natalie any credit, it’s true that I miss having Wilson’s attention all to myself. She’s sort of refreshing in a way. Not a bullshitter, and at the same time, not too clever. At least not in that cagey Crowe way.
She’s not going to stop him, is she?
22
2001
Maine
“It’s too chilly, Gordon, and I won’t do it. We’ve never gone in this early. Mother always—”
“Please spare me this morning’s reading from the Masefield almanac, if you can stop yourself. I’m telling you it’s hot and I’m going swimming. Why can’t you do anything I ask?”
“Why do you ask for things I don’t want to do?”
“Well, there we have it. Carry on, then, Lillian. Keep the fires lit at the altar of your family, though I can’t help pointing out what’s left of them aren’t exactly beating your door down with invitations.”
Lillian dropped her eyes, stung. Gordon stripped off his khakis and Oxford cloth shirt, and rummaged in the white-painted bureau for a bathing suit. “Is this all you packed?” he asked irritably, holding out a baggy pair of trunks decorated with cartoon sharks.
“I have never seen those before,” Lillian said. “They must be something forgotten by one of your guests. I can’t imagine—”
“—can’t imagine anyone you know wearing swim trunks with sharks on them, right? Oh yes, I know, Lillian. These are fucking tasteless.” He balled up the trunks and threw them at her. They landed in her lap and she looked down at them, trying to keep herself from crying.
Gordon found a red Speedo pushed into the back corner of the drawer, shucked off his Brooks Brothers boxers, and put it on. The suit was a bit too tight after a long winter of dinners out and not enough exercise other than walking, but nevertheless Gordon was a striking figure; his shoulders broad and his belly almost flat, his thighs thick and muscled like those of a younger man. He stood in front of his wife, hands on hips, for a full minute. Not saying anything, waiting to see if she would look up, see him, respond to him.
Lillian was trembling slightly, deeply thirsty, and as she told him, not in the mood for swimming or anything else Gordon might have had in mind. Every year when they first came to Maine, she was overcome by missing her mother, whom she saw around every corner in the old cottage where the Masefields spent summers for several generations. Lillian’s eyes were fixed on the shark-covered bathing suit in her lap as she thought of her mother in the kitchen squeezing oranges, and then riding a bicycle down the dirt road into town. Her memories were like turning on an old television show, the sets packed with period detail, the stories familiar and beloved.
He slammed the door on the way out. “Caro!” he called. “Put your suit on!”
Thirteen-year-old Caroline was curled up in an armchair in the living room, reading a fat novel. “Good God, child, get your nose out of that book! Put on your suit and come with me.”
“Isn’t it too cold, Daddy? We never go in this early.”
“Jesus, are we only allowed to do what we’ve already done? I don’t give a good goddamn about what everyone else does. Put away the book and come on.”
“It’s barely June, I didn’t even pack a bathing suit.”
“Dammit, Caroline! Just find something and put it on! Or swim naked if you want to.”
Caroline stuck in an old postcard as a bookmark and hurried off to her room with a half-smile. Wilson spent last night at a friend’s down the road and hadn’t come back yet, so she had her parents to herself. She found last year’s tank suit in with her underwear and yanked it on. It was too small, the straps cut into her shoulders and the bottom was uncomfortable, but it wasn’t unbearable.
“Okay Daddy, I’m ready if you are!” she called out, running down the hall towards the living room with a towel flying out behind her like a cape.
“That’s my girl,” he said. “First one to the float wins!”
Caroline bit her lip. She was a good swimmer, so the distance was not a problem. But the cold….
They ran down the porch steps, over the lawn, down the path to the dock. The air was much colder near the water and a cool breeze had kicked up. Up over their head
s, a line of clouds moved quickly, changing shape as it went.
“One, two, THREE!”
They dove in, Caroline a split-second after Gordon. The cold was heart-stopping, like getting smacked in the solar plexus with a bowling ball. Caroline forced her arms and legs to beat the water, her mind frozen, only the instinct for survival propelling her forward to the floating dock.
“Hey hey!” said Gordon as he lifted himself to the float, “I love it! We’re alive!” Caroline, a few lengths back, looked up at him and he saw panic in her eyes. He dove back in and swam beside her. “Keep going, Caro, you’ve got it. Almost there.” When she put a hand on the edge of the dock, he hopped out again, grabbed her arms, and pulled her up and out of the freezing sea.
Her skin had lost every bit of color and her lips were blue. “Daddy,” she said plaintively, hugging herself.
“Oh come on now, you’re okay,” he said, engulfing her in a hug and then rubbing his arms up and down her back. “Get close to me now, let me warm you,” he murmured, and she pressed herself against him, wondering by what magic his body was not cold like hers. “See? We made it. We don’t have to live by the rules, Caro. Fuck the rules.”
Gordon’s heat warmed her up. Forgetting about the swim back, Caroline put her arms around her father and smiled, believing she had won the day and nothing that happened later would be able to change that.
23
Wilson
We’re on the plane, flying into Oakland from Montego Bay, and I’ve never been so happy to get home. We did a guided snorkeling trip, ate jerk goat, lay around on the beach doing nothing. Rebecca seemed content, and thankfully unsuspecting of the crazy turbulence going on inside my head. I tried to remember those family trips to Jamaica but got nothing but the odd, meaningless snippet. No Christmas bouquet for Sandie Shearer.
Instead, all I can think about is Anne-Marie. Plowing Anne-Marie, to be exact.
New York—stories about that trip some other time—and then immediately after, down to Montego Bay, so I haven’t seen Anne-Marie in what feels like a million years. She’s been texting me, though, the little vixen, and her texts have got me more on fire than I have ever been in my life. Which, not to brag, is saying something. I’m going to tear her shirt off her, lift up her short skirt…
I’m trying hard to come up with a reason to leave the house the second we get home, but so far I’m coming up empty. The plane touches down and even that feels sexual to me, all that bumping, skidding, squealing touch of wheels on the tarmac, the huge plane rumbling down the runway and into the slot next to one of those weird skyway protrusions.
I sling Rebecca’s bag over my shoulder. We stand in the aisle waiting to deplane, Rebecca in front. The dark-haired woman in the seat ahead of mine gives me a look.
I know that look.
The look says: I know what you are. And I’m up for it.
And if it weren’t for Anne-Marie, I’d be all over it. I’d send Rebecca on to baggage claim while the dark-haired woman and I slip into a stall in the men’s room for a frantic screw, all the better knowing the other guys in there can hear us, and one of them might go find airport security.
Yeah, trust me, it would be hot.
And it would give me some relief from the buzzing in my head that never goes away, and the ocean of sadness underneath it.
But instead I give her a wink, regretting her long wavy almost-black hair that I would like to wrap around my hand and pull. Not too hard but hard enough.
She sticks a finger between her lips and sucks it. I mouth “bad girl” and then have to look away.
Finally the crowd starts moving and we make our way out of the plane and into the insanely crowded airport. I have to get home as soon as possible so I can leave again. I have to find a moment alone so I can text Anne-Marie. She’s giving it up tonight, I can tell, I can feel it.
“You feeling okay?” says Rebecca.
“Sure,” I say, wiping my clammy forehead. “Actually I’m thinking about going for a run when we get back.”
“Tonight? Have you gone on the trail after dark before?”
“Sure,” I say, though I haven’t. “I’ve got one of those headlamps. Super badass.” But wait, I’ll need an excuse to leave in the car and the trail doesn’t give me that. “Well, if you’re worried about safety, I could always just go to the high school track. Boring, but I’m feeling like some exercise might get my head on straight before school starts up tomorrow, you know?” I know I’m leaving her with all the stuff that has to happen after a trip—unpacking, and probably fifty things in the house need doing before we’ll be ready to go back to our regular working lives tomorrow morning.
It’s not that I think it’s fair for me to take off like this, it’s just…I can’t help it. And also, I fully understand this behavior doesn’t put me in the category of grownup—yet another reason the impending baby leaves me with such massive mixed feelings. Obviously, I’m not good parent material. Not sure Sandie is going to be able to fix this. And not sure, at the moment, that I want her to.
Rebecca mumbles something I don’t catch. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t complimentary, but I don’t care. I just want to find Anne-Marie, lift up her skirt, own her, and all will be right with the world.
24
Wilson
I’m sitting in Sandie’s waiting room and man do I not want to be here. I know it’s a waste of money to come to these sessions and lie. I get that. But I do not want to tell her about last night and my long-awaited victory with Anne-Marie. I want to savor it as long as I can—and let me tell you, the way this stuff works? You think if you just get it, your world’s going to be peak excellence from then on. You think if she finally opens up for you, all the clashing jingle-jangle of your everyday life is going to turn into sweet, sweet music.
But nah, that ain’t it. Instead of lasting relief, you get this fleeting burst of happy and then it slips right through your fucking fingers.
It’s slipping right now, even though I was with Anne-Marie less than twelve hours ago. And telling Sandie sure isn’t going to help me hold on to it.
Her nine o’clock leaves, a sad-looking little man who won’t make eye contact with me. She takes a minute by herself as she always does, and I wonder what she’s doing in there. Making some notes? Sitting in her high-backed leather chair with her eyes closed? Or maybe she’s doing telephonic errands. Fervently, I want to know, though I don’t understand why it matters to me.
The door opens. “Come in,” Sandie says, giving me a professional-looking smile, a smile she doubtless gives every client as they enter her office. She settles into her high-backed leather chair and I flop on the sofa. The room is monochromatic, a muted gray-blue, and I wonder if there’s like a psychotherapist decorating code that instructs them on which colors to use for maximum psychological benefit. She gets up to turn on the white noise machine, then sits back down and looks at me without saying anything.
I writhe a little on the sofa, not wanting to tell her about last night, and also wanting to unburden myself.
The silence gets long.
“All right, okay, I get it—it’s a compulsion,” I blurt out. “But what if it makes me happy? What if it’s not hurting anybody? It’s not like I’m forcing myself on anyone. We’re talking willing participants here.”
Sandie looks at me evenly without changing her expression. Even her owl-eyes are blue-gray.
“I mean, obviously it would not make Rebecca happy, if she knew. But she doesn’t know. And I’m very careful about that. I make every effort not to hurt her. So what’s the big deal, really?”
Sandie cocks her head just barely, but says nothing.
The silence goes on and on.
I feel something crumble deep in my chest. “Okay, I’m not happy,” I say, almost whispering. “That’s the thing. I feel like I should be…should be massively happy. I should be in the one percent of happy. But here I sit. I’m always chasing this good feeling but even when I get it, I can�
��t hold onto it. I can’t feel anything.”
“Why do you think you should be happy?” Her tone is not rhetorical, which I appreciate.
“Why shouldn’t I? My father’s insanely rich. I’m married to a cool and beautiful woman I like to hang out with, and we have a baby on the way. Isn’t that….shouldn’t that add up to something?”
Sandie shrugs. “You can’t break emotions down into mathematical equations,” she says.
We sit in more expensive silence while I digest that.
“There’s something I’d like to try with you,” she says. “Have you ever heard of Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing, commonly called EMDR?”
I shake my head.
“It involves stimulating your central nervous system with several sensory catalysts. Essentially, it’s a way to reprogram your brain to deal with past trauma.”
“Past trauma?”
“As we’ve talked about, the origins of your behaviors are rooted in your experiences. So far, you’ve been unable to tell me much about what those experiences were. I don’t mean this as a criticism, it’s a very common thing—but when you talk about your past, it tends to be presented as a fully formed narrative, shaped and edited for public consumption, as it were. What we need to get at are the plain, unvarnished memories.”
I don’t say anything, but what she’s describing is not a very appealing prospect.
Sandie just looks at me. I guess she’s been trained to be ultra-patient, waiting and waiting for me to say something relevant.
She goes over to a long metal bar set on a stand next to the wall, and picks up something that looks like multiple video game controllers. “Here’s how it works. You’ll sit, holding one of these in each hand and staring at the bar. A light will go back and forth from side to side, and the thing in your hands will alternately buzz, back and forth, back and forth. And we’ll talk a little.”
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