The Spires

by Moretti, Kate

  The office was quiet—only a few people catching up from the week—and Penelope opened her email to 622 new messages. Audits didn’t leave a lot of time for standard business; she’d fallen woefully behind. She clicked and read and filed and categorized, made notes to herself, and tackled some of the smaller, quick questions. The day seemed to pass in a slow glaze of time. She felt someone quickly touch her shoulder, and she startled, turned around. Nora.

  “Great job, we can always count on you,” Nora said, distractedly, a thin, impersonal smile on her lips. Penelope almost called her back, asked her to run upstairs with her for a coffee, but felt the buzz of her phone in her pocket before she had the chance. She looked at the caller ID—Willa.

  “Hey, I was wondering if you needed anything today.” Willa’s voice was distant, tinny.

  Penelope almost said no, but then checked the time on her laptop. After three! “Would you want to pick Linc up from lacrosse practice this afternoon? I’m running a bit behind, and I can’t get in touch with Brett,” she lied.

  Why didn’t she call Brett? She thought of his deep sigh that morning, the grumble in his voice. The way he chilled when she asked him about his time, his day, an automatic defense to her. She’d spent so much time the past year grilling him: What are you doing? Where are you going? What are you spending? What the fuck is EFT meditation? She remembered the feel of his hands on her waist, his breath on her neck. If she called him, would he just tell her he couldn’t come? Would he just disappoint her again? If he so much as gave her one sigh, she would snap at him, and she knew it. She could already feel her nerves strung tight from the day, raw and frayed. She was working on a Saturday, and he was . . . what? At spin class? Again, cycle breaking felt important.

  “Of course!” Willa’s voice was warm, even excited. “Anything you need, Pip, just ask! I’m so grateful for all you’ve done this past week. I’d love to help.”

  Penelope sagged against the back of her chair and closed her eyes. It was so easy, then. Such a relief to reach out, ask for help, and simply be given it. A luxury she hadn’t known existed. Linc was taken care of. Brett was none the wiser.

  Sasha. Jaime. She realized she’d never written him back.

  She’d forgotten entirely about him for more than twenty-four hours.

  Jaime had been her lifeline for months now. Had a bad day? Text Jaime. Frustrated with Nora? Text Jaime. He was the one who knew all about her boss, her work situation. She’d even, she remembered guiltily, talked to Jaime when she’d found a long cigarette bent in the bottom of Tara’s duffel bag. Not Brett.

  She would have told Brett, but he had gone on a retreat for two days. No phones, he’d said at the time. When was that? October? Just an overnight. A wellness retreat. He was burned out from job hunting and needed one night away. One night seemed harmless to Penelope. She’d cleaned the house, picking up the kid clutter, distracted the whole time by her pinging phone. Silly, off-handed, funny, distracting texts. Then she found the cigarette.

  What do I do? Penelope took a quick picture of it, pinched between her thumb and index finger, and sent it off.

  Jaime replied instantly. First one you’ve found?

  Yes.

  Let it go for now, I think? IDK. Keep your eyes open. Have you ever smelled smoke on her?

  No.

  Eh, maybe let it ride. Throw it away. She’ll figure you’ve seen it on her own. But I have no idea what I’m doing either. Want me to ask Sash?

  God no!!!!

  Ok. It’s fine. Just breathe—this is what I tell myself.

  God, you sound like Brett.

  Ha! We’ll get through it.

  And with those four words, Jaime felt more like her partner than Brett had in a year. Their texting became incessant. Every thought that popped into her head—no matter how ridiculous—she dashed off to Jaime. He responded with enthusiasm to each and every one.

  It was a drug—to be known that well. To be known is to be loved. Who said that? She used to test him and say utterly inane things. I’ve always felt self-conscious about the size of my hands. They’re enormous. Or, Do you ever wonder if people in Paris daydream about America? Do our lives seem glamorous to someone? Are we destined to always want what we do not have? His responses were witty and quick. It was the speed that really got to her: How did he know exactly what to say just that fast? The perfect thing to make her laugh, sometimes think about for hours later? The only enormous thing on you is your brain. Stop thinking so much. Wanting what we can’t have is the human condition. And that one made her heart stop.

  Then one day, maybe six weeks ago, a card to her office, in a thick cardstock envelope. In the bottom of the envelope was a thin silver chain that held a ring. The word B R E A T H E carved on the inside. It wasn’t expensive jewelry—probably ordered from the internet for less than ten dollars. The card itself, a hand-printed watercolor. Jaime’s hobby. He’d sent it through the mail, left it mostly unsigned, save for his artist mark, to give her an easy out. If wanting what we can’t have is the ultimate human experience, I’ve never been more human. I have no idea if you feel the same way. I think you do. What is the upper limit on lifetime heartbreak? I’ve had one and didn’t think I’d make it. I don’t want to do it again, but the bitch of it is, it seems inevitable. I’m breathing. Are you?

  She could bring it up, or not. Push it further, or not. She never brought it up, and neither did he. But sometimes late at night, with Brett sighing softly beside her, the words would float up through her subconscious: I’ve never been more human, and she’d wake unsettled.

  Jaime was the one she turned to, not Brett.

  Until now. Maybe all she had needed was another person—someone to be there and a way to return the favor. There was something humanizing about offering help and receiving help in return. Something she hadn’t known she’d been missing so deeply.

  Penelope pressed the heel of her hand into her closed eye. She opened her incoming texts and saw one unread.

  Where’ve you been? You breathing? You didn’t get yourself fired, did you? I’m kidding.

  Then, hours later, one more. Miss you.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  February 17, 2020

  “What’s the plan, do you think?” Brett stood in the bedroom doorway, shirtless in his boxers, his face half covered in shaving cream, his hand clutching a razor. Penelope dropped her purse, laptop bag, keys, and cell phone onto the makeup vanity on her side of the room and began making the bed.

  “The plan with what?” she asked absently. It had been yet another long, heavy day. Her feet ached; her back twinged if she shifted too far left or right. The audit felt never ending. The workdays were starting to blend together. She’d put in some more catch-up time on Sunday from her home office. She’d been coming home later, almost eight or nine o’clock. Some days she’d arrange rides home for the kids; once she had to ask Willa again. She felt guilty about that. She did ask Brett, but he had therapy at six thirty twice a week. He looked a little guilty when he said it.

  “With your little friend?” Brett’s voice held an edge.

  Penelope hated that expression, as though Willa hadn’t sat with all of them at dinner last night, laughing, talking, drinking wine. As if she hadn’t offered them all, at worst, a pleasant distraction but at best a much-needed helping hand, a way to see themselves and each other through the eyes of an outsider only to discover they still liked what they saw. Tara and Linc tossed barbs across the dinner table while Willa poured them each a very small glass of wine. (They do this in Europe, you know! Fewer instances of alcoholism there.) Brett only raised his eyebrows, and Penelope suppressed a smile, and Tara and Linc must have thought, Could our parents be . . . cool?

  And now she got little friend. Penelope blew her breath out through her nose and mentally counted to ten.

  “I don’t actually know the plan. I thought we were enjoying her company?” Penelope intoned it like a question, but it came with a side of attitude, and Brett knew i
t.

  “We can enjoy her company and still ask her how long she plans on staying.”

  “You seemed to be enjoying her company last night.”

  Brett held still, his razor paused in midair. “What does that mean?”

  Penelope had come in late, as she had the past four nights, to Willa stirring something over the stove, the air suffused with garlic and fresh basil and the rich aroma of a bubbling white-wine sauce. Penelope had hovered just beyond the doorway, in the living room, watching them with interest. Brett stood behind her, his face pinked from the steam, as she fed him off a wooden spoon. They were both laughing, and Brett’s hand rested lightly between Willa’s shoulder blades. A shifting sensation that Penelope was watching a typical married couple prepare dinner—that she was the interloper.

  Penelope sighed. “Nothing. I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into me.” She plumped the pillows on the bed and sank down into the comforter. She could still see Brett in the bathroom, a direct line from the bed to the sink. “I haven’t asked her. She asked for a few days. Maybe a week. I can probably bring it up tomorrow. Is that okay?”

  Brett went back to shaving, grunting in acquiescence.

  Truthfully, she had started enjoying Willa immensely. It had begun to feel nice that she had a confidante again. She’d forgotten that—in the years she became a mom of toddlers, then young kids, then middle school, and now, she’d made friends and lost them. Transient and shallow, mom friendships seemed to shift with the wind.

  But long ago, Willa had been a bedrock friend. Foundational and solid. Could Penelope forgive herself long enough to trust her? Maybe. If she didn’t think about it too deeply. Could she forgive Willa for what little part she’d played in their shared tragedy? Possibly. If she just let herself enjoy the feeling of knowing and being known by another woman again. That spark of recognition—I see you—that only women shared.

  They sipped a glass of wine at night, usually bundled on the back deck in the frigid winter air. They talked a little about their year at the Church House, more about their time together at Penn. Stories about Jack—light, funny stories. That only skated on the surface, both of them avoiding any depth.

  They still did not talk about the fire. They didn’t talk about Grace. They talked instead of jobs (Willa had been a librarian during the day and a waitress at night). Kids (Willa had none). Family and politics and friendships. Willa had a knack for asking questions, and it seemed like Penelope would retire at night, her mouth dry from talking, and realize Willa had barely said a word. So unlike the girl she used to know.

  “Are you okay?” Penelope asked. Brett looked tired, pale, in the mirror; his hand shook just a bit as he scraped his cheek.

  “I think so,” he said. “I’ve felt a little off all day—a little dizzy. I thought maybe it was all the booze.” He grinned ruefully. “We’ve been having fun with Willa, you’re right. But I’m not used to it.”

  Now she was Willa, not her little friend. Penelope sat upright, a sudden thought. “Could you be anemic?”

  Brett had a genetic enzyme disorder—certain medications and common infections could trigger acute anemia, but he’d been careful, and it had never been an issue in their life. It wasn’t something Penelope frequently thought about; in fact, she’d often forgotten it entirely. Brett knew to avoid certain anti-inflammatories, to watch for anemia when he got a cold or respiratory infection, and exercise became vitally important. The increase in alcohol could certainly affect his blood sugar. A mild anemia was usually righted with a trip to the doctor, a blood test. Whether he would pursue it or not was a different matter—why see a doctor when you could see a holistic nutrition specialist? With that uncharitable thought, Penelope went downstairs in search of Willa.

  In the kitchen, Willa hummed as she pulled ingredients out of the refrigerator for tonight’s feast.

  “Willa, you don’t have to do this every day. We can order in.” Penelope sat at the island and watched her, the sinewy curve of her calves, the round pink balls of her feet. She was more muscular, leaner than she used to be. The Willa she used to know was all soft curve and shine. She was still made up—black spiky lashes and red lipstick, liquid foundation smoothed over the dips and valleys of forty-two-year-old skin.

  “I love this—are you kidding me?” She flipped her hair behind her shoulder, tied it in a loose knot to keep it out of her eyes. “I forgot how much I liked to cook. We used to eat out a lot. Trent, well . . .” She moved her wrist around in a circle, waved her hand a little as her voice trailed off.

  “You didn’t used to cook,” Penelope said with a laugh. “You were the queen of pasta seventeen different ways.”

  Willa snapped a dish towel in Penelope’s direction and shot her a playful glare. “I learned. Later. I mean, everyone has to grow up sometime.”

  We can’t all be Peter Pan.

  “What’s on the menu for tonight, then?” Penelope asked, surveying the countertop: cornmeal and shallots, okra, tomatoes, and a block of cheddar cheese.

  “Polenta and okra. My southern grammy’s recipe.”

  “Oh yes. I forgot you were born in the South. Georgia?”

  “Louisiana!” She was up on her toes, digging in a cupboard, her voice muffled. “Aha! I knew I’d find it in here. Lord knows how old it is.” She shook the sweet paprika in Penelope’s face.

  Penelope could only shrug. They weren’t gourmet cooks in the Cox household. Usually too many moving parts—meals had to be quick, effortless, yet still hit all the bases. Which basically meant including a frozen vegetable 90 percent of the time.

  “Pen?”

  Brett leaned heavily against the doorway, his eyelids drooping, the left side of his body weak and sagging. “I think you have to take me to the hospital. Something is definitely wrong.”

  “Oh my God!” Willa dropped the spice jar, her hands flying up to her mouth. “Is he having a heart attack?”

  “I don’t know.” Penelope felt panicky. Was he? A stroke? She told Willa to call 911 while she quickly googled stroke test on her phone.

  He passed the stroke test with flying colors: his hands never wavered—held evenly in front of him—his smile was even and straight. He didn’t slur his words. “Brett, what have you been taking? Supplements? You know you have to be careful—that stuff is not regulated. Who knows what’s in it!”

  Once when they first got engaged, Brett went into hemolytic crisis, but they could never figure out the reason behind it. The best the doctors could figure was that he was drinking a soy protein shake every day. He didn’t actively avoid soy in his current diet; he just didn’t eat very much of it if he could help it.

  Brett sank into the chair at the island and closed his eyes, his face ashen as he concentrated on breathing. Penelope took his pulse, trying to parse his rhythms from hers, which was nearly impossible. Her heart was hammering a mile a minute.

  “Brett, talk to me, okay? Tell me what you did today?” She cursed herself—that innocuous question had become a marital trip wire for them.

  “I had a doctor’s appointment,” he said slowly. “Then therapy. Then the gym.”

  Two EMTs made their way into the kitchen. Penelope looked around wildly, seeing no sign of Willa. She must have let them in. The small kitchen felt claustrophobic. They checked his heart, his lungs, strapped him down to a stretcher, asking him an endless line of questions that he seemingly couldn’t answer, his eyes clouded and fogged. He kept looking up at Penelope, blinking and slow. This was not Brett.

  “He has a G6PD deficiency.” Penelope told them several times, not sure if they’d heard her or if they even knew what that meant. They shuffled around the stretcher, past each other, past Penelope, the room filling up with the smell of bodies and the plastic chemical smell of latex.

  “What has he eaten the past few days?” asked the man as he examined Brett’s eyes. “Some jaundice,” he said over his shoulder, and a woman wrote it down. “Tachycardia.”

  “I . . . don�
��t know,” Penelope stammered.

  “Fava beans?” the woman asked, her voice clipped. Penelope shook her head. Behind her, Willa made a small yelp.

  “The ravioli!” Her voice shook. “It was a recipe I used to make years ago. Fava beans and pesto as ravioli filling. Is he allergic?”

  “Favism,” the female EMT said to her partner. “He has acute hemolytic anemia.”

  “Oh my God!” Willa said again, sinking down onto the tile floor. Penelope wanted to shake her. “Is he going to die?”

  “Willa!” Penelope snapped. There was a flurry of activity—indiscriminate talk between the two technicians, words and phrases that Penelope couldn’t decipher. They instructed Brett to breathe slowly and deeply, but his eyes remained unfocused. Did he even hear them? Penelope felt the panic in her throat. Oh God. How would the kids deal with it if something happened to Brett? How would she? She had never heard Brett talk about favism. What the hell was that? Was he going to die?

  The EMTs moved out, Brett on a stretcher, instructing Penelope to follow in her car. Woodenly, Penelope found her purse, her car keys.

  “What if I killed him?” Willa’s fingernails bit into Penelope’s arm, but Penelope shook her off.

  “Stay home for the kids, okay? Please?” Penelope didn’t know what time it was—it felt like hours had passed since she watched Brett shave in the bathroom.

  Willa nodded, tears tracking down her cheeks. How odd, thought Penelope, that her own eyes stayed so dry. Why could Willa cry for her husband but Penelope could not?

  Willa said again, “Oh God, what if I killed him?”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Willa, present

  Sometimes she thought she was incapable of love. True, real love so deep it almost broke your heart just to be in it. If she hadn’t seen it in real life, for a brief few months after college, she might not have believed it was real. If she hadn’t seen the way Grace smiled at Jack when she thought no one was looking, the way she accepted him in ways the rest of them never could, her moony gaze when she talked about him. She knew his weaknesses, that all he wanted was to be loved, completely, by everyone he met. That he needed that approval the way other people needed air, food, water, and didn’t hate him for it the way the rest of them sometimes did.