Gabriel found them for me.
“That terry-cloth number’s pretty hot, Nora,” he said, and I laughed. “Try to resist.”
“He’s funny,” I told Teggie, as we lay curled in her bed, and I saw her nod in the dark. Then she must’ve said, “I don’t know how I ever lived without him,” or something like it, because I remembered thinking as I finally dropped off to sleep, I felt that way once.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Teggie and Gabriel were both gone by the time I woke up the next morning. There was a stack of folded blankets on the couch. I padded around, finding Teggie’s hastily scrawled note of explanation, her whereabouts for the day, then made tea and fixed breakfast from the groceries Gabriel now kept the kitchen stocked with. My sister’s refrigerator used to contain nonfat yogurt and Vitamin Water.
Brendan’s yellow flannel box sat beside my sack on the floor, and I knew I was putting off the task at hand. The apartment was warm, heat coming up through the radiators, hissing reproach. I slid a palm across the worn fabric covering, then shimmied up the lid where it stuck, and looked inside.
I set aside the first item I came across, a thin stack of letters. First I flipped quickly through them to make sure they were in fact letters, as opposed to printed-out emails. But no, here was real stationery, some of the sheets still in actual envelopes, and the sight seemed such an anachronism, weighty for its rarity today, that I couldn’t stand to look more closely yet.
Several of the objects I’d caught glimpses of before: a toy soldier identical to the ones Bill Hamilton kept on his shelves, a water-polished stone, a key ring. I picked each one up to give Brendan’s collection of trinkets its due—the collection of a lifetime, as it turned out—then put them all down on the comforter that covered Teggie’s bed. The coil of red skate laces went near the rest of my accumulation, as did the photo of Brendan and Red.
There was another photograph of Brendan, not as a child but in the full flush of manhood, and the sight of it stole my breath. I had to work to take in air, seeing my husband again, out of the blue like that. Someone stood to the left of Brendan’s broad shoulder, but whoever it was had gotten mostly cut out of the shot. I could make out only a slice of face, its features indistinct, and a spill of pretty hair to indicate the person’s gender, as well as one hand lying on Brendan’s arm.
A few receipts clipped to a business card came next. A Second Empire Victorian mansion had been sketched on a cardboard rectangle, to the right of some dignified script.
The Looking Glass Inn
Cold Kettle, New York
Come get away
I’d never heard of the place. The bits of paper attached to it were room bills.
I began to grow warm. This apartment was getting overheated. I stood up and made my way over to the bedroom radiator. I spun its rusty dial all the way down, but the steam continued to tsk-tsk, and I suspected that I wasn’t changing anything at all.
I snatched up Brendan’s box and dumped the remaining items out on Teggie’s bed.
That bumper sticker for Stonelickers with its graphic logo. It looked as if it might be a bar. I slid my finger up and down the shiny rectangle
The final item was another photo, identical to the one that had laid me flat a few minutes ago. Brendan standing tall and proud, most of his companion lopped off cleanly. Except this second one had In Wedeskyull jotted down on the back.
And something else.
Across the top was a rust-colored smear, dried dark, like oil paint.
Why did Brendan have two copies of the same poorly posed photograph? And how did one come to be bloodstained?
I stalked around Teggie’s apartment, still shrinking from the one thing I knew might shed some light on that picture. The constant soundtrack of noise was making it hard for me to think. Horns, sirens, squealing brakes, the clank of a garbage can being overturned. Voices, shouts, spitting, curses. All of it audible, or else conjured up by my over-fevered brain.
I pulled my unbuttoned shirt off, leaving on only a tank. My efforts with the radiator hadn’t worked; Teggie’s bedroom was as sweltering as the cramped rest of her apartment. I went back to the bed, crawled across it, and tugged at a window. It opened with a sticky separation of paint, and the volume of the city instantly increased.
Then I picked up the stack of letters, leafing through them, directing my gaze toward the bottom of the pages.
They were all signed by someone named Amber.
Hi! began what seemed to be the first, judging by its placement in the stack. The writer hadn’t included dates at the top of each page. I hate it here, you were wrong, it’s not any warmer, but I’m learning a lot. Miss you like crazy, though. When will you come down?
The next letter referred to a visit. Everybody’s jealous of me now that they’ve seen you. They always said I’m way too serious—now it’s we’re way too serious—like we’re thirty-year-olds or something.
That made the corners of my mouth lift momentarily. Thirty. That old.
Then again, they’re all scrounging dates at the dining hall or fooling around at parties. They’re just posers, trying to act like real college students. And then there’s me. I know everything about you and always will. I used to hate having no one to tell my secrets to. Remember when you first told me about—I won’t even write it down?
Was the girl referring to Red? Did Brendan used to talk about his brother more freely?
I scanned the rest of the letters, but they were more of the same, references to how lucky Amber was to have Brendan, especially since she was studying so intensely and had no time for anything else. Had this been a college romance? I’d thought I was the only girlfriend Brendan had in college.
And then something changed.
We always said we couldn’t live without each other. But maybe we’re not as similar as we think. What I want most when it comes down to it might not make you happy.
How articulate and well spoken this girl had been. I couldn’t help admiring her a little.
And I think Tell Spring might be good for me. I really do. I know I said I didn’t want to go at first and I know it’s far away. But I can establish residency and have a good chance of getting into one of the best state schools in the country.
Amber hadn’t even been in college yet. A high school romance then. Had she been in some kind of accelerated residential program? That would fit with how she described herself as serious, and loving to learn.
You could come, too. We could still be together. But I know you never would. I know you’ll never leave the Dacks, not for very long anyway. And maybe it’s better that you don’t.
I had no idea why. Why Amber was moving, abandoning her program if that’s what it was, nor why she thought Brendan wouldn’t have come.
The final letter contained a poignant, heartfelt plea.
I just want the normal things, the things every girl wants. I want you to meet my parents. Why haven’t you ever? I want you to describe our future to me, nights when we’re lying alone. And I want—I want to be able to say the last thing I want.
I wondered what it was. I reread this girl’s words and tried not to exult in the fact that Brendan had given at least some of those things to me.
The script on these letters—simple, graceful—was the same as on the photograph. I scrabbled around amongst the disarray on the bed, lifting the photo with the dark red smear.
The words In Wedeskyull had been written by Amber. It didn’t take a handwriting expert to tell me that.
And so it must be Amber who was cut off in the picture.
I tossed the papers into a fragile heap. There was nothing to be gleaned from them.
Nothing besides the fact that my husband had been in love with someone long before me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
To a lot of people this discovery wouldn’t have been such a hammer blow. Most couples had an unspoken rule: anything that happened before the two of them didn’t count. But Brendan and I weren’t like t
hat. Rather than the free pass of that-was-before-our-time, Brendan and I had a rule of firsts. We were each other’s firsts. We’d done this and that for the first time together. Said I love you. Met the family. Gone on vacation.
Or so I’d thought. Been led to believe.
If Brendan had been involved in some fiery teenage romance, one he’d traveled for, one that made other kids jealous with its apparent seriousness, one to put in the offing a long-distance move—where was Tell Spring anyway?—then I should’ve known about it.
How often had I said that by now about Brendan and me? The thought brought on a queasy swell of nausea. I stumbled to the kitchen for another bite to eat.
Then I let myself out of Teggie’s apartment, securing it with the spare ring of keys she’d left on top of her note. I walked down Tenth Avenue in the kind of daze the city doesn’t take kindly to. People cut around my slow, halting pace, their bodies sharp as blades. Tires sent showers of yellow-black slush onto my jeans whenever I wandered too close to the curb.
I made my way to Gabriel’s studio. He and Teggie looked up as I entered through the heavy metal door, but a sound system continued playing, and the assembled dancers kept leaping and turning across an acre of wood.
Gabriel clapped his hands together. “That’s it for this morning, ladies. Take an extra thirty on me.” He strolled over and stopped the CD.
There were a few whoops amidst scattered murmurs of disappointment. As they toweled off and shimmied on sweats, the dancers looked like I often felt when my eyes were tearing so badly I couldn’t scrape away another inch of wallpaper; or my legs started wobbling, high up on a ladder, and I simply had to climb down then or slip a few minutes later from exhaustion.
I couldn’t imagine ever looking or feeling that way again.
I still hadn’t said one word.
Gabriel was steering Teggie toward me, tossing her a hoodie to put on over her low-slung sweats. “Come on,” he said to us. “Let’s go get some lunch.”
We walked to a hole in the wall for Chinese.
Gabriel ordered a lunch special, but Teggie left it at steamed wontons.
She smiled at me. “I’m not dancing as much these days. I’ve gained weight for the first time since ninth grade.”
I tried to smile back. I ordered soup.
After the waiter had walked off, my sister handed me a printout of a Web page.
“What is this?” I asked, without looking.
“Read it,” Teggie said, a patient tone in her voice that I didn’t like.
I looked down. The black copy read simply: SOS. SURVIVORS OF SUICIDE. LOCAL CHAPTERS. And an 888 number to call. “Great, Teg,” I muttered. “Thanks.”
“There’s a regular meeting in Troy,” she said.
“Only a hop, skip, and a jump,” I responded, and she rolled her eyes.
“It’s near enough,” she said before going on. “Look, Nor, I think this could be good for you.”
“You know who you sound like?” I said. “Dad.”
The sharp plains of Teggie’s face reddened. The waiter brought our food. Steam billowed up from my soup. I lowered my nose to it to conceal my own flushed cheeks.
“I don’t sound anything like Dad,” Teggie said, ignoring her dish. “I’m saying this’ll give you a chance to talk. Go over things with other people who’ve been there.”
“Maybe I don’t want to go over things anymore,” I said, slurping up some broth.
“Well, that’s not exactly surprising. And look who’s calling who Dad.” My sister glanced at Gabriel. “You’re the one who came here, you know. You came to us.”
I couldn’t stop myself. “To you,” I said. “I thought I was coming to you.”
Teggie looked at Gabriel again. “You can’t have it both ways, Nor. If I’m the one who customarily makes you go over things”—her voice lilted in mimicry—“then presuming you’d find me alone and ready to do just that doesn’t exactly help your case.”
Gabriel must’ve touched her on the leg because her own hand dropped beneath the table.
“Did you say ‘have it both ways’?” I asked mildly.
Teggie shrugged at me, a sharp lift of her shoulders.
“I don’t have it any way, Teg,” I said, still mild. “No way at all. Don’t you know that?”
Teggie thrust her white china plate away.
“Of course I know it,” she said. “How could I help but know it? How could anyone help but know about the pity party for Nora? Help but try and comfort her, commiserate, and conceal their own happiness—”
“Oh yeah,” I interrupted. “You’ve done a great job concealing your—”
“Ladies.” Gabriel set down his pair of chopsticks. “You know you’re both going to regret the vitriol—however well scripted—so why don’t we all just take five?”
I turned on him. “Is that dancer speak?” I asked, while my sister snapped, “Save it, G.”
I looked at her. “Don’t be mean to him.”
She started to smile. “See? You can’t help but like him.”
It was a rare peace offering from my sister, but I didn’t take it. “T-E-G-I,” I muttered.
Gabriel looked up. “Why are we spelling?”
“Shut up, Nora,” Teggie said.
Swallowing a last mouthful, I lifted my head and stared at my sister.
“And aren’t we missing a few letters?” Gabriel went on.
Teggie sighed.
“I’m sorry,” I said brightly. “Does he not know?”
“Know what?”
Teggie flicked a graceful hand in Gabriel’s direction. “Go ahead. Tell him.”
But suddenly I was tired, deflated. Teggie and I had done this routine together often enough before, and it was usually amusing, a memory shared by siblings of their parents, taking aim at the most furious or ludicrous things as if they were all fodder for humor.
“Go on,” Teggie urged, in control again.
The waiter appeared and dropped a scrap of yellow paper on the table.
“It’s not her real name,” I said at last. They were so close. How had this never come up?
He looked at us both, a question that quelled my sigh.
“Temperamental,” I began, feeling absurdly grateful when Teggie joined in, and the two of us finished in singsong. “Excitable, grouchy, irritable.”
Gabriel still had a question on his face. He ignored the check.
“They’re all traits my parents said she had as a baby,” I explained.
“Nora was calling me Teggie before she ever learned to say my real name,” my sister added.
“Wow,” Gabriel said, laying a few bills on the table. “That’s kind of … awful.”
Teggie and I both laughed.
“I guess your real name must be hard to pronounce,” he said, after a moment. “Or else really ugly. Scheherazade? Myrtle?”
Teggie gave him another laugh, then nodded in my direction.
“Lora,” I supplied. “Her name is L-o-r-a. Nora and Lora, like a little twinset or something, when we’re fifteen months apart.”
“Yeah,” Teggie said. “At least this way I have my own identity.”
“Some identity,” Gabriel said.
Teggie looked at him, and I watched her perception shift. From something accepting, almost pleased even, to troubled. She was seeing things as he did now. They each held the other’s gaze, and I walked out, leaving them to it.
After this morning, I couldn’t stand to bear witness to the coming together, the knitting and pairing that takes place between a couple who are falling deeply in love.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
I spent the rest of the afternoon uptown on campus, meandering along the same paths Brendan and I used to walk, grateful for the weather, which was mild. I was thinking about how Brendan had become intent on our returning to his hometown, after deciding against a career in law. Becoming a cop was partially an homage to his father. But I wondered if the motivation might also have
been that Brendan of all people knew that before crimes could be tried, they needed to be solved.
The temperature was starting to drop by the time I approached the concrete stoop that flagged Teggie’s building, and fumbled for her ring of keys. I wondered what kind of plunge was happening back home.
Teggie and Gabriel met me at the door to the apartment.
“Someone’s been trying to reach you,” Gabriel said.
“There were twelve hang-ups,” Teggie added. “From a 518 number.”
I frowned.
Gabriel handed me the phone with the number already set to redial, but before I could press the button, the phone rang in my hand.
“Nora,” Club said, his voice a low rumble. “I’m sorry to have to call with this.”
For one crazy second, I thought of Weekend, left alone with Ada Mitchell, and I asked if his dog was all right.
Club ignored my question. “There’s been another fire.”
The firemen must have left something smoldering, ready to ignite. Or had somebody in fact set the fire at Ned’s house, and returned to finish the job? Maybe the same person who had warned me off by imprisoning Weekend.
“At your house, I mean,” Club said, as if reading my thoughts. “Jean’s house is the one I’m talking about.”
It took me a while to determine that Club was referring to the farmhouse Brendan and I had shared, not Jean’s foursquare out by Patchy Hollow.
By that time, Teggie and Gabriel were both standing close by, Teggie mouthing, What? and Gabriel silently urging her to wait.
There was a high, hysterical note in my voice when I finally stopped mumbling that I didn’t know which house he meant. Then I said, “Ned! Ned’s staying at my house! Is he—”
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