by Luanne Rice
The garage had been transformed into an apartment: paintings on the wall, books on shelves, a bed, an old sofa, and a desk. Curtains were pulled across the windows, and a burgundy drapery blocked off the far end of the room.
“You always lived in unusual places,” she said.
“The warehouse,” he said.
“Yes. I went down there as soon as I got to Newport. But you weren't there….”
“No,” he said.
“You're not at your parents' house,” she said.
He gave her a smile that asked if she knew him at all. Wheeling himself to the window, he opened the curtains to a glint of mist. He gestured toward the sofa, and she sat down. He moved closer. His face was angular, almost gaunt; he hadn't shaved in a couple of days. He had high cheekbones, widely spaced eyes, a gentle mouth.
“It's good to see you,” she said.
“You really went looking for me at the warehouse?”
“Of course,” she said. “It's where I've been picturing you all these years.”
“It's where I've lived most of them. Just, right now, I'm recovering from an operation.”
She nodded, holding back, the questions ready to pour out. She looked at his legs, and he saw. “I don't want you to see me,” he said. “I never did.”
“I feel as if I did this to you.”
“You didn't.”
“J.D.,” she said.
He stared at her for a very long time. Was it too painful to talk about? Was he afraid of reliving it? She had the strangest feeling he was weighing what details she could handle.
“I did something stupid. I guess you've heard the details, but I'll tell you myself. I climbed the bridge again, but this time I fell. I was over the redline—forty feet off the ground, I should have died. I fractured my spine. The vertebrae were compressed, the spinal cord nearly severed.”
She listened to the clinical description, the lack of emotion. But she saw the strained weariness in his eyes.
“Katharine called me when it happened.”
“I know she told you. I told her to keep you away.”
Maura stared at him. “She didn't agree,” she said.
“There was only one reason I wanted you to come,” he said. “And it wasn't to feel sorry for me. There's been improvement, the nerves are regenerating.” He paused, looked at her. “Ted told me what he did, getting you to apply to teach here.”
“Your friends love you,” she said. “That's obvious.”
He stared at her, so close and present it felt as if there was no space between them at all. His eyes were ice blue. “I know about what happened last summer,” he said. “To your husband. I'm sorry.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“And Carrie was on the lake with him,” he said.
Just hearing him use her name filled Maura's eyes with tears. “She was,” she said.
“Tell me,” he said, staring hard into her eyes. “I want you to tell me what you wouldn't admit the night I drove to see you. Tell me I was right.”
“You were right.”
“We had…”
“We had a daughter,” she whispered.
His hands rested easily on the handles of his chair, but she saw tears pool in his eyes, his jaw muscles twitch.
“Why didn't you tell me then?”
“When I decided to go back to him,” she said, “I shut everything else out. I had to. If I told you she was yours, you'd have wanted to be part of her life. Andy and I couldn't have withstood that.”
He didn't respond. She could hardly sit there, knowing what a terrible thing she'd done. She wanted to tell him she was sorry, but the words seemed so inadequate. With one lie, she'd ruined his life—and Carrie's and Andy's.
“Did he ever find out she wasn't his?”
“Two and half years ago she was in a car accident. She was badly injured, and Andy and I went to give blood. Neither of us was a match. So he knew….”
“What did he do?”
“He was going to leave me. He told me the day he died, just before he and Carrie went out in the canoe. We'd made it through the shock of him finding out, and we tried counseling for a few sessions—the kids had no idea. I know they'd sensed trouble between us, the first time ever. But they didn't know why.”
He took her hand. “I let you go. I had to because you wanted me to, but I never stopped thinking of you. I knew the minute I heard you were pregnant. I should have…” The words tore out of him, and he shut down hard to keep from saying what would hurt them both even more.
“I wish you could have known her,” Maura said. But was that true? She had built a fortress around herself and her family. J.D. was right; once she'd decided to cut him out of her life, she had done it completely.
“I feel as if I do know her,” he said.
“Really?”
He nodded. “I think she knew about me,” he said.
Maura felt startled. Why would he say that? “I never told her. It's killing me, to wonder if she somehow found out. See, she hasn't come home, J.D. She ran away that same day. I haven't seen her since.”
“Do you have any idea where she'd go?”
Maura shook her head. “It's all I think about. She sent a couple of postcards, it seemed she was heading out west. I keep thinking maybe she learned what I did, and hates me for it.”
“I don't believe that. Tell me about her, what she's like,” he said.
“Beautiful in all ways,” Maura said. “Sweet, kind, funny, the smartest girl in her class. A good girl. Wonderful to her sister and brother. The best daughter anyone could have.”
“Were you close?”
“Very.”
“Do you have a picture of her?”
Maura took out her cell phone. She scrolled through, found a shot she'd taken of Carrie the morning of the accident. The lake was in the background, shimmering and blue. She handed J.D. the phone.
He stared at the small screen without saying a word. This was the closest she could come to introducing him to their daughter.
“When I first got to Newport,” she said, “this September, I used to drive down the alley looking for you.”
“Why?” he asked. “Why now?”
“Because I had to tell you about Carrie. I wanted to make up, somehow, for what I've put you through. And because …” she said, tears flooding. “She came from us. I kept you out of her life and I'll pay for that for the rest of mine. What I did was cruel, unforgivable. But she was yours. After she disappeared, I'd think of you. It all came crashing down. I was crazy, obsessed, thinking that you were my only connection to her.”
He nodded, and she saw that he was still staring at the picture. Carrie, Lake Michigan behind her, pine-studded islands dotting the horizon, the lighthouse rising up over her shoulder. She thought of the night J.D. had taken her up to the top of the Jamestown Bridge. They'd gazed down the dark, sparkling bay, toward Beavertail Light. That had been their beacon, their promise.
After a moment, he snapped the phone shut, handed it back. He turned his wheelchair away as if dismissing her, as if he'd had enough. She stared at the back of his head; her fingertips tingled, wanting to touch him. She had jeopardized everything she'd thought she ever wanted for that one summer with him.
“J.D.,” she said.
“Look,” he said. “I get tired. You'd better go.”
“Can we see each other again?”
“I don't think that's a good idea.”
“You're obviously strong,” she said. “You get around. You swim—I know, because Stephen told me they filled the pool at school for you. I've seen the lights at night. If you don't want me to come here, I'll meet you there.”
“No.”
J.D. and Maura stared at each other.
“J.D.?” she said.
“Go, Maura,” he said.
He backed his chair away, turning around, dismissing her. Everything seemed to have changed the minute he looked at Carrie's picture—Carrie with the lighthouse
in the background.
She remembered the moment she lied. She'd been guilty and confused after returning to Columbus from Newport. She and Andy had just eloped—he believed the baby was his, couldn't wait to get married. Maura had called Katharine to tell her about the baby and the wedding, and the very next day J.D. showed up on her doorstep, completely wild.
“Maura, I love you,” he'd said. “Come with me.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Come with me,” he'd said again.
“J.D.,” she'd said, feeling panicked. She'd stood there, staring at him, sweaty and windblown after riding his motorcycle all the way from Rhode Island to Ohio. He'd reached toward her, touched her face. She'd leaned into it, shaking.
“Maura,” he'd said. “I brought an extra helmet. Come on.”
“Are you kidding?” she'd asked.
He'd grabbed her hand. Their eyes had locked, and she'd felt electricity up and down her spine. All she had to do was grab her bag; there was nothing she needed, nothing she had to take. She could do this.
“Come with me.”
“I… I'm married.”
“Why'd you do that?”
“Because I love him.”
“No, Maura.”
She'd tried to nod, to tell him yes, she did, but she couldn't.
“Let's go,” J.D. had said, pulling her toward him. “Just leave. You can call him, write him, do whatever it takes. But come with me.”
“I can't,” she'd said. “He's my husband.”
“I don't care.”
And in that second, neither did Maura. She'd wanted him from their first night together. She was carrying their child. Her hand strayed to her belly, and she'd pulled it away before he saw. But he did see.
“Maura?” he'd asked, his eyes burning.
“The baby's Andy's,” she'd said. “Now you know why I can't— can't talk to you, can't see you ever again.”
“The baby's mine,” he'd said. “I know it—”
“No! It's not!” she'd yelled. “You have no idea!”
“Don't do this,” he'd said. “You know what we have, Maura. There's no one else for either of us. You care about Andy, don't want to hurt him. But staying will destroy him, because it's a lie. We're having a baby.”
“We're not,” she'd said, making her voice hard.
“You're lying,” he'd said. “Because you told me the truth all summer. When we were together… we love each other. Maura, I know you're having my child.”
Maura had stared at him. She saw his excitement and wildness, his bridge-climbing craziness. He'd shown her her own passion, taken her right to the edge and terrified her.
Maura knew Andy so well. They'd been together so long, all through college. She'd been drawn to him because he was so good and steady, nothing like her father. He was the Mr. Sisson she'd always dreamed of. Always wanted. She had stared up at J.D., saw those sharp blue eyes, his lean face.
“I feel safe with Andy,” she'd said, breathless.
She'd told him to leave her alone, never contact her again, closed the door right in his face. She'd leaned against the door, feeling him standing there just on the other side, willing herself not to turn the doorknob. And then she'd heard his motorcycle start up.
He'd driven straight back to Rhode Island. He went to the Jamestown Bridge, started to climb up to the catwalk where they'd gazed out at the lighthouse and the dark sea beyond. Maybe he was exhausted from the ride. Maybe he felt rage or sorrow or both. But he'd lost his footing, fallen backward onto the ground.
Maura let herself out of J.D.'s garage apartment and hurried past Stephen Campbell without a word.
“That was nice,” Stephen said, walking into J.D.'s apartment. “You made her run away.”
“You are an asshole,” J.D. said.
“You're the asshole, my friend.”
“I told both you and Ted I had to do this in my own time.”
“Yeah, well, she moved up the timetable.”
“Yeah, well, you didn't have to bring her here till I told you. Look how it turned out.”
Stephen stared at J.D. He had him on that one. Maura had bolted about as fast as she could. Stephen had seen the devastation in her eyes. He'd felt guilty for bringing her here with so little warning, especially while J.D. and Katharine were keeping to their plan, whatever it was.
“Any word from Katharine?” Stephen asked.
“You're a great guy, and a good friend, but will you mind your own business and teach math?” J.D. asked.
“She was going to see you going to the pool eventually,” Stephen said. “If you really wanted to keep your being here a secret, why do you swim at night, when she'll see the lights?”
“Look, I don't have to swim there.”
“It's good for you. You need the exercise.”
“I can work out fine right here,” J.D. said.
“It makes Angus happy to pick you up and drive you to the pool,” Stephen said. “Hydrotherapy's supposed to be good. So why not let him do that for you?”
“Well, if it makes Angus happy,” J.D. said. He reached over to the desk, picked up a magazine. “He gave me the latest National Fisherman. He's got me up in arms about size limits on stripers. You can keep the big ones, have to let the small ones go. But the big ones have the good survival genes, and they're full of mercury anyway. Some guy in the story caught a four-footer. He released him, though.”
“Any four-foot bass gets near the Patty C, it's coming aboard,” Stephen said.
“When are you going to change the name?” J.D. asked.
“Never,” Stephen said.
“She's not Patty C anymore,” J.D. said.
“Bad luck to change a boat's name,” Stephen said. “Your sister divorced me, but I still love her boat. You want to come out with me? We'll go after some stripers. There're still a few stragglers, and I heard there was big action on Sunday in the bay, right by the War College. You, Ted, me, a case of beer? What the hell—Angus can come too.”
J.D. shook his head. “Thanks,” he said. “But no.”
“I hear they're still hooking fifty-pounders,” Stephen said. “We catch one of those, we'll see how much you feel like letting it go.”
“I'm done with the water,” J.D. said, glaring at his knees. “Unless it's in a fucking swimming pool.”
“That's ludicrous. Your father and grandfathers would turn in their graves. You have salt water in your veins, J.D. Come on out with me, before the season ends.”
“The season already ended. And if I find out you've told Maura what's going on, I'll be even more pissed.”
“Katharine will tell her.”
“She won't yet. She loves Maura.”
“I know.”
“Just do me a favor,” J.D. said. “Keep Maura away from me. Don't bring her over here again till I work everything out. I'm serious, Steve.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Lines intersected, bisected, divided. Shapes existed in the latticework of three dimensions. Nothing could be added up because quantities were infinite and went on forever. Seeing the way J.D. loved Maura, was trying with everything he had to bring their daughter back to her, was the closest Stephen could come to understanding the riddle of love.
He started to say something more about fishing, but he found that he couldn't. J.D. was one of his best friends. The accident had taken so much from him. He didn't do the things they used to love anymore. But searching with Katharine and Angus seemed to give him more of a reason to live than he'd had in a long time.
Travis was worried about Beck. He knew she felt bad about Ally leaving, and he'd tried to tell his little sister it wasn't her fault. She had listened, nodded, but not said a word—he'd known she hadn't believed him at all. He'd told his mother about it and she said she'd talk to her. But he still felt uneasy.
Leaving History class, he had a free period before football practice, and decided to head over early, to clear his head. The air was cold and wet, but w
hen he got to the field, he saw someone sitting on the bleachers. Walking closer, he saw it was Pell.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi. What are you doing here?”
“I don't know,” she said. “I just felt like coming.”
“It's kind of lousy out,” he said.
“I like the fog.”
“Really?”
She nodded. “It makes me feel enclosed. As if I'm being held or something.”
“Held by a big wet blanket?”
She laughed. He climbed the bleachers and sat next to her. This was the same seat she'd occupied during the St. George's game. He'd played so well that day. Everyone thought it was because Ally was here, and he'd never tell anyone it was because every time he looked into the stands he saw Pell on her feet, cheering for him, smiling at him.
“I haven't seen you much lately,” she said. “Since your girlfriend was here.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I've been kind of busy.”
“Schoolwork and football,” she said.
“Yeah.”
“How's Beck?”
He shrugged and looked at his feet. “You probably see her more than I do. She's never around. I think she's hanging out with your sister a lot. Did you give Lucy back her earring?”
Pell nodded. “She hadn't even missed it.”
“I hope she doesn't find out. What I really hope is that Beck gets it all under control. She lost a lot of friends back home, taking their stuff.”
“They didn't understand that she'd lost so much,” Pell said. “She was just borrowing their things.”
“You're right, they didn't get that,” he said, thinking of Ally, of the scorn and rage he'd heard in her voice, attacking Beck.
“They will someday,” Pell said in a low voice. “When someone they love dies. Or goes away.”
“I wouldn't wish that on anyone,” Travis said.
“Everyone goes through loss,” Pell said. “Sooner or later. It just happened to us when we were young.”
Travis nodded. He glanced over at Pell. Her straight black hair fell across one blue eye. He wanted to push it back, see her gazing straight at him. She cared about her sister as much as he did about Beck, as much as he did about Carrie. He wanted to tell her what it was like to fall out of love with a girl who connected him with his missing sister, but he had a huge lump in his throat.