There was no greater power than that, he thought.
A storm was moving in from the north. He turned into the wind as he walked along the roadside, the sleet pricking his face. It took him over an hour to get back to his car, and once he’d settled in behind the wheel, he felt nothing but gratitude. He was tempted to pray.
He sat there for a long while. He found he couldn’t move.
He retraced the route to the interstate and, about thirty miles out of Albany, picked up the Taconic. The road was deserted, nothing but black fields, distant farms. He drove cautiously with his wipers on, the road slick with ice.
For the entire ride, he contemplated what might occur if they found Adler. With this weather it could take time. At some point, he gathered, the body would wash up somewhere. It was unlikely they would connect Julian to the incident. He’d been wearing his gloves, he was still wearing them, and nobody knew how he’d felt about Rye. Nobody.
Maybe he believed they’d be there. Sitting at the kitchen table, drinking tea. Maybe they would welcome him home. Maybe she would look at him the way she did sometimes, when he could see her love. When he could tell she wanted him.
But the house on Farrington Avenue was dark.
Still, he pulled into the garage and went in. He walked from room to room, up the stairs and back down again, calling out their names. Then he sat down at the kitchen table and wept.
Magda
Routine, she has learned, is the essence of recovery. She has established a schedule. Running is their lifeline. It is the thing that matters most.
At first he didn’t want to. Said it was too hard, he couldn’t breathe. His chest burned. His ankles hurt. His mouth was so dry he couldn’t swallow. Let’s go was her answer, and they set out along the shore, their sneakers sinking in the wet sand. The wind against them. Stop thinking, she would say. I can feel you thinking. This isn’t about thinking. This is about moving.
After a week it’s easier, and he doesn’t bother to complain, only rises from his bed, throws on his clothes, and reaches for his shoes.
There is no finish line, she tells him. There is no before and no after. The past is dust. Let it go. They take the sand into their hands and toss it into the sea.
The running changes him. Recycles him. Allows him to be better. It changes her too. She is stronger. More focused. Surprised by her courage.
Once more, and perhaps for the last time, she tries to reach Rye. How can it be that she hasn’t heard from him? If she weren’t so worried, she’d be insulted. Slightly desperately she dials 411, amazed that the old-fashioned service actually still exists, only to discover that his number—his and Simone’s—is unlisted. She entertains driving out to his farm. She has imagined it many times, knocking on their door, coming face-to-face with Simone, a woman who has always despised her, who wields her superiority like a weapon. That time they met, under the guise of friendliness, Simone had inquired, Port Richmond, isn’t it? We went there once, for pierogis. In other words: I know where you come from. You’re nothing.
Once, after a fight with Julian, she’d packed up the car and taken Theo and driven all the way up there. Theo was maybe eight or nine, contentedly playing with Legos in the back seat. When she turned down their dirt road and saw their big house up on the hill in the distance, she couldn’t do it. Couldn’t go through with it. Perhaps she had too much pride. She pulled over and cried. What’s the matter, Mommy?
I made a mistake.
Theo climbed over the seat and put his little arm around her. Don’t cry, Mommy. Let’s go home now.
She nodded and wiped her tears. Yes, let’s go home.
Somewhere along the highway, they stopped at a McDonald’s, and she bought him a Happy Meal and a Coke. And he was happy. And his happiness was hers; it was all that mattered.
She finds Theo on the beach, standing on the shore after his run. He has taken to wearing an old Columbia sweatshirt he found in Rye’s drawer. From the back he looks tall and strong, a young man who can handle himself, but when he turns, she sees his fury. Hey, she says.
Hey.
You okay?
He only nods.
What is it?
I’m scared.
Tell me.
I don’t think I can go back.
Back where?
To school.
No?
He shakes his head. Not there.
You can transfer.
He nods. Maybe.
There’s no rush. You have time, Theo.
Only now he looks at her with uncertainty. Do I?
Of course you do.
What will I do? What if I don’t, like, become something? What if I’m just—
Just you?
He nods.
That’s more than enough.
He doesn’t say anything, and she can tell he’s not convinced. The water comes up to his sneakers. There is nothing to see but the ocean, the dark water, the endless white sky.
Listen, she says. When I was your age, I used to worry. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. I always used to think that if only I could do something really great, like really outstanding, my life would finally have purpose, and it would make me who I was. Like, for example, if I took an amazing photograph, one that really, you know, said something, and people realized how good I was, and I got a show, and the papers wrote about me, then, and only then, my life would matter. And I worried about it. Not mattering. Just like you’re worrying now. There’s this expectation, you know. To make something of your life. Like when someone comes up to you and asks you what you do, and they’re not so impressed by your answer. You can just sort of see them judging you.
But when you break it down, that judgment is more about you, how you see yourself, what you expect of yourself. People think they’re superior, they have more, they know more, but in the end, everyone has the same basic fears. I look back at when you were a baby and I was raising you and waiting for my life to start, and what I understand now is it already had. And you changed me. You taught me things. You taught me so much.
I did?
She nods. Listen to me, Theo. Take your time. This thing you’re going through? It’s important. It’s necessary. It’s yours.
Every day you know yourself a little better. You’re turning the lens, clarifying your focus. The days come and go. There’s no stopping them. This moment right now is already lost forever. You eat your bread, drink your coffee. You sleep, you wake. You notice the trees. You think about something—a story, a person you love. You think about the weather. The sunlight. The smell of this water. You get hurt, you get sick, and you realize how vulnerable you actually are.
This is what we have, Theo. We are nothing so special, really. Maybe we’re here only to be loved, to give love. She shrugs. Maybe that’s all.
They walk together up the beach. Up, and then back, and then up again. The sand is cold; the wind comes in gusts. It meddles with them, stirring up the sand, which prickles their faces. No matter, they walk right through it. They walk for miles. The sun is very weak. The wind blows too hard, they can’t even talk. They don’t need to; it’s better they don’t. They walk along, the wind blasting in their ears. The next morning, they find a pile of old bikes in the shed. They work together to fill the tires, fix their greasy chains. When they are finished, he tells her he wants to go on his own. She nods. What can she do? She has to let him.
She has to trust him.
Are you sure?
Yeah. I’ll be fine.
But it’s not easy waiting for his return. Not easy. She reminds herself that he knows the landline number. She made sure he memorized it; he can call her from somewhere if he needs her. At least there is that. There is no computer in this house. No emails. She cannot be found on Instagram or Facebook. These things, too, are addictions of a sort, dependent on use. It’s a relief to be living without them. To be unfindable; anonymous. To figure out who she really is, without all that online canvassing.
I a
m trying to get lost again, Lange had said. More than ever, Magda is too.
To distract herself, she cleans the house. Folds the laundry. Makes bread, mixing, kneading. She can feel the strain in her arm muscles. With Theo out, she is tempted by an old yearning to drink, and searches every last cabinet. Nothing. Not a single drop in the house. Good, she thinks. But now it is getting dark.
She charges up the stairs to his room. Turns down the sheets, yanks the blanket. She doesn’t even know what she’s looking for! There is nothing. Nothing. What a fool she is! She surrenders, drops to her knees, beats the floor with her fists; she is too angry to pray.
She walks down to the beach. Confronts the ocean.
Somehow she will have to survive this, whatever the outcome.
She can’t expect it to be easy, that he will miraculously overcome his addiction.
He will fail, she decides.
And they will start again.
She tries to remember the problems she caused her mother as a young woman. Her mother always seemed to be complaining, she was too stupid, or too careless, or too lazy, or too indifferent. She should be working harder. She should be working her fingers to the bone! Her mother was never satisfied. It was the family credo: you are never enough.
She had tried not to be that with Theo. But now she wonders, maybe if she’d expected more of him, this wouldn’t have happened.
Again, she thinks of her mother, and understands, as if for the first time, that, even with all their arguing, everything she’d done in her life had been for Magda.
Mom!
She turns. Had she heard him?
There he is. Standing there with the bike. His hair blowing like crazy.
Mom, he shouts loudly into the wind. Mom!
Hey! She waves. She wants to cry. She bawls inside like a baby but doesn’t show it. Theo! she calls.
He leans the bike against the wooden gate and comes down the rickety staircase, and when he gets close, all she wants to do is hug him. She wants to take him in her arms and hold him forever. But she doesn’t. Can’t. He doesn’t have to know how hard it was for her. He doesn’t have to know she doesn’t trust him. She looks at him closely. His eyes. You okay?
Yeah.
That was a long ride.
Yeah. It felt good. Look at me. I’m really sweaty.
How far did you go?
Miles, he says. I just kept riding.
She nods, her stomach in knots.
You were worried, right?
Yes, I was. Sorry. I’m trying really hard not to be, you know, like a mom. I don’t want you to feel—
I don’t. I’m sorry I worried you.
Are you okay?
Do you mean did I buy some?
Did you?
No. And then he smiles.
I’m really glad you didn’t, she says.
He nods. I wanted to.
I know.
It’s really fucking hard.
I know it is. I’m proud of you.
He nods. She looks at him closely and he looks right back.
Getting cold out here. Should we go in?
Yeah, it’s freezing.
Let’s go. I made bread.
Together, they walk up to the house, the lamp shining in the window, the golden light spilling out.
Theo
When he saw the bikes just sitting there, he thought: today. Pumping the tires, he thought: in a couple of hours I’ll be high.
He had a little money. He pushed the bills into his pocket and went down to the kitchen and told her he was going and slipped into the garage and got on the bike and set out. He decided he would pull over in town and find somebody who knew someone, but it was an old bike and a little rusty and hard to pedal, and he broke a sweat pretty quick, and he rode down the long dirt road to the paved one, then alongside the beach, and the plan started to fade.
It was overcast and cold, and, like, two in the afternoon, and the sky was like steel and the light was very bright, and there were a few people here and there, not many, but he knew if he rode into town, maybe not the first town but the second one, that he’d eventually be able to find some. It was never that far away. There was always somebody. Usually somebody had some. Or knew somebody who did. But he rode without stopping on the two-lane road all the way to Amagansett, and the harder he pedaled, the less he thought about heroin and the more he thought about the sky and the wind and the ocean and the grass, and he felt loose and happy, and he kept on riding, and then he realized a couple hours had passed, and he thought of his mother, and he knew she’d be worrying, and he turned around and started back, and started thinking about it all over again, his body telling him to want it, to long for it, to even pray for it, and he decided to stop once he got to Montauk and just buy some already and shoot it and get it over with, and there were some stragglers hanging around the old Memory Hotel, and he stopped there and they looked at him, waiting for him to say something, but he didn’t ask, he just said, hey, how’s it going, and they said it’s all good, and he pushed down on the pedals and got going again.
He thought about it, but he didn’t. He didn’t. No. He didn’t.
He had been reviewing the past couple months and everything that had happened and how he’d screwed up at school and how his best friend had died. He thought a lot about Carmine and decided that Carmine was still wearing his hobo coat up in heaven, dragging the stars across the sky with its ragged hem. If Carmine were alive now and knew Theo was here, he’d probably make fun of the fact that he was such a spoiled rich kid, escaping to this beach house in the Hamptons. Not many people had that opportunity; he knew that. It was a lot harder if you didn’t have money or resources. Like if you ended up at some crappy rehab. It was hard all around, and he was lucky to have his mom. He loved her so much right now it almost hurt. He could see who she was, her strength. He had begun to trust her again, and trust was hard for him.
He thought about his time on the streets, the things he had witnessed, the people he’d met and exchanged stories with, standing around drinking coffee or having a smoke with, or the people he’d shot dope with. Everybody wanted to kick, to become something, to be smarter—they all did, but they just couldn’t. At that point in time they couldn’t. Because it was easy to fall into another life, one that wasn’t yours, and to be stuck there, in that body, to be that stranger, for a good long while.
It was a disease; he understood that now. And it could happen to anyone. And it had happened to him. But he was getting better. He was a lot better already. And he didn’t regret it. Because he had come to understand the darkness inside him. That same darkness in everyone that surfaces every so often when you forget who you are.
Rye
At first he is very cold. He is too hurt, too afraid, to move. Distantly, he hears the voices of children. The light comes and goes and comes again. He can hear the river, and there is the black smell of the earth and the foul stillness of the water. He knows this river. He knows it is winter, and the cold air funnels through his clothes. He shivers.
Inside his head, all the doors are opening and shutting, opening and shutting.
Magda, he shouts to the white sky.
Sunlight. The singing of birds. He wants to open his eyes, but even that is too much. He is too broken to move. He decides the birds are talking about him, attempting to discern if he is alive or dead. Maybe he is dead. Maybe this is death.
He had fallen. He remembers falling.
He remembers now the roar of water in his ears, the darkness as he swam up to the surface, his chest squeezing for air. The water was very cold. He could see the shore. He couldn’t feel his legs.
He swam. His arms had burned with the effort. His hand ached. There was something wrong with it. But he swam anyway. He didn’t stop swimming till he was there at the shore. Then he had crawled like an alligator onto the dirt, using his elbows to pull himself along. He can remember the wind sweeping over him and the darkness and the cold night air and how he shiver
ed and how it shook him alive.
Later, voices. Children. Their voices bend around the trees, rising, falling. Then suddenly it is quiet. When he wakes again, he senses them near. Their heat. The heat of the living. Standing over him now, swaying like young trees. They crouch at his side. So near he can feel their warm breath on his face as they argue about his condition, what to do with him.
Is he dead? says the girl.
No, he’s not dead.
Where did he come from?
The river.
He’s all green.
He’s alive, the boy says.
Why is he shaking?
He’s cold.
What should we do?
They run off.
A little later they come for him. He hears a man’s voice. He can feel their hands as they pull him sideways onto a plank and cover him with a blanket. It is a sled, he realizes, a toboggan. There are several people lifting him up, carrying him, talking over him. They carry him a long way. He keeps his eyes closed; he is too frightened to look.
He wakes in the near dark. If he isn’t dead, then he has been saved. It is a stone hut. They’ve made a fire in the small hearth. The warmth is a gift. His hand is bandaged in gauze, and there’s a splint on his leg. To accomplish this, it appears they’ve cut off his trousers and dressed him in loose flannel pajama pants and an old T-shirt. He is covered with wool blankets that smell of horses and hay and dung. The man sits on an old plastic lawn chair, watching the fire. His back is wide and strong. His hands are clamped as he waits for something, some messenger of judgment. His hair is long and silver. He stares into the flames. Rye too watches the flames. They share this time, the crackling fire, and Rye instinctively knows that he is a good man, determined to keep him alive. Finally the man stands, his shadow looming like a giant’s on the wall of stones.
The Vanishing Point Page 24