I suddenly remembered one sunny Sunday morning in the winter, just weeks after our wedding. The sunlight had streamed into the bedroom, turning it buttery and warm, and his hair—he’d had such thick, glorious hair back then, light brown and all crazy if he didn’t comb it down. I’d thought those freckles on his shoulders so endearing. We made love . . . maybe the first time when it wasn’t awkward, because that’s how inexperienced we’d both been. Both of us virgins on our wedding night, hardly typical for the crazy seventies. But I’d been brought up with old-fashioned values, and John had been, too.
Anyway, we were pretty happy with ourselves that morning, since we’d finally figured out this sex thing, and we spent the whole day in bed, eating toast and then leftover spaghetti, reading the Sunday Times until it got dark. Then we showered and dressed and went to the movies. Can’t remember what we saw.
“Go ahead, Mrs. Frost, talk to him,” someone said, putting a hand on my arm. A nurse. Gosh, she seemed so young. Beautiful skin. Her eyes were kind.
“John?” I said, looking down at him. I wanted to call him honey, or darling, but it had been so long since either of us used a term of endearment for the other. “John, don’t worry. I’m here. You’re being taken care of. Darling.” I put my hand over his.
Please don’t die.
The thought came as a shock, a lightning strike right to the heart. We could do better, couldn’t we? It wasn’t too late?
“Here are his things,” someone said, thrusting a plastic bag at me.
“Mom! Oh, my God, Daddy!” Juliet was there, and started to hug her father, but he was too confined. She hugged me instead, her body shaking.
“I know, honey, I know,” I said. “He’s going to UConn, and they’ll do everything they can for him. World-class medicine, don’t you know.”
“Mrs. Frost.” It was the doctor again, with some papers in her hand. “He’s ready to go. The CAT scan did show a significant bleed, but no head or neck fractures. The chopper is here. Are you okay to drive to Farmington?”
“We’re fine,” Juliet said, then looked at me. “Riley London’s watching the girls and Oliver’s on his way home. I’ll drive. Do you have your car? Can someone drive it home?”
The details of emergencies. Who drove which car? Did Lindsey have my coat? Did I thank her for driving me? Would she cancel all my appointments for tomorrow? Oh, wait, it was Friday. Should we take Route 9 or Route 2? What was the traffic like? Did I need the ladies’ room before we left? I did.
It’s strange how your body keeps going when your life is falling apart. I needed to go to the bathroom—I was seventy years old, of course I did. I washed my hands, aware that I was in a hospital with a lot of sick people. It was flu season. It wouldn’t help anyone if I got sick.
My husband might be dead right now.
Juliet had pulled her BMW to the entrance. I got in and buckled up. “I didn’t text Sadie,” she said. “I wasn’t sure if you told her anything yet. I thought it might be better if we knew something first. When he’s stable. Or . . . if he doesn’t make it. I hope someone can drive her. She’s gonna take this hard.”
Exactly my thoughts. “Are you all right to drive, sweetheart?”
“I’m a rock, Mom.” Her voice shook a little, but she was. She really was. She drove efficiently and safely, always using her turn signal.
We didn’t talk much. But she reached over and took my hand and squeezed it. “Whatever happens,” she said, “we’ll get through it.”
* * *
— —
By the time we got to Farmington, John was already in surgery. He was still alive, the nurse told us, but it was a critical situation, given his age and the location of the aneurysm.
According to the paramedic report, John had been riding his bike. In January, down Canterbury Hill Road, and honestly, why? I mean, sure, he had to have his hobbies, and when he started that whole silly running/biking/swimming thing last year, I was relieved that he’d found something to keep him occupied. But riding a bike in January? That’s just foolish, even if today had been real nice.
“Based on his injuries, the doctor thinks he had the stroke first and then fell smack onto the pavement, which is why his face is banged up,” the nurse said. “He didn’t raise his hands to protect himself.” She demonstrated how someone would instinctively cover their face. “He has a concussion on top of the stroke, and his nose is broken, but the bleeding is the big problem right now.”
“Will he live?” Juliet asked. My strong girl, asking the hard questions.
“These things are hard to predict,” she said. “Try to keep good thoughts. We’ll tell you more as soon as we know.” She put a hand on my arm. “I’m sorry. I know this is incredibly hard. I wish we had more information.”
“Thank you. You’re very kind.”
“I’ll call Sadie,” Juliet said.
“Oh. Yes. Do you want me to?” I asked. “Maybe I should, don’tcha think?”
“No, Mommy. You sit down, okay? I’ll be back in a few. I’ll bring you a coffee and a snack. There’s a Starbucks here. I’ll be right back. Text me if there’s any news.” She smiled suddenly. “I can hear your Minnesota.”
“Oh, can you, now?” I asked, exaggerating the accent as a joke, and we managed a little laugh. It was true; stress brought out the accent.
Off she went, and as ever, I was so grateful that she was mine, and here.
The family waiting room on this floor looked like an airport lounge, sleek and cheerful. I found a chair and sat down, still in my winter coat. The chair was meant to look like a Morris chair, sturdy and reassuring. A good choice for this place.
When we first moved to Stoningham, I’d loved tag and estate sales and combed half the state looking for antiques that needed a little sanding, some repairs. John still worked in family law then, and we had to be smart about money, what with all the house costs we had—new kitchen, bathrooms, a leak in the roof, a new boiler. But we also had to furnish the place.
One day, I’d come across a beautiful wooden chair with leather cushions and clean lines. It cost ten dollars. I brought it home, cleaned and oiled the leather, polished the wood, and presented it to John when he came home that night. He’d been so pleased. So pleased. It was a vintage Morris chair, we learned, and John sat in it every night until he moved it to his study.
It was the best gift I’d ever given him.
I wondered when he moved it from the living room into the study.
The bag I’d forgotten I was holding gave a strange buzz. Right. John’s things were in there, those slippery, strange clothes that were thin as paper but somehow kept you warm. Honest to Pete. He was too old to be an athlete. I’d tell him that if he lived. He could take up fly-fishing or something. My fingers closed on his phone and pulled it out.
It was his work. John still did some consulting here and there. Shoot. I should tell them, shouldn’t I? He loved some of those folks. I typed in his code (0110, our anniversary), but it didn’t work. He must’ve changed it after being hacked or something, not that he said anything to me. I typed in his birthday. That didn’t work, either. Sadie’s birthday. There.
His screen was lit up with texts. I put on my reading glasses.
After a second, I took off my reading glasses and put the phone down. Held down the little button so it would turn off. My face felt hot, my hands like ice. My heart felt sick and slow, flopping like a dying bird.
I glanced around. Could anyone tell? Were they looking at me? Did they know?
No. Everyone else was worried about their own people. I should worry about John. His brain was bleeding. Juliet would be back in a minute.
Shame. That’s what I felt. Shame and humiliation, and fear that everyone would see on my face what I had just learned.
CHAPTER THREE
Juliet
On the day her father had hi
s stroke, Juliet Elizabeth Frost was considering leaving her perfect life and becoming a smoke jumper in Montana—husband, children and job be damned.
The thing was, her life really was perfect. Excellent health, fabulous education, a career as an architect that earned her a ridiculous salary. She had a husband who loved her and was from London with a dead-sexy accent to boot. They had two healthy daughters and lived in a beautiful home overlooking Long Island Sound. Juliet drove a safe, fancy but not too pretentious German car. They brought their daughters on vacations to places like New Zealand and Provence. She spoke French and Italian. Her boobs had survived nursing two babies, and while they might not be perky anymore, they weren’t saggy, either.
She knew a lot of successful, intelligent women, though her mother was her true best friend. She tolerated her younger sister and was sometimes even fond of her. Her father, who had always been distracted where she was concerned, had recently morphed into a raging asshole . . . and Juliet was going to have to tell her mother about it. Soon.
None of this explained why she was currently sitting in her closet, having a panic attack, hoping she’d faint.
The girls were at school, thank God, and Oliver was at work, designing jet engines. It was lucky that Juliet was working from home today, because last week, when she had a panic attack at work, and the idea of her coworkers, her boss, and Arwen seeing her hyperventilating and crying and possibly fainting . . . no. She’d had to get down eight floors and rush into the Starbucks on Chapel Street, and thankfully, the restroom was free. The first time it hadn’t been, and she’d slid to the floor and had to pretend she was having a sugar crash in order to keep the barista from calling the ambulance.
Today, the panic attack had just sneaked up on her right during the conference call with her team at DJK Architects, one of the best firms in the U.S. Seemingly out of nowhere, it came . . . that creeping, prickling terror that started in her feet and slithered up her legs, making her knees ache, her heart rate accelerate. Keep your shit together, she ordered herself. Her boss, Dave, was drawing out the goodbyes with his usual jargon . . . “So I think we all have our action points” and “we’ve really drilled down on the issue,” all those stupid clichés. Would it kill him to just end the damn meeting?
Her heart was beating so hard, and she was trying not to blink too fast, but the sweat was breaking out on her body, chest first, then armpits and crotch, back of the legs, forehead. In another ten seconds, she’d start to hyperventilate.
“Arwen, e-mail me those numbers, okay?” she said. Her voice sounded strained and thin.
“Already done.”
Of course it was. “Great! Talk soon, everyone!” Her voice was a croak. She clicked the End button, closed the computer just in case the feed was still live, and bolted for the closet.
Sometimes, the hyperventilation caused her to pass out, which was actually a lot easier than talking herself down, that forced slow breathing, the mantra of you’re fine, you’re fine, you’re fine, slow down, slow down, slow down. Fainting was lovely. If she fainted, everything grayed out gently, giant spots eating up her vision, and it felt as if she were falling so slowly.
Then she’d wake up, normal breathing restored, on the carpeted floor of her expansive closet—because so far, four of the six panic attacks had been in the closet, conveniently—safe among her shoes and sweaters. Like a nap. Like anesthesia. Juliet loved anesthesia; last year, she’d had to have a uterine biopsy, and the IV sedation was the best feeling she’d had in ages. She wished she could’ve stayed in that state, that lovely, floating, almost unconscious state, for a long time. Totally understandable why people got hooked on those drugs.
The attack was passing. No pleasant fainting this time, apparently. She’d have to shower again, since she was damp with sweat, and change, and get her current outfit to the dry cleaner’s. If Oliver noticed their dry-cleaning bill had seen a significant bump, he hadn’t said anything. Then again, that was her job: pick up dry cleaning on the way home from the office.
None of these was the reason she was sitting hunched in her closet.
The problem was Arwen.
No. No, she wasn’t the problem. Juliet hated women who blamed other women for their issues . . . or maybe their own lack of success.
But the problem was maybe Arwen. Arwen Alexander, Wunderkind.
Yes. Fuck it, Juliet’s heart started racing again. Come on, fainting! You can do it! A laugh/sob popped out of her lips.
The panic grew. Fast. Like a mushroom. Like cancer. How had she been reduced to sitting in a fucking closet with the full-on shakes when she had a perfect life?
In the past few months, everything Juliet took for a fact seemed fluid. She’d always wanted to be an architect, but did she anymore? Somehow, inexplicably, it felt like she was living the wrong life. How could that be? Every detail had been planned, mapped out, worked for and achieved. Harvard, check. Yale, check. Oliver, check. Two healthy daughters, check and check and thank God. This house that she’d designed in the town she loved. Check. Parents who loved her and had a solid (ha!) marriage.
But suddenly it all felt wrong. Never before had Juliet questioned that she was on the right path . . . until now.
Was she a good mother? A good wife? She loved her girls, of course she did. She’d die for them. Kill anyone who threatened them with a song in her heart and a smile on her lips. She did everything she could for them, and from the outside, it probably looked like she was a good mother.
She just didn’t feel like it these days. Brianna had grown sullen and withdrawn—she was twelve, so it wasn’t the world’s biggest surprise. But the thing was, Juliet hadn’t done that with her mother. She adored her mother, every day, every year. Sloane was right behind Brianna at ten . . . Would she stop talking to her, too? Oliver had been a little . . . distant, maybe. And if there was one thing Juliet couldn’t stand, it was distant. Her father had been that way (except with Sadie). And Dad had been especially distant with Mom.
Of course things stopped being hot and heavy after fifteen years of marriage. You couldn’t keep that shit up, no matter how hard you tried, how many thongs you bought. Things became expected and comfortable, and that was good, wasn’t it? Even if she tried really hard to be spontaneous and exciting, she and Ollie knew each other inside and out. Would she find herself walking her parents’ path, barely speaking, being invisible to the other?
This seeping dread, this flight response . . . why did it feel so real? Was she a fake somehow, in both work and life? Why was Arwen so terrifying when she was perfectly . . . fine?
Shit, shit, shit. This was what happened. One little crack, and the whole building comes down.
Juliet stood. Her legs felt shaky, and her hair looked greasy. There were circles under her eyes.
That faint would’ve been welcome. A little nap.
Instead, she went to her computer and Googled “how to become a smoke jumper in Montana.” Very conveniently, the U.S. Forest Service was hiring. So she would need a little experience fighting wildland fires. She’d get it. Juliet was in great shape. She liked heights and fires (though more of the bonfire/fireplace type). She was brave—always the first to jump in the water, or try waterskiing or leap off the platform while zip-lining. She was an adrenaline junkie who had just emerged from hiding in her closet.
The idea of being far, far away doing heroic things had such pull, such promise. Her sister Sadie would probably do it. Move to Montana, be handed a job, meet a cowboy who happened to also be a billionaire and spend the rest of her life traveling and getting massages on various beaches, because that’s how life unfolded for Sadie. Juliet worked and planned for everything; Sadie skipped off to New York City, doing things in the most irresponsible, unplanned, carefree way possible. No money? No problem. I can waitress! I can work in a tattoo parlor! I’m an artist, you see. Things are different for us, since we’re pure and superior. N
o career? No worries! Something will come along. In the meantime, look at this hovel I’m living in after Mom and Dad remortgaged the house to put me through college!
In typical Sadie fashion, she got a cute little job at a cute little school and somehow started earning money on paintings that allowed her to buy a cute little apartment and then found a cute wealthy boyfriend. Sadie never had to work for a thing. Juliet worked every fucking day, every fucking minute. Did people think Oliver just saw her and fell in love? Oh, no. She had to work for him. The guy was absolutely wonderful—handsome and charming and smart and kind and funny—and everyone had wanted him. Juliet had taken one look at him and thought, Game on. She’d had to earn him, which she had.
All work, all the time, every part of her life. Me time? Please. Juliet brought work with her on every weekend away, every vacation. She took a bubble bath for effect, only when Oliver had come home from a trip, and she’d run the bath and sprinkle flower petals in and light candles the way no one ever did in real life, and it was all for seduction, to say, “Sure, we’ve been married for fifteen years, but I’m still a voracious sex beast, you betcha!” Long walks on the weekends or after school were to incorporate health and outdoor time into the girls’ lives, even if Juliet’s brain was fogged with all the work she had to do to earn that fat salary, how late she’d have to work to make up the time spent walking, how to help Sloane catch up on reading and make gluten-free, peanut-free, dairy-free cupcakes for Sloane’s class and later have sex with Oliver so he wouldn’t forget he loved her, or take Mom out to dinner because she deserved it, or plant flowers in the front yard because Oliver’s British mother loved gardens and had once said a house without a garden is a house without a soul, and then what about the mentorship thing she’d promised to do for Yale, and the workshop (not keynote) she was giving at the annual American Institute of Architects conference on risk management (not the sexy one Arwen was doing on “breaking boundaries”) and right, their cleaning lady had moved and Juliet hadn’t found another one yet so she had to clean the house because she liked things tidy and couldn’t relax if things were messy.
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