by Wendy Walker
* * *
Two more steps and she was outside the attic door. She pressed her ear against the wood and listened for sound. The TV, maybe. Music. Laura sometimes fell asleep with things still playing. But the room was quiet.
She placed her hand on the doorknob and turned it gently. But it, too, creaked from age. So would the door jam as it twisted on rusty metal. There was no getting in the room without waking the person inside. But Rosie was too far gone to care, and the memory kept playing.
* * *
They’d run to the road, scattering through the woods to find the quickest path. There was no trail. It had been so dark. Someone had a flashlight and they’d turned it on. Someone else had gotten into a car and turned on the headlights. The screams had become sobs. Down the road were two figures. One standing and one on the gravel road, lying still …
Rosie pushed the attic door open, slowly, already talking herself down. They were not in the woods. Whatever she found in this room wouldn’t mean anything. Laura was a grown woman. Maybe she got too drunk to drive and stayed at his place. Maybe she stayed to sleep with him. She’d promised to be home with the car, but people break promises like that all the time. Especially Laura. Especially when it came to men. Her good intentions were always overcome by the desire and longing that were never satisfied. And so what if she did sleep with him? Joe was right: the guy was older. Forty and divorced. Safe to the point of boring.
But all of this reasoning came and went without effect. The past, the scream in the woods. And that boy lying at her sister’s feet. The memory played.
Running to her sister, breathless from screaming her name. Laura! Coming to her, that look on her face. Terror. Disbelief. And that boy on the ground. The blood pooling around his head. Laura’s first love. The one who’d broken her heart. Dead.
This memory always played until the end. Always. Rosie blinked away the last image and looked for her sister.
Laura had been gone for ten years, but it didn’t matter. Rosie was always waiting for the next tragedy to unfold.
The door open now, she flipped on the light.
And all she found was an empty bed.
FOUR
Laura. Session Number Six. Three Months Ago. New York City.
Laura: Rosie thinks I bring this on myself. She says I’m the one breaking hearts.
Dr. Brody: What about that? What about the ones who did love you?
Laura: They didn’t love me. They just thought they did.
Dr. Brody: Because they didn’t know you?
Laura: Maybe. Rosie says I choose men who won’t love me. I choose them because they won’t love me. But why would I do that?
Dr. Brody: To prove a point.
Laura: What point?
Dr. Brody: It will be more helpful if you find the answer yourself.
Laura: Don’t take this the wrong way, but I hate you a little right now.
FIVE
Laura. The Night Before. Thursday, 7:30 p.m. Branston, CT.
Jonathan. John. Johnny. Jack. As I drive downtown, I wonder what people call him.
There’s traffic and I’m running late. Construction. One-lane road. Shit. It’s good to be late. Keep him waiting! I tell this to myself. I can be one of those women who pull this off. Hide the eagerness. Hide the desire.
I think about texting him, but he said he doesn’t like to text. I don’t want to call, because that’s a little extreme. And, of course, my phone is on low battery because I forgot the charger from my room. God forbid Rosie should leave one in the car.
He’ll wait ten minutes. Won’t he?
The minivan smells like Goldfish and apple juice. Rosie cleans it every week, but it makes no difference. I don’t think she smells it anymore, she’s so used to it, like the stale coffee that pervades the kitchen until Joe comes home from work and empties the pot.
The kitchen is Rosie’s domain until then, and I usually find her there staring at nothing while Mason watches cartoons. She pours me the stale coffee (to chase away the bourbon hangovers from late nights with Joe and Gabe) and recites mantras from her days as a feminist, with the same breath that she gives me advice on how to be attractive.
You don’t need a man, Laura. Not for anything.
At the risk of stating the obvious, it’s easy to say you don’t need something when you’re holding it in your hands. She might as well tell me she doesn’t need her coffee as she inhales her second cup.
Still, I consider her advice now as I feel the panic that he might leave because I’m ten minutes late.
I don’t need a man.
The only trouble is that after years of wondering why it was so hard for me to find one, I finally had done just that—found a man who loved me.
He didn’t stay long, but while he was here, he unlocked the door to a well of needs. And there were so many of them. The need to be held and touched. The need to laugh and cry and search another’s soul. The need to be seen. To be known. Not the fierce and fearless warrior who conquered the world, but the little girl tugging on a sleeve or the hem of a coat, looking up. Always, always looking up with the foolish hope that someone would look back and be happy to see me there.
I am pathetic with my silly daydreams.
Jonathan Fields … do they call you Nathan? Or Nate?
I wonder if he’s handsome in real life. I wonder if his hair is as dark and full as his pictures, his eyes as blue. His body as fit as it looks hidden beneath a shirt. I wonder if I will see that thing in his eyes that I love. Mischief. Just a little. Not the kind old me likes. Just enough to keep her quiet.
But whatever I see when my eyes first fall upon Jonathan Fields, I will not ignore it. I will not pretend he is the right man if there is clear evidence that he is the wrong man. And I will not invent evidence to prove he’s the wrong man if he’s the right man.
I am handicapped by a lack of instinct. Tonight will not be easy.
Jonathan Fields. I’m almost there.
Past the construction on Main Street. I make a left on Hyde, another on Richmond. I find a spot at a meter and pull in. We’re meeting at an Irish pub that is just on the block behind me. On the left. It’s nestled in between an upscale diner and an Italian place. They have seating outside in the summer. When we were kids, we used to get in with our fake IDs. I think it’s harder these days. But maybe they’ve learned how to make better IDs. Ours were more pathetic than my daydreams.
I have so many memories from growing up in this town. They’ve been crawling out from every corner since the day I returned.
Jonathan Fields suggested this place. He said it was near his apartment so he went there a lot and the bartenders would give him free whiskey. Not that he couldn’t afford whiskey. He made sure to throw that in, and I have not done anything with any of this information. I’ve left my scaffolding at home. There will be no inventions tonight. No reconstructions. No blind eyes. I had an excellent therapist, even if I was a terrible patient.
I open the vanity mirror and check my face. Mascara hasn’t smudged. Cheeks are rosy. I apply some more cherry-red lipstick because I’ve been biting my lip. I rub some of it off my teeth with my finger. That’s really not a good look. Lipstick on your teeth. Seriously. That could have been a fatal unforced error.
Damn it! Have I become my mother? I close the mirror and stare out the windshield, onto the street. After Dick left us, our mother couldn’t sleep or eat unless she had a boyfriend, and she would go to the bottom of the barrel to find one. After Dick left us, she went out almost every night and I remember hating her for it.
How do I look, girls?
We don’t give a shit, Mom. We have homework and tests and our periods and zits and the other tortures of puberty to deal with—alone—thank you very much.
I don’t want to be someone I hate. But maybe that’s what’s required.
I feel that thing in my stomach. It’s not quite anxiety. Not quite nervousness. It is distinct, a feeling specific to this set of circumstances
—a first date after a bad breakup. It’s hope, but it’s so fragile. Hope on its deathbed. People gathered around it, saying prayers. A priest standing over it, reading last rites. Part of me has already grieved it. Part of me can’t until it’s totally dead, maybe even until it’s been buried six feet under.
I need a drink ASAP.
Hand on the handle, door open. Grab purse, phone, keys. Close the door. Lock the car. It’s 7:38.
I walk like I could give a shit about anything, across the street, down the block. My heart is beating faster and it’s pissing me off. I breathe slower but it makes it worse. I can feel my cheeks getting redder than they already were.
A small group of people stands outside, smoking and laughing. They’ve clearly enjoyed happy hour drink prices. I walk around them and find the door, pull the handle. Step inside.
The bar is dark. Dimly lit. Wood paneling. There are tables in the back and loud music playing in the front, which is packed with people of all ages—except middle. Middle-aged people are home with their kids. It’s Thursday night, after all.
I scan the crowd. Two naughty girls to my right, drunk and slutty. Talking to three young executives. Douchebags. I wonder how that math is going to work out. To my left are five colleagues from a medical office. They’re still wearing their cotton-candy shirts and badges. Dead center is the bar, lined with an assortment of men and women. No one is alone. Shit. Did he leave? Did he blow me off? No, no, no! The thought rips through me and I realize in an instant how vulnerable I am tonight.
It doesn’t sit well, being vulnerable. It makes me feel like a wild animal trapped in a corner. Nothing left to do but fight its way out. It brings back memories of things I don’t want to remember. So many mistakes. So many regrets. They come in flashes, sweeping in like Sarin gas, devastating every nerve in my body. Paralyzing me with self-hatred.
I realize now that I have started to believe in Jonathan Fields when he is nothing more than a name and a voice and a story on a page. I have let it all swirl around in my head and become a real person, like a kid with an imaginary friend. Insanity. Desperation. I’ve done it again. I haven’t followed the instructions. This does not bode well.
I feel a hand on my shoulder and I turn.
“Laura?” he says. There he is … Jonathan Fields, saving me from myself. Saving himself from me, though he doesn’t know it.
He’s beautiful. I almost gasp, that’s how beautiful he is. And I haven’t even had a drink.
Blue eyes. Dark hair. Just like his pictures. Only his face has structure that the pictures didn’t capture—the way his cheekbones frame his perfect nose. The way his smile pulls up higher on one side, more endearing than smug. And his body—that slender, fit body—it moves with masculine grace.
All of this rushes in and sweeps me away.
“Yeah. Jonathan?” I’m so perfectly collected right now. I don’t know how, because the emotional 180 has nearly killed me. I want to crawl under the covers in Rosie’s attic and disappear from the world.
His eyes scan me up and down. It’s a little odd, to be honest, but if he’s feeling any bit of what I’m feeling, nothing would be odd. I am blinded by a surge of adrenaline. I have no sense of myself.
Then he speaks.
“Sorry, it’s just … well, you’re really beautiful.”
I let his words enter my brain for processing. I get my shit together. Clear the Sarin from my bloodstream. The adrenaline clears as well, and the words get through. They sound sincere. Check. And they explain his roving eyes. Check. All good.
I smile. I have to force myself. Voices echo in the distance. My sister’s. The ghosts of my past. They tell me I shouldn’t be here.
Go home. Get under the covers.
He looks around. His eyes pause on the back room with the tables. He loses his smile, but only for a second.
“Listen,” he says. “This place is kind of crowded. I’d really like to go somewhere quiet where we can talk and get to know each other.”
He’s not wrong. It’s loud and smells like stale beer. People are laughing too hard because they’re drunk at seven forty-five on a Thursday. And he wants to talk. That’s a good sign. I walk back from the ledge of an emotional inferno.
“Sure,” I say. I smile again.
He touches my arm and leads me in front of him toward the door. As we’re walking out, past the sluts and douchebags and cotton candy uniforms, I think I hear someone call his name. I try to look back where the tables are, where the voice came from, but he moves past me and waves me on to follow. When he gets to the door, he opens it and ushers me outside. Then to the corner of Richmond and Maple. He doesn’t stop walking until we’re in the parking lot of a CVS.
I follow, not asking where we’re going.
I don’t know why.
Well, that’s not really true.
He turns to face me, a little winded. He looks over my shoulder, then back at me with a smile.
“Sorry about that. I just couldn’t hear myself think in there. It’s been one of those days.”
I know exactly what to say.
“It’s fine. I’ve had some of those myself. What do you want to do?” I’m so understanding. It’s all about you, Jonathan Fields.
He points to a building just down the block.
“That’s where I live. I’m parked in the garage. Want to take my car and go down to the water? There’s a ton of places down there.”
“Sure!” I say with enthusiasm. Anything you want, Jonathan Fields.
We start to walk.
“I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but I was so relieved when I saw you.”
I get it now. He hid in the back somewhere until he could scope me out.
“So, what would you have done if I was old, fat, and ugly?” My tone is slick and I hate myself again. I hear Rosie. It’s not that hard—just be nice for God’s sake! Nice. Be nice. Not slick. Not irreverent.
But then he laughs. He finds my irreverence amusing. I fight to keep from making assumptions. Drawing conclusions. Maybe he’s just nervous. People laugh when they’re nervous. It doesn’t mean he sees old me. Real me. And likes her. It doesn’t mean anything. We just met. Do not invent him.
And—I’m the one who should be nervous. I’m walking now into an underground parking garage. Alone with this man. This stranger. No one else in sight.
He pulls out his keys and clicks the button. A Toyota sedan lights up. It’s not the car I was expecting from a forty-year-old banker with no kids to feed. It’s not the black BMW he told me about.
It’s not that I care about money. I’ve fallen for all kinds of men. Teachers. Students. A handy man. It’s just that it’s not adding up. But what do I know about divorce and alimony and the cost of keeping a house and an apartment? Nothing. Well, maybe a little. It’s not rocket science. Maybe his BMW is in the shop. I’m so very good at inventing stories.
But, anyway, it’s too late. He opens my door and I get inside. The door closes and my stomach tightens.
This was supposed to be simple. I was supposed to be new me tonight. Just a girl who wore a dress and went on a date. My head is throbbing. I’m so tired from the emotional roller coaster of the past fifteen minutes. Facts are spinning around and around. The car. His story …
And that woman’s voice from the back of the bar, calling after him as we made a hasty departure.
Please let me be wrong, Jonathan Fields.
Please be the man you said you were. Please, please, please.
Because I don’t know what I’ll do if you’re not.
SIX
Rosie. Present Day. Friday, 5:30 a.m. Branston, CT.
Rosie stood before the empty bed. She drew both hands to her mouth, open palms pressed to her lips to silence the fear.
She started to turn, run back downstairs to tell Joe that Laura really hadn’t come home last night. But then she stopped. He would just repeat his theory about how she got carried away. About Laura being Laura.
So she began the search for her sister, alone.
It felt strange to be among Laura’s things, and she paused to consider her actions. It was a violation. There was no way around it. She knew her sister at her core, but the outer layers that had been built around it these past ten years—she knew nothing of those. Only benign facts. What she studied in college. The basic tasks of her job as an analyst. A vague description of her office and colleagues. Bitchy Betty. Hot Henry. She had a best friend there, a woman named Jill. The two of them had made up nicknames for everyone else. It was funny, but impersonal. Rosie didn’t even know if she’d been happy there.
When Rosie called her, and even when she’d gone in with Mason to see her at her apartment, they spoke of sandwich shops and political scandals and Mason not sleeping in his bed and the Stepford Wives at the mommy and me classes. Never about the layers—not Laura’s. And not her own. Rosie hadn’t even met her roommate, who never seemed to be there on the weekends. She had a boyfriend in New Jersey who had his own place.
Having Laura here, in her house, felt more like hosting a family friend who’d come for a visit than a family member. So it also felt strange to be in her room, looking through her private things.
And yet, at the same time, she was family, and Rosie was worried the way only family can worry because of the history they shared and the things she knew. And how those things now made her feel. The mother bear protecting her cub.
Something is wrong.
It was a familiar feeling. One she’d had since she wore braids and plaid kilts and would find Laura in her room, crying under her bed where no one would see her. Or up in that tree, fear overcoming the determination that made her start climbing.
No one remembers that Rosie had gone up after her more than once, swallowing her own fear to help her sister get back down. But that was the truth.
What is the truth now, Laura? Where are you?
She shook off the apprehension and let her eyes scan the room the way they never had before. Even when she’d come to find her sister here—bringing her food, bringing Mason to jump on her bed. Seeing if she wanted to go for a walk or a drive or sneak out for a drink after Joe got home. She’d been in this room dozens of times and yet never seen it beyond Laura. It was always just a setting, a backdrop. Now, it was transformed in her absence.