by Lisa Unger
Pearl didn’t see it.
Her mother just seemed tired, ground down by the consequences of her bad choices. If Stella could cast a spell, Pearl thought, surely she’d have done better than to conjure herself a bookstore teetering on bankruptcy, their run-down two-bedroom ranch house, a string of loser boyfriends, and the thankless life of a single, working mother.
Tonight, Pearl had set the table. She’d filled a pitcher with filtered water and placed it on the table. Then she settled into a chair, opened her notebook.
Charlie moved with ease around the kitchen, as if he lived there. He seemed to know where things were without asking. Pearl doubted that even her mother would be so at home in their cabinets. She couldn’t even remember the last time Stella had cooked anything other than scrambled eggs and toast on Sundays when she was feeling jovial for any reason.
“What are you reading these days, Pearl?” Charlie asked, startling Pearl, who had drifted into thought.
On the stove, chicken sizzled in some kind of sauce, there was bread baking in the oven. A colorful salad sat tossed in a bowl she didn’t even know they had. Pearl’s stomach was rumbling; she hadn’t eaten all day.
“Jane Eyre,” she said.
None of the men her mother knew had ever asked such a thing.
“For school?”
“No. In school we’re reading The Giver.”
“Very different books,” he said, moving the chicken around the pan. “Any common themes?”
What a question. Something fired off in Pearl’s brain, the kind of joy she could only achieve when thinking about fiction—the words of others, or the stories that she herself wove, alone in her bed at night. Stories about herself, about who she could become, about the father she didn’t know, people she would meet and places she would go.
She thought about it, doodling in the notebook she had open in front of her. Classic literature versus modern dystopian young adult. She hadn’t considered making comparisons between the two. But there were similarities if you dug for them. She glanced up at Charlie, whose glasses were as thick as her own. Was he hiding behind those big frames, too?
“Both characters are asked to believe something about themselves that turns out not to be true,” she said.
He raised his eyebrows at her, smiled, ground some pepper into the pan. “Expound.”
She felt a strange thrill deep in her center. It was the thrill of being seen. Of inquiry.
“Jane is raised to believe that she’s worthless, a burden, less than the other members of the family,” she said. “And in The Giver, Jonas is raised in a society that has eliminated all the pain and strife of human history. Neither of them understands themselves until they’ve struck out on their own.”
Charlie nodded thoughtfully. There was a stillness to his face, an intensity to his gaze. She’d walked over and stood by the counter without realizing it.
“That’s a deep observation,” he said. “They’re both coming-of-age stories. Worlds apart, more than a century. And yet, the story of the young person breaking from the strictures of family and society to forge his or her own path is a timeless one. Why do you think that is?”
He dropped her gaze, moved with fluidity—whisking the bread from the oven, dressing the salad. It was as if he’d always been there.
“Because we all have to find our own way,” said Pearl.
“Exactly,” he said. “Society doesn’t always know what’s right. Our families tell us stories about ourselves that often aren’t true. Sometimes we have to follow our hearts.”
He handed her the salad bowl and she carried it to the table.
“Mom should be pulling in the driveway any minute,” he said.
Mom. Not your mom. Something intimate, possessive about the turn of phrase, wasn’t there? And so it was. The glow from the headlights slid across the back wall.
“Stella said you were smart,” said Charlie, handing her the warm basket of bread. “I wonder if she knows how smart. Sometimes we don’t see what’s right in front of us.”
Pearl didn’t know what to say, felt her cheeks go hot. This was not the kind of conversation she was used to having with anyone but her English teacher.
And then her mom was there, blustering about the store—so busy today!
“That coupon you ran, Charlie, amazing. And twenty-five people bought tickets for that open mic night. You’re a genius.”
“It was your idea, Stella,” he said. “I just nudged you to make it happen.”
She swept off her coat, dropped all her bags, gave Pearl a quick squeeze.
“And dinner!” she gushed. “Thank you.”
Stella kissed him on the cheek and Pearl watched his hand linger on the small of her back. And Pearl disappeared. When Stella was in the room, she filled it—with her beauty, with her scent, with the volume of her being.
Pearl didn’t mind. She liked the shadows. That’s where you got to see all the things that other people missed.
At the table, they ate the meal Charlie had prepared, and talked about Stella’s plan for surviving as a small brick-and-mortar bookseller. It was one of her high-energy nights, when she had Big Plans. She was going to build the newsletter list, the online sales, invite book groups to use the space if they bought the book at the store. She was going to attend the regional book fair, invite authors to visit. Charlie made all the right noises, nodding his head and encouraging with an enthusiastic “Yes!” or “That’s great, Stella!”
Stella was all smiles, touching Charlie’s hand, leaning her body toward his. After dinner, most nights, Pearl would go up to her room and finish her homework, read until she fell asleep. Charlie and her mother would disappear into Stella’s room. She wouldn’t hear another peep from them. He likely wouldn’t be there when she got up for school in the morning. But right now, as they all ate, she watched.
There was something different about Charlie. All the other men who’d shared this table were in Stella’s thrall, hanging on her every word, rapt by her—beauty? Was it beauty? No, it was more than that, something that radiated from inside, a kind of magnetism. But the energy between Charlie and Stella—it was like she was the dancer, and he was the approving observer.
“Tell us about school today, Pearl,” said Charlie.
Stella seemed surprised, as if she’d forgotten Pearl was there. Pearl was surprised, too.
“I dissected a frog in science class,” she said. “We removed its heart.”
They all looked down at their plates. “Really, Pearl?” said Stella, disgusted.
“Ah,” said Charlie. “Did you learn anything that surprised you?”
“Well,” said Pearl. “I wasn’t too enthusiastic about the lab. But it wasn’t as revolting as I thought. In fact, it was kind of fascinating. How things work under the skin. You don’t think about your organs too much, you know?”
Charlie’s grin was wide and knowing as Stella pushed away from the table. Pearl had been looking for a reaction and she got one. And Charlie saw it all.
“Well, there goes my appetite,” said Stella, rising.
“Sit down,” Charlie said.
Pearl startled a little, glanced at her mother. His voice was gentle, coaxing. But Stella did not like it when the attention of a conversation turned away from her. And she did not like to be told what to do—especially by any man. Would she rage? Would she storm off? Pearl braced herself for what came next.
“I think Pearl’s just trying to shock us,” said Charlie, still grinning. The energy in the room cooled.
Stella surprised Pearl by sitting back down, scooting her chair back toward the table. She gave Pearl a look—half amused, half annoyed. Pearl pushed the chicken around her plate.
“Sorry,” she said.
“I emptied the mousetrap in the store room today,” said Stella. “It was every bit as disgusting
as I imagined it would be. How’s that for shocking?”
Charlie put a hand on Stella’s. “You don’t have to do things like that, Stella,” he said. “I’m here now—to help.”
“Thank you, Charlie,” she said. Her voice was soft and sincere.
This one was definitely different.
Pearl helped Charlie clean the dishes while Stella went into the study to balance the books. As Pearl moved around the kitchen, she felt Charlie’s eyes on her.
“You’re a funny kid, Pearl,” he said, when she lifted her gaze to his. He tapped his temple. “Clever.”
Pearl had grown used to being invisible. She didn’t even know until that moment how nice it was to be seen.
SIX
Selena
Her house didn’t look like her house as she pulled into the drive and sat, car running. It was a shimmering facsimile, a pretty place that didn’t belong to her. It was exactly the kind of home she’d dreamed of as a girl—a big two-story, with expansive rooms, high ceilings, with shutters and shingles, big leafy shade trees, careful landscaping. She changed the perennials out every season, weeded meticulously in the summer, decorated elaborately for Halloween and Christmas. Her mother always said: Your home is the heart of your life. Her heart was broken. And her home, her life, would likely follow.
The boys’ lights were out; she could just make out the orange glow of their night-light through the drawn shades. She was sorry that she had missed kissing them good-night, but she was glad she didn’t have to put on a happy face.
Since her encounter on the train, she’d been buzzing—something about the stranger, her voice, her words. She wasn’t going to be able to sit with this. She couldn’t pretend, not for another day.
She killed the engine, leaving the car in the drive with enough room for Graham to get his car out. If she opened the garage door, she risked waking the boys and she didn’t want that.
Entering the warmth and light of the foyer, she dropped her bags by the door and walked down the hall to the kitchen and waited.
When Graham pushed in through the door, she could see that he’d showered. Of course. Washing away the scent of what he’d done. But he looked good, smelled good.
“Hey,” she said. “We need to talk.”
* * *
They met on a rainy evening in the East Village. She was on her way to a book party for a famous mixologist at a tiny venue near Avenue A. Selena, running late, jogged down the street under a helter-skelter umbrella that had twisted in the wind and was essentially useless, broke a heel and went tumbling to the sidewalk. The contents of her bag rolled onto the concrete, phone flying into the street with an unpleasant crack.
“Oh my god! Are you okay?”
She was more stunned than anything, though she’d scraped her knee pretty badly. A hunky guy with dark hair, a stylish bomber jacket over slim pants, chased after her phone, her lipstick, her wallet. He helped her to her feet. The umbrella was a tangled mess on the ground. The rain kept falling. They were both getting soaked.
“It’s okay,” she said with an embarrassed laugh. “I’m a klutz. I’m used to falling.”
She was clumsy, and always wearing some kind of impractical shoe. The city sidewalks conspired to take you down; she seemed always to be running late, was rarely mindful.
“You’re bleeding.”
“Ugh,” she said, looking down. “Gross.”
Blood ran down her calf, a single rivulet from her knee to her ankle. She dug a tissue out of her bag while they stood there in the drizzle. She could barely look at him, she was so embarrassed. He took it from her before she could stop him, bent down and wiped at her leg.
When he looked up at her and smiled—rakish and knowing—she was in love.
“I’m Graham,” he said.
“Selena.”
“Are we going to tell our kids about this night?” Graham asked when he rose, tossing the tissue in a nearby bin.
She almost started to cry; it had been an awful day—overslept, missed her train, fouled up royally at the office, earning a talking-to from the boss who already seemed perpetually underwhelmed by her performance. But it turned out to be the best day of her life. That day.
Poor Will. They were living together at the time. She broke up with Will before she started dating Graham; she wouldn’t even kiss him until she’d moved out into her own place. It was a politely painful split, where they tried to hold on to their friendship. Are you sure about this guy? Will had asked a few months later over coffee. More sure than I’ve been about anything. Which, looking back, was an insensitive thing to say to your ex.
A glorious courtship—dinner at Eleven Madison Park, zip-lining in Costa Rica, a surprise trip to Paris. A glittering diamond presented at Wollman Rink in Central Park. Big (stupidly big) wedding at her father’s country club, honeymoon in Hawaii, a new house. Picture perfect.
Are you sure about this guy?
The first time she caught Graham cheating—well, not really cheating as he saw it—he was sexting with an ex-girlfriend. Selena happened to see his phone, discovering the X-rated chain complete with dirty pictures. There was a screaming blowout. She went to stay with Beth in the city for a few weeks—this was before the kids. He begged her forgiveness. There was counseling.
Graham had issues with self-worth, and admitted an addiction to porn (this sext affair was really just an extension of that, wasn’t it), fear of intimacy—all this from the male therapist. They worked on it, moved on. Then there was Oliver. A babymoon period followed where they were in love with their child, their new life as parents.
Then, the boys’ weekend in Vegas. Strippers. A prostitute; the details even now were vague. She thought it was best to keep it that way. She didn’t need a visual; she already had sexting pictures seared into her imagination. Graham and their friend Brad got arrested in Vegas that weekend. She had to leave Oliver with her mother, fly there to bail them out. More counseling. The stress of new fatherhood, this time, according to the therapist, who was frankly starting to sound like an apologist. Poor Graham was struggling with the responsibility, the crushing effort of working and parenting and being a husband. God, it was just all so hard. More counseling.
“Think of him as an addict,” said her new therapist in one of Selena’s individual sessions. This doctor had fewer excuses for Graham. “His behavior is something outside of you that you don’t control and can’t fix. Don’t hang your worthiness on his failings. But now you have to decide where your boundaries are, what you will and will not tolerate. Every marriage is a negotiation. Both parties have to obey the terms.”
After Stephen, Graham changed, or really seemed to. Stephen was his soul mate. Something about that child’s arrival caused Graham to calm down completely. Graham plugged in to their family, focused on work with a new zeal, weekends he was home. There were no more boys’ nights—it helped that his two most corrupting friends had both settled down.
There was a night when both boys were down, and they stood together over Stephen and watched him sleep.
“Thank you,” he’d whispered to her. “Thank you for waiting for me to become a better man. I’ll never let you down again. I swear to god.”
She believed him. She had to, wanted to. She loved him so much—wild, deep, mad love, even when she hated him, wanted to kill him, railed against his stupidity and selfishness. There was something raw and primal beneath it. He was hers. And she was his. A fiery, blind devotion.
That’s what she thought.
Now this.
It hurt even worse because she had believed in him, in them.
“I saw her on top of you, Graham. In the boys’ playroom.” No point in beating around the bush.
The look on his face. It was almost comical. It shifted from stunned, to a practiced look of innocence, then to despair.
“The nanny?” she went on
into the leaden silence. “Really, Graham?”
She didn’t want to cry; she promised herself she wouldn’t. She needed a steel resolve for what would come next. But she did cry, a tear trailing down her face.
He started stammering. “I—It-it-it was a mistake, a moment, it just happened,” he said. “I’ve been—depressed, I think. You know with losing my job and everything. She came on to me and I just—reacted.”
Really? He was going to make it sound as if Geneva came on to him? What a sad play. She truly couldn’t see it.
“Twice,” she said quietly. “I saw you do it twice.”
He got up and started moving toward her. She walked away, putting the kitchen island between them. The weird thing was that there was a part of her that wanted him to take her in his arms, to comfort her. She wanted to believe that he loved her, in spite of his flagrant infidelity. If she could take a pill to make herself unsee what she had seen, to make it all go away, she would have.
Wouldn’t it be nice if your problems just went away?
But problems don’t go away, not by themselves. When things are wrong, you have to fix them with your own mind and spirit.
“Don’t come any closer to me, Graham,” she said, her voice tight. “Just leave. I need time to think things through.”
“Selena.”
She moved a few steps back, and he kept coming toward her.
“Baby,” he said, his voice buttery soft. She saw the sadness, the desperation on his face. She’d seen it before. There were always big soulful eyes, heartfelt begging; she’d forgiven too many times.
“Please,” he said. “Listen.”
She tried for cool, but her voice just sounded small and sad.
“I can’t imagine what you think you might say this time.”
He wasn’t listening, though; he just kept moving closer until she was backed into the corner, no place else to go.
She didn’t like that feeling, of not having any options. Anger flared. Fear.
And she didn’t like the look on his face. She’d seen it before, when fights got ugly. He’d never hit her, but his rage could be frightening. And she knew, maybe she was the only one who knew, what he was capable of when he was angry.