Richie’s mom stops in the living room on her way to the kitchen. She smiles down at us. “You kids having fun in here?”
“Yeah, we are.” Richie sits completely still in a chair, a kitchen towel draped over his shoulders like a barber’s cape, as Josie and I pretend that our fingers are scissors. We’re so busy “cutting” his hair, we barely glance at her.
“That’s good,” she murmurs. She sighs. “Oh, to be young and careless again. You kids don’t know how nice you have it.”
She strolls into the kitchen by herself. She opens a bottle of wine and refills her glass all the way to the top. Then she cracks open the side door leading to the patio, lights a cigarette, and leans against the doorway, clearly enjoying her moment alone.
But only for a moment. As she’s standing there, watching the conversation in the dining room, her body stiffens. She leans forward just a little bit. Her eyes narrow. I follow her gaze and am immediately thankful that what’s going on under the table is out of the line of vision for my much younger self.
Mrs. Wilson is staring at a spot beneath the table: it’s my father’s feet. My mother is so skinny that she can sit with her legs crisscrossed in her chair, lotus style, so her feet don’t even touch the floor. But Josie’s mom has slid her feet right next to my father’s. Under the table, she’s using her toes to rub his calf.
Right there in the dining room. Anyone could glance under the table and see what was happening: my mother, Josie’s dad, anyone in the room. And I’m certain that Richie’s mom notices. She takes a long sip of her wine and continues to puff on her cigarette, but she isn’t smiling anymore, and she doesn’t look at all relaxed.
My father keeps telling his story like nothing’s going on at all. Only once, just for a moment, does his gaze flicker to Josie’s mom. He flashes her a brief, knowing smile. Just for a second. But it’s enough. I feel sick with understanding. All the rumors are true.
When my mom gets up to go into the kitchen, Josie’s mom pulls her feet away from my dad’s and tucks them underneath her chair. She hands her empty wineglass to my mom. “Lisa? Do you mind getting me a refill?”
“Sure thing.” My mom takes Nicole’s glass into the kitchen, along with her own.
“All right,” she says to Richie’s mom, “give me one of those cigarettes.” She lights it quickly, takes a long, dramatic inhale. “Ahhh. That’s the stuff.” She’s careful to blow the smoke out the cracked door, fanning the air with her free hand. “I don’t know why Marshall gets so uptight about me smoking,” she says. “He’s got his precious cigars, and I don’t hassle him about those.”
“Speaking of Marshall,” Richie’s mom says, taking another gulp of wine, “how are you two doing?”
“Oh, you know. Fine, I guess. Why?”
“No reason. Nicole’s up to her old tricks, that’s all.”
My mom closes her eyes. She takes another drag from her cigarette. “Is that so?”
“I’m sorry, Lisa. She’s got some goddamned nerve, though, playing footsie with him right under your nose—”
“They’re playing footsie?” my mom whispers.
Richie’s mom nods. “You should do something. Get your claws out. He’s your husband.”
My mom stares at the floor. “That bitch.”
“Why did you invite her? Why not stop spending time with them altogether? She’s got her own marriage. She and Marshall dated for three years in high school, they broke up, he married you. End of story. If she wanted him so badly, she should have held on to him when she had the chance.”
“Oh … I don’t know. I almost feel like she can’t help it. She gets drunk and then it’s like she thinks it’s okay to flirt.” My mom glances over her shoulder, into the dining room. “Marshall would never do anything to hurt us. He’s a good man.”
“If you say so.” Richie’s mom flicks her cigarette into the yard. “But I’ll tell you, Lisa …” Her stern expression fades. “I just want you to be happy. You look too thin. You’re obviously stressed. You don’t need someone flirting with your husband on top of everything else you’re going through.”
My mom flashes a weak smile. “It’s only flirting. He’s mine. And I was just at the doctor last week. I’m up almost two pounds!”
Richie’s mom seems uncertain how to take the comment. “Is that a good thing, to you?”
My mom’s smile wavers. “Yes.” And she picks up a bottle of wine, heading back to the dining room. “Come on, now. Let’s go play nice.”
I’ve spent a lot of time at home since Alex left. My dad is rarely here—usually he’s at the boat—and Nicole stays busy volunteering at the Spiritualist Church, doing whatever it is she does. Reading auras. Participating in séances. Keeping tabs on other women’s husbands, just in case one of their wives might happen to die.
Like I’ve said before, the matter of Josie’s paternity was never talked about in our house, even though I realize now it was always present, just beneath the surface. I was so young when I lost my mother, and I have always loved Josie. Nicole was never anything but kind to me. I might have grown up hearing rumors that she and my father had an affair, but I thought I knew better; I thought it was impossible. I never believed my father was capable of cheating on my mother.
Obviously, though, he was.
Seeing Nicole rubbing my father’s foot under the table at the dinner party, right under my mother’s nose, was sickening. Especially now that I know what stress can do to somebody who is already prone to an eating disorder. After all, when I became consumed with guilt over Alex’s death, I stopped eating and threw myself into running. Everybody assumed I was just taking after my poor dead mother. Nobody put two and two together. If they had, everything might be different now. Well, not everything—Alex would still be dead. And it would still be all my fault.
With Alex gone, I feel desperate to find some closure to my wandering in this town. I keep expecting him to reappear, to offer a snarky comment about me or my friends, but after several days spent alone, watching, drifting in and out of memories from my childhood, it becomes clear that he’s not coming back. Wherever he is, I hope it’s beautiful. I hope it’s peaceful. I hope it’s kind.
It is a sunny afternoon. Josie and Nicole are in the kitchen, making egg frittatas. With real eggs. Even as a ghost, I cringe. The fat content (seven grams). The calorie count (seventy calories per egg). I don’t think I’d eaten a whole egg since I was ten years old. Some things we learn from our parents simply become ingrained within us. My mother—my real mother—was horrified by fat. And so was I. Even before I killed Alex. There was a problem; I see it now. Nine-year-olds should not be counting fat grams. Nine-year-olds should be able to eat eggs. They should be allowed to like peanut butter.
Nicole gives her daughter a furtive smile. “This is nice. We haven’t relaxed like this since … well, in ages.” She winks. “Do you want a mimosa?”
“Mom!” Josie’s cheeks flush. “Dad will be pissed.”
“Dad isn’t here, is he?” Nicole opens the fridge, removes a carton of orange juice. She’s popping a bottle of Moet when—as if on cue—my father walks in the front door.
“Shit!” Nicole murmurs. But she’s giggling. The champagne bubbles over the side of the bottle, making puddles on the floor. She mixes two mimosas in champagne glasses (heavy on the champagne, light on the orange juice) and turns her attention back to the frittata, sipping her drink, pretending not to notice when my father shuffles into the kitchen.
He’s wearing a button-down flannel shirt and gray sweatpants. His beard is thick and bushy enough for a family of squirrels to take up residence inside. He hasn’t bothered with his contacts in months, not since I died, so he’s wearing his glasses instead. He stands in the doorway to the kitchen, watching as my seventeen-year-old stepsister sips her mimosa and flicks through a copy of Self magazine.
Nicole has her back to my father. She sways lightly back and forth at the stove, her flowing, white cotton skirt swishing around
her ankles. Her bare feet are smooth and tanned. She’s wearing no fewer than three toe rings, and her toenails are bright blue. It’s a ridiculous color for a grown woman.
“What are we cooking?” My father, I can tell, is making an attempt at normalcy. It’s not working so great. He looks like he hasn’t showered in days, if not weeks. He doesn’t look like he should even be in the same house as Nicole and Josie, let alone the same room.
“A frittata.” Nicole looks over her shoulder and smiles at him. “You should have some, honey. You’ve lost too much weight.”
“Josie.” My father’s attention snaps to my stepsister. “What are you drinking?”
“It’s just a mimosa.” She takes a gulp. “There’s almost no alcohol.”
“I don’t care. Throw it out.”
“Marshall—” Nicole begins to protest, but before she can get a sentence out, my dad swoops toward Josie, picks up the glass, and tosses it into the sink.
When I say “tosses it into the sink,” I don’t mean that he dumps out the mimosa and places the glass gently aside. I mean he tosses the whole glass. Actually, he kind of throws it. The champagne flute shatters. A thick, angry silence permeates the entire room.
Finally, Nicole says, “I don’t know what you did that for. It was one drink. It’s not like I’m getting her plastered.”
“In case you’ve forgotten,” my dad says, his tone conversational but sarcastic, “just a few months ago, we agreed it was no big deal to allow a boat full of teenagers to have a few drinks to celebrate Elizabeth’s birthday. And that didn’t end so well.”
Nicole stares at the floor. Josie pretends to study her magazine. The frittata begins to burn.
“Marshall.” Nicole’s voice is barely above a whisper. She starts to gather pieces of broken glass from the sink. “Things have to go back to normal sometime. We’ve talked about this. You have to work. We have to be a family. You can’t sit on that boat, day after day, staring at the water—”
“I’m selling the house,” my father announces.
Nicole’s fingers slip. A shard of glass cuts deep into her index finger. Blood appears, bright and fast, dripping into the sink.
“Mom, are you okay?” Josie rushes toward Nicole to help her. She shoots a glare at my dad.
“I’ve already talked to a real estate agent. She’ll be here later this afternoon to put up a sign.”
“You’re selling the house?” Nicole retorts, her finger wrapped in a paper towel. “Were you planning on discussing this with me? What about Josie? What about school? It’s her senior year.”
“Josie can finish out the school year. Then she’ll be in college.”
Nicole—whose glass is still intact, still almost full—finishes her drink in one long gulp.
Then she throws it into the sink. Throws. It breaks, just like Josie’s.
“Where are we going to live, Marshall? What are we going to do?”
My dad removes his glasses. Beneath the frames, his eyes are shockingly tired: deep, dark circles; heavy lids; no shine at all to his once sparkly gaze.
He rubs his eyes. “I don’t know. I don’t know what will happen to you and me, Nicole. I just know I can’t live in this house anymore.”
“That’s just great.” Nicole begins to cry. “Josie, go to your room.”
“But Mom—”
“Go!”
Josie scurries down the hall and up the stairs, but she stops on the landing and sits quietly at the top of the steps, listening.
“I have done everything in my power to make you happy. I’m every bit as heartbroken as you are about Liz. You know that. Marshall, she was like a daughter to me. I loved her. I would do anything to bring her back.”
“It isn’t about that.” My dad shakes his head. He crosses the room to Nicole, holds her injured hand in his own, applying pressure to the paper towel, where a bright spot of red is appearing against the white as it bleeds through. “Lately I’ve been feeling like this has all been a mistake.”
Nicole breathes a sharp inhale. “What do you mean?”
“I mean all of it. You. Me. This family we’ve tried to create. It feels … it feels like some kind of Greek tragedy. I feel like we’re being punished.”
“We fell in love. We didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Do you know what this whole town is saying?” my dad asks. “What they’ve been saying for years? The Wilsons will barely look at us. If they were ever home, they would never have let Richie get within ten feet of Liz or Josie.”
“I love you.” Nicole looks desperately at my father. “You’re the love of my life.”
“I know.” He pauses. “I know you think that.”
She rests her head on his shoulder. She sobs quietly.
“I’m sorry,” my dad says. “I don’t think I can do it anymore. It’s killing me, Nicole. Can you understand? Can’t you see? It’s killing me.”
With Alex gone, I’ve found that the memories come more quickly, with less warning. It’s like they’re gaining momentum somehow. One minute I’m standing in my parents’ kitchen, watching my dad and Nicole’s marriage fall apart, and the next moment I’m standing in the kitchen at age seventeen, very much alive, picking at a bowl full of plain brown rice while the rest of my family stuffs their faces with Chinese takeout.
I stand up, pushing the bowl away. “I think I’ll go for a run.”
My dad and Nicole look at me, surprised. Josie continues to eat. I realize that I’m watching us shortly after Alex died, just when I started to go downhill. The guilt was already making me sick.
“It’s nearly seven o’clock. It’s dark,” my dad says.
“I’ll wear my reflective gear. You know I run at night sometimes.”
“Yes, but Liz, you ran this morning before school. You ran after school for cross-country. Why do you need to go again?” My father’s gaze drifts down my body. “You aren’t trying to lose weight, are you? Because you don’t need to. You’re thin as a rail.”
Josie pauses in midchew. She swallows. She still doesn’t look up from her food.
“That isn’t it. I’m just stressed. I won’t be too long. See you soon, okay?” And I’m off, hurrying upstairs to change into my running clothes. As I watch myself heading down the hallway, I hear Nicole say, “She’s probably going to meet Richie somewhere, Marshall. Don’t worry about it.”
My dad’s voice is laced with concern. “If she wanted to meet Richie, she could go meet him. She wouldn’t have to hide it from us. I think maybe she should see a counselor.”
Knowing what I know now—the truth about why I was going running so much—I feel almost angry at my dad, at Nicole. Why didn’t they make me see a counselor? Why didn’t anyone try to help me?
Well—that’s not entirely true. In his own way, my dad did try to help. It’s just that I refused to be helped. I wanted to suffer. I wanted to be punished for what I did to Alex. I understand that now.
I’ve got a reflective vest that I’m supposed to wear anytime I run at dusk or later—or even during the day, if I’m running alongside the road—but as soon as I leave the house, I take it off and leave it beside the front porch. I can guess now what I was thinking. Who cares if someone hits me? It would be karma, right?
First I run through town, weaving in and out of the streets lined with gorgeous old houses. Then I make my way down the beach, all the way to the tip of the shoreline, turning around to run back down the road, crossing the tiny bridge and making the right that begins the five-mile trek into Mystic. As usual, I feel pained that I can’t follow by actually running alongside the memory of myself; I can only watch it unfold like a vivid dream as my feet throb in their boots. If I go the whole way to Mystic and back, it’ll be past nine p.m. by the time I get home. I’ll have run over ten miles today, which is a lot, probably too much. It’s obvious that I don’t care.
I’m about a third of the way into Mystic when a car approaches behind me, slows to a crawl, and finally comes to a stop
. The driver winds down his passenger-side window.
“Liz,” he says, keeping his voice low. “Liz Valchar. Get your butt in the car.”
It’s Mr. Riley.
But I don’t stop. Clearly I don’t want to. The thing about running is that it empties your head. I don’t want to think about anything—not all the signs I’ll pass in Mystic, posters of Alex Berg offering a reward for any information leading to the arrest of whoever killed him. Not the fact that even Richie—who I am closer to in this world than anyone—doesn’t know what happened, and never can. I don’t want to think about whether or not what I’ve done makes me a murderer. I don’t want to think, period.
So I just shake my head at Mr. Riley and keep running. He lets his car roll along beside me, following, the window still down.
“Where are your reflectors? Are you trying to get yourself killed? Did you run this morning, too? What are you doing, Liz?”
“Leave me alone.” Still running, I glance over at him. He continues to follow me.
“What are you doing out here, anyway?” I ask.
“Trying to get Hope to fall asleep. And if you don’t get in, I’ll have to yell at you, and it’ll wake her up.” He smiles. “You want that on your conscience?”
Watching us together, the irony of his joke makes me feel a little bit sick to my stomach. But I’ve known him for years. He’s persistent; it’s one of the things that makes him a great coach. And since I’m not wearing anything reflective, there’s no way he’ll let me keep running out here in the dark. I understand all of that. So I get in.
For a brief moment, Hope stirs in her car seat. Then, before she even cracks her eyes open to see what the noise is about, she’s asleep again.
“So … you’re just driving around with your baby?” I ask.
He half smiles. “If you were a parent, you’d understand. Kids—well, babies—you put them in motion, they’re out cold in like ten seconds. But otherwise, she doesn’t sleep well. My wife is about to lose her mind. Hope is up at all hours of the night and then she’s awake almost all day. I’m doing my best to help. But then I find you out here. What are you thinking? I could barely see you. You know better than to go running at night like that.”
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