“I’m not asking you to.”
“All of this—all of it’s for Nick.”
“But is this what he’d want? Jerry in prison?”
Jack picks up the huge bone in his mouth, walks across the couch, and with a wagging tail offers it to Katie.
“I don’t know. I thought I did, but now?” Katie says, pushing the bone away. “Now I don’t know what Nick would want. Sometimes I feel like I never even knew him. I tried, but—” Donna’s words coming back now: obsessed, fanatical. “You were right, Dana. I didn’t want to get it, but I do now.”
“What, honey?”
“Looking at everyone else to figure out my own life,” she says, shaking her head. “And when I met Nick, he was so quiet, so unwilling to share himself with me—I went into overdrive, I guess. I thought if I kept my eyes open, I would understand him. I would understand myself.”
“And now?”
Katie draws her knees up to her chest, testing the words that are so new. “Now . . . now I can’t stop thinking about how I’ve always kept the biggest parts of what I was thinking, what I was feeling, to myself. Except with Nick,” Katie says, and looks at her sister. “Even with you, Dana, even you I didn’t tell everything. Big things.”
“I know.”
“And it wasn’t just to understand myself, looking all the time, keeping to myself—it was wanting people to . . . I don’t know, maybe trust me? Like me? Because—because I listen. I’m easy to be around, because I listen and I don’t make many demands, right? Maybe I’m not as much fun as you, not as friendly or pretty, but I think . . . I’m beginning to think,” she says, “if I didn’t ask too much, I wouldn’t give anyone a reason to walk away. Because no one ever seemed to like me as much as you, I wasn’t like you.”
“You never had to be like me. You only needed to be yourself. That’s all you need now.”
“But I don’t even know who I am anymore. I don’t know what my life’s supposed to be.”
Dana puts her arm around Katie. “Who you are, and what you do, is up to you, Katie,” she says gently. “People will love you for the person inside, the person I see and love right now. That’s what we were trying to say. You can have any life you choose, but you have to choose it for yourself.”
“For such a long time, Nick was my life.”
“I know that,” Dana says.
“I was so afraid of losing him, I couldn’t see anything else.”
“I know that, too.”
Jack wiggles his nose in between them, whines softly. They make space for him, and he lies down, his front paws in Katie’s lap.
Katie pats him absently, turns to her sister. “I don’t know what to do.” “You’ll know,” Dana says. “By the time you get up tomorrow, you’ll know.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because you’ll have to,” her sister says. “It’s up to you now. Despite what Richard throws at you tomorrow, the way you answer and the choices you’ll make up there will be up to you. Only you.”
Hours after Katie has left Dana on the couch with Jack, she’s still staring at the ceiling in her darkened bedroom. Thinking of choices, trying to make sense of what happened today, what will happen tomorrow. And then: what happened before there was a trial and secrets and lawyers talking behind closed doors.
Always this, no matter what the day brings—every moment always leading right back to Nick. When he was still hers, before it all started to fall apart with him. That moment in time when her own decisions and actions determined her future, her present: lying in bed alone, splicing together her story with Nick, wishing she could hit the rewind button and edit out the moments that led to the final scene with Nick in their home.
I want you to leave, she’d told him that night. After everything, after some of the answers she had waited for were finally revealed, that’s what she said. Just go.
4
—Who dat? Jerry asked her, and Katie turned around in the booth at Dunkin’ Donuts, saw the woman standing beside Nick at the counter. She was digging into her purse, shaking her head and laughing ruefully.
The woman wasn’t beautiful, at least not in the traditional sense. She was one of those women who had odd, crooked features—high forehead, with a beaky nose and eyes too far apart—but the way it all came together was startling.
—Pretty, Jerry said.
She thought absently of the first time Jerry used that word—Pity—and while she should have praised his careful pronunciation, instead Katie watched Nick whisper something to the woman; she looked up and nodded cautiously, put her purse on the counter.
—One more, Nick called out to the girl making his coffee, and the woman tilted her head at him, a little coyly now.
—Nick knows her? Jerry asked, his blue eyes wide, his mouth rimmed with powdered sugar. A glob of raspberry jelly trailed down his shirt.
—He’s just being friendly, Katie told him. She handed Jerry a napkin before turning back.
The woman accepted the coffee, and Katie waited for Nick to return to the booth to explain. Instead, he stepped in front of the woman, pushed open the door for her.
—Thanks so much, she said to Nick in a loud, cheerful voice, ducking under his arm.
Nick watched her leave, his arm still holding the door open. He turned toward Katie and Jerry, who stared back at him. He shrugged at them, walked over.
—She forgot her wallet, he said, and scooted in beside Jerry, who moved closer to the wall, eyes on Katie.
In the car on the way to her parents’ house, Nick filled the silence with questions about her new documentary, about the elderly couple she’d met a few months ago at Chili’s, where she and Dana had a quick lunch between Dana’s sessions. Something about the way the man and woman had treated each other during the meal—simple gestures, the woman offering a french fry to her husband with a sweet smile, the man pushing his wife’s dish closer to her—had captured Katie’s attention as she ate her sandwich and pretended to listen to Dana. After her sister had pulled out of the parking lot, Katie found herself walking back into the restaurant, standing in front of their table. Suddenly too embarrassed to talk. They looked up at her, faces open and curious, and after Katie managed to say something—I noticed how happy you looked—they invited her to join them. Sit, sit, the man had said, and raised his hand to the seat beside his wife. There is always room for one more.
—Holocaust survivors, Nick said.—That’s a tough one.
Katie didn’t reply. She was watching Jerry in the visor mirror now, sitting in the backseat and staring at the back of Nick’s head. Lips mumbling.
—You know her? Jerry blurted out, and Nick adjusted the rearview mirror to look at Jerry.
—You okay, buddy? he asked.
—You buy her coffee. An accusation.
—I told you, Jer, she forgot her wallet. I was being nice.
Nick turned to Katie for help, saw her watching him, too.
—Shit, he muttered, and turned the mirror back.
No one mentioned Katie’s failure to get pregnant anymore. Only Jerry, who watched Nick tirelessly, who started asking his questions again. Nick okay? Jerry would say, as if he were responsible for taking care of Nick instead of the other way around. He mad about no baby? And other questions, ones that recurred too often now. Nick knows dat lady? Why is he talk to her?
At The Inn, where they went for dinner with Katie’s parents one Friday night, Jerry put his fork down every time the young waitress approached the table and bantered with Nick. And the weekend after, when they went for doughboys at Iggy’s in Oakland Beach, Jerry was by Katie’s side, pointing to Nick by the jungle gym on the beach, chatting with a young mother who bounced her son on one hip. Nick knows her?
Katie, who couldn’t keep her eyes off Nick either, who found herself compulsively tracking his movements, too, started asking questions back.
—Why? Did he say something to you?
It was almost a year and a half since the do
ctor had told them everything was okay physically—over two years since they’d begun trying. And while Nick still told her he hadn’t given up the idea of starting a family, there was a palpable presence in their bedroom at night, especially when they moved into each other’s arms. She was used to the quiet ways he moved around her in the dark, how he reached for her without words, but now it felt loaded down with something bigger. Disappointment? Blame? Or was Jerry onto something? Was there another woman in Nick’s life, or the possibility of another woman?
Sometimes she felt this presence outside their bedroom, too, when Nick caught her staring—in the seconds it took for him to turn away from her, that look on his face she couldn’t interpret.
—He come back, Jerry said one weekend, after they had dropped Nick off at T. F. Green Airport for a conference.—He come back in time for turkey.
—That’s right. He’ll be back next weekend, and then we’ll all have a big Thanksgiving dinner at my parents’.
They had watched his plane take off, Jerry waving with both hands.
—He go by himself, Jerry said.—He alone.
—Of course.
Katie steered the car onto Post Road, pictured Nick miles above them, jetting through the clouds.
Maybe the break would be good for them, she thought. Maybe it’s all they needed.
But then she pictured Nick, sitting in his seat by the window, watching the earth disappear below him. Wondering what he was thinking about, how he felt as the miles opened up between them. And then, before Katie could stop herself: She saw the woman dozing lightly in the seat beside him. And then Nick, pulling up the armrest between them, gently shaking the woman’s shoulder. His smiling offer. She saw the woman’s sleepy surprise, her answering smile. She saw this woman lean across the space separating them to rest her head against Nick’s chest.
She was standing at the counter, chopping broccoli for a stir-fry, respecting Nick’s moody silence. He sat at the kitchen table, drinking a Heineken, one arm draped over the back of his chair, legs stretched out long. She knew that Nick was frustrated with a new client at work, a boy named Joey who could barely communicate. For weeks now it was the same thing when he returned from work: eyeing her briefly before going upstairs to change clothes, sitting around listlessly, snapping at her. She hadn’t learned very much about Joey from Nick, didn’t prod him into talking about it either; instead, she roamed around the Warwick Center, waiting for the employees to fill her in.
Jerry helped him today, this new kid, Joey, Billy said last week. Knew Joey just needed to take a leak—oops, ’scuse me, lady. I mean, use the bathroom. But Nick is having trouble with him. All the grunting and whatnot, Billy said, stroking his beard.
Katie turned away from the cutting board, watched Nick, who kept his eyes fixed on the green bottle as he took another swig.
—Stop it, Nick said.
—What?
—Just stop, he said, voice fat with disdain.
The look on his face frightened Katie.
—You’re not hungry?
—Forget it, he said, pushing away from the table. His eyes sliding up and down her body.
She watched him stalk off toward the living room, shoulders squared.
—Stop, he said, not bothering to turn back.
—What are you doing out here? Katie said.
Nick was sitting on the floor of the shed, a wrench in one hand, parts of their lawn mower scattered around him like puzzle pieces. It was mild for February, though not so mild that his T-shirt could be enough to keep him warm. Nick splayed his empty hand at the parts: isn’t it obvious?
—I thought you might be cold, she said, handing him his favorite sweatshirt.
—Thanks.
He dropped the sweatshirt by his side, picked up a small motor, turned it in his hand. There were grease marks on his fingers, a streak on his neck. Lately anything in their home that could be taken apart and examined ended up like this: in pieces, with Nick turning them around in his hand, a baffled look on his face.
—We’re going to my parents’, she said.—We were thinking of watching a movie after dinner. Trying to make it sound fun, inviting.
—Have a good time.
—Want to come along?
—Nope.
Dismissed, again. Ever since he had to call his mother, because Katie needed more film and bulbs for her flatbed—but it was before that, wasn’t it?
I want this documentary to be perfect, she had said. This is the one, I know it.
You’ve said that before.
But if you could meet Sarah and Arthur, see how much they love each other, in spite of what they’ve been through, the way they treat each other—
Fine, he said, stopping her rush of words. The look on his face this time easy to interpret. Scorn.
Nick put the motor on the floor, wiped his hands on the sweatshirt.
These recent projects, Dana had told her, were simply Nick’s way of trying to fix things, probably the result of his inability to “fix” Joey, who could barely form basic words to communicate. The Warwick Center staff confirmed Dana’s suspicions.
Nick doesn’t seem fazed, but things aren’t going so great, Veronica said last week. Still. And Jan Evers, who believed that anything could be fixed with love and harmony and a good long talk, had to agree. Nothing Nick tries is working. Though you couldn’t tell by looking at him.
If they saw him now, eyeing the spare parts of their lawn mower, they might change their minds.
And if they saw the way he looked at other women all the time now, Katie thought, the whole picture might come into sharper focus. How his failure with Joey, and her failure to give him a child, has led to this—sitting in the shed in a T-shirt, too proud to admit that he was cold.
—Anything else? Nick said irritably, waiting for Katie to leave. She hadn’t realized she was staring.
She followed the streak of oil on his neck to the dark spot on the collar of his shirt.—No.
At dinner they listened to Katie’s father speculating about the new neighbor next door, a strange, quiet woman who barely came out of her house. How he was positive he saw her on America’s Most Wanted the week before.
—Robbed a bank in full daylight, he told them. He crooked an eyebrow at Katie and Dana.—Still at large.
Her mother wagged her head at him.—Jimmy, that girl had long blond hair and was at least two hundred pounds.
—Haircut and a dye job, he said, ignoring his wife and looking suggestively at Michael and Jerry now.—And a fat suit. You can buy those at costume shops, you know.
Jerry had giggled, turned to Katie.
—Don’t listen to him, Jer, Katie had said, and Jerry giggled again, twirled one finger in a circle at his head.
After dinner Katie scooped up the damp patches of crumbs at the corners of the table: wiped by Jerry, who had left long wet streaks over the entire expanse. Katie pulled them into her palm, ignoring her mother’s impatient sighs on the phone. She was calling Nick, who was missing Sunday dinner for the fourth week in a row.
—At least he can stop by for coffee and dessert, her mother said, cupping the mouthpiece.
—I don’t think he’s there, Mom.
It was the second time her mother had tried to get in touch with him, and somewhere between the cleaning of the table and the talk of coffee and dessert, Dana had escaped to the back porch to smoke, Michael tagging along with her.
—Nick? It’s Mom. Are you there? Hello. Hello? She glared at Katie like it was her fault.—What in the world is more important than manicotti and my homemade tiramisu?
Either Nick was ignoring her mother’s call, Katie thought, or he wasn’t home. Again.
—He’s been spending some of his free time doing research on cerebral palsy, Katie said, wishing she believed her own explanation.
—He’s having some trouble with a client.
—He works too hard, her mother said, raising her eyebrows meaningfully at Katie.
T
he implication was clear. Katie didn’t work hard enough, never had. She spent too much money on her “films” and then abandoned them halfway through, the same way she abandoned her degree, which was useless in the first place.
In the kitchen her father and Jerry prepared the dessert and coffee. Katie turned away to listen to Jerry’s giggling; her father probably had his notebook out, tallying up Jerry’s bill for the day. A few minutes later, the back door opened, and Dana walked into the dining room, smelling like smoke and fruit spray. Their mother eyed them both, apparently dissatisfied with their company, and picked up the phone again.
—You smell like a watermelon ashtray, Dana, she said.
Dana rolled her eyes at Katie.—She’s calling Nick again?
—I can hear you, I’m not in another room.
With a small nod of her head, Dana signaled Katie to follow her. They walked through the kitchen to the back door, found Michael, Jerry, and Katie’s father sitting on stools at the island, the small notebook in between them.
—Coffee’s almost done, girls! her father called to them.
—Kay-tee, Jerry said, grinning and pointing to her father.—He say I own him two million dollars!
Katie’s father winked at her.—Oh, wait a sec here! he said, his finger running down the page.—I forgot to add a cup of coffee. That’s two million dollars and sixty-five cents. Hand me that pen, will you, Michael?
Out on the back porch, Dana lit another cigarette.—Where do you think he is?
—I don’t know. Katie left the back door open a few inches so she could listen to the happy sounds of her father’s teasing, to Jerry and Michael’s silly laughter.—Wherever he goes these days.
—Be patient, Katie. He’ll feel better when he makes some headway with Joey.
—I think it’s more than that this time, Katie said.—It’s like I’m not even there anymore. He walks around the house ignoring me most of the time, and on the weekends he’s barely talking to Jerry either. And I know Jerry doesn’t understand what’s going on, and his feelings are hurt.
Lies of the Heart Page 32
