by Deb Caletti
Just wanted to say I love you. Have fun tonight. I’ll miss you.
Sweet, right? It’s sweet. So why is she feeling the increasing need to flee? The more Henry worries she’s about to leave him, the more he presses. And the more he presses, the more that she’s about to leave him.
She hurries across the library lot, which is dark except for a few circles of streetlight. She has a flash of memory: walking across her high school parking lot on a night like this, a night under this same winter sky. There was the slam of car doors, and Joe’s fingers in hers as they ran to the doors in their fancy clothes, and just ahead, in the gym, the sound of a band playing. Joe was laughing and joking, and the boutonniere Isabelle had just pinned on was hanging there by good fortune, but she did not feel good and excited about the dancing and kissing and fun to come. She felt guilty and bad. She felt sorry. When they left, she saw her mother alone in the window, watching them go.
The padded envelope is hidden in Isabelle’s bag. She wants to open it here. She runs up the library stairs. Inside, the library is beautiful, with large windows and warm wood, and a domed ceiling with the sky painted on it. She looks up at the blue sphere with the puffy white clouds and, for the first time ever, notices a tiny black bird with spread, soaring wings.
Why the library? She feels safe here. She always has. It’s a place of both escape and order, a sanctuary, her church. There are answers here, too, and quiet, sheltering corners, places to hide. She ducks past the desk to a tiny carrel in the back. It’s next to natural sciences—dinosaurs and volcanoes—where only nine-year-olds doing school reports go. The nine-year-olds are all home having dinner, so there’s no one there.
She slides the package out of her purse, same as a spy with state secrets. She has not opened it yet because the house felt too exposed, and so did her car, and so did anywhere else she could think of but the library.
Her heart is throbbing. Her stomach hurts. She’s afraid of what she might find, but she knows she has to look. There’s a trash can right there. If it’s horrible, she can make a mad dash, shove the contents inside, and go back to seeing only what she wants to see.
All right already! Just fucking do it, Maggie says.
Isabelle rips it open. She reaches her hand down.
Photographs. She peeks. Nothing horrible, no dead bodies, no bleeding wounds or Henry wielding a knife. It’s a place. Some outside place. It’s beautiful, actually.
There’s a stretch of purple wildflowers on a high, high hill. No, a mountain, because now look. There’s a whole rocky ridge below.
There’s a trail.
Oh, God.
Isabelle’s heart plummets—it drops so suddenly, she’s a diver who’s gone too deep, too fast. Her lungs squeeze. She can’t breathe, because she knows what this is. She knows where this is. There is no note, no anything else, but she doesn’t need one. This is that trail. Virginia’s trail.
The photos look recent. At least, they don’t have the yellow haze of age. There’s also a satellite image, something from Google Maps, an overview. There is a close-up of the ground itself, and of a lookout point, with hills that form a W in the background. The lookout point. She knows it is. Of course it is. The spot.
What strikes her—this isn’t what she imagined. Not at all. Skyfall Ridge—you envision a narrow and winding trail. She always saw it one way in her mind, a path with only a small margin for error, plus a despondent woman, or maybe just one who slipped. Henry said he wasn’t completely sure that her fall was purposeful, but that it seemed so. Virginia had been talking all the way up, about her unhappiness with her job and friends and family, how she never felt like she was enough. She was emotional. They stopped briefly. She was overwrought. I don’t even know what I want is what she said, according to Henry. It could have been a split-second decision or an accident. Before he knew it, she was going down. Isabelle hiked plenty herself—she knew those spots where there were tight switchbacks or where the trail had eroded, where careful footing was the only thing that kept you from plummeting.
But this looks nothing like that. The trail is wide. The lookout point in these photos is large enough that you could stop there to take in the view. It’s not a precarious ledge at all.
Which is exactly the point, she understands. It’s the message of these photos. Look, they say. Not so treacherous, right?
“Oh, my God,” Isabelle says out loud in the quiet library. She shoves the chair away from the desk. She’s back to plan A. She jams the contents into the innocent library trash can. She feels bad about sticking that stuff in there. It’s like she ditched the weapon and the bloody sheets in this friendly, helpful place.
She hurries past Librarian Larry in his denim shirt. She flees. She’s as terrified as if someone were chasing her. By the time she’s passed under that domed sky and pushed through the doors to the crisp night air, reason (she tells herself it’s reason) has caught up. She has no idea what those photos are! She has no idea who has sent them. It’s creepy! It’s awful and horrifying. She’s likely the target of something malicious, and she’s lucky they didn’t send her an envelope of that white powder, whatever it was, that people got after 9/11. What is she thinking, just opening stuff up from wacko strangers? Has she lost her mind? She needs to tell Henry. This is the man she loves, a man who has been good to her, a man (she reminds herself) that she trusts. He’s her lover and her friend, and now that he’s parted the curtains and stepped onto her stage, her life will never be the same again.
Jesus, she has to tell him about this. This crazy shit in the mail—it could be dangerous.
—
She doesn’t tell him, though.
When she gets home, the timing doesn’t feel right. He’s sort of in a mood. At least, he’s being aloof, meaning he’s slightly injured about the whole evening. It’s hard, because he’s aware that he doesn’t exactly get a warm reception at Island Air, and yet Island Air is Isabelle’s weighty legacy.
“How’d it go?” he asks.
“Boring. I left early. I mean, you spend all day with people, so it’s tough to want to spend your free time with them, too, you know?”
“Really.”
“But it’s good for us as a team.”
“If those people aren’t a team by now…” He’s flicking through channels on the TV.
“You’re right.”
These are charmed words. He reaches out his hand, pulls her next to him. “I missed you,” he says into her hair.
Why spoil the mood? Let sleeping dogs lie, don’t upset the applecart, all that. As if she needs any encouragement to avoid conflict. In terms of avoiding conflict, she’s her own personal SWAT team.
—
So she still has to tell him.
It’s Saturday, and they take the ferry to Anacortes because Henry wants to buy some All-Clad Copper Core pans. Isabelle has no idea what All-Clad Copper Core pans are. All-Clad Copper Core sounds like something you might need if you’re building a nuclear reactor.
Turns out they’re expensive. Really expensive. Since he got that insurance check, Henry’s been spending money like mad, which bothers her. It feels like dead-wife money. Still, he’s been through so much, and anyone who’s lost their spouse in such a horrible way and then is interrogated mercilessly afterward at least deserves the cookware of his dreams.
They have fun at the mall. They sit across from each other at a small plastic table and eat gourmet hot dogs. They get samples from See’s Candies. Isabelle buys the lipstick she likes. Food plus new toys puts them in good spirits. They hold hands and smooch under mall palm trees. They tolerate screaming children and harsh lights with cheer and patience, and they point out stuff they’d never buy in windows. It’s a great day. They’re happy. Isabelle remembers why she wanted this. She and Henry are in love. She keeps admiring his profile beside her.
Heading home again, they wait in the car in the ferry line along with everyone else. A dog stares at them from the next car over. They’re finally
ushered on, and this time they get out; they edge between the cars and head up the stairwell to sit on a padded ferry bench. Henry wants a coffee, and Isabelle has one, too. She’s still got to tell him about the packages, and this undone deed feels like it’s growing larger and larger, like every undone deed, but worse. The more time that passes, the harder it’s getting. She just needs to do it. Get it over with. She’ll make it all sound casual and assuredly handled. But she can’t keep a secret like this from the man she sleeps next to every night. And look at what a great day they had. This will be her life. His past, like every past, is an unavoidable part of the whole.
“Want to walk?” he says.
“Let’s do it.”
He’s brought his camera. They stroll to the outside deck. It’s freezing out there. Her eyes start to water. Below, the Puget Sound rushes past, gray waves and whitecaps, with a gray-white sky overhead.
“I can’t feel my lips,” she says.
He stops snapping photos. “Come here.” He wraps his arms around her. It feels good, even with the bump of his camera between them. The coffee surges, shoots bolts of goodwill and confidence.
“Henry. There’s something I have to tell you.” She says this into his coat. She actually sort of shouts it, because they’re outside and the wind is rushing past her ears.
“What, sweet?”
“I got a package.”
“From your friend Anne?”
“No, a different one.” Shit. Shit, shit! The aim is to be honest, and she’s failing already. She didn’t think this through. She can’t tell him about the watch or the supposed silk scarf from Anne. He’d be upset at the lies, upset at the time that had passed since she confessed the truth. “I got it at work…It was strange. No return address…” This was the problem with lies, the way they tangled up worse than Christmas lights in a box. “Anyway, Henry, it was weird, okay? I just wanted to tell you. I don’t want you to worry.”
“What was in it?”
“Just some photos. Photos of like, a trail.”
“A trail?”
“I think maybe, you know, where Virginia…”
“Oh, fuck.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry? It’s her fucking sisters. They’re going to haunt me till I die! Fuck, fuck, fuck! Was it her sisters? Was there a note?”
“No note. No name.”
“Cowards. They won’t even claim the act? Terrorists at least do that! Jesus. Where was it from?”
“I couldn’t tell…No return address.”
“The postmark?”
“I didn’t even look.” Shit! “I was shocked. Anyway, it’s not important. I just thought you should know.”
“It’s not important? Trust me, it’s important. It’s freezing out here. Let’s go in.”
The doors whoosh shut behind them. Isabelle’s nose is dripping. She wishes she hadn’t told him. The problem is, she’s not thinking clearly. Every step is a possible misstep; thinking clearly feels like an impossible mission.
“You need to show me. I want to see what they sent.”
“I tossed it.”
“You tossed it? Why did you do that? I need to see! I’ve got to send that shit to my attorney! I won’t be hounded…”
Around them, it’s all normal life. People are reading paperbacks and tapping on their tablets and phones. The sun is setting outside the big ferry windows. Well, sun—there’s been no actual evidence of it for days. It’s just the gray of late Northwest winter, getting grayer before it turns dark.
“Henry, we don’t need to give it more energy than—”
“Tell me what was in the photos. Tell me exactly.”
“I don’t even know. I don’t even remember exactly. Some trail…An overlook—”
“An overlook. It could be anywhere, anything…”
“There was just this trail. A fairly wide…I mean, I was surprised.”
“What are you saying? What do you mean, ‘surprised’?”
“I mean, I’d just always pictured…”
“What the hell are you saying?”
This is going wrong. This is going really, really wrong. They are standing by the racks of island real estate magazines and pamphlets for whale-watching tours and fishing trips. They are right near the restrooms, and people are going in and out, looking in their direction because Henry’s voice has risen.
“I’m not saying anything. I was just surprised when I saw that trail. I just always thought, I don’t know…”
“I can’t believe this.”
“I’m not saying anything other than I didn’t imagine it that way.”
She knows she shouldn’t say more. She knows she’s dug herself so deep already, but she can’t help it, because in spite of the carefulness and tiptoeing she’s been doing, she has questions. The packages have made this worse. The questions pound like a surf inside her, and even if she tries to clap her hands over her ears, she can still hear them crashing on her eroding shore.
Don’t be stupid, Maggie says. This could refer to a hundred things, but Isabelle takes it to mean Be bold. Ask. Speak.
“You want me to fucking act it out?” Henry spits. “You want me to show you how it happened on that trail? Is that what you want?”
“You said…You said if I ever wanted to know anything…I mean, I just wondered, how…You know, slipping! I just wondered! Because it wasn’t some tight edge! You said I could ask you anything!”
“I told you. She was upset. A person who wants to slip can slip, whether it’s on six inches of trail or six feet, all right, Isabelle?”
“I’m sorry. You just said—”
“How do you even know what those pictures were? I’ve had enough of this shit. I don’t need this from you, too.”
He turns, shoves his coffee cup down into a trash can, and stalks down the aisle between the rows of seats. Heads turn. His camera bumps on his hip. He takes the turn toward the stairwell.
Couples meet each other’s eyes. Isabelle feels the shame of a public spectacle. She is frozen in her spot next to those pamphlets. She feels the tip and sway of the boat. The scenery continues to rush past, and the passengers turn their attention back to books and phones. Isabelle briefly considers various options: Jane could pick her up at the ferry terminal; she could stay at the Cliffside B&B; she could ride the ferry back and forth, back and forth, until a plan forms. But she realizes she is stuck, so stuck, because this is her life now, and you can’t just ditch a life, can you? Not without chaos and remorse and shame. No, she’ll have to get back in that car and go home.
She waits for the announcement that they are docking. She joins the crowd moving down the stairwell. She wonders for a moment if she’ll even find him there, or if he, like a despondent Virginia, will have flung himself out of a terrible life and into a bitter end. But, no, there he is, sitting in the driver’s seat, staring forward as if he doesn’t see her tapping at the window to be let in. He’s locked the doors.
He makes her wait. Finally, there’s the click of the latch.
She gets in but says nothing. The silence is awful. It is filled with arrows and spears and wounds gushing blood. She sits there in it, taking the unspoken hits.
Don’t do it, Isabelle, Maggie says. Don’t you dare do it.
What does Maggie know about relationships? Nothing. Nothing that allowed her to ever keep one alive. He’s right, too. How does she even know what those photos were?
“I’m sorry, Henry,” Isabelle says.
The apology doesn’t do anything, anyway. He still sits there with his stone face. No, wrong. It does do one thing—it makes Isabelle feel like shit about herself. It takes her down another notch. The old freight elevator lurches, plummets to a lower level, where it’s cold and musty, dark and damp. It’s not a place for people of power. They sit at the top, where the sun shines and it smells so good, their lungs puff up with air.
She said she was sorry, but she isn’t sorry. Not one bit.
They r
ide home without speaking. When they arrive, Henry gets out of the car, walks ahead of her. She carries the small bag with the lipstick and the big bag with the All-Clad pans. He has left this in the car to demonstrate that it’s not important to him anymore. The rustling of the bag sounds wrong and shameful as she dumps it in the hall.
He disappears into their bedroom. She hears the closet door open as he undresses, the bang of his belt hitting the floor. She hears him brush his teeth, which means no dinner. There is no slamming, only the heavy treads of gloom and depression that are her doing. He gets into bed and puts the covers up over himself, even though it’s only seven.
She thinks of her father, hiding behind his newspaper and work-work-work. She thinks of him in Florida after he left them. He married a demanding woman with demanding children, continuing a life of sacrifice and hard emotional labor before he finally died, of pure exhaustion, probably. All of those years of pleasing and tiptoeing must have done him in, Isabelle thinks, as she tiptoes into her own room with the lump of Henry there under the covers.
She doesn’t get into bed beside him, though. This is not because she’s rehearsing a torrent of necessary words; she’s just weighing which option keeps her safest from his fury. Anyone judging her now has been safe, she knows. Anyone judging has been able to look at a lump like that and say, Knock that shit off, Mister, or, I won’t take this anymore.
Still, there’s a flame, a small flickering inside of Isabelle. It is still doing its caveman-spirit, life-force best. She barely feels it there, her human pilot light, keeping on, keeping on, until the biggest, nastiest storm blows it out. It’s trying its best to kick the shit away, though, so the oxygen can get in. The little flame is responsible for the smallest move Isabelle makes right then, a fashion choice, because Isabelle does not choose her big, thick old sweats to change into tonight. No, she slips on the crane robe her mother gave her. It’s silky-satin and not warm, but it’s sleek and beautiful and strong, like Isabelle herself might be in her right mind. She remembers the Greek story from her college literature class, too. How a flock of cranes hovered over a thief until he, racked with guilt, confessed his crimes. Maybe it was better not to think of that particular story. Maybe better to just imagine the awkward bird with the long legs and long neck who could actually fly.
