The Book of Someday

by Dianne Dixon

  The admission made in that splinter of time just before Jason’s phone call came, asking why she wasn’t on Pane Street.

  The single sentence that explained what her evil was—the heartsick confession in which Micah said: “I killed someone.”

  AnnaLee

  Glen Cove, Long Island ~ 1986

  Heartsick.

  This isn’t the emotion a woman should experience while she’s watching her husband coming across the terrace of their home carrying a single, long-stemmed white rose—a rose obviously intended as a gift for her.

  But heartsick is exactly what AnnaLee is feeling.

  It’s a little before three in the afternoon on a Wednesday and here Jack is with a flower in his hand and a vague, endearingly shy smile on his face when he should be at the office, adding to his billable hours. Focused on climbing the ladder at the law firm and on making money. Money he and AnnaLee desperately need in order to keep a roof over their heads.

  AnnaLee, in faded overalls and an old straw hat, has been scrubbing the accumulated muck out of the reflecting pool at the edge of the garden. Now as she’s stripping off the wet, heavy gloves she’s been wearing, she’s noticing that Jack is dropping the white rose onto the arm of a weathered Adirondack chair, and veering away from her.

  He’s striding toward the other end of the terrace, saying: “Bella! There’s my beautiful Bella!” Bella is the pet name they call their child. It started as Tinkerbelle, became Belle, then somehow evolved into Bella. It had its beginnings on the day of their baby’s birth—when an awed AnnaLee had said that their little girl looked like a tiny, magical fairy.

  Now Jack is lifting Bella from the quilt that’s spread out on the lawn, the spot where Bella has been napping and playing for most of the afternoon. He’s swooping her through the air, delighting in her laughter, and telling her: “I wish I were you, Bella. I wish I could fly! I wish—”

  AnnaLee cuts him off—saying “You’re home early”—hating the nagging tone in her voice. And at the same time remembering the hurt of having to sell her mother’s wedding present, the blue-and-white porcelain vase, to Mrs. Wang.

  Jack keeps his conversation directed at Bella, finishing his thought as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “I wish I could do what you do every day, Bella…I wish I could spend my time out in the sunshine with your incomparable, wonderful mother.”

  He then delivers Bella into AnnaLee’s arms, and tells AnnaLee: “I love you.” He does it with an attitude that suggests apology and unhappiness.

  It makes AnnaLee weary. He’s constantly leaning on her, needing her to be his compass and his strength. And in spite of the love she has for Jack, sometimes the weight of him is too much. Which is why AnnaLee is closing her eyes and pressing her cheek against Bella’s, escaping into the comforting feel and scent of her little girl’s skin, seeking the warmth of sunshine and the smell of summer grass.

  Jack is passing his finger over the reddening welt on AnnaLee’s forearm that runs from her elbow to her wrist, and he’s asking: “Where did this come from?”

  “Thorns,” AnnaLee says. “From earlier—when I was trimming the roses.”

  “It could get infected. We should go upstairs and clean it.”

  Jack’s touch on her arm is extraordinarily compassionate.

  And AnnaLee murmurs: “Eleven.”

  “Eleven…?” Jack says.

  “It’s been eleven years. Since the emergency room. In Brooklyn.” AnnaLee is momentarily lost in thought. “I can’t believe how young we both were.”

  “We’re not so old now, are we?”

  “I think maybe we are. I think maybe I am.” AnnaLee shifts Bella so that her hold on the baby is more secure. Then she asks Jack: “Do you ever think about that night?” There’s a hint of brittleness in her tone, something slightly combative.

  Before Jack can answer, she says: “I think about it…about how it felt just after the truck hit me. When my face was on the pavement and I could see my leg, bent at that odd angle. Mangled. Cut-up like chunks of meat. Like something on a butcher’s table.”

  AnnaLee’s eyes haven’t moved from Jack’s face; she’s trying to get him to engage with her—she wants him to let her know that he’s hearing what she’s saying. But the way he’s looking at her—the way he’s standing there, wordlessly, helplessly—is showing AnnaLee something she already knows.

  It isn’t in Jack’s power to give her what she needs.

  All AnnaLee has is the sound of her own voice, as she’s telling him: “I know the accident was a long time ago and that everything’s fine now. I’m alive. I can walk. But I’m not talking about now—I’m thinking about that night. About me. Who I was. I was a really good dancer…in rehearsal for Giselle…the ballerina who was going to dance the lead.”

  AnnaLee understands that she’s resurrecting an old and unsolvable riddle. It’s an exercise in futility. And she can’t stop herself. Because part of her is still refusing to come to terms with what happened that night. With its randomness—and permanence.

  “There was coffee in the rehearsal hall,” she’s explaining to Jack. “And I was running across the street for espresso. I hardly ever drank espresso. Why did I want it right then, at that particular moment? And why, when there was barely any traffic on the street and there were lights everywhere…streetlights…store lights…why didn’t the truck driver see me? Why?”

  AnnaLee is begging Jack to help her make sense of it.

  But all he says is: “It was an accident, Lee. Accidents happen.”

  She glances down at her wedding ring, murmuring: “Accidents happen…then they cause other accidents.”

  Jack sighs. The apology—the unhappiness—that was in him earlier has returned.

  “Do you know what made me fall in love with you that night?” AnnaLee asks.

  He shakes his head, telling her no.

  “Your compassion,” she says. “Your incredible sweetness.”

  Jack’s tone is nostalgic. “I was just a second-year surgical resident who wanted to be my best for you. You were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.”

  “You still have it, you know. That incredible sweetness.”

  AnnaLee rests her head on Jack’s shoulder. Loving him intensely for who he is. And wishing, with all her heart, that he were different—in so many ways.

  On the surface, Jack is AnnaLee’s idea of perfection: fair skin and sandy hair and hazel-green eyes. But it’s what’s below the surface—his mystifying, disjointed frailties—that wear away at her. Daily. Like a drizzling, acid rain.

  The damage that has been done by his weaknesses is what AnnaLee is thinking about as she’s telling Jack: “After all these years, I still can’t understand how you could’ve turned our lives upside down the way you did.”

  Jack is moving apart from her, putting his hands in his pockets, drawing a long slow breath that’s warning AnnaLee he doesn’t want to go down this particular road. But he is listening to her. With his head bowed. As if he’s slightly embarrassed. And doesn’t have the right to stop her from giving voice to what she’s about to say.

  “You were a brilliant trauma surgeon, Jack.” AnnaLee pauses, then says: “And you just threw it away…just came home one day and announced you couldn’t stand the blood and the pain anymore, and that you’d enrolled in law school. Jack, you hadn’t even mentioned you’d decided to apply to law school.”

  There’s a catch in AnnaLee’s voice—the sound of disappointment and disbelief. She’s holding Bella close, rocking her gently, asking Jack: “How could you have put us into such staggering debt?”

  Jack shifts his weight, leans against the trunk of a nearby tree, and says nothing.

  His passivity, his silences, are infuriating. AnnaLee is fighting the urge to shout at him as she says: “What you’ve done to us isn’t fair. You graduated from law school with honors, got recruited by a top firm. Everything was fine. And then out of nowhere you start coming home earlier and earlier. Because now
instead of hating being a doctor you hate being a lawyer. Because—” AnnaLee pauses. “Wait. Let me think of the words you used…your exact words were ‘I’m as derailed by the moral ambiguity of the courtroom as I was by the carnage in the emergency room.’”

  She’s staring at Jack, defying him to look away. “That’s what you said. It was like you didn’t have a clue you were talking about real life, about our life. You sounded like some overeducated character in a bad soap opera.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll try to do better.” There’s desperation in Jack’s voice. “Tell me you believe me, Lee. Tell me you believe me.”

  AnnaLee isn’t answering, and she can see it’s hurting him.

  As soon as she’s able to subdue her own hurt, she soothes his, saying: “Yes, Jack. I believe you.”

  I know you’ll try, she’s thinking. I know you want to be different…want to be a hero and a rescuer. But you don’t have the heart for it, Jack. You’re defenseless against brutality and ugliness. The truth is you’re at your best when you’re away from the world. In a cocoon of books and ideas…lost in contemplation.

  AnnaLee is aware that if these traits belonged to a poet or a saint, she would probably see them as virtues. But in her husband, because of the precarious life he’s given her, she sees them as betrayal, as pathetic and weak.

  A breeze is sending flower petals skipping across the terrace, and across the tops of AnnaLee’s shoes. She’s feeling a chill and wants to go inside, to get a sweater for Bella.

  But Jack is inspecting a limb on the tree he has been leaning against. He’s making a point of sounding decisive and capable, like a man who knows how to take charge and fix things: “This branch needs to be cut, it’s hanging too low. Somebody could walk into it and get hurt. I’ll trim it next week.”

  AnnaLee—knowing he’ll forget to do the work on the tree, and too weary to argue—simply nods.

  “I understand what a lucky man I am,” Jack is telling her. “I have the most wonderful wife in the world, and the most wonderful child.” He’s smiling as he’s looking at AnnaLee, and then at Bella, and then at the house. “Whatever bumps in the road we’ve had, whatever bumps we have ahead, we’ve got each other, and we’ve got this beautiful place to come home to.”

  Jack’s mention of the house is like vinegar splashing into an open cut. The only thing keeping us in this house is me, AnnaLee is thinking. I’m the one making the repairs, doing the gardening. I’m the one who brought us here, who keeps us here. Every time you don’t work enough hours to pay the bills, it’s me who has to endure the losses—and make those humiliating calls to Mrs. Wang. Don’t talk about how much you enjoy this house, Jack. You haven’t earned the right.

  AnnaLee is convinced it would destroy Jack if she were ever to lose control and tell him what she’s thinking at moments like this. Which is why all she says is: “It’s cold out here.”

  Jack is standing beside her now. Concerned and contrite. “Let’s go inside—I’ll clean that cut on your arm. You shouldn’t have been pruning the roses. I could’ve taken care of it. I’m almost always home early—”

  Her frustration is out of her mouth before she can stop it. “Where you should be is in your office. That way we could afford a gardener.”

  It has been a long, tiring day and AnnaLee has run out of patience.

  She’s pushing past Jack now, with Bella still in her arms, stumbling slightly, landing hard on her left foot, letting out a small whimper. And Jack is quickly taking Bella, to make it easier for AnnaLee to walk.

  She often experiences bouts of debilitating pain in her left ankle. And she’s acutely aware that if it hadn’t been for Jack, for his extraordinary skill as a surgeon eleven years ago, after her accident, she would never have been able to walk at all.

  And as she’s approaching the bottom of the terrace steps AnnaLee is doing her best to keep the edge out of her voice—she’s trying to make amends. “Tell me about your day. How was it?”

  There’s a long pause. Silence from Jack. As if he knows he’s being patronized.

  AnnaLee has started up the short flight of terrace stairs, and her ankle is wobbling. She’s losing her footing. Instantly, Jack’s hand is under her elbow—steadying her, supporting her.

  With Bella cradled against his chest, Jack is matching his stride to AnnaLee’s. He’s keeping his steps measured and slow, helping her to maintain her balance.

  Then as they’re moving toward the French doors that lead to the living room Jack takes a quick, tense breath and tells AnnaLee: “Brian called. From Belgium—to say hello.”

  The mention of Brian’s name immediately makes AnnaLee apprehensive. “What did he want?”

  “I sent him some pictures from Bella’s party. He wanted us to know how great they were. He can’t believe she’s had her first birthday already.”

  AnnaLee slows the pace until she and Jack are at a standstill. “Bella’s birthday was months and months ago, that can’t be the reason he called.”

  Jack clears his throat—looking out at the garden and not at AnnaLee. “He wants to know what we decided…about this summer.”

  AnnaLee is recalling a ghoulish snake tattoo and a silver nose ring. Purple hair, kohl-rimmed eyes, thick-soled Army boots. And the angry shriek of heavy metal music.

  She’s quickly taking Bella away from Jack, saying: “Tell him the answer is no.”

  “For God’s sake, AnnaLee, he’s not asking for the world. It’ll only be a couple of months.”

  “I don’t care.” AnnaLee is troubled, for reasons she can’t fully explain.

  “It seems ridiculous,” she tells Jack. “He has plenty of money. Why does he want his daughter to stay here for the summer? He can afford to send her anywhere. Europe. Summer camp. Anything she wants.”

  “She’s alone and lonely.” There’s a stubborn tone in Jack’s voice—this is a conversation they’ve had before. “She needs a home, even if it’s only for a little while.”

  While Jack is wrapping his arms around her—embracing her and Bella—AnnaLee is thinking about the sadly forlorn expression she has seen flit those kohl-rimmed eyes.

  Jack is resting his cheek against AnnaLee’s, asking for her understanding. “Brian is my brother, he needs my help. It’s just for the summer…a couple of months. All we’re talking about is one, little teenage girl. And the only thing she has is money. We have so much more than that, Lee. How can we not share it?”

  The familiar warmth of Jack’s embrace is bringing AnnaLee both comfort and apprehension. It is the sensation of being lifted up and, in the same instant, being drowned.

  ***

  After a while. After AnnaLee has let Jack lead her into the house. After Bella is tucked into bed. And President Reagan has begun a speech on television and twilight has come. The single, long-stemmed white rose remains forgotten on the terrace. Being buffeted by a cold wind that will soon strip it bare.

  Livvi

  Pasadena, California ~ 2012

  Daybreak. The wind is thumping a heavy tree branch against the side of the house. Rattling the wrought-iron gate in the courtyard. Shaking the air with an ominous boom—like an explosion from a cannon.

  Livvi has been startled awake by that echoing boom. And as she’s scrambling out of her warm soft bed she is, for a fraction of time, in the cold grip of her barren room in Santa Ynez. Frantic to determine what has been broken—and to find a way to make it whole again. Seized by the stomach-churning fear that if she fails she’ll be punished.

  And the fear stops her in her tracks.

  This consuming sense of dread is as fixed in Livvi as the color of her eyes or the shape of her face. Its roots are old and deep. Even now, as she’s waking up in her own home, safe and protected, part of her is still in a place where the night-quiet is being shattered by her father’s screams: screams so agonized that their echoes are leaving her huddled in her childhood bed, shaking with fear.

  For several long moments Livvi is a little girl again…sh
e’s waiting out the screams. Afraid of the eerie stillness that will follow them. Terrified of what will erupt in the wake of that stillness. Pandemonium that will sound like a rampage of demons.

  She is fearing the morning. When she’ll go downstairs and see what awful thing is being illuminated in the light of the new day.

  Will it be fist-prints pounded into the cracked plaster of the walls? Or a trail of blood splattered across a broken window? Or entire rooms filled with upended furniture?

  Whatever it is, she knows her father will be somewhere nearby, standing mute. With his clothes in disarray. Sweat-soaked. As if he’s been hurling boulders. She’ll see the devastated look on his face. And that his knuckles are raw. Or that his hands are clumsily wrapped in blood-soaked bandages. And in the confusion of a child’s logic, and because she doesn’t have anyone to tell her any different, she’ll be convinced she’s responsible for her father’s pain. Because she hasn’t been able to figure out—at the age of five, or six, or nine—how to calm his madness.

  Each new explosion in that house in Santa Ynez reinforced Livvi’s sense of anxiety—until eventually the feeling became permanent. It’s why now, as Livvi’s thoughts have returned to the present, and she is moving toward the archway that leads from her bedroom into the living room, she’s doing it with a sense of dread.

  When Livvi enters the living room, she sees the front door is open. And that someone is in the house. A redhead. Perched on the arm of the sofa, backlit by the soft, pink light of earliest morning. She’s wearing platform heels and a skintight, acid-green mini-dress.

  And she’s saying: “Baby, do you have any idea what the hell just happened in your driveway?” Her voice is a peculiar combination of gravel and honey—part roller-derby queen, part high-rent seductress. Her body suggests she could be in her late thirties but her face hints that she’s somewhere closer to fifty. The cynicism in her gaze says she’s churned through a lot of bad dates and hard knocks.