Sleep. All she wanted to do was sleep for months and wake up and have all this be over. She shut her eyes, willing her breathing to steady, her heartbeat to calm, and then, soon, she fell asleep again.
She began sleeping more, and the more she slept, the more she wanted to sleep, deep and dreamless, as if she were drugged. She didn’t need food or water or a hot shower or clean clothes. No, all she needed was this blessed sleep. She kept the blinds drawn so she didn’t see the outside world, and she slept.
HANDS WERE LIFTING her up, and she swatted at them. There was a buzzing sound swarming in her ears. “Sleep,” she said out loud, burrowing deeper into the couch, but someone was pulling it from her, taking it out of her hands. She shut her eyes tightly. It was daylight. Bright, shiny hot. The blinds were up and a window was open and she smelled cut grass. She willed herself to tumble back down into her dreams.
“Isabelle. Jesus. Come on, wake up, baby.”
She smelled him first and then her eyes fluttered open. Luke was beside her, staring at her in real concern. “Go away,” she said. Her mouth was dry. Her tongue felt thick and pasted to the roof of her mouth.
“I will not,” he said. “You don’t answer your phone. You don’t come to the door. Your friends called me, worried about you. Michelle even came to the pub to find me. They must have been worried because they sure as hell wouldn’t contact me otherwise.”
“You used your key,” she accused.
“No, I came in through the window. Of course I used the key. I was worried.”
He helped her up, and when she winced, he stopped, waiting for her to catch her breath. “Get your sea legs,” he told her.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked.
“Shower,” he told her.
She flapped her hands. “I don’t want a shower.”
“Yes you do. Maybe you haven’t noticed, but you smell a little ripe. Plus, it’ll wake you up.” He helped her into the shower, sitting on the toilet while the water rushed over her. She gasped at the hot spray. He poured shampoo into her hand. He handed her liquid soap. She was surfacing, fighting it, but every time she tried to shut her eyes, to sink back down, the water propelled her back up.
He reached for her hand as she gingerly stepped out, and then wrapped her in a towel. “Clean clothes, then a sandwich,” he said. “I bought groceries. That fancy French cheese you like. Fresh tomatoes. A purple onion.”
“I don’t want it. I don’t want you here.”
“Yes you do.”
She let him wiggle a long dress over her head, even though she almost never wore dresses anymore, preferring her jeans and sneakers. She was limp when he pulled on her bikini panties and slid on the red stretch shoes she loved. He led her into the kitchen, folding her onto a chair. “Sit,” he ordered. She heard the rustle of bags, the clink of dishes. “I’m not hungry,” she said, but when he set the plate in front of her, she smelled the sandwich and was suddenly ravenous. “Eat,” he said. “You need to eat.” He put one hand on her shoulder, just for a second. “I’ll clean up.”
“I don’t want you cleaning—”
“Shhh,” he said, and grabbed the mop.
She ate both halves of the sandwich he had made and polished off a glass of juice, too. Her head cleared and she smelled the bright lemony tang of the cleaner he was using. Her scalp tingled from the peppermint shampoo. “What day is it?” she asked him.
“Thursday.”
“I need to go back to sleep.”
“You need fresh air,” he told her. “You can throw me out later, but right now, you’re coming with me. Just out on the porch. It won’t kill either one of us.” And then he took her to the swing and even though it was big enough for the two of them, though they used to spend hours on it, talking, holding hands, now he sat on the steps, giving her space. She took long, even breaths. He didn’t once reach to touch her. He didn’t speak but looked at her, waiting. “So,” he said. “What’s the story, morning glory?”
“Why didn’t you tell me she died?” Isabelle finally asked.
“How could I tell you that?” he said quietly.
“You didn’t, but a detective did. He came here and told me. Then I saw the newspaper article. She was only thirty-five.”
He folded his hands in front of him and looked down at them.
“I could have killed her little boy.”
“But you didn’t. He’s alive and so is his father. And so are you. And that woman was in the middle of the road. Her car was turned around. What was she thinking?”
“But the newspapers say—”
“Oh, the newspapers,” he said. “They get everything right, don’t they?”
“I keep thinking if I hadn’t gone on that road, or if I had left the car, taken a plane or a bus. If a million other things had been different—”
“Don’t do this, Isabelle.”
“Don’t you ever feel that in your life?” She thought of his affair, of the inadvertent way he had ruined their marriage, of their lost babies. “Luke,” she said, “why are you here? I’m not coming back to you and you already have someone else.”
He glanced at her. “I fucked up,” he said. “And maybe I’m doing penance. And why wouldn’t I be here? A terrible thing happened.”
He stood up, brushing his hands against his pants. “How do you feel about Chinese for dinner?” Luke said. “I’ll even cook.”
That night, he made spring rolls and chicken chow fun. He cleaned and made up the bed for her with fresh sheets and blankets. “In you go,” he said. She was too tired to argue. She lay down. Her lids fluttered shut. “Thank you,” she said, but when she lifted her head, he was already gone.
Isabelle woke with a start, clammy, unsure of what she had dreamed but having a feeling that it was bad. She was holding one of the pillows against her, and she pushed it away. She heard something. She quietly got up from the bed and listened.
Snoring. She walked to the living room. There on the couch was Luke, bundled into a blanket, half hanging off the couch, his mouth a small, damp O. She watched him. For a moment he looked like the boy she’d fallen in love with, the young grease monkey working at a gas station, uncomplicated, steadfast in love, a boy who loved her enough to run away with her. She thought of him at his bar, so proud he’d shine the counters the way other men shined their cars. His eyes opened and he saw her, but he didn’t move. He kept silent, as if he were waiting for her. Then she turned from him and went back to bed.
In the morning, Luke was gone. Isabelle was soaked with sweat, and her feet itched, but there was music playing in the living room. He had set the table for her breakfast, cut up some fruit for her, left cereal in a bowl. There was a note: “I’m sorry. Call me any time. Eat. Shower. Live your life.”
BY THAT AFTERNOON, three reporters had called her, and she ignored every one of them. She waited for her bruises to heal, and though she told herself she wouldn’t, she kept reading the papers online. Instead of understanding more, she understood less. People loved this story. They loved the mystery, the human interest. Isabelle didn’t like reading about herself—she flinched every time she saw a photo—but reading about April was something else.
Today there were photographs. There was April in jeans and a sweatshirt, hugging her son. There was a photo of April wearing a Blue Cupcake T-shirt, cheering in the stands of a soccer game.
Isabelle scanned the page. There, at the bottom, was a photograph of her. She felt sick. It looked like they had doctored the photo, darkening it to make her look sinister. “Photographer refuses to speak,” the caption read, which made it seem as though she had something to hide, when instead, she just didn’t know what to say. “What Was the Real Accident?” the headline blared.
Was the mysterious crash that occurred outside Hartford one week ago a tale of two suitcases? The two-car crash occurred on Crescent Road, a back road recently closed for repairs. Unnamed sources say that remnants of suitcases were pulled from both vehicles.
Grieving husband and father Charlie Nash refused to comment on the accident or on the charred suitcase later found in the car. “It’s a personal matter that we are doing our best to get through,” he said.
Neighbors say the couple was happily married and there were no signs of trouble in the family. “I don’t know,” said a neighbor and friend who wished to be anonymous. “They always seemed to have the perfect life to me.”
Isabelle stared down at the article. April had a suitcase, too. Where was April going? There was another photograph, and as soon as she saw it, she knew who it was.
Charlie Nash. The photo was a snapshot, and a little unfocused, but he had a nice, regular face, and all you had to do was look at it to see how filled with grief it was. “Charles Nash leaving the police station.” She touched the photograph as if she could comfort him.
She googled Charlie Nash. Isabelle had heard of him, the name sounded familiar. The screen flooded with entry after entry, and every one seemed to jump out at her like warning flares. She forced herself to focus. He had such a life and it was all here, line after line after line. “Oakrose Housing Works Honors Charles Nash.” “Charles Nash Home featured in Cape Cod Homes.” She clicked on it, and a photo of Charlie Nash appeared, beaming in the middle of a construction site, his long hair gleaming and shiny in the sun, and then she thought, of course. Charlie Nash. She had seen him around town. “The One Contractor People Love” the article was titled. Fingers pressed against her temples, she read. “‘Renovating a house is like falling in love, discovering all its secrets and loving the house anyway.’” There was another photo of Charlie covered in sawdust. “‘I love them like they are family,’ Nash laughs. ‘When the job is done, it’s done, though sometimes, I admit, I drive past the houses to see how they’re doing.’”
She clicked off the computer. Oh, fuck, he was a good guy. He was the kind of man people wrote articles about, and even worse, all she had to do was look at one picture to see just how much the camera loved him. You couldn’t fake a smile like that, or that look in his eyes, mischievous and intelligent. She clicked on a few more photos and in every one he was beaming, like a man who knew his life was wonderful. Isabelle’s hand froze on the keyboard. She couldn’t look at any more, no matter how much she wanted to, because the more she knew about him, the more she wanted to know, and the more she knew, the more it hurt.
Isabelle put her head in her hands. Nash Homes. She had seen the signs, the logo of a house with smoke coming out of a chimney, a blue picket fence and flowers, the kind of house everyone wanted.
She got out the phone book and, hands shaking, opened it.
Charlie Nash lived just six blocks away from her.
She’d probably seen him a million times, at the beach, the supermarket, getting pizza. She had most likely seen April and Sam with him, a family splashing beside her in the surf, buying ice cream cones at Jelly’s. They all lived in the same small town, and yet they were somehow strangers.
SHE STAYED INSIDE for a few more days, and then, on Tuesday, a week and a half after the accident, Isabelle cautiously went out. The summer people were all gone, and the streets were emptier. She kept a low profile, hidden behind dark glasses. At first she kept to the more deserted areas, the line of beach, too cool for swimmers now; the wooded areas; but gradually, she ventured to the shopping district. She tried to walk with a purpose.
She didn’t know what she expected, but to her surprise, no one did more than occasionally glance at her.
Isabelle walked from one end of town to the other. She went into stores she didn’t really have any business in—a glass store, a candle shop—just for the pure pleasure of being out in the world, of moving around. When she bumped into Laney, an old client, at the greengrocers, Laney simply hugged her, and said, “So glad to see you,” as if nothing had happened.
That night, when there was a knock at the door, she was surprised that she wanted to answer it, that she yearned for company, even if it was a two-minute chat with someone canvassing for money. She peered through the window expectantly. Michelle and Jane were standing there, talking intently to each other, their arms full of packages.
She pulled open the door and, instantly, Jane reached for her. “Don’t even think of sending us away,” Michelle said gravely. “We brought Indian takeout and a video and we’re staying until you kick us out.”
Isabelle looked at Michelle’s flushed cheeks, at the sunflowers tucked under Jane’s arm. She was surprised when she felt tears stinging her eyes.
“Oh, Izzie, I know,” Michelle said.
Isabelle shook her head. “No, no, it’s just—well, I’m just so happy you’re here.” She opened the door wide.
That night, Isabelle ate half a carton of veggie tandoori. “Have more,” Jane kept urging, but she could really only pick. Isabelle tried to concentrate on the film, a comedy about two girlfriends in love with the same guy. She laughed when her friends laughed. She felt them watching her, making sure she was okay, and when Michelle asked if she wanted them to stay the night, Isabelle shook her head. She was tired, but it wasn’t the same kind of exhaustion she had been feeling. Before they were out the door, Michelle turned and gave Isabelle a hug. “Just remember, you’re not alone,” she told her.
MORE AND MORE, people gave her advice. Take it easy. Take your time. Don’t rush back into work. Figure out what you want to do. She called Dora, Michelle’s friend in New York, to see if the illegal sublet was still available. “If you make a move in the next two weeks, it is,” Dora told her.
She felt something warming in her stomach. She could still have a new life. She’d leave and all this would fade, like a stain she’d bleach from a shirt.
The day the insurance company processed her claim, Isabelle went to get a new car. Lindy had offered to go with her, but somehow it seemed important to Isabelle that she do this on her own. She remembered how anxious she had been driving home from the hospital with Michelle, but that was because it was all so soon. She had been so raw.
She took her bike, figuring she could put it in the trunk of whatever new vehicle she came home with.
The bike glided into the lot. No one was there except for two bored-looking young men in white shirts and ties, their hair slicked back. When they saw her, they perked up and whispered something to each other, their faces ruddy from the heat. The taller one came toward Isabelle. “No one comes here on a bike,” he said cheerfully.
“I do,” she said. “But I want to leave in a Honda.”
“Let me show you,” he said.
He touched the back of her shirt, guiding her toward some cars, and she flinched a little.
She slid her hand along the side of a blue car and felt a little queasy. “Get in and see how this baby feels,” the salesman told her, opening the door. Isabelle got inside. He was standing outside, grinning at her, all lips and bright white teeth. At first, she felt the same unease she’d felt riding home from the hospital, but she shook it off and turned the key in the ignition. The motor rumbled and then, suddenly, she felt a hard, thick piece of glass slam down between her and the salesman. He was saying something, but Isabelle couldn’t hear it. It was ninety degrees outside, but her skin was cold and she shivered. She swallowed hard, fighting the ball of panic rising in her throat.
He opened the door and leaned toward her. “Are you all right?” he asked. “If you don’t mind my saying so, you don’t look so good.” He leaned closer. “You aren’t going to throw up, are you?” he asked.
Her hands flew to her head. His voice was coming from underwater. Panic was thumping so hard in her body, it felt as if it were going to break through the skin. She knew if she moved she might die.
“Ma’am?” the dealer said doub
tfully.
She began to shake all over. She couldn’t do this. She gripped the wheel so tightly, her knuckles grew pale. She was going to die and she knew it and there was nothing anyone could do about it.
“Ma’am!” The dealer’s voice was sharp this time and then he touched her and she felt something breaking and she managed to move, jolting out of the car. As soon as her sneakers hit pavement, she felt her heart slow. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see shards scattered on the ground. She stared at the car as if she’d never seen one before.
The dealer’s smile had gone funny and stiff. She pretended to study her watch. “Oh, look at the time,” she said. She nodded like an idiot. “I’ll come back. I have to run now.” She couldn’t look at him. She grabbed her bike, but her legs were too wobbly to get on it. Her whole body felt like a rag doll, limp and useless, and she began to walk her bike, leaning on it for support, the two miles home.
Isabelle had never really been afraid of anything in her life. She’d never had a phobia, never had to sleep with a nightlight, and heights didn’t bother her. She had climbed up scaffolding to get a shot she wanted; she had waded into freezing waters and when a power line snapped and snaked toward her, sparking with current, she calmly took its picture. And of course, she hadn’t been afraid of running away with Luke. Now, she was terrified of something. She had been driving since she was fifteen and suddenly, just the thought of getting into a car made her feel as if she were dying. She couldn’t imagine even being a passenger in a car. Not after what happened. She tapped her hands on the counter. She wouldn’t let this beat her. She’d fly to New York, then. She’d live in a city where you didn’t need to drive at all, where you could walk everywhere.
Pictures of You Page 12
