“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I just want to get home.”
Peter glanced over and laid a hand on her thigh. Isabel turned to stare out the window.
As they rode the elevator Peter held her hand, but when the door opened she pulled away so she could walk the hallway as she always did—treading the center line, feet hitting the same piece of pattern each time—hoping this familiar ritual would bring comfort. Everything about the building looked and smelled the same, yet it was all different. It was as though the whole world had shifted by a few degrees.
She stood off to the side as Peter opened the door, pushed it inward, and let her pass.
Her eyes swept the room. Her plants were shriveled wisps, collapsed and clinging to the outsides of their pots as though, in the throes of death, they’d tried to crawl to safety. A pizza box, uncharacteristically left out by Isabel on the morning of the explosion, was untouched, as was the crumb-covered paper towel from which she’d eaten. A teacup sat beside it, contents evaporated but for a desiccated milky scum that resembled the edge of a pudding skin. Stuart, her Siamese fighting fish, was a fuzzy and colorless lump sucked up against the intake of the water filter, which sputtered valiantly in an attempt to keep operating.
Peter disappeared into her bedroom with the plastic bag. When he returned, Isabel was sitting on the couch.
“Can I get you anything?” he asked, perching on the edge of the coffee table so they were eye to eye. “A glass of water?”
“No,” she said, turning her head.
“Are you okay?”
She was so tired, so empty, that she didn’t feel like talking. Then she looked again at the remains of Stuart, and turned back with a flash of anger. “No. I’m not okay. I really liked that fish, Peter. I know you think that’s stupid, but I really liked him. I had him for two years. He interacted with me. He came to the front of the tank to see what was going on whenever I …” She began to cry.
Peter looked quickly at the fish, and his eyes widened.
“Oh, please,” she said, nearly hysterical. “You didn’t notice that he’s dead?”
“I fed him. I swear I did.”
“You fed a corpse. For three weeks.”
“It wasn’t three weeks. He was alive just …” He threw the tiny body another glance. “Recently.”
“You have no idea when he died, do you? And my plants. You know what? I liked them too. You owe me an oxalis. And a Norfolk pine. And a whatever the hell that was,” she said, sweeping a hand toward a magnificently dead plant.
“Sure. Of course. Whatever you want.” He tried to put a hand on her shoulder. She whacked it away.
“You really don’t get it, do you?” she said.
Peter didn’t answer. He stared into her eyes. She could well imagine the mental acrobatics he was using to let himself off the hook. Good to know all those degrees in psychology weren’t going to waste.
“Stop looking at me,” she said.
“You’re distraught. It’s understandable. You’ve been through hell.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“Isabel …”
“You promised me, Peter. You promised!”
“I’m sorry about the fish—”
“The apes, Peter. The apes. You swore you’d look after them.”
He took her hands and lowered his voice. “Listen. It’s a terrible shock. I know it is. Everything we worked for, everything we achieved, down the drain. But we can start over.”
“What?” Isabel said after a stunned pause.
His voice took on a desperate tone. “Together. We’ll get new apes. We’ll find funding. I’m not happy about it. It won’t be easy. I’m not pretending it will be. I’m forty-eight years old—I’ll be ancient by the time we get back to where we were a month ago, and God knows where we’ll get infant bonobos, but you—it’s different for you. You’re young. You can be the star. Carry the torch.”
Isabel stared at him. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am. There’s no reason we can’t do this. We’ll share the credit. Hell, your name can come first on papers.”
“We can’t just replace the bonobos.”
“Why not?”
“Because they’re not hamsters! We’re talking about Lola, Sam, Mbongo, Bonzi … Peter, they’re family! I’ve known them for eight years. Don’t you feel anything? Makena is pregnant—pregnant!—and they’re probably at a biomedical lab right now, having God knows what done to them.”
“Of course I feel something. I’m devastated. But we have to accept that they’re gone. You know we will come to love the new ones. How could we not?”
She rose abruptly and headed for the kitchen.
“Where are you going?” Peter said.
“To get a fucking drink,” she called back. “Unless you somehow managed to kill my vodka.”
He stood in the doorway and watched as she pulled the vodka from the cupboard and poured two fingers’ worth in a glass.
“Are you sure you want to do that?” he asked.
“Sweet Jesus, Peter. You’re going to judge me now?”
He leaned against the door frame, watching.
She fingered the glass, but left it on the counter. “How could you do it, Peter? How could you let them be taken away?”
“I didn’t,” he said quietly. “I had nothing to do with it.”
“But you didn’t stop it, did you?”
She picked up the glass. Her hands were shaking.
“Isabel?” he said. He was gazing at her with such concern it made her want to beat him with her cast-iron skillet, which was frighteningly close to hand.
“Get out,” she said.
“You’re tired. Let me help you to bed.”
“No, I want you to get out. And I want you to leave my key.”
“Your key is in your—”
“Your key. Your key to my place. I want you to leave your key.”
“Isabel—”
“I mean it, Peter. Leave your key and get out.”
He stared at her for a while before finally turning away. The second he rounded the corner, she poured the vodka down the sink. At the very same moment she slammed the glass back on the counter, she heard the key hit and skid across a surface in the other room. She waited to hear the door, but didn’t.
“I mean it!” she screamed.
After what seemed like forever, the door shut with a precise little click. She immediately ran to it, bolted it, and put the chain across.
——
She’d been too hard on him. Even in her distressed state, that was clear to her. She knew she should call immediately and ask him to come back. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t also been through hell—he had stood by her bedside during those first few days wondering if she was even going to live, and then, while helping her recover, he had learned about the sale of the bonobos. It was his bad luck that he had to be the one to tell her. When it came right down to it, Peter had as many reasons to feel traumatized as she did, perhaps more—after all, he was conscious during the time she had been blissfully out of it. And while it was true that she cared about the fish, she didn’t really care about the plants. Her frustration and grief had been mounting from the moment she’d found out the bonobos were gone, and when she’d finally erupted, Peter had happened to be the closest target. She looked across the room at the phone; in her mind, her fingers were already punching in his number. But she didn’t do it. Even if her anger was misplaced, it was real.
Isabel couldn’t bring herself to deal with Stuart just yet, but she did turn off the tank light and unplug the water filter.
Her voice mail was full to capacity with messages dating back to immediately after the bombing:
“Hi, Dr. Duncan. This is Cat Douglas. We met yesterday. I’m really hoping I can—”
“Hi, Isabel. This is John Thigpen. We met … uh, well, I’m sure you remember. I called the hospital, but they wouldn’t tell me anything. I hope you’re okay. I’m so, so sorry.
I just can’t imagine. My wife and I are staying at the—”
“Yeah, hi, my name is Philip Underwood. I’m a feature writer with The New York Times and I would really appreciate—”
“Good afternoon, Miss Duncan. I’m calling from the offices of Bagby and Bagby. We were wondering if you had talked with anyone yet about your injuries. The attorneys at Bagby and Bagby have more than twenty years’ combined experience helping people like you get the money they—”
There were none from her mother, none from her brother, none from acquaintances or neighbors, or even colleagues, with the exception of Celia, who had plenty to say about being turned away from the hospital. Isabel deleted them all.
She picked up the pizza box, remembering how she’d sat cross-legged in front of the coffee table the morning of the explosion and choked down a single leftover slice of pizza. She closed its lid and tossed it like a frisbee at the front door.
Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of a dissymmetry that stopped her in her tracks. Her computer, unlike the pizza box, was not exactly where she had left it. When Isabel set a glass down, it was perfectly placed along the outside edges of her place mat. When she folded towels, or even fitted sheets, their edges were aligned exactly. And when she set her laptop on her desk, it was always precisely two inches from the front edge and absolutely parallel. She hesitated, staring at its silver case. She took several deep breaths, sat down at her desk, and reached for it with icy fingers.
The “recent documents” list revealed that someone had gone through her email, documents folder, pictures, and trash.
Had the FBI searched her hard drive? She scanned the room again, mystified. Wouldn’t they have left a mess of everything else as well? Drawers overturned, couch cushions toppled, closets emptied?
She opened her browser and found that someone had added a bookmark. It led directly to the ELL video. This was the first time Isabel had seen it.
When it came to a close, leaving the final, menacing image onscreen, Isabel was frozen, leaning forward with hands pressed to her cheeks. They had been here. It was the only thing that made sense. The bookmark was a calling card.
After a couple of seconds, she turned her head quickly, checking that she had put the chain on the door. She went from window to window, yanking the blinds down and pulling the curtains closed; and then from room to room, collecting chip clips, hair clips, and safety pins, and affixing them with trembling hands, making sure the edges of all the curtains were completely sealed. She turned off all but one table lamp in the corner of the living room, and withdrew to the couch to perch, hugging her legs and pressing her chin to her knees.
An hour later, she had not moved. She lifted her chin and gasped, as though coming to.
She scanned the room. Almost every surface in the room was adorned with framed photos of the bonobos—Mbongo, putting together a marble run; Bonzi, playing an electric keyboard with a rock star to whom she famously signed, SIT DOWN! BE QUIET! EAT PEANUTS! after becoming impatient with his entourage; Sam, using a computer to play Ms. Pac-Man; Lola, riding on Isabel’s shoulders as they walked in the woods, clutching Isabel’s chin with one hand and using the other to point to where she wanted to go. Richard Hughes and Jelani, sitting under a tree, earnestly discussing a hardboiled egg in ASL. Makena, exchanging a kiss with Celia, both of them with lips extended and eyes closed. Isabel stared at this last one for a long time.
Isabel heard the ding of the elevator and froze, looking toward the door. Within a second she lunged for the table lamp, nearly knocking it over in her hurry to turn it off. She ended up curled into a ball on the floor by the end table.
There was a shuffling of plastic bags, the closing of the elevator, and then an interminable silence. Finally footsteps began. They came to her door, paused, and continued.
Isabel sat in the dark, breathing so fast she was lightheaded. She closed her eyes and lifted her chin, willing her heart rate to come down.
After several minutes she sat up and switched the table light back on. She reached for the phone. Her fingers paused above the keypad as she contemplated numbers. Finally, she chose.
“Hello?” said the voice at the other end.
“Celia?” she whispered into the receiver. “It’s me. I need you. Can you please come over?”
12
When Amanda came through security, she ran to John, who lifted her and spun her around. People stared and John didn’t care. The scent of her skin, the feel of her hair—he might never let go.
“Oh, John,” she said, laying her head in the crook of his neck in a gesture of trust so absolute it slayed him. “God, I’ve missed you.”
“Me too, honey. Me too.”
When he finally set her down Amanda glanced around and self-consciously straightened her clothing. Her cheeks were flushed.
John reached for her backpack. “Is that all you brought?”
“I’m only here for three days.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“Are you sure you can’t take tomorrow off?” she asked.
“Can’t. The column runs on Sunday.”
When they got home, their lips were locked before the door was even latched. John dropped her bag to the floor.
“Careful!” she said breathlessly, between kisses. “Laptop!”
“Sorry!” he gasped, struggling out of his coat as she unbuttoned his shirt.
Minutes later, at the critical moment, Amanda leaned in and whispered, “Let’s make a baby.”
The effect was immediate and horrifying. Despite Amanda’s best ministrations—and she was in fine form—John could not recover. Eventually she gave up and rolled off.
“What’s the matter?” she asked after several minutes of silence. The candles she had paused briefly to light flickered against the wall, their wicks grown long, their shadows deep.
“I don’t know,” he said. “It just happens sometimes.” He wished the mattress would swallow him whole. Glurp, just like that. One tiny sinkhole in the universe. Was that so much to ask?
“It’s never happened before,” said Amanda. “Is it because of what I said?”
“No, of course not,” he assured her. Yes, of course it was, screamed the voice in his head.
“Do you want to employ a little … help?” she said playfully.
When John was young, his mother used to go to Tupperware and Avon parties. Later, she had gone to Top Chef and candle parties. By the time Amanda was invited to such a party by friends in New York City, it was for lingerie and sex toys. Amanda, having been plied with cheap wine by her hostess the entire evening and then taken into a “consultation room,” came home giggling and tipsy and handed John a bag of items that left him speechless, a little bit horrified, and entirely intrigued. Very soon, he had come to realize their usefulness. After eighteen years together, variety could be good.
“Mmm,” he said. “Sure.”
“Any special requests?”
“Nope. Surprise me,” he said. He stretched his arms out over his head while Amanda opened the top drawer. She reached in and patted around. After a moment, her expression became quizzical and the patting more determined. Finally her hand hit something that crinkled. She flipped over to investigate. Then she shrieked. She began making yakking noises similar to those Magnificat had made immediately before discharging a hairball, and bolted from the room.
John raised himself on his elbow and looked in the drawer. Everything in it had been placed in individual Ziploc bags and sorted by size against the back.
John flopped back on the bed. His retinas hurt just from thinking about Fran opening the drawer and realizing what she had found. He could picture it so clearly: smug in her discovery; enjoying her shocked outrage as she cleaned, bagged, and sorted; her prurient delight in imagining their reaction when they discovered what she had done. John could only imagine how Amanda felt. In fact, he could hear how Amanda felt. She spent ten minutes in the bathroom wracked by dry heaves. By the time she returned
to bed, the sex toys and lubricant were buried deep in the downstairs trash and the candles extinguished.
“You okay?” he asked.
“No,” she said, sliding into bed and under John’s arm. She was sniffling, either from crying or because she was congested from hanging her head over the toilet. “She probably expects me to thank her for that, along with her stupid antimacassars.”
John stroked her hair, smoothing it down her back. “Yes, I expect she does.”
——
Ariel’s wedding did not seem at all as though it had been thrown together at the last moment. In fact, it looked rather as though Amanda’s aunt and first cousin had been planning this moment for every second of Ariel’s thirty-three years on this earth. John looked in astonishment at the bushels of flowers and ribbons, the swags of tulle that connected the pews on the aisle.
He and Amanda had arrived minutes before the ceremony started, stifling giggles over a sign they had just passed. (GUNS ’N’ WAFFLES, it had read. John said, “Sounds like a Ma and Pa operation, doesn’t it?” and Amanda had retorted, “Yeah, only in my family, Mom would be responsible for the guns.”)
At the church, they were ushered hastily to their seats. Fran glared briefly in their direction before lifting her chin and turning majestically away. Amanda sighed, all merriment dissipated, and John squeezed her hand.
The ages-old pattern of fallings-out between Amanda and Fran was carefully choreographed: Fran sulked until Amanda broke down and tearfully apologized, at which point Fran folded her to her bosom and blamed everything on John before graciously forgiving him since they were, after all, family. This last was usually accompanied by a direct stare at John that would have caused her to be burned at the stake in previous centuries.
Amanda had never before held out this long—it had been three weeks since the Great Escape—and Fran’s face was nothing short of armored.
Ariel’s tuxedoed groom took his place at the end of the aisle, looking for all the world like a panicked deer. John half expected to see a stream of urine leaking down his leg.
When the procession started, Ariel was preceded by four bridesmaids wearing ill-fitting sea-foam-green dresses. By comparison, Ariel was a vision of loveliness. The combination of waist-length veil and trailing bouquet almost succeeded in hiding the baby bump.
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