by Joy Fielding
Silly me, Val acknowledged, reluctantly dismissing her erstwhile fantasies of mother-daughter bonding. Brianne had said barely two words to her since they’d left Brooklyn, spending almost all her time on that damn BlackBerry. Had Val really thought she might be able to mitigate Jennifer’s influence on her daughter, at least a little, by going head-to-head with her? She may be younger and prettier, but I’m smarter and a much better driver. Was she seeking to remind the other woman that even though she might have taken her place in Evan’s heart, this would never be the case with his only child? I’m still Brianne’s mother. No one can take that away from me.
“I still can’t believe we’re doing this,” James remarked from the backseat, glancing out his side window at the passing panorama of woodlands, meadows, and streams, as the car continued along Route 9N toward Prospect Mountain.
“What are you complaining about now?” Melissa asked from the other side of the car. “Can’t you just enjoy the scenery?”
“The only scenery I like is on a Broadway stage.”
“So picture Julie Andrews coming up over that ridge singing ‘The hills are alive …’ ”
“Please … that was in the movie. It was Mary Martin who originated the role on Broadway. Julie, sweet though she may be, doesn’t compare to Mary.”
“That had to be, what, fifty years ago?” Melissa reminded him. “You weren’t even born then.”
“So what? My grandmother attended the premiere, and she told me it was spectacular.”
“It’s spectacular here, too, if you’d give it a chance,” Val interrupted, again glancing over at Brianne. “Nature at its most breathtaking.”
“I hate nature,” James said. “It makes me nervous.”
Brianne laughed.
So, she is listening, Val thought.
“You laugh, but there’s something very unnatural about it,” James said. Now everybody laughed.
Everyone except Jennifer.
What does she think of all this? Val wondered, deciding that the poor woman probably didn’t know what hit her. She looks as if she’s about to burst into tears, Val thought, almost feeling sorry for her. Maybe that was the real reason she’d agreed to act as chauffeur—to stick it to her husband’s young lover.
It couldn’t have escaped Jennifer’s radar that it was Val whom Evan had called, and not her, that he hadn’t even bothered to check with her first, and that he’d left it to Val to spring the change in plans on her as a fait accompli. What must she be thinking?
“Look at that gorgeous waterfall,” Melissa suddenly exclaimed. “You don’t get that in Manhattan.”
“And poison ivy and mosquitoes. You don’t get those in Manhattan, either,” James said.
“Oh, my God. Is that a real deer?” Brianne asked with surprising enthusiasm, pointing one out at the side of the road.
Val resisted the impulse to reach over and hug her daughter.
“Yuck,” James said. “Deer ticks. Hello? Lyme disease, anyone? Please tell me this isn’t happening.”
My sentiments exactly, thought Jennifer from her cramped position in the backseat between James and Melissa. She was still trying to figure out how what had originally been intended as a weekend getaway with her fiancé and his daughter, designed for the express purpose of bringing them closer together, had turned into an alarming free-for-all involving her fiancé’s about-to-be ex-wife and her two decidedly weird friends.
It doesn’t bode well, she thought in her father’s voice.
“It doesn’t bode well,” he’d told her this morning when she’d dropped by his apartment in Queens to tell him she was going away for a three-day weekend with her fiancé and his daughter.
She never should have told her father that Evan was still legally married, although she really hadn’t given the matter serious thought. She certainly hadn’t been expecting a response. They’d been sitting in the hot, musty stillness of his run-down, third-floor apartment for what felt like hours but was likely closer to fifteen minutes at most. Her father disliked both noise and light, so the one-bedroom apartment was dark and the air conditioner that was jammed into a small front window turned off, despite the oppressive summer heat. Jennifer had insisted on opening a window, but the results were negligible. There was no breeze, no relief. Her father didn’t seem to notice or care. If he did, he didn’t let on. He hadn’t spoken more than a dozen sentences since her arrival.
“Cameron and Andrew got a new car,” he’d said, offering up his dry cheek to be kissed, his own lips remaining stubbornly closed.
“So I hear. Have you seen it?”
Her father returned to the shabby, rust-colored wing chair in the corner of the living room, across from the small TV that was always on and tuned to Fox News. His white shirt was spotted with old food stains, as was his maroon-colored tie. Her father always insisted on wearing a tie. As a child, Jennifer had sometimes wondered if he wore one to bed. Even after he’d been forced to retire from his job as manager for a canned goods supply company, he’d continued to wear a tie every day. At first it made him look dignified. Now it made him look pathetic.
Jennifer noted that the fly of his heavy wool trousers was only halfway done up. She didn’t want to contemplate the cause of the dark stains to either side of the zipper.
The question went unanswered, her father’s attention captured by the televised image of two body bags being removed from a remote cabin in the woods, surrounded by a cadre of solemn-faced police officers. “A few new details emerging on those grisly murders in the Berkshires,” an accompanying voice announced, with no small degree of enthusiasm.
Jennifer walked over to the television and lowered the volume. Her father stared vacantly into space, said nothing.
“Cameron and Andrew got a new car,” he remarked a few minutes later.
“Good for them. I don’t suppose they’ve stopped by to take you for a ride in that new car, have they?”
“Cameron’s very busy.”
“Really? Doing what?” Having her hair straightened? Having her teeth whitened? Shopping for her fall wardrobe? Jennifer thought, but refrained from saying. “Did you have breakfast, Dad? Do you want some coffee or some toast?”
Her father shook his head. “Cameron and Andrew got a new car,” he said moments later.
“Well, since you asked,” Jennifer said, walking toward the window and gulping at the stale air, staring down at the old-fashioned, black wrought-iron fences lining the front yards of the small houses across the street, “my job is going great. I got a promotion and a new title. I’m now officially an account supervisor, which means I’ll be getting a raise. Not a big one, mind you. But still, every bit helps. I know,” she said before her father could interrupt. “Cameron and Andrew got a new car.”
Her father smiled, his first smile since she’d come over.
“So did I, incidentally. That little silver number about two doors down. See?” She pointed toward it. Her father made no move to get out of his chair. “Evan knows this guy who owns a dealership. He got me this really great deal. Anyway,” Jennifer continued when her father failed to respond, “I just stopped by to tell you that I’m going away for a few days. To the Adirondacks with Evan and his daughter. Dad, have you heard anything I’ve said?”
Her father stared at her blankly.
“I said I’m going to the Adirondacks with Evan and his daughter.”
“The Adirondacks, of course.”
“Evan is my fiancé. You remember I told you about Evan?”
“Cameron has a lovely diamond ring,” he added, pointedly glancing at the empty third finger of Jennifer’s left hand.
“Yes, she does.” And a lovely wedding band and a lovely husband and two lovely children and an even lovelier nanny to look after them because we all know how busy lovely Cameron is. “I’m sure Evan will get me a ring after his divorce is final.”
“His divorce?”
“It’ll be final next month.”
“He has a
wife?”
“Not anymore. He left her …”
“For you?”
It was Jennifer’s turn to say nothing.
Now her father looked angry. He began to shake his head and tap his feet on the scratched hardwood floor, a sure sign he was becoming agitated. “It doesn’t bode well,” he said, beginning to rock back and forth in his chair. “If he cheated on his wife, he’ll cheat on you. I’m a man. I know.”
Except what did her father know anymore? Jennifer wondered now. Early onset Alzheimer’s had robbed him of most of his faculties, and in those increasingly rare moments when he was lucid these days, his thoughts were always focused on Cameron.
Her sister. His firstborn.
His clear favorite.
Even though she rarely visited. Even though it was Jennifer who’d borne the brunt of looking after him since their mother had died two years earlier.
“I don’t know if I can just drop everything and drive into Queens just because you’ve decided to go on a ‘dirty weekend,’ ” Cameron had said on the phone the other night.
“It’s hardly a ‘dirty weekend.’ Evan’s daughter will be with us.”
“Whatever.”
“Look, it’s only for three days.”
“Right. Dad will be fine for three days.”
“Not if he forgets to eat.”
“He won’t forget to eat.”
“He forgets everything else.”
“You’re being very dramatic,” Cameron had proclaimed as Jennifer pictured her older sister tucking her newly straightened blond hair behind her right ear.
“And you’re being very selfish,” Jennifer shot back.
“I’m not the one who’s being selfish here.”
“What? You’re saying I’m being selfish?”
“I don’t know. Which one of us is married with two children under the age of four? Which one of us has a great job in the city and drives a new sports car?”
“It’s two years old, I’m just leasing it, and Evan is friends with the man who owns the dealership.”
“Which reminds me, which one of us was selfish enough to go after a married man with absolutely no thought to his existing family?”
“Whoa. That was really a low blow.”
“I’m just saying …”
“And I’m just asking …”
“I know what you’re asking. You don’t have to say it again.”
“And?”
“I’ll phone him every day.”
“Not good enough.”
“I don’t understand why not.”
“And I don’t understand the problem,” Jennifer said, trying not to sound as exasperated as she felt. Why did everything always have to be such a big deal? Why couldn’t at least one thing in her life be easy?
“It’s just hard for me,” Cameron said after a lengthy pause during which Jennifer wondered if she’d hung up.
“What is?”
“Seeing him like this.”
“What—you think I like it?”
“I think you’re just better at dealing with it,” Cameron said, paying her the first compliment Jennifer could ever remember getting from her sister. “I guess I’m just more sensitive than you are,” she added, immediately taking it back.
“Okay, listen. We’re going around in circles,” Jennifer said. “The fact is that I’m going away for three days and our father will be alone. It’s hot; he refuses to use the air conditioner; he may or may not remember to eat. Somebody has to check in on him. In person.”
“Fine. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Fine,” Jennifer conceded, deciding it was the best she could hope for.
Fine, she thought now, banning further thoughts of her sister from her mind with a shake of her head.
“Careful with that,” James warned, brushing several strands of Jennifer’s hair away from his face with a dramatic flick of his hand. “That hair’s a lethal weapon.”
“Sorry.”
“And speaking of lethal,” James said, lowering his voice to achieve proper dramatic effect, “can you turn the radio up a bit?”
“More details with regard to the shocking murders in the Berkshires last week,” a male voice was announcing.
“Those poor people,” Melissa said. “Can you imagine getting to be almost ninety, only to be murdered?”
“Police are refusing to confirm that one of the weapons used to slay Marie and William Carteris was the same weapon used to kill another elderly couple, Arlene and Frank Wall, in their cottage in Plainfield the previous week. They also insist there is nothing to connect these murders to that of Brian Grierson, a hiker whose dismembered torso was discovered in a shallow grave several miles from the Walls’ cottage a few days later,” the announcer continued.
“Hello? Is anybody hearing this?” James asked. “Mountains, murders, dismemberment. What are we doing here, people?”
“This is the Adirondacks, not the Berkshires,” Val reminded him with a chuckle.
“Same difference.”
“Different states.”
“Neighboring states,” James pointed out. “Look. The murders all took place in isolated spots in the middle of nowhere, that’s all I’m saying.”
“The Lodge at Shadow Creek is hardly the middle of nowhere,” Jennifer said, irritation clinging to each word. What am I doing with these people? she wondered again. Why did I agree to spend almost five hours in a car with Evan’s ex-wife and her crazy friends, having to listen to talk about murder and dismemberment? Why didn’t I just say no?
But even as she was asking herself these questions, she’d already conceded the answer.
She was here for the same reason Valerie was.
Different women, same rationale.
The rationale even had a name.
It was Evan.
“If he cheated on his wife,” she heard her father say, “he’ll cheat on you.”
With his soon-to-be former wife?
Was Valerie still harboring hopes of getting back together with Evan?
Was Evan encouraging those hopes?
And if so, why?
“For God’s sake, Brianne,” Val said, interrupting Jennifer’s thoughts. “Who are you texting now?”
“Nobody.” Brianne made an exaggerated show of returning her BlackBerry to her purse. “I’m going to sleep,” she announced to the rest of the car’s inhabitants. “Wake me up when we get there.”
Great, Val thought, letting go of whatever hopes remained for some quality time with her daughter.
“And try to keep the hysteria to a minimum,” Brianne added, with a glance over her shoulder at James.
In response, James burst into song. “ ‘The hills are alive,’ ” he sang out, Val and Melissa quickly joining in.
I’m in hell, Jennifer thought sullenly, as they continued along Route 9 toward Prospect Mountain.
FIVE
AS SOON AS SHE closed her eyes, she saw the blood.
The sheer volume of it had surprised her, along with the way it had literally shot from its source in one great, exuberant whoosh. Also a surprise was its rich, bright red color. Her lips creased into a small, almost imperceptible smile. She always expected the blood to be browner, duller, less vibrant.
Vibrant, she repeated silently, chewing on the word as if it were gum. Exuberant.
Funny words to describe death.
When she was younger and she used to cut herself with a razor, she remembered watching with fascination as the rivulets of blood streamed down her thighs and calves, relief quickly overtaking the initial pain of her self-inflicted wounds.
“Doesn’t it hurt?” her friend Molly had once asked.
“No. It feels wonderful,” she’d confided with a deep, satisfied sigh, about to continue, to tell her friend that every slice into her flesh was like scratching an overwhelming itch, that each cut brought with it its own heady rush, like a narcotic, temporarily freeing her soul, releasing the demons lurking just beneath
the surface of her skin. She’d stopped only because of the look of growing horror on Molly’s face. Her friend was incapable of understanding what she felt, she’d realized in that moment. It was pointless to try to explain.
“Does your mother know?” Molly had asked on another occasion.
“Of course not.”
“But there are marks all over your legs.”
“She doesn’t notice.”
“What if she does?”
“I’ll tell her I fell into a bunch of bushes.”
“What if she doesn’t believe you?”
“That’s her problem.”
“I think you should stop,” Molly cautioned before switching to another—safer—topic.
And she did stop, although not because of Molly’s misguided concern or any fear that her mother might find out. She quit for the same reason she quit most of the things she’d once enjoyed—books, hobbies, friends. She got bored.
Besides, she’d found something else that was even better at releasing her inner demons.
She’d met a boy.
A boy who not only understood, but supported and encouraged her darker impulses. Her “uniqueness,” as he liked to say.
The smile widened on her lips. You don’t call someone his age a boy, she decided, even though she wasn’t sure exactly how old he was. Somewhere between twenty and thirty. He was vague about specifics. “What does it matter?” he’d ask. “Age is just a number. It’s irrelevant.” He stopped short of saying, “You’re as young as you feel,” for which she was grateful. It was something she remembered her grandmother saying with irritating frequency.
He was similarly vague about his name. “Call me Ishmael,” he’d said on one occasion, laughing with her at the reference to Moby Dick, a book they’d both loathed in high school. At other times he called himself Jonah or Moses or Elijah. He loved biblical names. Once he’d even told her to call him Jesus, but the name had proved to be something of a deterrent when it came to having sex, so he’d quickly abandoned it. Lately he’d turned to more mundane monikers—Brad, Steve, Michael. “I refuse to be contained by the boundaries imposed on me by others. I am whoever I want to be,” he said, encouraging her to follow suit. “You are your own creation.”
