I’ve been thinking about you all day, he wrote, and my heart melted.
Same here, I texted. Debated saying, I love you, even though he knew already, and kept on painting, with a little more depth, deeper color.
Noah was good for my art. He always had been. I hoped I was good for him. I made him laugh. I knew him in a way that started in the very center of my heart. I had always believed in him, his goodness, his kindness, his talent at what he did. Also, I gave him the chance to save me from a collapsing house and the opportunity to save a dolphin.
I loved him. I loved him. I loved him so much. Small wonder that I was singing as I painted.
* * *
— —
“So, girls,” Mom said. “Sit down.”
Jules and I had been cleaning up after dinner. We’d eaten Caro’s delicious chicken and salsa verde casserole, and Dad had been settled in front of the TV with Pepper.
We sat, exchanging glances. Juliet looked spiffy as always in her chic, tailored clothes. I had paint on the back of my hand and wore stained leggings and a T-shirt with Bill Murray’s face on it. The fact that Oliver and the girls weren’t here struck me as ominous all of a sudden. So did the fact that Caro had stayed.
Shit.
“The news isn’t good,” Mom said. “I’m sorry.”
“What news? Dad’s news?” I asked. “How could it not be good? He’s been doing great!”
“Could you let her talk?” Juliet snapped.
“Yes! Fine! I’m just . . . Go ahead, Mom.”
She glanced at Caro, who gave her a little smile. “Well, girls, your dad’s not progressing, I’m sorry to say,” Mom said. “He’s had two more smaller strokes, and he’s likely to have more.”
I jerked back. “Okay, first of all, when were these other strokes?” I asked. “I think we’d notice. And secondly, he’s talking now! How can they say he’s not progressing?”
Caro covered my hand. “This is hard news, I know, honey.”
“No, it’s not! It’s just wrong news.”
“Calm down, Sadie,” Juliet muttered, and I wanted to bite her.
“He can say a few words, but there’s more weakness on his left side,” Mom went on. Juliet scootched her chair closer and put her arm around her. “So he’ll keep needing care. That’s the long and short of it. Our insurance will cover an aide for when I’m at work, and we’ll figure the rest out as we go along.”
“I think we should look into a nursing home,” Juliet said.
“No! Absolutely not!” I said.
“Mom does eighty-five percent of the work, Sadie. She’s seventy years old.”
“I’m not exactly dead yet,” Mom said.
“You’re getting worn out, Mom.”
“I just sent you two to a spa for a rest!” I said, knowing it was ridiculous.
“Two nights isn’t going to be enough, unless it’s two nights a week, Sadie,” Jules said. She looked at our mother. “I’m worried about you. Insurance would cover—”
“Would cover a shithole, Juliet!”
“Keep your voice down,” she said. “Oliver and I can help.”
“Juliet, you’re starting your own firm, honey. You keep your money. Sadie’s right. This is my responsibility, and with a little help from the visiting nurses and such, your father and I will be okay.”
I glared at my sister. She’d put Dad in a kennel if I let her.
“What?” she snapped. “I don’t see you making plans to stay here permanently. You want Dad cared for, maybe you have to do more than come over and paint and let your dog watch TV with him.”
“That’s not fair. I’ve done everything I can for him. God forbid you interrupt your perfect life—”
“That’s enough, girls,” Caro and Mom said in unison, then smiled at each other. I pressed my lips together and tried not to cry.
“The truth is, you’re both right,” Mom said. “I can’t see putting him into a nursing home when all he needs is . . . well, a keeper. And yes, I’m tired. It hasn’t been easy.”
“In sickness and in health,” I said.
“Exactly,” Mom said.
“Fuck you, Sadie,” Juliet said.
“Wow! Angry much, Jules? You know he’d take care of her if the situation were reversed.”
“You’re an idiot. And you don’t know the half of it.”
“Well, this has been wonderful,” Mom said. “Now, both of you get home. You’re upsetting me.”
“I’m sorry, Mom,” Jules said. “But if she knew . . .”
“If I knew what?”
“How hard it is for our mother,” Jules ground out. “Getting him in and out of bed, showered, shaved, dressed, making sure there’s enough food in the house, paying the bills, working more than a full-time job, checking in on him on her lunch hour or on the app—”
“Mom,” I interrupted. “I know how devoted you are. And I admire you for it. I really do.”
“Well, thanks, now, hon. It’s still time for you both to get on home. Sadie, your dog is curled up with your dad, why don’t you just leave her here tonight? Juliet, honey, I’ll see you for lunch tomorrow. Caro, want to stay for a glass of wine?”
My sister and I were dismissed. We went outside, giving each other plenty of space.
“How’s my car, by the way?” she asked.
“Oh, Jesus. It’s fine. Thank you for being so benevolent and generous, thou perfect human.”
“Good. You can keep it as long as you’re here. And if you wanted to move back forever and be Dad’s caregiver twenty-four seven, I’d give it to you.”
“Okay, I’m leaving now.”
“As you do.”
I sucked in a sharp breath. “Juliet, what do you expect me to say? I have a job and an apartment in the city. I have a second career as a painter, as much as you like to laugh at it. I know you’re used to being the important one in the family, but that doesn’t mean I can magically become a nurse and leave the life I built in the city. Dad and Mom are married. This is part of the territory. Would you want Oliver to stick you in a nursing home?”
“Yes! If it made his life better, you’re damn right I would.”
“And would you stick him in one?”
Ha. I had her there. She looked away, conceding defeat, and I got into the car and backed out of the driveway, heading for Noah’s.
Those doctors were wrong. Dad was clearly getting better. They didn’t spend as much time with him as I did. I mean, seriously. When was the last time they’d even seen him?
I was crying, and crying while driving was not safe. I pulled over and let myself bawl a little. Two more strokes? When? Yes, he’d been a little . . . wandery lately, listing off to the left, but . . . but . . . the idea that I’d never have the old Dad back was intolerable.
Deep breaths. Deep breaths. My father was getting better, and . . . and I didn’t know what else, but that had to be true. It had to be.
I hadn’t been to Noah’s house since I came back. I knew the address well, though; it was his parents’ old house—Mom had told me years ago that the elder Pelletiers had moved to Ottawa, where Noah’s grandmother lived.
The Pelletier home was in one of Stoningham’s quiet little areas, the houses shaded by big maples whose branches wove together above the street as if the trees were holding hands. The sidewalk was pleasantly uneven from their roots.
I ran a hand through my hair and looked at my face in the rearview mirror. Red eyes, blotchy face. Another deep breath. Seeing Noah would make me feel better. He’d put things in perspective.
As you might expect, since both he and his father were carpenters, Noah’s house was lovely. It was white, with a wide front porch, two stories. It had changed quite a bit since I was here: bigger windows, a new front door, the garage resembling a barn now. There was a baby swing
hanging from a branch in the crab apple tree in the front yard.
It was a house for a family, that was for sure. Not like my crooked little place.
I knocked on the door, wishing I’d thought to bring something.
Mickey answered. “Hey! Heard you two got it on last night.”
I couldn’t help a smile. “Wow. He spilled, did he?”
“Well, we agreed that if one of us was in a relationship, the other should know. Well done. He looks very happy. Come on in. He’s giving Marcus a bath.”
The house was beautiful—different from when I was here last, when Noah and I were still hanging on to the threads of our relationship. Back in the day, Mrs. Pelletier would pop out of her study—she’d been a science editor for a news organization—and tell me to help myself to whatever was in the fridge. The floor plan was now open and bright, wide oak planks having replaced the beige carpeting. Ridiculously tidy, with sturdy furniture, and all the beautiful touches you’d expect from a carpenter. Cabinets with glass panes, a beautiful mantelpiece, built-in bookcases.
I followed Mickey toward the kitchen, then jolted to a stop.
There, on the stair landing, was the painting I’d made for him when I was sixteen years old. The one he’d refused to give up for Gillian.
Just a blue sky with soft, golden clouds.
No. There was nothing “just” about it. I hadn’t seen that painting in years, and it hit me. The sky was cerulean, the clouds lit with gold and edged with Noah-red. The sun had been just about to rise that day, and I’d painted the sky from memory, not a photo. I could almost see the clouds drifting past on the soft breeze and hear the birds, feel the damp air of the early morning and smell the muffins baking at Sweetie Pies. I’d ridden my bike out to watch, to the bridge near where I now lived, in fact, and with all that young love in my heart, made this painting for Noah.
It was so beautiful.
“In here,” Mickey called.
I snapped myself out of my reverie and went into the kitchen, which was cobalt blue and white. “Did the photographers just leave?” I asked. “Seriously. What man has a white kitchen?”
“I know. I can’t wait till Marcus starts walking and his grubby little hands turn everything gray. I’ll feel less inferior then. I’m not quite the housekeeper Noah is. When are you going to come over to my place, by the way? Tonight would work, since it’s Noah’s night with the little prince. Hang on, you probably want to nail the carpenter, right? See what I did there?” She laughed. “Don’t scar my kid. Then again, Marcus does sleep through everything. Even that storm yesterday. So if you two were going to fool around—”
“Yeah, okay, let’s change the subject. Speaking of the storm, did Noah tell you about the dolphin?”
“Is that a euphemism for penis or something? Want a beer or some wine or whatever he has?”
“Yes to wine, and no, a real dolphin.” I sat at the kitchen table and told her the story.
“My God! You rock, kid,” she said. “You both do. A fricking dolphin!”
“Thanks. In this case, I’d have to agree with you.” I took a sip of wine. “Where do you live, Mickey?”
“Right next door.”
“Oh, my gosh, how perfect.”
“Yeah. No point in making life harder on the kid, right? So if you two are gonna get married, we should probably have a serious talk, don’t you think?”
“Marriage is not currently being discussed.”
“But you’re gonna get there eventually, right?”
“Uh . . . how long do baths usually take?”
“As long as the baby wants,” Noah said, and there he was, his son in his arms. He smiled at me; my face grew hot. Other parts, too.
“Hi, Marcus,” I mumbled.
“Abwee!” he answered.
“Want to hold him?” Noah said. “He smells good. Now. That was definitely not true half an hour ago.”
“Poop explosion!” Mickey said cheerfully.
I took the little guy. Oh, wow. He did smell good. He was a sturdy baby, and his black hair stood straight up. Dark eyes, like his father.
“How old is he now?” I asked.
“Six months,” the proud parents answered in unison. Like Mom and Caro.
Had my parents ever been like that, so in sync that they finished each other’s sentences? I couldn’t remember.
Marcus yanked my hair. “You’re pretty cute, kid,” I said, untangling the strand from his chubby little fist. “Pretty cute indeed.”
“Well, I’m feeling very third wheel here,” Mickey said. “Should I go?”
“No! No, stay,” I said. “Um, I got an exciting e-mail today. I think I might be having a gallery show in New York. Noah, remember that painting I did for the brownstone people? One of their friends owns a gallery, and he wants to feature me.”
“Holy shit! That’s great!” Mickey said.
“Yeah. It’s funny, it’s actually a gallery you’ve seen, Noah. Way back when.”
“Really.”
It wasn’t a happy and excited word, not the way he used it. “Yep. So I’ll be wicked busy for the next week or so. Painting. More of the same stuff, you know? Those flowers?” For some reason, I was glad to be holding the baby.
Noah took him from me, reading my mind as he usually did. “Mickey, would you mind taking Marcus next door? I’ll come back for him in a little bit.”
“Sure! Glad to. I need to nurse anyway.” She shot me a look. “Maybe see you later? But not if you two are fighting, because I’m on his side. It’s a coparenting loyalty thing.”
“We’re not fighting!” Shit. We were about to fight, weren’t we?
Mickey left, Marcus babbling away.
“So,” Noah said, sitting down across the table from me. “A gallery show. Wow.”
“Yeah. Hasan Sadik. Very, very prestigious.”
“For that flowery porn painting.”
“Well, yeah. I mean, that’s one way of putting it, sure. I think the interior designer called it a huge vagina painting. So I have to make more of the same. That’s what I was doing most of today.”
“How are you gonna work that?”
“Uh . . . what do you mean?”
“Are you moving back to the city?”
“Um . . . I don’t know. I mean, eventually. I have a job there. Teaching. So yeah. I guess so. But the problem is, my father isn’t—”
He threw up his hands. “Are you kidding me?”
“No. Why?”
“Jesus, Sadie! We slept together!”
“I know! I was there! And I’m really happy about that.”
“Are you? Because I’m feeling used all of a sudden.”
I tried a smile. “I think it was a mutual using, pal.”
“I love you, Sadie.”
“I love y—”
“I never stopped. So we spend more than a decade apart, and then you come home and we get back together, and now you’re leaving again? For that same New York bullshit?”
“Okay, for one, it’s not—”
“Your sister is right. You’re unreliable.”
“—bullshit. Noah. It’s what I’ve worked for all my life. And when did Juliet say I was unreliable?”
“Once your father’s situation is settled, you’re done, aren’t you? You’ll go back to the city and maybe come out here to visit a couple times a year.”
“And for two, my father’s situation is a long way from settled.” My eyes filled again at the thought of Dad, but I refused to cry right now.
Noah clenched his jaw and looked out the window. “I have a son now. A family. You can’t pop in and out of our life whenever you feel like it. You have to make a plan, Sadie, and it’s clear I’m not in it, and Jesus Christ, I can’t believe I fell for this again.”
“I think you
missed the part where I said I loved you.”
“And what exactly does that mean?”
“It means exactly what I said! I love you, Noah!”
“Are you gonna stay here? Are you going to marry me?”
“This is hauntingly familiar, you giving me ultimatums and telling me how life should be.”
“Are you going to stay?”
“I don’t know!” I shouted. “Should I? What’s even here for me anymore? Maybe you, if I meet all your criteria? The father who loved me is gone, and according to my mother, he’s not getting better. You have a family without me and you’re just fine with that, you’ve made that clear. My sister and mother are in a club I was never asked to join. I was recently told by my boyfriend that out of all his girlfriends, he was almost sure I was his favorite. I teach school and earn just above the poverty rate and I’m making these fucking couch paintings and somewhere along the line, I seem to have lost my soul, and then I finally get a huge, life-changing chance to show at a dream gallery, and yesterday we sleep together and you tell me you love me, but today you don’t want me. What the hell am I supposed to do?”
I sat back, panting, then drained my wine.
“You’re still with your boyfriend?”
“No! I’m leaving. I’m furious and upset, Noah. Maybe I’ll see you soon, and maybe you’ll be sticking pins in a voodoo doll of me. I have no idea and I don’t care right now. I’m going home to paint.”
“Sadie.” He stood up. “One thing. Your flower painting, the one you did for the brownstone ladies. That’s not you. That’s you pretending to be someone else. That’s a couch painting.”
“Fuck off, Noah.” I slammed the door on my way out. You know. Just in case he missed the point.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Sadie
It was here. The biggest moment of my professional life.
Hasan Sadik had greeted me, kissing me on both cheeks, told his silent and beautiful assistant to get me an espresso (I hated espresso). He had me place my paintings on the waiting easels and now was looking at them, walking slowly past each one, pausing, tilting his head, waiting for them to “talk to me and tell me their story.”
Always the Last to Know Page 34
