by Tom Perrotta
“I wanted it to be traditional, you know? Classic. The gown and the veil and the train, the organ playing, my father walking me to the altar, Gary standing there with a tear rolling down his cheek. I just wanted that dream, those few minutes when everybody who mattered was looking at me and saying, Isn’t she beautiful? Isn’t he the luckiest guy in the world? Is that how it was for you?”
“My wedding was a long time ago,” Laurie said. “All I remember is being really stressed out. You plan for so long, and the actual event never measures up to what you wanted it to be.”
“Maybe it’s better this way,” Meg speculated. “Reality never messed up my wedding.”
“That’s a nice way to think about it.”
“Gary and I fought about the bachelor party. His best man wanted to hire a stripper and I thought that was tacky.”
Laurie nodded and did her best to look interested, though she’d already heard this story several times. Meg didn’t seem to realize she was repeating herself, and Laurie didn’t bother to point it out: This was the mental space in which her friend had chosen to dwell. Laurie herself was more focused on the years when her kids were little, when she had felt so necessary and purposeful, a battery all charged up with love. Every day she used it up, and every night it got miraculously replenished. Nothing had ever been as good as that.
“I just hated the idea,” Meg went on. “A bunch of drunk guys cheering for this pathetic girl who’s probably a drug addict from an abusive home. And then what? Does she actually … service them while the others watch?”
“I don’t know,” Laurie said. “I guess that happens sometimes. Depends on the guys, I guess.”
“Can you imagine?” Meg squinted, as if straining to visualize the scene. “You’re in church, on the biggest day of your life, and here comes your bride, walking down the aisle like a princess dressed in white, and your parents are right over there in the front row, maybe even your grandparents, and all you can think about is the skank who gave you a lap dance the night before. Why would you do that to yourself? Why would you ruin a beautiful moment?”
“People did all sorts of crazy things back then,” Laurie said, as if referring to ancient history, a bygone era barely visible through the mists of time. “They had no idea.”
* * *
Dear Kevin,
By the time you read this, Nora will no longer exist.
Sorry—I guess that sounds more ominous than I meant it to. I just mean that I’ll be leaving Mapleton, heading somewhere else to start a new life as another person. You won’t see me again.
I hope it’s not rude to be telling you this in a letter, instead of face-to-face. But it’s hard enough for me to even do it like this. What I’d really like to do is just dissolve into thin air like the rest of my family, but you deserve better than that (not that people always get what they deserve).
What I want to tell you is: Thanks. I know how hard you tried to make things work with me—how many allowances you made, and how little you got in return. It’s not that I didn’t want to hold up my end—I would have given a lot to have risen to that occasion. But I couldn’t find the strength to make it happen, or maybe just the mechanism. Every minute we were together, I felt like I was wandering in the dark through a strange house, groping for a light switch. And then, whenever I found one and turned it on, the bulb was dead.
I know you wanted to know me, and that you had every right to try. That’s why we get involved with other people, right? Not just for their bodies, but for everything else, too—their dreams and their scars and their stories. Every time we were together, I could feel you holding back, tiptoeing around my privacy, giving me room to guard my secrets. I guess I should thank you for that. For your discretion and compassion—for being a gentleman.
But the thing is, I knew what you wanted to know, and I resented you for it. How’s that for a catch-22? I was mad at you for the questions you didn’t ask, the ones you didn’t ask because you thought that asking them would upset me. But you were biding your time, waiting and hoping, weren’t you?
So let me at least try to give you an answer. I feel like I owe you that much.
We were having a family dinner.
It sounds so quaint when you put it that way, doesn’t it? You imagine everyone together, talking and laughing and enjoying their meal. But it wasn’t like that. Things were tense between me and Doug. I understand now why that was, but at the time it just felt to me like he was distracted by work, not fully present in our life. He was always checking that damn Blackberry, snatching it up every time it buzzed like it might contain a message from God. Of course it wasn’t God, it was just his cute little girlfriend, but either way, it was more interesting to him than his own family. I still kind of hate him for that.
The kids weren’t happy, either. They were rarely happy in the evening. Mornings could be fun in our house, and bedtimes were usually sweet, but dinners were often a trial. Jeremy was cranky because … why? I wish I could tell you. Maybe because it’s hard to be six years old, or maybe because it was hard to be him. Little things made him cry, and his crying over little things irritated his father, who sometimes spoke sharply to him and made Jeremy even more upset. Erin was only four, but she had an instinct for getting under her brother’s skin, pointing out in a matter-of-fact voice that Jeremy was crying again, acting like a little baby, which made him absolutely furious.
I loved them all, okay? My cheating husband, my fragile boy, my sneaky little girl. But I didn’t love my life, not that night. I had worked really hard on the meal—it was this Moroccan chicken recipe I’d found in a magazine—and nobody cared. Doug thought the breasts were a little dry, Jeremy wasn’t hungry, blah blah blah. It was just a crappy night, that’s all.
And then Erin spilled her apple juice. No big deal, except that she’d made a big fuss about drinking from a cup without a top, even though I told her it was a bad idea. So what, right? It happens. I wasn’t one of those parents who gets all upset about something like that. But that night I was. I said, “Damn it, Erin, what did I tell you!” And then she started to cry.
I looked at Doug, waiting for him to get up and get some paper towels, but he didn’t move. He just smiled at me like none of this had anything to do with him, like he was floating above it all on some superior plane of existence. So of course I had to do it. I got up and went into the kitchen.
How long was I there? Thirty seconds, maybe? I gathered a handful of towels, winding them off the roll, wondering if I’d taken enough sheets, or had I possibly taken too many, because I didn’t want to make a second trip but didn’t want to be wasteful, either. I remember being conscious of the chaos I’d left behind, feeling relieved to be away from it, but also resentful and overburdened and unappreciated. I think maybe I closed my eyes, let my mind go blank for a second or two. That was when it must have happened. I remember noticing that the crying had stopped, that the house felt suddenly peaceful.
So what do you think I did when I got back to the dining room and found them gone? Do you think I screamed or cried or fainted? Or do you think I wiped up the spill, because the puddle was spreading across the table and would soon start dripping onto the floor?
You know what I did, Kevin.
I wiped up the fucking apple juice and then I went back into the kitchen, put the soggy paper towels in the garbage can, and rinsed my hands under the faucet. After I dried them, I went back to the dining room and took another look at the empty table, the plates and the glasses and the uneaten food. The vacant chairs. I really don’t know what happened after that. It’s like my memory just stops there and picks up a few weeks later.
Would it have helped if I told you this story in Florida? Or maybe on Valentine’s Day? Would you have felt like you knew me better? You could have told me what I already think I know—that the crying and the spilled juice aren’t really that important, that all parents get stressed out and angry and wish for a little peace and quiet. It’s not the same as wishing f
or the people you love to be gone forever.
But what if it is, Kevin? Then what?
I wish you every happiness. You were good to me, but I was beyond repair. I really did like it when you danced with me.
Love,
N
* * *
GRgrl405 (10:15:42 P.M.): how r u?
Jillpill123 (10:15:50 P.M.): just chillin. u?
GRgrl405 (10:15:57 P.M.): thinking bout u (:
Jillpill123 (10:16:04 P.M.): me 2 (:
GRgrl405 (10:16:11 P.M.): u shld come 4 a visit
Jillpill123 (10:16:23 P.M.): idk …
GRgrl405 (10:16:31 P.M.): ull like it here
Jillpill123 (10:16:47 P.M.): what wld we do?
GRgrl405 (10:16:56 P.M.): sleepover (:
Jillpill123 (10:17:07 P.M.): ???!
GRgrl405 (10:17:16 P.M.): just a night or 2—c what u think
Jillpill123 (10:17:29 P.M.): what wd i tell my dad?
GRgrl405 (10:17:36 P.M.): yr call
Jillpill123 (10:17:55 P.M.): ill think about it
GRgrl405 (10:18:08 P.M.): no pressure when ur ready
Jillpill123 (10:18:22 P.M.): im scared
GRgrl405 (10:18:29 P.M.): its ok 2 b scared
Jillpill123 (10:18:52 P.M.): maybe next week?
GRgrl405 (10:18:58 P.M.): that wd be perfect (:
I’M GLAD YOU’RE HERE
TOM WAS TELLING CHRISTINE ABOUT Mapleton as he drove, trying to sell her on the idea of an extended visit with his family, rather than an overnight stopover on the way to Ohio.
“It’s a pretty big house,” he said. “We could stay in my old room for as long as we want. I’m sure my father and sister would be happy to help with the baby.”
This was a bit presumptuous, since his father and sister didn’t even know he was on the way, let alone that he had company. He’d meant to give them a heads-up, but things had been pretty chaotic in the past few days; he figured it made more sense to play it by ear, keep his options open until they got within striking distance. The last thing he wanted to do was get his father’s hopes up and then disappoint him, as he had so many times in the past.
“It’s really nice there in the summer. There’s a big park a couple blocks away, and a lake where you can go swimming. One of my friends has a hot tub in his yard. And there’s a pretty good Indian restaurant downtown.”
He was improvising now, not sure if she was even listening. This side trip to Mapleton was a Hail Mary on his part, a way to buy a little more time with Christine and the baby before they drifted out of his life.
“I just wish my mother was still there. She’s the one who really—”
The baby let out a wail from her bucket in the backseat. She was a tiny thing, barely a week old, and didn’t have a lot of lung power. All she could produce was a strained little mewling sound, but Tom was amazed by how viscerally it affected him, jangling his nerve endings, filling him with a sense of urgency just short of total panic. All he could do was glance at her scrunched, angry face in the rearview mirror and plead with her in a syrupy voice that was already starting to feel like a second language.
“It’s okay, little one. Nothing to worry about. Just be patient, sweet pea. Everything’s copacetic. You go back to sleep now, okay?”
He pressed on the gas pedal and was startled by the engine’s eager response, the heroic leap of the speedometer needle. The car would’ve been happy to go even faster, but he eased off, knowing he couldn’t afford to get pulled over in a BMW that was either borrowed or stolen, depending on how the Falks chose to look at it.
“I think it’s about ten miles to the next rest area,” he said. “Did you see the sign a while back?”
Christine didn’t respond. She seemed almost catatonic in the passenger seat, sitting with her feet up and her knees tucked beneath her chin, staring straight ahead with a disconcertingly placid expression. She’d been like this the whole way, acting as though the infant in the backseat were a hitchhiker Tom had picked up, an unwelcome guest with absolutely no claim on her attention.
“Don’t cry, honey bun,” he called over his shoulder. “I know you’re hungry. We’re gonna get you a baba, okay?”
Amazingly, the baby seemed to understand. She released a few more sobs—soft, hiccupy whimpers that sounded more like aftershocks than actual protests—and then fell back asleep. Tom glanced at Christine, hoping for a smile, or even just a nod of acknowledgment, but she seemed just as oblivious to the quiet as she’d been to the noise.
“A nice big baba,” he murmured, more to himself than his passengers.
* * *
CHRISTINE’S INABILITY to connect with the baby had begun to frighten him. She still hadn’t given the child a name, rarely spoke to her, never touched her, and avoided looking at her whenever possible. Before leaving the hospital, she’d gotten a shot that stopped her from lactating, and since then she had been more than happy to let Tom handle all the feeding, changing, and bathing duties.
He couldn’t blame her for feeling a little shell-shocked; he was still a little shell-shocked himself. Everything had fallen apart so quickly after Mr. Gilchrest’s guilty plea and humiliating confession, in which he publicly outed himself as a serial rapist of teenage girls and begged for forgiveness from his “real wife,” who he claimed was the only woman he’d ever loved. Furious at his betrayal, Christine had gone into labor the very next day, shrieking in agony at the first contraction, demanding that she be taken to the hospital and given the strongest drugs available. The Falks were too demoralized to object; even they seemed to understand that they’d reached the end of the road, that the prophecies that had sustained them were nothing but pipe dreams.
Tom stayed with Christine throughout the nine-hour labor, holding her hand while she drifted in and out of a drug-induced delirium, cursing the father of her child so bitterly that even the delivery room nurses were impressed. He watched in amazement as the baby squirted into the world, fists clenched, puffy eyes glued shut, her jet-black hair plastered with blood and other murky fluids. The doctor let Tom cut the cord, then placed the child in his arms, as if she belonged to him.
“This is your daughter,” he told Christine, offering the naked, squirmy bundle like a gift. “Say hi to your little girl.”
“Go away,” she told him, turning her head to keep from looking at the Miracle Child who no longer seemed like such a miracle. “Get it away from me.”
They returned to the Falks’ the following afternoon, only to find Terrence and Marcella gone. There was a note on the kitchen table—Hope it went okay. We’re out of town until Monday. Please be gone when we return!—along with an envelope containing a thousand dollars in cash.
“What are we gonna do?” he asked.
Christine didn’t have to think for long.
“I should go home,” she said. “Back to Ohio.”
“Really?”
“Where else can I go?”
“We’ll figure something out.”
“No,” she said. “I need to go home.”
They stayed at the Falks’ for four more days, during which Christine did almost nothing but sleep. That whole time, while he was changing diapers and mixing formula and stumbling around the dark house in the middle of the night, Tom kept waiting for her to wake up and tell him what he already knew, which was that it was all okay, that everything had actually worked out for the best. They were a little family now, free to love one another and do as they pleased. They could go barefoot together, a band of happy nomads, drifting with the wind. But it hadn’t happened yet, and there weren’t that many miles between here and Ohio.
* * *
TOM WAS aware of the fact that he wasn’t thinking clearly. He was too exhausted for sober reflection, too focused on the baby’s bottomless needs, and his fear of losing Christine. But he knew he needed to prepare himself for the ordeal of going back home, the questions that would arise when he pulled up in front of his father’s house in a German luxury sedan he didn’
t own, with a bullseye on his forehead, accompanied by a severely depressed girl he’d never mentioned and a baby that wasn’t his. There was going to be a lot of explaining to do.
“Listen,” he said, slowing down as they approached the entrance to the rest area. “I hate to keep bugging you about this, but you really need to give the baby a name.”
She nodded vaguely, not really agreeing, just letting him know she was listening. They headed up the access ramp to the main parking lot.
“It’s weird, you know? She’s almost a week old. What am I supposed to say to my dad? This is my friend, Christine, and this is her nameless baby?”
Traffic had been light on the highway, but the rest area was packed, as if the whole world had decided to pee at the same time. They got stuck in a slow parade, no one pulling in unless someone else pulled out.
“It’s not that big a deal,” he went on. “Just think of a flower or a bird or a month. Call her Rose or Robin or Iris or April or whatever. Anything is better than nothing.”
He waited for a Camry to back out, then slipped into the space it had vacated. He put the car into park but didn’t shut off the engine. Christine turned to look at him. There was a maroon-and-gold bullseye on her forehead—it matched his own and the baby’s—that Tom had painted on in the morning, right before they left Cambridge. It was like a team insignia, he thought, a mark of tribal belonging. Christine’s face was pale and blank below it, but it seemed to be emitting a painful radiance, reflecting back the love he was beaming in her direction, the love she refused to absorb.
“Why don’t you choose,” she told him. “It really doesn’t matter to me.”
* * *
KEVIN CHECKED his phone. It was 5:08; he needed to grab something to eat, change into his uniform, and get to the softball field by six. It was doable, but only if Aimee left for work in the next few minutes.
The sun was low and hot, blazing through the treetops. He was parked near the closed end of the cul-de-sac, four doors down from his own house, facing into the glare. Not ideal, but the best he could do under the circumstances, the only vantage point in Lovell Terrace that allowed him to keep tabs on his front door without being immediately visible to anyone entering or leaving the house.
