Tighter, p.12
Tighter, page 12
Uneasily, I picked up the empty dessert plates, and Milo clicked off the television.
We moved clumsily through the next few minutes, excessively polite to each other as we headed upstairs, where I rinsed the dishes and wiped down the counters. But Milo had gone so quiet that new thoughts collided through me. What if Peter actually had manifested himself through Milo? What if I’d witnessed something, some kind of split-second transmutation, that even Milo himself wasn’t fully aware of?
Milo wasn’t talking. His silence seemed impenetrable, so I didn’t make an attempt at false conversation. We said goodnights and he left. I was still nervously over-tidying the kitchen when Isa came stumbling in, red-eyed and whining sleepily.
“I went down to your room and you weren’t there. I had another nightmare, that I was falling through the sky and I couldn’t—what’s wrong?” Suddenly she was right up in my face. I blinked. “Jamie, are you in one of your trances again?”
“My trances?”
“Sometimes you go away. You’re here but you’re not here.”
“Very funny.” Except I knew all too well what she meant. How, I wondered stupidly, in the thousandth iteration of this thought, would I ever get off these pills? They were making me see things, they’d turned Milo into Peter, but every time another one wore off, all I could think about was getting the next. It would require some act of extreme will or meditation or—
“LIKE RIGHT NOW!” Isa’s hand was flapping in front of my face. “There’s times like right now,” she repeated, more gently, “when I’ll be talking to you, and I know you haven’t heard what I just said.”
Good Lord, what was my problem? Focus, focus. “What did you just say?”
“I asked if you’d make me a milk and honey.”
“Sure.” Capably, my au pair persona re-pinned like a nurse’s hat, I took out a saucepan for the milk. After Isa drank it, I took her upstairs to her bedroom. Although I didn’t want to, I couldn’t leave without checking the fireplace.
More tiles had been chipped out. A few lay broken in the grate. Shivering, I rushed from the room and sped down the hall, nearly tripping over myself, my eyes averted from the portrait of the ghostly children, my hand out to grab the doorknob, not stopping until I’d locked myself safe in my own room.
Where I was too jittery to sleep. I tried a hot shower, my fuzzy socks, the radio tuned softly to classical, and then flipping through my journal, which was an absolute mess. I’d hardly been marking the dates and my thoughts seemed haphazard. My Mother Goose’s Nursery Rhymes was in my top bureau drawer; for the first time, I took it out and flipped through its pages. The illustrations—round-cheeked children in pinafores, with their flower garlands and quaint toys—always used to soothe me, but tonight the words seemed extra ominous. Pop—had the weasel exploded? And what had possessed Dumpty, a man made from raw egg, to scale a wall? The three blind mice reminded me of the portrait children outside my door.
With a shiver, I closed the book and shoved it into the nightstand.
Eventually, I picked up Romeo and Juliet. Peter’s spidery, over-slanted handwriting marked the play with notes like “joy before death?” “no way out but violence, passion, death.” It was pretty clear that Peter saw himself as a dark Romeo, the reckless romantic.
Midway through the second act, I butterflied the play and crept out of bed to the bookcase. Giving in. Justifying it. My back was still throbbing from the jolt my tailbone had taken, riding on the back of Sebastian’s bike last night.
So what if I needed something? It was just an itty-bitty little something.
I had a good handful of pills left. And then what? Did Connie have a stash? Would over-the-counters work? I couldn’t think that far ahead. I popped one, praying that it was just your basic painkiller.
Crawling to bed, I returned to Peter’s notes in the play, pausing to read the back inside cover.
We live with minimal awareness of why we choose certain paths. We are predetermined but we can’t escape ourselves—our families—our characters—our destiny.
It was a bleak vision, especially as I applied it to myself. What if Uncle Jim’s and Hank’s choices weren’t choices at all? What if they were destined from birth to meet their troubled ends? Did they know my future, my fate, before I did? Was that why they persisted? Would they hunt me down at my most vulnerable moment, the moment before The Moment, forever?
An ornately gilt-framed oil painting hung above the fireplace. I stared at it as I had nearly every night before. A European city street at twilight. Narrow buildings hunkered over the cobblestone. Red flowers on the balcony splashed its only spot of color. I imagined Juliet standing there, delirious with longing and wishing that her beloved wasn’t
The word switched on like the click of a flashlight.
Moments later, swift on my toes, my mouth pressed tense every time the floorboards gave, I found my way into Miles McRae’s darkened den, where I turned on the computer and logged in as PQUINT.
PASSWORD?
MONTAGUE.
And then, like a key to the treasure room, Peter Quint’s home page opened.
He’d died almost a year ago, but here on his Facebook, he continued to exist in cyberheaven, still visited by loved ones who had plastered his wall with photographs of lilies and wreaths, and notes and passages from the Bible. I skimmed them all, and then clicked into his stash of private messages, over two hundred of them unread. Probably more tributes, so I didn’t bother to read them, but instead scrolled all the way back to the oldest messages, the read messages, from when Peter was alive.
Here was one from Sebastian, referring to an incident where Pete had let his temper get the best of him. Sebastian’s note was characteristically forgiving and teasing: u CANT be the guy in the bar with the gut throwing punches and busting walls cuz dude we all know that guy and he sux.
Another friend, Greg Doonan, had sent notes on fishing conditions off the Sound. Another guy sent photos of his dog pretending to drink beer. I didn’t know any of these kids. They were Pete’s school friends, his fishing buddies. I began to pick up the messages from Jessie, though there was never anything particularly revealing from her, either. She’d been as caught up as anybody in the day-to-day of life on Bly, though I did sense her daring in the messages, especially the fascination with flying in her father’s prop plane—which, in one message, Jessie had described to Peter as better than sex, am I rite? jk! kinda!
Of course it was wrong of me to read them. No matter that he had died, I was still intruding in on Peter’s private memories, and his most intimate relationship. My entire body was taut with the transgression, the strange dip-diving fear, absorbing all of this information that didn’t belong to me.
Staring at the albums, I could hear the stick in my own breath, feel the chalky swallow after I’d forgotten to swallow. Jessie loved the camera, she vamped and pouted for it. Her figure was curvier, her hair wilder, her features more lush and ripe than mine. In one picture, she was showing off her silver tongue piercing; in another, I caught a glimpse of a blue butterfly tattoo at her hip bone. But now I could see the resemblance, through the prism of all her angles and expressions. Jessie Feathering looked more like me than my own sister—except that I was the diminished version, the ghost of her.
I clicked open Pete’s last read message, from Jessie, that had been sent the day before the accident.
Way to be a jerk not showing at green hill today. I’m pretty sure we had plans, y? What is it about Pendleton that makes you come back from there being such a tubocharge jackass? gets boring, Chippy & i don’t know what you think you know, or what Isa told you, but take it with a grain of salt. Isa can be freakishly imaginative.
And as for what She told you—that’s such a joke I wont even dignify it with a defense.
P: I luv you & I think we’re great together. But not when ur in a mood, not when ur an insecure paranoid. If you want me in ur life, then roll with my choices. What’s left to say? Drop me a line if you feel like it.
I sat there utterly still in the darkness and frowned into the puzzle of the text.
What had Isa said? Pendleton, where was that? She, who was She?
Too many questions and nowhere to find answers. I opened a new window, typed in a search and got parks, towns, shops and even a racetrack named Pendleton.
When I typed in JESSIE FEATHERING, I found the same old AP news brief all about the crash, plus some local coverage of the funerals, and then a tribute site that had been set up at Jessie’s school. A local link went to a photo, a sweetly smiling Jessie, younger than I’d ever seen her, and names—Jessie was the daughter of Patricia and John, Peter was the son of August and Katherine—but I knew most of these details already, from previous searching.
I returned to Jessie’s message. In my original picture of Peter and Jessie, they’d been two star-crossed opposites whose relationship had stirred the conflict between Bly’s lifers and locals. What everyone had seemed to agree on, however, was that the two of them were deeply in love with each other. Or (at the very least) deeply infatuated.
And yet this offhand, prickly, irritated note, written by Jessie only the day before they died, didn’t fit the picture of soul mates. This note spelled trouble between them.
NINETEEN
“I’m biking into town to pick up a prescription at the pharmacy,” I said. “Back in an hour or so. I’ll have my cell.”
Connie and Isa nodded. They were in round six of a Crazy Eights–athon. “And you’ll need to pick up a can of thtainleth thteel thcrubber,” said Connie, who never liked me to go anywhere without carting back a domestic offering.
Not a question = no answer. Please. Get your own scrubber, Funsicle.
Miles’s Trek bike was in the garage. Why hadn’t I thought to use it before? Before I’d thrown my back, I’d always relied on a long run to unwind whatever pressure had wrung knots in my day. Sweat off my problems, exhaust my mind as I burned out my body. A bike might be easier on me, physically—only how long since I’d taken out a bicycle?
Once upon a time, bikes were Mags and my main escape route: to the movies or Friendly’s or cutting across the highway to Walgreens, where we wasted hours in the Crafts aisle, pondering the purchase of stuff we didn’t need. But those days got junked with our Schwinns the second we passed our driving tests.
Hitting the open road was an old joy. I’d set a bad precedent that first morning, using Miles’s sports car. Isa didn’t like riding her bike—outside of diving class, she was a bit of a house cat, and she definitely saw riding in her dad’s awesome convertible as the height of summertime chic.
Maybe getting her onto a bike, motivating us both into some kind of daily exercise routine, would be my next au pair project. We could use it.
Bush Road was serene, with a hush of wind in the grasses tossed wild along its borders. Hardly any cars passed me on my way. It wasn’t until I wheeled through the wrought-iron gate and leaned the bike against a massive oak that I felt a tug of anxiety. I’d found the address in the Bly directory, but I hadn’t called ahead. At the time, it had seemed too formal a thing to do.
Now I wasn’t sure.
Like so many of the island’s residences, 58 Shoal was imposing—a starchy Victorian with bay windows, protected by a stately gathering of beeches and silver lindens. I wanted to turn back. But I kept on going, hands balled in my shorts pockets, force-marching myself right up to the front door.
It had been nearly a week since I’d found Pete’s Facebook. I’d tried to forget about it. I’d focused on Isa. Yesterday, I’d broken the routine of the beach and pool by taking her out shopping in Little Bly’s tiny, arty center of town. Isa always blossomed under my full attention, which made me happy—especially since it also meant I’d hardly had to interact with Milo at all.
But then last night, I found myself wide awake and restless and, eventually, floating online again. Mulling over that last direct message from Jessie. So many secrets seemed to be encoded inside—like the references to Peter’s not showing up at the beach, her halfhearted defense against Isa’s story, and Pendleton and that maddeningly mysterious She. Plus there were other thistly details: Jessie’s using the word luv instead of love, the offhand assurance that she and Pete were “great together” when he wasn’t “an insecure paranoid” and the casual command that he should roll with her choices.
What choices? What was Jessie really saying here?
Also, the message wasn’t signed with Jessie’s usual x’s and o’s.
Finally, while she was clearly irritated with Pete for bailing on their plan to meet up at Green Hill, Jessie made no references to plans for the next day. Almost as if she couldn’t care less what he was up to. All in all, not very girlfriendy.
Or maybe I’d overanalyzed it. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d read too much into something.
A uniformed housekeeper answered on my first press of the bell.
“Hi.” I cleared the shyness from my throat. “I’m looking for Emory? I work over at Skylark. For the McRae family?” My own name seemed irrelevant.
“Emory’s here, but she’s napping,” said the housekeeper, with a very Connie-ish lilt of disdain in her voice.
“Oh.” I raised my eyebrows and drew up my lips in a reaction of mild astonishment, an expression Connie herself would have used—napping? how lazy—and the housekeeper’s face shifted with agreement.
“She really should be awake by now,” she said. “Why don’t you go on up and tap? Last door on the left.”
“Thanks.” I moved past her, into what seemed a particularly female kind of quiet, probably because of all the pastel fabrics and delicate furniture. Up the stairs and down the hall to her door, where I knocked softly.
“Noooo …” Emory groaned. “Go away, Mom. Thought you were at a flower show.”
“It’s Jamie Atkinson.”
Silence. Rustling. Then the door cracked open. Had she been crying? The skin beneath her tear-bright eyes was pink, but her face was tight with suspicion.
“Jamie. Nobody sent you here, did they?”
“Me? No.”
“Like Sebastian? To cheer me up? Because I don’t want any cheering up right now.”
“I promise, I wasn’t sent. But I can come back another time, if you want.”
Whatever flimsy excuse I’d planned for why I’d dropped in on her, Emory didn’t seem to need a reason. In fact, it struck me, as she opened the door wider for me to step through, that maybe she’d been hoping for company—anyone’s, even mine. “My room’s a pit these days,” she semi-apologized, with a sniffle.
“Don’t worry about it—mine always is.” I stepped in. Her room looked like it had been decorated by a messy mermaid. Lots of shiny purple and white wicker, conch shells and open fans. I picked up a desk photo of her and Jessie, arms slung over each other’s shoulders, both with tangled hair and smiles, caught in a moment of uncomplicated summertime radiance.
“Our last picture,” said Emory. “For months, it was too hard to look at. I only put it up again last week.”
Suddenly I was tremendously envious of that picture. Its beachy innocence needled at me. When was the last time I’d felt so carefree? When had Mags and I last enjoyed a laugh? I’d been sulking and depressed all spring, without the nerve to tell her—I’d made up a hundred different reasons (the twins graduating, my back injury, my C in European history) to disguise the secret, shameful one—and we’d been apart most of this summer. Would things go back to normal with us come fall? I hated to think that they wouldn’t.
I stuck the picture back on the desk, maybe too hard.
“Hey.” She swept it up against her chest and stared at me, her eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing. Sorry. Really.”
“Why’re you rubbing your back?”
“Oh. It’s this old injury. I didn’t think biking would make it worse. I was wrong, I guess.”
Emory placed the photo faceup deep in the corner of her windowsill, as if to guard me from attacking it. But then, studying me, she seemed to relent. “I’ve got OxyContin.”
“Yeah? I could use some.”
She disappeared into her bathroom and returned with the pill and a glass of water.
“Why do you have OxyContin?” I asked. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Left over from my wisdom teeth. But I just took one twenty minutes ago. Wisdom teeth are a joke, compared with this.”
“With what?”
“Aidan broke up with me. I thought everyone knew. I know Sebastian knows.” Emory shook back her hair, her cool-girl confidence hanging by a thread as she dropped back into her bed and buried most of herself in the duvet. “Sunrise Dry Cleaners is like the gossip nucleus of Bly.”
“He came by for a swim yesterday, and he didn’t tell me anything,” I answered honestly. “But he was only around for a little while to cool off.” Sebastian’s after-work visits, though they ended all too soon, were the highlight of my day. And he never gossiped. He’d spent most of yesterday’s visit helping Isa perfect her half gainer. “What happened?”
“You’ll have to ask Aidan. He says it’s for every reason in the world except Lizbeth Paley. But then why would he do it on the phone? Before the weekend? I’ll tell you why—because he wants to be single this weekend,” she answered her own question with a short, unhappy laugh. “Because guess who just broke up with her high school boyfriend?”
She did seem to want an answer. “Lizbeth Paley,” I ventured.
“Exactamundo.” She nodded toward the pill in my hand. “You better go for it. It’s gonna melt.” As I downed it, Emory watched, leaning back over her purple satin mermaid pillows, while I stayed perched upright like a sea horse at the end of her bed.
“I never liked Aidan,” I said, braving it. “He was always coming on to me, if you want to know the truth. And only because I look like Jessie. He was way too fascinated by the similarity; he made it uncomfortable for me every time.”
