The Things We Wish Were True (13 page)

JENCEY

Jencey was on a rooftop with Arch, sitting at a café table overlooking a splendid view of the city below on a perfect day. Arch was wearing the dark-gray Armani suit she loved with a crisp white shirt and a deep-red tie. The gray suit complemented his starting-to-silver dark hair, and he was tan from a recent trip to Miami that he swore had been no fun at all. He couldn’t stand the clients, he’d said upon his return. She saw the lie but said nothing.

They sipped champagne, the bubbles tickling her nose as they always did, making her feel happy and light. He reached for her hand and took it across the table, trailed his fingers up and down the soft inner skin of her forearm, a signal that he wanted to make love later. She wasn’t even sure he knew he did it, but she knew his cues. She knew everything about him.

Suddenly a group of men in black suits surrounded them, guns drawn, shouting, “Mr. Wells, you’re under arrest!”

She began to shake her head no, no, no. This couldn’t be happening. They were having drinks before a lovely dinner in the restaurant downstairs. She was going to have She Crab Soup because she’d heard it was excellent there, and she loved a good She Crab Soup—the delicate meat, the rich, creamy broth with a hint of sherry—if it was made right. After dinner they were going back to their hotel to climb into bed. How could these men drag him away? What right did they have?

“Arch!” she cried, attempting to lunge toward him even though one of the men restrained her. “Arch, don’t let them do this!” He looked back at her, his face a mask of panic and terror. He turned from her and allowed the men to drag him away. She turned to the man holding her back and tried to look into his eyes, but the black glasses he wore prevented her from seeing them. She pulled them off, only to find that where eyes should be there were just vacant black holes. His mouth opened, and before she could scream, the man in black spoke to her. “Jencey,” he said. “Wake up.”

She opened her own eyes to find herself on Lance’s couch, her legs thrown across his knees with an inappropriate air of familiarity,
Monty Python
frozen on the TV screen. He stared at her, his brows knitted together. “Sorry I woke you,” he said. “You were having a nightmare.”

She sat up quickly and pulled her legs to herself, self-conscious. She blamed the wine they’d had before the movie started while the kids scampered around the backyard playing the same night games she’d once played in this neighborhood—freeze tag, hide-and-seek, capture the flag—the games made more difficult by the darkening sky. They’d drunk several glasses on his deck before herding the kids upstairs and into their pajamas to watch their own movie in the bonus room, freeing the two of them to be alone in the den. She’d felt loose and warm and comfortable when they’d started the movie, and between the darkened room, the cozy couch, and the effects of the wine, she’d started fading only a few minutes into the movie.

Still disoriented, she looked back at this man who was not Arch, blinking for a few seconds as she tried to recall what this nightmare had been about. What had been so clear and vivid minutes ago was quickly dissolving into a murky memory of disturbing images. The images faded, leaving behind feelings of threat and foreboding. It was always this way. Many of the nightmares were similar—she had a husband, and then he was gone. Her brain kept dreaming up a new and creative way to lose him. Though the dreams were different, the sense of loss was persistent.

“I d-don’t remember what it was about,” she said, hugging her legs to herself and looking at her hands, wrapped around her legs. “I just remember being really scared.” She felt his eyes on her, but she couldn’t look back at him. If she looked at him, she would spill the secret. And she didn’t feel ready to talk to this man she barely knew about the ugliest part of her life. She liked him and didn’t want him to think less of her. What if he, like Arch, thought she was somehow complicit in what Arch had done? What if he kept his distance from her once he knew the truth? This was hardly first-date conversation.

“Maybe you were dreaming you were a witch, about to be burned at the stake,” he quipped.

She laughed. That was the scene they’d watched just before she’d faded into sleep. She was grateful to him for lightening the mood. She liked him enough not to screw it up by draping her woes on top of their evening. “That was probably it,” she said.

And yet, he’d had no qualms in telling her that his wife had decided she needed time away from their marriage, walking out and leaving him and the children.
What happened to cause her to do that?
she wondered. She got the feeling he was leaving it up to Jencey to decide if he was at fault, to determine for herself if he deserved to be left. She studied his profile as he looked back at the image frozen on the television screen. He certainly didn’t look like someone who deserved to be walked out on. Does anyone?

She pointed at the TV, the image of a man on a horse banging coconuts together. “What’d I miss?” she asked. She forced herself to smile.

“I could easily rewind it back to where you fell asleep so you won’t miss anything,” he teased. He scooted closer to her and gave her what she guessed was his attempt at a leer, but with his baby face, he couldn’t quite pull it off. “Or . . .” He pulled her to him.

She let herself be embraced, let herself feel comforted by his arms encircling her. Counting the hug after the fireworks and the hug when she arrived, this was the third hug of their relationship. Was that what it was? A relationship? A friendship? Friends hugged one another all the time. She felt his eyes on her and turned her face to look back at him. The only light in the room came from the TV. Upstairs, from a distance and behind a closed door, she could hear tinny cartoon music. She wondered if they were still awake.

Reading her mind, he said, “I think they all passed out.”

She swallowed. “Oh.” She licked her lips one second before his lips landed on hers. The kiss lasted less than a second, no more than what she’d give one of her girls before bed. A peck.

He fixed her with his gaze, his mouth so close she could feel his breath on her lips. “Should I apologize?”

She supposed the right answer, the responsible answer, was “It’s too soon.” But she liked the smell of his skin, the gentleness in his eyes, the way the light from the television made everything in the room look blue.

“You really think they’re asleep?” she asked. She arched one eyebrow up—a talent Bryte had always envied—and wondered if he saw it in the dark.

He grinned his response. “Want me to go check?”

She nodded, and he sprang up like a released coil, trotting away and up the stairs. She had seconds to come to her senses, to talk herself out of whatever came next. To determine just how far she would go. She was just passing through. Last week she’d talked to an old friend from college who had her own all-female law practice in Virginia and could hire her to do admin stuff. She would most likely start over there and leave this neighborhood behind just like she’d left it before. And this night—this man—would be just a fun blip, a funny little confession for the girlfriends she’d have in the future about the night she behaved badly. They would titter over her admission, raise their glasses in a toast to strong women.

When those girlfriends asked, “How’d you ever get through it?” she’d tell them about finding hidden money and eating McDonald’s and living with her parents and seeking consolation in the arms of someone else who’d also been left. She’d smile bravely and inspire them. The scene played out in her mind like one from
Sex and the City
, and she remembered Everett’s words. Maybe it could still come true.

She heard Lance’s footsteps returning. “They’re all out. Crashed,” he said. She could hear the smile in his voice without even looking at him. He bent down and kissed her again, this time as tentative as before. He straightened up and extended his hand, an invitation. She knew just where he would lead her if she took his hand. She looked up at him and blinked once, then reached up with her own hand, lacing her fingers through his as he pulled her to him for the fourth time.

Now Jencey awoke in Lance’s house for the second time, but this time it was light outside and no nightmare had awakened her. She stretched, lifting her arms above her head as she listened to the birds chirp outside the window. She looked beside her and found the space empty, the sheets tangled and the imprint of a body the only evidence he’d ever been there.

She stared at the empty spot, grateful she’d not had to wake up to him. She wasn’t ready for morning conversation, for an analysis of what had happened, or even admitting it had happened at all. She’d given in to an impulse and he’d done the same. That was all. This was what grown-ups did. They moved on and found comfort wherever they could along the way.

She looked around on the floor for where her clothes had fallen, collecting them and putting them on quickly, eager to be dressed in case the girls came looking for her. At some point in the night, they’d discussed how they’d explain it to the kids, voices urgent and hushed as they concocted a story even as they unzipped zippers and undid buttons. They’d fallen asleep watching the movie, and Lance had offered her the guest room. He would go back to his bed, and that was how their waking children would find them, separate and chaste, as far as they knew.

She tried to block the images that came to mind as she dressed, her recall of last night instant and fresh in spite of how little sleep she’d gotten. She remembered how different his body, his smell, his touch was from Arch’s. Arch had been tall and wiry; Lance was almost exactly her height and broad-chested. Arch was dark; Lance was light. Arch always smelled of this expensive cologne that he applied a bit too liberally (though she never said so). Lance smelled like Dial soap.

Dressed, she turned her attention to making up the bed. As she straightened and smoothed the twisted sheets, her thoughts turned to the unavoidable comparisons she’d made, even as it was happening. Arch was aggressive and in charge in the bedroom—just like in life—but Lance had been tentative and solicitous. Arch had rarely spoken during sex, but Lance had been verbal, his voice a low, compelling murmur in her ear, telling her what he was doing and asking if she liked it. He was like the eye doctor: “Better this? Or this?”

Satisfied that the bed was adequately made, she left the room, and her thoughts, behind. She found Lance and the four kids in the kitchen. Lance was scrambling eggs and frying bacon, a pitcher of orange juice on the counter and a pot of coffee—blessedly—at the ready. He looked over at her the moment she entered the room.

“There’s your mom!” he said to the girls, who leaped up to greet her with hugs and kisses as if she’d been gone forever. Their eyes met over the top of the girls’ heads, and he winked.

“We finally got to have a sleepover, Mommy,” Zara said, beaming. “Isn’t that cool?” She thought suddenly of her parents at home, probably worried, or at the very least, disapproving of her staying out all night at Lance’s. She hadn’t answered to her parents in fifteen years and wondered how it was that she was back to making excuses as to her whereabouts. She wondered if they would buy the same lie the girls had.

Disentangling herself from the girls’ octopus arms, she poured coffee, added cream and sugar, and sat down with the kids to wait for the food. At the stove, Lilah stood stirring a pot of grits with a pensive look that told Jencey she wasn’t quite sure about all this. She attempted to catch the girl’s eye and give her a smile, but Lilah wouldn’t look her way.
I’m not looking to take your mom’s place,
she wanted to assure her. Because she wasn’t. She was just looking to fill the time between her old life and her new one, letting this strange summer back in Sycamore Glen be the transition she needed, a bench on the side of the road before she continued her journey.

Lance, oblivious, just kept smiling and cooking, looking like the cat who ate the canary, a secret smile playing constantly at his lips. She thought of those same lips on hers, how they’d traveled the length of her body and back again. Though it might’ve been the stupidest thing she could’ve done, at that moment, as long as she didn’t look at Lilah, it didn’t feel stupid at all. It felt like progress. She’d passed through a place she had to go through in order to get where she was going. It was nothing more than that.

BRYTE

Before she could get to her intended destination, Bryte had to make a stop off at Myrtle Honeycutt’s to pick up Rigby. He was part of her ploy. As far as Everett was concerned, she was just going to walk the dog, like any other day. She just failed to mention that she was going to veer off the usual path and check out the hideaway while she was out. Ever since the idea had taken root on the night of the Fourth, she’d felt compelled to go, to know. Though to know what, she wasn’t quite sure.

When Everett and Jencey were dating, Bryte hadn’t let on that she was in love with him, at least not to anyone else. The closest she’d ever come to admitting her feelings to Jencey was when they were seventeen years old. Bryte had uttered three words, exhaled like a sigh: “I want that.” She’d meant she wanted Everett’s love, but she guessed that Jencey took it that she wanted love at all. She’d spoken so low she wasn’t even sure Jencey had heard her.

There’d been a pause, then Jencey had given her a little smile in response and patted her shoulder. “You will,” she’d said, her quavering voice belying her words. Everyone knew that what Jencey and Everett had was rare. Jencey knew. But still she left it behind.

It was Jencey’s leaving that enabled Bryte to get that desperate wish. Still, she couldn’t stop the doubts that plagued her mind, made her crazy. Did he ever look at Bryte the way he used to look at Jencey? When Bryte and Everett had started trying and couldn’t conceive, it was clear that she’d never give him the child they’d dreamed of together. When he was Jencey’s, she’d thought only about getting him; she’d never considered being a failure once she got him. Her desire—their desire—to get pregnant became her personal quest, pursued the same way she’d once pursued Everett.

She thought she’d be happy when she got pregnant, that she’d get the same feeling of elation she’d experienced when she got into Chapel Hill, was elected treasurer at school, or scored her dream job. She thought she’d high-five the doctor, the nurse, and anyone else she could find, then float home on a cloud of joy to celebrate with her husband. But by the time she sat across the desk from the doctor to confirm the news, she’d been so broken, gone so far afield of what having a baby should be, that all she could do was nod mutely and ask about risks to the pregnancy.

Later, when she’d told Everett the news, he’d hugged her tight, but she’d barely registered his arms around her. Her mind was elsewhere, lost in a tangle of emotions and fears. Thankfully, Everett wrote it all off to hormones, joking about her anxiety with her parents and his. But sometimes she saw her mother-in-law watching her with concern, worried, Bryte was sure, that all the negativity was somehow harming her unborn grandchild.

Now she pushed that child, who seemed no worse for the wear—her mother had promised her that babies were resilient, and as always, she’d been right—in his stroller up to Myrtle Honeycutt’s back door. Myrtle had been old when Bryte had lived here as a kid, so she was positively ancient now. Her dog Rigby was a medium-size mutt of indeterminate origin who had more energy than Myrtle could handle, but the dog was a good companion for her, living all alone. And Christopher loved his daily dose of dog. It was like having one, only not.

She rapped lightly on the door and heard Myrtle’s shuffling steps in response. Her wavering voice called out, “I’m a-comin’,” just like it always did. And when she opened the door, she already had Rigby on the leash, just like she always did. There had been a bad spell a few weeks ago when Myrtle seemed confused when Bryte came to the door. Then she couldn’t find the leash. Bryte had feared the end was near, but then she’d snapped right out of it. Bryte hated to think what they would do when Myrtle passed. She guessed they’d probably inherit a dog, for starters.

“You doing OK today, Miss Myrtle?” she asked, just as she always did. Myrtle’s answer was the one thing that varied in their routine.

“Well, I ’spect I am,” was the answer she got today. “Except this heat is just ungodly.”

“We can thank the good Lord for inventing air-conditioning, huh?” Bryte asked as she cinched the leash to keep Rigby from straying too far.

“I’ll say,” Myrtle Honeycutt agreed. She looked past Bryte at Christopher in his stroller. “You mind you don’t get that boy overheated now,” she cautioned.

“Oh, I won’t, Miss Myrtle. We’ve got lots of water, and we’ll stay under the trees, in the shade,” she assured her. The woods were full of shade, after all. “We’ll see you back in a little bit.” She gave the old woman a wave and pulled the door shut, then tugged Rigby down the stairs, fixing him at her side with the short leash as she began pushing the stroller.

They made a tidy knot as they moved forward. Christopher hummed a tune from one of his TV shows, and she fell back to debating the job issue, her thoughts on an endless loop of pros and cons. Christopher was getting older, and another baby was impossible without intervention. If she got a job, that would make it even more so—and give her a reason to indefinitely postpone going back to the fertility clinic with Everett, like he was pushing for. It wasn’t really about the job. It never was. The job was just the lesser of the two evils. If she reentered the workforce, she would have a reason to tell Everett it wasn’t a good time to go through infertility treatments. She knew that would placate him, for a while at least. Some day she might have to tell him the truth about why she never wanted to go back to the clinic, but her intent was to avoid that as long as possible.

The way she saw it, she had no choice but to follow up with Trent Miller. He could connect her with the best opportunities in her field and potentially link her to a better situation than her former job. With the gap she’d taken to have Christopher, she needed an edge. His references and contacts would be invaluable, his interest a little push for her past boss to step up any new offer he was thinking about. She grew more certain about this decision as she walked to find the hideaway, to confirm with her own eyes that it was still there, preferring to think about her job prospects than whether Everett could be meeting Jencey in their former meeting place. She tightened Rigby’s leash.

Up ahead she saw Zell Boyette and Cailey in Zell’s front yard, both of them staring down at something, unmoving. As she got closer, the little girl looked up and waved, then ran toward them calling Christopher’s name. Cailey always asked to help Bryte with Christopher at the pool.

“Wanna come see what we’re doing?” Cailey asked, breathless and grinning. Bryte wondered what the latest was on Cutter. She’d heard through the neighborhood grapevine that he’d woken up and was on the mend. She wondered why, then, Cailey was still with Zell. From his stroller, Christopher held up his arms for Cailey, eager to escape his confines and knowing a sucker when he saw one.

“Sure,” she said, releasing him. Cailey pulled him out of the stroller and carried him over to Zell, balancing his heft even though he was half her size.

“Hello!” Zell called to Bryte. “Don’t mind me. I look a sight.” The older woman wasn’t exaggerating. She was streaked with dirt, and her hair stood up in clumps around her head. She laughed at Bryte’s expression. “Is it that bad?”

Bryte came over to peer down into what was, so far, a small circle of dirt in Zell’s front yard. “We’re making a koi pond,” Zell explained.

“It’s for our wildlife habitat,” Cailey added. She turned to Christopher and pointed at the hole, changing her voice to a baby voice when she spoke to him. “We’re going to put water in that hole and make a pond,” she said. “And then we’re gonna add fishies.”

“Fishies?” Christopher asked. His little eyebrows scrunched together, and he looked so much like his father.

Bryte turned to Zell. “This is quite a project,” she said.

“Cailey and I are trying to get it finished before she goes back home,” Zell said.

“Can I take Christopher to the backyard so he can see the feeders?” Cailey’s question was posed to both of them, and they answered in unison, “Sure.” They looked at each other and laughed. Intent on keeping hold of Christopher, Cailey lurched toward the backyard with her arms locked around him. Bryte heard him say, “Wanna get down,” but she couldn’t hear Cailey’s response. She wished the girl luck; he was not easily dissuaded once he got something into his mind. In that way he was like his father, too.

“I heard Cutter’s doing better, thank the Lord. So when is Cailey headed home? I’m sure you’ll miss having her,” Bryte said.

Zell nodded. “Cutter’s coming home from the hospital in the next day or two, but he’s going to be back and forth doing all kinds of rehab stuff. Lisa, God bless her, doesn’t know which end’s up. She’s exhausted and—get this—seems to have taken up with the ambulance driver from the pool that day, if you can believe that, so she’s got a new relationship, to boot.” Zell waved her arm in the air. “I don’t know. It just doesn’t seem to be the best environment to send Cailey back to right now. So I offered to just keep her a bit longer while they get settled. Lisa’s come by a few times to see her, and she’s taking her out to dinner soon. I know she misses Cailey, but she agreed to let her stay. I think on one level Lisa was relieved.”

Bryte couldn’t imagine letting her child spend such a long time away from her, but then again, Bryte wasn’t a single mom with two kids, living in the eyesore house of the neighborhood and juggling two jobs, trying to make ends meet. “That was nice of you,” Bryte offered, for lack of something better to say.

Zell laughed. “Nice of me?” She shook her head. “I get just as much out of that child being here as she does.” Zell thought about it. “Maybe more.”

“She’s a sweet kid.”

Zell nodded. “That she is.” She picked up the shovel and scooped out another bit of dirt, carefully depositing it on top of the small mound they’d created. “So what brings you this way today?”

“Just out taking a walk.” She held up Rigby’s leash, though the dog had flopped down beside her. “I walk Myrtle Honeycutt’s dog every day. My mom used to do it, but then she got plantar fasciitis and couldn’t do it anymore. So I said I would.” She shrugged. “It makes me get out.”

“Well, it sounds like I’m not the only do-gooder around here.” Zell gave her a wink and scooped out more dirt. Bryte felt like she should grab a shovel and help.

“Gonna have any more, ya think?” Zell asked. Her face was turned toward the hole, and for that Bryte was grateful. It was amazing how people could toss that question off so casually. People had been doing it with some regularity since Christopher turned two, as if it were up to them to determine when it was time for Bryte and Everett to add to their family.

“Well, we had a bit of trouble even having him, so I’m not sure there’ll be any more.” She gave her standard response and looked around, wishing Cailey would bring Christopher back so she could go. The silence between the women lengthened, and Bryte searched for words to fill it.

“Do you ever think about coming back to book club?” She thought she saw Zell’s shoulders tense at the question, but it could’ve just been from the shoveling. “I just joined a few months ago, and they told me you used to be part of it. I know they’d love to have you back.”

Zell leaned on the shovel and studied her for a moment. “I’ll give it some thought.” She winked. “Since you asked.”

“OK,” Bryte answered. “I can send you the list of titles for the fall. We’ve only decided on books till the end of the year. Your e-mail’s in the directory, right?”

Zell nodded. “That it is.” On the ground the dog made a whimpering noise and rested his head on his paws, looking mournful.

“I guess I’d better get going,” Bryte said.

“Cailey!” Zell called. “Bring Christopher back here! His mama’s ready to go!”

Bryte wondered if she was actually ready, then realized it didn’t matter whether she was or not. She was on her way.

She tried steering Christopher’s stroller over the roots and branches and piles of dead leaves in the woods, but the overgrown path was just too precarious. One miscalculation of a root and she could accidentally topple the stroller. And negotiating both the dog and the child wasn’t the easiest thing. She stood still for a moment, determining just how to get back here. She’d come far enough to be able to make out the clearing where the hideaway had been. She was too close not to lay eyes on it, to see if it matched what lived in her memory. Though this was a fool’s errand, she didn’t want to abandon it.

She unlatched Christopher and pulled him up into her arms, much as Cailey had done earlier. She held him close as they moved deeper into the woods and clung tightly to Rigby’s leash. Without the stroller to manage, she made it to the clearing quickly, Christopher heavy in her arms. He did not ask to get down, didn’t protest being carried. He was quite calm and docile, taking in the cooler, dark surroundings with a kind of acceptance, as if this were an everyday activity for the two of them. He did not ask questions as he normally would have, did not point to the squirrels and birds they passed. He just looked around with those knit, curious brows. She kissed his cheek, and he rewarded her with a grin. His breath, so close to her face, smelled of the cookie Zell had given to him before they’d left her house.