“This is Erik Book, Fred and Margie Thompson’s son-in-law. Is John Brace in?”
In the hall Linda grabbed my hand and held on tight as we walked.
“You already know,” she said. Not a question.
“Yes,” I said, squeezing her hand. “It’s going to be okay.” This was fast becoming my stock response as everything fell apart around us. But I found I couldn’t look at her long, or give her the comfort of my gaze. Her blue, blue eyes seemed to glow in the pale landscape of her face. The purple smudges under her eyes, the strain around her mouth hurt me too much. She didn’t have to say anything else; I knew every emotion rocketing through her. I could feel it through her skin. And she knew she didn’t have to say anything. We’d talk later, dissect and analyze, figure and resolve.
But for the moment we moved down the hall toward the room Fred now occupied, not saying a word. Before we got to his door, I stopped and took both her hands.
“Forgive him, Linda. As awful as it is, he did it for you.”
“I forgive him,” she said, not looking at me. “I just don’t know if I can live with it. I feel like Mom. He did all this, risked our whole future, and I didn’t even know. There are other things, too. My fault. I don’t know if we’re strong enough to survive everything that’s wrong.”
“Don’t say that.” The thought of their marriage falling apart because of a mistake I had made filled me with a terrible anxiety. “Please. Let me fix this.”
“This is not for you to fix, Iz,” she said, putting a gentle hand on my face. “Don’t you get that? You didn’t do anything wrong. You loved him.”
“You warned me. This is my fault.”
“Even I didn’t imagine this, honey. This is not what I meant. I just thought he was a jerk, that he couldn’t love you the way you deserved.”
“You were right,” I said. I let her take me in her arms, rested my head on her shoulder. “Don’t leave him, Linda. Your marriage, your family. It’s real, it’s solid. It can survive anything. It’s only money.”
She squeezed me hard but didn’t answer. “Let’s go see about Fred,” she said after a moment, pulling away from me and taking my hand. She didn’t want to talk anymore; I let her off the hook and led her to Fred’s room.
We stopped at the entrance to the dim space, watched Fred’s still, narrow form, listening to the reassuring tones of his heart monitor. I was buffeted by twin tides of regret and anger. But when he saw us huddling in the doorway, he smiled. That was Fred. He could always manage a smile. Or maybe it was the pain medication.
“You look just like when you were girls,” he said. A dreamy, loopy quality to his words made me wish for a little dose of whatever they’d given him. Linda moved to the bed and took his hand. The births of Emily and Trevor had brought them closer. Fred was a wonderful grandfather, the only one her children knew. He showered them with love, and I think in recent years she was finally able to see the man we all saw. She’d take care of him until Margie got back; I knew that. The good girl.
“I’m sorry, Fred,” I said from the doorway. “I’d never have come to you if I knew…” I let the sentence trail.
He shook his head slowly. “I’m glad you did. I just wish I could have protected you, Isabel. I keep forgetting I’m an old man.”
I went to his bedside and leaned down to gently kiss his forehead. He pointed to his bandage. “Maybe we could get everyone else to wear one just so we don’t look so silly.”
We both smiled and Linda leaned in to kiss him on the cheek when her phone rang. She answered it quickly.
“Mom,” she said. “Everything’s okay.”
With Linda talking and Fred looking at her expectantly, neither of them noticed as I slipped from the room. I backed into the hallway and then walked toward the elevator bank, just missing the closing doors of one car. I pressed the button hard a couple of times, but the digital screen above it told me the car was floors away and I might be waiting awhile. I decided on the stairs.
“Where are you going, Izzy?”
I turned to see Trevor looking slim and stylish in faded jeans and a retro rock-and-roll Ramones T, Vans on his feet. His curls were wild; a worried smile flashed his face, then turned into a frown.
“I’m going to get some air,” I lied.
He shook his head just slightly, and in that moment he looked so much like his mother-the same knowing aura, the same curious narrowing of the eyes. I saw him taking in details-the wrap on my shoulders, the bag strapped around my body.
“You’re going to find him, aren’t you?”
I considered lying again. But instead I nodded, lifted a finger to my mouth, and started backing toward the door.
“Do you have a gun?”
“No,” I said, startled by his boyish question, which seemed at the same time frighteningly practical. New York City kids are just a little too savvy for their own good. “Of course not.”
He shrugged. “You might need one.”
I might at that. “Don’t tell them you saw me leave.”
“Maybe I should. Maybe this is a bad idea.” He was one of the best players on his chess team. He could see that I was outmatched and about to make a stupid move that might cost me the game. Suddenly this little kid who I’d watch enter the world, who I’d rocked and carried, fed and changed, seemed smarter, more worldly than I was.
“Don’t,” was all I could manage. “Not for the next fifteen minutes.”
“Izzy?” I heard him say as I turned and moved quickly through the door and flew down the stairs as fast as I could. I knew him. He was a good egg, wanted things orderly, still thought the world was black and white, just like his mother. He’d tell-but he’d hesitate, just because he was a boy, because he liked the idea of being in on a secret. With luck, I’d be gone before anyone tried to come after me.
A HUNDRED YEARS ago Marcus and I were in Paris. For our first anniversary, he’d surprised me on a Thursday with tickets to leave the next day. We joked that we’d probably saved about a thousand dollars in pre-trip shopping-but I made up for it once we arrived.
“He did what?!” my sister shrieked when I called her. Her delight rang over the line and I knew he’d climbed a rung in her estimation, which filled me with childish pleasure. “That’s soooo romantic. Oh, I love Paris!”
“Dude, you’re making me look bad,” Erik complained when we were all on speakerphone together.
“Yeah, really bad,” said Linda. But I could hear the smile in her voice. They’d had their share of romantic trips and enviable moments. And now they had kids, as Linda liked to say. Romance is a pizza delivery and a bottle of wine after Emily and Trevor go to bed.
We stayed in a small, intimate hotel near Jardins des Tuilleries on the tranquil rue Saint-Hyacinthe and passed our days shopping, eating, drinking, fairly skipping through the streets of that magnificent city. I spent my mornings writing in a small café, ensconced at a tiny table in the corner, the competing aromas of fresh bread, coffee grinds, and cigarette smoke mingling in the air with lively conversation and the clinking of cups and silverware, while Marcus slept until nearly noon.
In the evenings, we dined slowly, lingering for hours over beautiful meals, then visiting nightclubs, dancing and drinking, returning to the hotel to make love. I don’t remember even the tiniest disagreement on that trip, but maybe that’s revisionist history. Maybe we argued over what sights to see, or whether we could afford more than one Hermès scarf, or where to go for dinner-all the normal negotiations of living a life together, that might blow up into something bigger. But I don’t remember anything like that.
On the other hand, there are some things that come back to me now, moments I hadn’t given much thought to then. He said he’d never been to Paris, that my surprise was secretly a gift for himself, too. But he seemed strangely at ease on its streets, as if he knew his way around.