“Anniversary of my mother’s death.”
“That would do it.” He looked serious. “I can’t see you and Lisette this weekend,” he said. “I have a history teacher conference in Montreal. But next week? Same time, same place?”
“Okay.”
He pointed over his shoulder. “We’re gonna talk about the show in August, too.”
I took a breath. “If you don’t want me doing the show, I won’t take it personally. Honestly, I’d be pretty happy not to ever do a show in front of other people.”
“That’s a reason you should do it, though, isn’t it?”
He reached up and absentmindedly pushed a hair out of my eyes, tucking it behind my ear. I tried to meet his eyes, but he dodged my gaze and gave me a very quick hug good-bye, and then turned to talk to Mark, who was putting on his coat.
I stood outside his door for a moment, looking out at the night, the stars, the cars hurling headlong through the city to bars and restaurants and then home again. Everything still felt new here. I had been a disaster, and that was okay.
That Sunday,while Paul was away in Montreal, Lisette turned up at my front door after church wearing a hiking backpack that she promised me was stuffed with Canadian snacks.
“Where are we going?” I asked. “Are we taking a taxi, or…”
“Taxi! To go hiking?” She looked scandalized. “Not when we can take advantage of the rolling hills of the great city of St. John’s. You’re okay with ten-kilometer hikes?”
I did the mental math. That was about six miles, so between Lincoln Center and Battery Park. I could handle that.
“Good, then we’re off to see the coast.” It was a spectacularly beautiful day, and Lisette and I posed in front of my house for a picture that we texted to Paul: our thumbs up, giant grins, water bottles raised proudly like we were eager young tourists in front of our first youth hostel.Ready for a 10 km hike!Lisette texted to Paul and me. Paul gave the picture a thumbs up.
Entering the conference, he wrote back.
Twenty minutes later, as we were meandering toward the downtown waterfront on our winding route, Lisette stopped me.
“Wait, wait, I have an idea. What if this is a death march? What if it’s hell for us?”
“Because this is the most gorgeous day ever?”
“No, what if we convinced Paul that it’s hell? Come on, here. Let’s pose looking tired. And we’re going to look worse and worse as the day goes on.”
We took photos of ourselves looking weary and exhausted.After half a km!Lisette texted. He didn’t respond, so he was probably in a lecture at his conference, which somehow only increased our hilarity.
We posted a series of increasingly more sad and depleted pictures as we walked along. In reality, we were having an absolutely lovely time, stopping at a little ice cream stand and pausing to eat our lunch on a rock overlooking the harbor.
4 km, so tired we have forgotten what country we’re in.Lisette texted.Abby thinks she’s back in nyc and keeps swearing like a sailor
That’s a fucking lie,I added to the text chain.
If she kills me it’s your fault because you aren’t driving us paul, Lisette added.she is delirious with exhaustion now. possibly delusional. keeps mentioning the movie 127 hours and talking about how I’m her rock.
Eventually, Paul must have stepped out of a conference lecture, because he reacted to them all at once.
This is what happens without my car? I could have lent it to you.
too late,Lisette wrote.Much too late. She sent him a photo of herself looking dead, her eyes glazed, by the side of the road.
Paul responded to both of us.Abby I told you if you were going to kill her you had to do it in a place where you can easily hide the body.
I took a photo of a small waterfront shack.
No worries.I texted.Just need to break open the window with my fist.
Too visible,he replied.You’re gonna have to weight her down with stones and dump her in the ocean.
