I wasn’t hungry an hour later, either, because something weird was happening. Nothing worked. I went through the mail, but threw most of it out. I flipped through the latest issue ofMakeup Artist, but no article caught my interest. Spotting a small UPS delivery that Liam had brought in and set aside, I did feel a germ of enthusiasm. UPS brought me little gifts. I could use a little gift now.
Eager, I broke open the box, layered back the tissue, and wrestled with bubble wrap to uncover blush, shadow, liner, and brushes, all from a new brand that I’d wanted to try. The brushes were made of synthetic fiber, which didn’t have quite the elegant touch of natural fiber, but natural fiber clumped when mixed with oil, and dry skin needed oil. I tested a blusher brush on the back of my hand, then my neck, then my face. Deciding it would be fine, I set it aside.
What to do then? My fingers itched, needing clay. But even if the studio had been open, I couldn’t risk seeing people. I’d had a home studio when Edward and I were married. But this life was to be different from that one. As many times as I had been tempted to keep a stash of clay here, I’d resisted.
Right now, I wished I hadn’t. I needed…something.The house was quiet all right, but it wasn’t the quiet I knew. The quiet tonight, as darkness slowly settled over my woods, was lonely.
I walked around.
I reached for my next book-group book, settled into the sofa, and opened to the page where I’d left off. I read two paragraphs, but my mind didn’t grasp meaning. I read them again, then put the book down.
I turned on the TV, surfed through the guide, turned it off again.
I lifted the lid of the lamb stew but covered it again without taking a bite.
Nina had asked how I handled the hours alone, the loneliness and depression. I used to do it fine. I had slogged through the worst and risen on the other side feeling good. No, not good.Great. My life had beengreatbefore all this happened.
I wanted that again. But I couldn’t roll back time. What had worked two weeks ago wouldn’t work now.
So here I sat, a prisoner in my own home.
And I deserved it, I mused, brooding as I lifted a ceramic bowl that I had thought so primitive at the time. I had enjoyed making it, though. It had been a sign of progress.
Today, I’d regressed. If my goal in Devon was being a good person,I had failed. I had snipped at Liam, turned a deaf ear to Nina, walked right past Joyce, who had been so loyal to me. I had badgered Chris, then burdened him with a confession that might be too heavy for his already-burdened shoulders. I had let Grace down, putting my own obsession withThe Devon Timesbefore her obsession withPeople.
And Edward? I don’t know what I’d done to Edward. I don’t know what he’d done tome.The compartment of my life that contained him was a big, fucking mess.
Disgusted, I set down the bowl. I went to the door, put on my boots, parka, hat, and gloves, then went out into the night. I quickly returned for a scarf; the temperature had definitely fallen, but frigid air was what I needed to clear my head. No scent of lamb stew here. The forest was all moisture and earth and maybe, maybe new growth, though on a night like this, who knew if it would live? Native Americans did. They had a name for the moon, which this night shone full through the trees. They actually had two names, alternately calling it the worm moon, after worms that wriggled to the surface and invited robins, and the sap moon, for the flow from maples. Though I loved seeing robins and adored maple syrup, I was most grateful that this full moon was bright enough, so that even when it slipped behind a gauze of clouds, its sheen lit the road.
I walked down Pepin Hill to the bottom, turned around, and walked back up to my place. Those few nocturnal creatures that weren’t still in hibernation were scared off by my footsteps. And the cooing I’d heard? An owl, to judge from the heavy whoosh of feathers when whatever it was flew off.
Black ice was a challenge. Snow melt on dirt made mud; snow melt on rocks made ice, and there were plenty of rocks on my road. I slipped a time or two but caught myself short of embarrassment. Not that there was anyone around to see.
And wasn’t that the problem? As good as the exertion felt, the minute I was inside, the loneliness returned. At that point, I was just desperate enough for a distraction to go to my room, sit on the floor, and slide the green velvet box out from under the bed.
It was long and narrow, three feet by one and barely eight inches high. Its velvet was the color of spring leaves in all but the spots where the hand that loved it had been sweaty or soiled. Its corners were protected by gold filigree that matched the bracing around the latch. Lying flat beneath that latch was a worn leather handle. At its inception, the box had held my grandmother’s art supplies, most notably the pastels she loved, and several remained inside, carefully wrapped in glassine, but they were only one of many mementos there now.
I ran featherlight fingers along its edge, one filigreed corner to the next. Then I opened my palm on its top. Nana’s Treasure Box, I used to call it, because I had always found magic inside. I was ten when she died, but I remembered being as young as three, sitting cross-legged inside her crossed legs and holding my breath as she raised the lid. The past became real to me then, all those pictures and postcards and little tokens that wafted out and smelled of another time.
There was life in this box. Even after my grandmother died, there was. And now Lily was here. I pictured her flowing blond hair, pale-blue eyes, and impish grin. I saw her as a cat with face paint, and a princess with a tiara headband. I heard her high laugh when I tickled the side of her neck.
Heart beating wildly, I touched the latch, sliding my finger back and forth, back and forth.
Then I straightened. I told myself to breathe, and, touching velvet, that’s what I did. After a minute, I folded forward. Putting my cheek to the spot where my palm had been, I felt warmth. It might have been from my hand. But no. My hands were still bone-cold from being outside. This warmth came from two spirits, one of a woman who had lived long, another a child who had died young.
When my eyes began to burn, I thought I might cry. Lord knew, I wanted to. Crying was the normal response. A good mother wouldfeel.She wouldn’t seize up like a heartless rock. A rock couldn’t absorb bad—which, my therapist said, was why my body did this. When grief was too deep, the body shut it down. When I was strong enough, she said, tears would return.
And here I thought I was strong? Oh, I was. Just not in a way that might have kept Lily from harm. Nana could. Taking comfort that she was watching over my baby, I slid the box back under the bed and, alone once more, sat back against the wall in the dark.
Aloneness was what I deserved. Only it was worse now than it had been for a long, long time. Was the rock starting to crack?
Turning out the light, I climbed back into bed, pulled the covers to my chin, and just lay there. I thought to undress, but didn’t have the strength. I thought to remove my makeup, but didn’t have the strength.
Self-pity was a potent muffler, because it wasn’t until after the fact that I realized the knocking sound drifting up wasn’t heat in the pipes at all, but knuckles on my front door. Or not. When a key turned, I thought of Liam. If Liam was back this early, his date hadn’t gone as well as he wanted, which meant that he would be making noise, if only to make his needy presence known. Whoever was down there now did not.
Only one other person would know that a spare key was always stashed behind the wreath by the door. I heard the door close behind him, and pictured him standing in my living room, looking around, maybe unbuttoning his barn jacket or rubbing the back of his head as he tried to decide what to do.
What did I want him to do? I wasn’t sure.
