Margo wants her with her.
Until when?
Next week.
You’ll come back for her?
Yes.
And stay a while?
Depends on work.
Stay a while.
I need time.
I’ve given you time.
Time is not a day or two or three.
Neither is love. It’s forever.
I let this text go, too. For one thing, when it arrives, my sisters and I are in the office of Dad’s lawyer. The will is a formality, but we figure we ought to hear it while the three of us are here.
For another, I don’t know what to say. He’s right. And yes, I love him. But the logistics of making it work are daunting.
He’s with us again at dinner. Anne is more civil toward him now, though I don’t know whether she’s getting used to him or simplyknows that once I leave he won’t be around. I’ve already transferred Joy’s things back to our house and put my own in the car, all but my camera. It’s still in action, capturing the kids watering the new plants on the bluff, Margo modeling her own red Bay Bluff hoodie, and Anne baking humongous peanut butter cookies.
We’re having Thai tonight. Bill and Dan pick it up, leaving Jack with us at the house, for which I’m grateful. I’m acutely aware that the clock is ticking, that even aside from leaving Jack, I’m leaving Joy overnight for the first time in her life. I’m also aware that by the time I return, Margo and her family will be gone, to which end she keeps shooting me soulful looks.
Totally unfazed, Joy is with Jeff, doing a jigsaw puzzle in the sunroom. She feels no qualms about my leaving, is actually excited.
Then there’s Jack. He doesn’t make a show of checking his watch, but the few times he does, his eyes turn a vulnerable gray. In them, I read fear of abandonment, and I’m hopelessly torn. It takes a concerted effort to think of my life in New York.
I’m doing that a short time later with something akin to desperation. Leaving Joy is easy; we’ll be in touch the whole time, and she does need this separation. What is it they say,a mother raises her children to let them go?Besides, she’s with family.
Jack is alone.
My eyes are glued to the rearview as I drive forward, etching an image on my brain that is as indelible as one my camera might make. He stands apart from the others, as if my departure breaks his link with my family. Tall, singular, and apart, he is helplessness personified. I feel the same watching him. How easy it would be to step on the brake and put the car in reverse? Hell, I wouldn’t even have to back up. If I stopped, he would run forward, I know he would.
But my life waits, my life waits, my life waits. So, I tip down over the crest of the road, erase that heart-rending sight, and drive on.
Tourism is winding down at the square. Beyond it, I pass thestretch of beach with its salty houses, lush hydrangeas, and Mahoneys, Santangelos, and Wrights. I pass the banks of mailboxes at dirt driveways that burrow off into the trees. Once I’m through the three-way intersection, I see Gendy’s, then fiddle with the tripometer to avoid seeing Jack’s clinic. When it, too, falls behind, I tell myself it’s for the best. Only, the best feels like shit and, coming up on the left, The Hideaway is as emotionally potent as the other. Pushing on past Urgent Care, I turn onto Route 1 heading south and I tell myself that I’m safer, even more so after I’ve driven around downtown Westerly, through Pawcatuck, and onto Pequot Trail.
When I finally hit the highway, I give myself a mental high five. I-95 is neutral ground. Exits stream past my window—90, then 89 and 88. There are no choices here. It’s straight highway driving, only modestly busy at this hour. Cueing Pandora to a soothing Mozart, I take a few long, slow, deep breaths. At the Exit 87 mark, twenty-eight minutes have passed since I left the bluff, but the hollow in the pit of my stomach remains.
Ignoring it, I drive on. By the time I pass Exit 86, I’m thirty-two minutes away from Jack and still hurting. Desperate for a distraction, I call Chrissie.
Chapter 30
The speakerphone comes to life after a single ring. “Mallory,” she says with a loud sigh, sounding infinitely relieved, like she’s had the phone in her hand all this time, waiting for my call, and is only now allowing herself to breathe.
Not sure what I feel myself, I stick with a simple, “Hey.”
Several awkward beats pass. Signs for Exit 84 are headlight-lit in the encroaching dusk. Groton is behind and New London ahead, while Bay Bluff is farther away with each turn of the wheels.
Cautiously, Chrissie asks, “Where are you?”
