“Sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“You did, and you’re right. But out of the goodness of our hearts. By the way, I don’t remember him from Bay Bluff.”
“He’ll visit in New York. You’ll meet him.” Forgiveness is easy once it’s done. Of all the sins of omission I’ve learned of this week, Chrissie’s is the simplest and most innocent. It feelsso goodto connect with her again. Besides, I want to know what she thinks of Paul.
“And Jack?” she asks. “Who adores you, by the way.”
Jack. Who wanted me to stay. Who begged me to stay but whom I just left. Whose face I see reflected in each exit sign I pass. Whose name alone twists at my heart.
Trying to make light of it, I tease, “And you saw this in, what, ten seconds?”
“Ten minutes, and he was looking at you like you hung the moon.”
“That’s being dramatic. But I left him. Again. He may be hurt enough to get over me.”
“Is that what you want?”
A car speeds by at what has to be eighty-five, its driver desperate to get somewhere or other. So am I, but I follow the rules of the road. I’m desperate to restore order to the life I’ve made for Joy and me in the city. After a week at the shore, though, that city life looks different, feels different, may never be the same.
Exit 81 flies by. I’m another few minutes closer to Manhattan, another few minutes farther from home.
Home. Such an interesting word. Is it where you park your body? Your family? Yourheart?
“Mal?”
“It’s a tricky situation.”
“Does it have to be?” she asks, so much like Paul’sDon’t overthink itthat I do wonder if I’m the problem here. But she persists. “It was a difficult week for you, but weren’t there good parts?”
Jack, I think. Anne and Margo, I think. Jack, I think. I think Joy on our beach, moments of lucidity with Dad. Again, I think Jack.
Chrissie thinks bigger. “Broad view.”
Zooming out, I consider. “Reconciling past and present. Figuring out who I am.”
“Did you?”
I’m about to say yes. But the word won’t come. Instead, I blinker left to pass a Camry going under the speed limit, then blinker back into the middle lane. Having passed Waterford, I’m nearly in East Lyme.
“There’s still Jack,” I admit and glance at the clock. Forty-five minutes have passed since I left. I wonder what he’s doing.
I’m picturing him wandering the beach with Guy. Or reading in that godawful sterile living room. Or… or staring at the unmade bed in his room and thinking of me?
As therapists do, Chrissie has let these minutes pass in silence. Finally, gently, she says, “What about him?”
“It’s hard to describe.”
“Try.”
“He was so a part of my life once upon a time. Then not.” Just thinking about it, I feel a spreading hole. “Then again this week. It’s like we picked up where we left off before…” She knows enough of my history to finish the sentence. “I mean, it was different. We’re different now. Maybe more realistic. Definitely more mature.”
She waits. Then, “And?”
“And nothing. In some ways, it’s better than ever with him and, in others, ten times more complicated.”
“Since when have you been afraid of complicated?”
“Since Jack,” I say with a derisive laugh.
