The man considered this. “Actually, I wasn’t going to say anything, but we’ve met before. You know my wife. Her name is Bethany Sutton.”
Something cold and hard dropped into Helena’s stomach. “You’re Bethany’s husband,” she repeated, although she couldn’t believe it.
“I am,” he said. “I brought Bethany in that night at the hospital? And, yeah. I hate to say this. But Bethany told me about what’s going on. That kind of disease, it’s just. It’s not easy to carry that kind of thing. I am really so sorry. I hope you know that you have friends in us. Whatever you need, no matter what, don’t hesitate to call us. Especially as things get harder to manage.”
Helena continued to gape at him. There were no sounds now from the kitchen. She imagined Matteo standing up, a mug of coffee in his hand, staring at the wall between the kitchen and living room. She could feel the gears in his mind turning.
“I appreciate that,” Helena said in a meek voice. She told herself she had to remain upright. She had to continue to sell herself despite how much she wanted to hide behind the chair till he left.
The next few minutes passed in a blur. Eventually, Rod bought a painting for a discounted price of two grand. Helenapacked up the painting, then watched as Rod carried it out to the car and waved goodbye. She remained in the foyer until he drove away, her body shaking. She thought she might collapse.
All the while, Matteo remained in the kitchen, unmoving.
When Helena finally got up the nerve to walk from the foyer to the living room and on to the kitchen, she continued to shake. She found Matteo on the stool, staring into space. His face was the color of paper.
At that moment, Helena knew that what was about to happen was what she’d known was going to happen from the very beginning. She’d been wrong to think that Matteo would stick around in her world of misery. He’d lost his daughter, for goodness’ sake. He’d wanted easy stories. He’d wanted love.
She told herself to tell Matteo to leave. But instead, struck dumb, she stood there, gaping at him, her heart pounding. She prayed he’d eventually get up the nerve to leave on his own. But physically, she couldn’t ask him to. Her tongue would not work.
21
Less than an hour later, Matteo was on his sailboat, charging across the Nantucket Sound, his heart pounding in his throat. It was wickedly cold for late September, far colder than it was back in the Midwest, and frigid water sparkled on either side of the sails and cast itself over his beard, across his cheeks. Matteo could feel the tears, brimming behind his eyes, but he kept himself focused, his eyes on the far horizon. He couldn’t let himself fall apart, not now.
But the truth of it was: Helena had asked him to leave, and he hadn’t known how to fight for her. He hadn’t known what to say.
He’d been dumbstruck when he’d heard that man in the next room, talking to Helena about her disease. Standing like a fool in the kitchen, he’d told himself not to make any sudden movements. He’d been frightened that he’d drop something, that he’d let the bowl of cereal crash to the floor. When Helena had returned to the kitchen, her eyes had been two dark pools. They’d stood like that for a long time, looking at each other. Matteo had almost wanted to pretend nothing had happened. But finally, he’d mustered the strength to ask her what was going on, and she’d said, “I’m dying.”
She’d said it as simply as that. She’d said it as though it was something she’d already emotionally dealt with and set to the side. But what was he supposed to do about that?
He’d asked her, “When were you going to tell me?”
And she’d said, “I don’t know.” She’d sniffed and sniffed and said, “I really need you to go.”
Now, Matteo pulled his sailboat into the harbor, tied up, and walked out onto the mainland toward his truck. There was a sense of unreality to everything. He couldn’t believe that just yesterday, he’d felt on top of the world. Finally, Helena had invited him to stay the night. Finally, he’d felt as though their relationship was moving in a healthy and promising direction.
Now, he was on his own again. But it was what he was accustomed to.
He drove to the house he’d rented when he’d left the Midwest: a one-story brick that he’d done very little with, decoration-wise. It still felt like a bachelor pad, which, he guessed, was what it was, since he was a divorcé, a bachelor. He hated the sound of that.
It was a little after one when he got in, and he spent a little time on the sofa, staring into space, wondering what he should do with the day. It wasn’t like he could work. He checked his phone to see if Helena had called or written him, but she hadn’t.
It was over. It had to be over. He knew that.
But he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was an enormous tragedy. He couldn’t shake the feeling that it could have been helped.
This was the same feeling he’d experienced after his daughter’s death.
It had been three years since the accident. Matteo still remembered their final days together as a family, as they’d been frantic. Matteo had been on the verge of signing a major newclient to his firm, and he’d been up to his ears in research and PowerPoints and phone calls with his team.
His wife, Piper, had been busy, as well. Now that their daughter Jenny was old enough to drive herself to school and to friends’ places and to team practices, Piper had thrown herself into building her own business, one that involved photographing and planning weddings. Piper had always been endlessly romantic. She fell for every romance novel, every romantic story. She was the perfect person to take that on.
On their last night as a family of three, Matteo picked up burgers from their favorite place downtown and met Piper and Jenny on the back porch, where they drank diet sodas, ate, and talked about their days, albeit briefly. Matteo and Piper only had an hour or two before they had to go to their separate studies and burrow themselves in more work.
That final dinner together couldn’t have been more ordinary. Jenny talked about what they’d learned in English literature class that day. They were readingJane Eyre, a novel Piper loved and gushed about. Matteo listened, trying and failing to remember anything about the book. He reminded himself to remain in the conversation, to listen to what Jenny had to say. But the truth was, his mind was half-elsewhere, considering the meetings he had scheduled for tomorrow and what else he still needed to do that night.
Jenny was a little bit moody—such a difference from how she’d been a few years back, when she’d been dancing and singing and laughing all the time. Matteo was the first to admit he knew nothing about being a teenage girl. Piper always told him that Jenny would grow out of it.
During dinner, Jenny made a brief mention of Steve, her on-again, off-again boyfriend. Matteo and Piper made eye contact over the table. Maybe Jenny and Steve were back on? But Steve was largely bad news, they thought. He played in a band and hadbeen arrested for drunk driving and had already broken Jenny’s heart twice.
