“Eye on the ball, Walter.”
“Samantha! Watch your grip.”
From further off came the sound of children splashing in the pool and mothers calling out to them to stay in the shallow end. In my book,The Stand, the family of a security guard was frantically trying to get out of a town overtaken by a deadly virus. A butterfly landed on my thigh. I imagined that someday I’d write a book myself, for some girl like me to read.
Now came the voice of the tennis coach. “That was a perfect shot, Gabrielle,” he called out. “I think you just got yourself some topspin.”
As compelling as the story I’d been reading was, I had to look up. I had no idea what topspin was, or why the players sometimes used the wordlovewhen calling out their scores.
People spoke a whole other language in this place.
An unopened can of tennis balls sat on the bench next to me. I popped it open and took out a ball and rubbed it over my cheek, feeling the fuzz. Wilson Number Three. For no particular reason, I stuck it in my bookbag. I wanted that tennis ball, was all. Or what it signified.
12
“I Was a Test-Tube Baby”
Something was compelling me to break rules. Nothing really bad, like the kinds of trouble my father and Howie used to get into when they were my age. I just wanted to try out being a different kind of person. A year or so back, I’d slipped a tube of Revlon “Love That Pink” lipstick into my pocket. I didn’t even like wearing lipstick. After I got home, I threw it in the trash. More recently, I’d told Hayward I met Madonna once, at Bloomingdale’s in New York City, and she complimented me on my outfit. I’d never even been to Bloomingdale’s, and only once, ever, went to New York City, for a class trip to visit the Statue of Liberty.
Now, as Hayward stood at the side of the court, zipping his racquet back into its case, something compelled me to offer up a story. I just felt like doing this. It wasn’t even as if Hayward was someone I cared about impressing. I just wanted to see if he believed me, if I was a good enough storyteller. Like Stephen King—but in life, not a book.
“You probably don’t know it, but I was a test-tube baby,” I told Hayward. “My father had a tragic problem involving his reproductive organs that kept my parents from having me the normal way, so they went to this lab where they put the sperm and egg together in a petri dish.”
My story about meeting Madonna hadn’t made much of an impression on Hayward, but this one piqued his interest.
“That’s why I don’t have a belly button,” I told him.
This was where I slid the waistband of my shorts down just far enough to reveal a strip of bare skin on my midriff. An inch lower down and I would have revealed my navel, but he bought it.
“I bet you could have got on Phil Donahue or something if you’d let someone know about it,” he said.
“It was all hush-hush,” I told him. “My parents signed a nondisclosure agreement.”
I didn’t know what that was exactly, but I’d heard the phrase.
“I guess that explains why you’re so weird,” Hayward said. But I knew I’d impressed him.
That night in my room, under the eaves, I took out the tennis ball I’d brought back with me from the court that afternoon. Lately I had taken to standing in front of the mirror in my room, in my training bra, stuffed with a couple of socks, imagining how I might look if I ever developed breasts.
I tossed the tennis ball into the air above my head. Just that. I didn’t know anything about how to swing a racquet, even less about how to play the game. There was just something about holding that ball in my hand and launching it into the air and catching it without ever losing sight of the words on the fuzzy green surface: “Wilson 3.” My goal was simple: to keep the ball from touching the floor. If it did, Forrest—in the bedroom below me—might have heard and wondered what I was doing up in my room. This was my secret. The first one, maybe.
13
Afternoons with Stephen King, and Hanky-Panky
Eighty-two days still remained. There was a rhythm to how we spent them, and far from feeling bored that this was so, I loved the consistency of it all, the way those happy summer days played out, steady as Forrest’s crawl stroke as he made his way out into the lake every afternoon, steady as a tennis rally between a couple of players who knew what they were doing, as the children did not. Breakfast with Forrest—sometimes bagel, sometimes croissant—then tennis at the club (“Little Hitters” class for Jilly, “Racquet Maniacs” for Hayward), followed by a stop at the Caboose, then home.
After lunch, Hayward and Jilly went off to their sailing lessons. These took place at the yacht club, which was close enough to Wonderland that we could walk over, though sometimes Forrest dropped the children off in the boat. We could usually count on one of the other mothers to bring them home afterward.
This left my afternoons gloriously free, most days. I was still waiting for Forrest to take me out on the boat again for my waterskiing lesson, but meanwhile, there was plenty to occupy me. Down by the water, I might read or go swimming—take a nap, swim some more, work on my tan, toss my tennis ball, imagining I was out on the court myself, likethe country club girls, racquet in hand. In the fantasy version, I played better than any of them.
Now and then Prudence might ask me to fold some laundry or carry out the trash or bring afternoon tea to Regina and clear away her cup afterward, but that was about as demanding as my job ever got. Prudence always set a cookie on the tray with the teapot, but Regina never touched it. That cookie was mine to savor with whatever book I’d checked out of the library most recently. Luckily, Stephen King had written enough books that I didn’t have to worry about running out.
Every time I finished one—as I did every few days now—I’d hop on Buttercup and ride back over to the library. If it was a rainy day, I’d settle into a cozy chair there to read for a while. On sunny days, I took the long way home, stopping in the village to look in shop windows or get a Diet Coke. I could almost imagine this town was my actual home.
It was late in the afternoon, the sun low on the horizon. Regina was sipping her club soda. Forrest had fixed himself his gin and tonic. The two of them sat on the patio glider together, Forrest’s hand resting on Regina’s thin white shoulder. The strap on her sundress had slipped. He rearranged it for her. It slipped again. Their eyes met. I registered something, though I wasn’t clear what.
“Why don’t you take the children out to the Caboose for fried clams,” Regina said to me.
