True Places Page 7

  Whit approached and extended his hand. “Good morning, Mr. Royce. Whit Blakemore.”

  Anson Royce had a firm grip and squinted sternly at him. “Mr. Blakemore. I’m sorry your evening was spoiled.”

  “It wasn’t. I hope Suzanne’s better.”

  “Sure she is. She’s just fine.” He shut the trunk and jangled the keys in his hand. “There’s nothing wrong with her except what’s between her ears.”

  Whit winced inwardly at the remark.

  Anson Royce gave Whit a knowing smile and shook his head. “Women.” He clapped Whit on the shoulder and opened the driver’s-side door. “Nice to meet you, son.”

  “You, too, Mr. Royce.”

  The cleaning lady showed Whit in and directed him to the den. Suzanne was curled in an overstuffed chair and put down her magazine when he entered. The shades had been lowered, and a hazy orange light spilled over her shoulder.

  “Hey, Suzanne.”

  “Hi. You didn’t have to bring that stuff.”

  “Well, it’s not like it was out of my way.”

  They both laughed, because it was.

  Suzanne offered to make him breakfast. Whit took a seat at the kitchen counter while she set to work cutting up fruit, scrambling eggs, toasting bagels, chatting about the wedding and the reception. When the food was ready she handed him a plate and hoisted herself onto the counter facing him.

  “I sit up here whenever my mother is out because she hates it.”

  “She’s a stickler, huh?”

  “You could say that.” She bit into her bagel and chewed thoughtfully. “I should explain about last night.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “Thanks, but I should.” Suzanne put down her plate. “I get these attacks—panic attacks. Last night was number four. The first one was in Tanzania when I got lost in the bush.”

  “Sounds like the kind of thing that would make most people panic.”

  “Right. But this isn’t just being scared.” Her voice became thin. “It feels like I’m dying, like I’m dying of fear.” Whit stopped eating. Suzanne stared at her plate. “I’m not used to talking about this. Mia knows, and my parents.”

  Her father had been dismissive, and her mother hadn’t exactly been overflowing with sympathy. Whit wondered about Suzanne’s relationship with her parents and realized that her aloofness as a teenager might have been something else altogether. Maybe she had been stressed. “Can you tell what triggers an attack?”

  “I’m always alone outside.”

  “Like last night. I’m sorry I left you.”

  She shrugged. “No way you could’ve known.” She slid off the counter, tossed the rest of the bagel in the trash, and put her dishes in the sink. He watched her move as if she were behind a plate of glass, on display. That’s how she held herself, afraid to tip something over, break something. He swallowed hard. She was splintered, broken.

  He pushed the stool back, placed one foot on the floor with the intention of going to her, putting his arms around her.

  She spoke, her voice firm now, her huge brown eyes leveled at his. “I like you, Whit. But I’ve never been good at relationships, not even before this.” She pinched her fingers at her temples, then flicked them open. “I’ve had boyfriends and slept with guys who weren’t boyfriends, and whatever it was—good, bad, or indifferent—I dumped them all.” She paused, staring out the window over the sink. “Not much of a résumé, huh?” She offered him a crooked smile.

  “No, it isn’t.” He went to her and stood close. He lifted his hand as if to touch her face, but let it drop. “Guess you haven’t found anyone you can trust.”

  Her eyes flashed. “Who says I’m looking?”

  “You can find something without looking for it.”

  “And you can say things you can’t deliver on.”

  “Ouch.” He stepped back. “Does this mean you don’t want to go see Fargo with me tonight?”

  “No,” she said. “I’ll go.”

  He accepted her acquiescence. Her trust would take time, but he was prepared to be patient.

  After two years, Whit asked Suzanne to marry him. She said yes. The joke between them, which they shared eagerly with family and friends, was that Whit had worn her down. The joke was permissible only because it wasn’t true. They knew, and everyone around them also knew, that Suzanne had not been worn down but lifted up. Whit had pulled her up and out of the quicksand of mistrust, where it would’ve been so easy to stay. His business motto worked equally well in the interpersonal arena: No gain without risk. So the joke was that Whit had been persistent and patient, had lovingly cajoled Suzanne into accepting his love. Suzanne had seen Whit for the loyal and good person he was from the start, but had dragged her feet only because they were young, only twenty-three and twenty-five when they began dating, and had time.

  As often as the joke was made, Whit never talked about the subtext with Suzanne, because it was a lie. The true subtext was that he really had worn Suzanne down, that his conviction had overcome her reluctance. Whit was proud of himself. But what he would not say aloud was that he knew he loved Suzanne more than she loved him. He had won her over, his dream girl. And he would do anything to make her happy, because he also knew Suzanne’s role was more difficult than his. Suzanne’s love for him, if that word applied, was an escape. If she had not gotten lost in Tanzania, they would not be together. She was pretending, in a sense. And he was doing everything in his power to ensure no one noticed, especially not Suzanne.

  Nineteen years later, as he lay in bed with his wife asleep beside him, Whit realized that, at the time, he should have paid more attention to her acquiescence instead of focusing on the challenge of earning her trust. No one gives in without giving something up, and nothing is given up without cost.

  CHAPTER 10

  Suzanne guided the Navigator through the tight curves of the hospital parking garage, searching for a spot. Brynn sat beside her, hunched over her phone, feet on the dashboard, wet hair hiding her face.

  “Are you happy with how you swam in the relay?”

  “Yeah. I mean, it was my second-fastest leg ever, not that it helped. Hannah was napping on the block. She was so slow, Phelps couldn’t have made up the time.”

  Suzanne pulled into a narrow space and put the car in park. “I’m sure she feels bad about it.”

  Brynn shrugged. She held her phone up, closed her eyes, and let her mouth go slack as if she were asleep, and took a photo.

  “Brynn, that’s really unkind.”

  “What?” she said, laughing. “It’s not like she’ll see it.”

  Suzanne knew better. Snapchat photos disappeared after ten seconds, but they could be captured in a screenshot and posted elsewhere. “Anyone can have a bad start. Try to be more generous.”

  “Speaking of starts, nice job missing the two hundred.”

  Suzanne sighed. “I’m sorry. I had so much to catch up on from the week.”

  Brynn cocked her head and looked at her mother. “You missed my best race. You know that’s my best event. But I guess you were too caught up with, you know, the Stray.”

  “Don’t be mean, Brynn.” Suzanne slipped her phone into her purse. “Why don’t you come in? Maybe if you met her, you’d have a little more empathy.”

  “No, thanks. I’ll wait here.” She fished earbuds from her pocket and inserted them.

  Conversation over.

  At the nurses’ station, a nurse Suzanne had spoken with several times informed her that Iris had developed a serious staph infection and had been placed in isolation because her erratic behavior put other patients and staff at risk.

  “I’m afraid you won’t be able to see her until we get the infection under control.”

  “How long will that take?”

  The nurse shook her head. “Hopefully not too long. But, as you know, she’s very weak, so we’re watching her closely.”

  Suzanne imagined Iris in her bed, staring out the window at the mountain
s, longing for something familiar. What did the girl have to hope for?

  “Please tell her I came by.”

  “I will.”

  “And please tell her not to worry. We’ll figure something out.” It sounded pointlessly vague, even to her own ears. Suzanne knew she should go, but stalled at the counter, frustrated at not being able to see Iris and worried about the girl’s health. “Have they located any family yet?”

  “Not that I’ve heard.” The nurse returned her attention to the computer. “Other than the social worker, all she’s got is you.”

  Suzanne retraced her steps to the parking garage, realizing how much she had looked forward to seeing Iris. Was it simply because Iris was a curiosity, a wild creature abruptly caged on the sixth floor of a glass-and-steel building? Suzanne was reminded of a bird trapped in the house last week. It had pushed itself into a high corner, flapping uselessly at the glass, then slid down to the sill, clinging there, panting, unable to grasp the deception of glass. And yet, when she had cornered the bird, cupped it in her hands—so light, so alive—and released it onto the grass, the bird crouched for a moment, as if shaking off a bad dream, before flying off into a comprehensible world where solid things were never clear. Iris could not return to the woods; she would have to learn the nature of glass and steel. Her innocence had been shattered.

  Brynn jumped up in alarm when Suzanne opened the door, not having expected her so soon. Suzanne explained Iris’s condition.

  “That sucks.” Brynn sounded sincere.

  “It does.”

  Brynn seemed to have abandoned her resentment over the failures of her teammate and her mother. Suzanne strove to reinforce this positive shift. “Anything special you’d like for dinner?”

  “Not really. By the way, Grammy Tins is taking me to DC tomorrow to go shopping for prom.”

  Suzanne’s voice caught in her throat. “I thought you and I were going to do that in town next weekend.”

  “DC kind of trumps Charlottesville, Mom.”

  “Well, if you really wanted to go to DC, you could’ve said.”

  “And you could’ve offered. But now you don’t have to, because Grammy Tins did.” She gathered her hair into a loose twist and snapped a hair band over it, letting it flop. “Besides, my style is closer to Grammy’s anyway.”

  Suzanne squeezed the steering wheel. She half expected Brynn to add, “Not that you have a style.” She had pointed it out before. Suzanne could hardly defend herself, because it was true. She didn’t care that much, so for important events—or events that were deemed important—she let Tinsley choose for her. Her mother always chose well. That Brynn had uninvited her from what should have been a mother-daughter shopping trip left Suzanne feeling hollowed out and expendable. But practically speaking, Brynn was right; she and Suzanne would have ended up arguing over the dress (too tight, too short, too expensive) and the shoes (too high, far too high), so maybe it was for the best. She wouldn’t say it, though, because if she happily abdicated everything to Tinsley or whomever else her daughter chose, she would cease to be Brynn’s mother. She would never be necessary again. It might have already happened; the answers to most of life’s pressing questions could simply be googled.

  They drove the short distance home in silence. Suzanne parked in the drive, opened the hatch, and waited for Brynn to retrieve her bag. The front door of the house opened. A man about thirty years old strode down the front walk, a perturbed look on his face. He beeped open the car at the curb, slammed the door, and drove off.

  Brynn closed the hatch. “Who was that?”

  “No idea.”

  Suzanne went inside, Brynn at her heels, and followed Whit’s raised voice into the living room, where Reid sat in the corner of the couch, feet flat on the floor, arms crossed, staring straight ahead, appearing almost bored. The only thing that gave away his strong emotion was his rapid blinking.

  Whit, barely holding his temper, paced behind him.

  “What’s going on?” Suzanne said.

  “Reid, please tell your mother what that gentleman wanted.”

  Reid spoke without turning to her. “To buy my car.”

  She approached him. “Your car? Why?”

  “I don’t use it, so I’m selling it.”

  Suzanne looked at her husband.

  He nodded and spread his hands in frustration. “Unbelievable, right? On Craigslist.”

  Brynn laughed. “Nice.”

  Suzanne sank into a chair and regarded her son. “Reid. Talk to me.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about. I didn’t want a car in the first place. I told you guys that. So I decided to sell it.”

  Suzanne avoided eye contact with Whit. He’d been convinced that Reid would change his mind once he had a car of his own. Suzanne had bet he wouldn’t. He was principled and idealistic and clear in his beliefs—traits Suzanne admired in him. Whit would have admired these traits, too, if they had not interfered with what he wanted for his son: to be more like other boys, to be athletic and popular, to have some swagger and be cool. Reid was not cool.

  Whit glared at his son, incredulous. “You think you have the right to sell that car without asking?”

  Reid swiveled to face him. “It’s mine, isn’t it? You gave it to me.”

  Brynn flopped down on the opposite end of the couch, grinning, thumbs moving over the screen of her phone.

  Reid scowled at her. “More fodder for your coven?”

  “Yup.” She took his photo. He gave her the middle finger.

  Suzanne said, “Stop it, both of you. Reid, did you have plans for the money?”

  Whit interrupted. “It doesn’t matter. He’s not selling the car. He doesn’t have our permission.”

  “I’d like to know.” Her voice was quiet, calm. Inside, sadness and frustration soured her stomach.

  “Donate it to charity.” Reid and Brynn spoke at the same time.

  “Oh, snap!” Brynn bounced in her seat. Suzanne hadn’t seen her this animated in weeks.

  Reid said, “I hadn’t decided which one.”

  “Losers Anonymous?”

  “Enough.” Whit came to stand beside Suzanne’s chair. “The title’s not in your name, Reid. How were you planning to handle that?”

  Reid looked at his mother. Suzanne knew the title was in her name; so did he. Did he really think she would let him sell it without discussion, without his father knowing? Reid was making a point, but she wasn’t sure what it was. She leaned forward, as if by getting closer to him she might better see his motivation. “The title and ownership are not the most important thing here. When a gift is expensive, or holds special meaning, it’s usually not right to sell it. Not without talking about it first.”

  The boy uncrossed his arms and swept his hair off his forehead. “Okay, I get it. I mistakenly assumed the car was actually mine because you gave it to me, handed me the keys on my birthday. But fine.” He meant it. He always meant what he said; it could be unnerving. Lies, white lies and ones of darker shades, made it easier to get along. Those were facts of life Suzanne hoped her son would learn in time. For now, Reid’s bald honesty, the purity of his beliefs, his recent attachment to Buddhism, and, above all, his renunciation of the automobile, symbolizing as it did the material success Whit prized, seemed designed to set him apart from his father. Suzanne knew there was no such design on Reid’s part, but that didn’t stop Whit from taking it personally. She’d spent long hours attempting to bridge the gap between them, find common ground, move one a step closer to the other. It was exhausting.

  Reid turned to his father. “And since I never wanted the car, it couldn’t possibly hold any special meaning, right?”

  “Right,” Whit said. “At least not for you.”

  Whit worked out his frustrations on the tennis court and returned home at dinnertime in an improved mood. Brynn had gone out for burritos and a movie with her circle of friends, and Reid was at Alex’s. The boys, joined at the hip since the fifth grade, shared a
love of reptiles, theology, and tuneless music. After the years the boys had spent together, Whit couldn’t get over Alex taking a fistful of pills. He hadn’t taken nearly enough to have put his life in danger, but everyone was referring to the incident as a suicide attempt, or a cry for help. The boy was in therapy, and Malcolm claimed his son was “rallying.” Still, Alex had an aura around him that disturbed Whit. A kid of seventeen should not have a pall of death hanging over him. Whit worried it might be contagious. Reid was already too introverted and quirky, and Whit felt Alex might tip Reid in the wrong direction. Despite that, Whit was relieved the boys were at Alex’s. He wasn’t proud of himself for feeling that way, but it was the truth. And he was still angry with Reid about trying to sell the car.

  Tonight, he and Suzanne would be alone. Whit hoped she didn’t have a million phone calls to make or emails to answer or cupcakes to frost. He had stopped at Whole Foods and picked up an Argentinian malbec and a bunch of sunflowers, both her favorites, and when he stepped into the entry, the smell of rosemary and roasted meat greeted him. Had to be lamb, didn’t it?

  Suzanne was perched on a stool at the counter, a glass of water in hand. Her face lit up when she saw him. She rose, kissed him softly, and took the flowers from him. “How sweet.” He watched her choose a vase from a high shelf—they’d never undone the childproofing and moved the breakable objects into more convenient cabinets—and noticed her movements were somewhat deliberate, as if she were underwater.

  “Everything all right?”

  “Sure.” She filled the vase under the faucet and set it on the counter. “Sometimes it just seems impossible to have a conflict-free week. Or day.”

  “That was an obnoxious stunt for Reid to pull.”

  “He certainly made his point.” She clipped the ends of the sunflower stalks with kitchen shears. “I wish the two of you could find a less combative way to communicate.”

  Whit retrieved a beer from the fridge. “I try, Suzanne. It may not seem like it, but I really do try.” He searched the drawer where the opener was kept, pushing junk from one side to the other. What was all this crap doing in here? He found the opener and shut the drawer.