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I can’t leave him without saying goodbye.
I need to stick around long enough to explain things, to let him know that none of this was his fault.
And so I stay in my perfect little cottage, the nicest place I’ve ever lived, a beautifully furnished reminder of everything I’ve just lost. It rains and rains and the buzzing in my brain is worse than ever—like my head is full of mosquitoes. I smash a pillow into my face and scream but nothing will silence the noise.
That night I sleep for ten, twelve, fourteen hours. Every time I wake up, I remember what happened, and then I burrow under my blankets until I’m asleep again.
At ten o’clock Saturday morning I stand up and drag myself into the shower. It makes me feel better, a little, I guess. Then I step outside and there’s a rock holding a sheet of paper on my porch.
Oh sweet Jesus, I think to myself, I’m really going crazy.
But it’s just a note from Caroline:
Dear Mallory,
Ted and I are taking Teddy to the shore. We told him you’ll be moving away, and of course he’s upset. Hopefully a day of beach and boardwalk rides will take his mind off things. We’ll be gone until late so you’ll have the pool and yard to yourself.
Also: Russell called this morning with an update. He has booked a red-eye ticket for tomorrow night, and he’ll be here Monday morning, between 10 and 11 a.m.
We’d like to spend tomorrow afternoon celebrating your time with our family—with swimming, dinner, dessert, etc. Starting around 3:00 if that works for you. Please call if you need anything or just want to talk. I am here to support you during this transition.
Love, Caroline
I walk over to the big house to get some orange juice, but when I try to enter my passcode on the keypad, it doesn’t work. Of course it doesn’t. Ted and Caroline might trust me with their backyard, but there’s no way they’ll let me back in their house, not after I drew all over the walls.
I know I should go for a run. I know I’ll feel better if I get out and log a few miles. But I’m too embarrassed to leave the backyard, too ashamed to show my face around the neighborhood. I imagine that news of my deception has spread quickly, and now everyone in Spring Brook knows my secret. I walk back to my cottage, pour myself a bowl of Cheerios, and then remember I’m out of milk. I eat them dry, with my fingers. I lie on my bed with my tablet and go to the Hallmark Channel, scanning the selection of movies, but suddenly they all seem fake and horrible and awful—full of false promises and bullshit happy endings.
I’m ten minutes into something called A Shoe Addict’s Christmas when I hear footsteps on my porch and a soft knock at my door. I figure it’s probably Mitzi, coming to apologize for her behavior during the séance. I yell out “I’m busy” and raise the volume on my tablet.
Adrian’s face appears in the window.
“We need to talk.”
I leap out of bed and open the door. “Yes, we really do, because—”
“Not here,” he says. “I’ve got my truck out front. Let’s go for a drive.”
* * *
He doesn’t say where we’re going, but as soon as we reach the on-ramp for 295 I figure it out. We merge into fast-flowing traffic, connect with 76 West, and cross the Walt Whitman Bridge, soaring high above the shipyards and seaports of the Delaware River. We are going to South Philadelphia. Adrian is bringing me home.
“You don’t have to do this. Turn the truck around.”
“We’re almost there,” he says. “Five more minutes.”
It’s too early for football and the Phils must be out of town because the expressway is clear, no traffic. Adrian takes the exit for Oregon Avenue. He keeps glancing at his GPS, but from this point I could direct him blindfolded. I still know every road and stop sign and traffic light. All the old businesses are still here: the fast-food places and the cheesesteak shops, the Asian supermarkets and the cell phone retailers and the sports bar/strip club that recruited two of my classmates straight from high school. No one was ever going to mistake my old neighborhood for Spring Brook. The roads are full of potholes; the sidewalks are littered with broken glass and chicken bones. But many of the rowhouses have new aluminum siding and look better than I remember, like people have been making an effort to keep everything nice.
Adrian stops at the corner of Eighth and Shunk. I’m guessing he found my address online because we’re right in front of the short squat rowhouse I used to call home. The bricks have been repointed, the shutters have a fresh coat of paint, and there’s bright green grass where our white gravel “yard” used to be. Next to the front door is a man standing on a ladder; he’s wearing work gloves and scooping dead leaves from the rain gutters.
Adrian shifts into park and turns on his flashers. I haven’t seen any of my neighbors since high school and I’m afraid of being spotted. The houses are all packed tight together and it’s easy to imagine everyone opening their doors and streaming outside to gape at me.
“Please just drive.”
“Is this where you grew up?”
“You already know it is.”
“Who’s the man on the ladder?”