Pictures of You (15 page)

Her phone continued to ring, but she let the machine pick up. “Isabelle, I know you’re there,” voices said.
Isabelle, Isabelle
. The voices chanted her name like an incantation. Jane called, and then Lindy, and when Michelle called, Isabelle heard Andi babbling in the background. There was an almost constant rapping at her door, and sometimes notes slid through her mail slot. Call me. Let me know you are okay. Friends wanted to make sure she was all right. They told her how lucky she was to be alive, how fortunate they were to still have her. What an awful thing, they said. How horrible. I don’t know what I would do if I were you. It wasn’t your fault, they said. Don’t even think it. It wasn’t your fault. And as soon as she heard that, well, of course, she thought it was her fault because really, who else’s fault would it be? Who else was there to blame?

“Whose fault was it, then?” she asked out loud. The house ticked around her. Her mouth felt dry. It felt like the first time she’d spoken in days.

Luke called twice a day. She could hear the clatter and clink of glasses behind him, the constant sound that began early because there was always someone at the bar who wanted a drink, even at six in the morning on a bright sunny day. She never picked up any of Luke’s calls, but she couldn’t help listening to his voice. He asked if she wanted to talk. If he could come over. “I can take care of everything for you,” he said. She burrowed deeper into her blanket.
“I’m still your husband,” he said.
Hang up
, she told herself.
Hang up now
.

When the phone rang again, she automatically screened the caller. “Isabelle, this is Harry Jaspers from
On the Cape
magazine.” His voice was soft and jolly, as if he had just been listening to the funniest joke. “People are interested in your story,” he said. “You wouldn’t believe how many people! And you wouldn’t believe the misconceptions they have about you. I believe that you should have a voice. Call me on my cell. Let’s do it before things get out of hand.” Isabelle shut her eyes. The click of his hang-up seemed to reverberate inside her. What things were getting out of hand? She shivered.

Sleep. All she wanted to do was sleep for months and wake up and have all this be over. She shut her eyes, willing her breathing to steady, her heartbeat to calm, and then, soon, she fell asleep again.

She began sleeping more, and the more she slept, the more she wanted to sleep, deep and dreamless, as if she were drugged. She didn’t need food or water or a hot shower or clean clothes. No, all she needed was this blessed sleep. She kept the blinds drawn so she didn’t see the outside world, and she slept.

H
ANDS WERE LIFTING
her up, and she swatted at them. There was a buzzing sound swarming in her ears. “Sleep,” she said out loud, burrowing deeper into the couch, but someone was pulling it from her, taking it out of her hands. She shut her eyes tightly. It was daylight. Bright, shiny hot. The blinds were up and a window was open and she smelled cut grass. She willed herself to tumble back down into her dreams.

“Isabelle. Jesus. Come on, wake up, baby.”

She smelled him first and then her eyes fluttered open. Luke was beside her, staring at her in real concern. “Go away,” she said. Her mouth was dry. Her tongue felt thick and pasted to the roof of her mouth.

“I will not,” he said. “You don’t answer your phone. You don’t come to the door. Your friends called me, worried about you. Michelle even came to the pub to find me. They must have been worried because they sure as hell wouldn’t contact me otherwise.”

“You used your key,” she accused.

“No, I came in through the window. Of course I used the key. I was worried.”

He helped her up, and when she winced, he stopped, waiting for her to catch her breath. “Get your sea legs,” he told her.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked.

“Shower,” he told her.

She flapped her hands. “I don’t want a shower.”

“Yes you do. Maybe you haven’t noticed, but you smell a little ripe. Plus, it’ll wake you up.” He helped her into the shower, sitting on the toilet while the water rushed over her. She gasped at the hot spray. He poured shampoo into her hand. He handed her liquid soap. She was surfacing, fighting it, but every time she tried to shut her eyes, to sink back down, the water propelled her back up.

He reached for her hand as she gingerly stepped out, and then wrapped her in a towel. “Clean clothes, then a sandwich,” he said. “I bought groceries. That fancy French cheese you like. Fresh tomatoes. A purple onion.”

“I don’t want it. I don’t want you here.”

“Yes you do.”

She let him wiggle a long dress over her head, even though she almost never wore dresses anymore, preferring her jeans and sneakers. She was limp when he pulled on her bikini panties and slid on the red stretch shoes she loved. He led her into the kitchen, folding her onto a chair. “Sit,” he ordered. She heard the rustle of bags, the clink of dishes. “I’m not hungry,” she said, but when he set the plate in front of her, she smelled the sandwich and was suddenly ravenous. “Eat,” he said. “You need to eat.” He put one hand on her shoulder, just for a second. “I’ll clean up.”

“I don’t want you cleaning—”

“
Shhh
,” he said, and grabbed the mop.

She ate both halves of the sandwich he had made and polished off a glass of juice, too. Her head cleared and she smelled the bright lemony tang of the cleaner he was using. Her scalp tingled from the peppermint shampoo. “What day is it?” she asked him.

“Thursday.”

“I need to go back to sleep.”

“You need fresh air,” he told her. “You can throw me out later, but right now, you’re coming with me. Just out on the porch. It won’t kill either one of us.” And then he took her to the swing and even though it was big enough for the two of them, though they used to spend hours on it, talking, holding hands, now he sat on the steps, giving her space. She took long, even breaths. He didn’t once reach to touch her. He didn’t speak but looked at her, waiting. “So,” he said. “What’s the story, morning glory?”

“Why didn’t you tell me she died?” Isabelle finally asked.

“How could I tell you that?” he said quietly.

“You didn’t, but a detective did. He came here and told me. Then I saw the newspaper article. She was only thirty-five.”

He folded his hands in front of him and looked down at them.

“I could have killed her little boy.”

“But you didn’t. He’s alive and so is his father. And so are you. And that woman was in the middle of the road. Her car was turned around. What was she thinking?”

“But the newspapers say—”

“Oh, the newspapers,” he said. “They get everything right, don’t they?”

“I keep thinking if I hadn’t gone on that road, or if I had left the car, taken a plane or a bus. If a million other things had been different—”

“Don’t do this, Isabelle.”

“Don’t you ever feel that in your life?” She thought of his affair, of the inadvertent way he had ruined their marriage, of their lost
babies. “Luke,” she said, “why are you here? I’m not coming back to you and you already have someone else.”

He glanced at her. “I fucked up,” he said. “And maybe I’m doing penance. And why wouldn’t I be here? A terrible thing happened.”

He stood up, brushing his hands against his pants. “How do you feel about Chinese for dinner?” Luke said. “I’ll even cook.”

That night, he made spring rolls and chicken chow fun. He cleaned and made up the bed for her with fresh sheets and blankets. “In you go,” he said. She was too tired to argue. She lay down. Her lids fluttered shut. “Thank you,” she said, but when she lifted her head, he was already gone.

Isabelle woke with a start, clammy, unsure of what she had dreamed but having a feeling that it was bad. She was holding one of the pillows against her, and she pushed it away. She heard something. She quietly got up from the bed and listened.

Snoring. She walked to the living room. There on the couch was Luke, bundled into a blanket, half hanging off the couch, his mouth a small, damp O. She watched him. For a moment he looked like the boy she’d fallen in love with, the young grease monkey working at a gas station, uncomplicated, steadfast in love, a boy who loved her enough to run away with her. She thought of him at his bar, so proud he’d shine the counters the way other men shined their cars. His eyes opened and he saw her, but he didn’t move. He kept silent, as if he were waiting for her. Then she turned from him and went back to bed.

In the morning, Luke was gone. Isabelle was soaked with sweat, and her feet itched, but there was music playing in the living room. He had set the table for her breakfast, cut up some fruit for her, left cereal in a bowl. There was a note: “I’m sorry. Call me any time. Eat. Shower. Live your life.”

B
Y THAT AFTERNOON
, three reporters had called her, and she ignored every one of them. She waited for her bruises to
heal, and though she told herself she wouldn’t, she kept reading the papers online. Instead of understanding more, she understood less. People loved this story. They loved the mystery, the human interest. Isabelle didn’t like reading about herself—she flinched every time she saw a photo—but reading about April was something else.

Today there were photographs. There was April in jeans and a sweatshirt, hugging her son. There was a photo of April wearing a Blue Cupcake T-shirt, cheering in the stands of a soccer game.

Isabelle scanned the page. There, at the bottom, was a photograph of her. She felt sick. It looked like they had doctored the photo, darkening it to make her look sinister. “Photographer refuses to speak,” the caption read, which made it seem as though she had something to hide, when instead, she just didn’t know what to say. “What Was the Real Accident?” the headline blared.

Was the mysterious crash that occurred outside Hartford one week ago a tale of two suitcases? The two-car crash occurred on Crescent Road, a back road recently closed for repairs. Unnamed sources say that remnants of suitcases were pulled from both vehicles.

No formal charges have been filed against Ms. Stein, who was driving below the speed limit, and, according to reports, had tried to stop. Investigators still have no clues why April Nash’s car was turned around on the road, or why her child was outside the car.

Grieving husband and father Charlie Nash refused to comment on the accident or on the charred suitcase later found in the car. “It’s a personal matter that we are doing our best to get through,” he said.

Neighbors say the couple was happily married and there were no signs of trouble in the family. “I don’t know,” said a neighbor and friend who wished to be anonymous. “They always seemed to have the perfect life to me.”

Isabelle stared down at the article. April had a suitcase, too. Where was April going? There was another photograph, and as soon as she saw it, she knew who it was.

Charlie Nash. The photo was a snapshot, and a little unfocused, but he had a nice, regular face, and all you had to do was look at it to see how filled with grief it was. “Charles Nash leaving the police station.” She touched the photograph as if she could comfort him.

She googled Charlie Nash. Isabelle had heard of him, the name sounded familiar. The screen flooded with entry after entry, and every one seemed to jump out at her like warning flares. She forced herself to focus. He had such a life and it was all here, line after line after line. “Oakrose Housing Works Honors Charles Nash.” “Charles Nash Home featured in
Cape Cod Homes
.” She clicked on it, and a photo of Charlie Nash appeared, beaming in the middle of a construction site, his long hair gleaming and shiny in the sun, and then she thought, of course. Charlie Nash. She had seen him around town. “The One Contractor People Love” the article was titled. Fingers pressed against her temples, she read. “‘Renovating a house is like falling in love, discovering all its secrets and loving the house anyway.’” There was another photo of Charlie covered in sawdust. “‘I love them like they are family,’ Nash laughs. ‘When the job is done, it’s done, though sometimes, I admit, I drive past the houses to see how they’re doing.’”

She clicked off the computer. Oh, fuck, he was a good guy. He was the kind of man people wrote articles about, and even worse, all she had to do was look at one picture to see just how much the camera loved him. You couldn’t fake a smile like that, or that look in his eyes, mischievous and intelligent. She clicked on a few more photos and in every one he was beaming, like a man who knew his life was wonderful. Isabelle’s hand froze on the keyboard. She couldn’t look at any more, no matter how much she wanted to, because the more she knew about him, the more she wanted to know, and the more she knew, the more it hurt.

Isabelle put her head in her hands. Nash Homes. She had seen the signs, the logo of a house with smoke coming out of a chimney, a blue picket fence and flowers, the kind of house everyone wanted.

She got out the phone book and, hands shaking, opened it.

Charlie Nash lived just six blocks away from her.

She’d probably seen him a million times, at the beach, the supermarket, getting pizza. She had most likely seen April and Sam with him, a family splashing beside her in the surf, buying ice cream cones at Jelly’s. They all lived in the same small town, and yet they were somehow strangers.

S
HE STAYED INSIDE
for a few more days, and then, on Tuesday, a week and a half after the accident, Isabelle cautiously went out. The summer people were all gone, and the streets were emptier. She kept a low profile, hidden behind dark glasses. At first she kept to the more deserted areas, the line of beach, too cool for swimmers now; the wooded areas; but gradually, she ventured to the shopping district. She tried to walk with a purpose.

She didn’t know what she expected, but to her surprise, no one did more than occasionally glance at her.

Isabelle walked from one end of town to the other. She went into stores she didn’t really have any business in—a glass store, a candle shop—just for the pure pleasure of being out in the world, of moving around. When she bumped into Laney, an old client, at the greengrocers, Laney simply hugged her, and said, “So glad to see you,” as if nothing had happened.