The Island (44 page)

“So you know about Anita Fullin?” Tate said. “You know about the job offer?”

Chess didn’t answer. She didn’t
have
to answer. Of course she knew about the job offer; Barrett had confided in her. This morning, when Tate woke up, her biggest problem had been Anita Fullin. Now, her biggest problem was her sister.

“He had to tell me about the job,” Chess said. “His phone kept ringing.”

“I hate you,” Tate said. She stood up on the stairs so that she towered over her sister. “I absolutely
hate
you! You ruin
everything,
you steal everything. You have been ruining my life since I was born. You have been taking everything good for yourself and leaving me with scraps.”

“Tate—”

“Don’t talk to me!” Tate was screaming now. “I
hate
you! I’ve loved Barrett since I was seventeen years old, but he’s always wanted you. You are the prettier sister, I guess, the cooler sister, the
superior
sister. You get everything you want, you always have, and I’m sure you always will—”

“Tate, you know that’s not true—”

“It
is
true!” Tate was hysterical; she could hardly catch her breath. She gazed out at Nantucket in the distance. She might never see Barrett again. She had stupidly, idiotically sent him away. “I can’t breathe when you’re around! You suck up all the oxygen. You are so self-centered, so self-
absorbed—
”

“Tate—” Chess said.

“You stole my boyfriend,” Tate said. “You spent the day with him! You ate lunch with him, you took a nap with him, you ran errands together, he confided in you—”

“Yes,” Chess said. “Yes, yes, yes. He confided in me. He told me he’s in love with you.”

Tate grabbed her sister’s wrist. It was rough and lumpy with poison ivy. Tate wanted to wrench Chess’s arm right off her body. “He told you that? He told
you
that? But he’s never told
me
that. Do you see? Do you see how you’re interfering and ruining everything?” She threw Chess’s wrist back at her, and Chess took a stutter step backward and fell off the steps into the sand. Rather than apologize, Tate rushed her sister. She pushed both her hands into Chess and knocked her down.

“Tate!” Chess screamed. “Leave me alone!”

“You leave
me
alone!” Tate said. “You make me wish I had never been born!”

“I’m sorry!” Chess said. She was crying. “I’m sorry I got poison ivy, I’m sorry I had to go to the hospital. I’m sorry your boyfriend was the only one who could take me. I’m sorry that you feel I’ve ruined your life. I’m sorry you think my life is so perfect. I assure you, my life is
not
perfect. I assure you, I have
not
gotten everything I wanted. Not by a long shot.”

Tate said, “Well, if there is something wrong with your life, why don’t you
tell me what it is?
Tell me what happened with Michael! Tell me your horrible secret!”

“I can’t!” Chess said. “I can’t tell you. I can’t tell anyone!”

“Did you tell Barrett?” Tate asked. “Did you tell him today?”

Chess pressed her fingers against her red and swollen eyes. Her face was a blotchy mess; the patches of poison ivy seemed to be growing redder and angrier. “You are so immature,” Chess said. “You should listen to yourself. You sound like you’re twelve years old.”

“Shut up!” Tate screamed.

“You shut up!” Chess said. “And leave me alone!”

“I hate you!” Tate said. “I’m glad you’re miserable!”

BIRDIE AND INDIA

I
ndia was in her bedroom when the screaming started. She could tell it was coming from the beach, but it took her another second to realize it was Chess and Tate. India sat on her bed and closed her eyes. God, the pain of having a sister, another girl, another woman, not you, but nearly you. A friend, a confidante, a rival, an enemy. She remembered the summer that… Billy was three, Teddy was fourteen months old, and India was pregnant with Ethan. They were here on Tuckernuck, down on the beach; India was in a low-slung beach chair with Teddy in her lap, and Billy was at the water’s edge. India had been so tired, first trimester tired, she couldn’t keep her eyes open, and then the next thing she knew, her eyes
were
open and she was watching Billy go under, whoosh, like he was being sucked into a vacuum. India tried to cry out—
Help! Billy!
—she tried to jump out of her chair, but Teddy was asleep and as heavy as lead in her arms. India’s lethargic body was betraying her. She couldn’t make herself move fast enough.

“Bill!” she shouted. Where was Bill? “Billy!”

Birdie had appeared out of nowhere. She had dashed into the water and scooped Billy up; he was sputtering water at first, then wailing. Birdie pounded Billy on the back, expelling the seawater, and then she was shushing him against her chest. India had hated Birdie in that moment, had hated that Birdie was the one to pull Billy out of the ocean, to save his life. And India had loved her, too. She had loved her with a depth and passion that she couldn’t explain. When no one else was there, Birdie was there.

The screaming continued. India went downstairs.

Birdie was pouring herself a glass of Sancerre when the screaming started. At first, she didn’t know what on earth… so she walked out to the edge of the bluff. It sounded like Chess and Tate. Could it be? She saw them at the bottom of the steps. She heard Tate say,
I hate you!

Birdie turned and walked back to the house. With each step, her heart shrank. It was awful to hear her daughters speak to each other like that. It felt as bad as it must feel for a child to hear his parents fighting. At least she and Grant had never fought in front of the children. There wasn’t a lot they could be proud of, but they could be proud of that.

India was standing at the picnic table as Birdie approached. She reached out for Birdie. Wordlessly, they embraced. Birdie smelled India’s musky scent; she felt the bristles of India’s short hair and the soft skin of her cheek.

They separated. India handed Birdie her glass of wine and then offered her a cigarette.

“Thank you,” Birdie whispered.

“You’re welcome,” India whispered back.

CHESS

N
ick and I had agreed: Clean break with Michael first. Clean, meaning I was not to mention Nick. This left me with no reason to break the engagement other than the stark and unapologetic
I’m not in love with you anymore.

My conversation with Michael, which was a series of conversations, went something like this:

Me (crying): “I can’t marry you.”

“What?”

“I can’t marry you.” (I had to say everything six or seven times for it to sink in.)

“Why not? What happened?”

“What happened” was the big question—put to me by Michael, my mother, my father, my sister, by Evelyn, by my friends, by my assistant. When Michael called Nick to tell him the engagement was off, I wonder if Nick said, “What happened?” I was pretty sure he didn’t say that, but I didn’t know for sure. We had agreed not to speak again until the smoke had cleared.

“Nothing ‘happened,’ ” I said. “I just don’t feel the same way anymore.”

“Why not?” Michael said. “I don’t get it. Did I do something wrong? Did I say something wrong?”

“No, no, no,” I said. I didn’t want to make this his fault. The only thing he had done “wrong” was to propose in the public way that he did. It forced me to say yes. But I could have undone the proposal immediately after accepting; the knot had been loose at that point. No plans had been made, no bridesmaids asked, no deposits plunked down. I could have asked for time, then more time, and slipped out.

“I should never have said yes.”

“Because you didn’t love me even then?” Michael asked. “You never loved me?”

“I loved you. I love you now.”

“Then marry me.”

What I didn’t say was this:
I don’t love you enough and I don’t love you the right way. If I marry you, bad things will happen. Maybe not right away, but down the road. We will be at a family gathering and I will stare longingly at Nick. I will bump into him behind the shed in your parents’ backyard, where one of our kids has thrown his Frisbee, and he will kiss me. And then, as we drive back into the city, I will be moody, and when we get home, I will pack my bags. Or I will have a full-blown affair with someone who reminds me of Nick but who doesn’t have your best interest at heart the way that Nick does. This man will steal me away; he will steal your house and your children. You will be left with much less than you have now.

What I did say was: “I can’t.”

“You can.”

“All right, then I won’t.”

He didn’t understand. Nobody understood. Michael and I were so perfect together. We liked the same things; we seemed so happy. People fell into two categories: Those who understood the intangible quality of love and thought I was smart to get out while I could. And those who didn’t understand the intangible quality of love. These people looked at Michael and me and saw a match—perfect on paper!—and thought I was making a whopping, self-destructive mistake.

I explained myself until there was nothing left inside me except for the nugget of truth that I would not reveal: I loved Nick.

Michael suspected someone else. He asked me over and over again in every conversation: “Is there someone else?”

“No,” I said.

And this was true. Nick wasn’t mine in any real sense. He had no claims on me, nor I on him. But I knew he was waiting.

We talked after about ten days. I gave him the rundown, and he gave me the rundown. Because Michael wasn’t only talking to me; he was talking to Nick.

Nick said, “Man, this is tough. This is weighing on my soul.”

I said, “What should we do?”

He said, “I’m leaving for Toronto to make this album on June tenth. I want you to come with me.”

“Come with you?”

“Come to Toronto with me. Live with me. Let’s find out if this thing is real.”

It meant leaving my job. It meant leaving New York. The job was easy enough. I had been food editor for three years; what had been the most exciting challenge of my life was now a spin on the lazy Susan. January/February: comfort foods. March/April: lighten up. May: foreign issue. June: garden fresh. July: BBQ. August: picnic. September: football tailgates. October: harvest flavors. November: Thanksgiving. December: Christmas/Hanukkah. I was ready to hop off.

We put the July issue to bed early, finishing at two o’clock. It was a lovely spring day and I gave my assistant, Erica, the rest of the day off. Then I walked into the office of my managing editor, David Nunzio, and told him I was leaving the magazine. From there, I walked to the office of the editor in chief, Clark Boyd, with David Nunzio trailing behind me saying he hoped I wasn’t serious, I couldn’t just leave, boom, like that, and what could they do to get me to stay? Did I want more money? I told Clark Boyd that I was leaving.

“Leaving?” he said.

“I’m done,” I said. “I quit.”

Both Clark Boyd and David Nunzio studied me for a moment, as if realizing at the same time that I might not be in my right mind. Indeed, some essential part of me was missing; I loved this job, I was good at it, and yet here I was, walking away.

Clark said, “I know you’ve been through a rough time…”

I laughed, but the laugh sounded like a hiccup. I wasn’t even getting the laugh right. But I found it funny that Clark Boyd would have any inkling about my broken engagement, although of course the offices of
Glamorous Home,
just like any other workplace, was a nest of gossip and rumors. I had tried to keep it under wraps; I hadn’t taken a single personal call.

“This has nothing to do with…,” I said. Then I stopped. I didn’t owe them an explanation.

“If you need time…,” Clark said.

“I’m done,” I said. “Finished. I’ll get you a letter of resignation.” Although this seemed such a stupid formality. I just wanted to walk free.

Once I was down on the street, I felt better. I watched the other New Yorkers in their spring suits and high heels carrying bags from Duane Reade and Barnes and Noble, and I thought,
Okay, what now?

Nick and Michael were going rock climbing in Moab over Memorial Day weekend. Nick was going to tell him. He had to tell him because I was coming to Toronto. I wanted to travel to Canada secretly. Michael didn’t need to know
yet;
it would be wiser to give him time, to let him start dating again. But Nick was a straight shooter, and Michael was his brother. Nick would tell him when they were alone in the desert. Michael could yell as loudly as he wanted; he could throw punches. Nick would take them.

It was the ultimate gamble. I was afraid that was what appealed about it to Nick. He never lost at cards, but what if he lost here?

“What are you going to say?” I asked him.

“The truth,” Nick said. “That I love you. That I’ve loved you from the first second I saw you.”

I had sublet my apartment to a friend of Rhonda’s from the New School (that apartment was my baby, so I couldn’t let it go) and packed my things and arrived on my mother’s doorstep just about the same time that Michael and Nick were landing in Utah. I wasn’t doing well. I was anxious, nervous, morose. I couldn’t imagine being Nick, nor could I imagine being Michael. I tried to throw my phone away, but my mother picked it from the trash, thinking I would thank her later.

I slept most of the weekend. I hid behind
Vogue;
I tried to read a novel, but the story of my own life kept inserting itself in the pages. I tried to remember who I had been before meeting the Morgan brothers. Where was the happy girl who had walked into the Bowery Ballroom that October night? I tried to come up with a plan; I had always been big on making a plan and sticking to it. I would go to Toronto, leave for Tuckernuck for two weeks with my mother and sister (I would tell them then), and then return to Toronto. And if the thing turned out to be real, if I was in love, if I was happy, I would go with Nick on tour. And do what for money? Freelance? Start a novel? It sounded so cliché. It sounded so
midlife crisis.
I was only thirty-two.