THE YEAR WAS finally ending. At last. I wanted to declare it the worst one of my life, as if that way I could say that box had been checked off and another one couldn’t come along and push it aside. But it was also the year Ruby was born. I couldn’t put a stigma like that on my daughter. I couldn’t let that thought take up space in my mind and through some treasonous lapse be conveyed to my daughter.
The important thing was to finish the year well and start the new one even better. With my daughters, with our new life. Something intimate. Generate a current that could channel things into their proper place. I woke up excited. It was a beautiful gray day, silver really, not too cold, as the days before had been. Perfect for taking a bike ride to the promenade along the beach. The Williamses had given us a tandem tricycle, something stable for taking along the girls. I’m going up front, Mommy, that way we can race and I’ll always win, Olivia said when we tried it for the first time. But now she didn’t seem at all enthused about getting on it.
“I don’t want to go to the beach,” Olivia said. She didn’t like the sand either. Impossible to quantify. “I’ve got plans with Oliver.”
“What do you mean, you’ve got plans with Oliver?”
“He told me to come to his house to play. I’m talking with him over FaceTime.”
She showed me the boy on her tablet, and he turned red when he saw my face appear on his screen.
“Oli, you can’t bother people on New Year’s Eve.”
“His mom said it was OK,” she said to me, and then to Oliver, “Didn’t she?”
Julia, appearing quickly behind Oliver, made a gesture that combined consent and resignation. A comical wink I’d never seen her make before.
“See? She said yes!” Olivia celebrated.
My cell rang. New message. From Mark. The father apparently says yes too. He’s going to be at The Office.
No, that wasn’t the plan. I wasn’t ending the year like that.
Second message from Mark:
Come see me.
No. I was going to end the year doing something productive. Third message from Mark:
That way we can end the year doing something productive.
Those messages made me feel rejection and joy in equal amounts. I rejected him and I wanted him. Who do you think you are to play with me like that? Since I’d come back from Providence, we had neither seen nor written each other. Meanwhile, I continued to witness how what had begun as a matter of decorum in front of the family on Christmas Eve had turned into a real reconciliation. Once again Julia was joyful and enjoyable. She let him read what she wrote, and he loved it. They slept together. And even—this was almost the most important thing of all—they had started laughing together again. I was still going back and forth between relief, which little by little erased the guilt that clung to me, a certain pride as I felt partially responsible for their reconciliation and, of course, a bit of envy and jealousy. But I told myself it wasn’t for Mark; it was because I missed the kind of companionship being part of a couple brought with it. Anyway, I had considered the story over, until I received his three messages at ten in the morning on December 31. Everything was much uglier than a hot-and-bothered message in the middle of a humdrum night. To top it off, it suddenly started to snow, with all that meant for Olivia.
While I organized some alternative plan to try and keep from falling into temptation, I caught Pony’s eye as she lay there on the floor next to the radiator, and she seemed to say: You know what you’re going to do; you already know. You’re going to cover it up, like, “Oh, let’s take Ruby and the dog for a walk.” And all of a sudden, like it was the last thing on your mind, you’ll walk us past the port, and we’ll see the lights on in Mark’s boat. Plus, it’s snowing harder and harder. And well, since no one’s looking, you’ll go in for a bit, but just a little while, until it clears up. And hey, that’s fine with me, Alice, because I hate going for a walk, I hate leaving the house, and just like Olivia, I hate the snow. So take a shower, put on a few drops of that perfume he likes so much, and let’s go ahead and wrap this farce up. Pony told me all that, very inconsiderately. I swear.
It didn’t make things easy for me in the least that Julia was so nice when I dropped off Olivia. Since our run-in at the pharmacy, we had crossed paths from time to time on the island, out shopping, dropping off or picking up the kids, taking a walk . . . A friendly glance, a smile that never quite formed, a distant greeting, a hello, a see you later . . . But this time she smiled warmly, shared with me a light that had previously been absent, asked me about Christmas, how things went, did we spend it with family. She offered to watch Ruby and Pony so I could enjoy a few hours to myself—What’s the difference between two or three kids, or one or two dogs, she said—and she told me I smelled good, that she loved my perfume, asked what it was. White Musk from the Body Shop. And finally she invited me in to have tea. Say yes, Alice; you can have that tea and avoid temptation. Grab this opportunity to get close to her and push yourself away from him, because she’s the one who’s been keeping a secret. Say yes. I turned down both offers appreciatively. And however much I pretended not to, I knew why. I told her I’d be back in a few hours, and I went to Mark’s boat, taking more turns than necessary, as if I was afraid she was following me, as if I was trying to get lost and avoid the inevitable.
Mark had opened a can of Russian caviar a patient from New York had given him and had made Valencian Water, a cocktail with a base of champagne, orange juice, vodka and gin. I was the one who had told him about the cocktail, which I got hooked on when I was in Spain. I was surprised he remembered. A nice detail. We toasted to the New Year.
He was unusually animated as well. He looked contented, was chatty and told me outrageous stories about his New York patients. For a while, I thought that he might not even want to sleep with me, that he just wanted to chat, that all that idle yakking had been to set the stage for telling me how well things were going with Julia, and that all this was a kind of farewell to thank me for services rendered and to be sure that everything was good between us and that we could go on being friends. That would have been fine with me. Well, that’s what I told myself. Because, if all that would have been fine with me, why didn’t I suggest it myself? But Mark didn’t say anything whatsoever about Julia, and after three Valencian Waters—I had barely tried it—and polishing off the caviar, he told me he had missed me, and without waiting for a response, because he knew he wouldn’t get one, he kissed me. We kissed.
“You did it again.”
“What?”
“You stopped.”
“What do you mean?”
“Yeah, right before our lips touch, you stop yourself. Just like you did the first time.”
“I did?” I bluffed.
“Yes.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Yeah, you did. Look, we’re going to kiss again. On the count of three, we’ll both come close at the same time.”
“OK.”
“One, two, three.”
We kissed.
“See? You did it again.”
Yeah, I’d done it again. And this time, it was against my will.
“Do you regret giving me each kiss?”
“Maybe a little.”
“For me, it’s the opposite.”
“How’s that?”
“I regret it after I give you each kiss. Because of how much I like it.”
Then I did kiss him. I think.
“Who’s going back to my house first? You or me?” Mark asked after waking up from his obligatory postcoital micro-nap with his arms wrapped around my waist.
“The least suspicious thing would be for us to go back together.”
“Yeah, holding hands.” Mark laughed. “If you don’t mind, I’ll go back first, I’m going to need a few hours for the oyster stew. When you leave, make sure the hatch is locked.”
I said OK. Mark got up and started dressing.
“Maybe you should shower first. I smell perfume.”
“I love how you smell.”
“Julia does too. She just told me.”
He didn’t like me mentioning her name. I could see he was bothered and about to ask me what the hell I was up to. I think I did it on purpose. He was so relaxed, and it pissed me off. I wanted him to feel at least a little bad so that I wasn’t the only one.
“You know what? You’re right. I’m going to take a shower . . .” he said, not wanting to spoil the moment, and he stepped into the little shower in the cabin.
He closed the glass door. I went out to the main cabin where Pony and Ruby were sleeping placidly, as usual. I took my cell out of my pocket and went straight to Mark’s laptop. When I’d showed up at The Office, he was in the middle of writing an email. He didn’t close it or turn it off.
I went into his calendar app and did the same as in Karen’s office, taking a video of every month from January to June. All the appointments and trips to New York.
I left twenty minutes after Mark. I took the chance to feed Ruby and look over the video that I had taken of Mark’s computer. I knew the dates of Chris’s trips by heart, so I could tally them up without the need to look at my notes. Mark went to New York twice a month for four or five days, so it was likely that some of the dates would overlap. But it seemed as if they had agreed to travel in alternating periods. Only a few of the trips coincided, and even then, not on all the days. Anyway, there I was assuming that, if Julia was committing adultery with Chris, it would be on the dates when Mark was away, even though Mark himself was committing adultery with me right there on the island, while she was taking care of my child. What kind of bullshit investigation was this? What was I after? What a shit day. Ridiculous. I was doing everything I’d told myself I wouldn’t do. And not just that day.
As I was leaving the cabin to go onto the deck, I stopped short when I saw something in the distance that caught my attention: activity. Although it was two in the afternoon on New Year’s Eve, with not a soul on the street and all the shops were closed, there was a fishing boat unloading merchandise. Make sure you get some fresh fish today; tomorrow no boats will be going out, Ray Schepler, the fisherman, had told me the day before. And now he had his raincoat on and was unloading crates with two other men I didn’t recognize. They must be members of the crew.
Then a van arrived from WasteWorks, Mike’s waste management company. He got out, wearing jean shorts and sandals with white socks, as if it were summertime. He opened the sliding door in the side of the van and put a few crates inside.
“Dude, you’re gonna get sick,” Ray said to Mike.
“I’m gonna get sick if this shit is as bad as that fish you sell.”
“Shut up, asshole. I only deal with the freshest merchandise. Fresh as your balls in this cold.”
They both laughed. Mike gave him a fat envelope. Only when the van was gone did I realize how dumb I had been not to record the entire thing with my phone. The first really relevant thing I had found out had been a complete stroke of luck, and to top it off, I hadn’t recorded it. Hell of a detective I was turning out to be.
We had dinner with my parents over Skype. Honey, for this, it would have been much better being together.
Mom, I’m hanging up.
No, no, OK, let’s celebrate in peace.
That’s what I’m saying.
At eight, we did a version of counting down to the New Year. Olivia pounded a casserole dish with a ladle while we screamed: Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one. Happy New Year! Then we had to repeat it because Olivia said we had to get to zero. So we did it again. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one, zero. Happy New Year! But that was no good either because Olivia wasn’t wild about counting backward; it made her sad. We had to count forward. To me, that made all the sense in the world. All right, come on now. One, two . . . !
Nonononono, from zero!
Oh, of course. Come on, now. Zero, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten! Happy New Year for the fourth time! Great, yay!
Again, Mommy, again!
We did it three more times until we all finished, with a ringing in our ears from Olivia’s thwacking on the casserole dish. We toasted to 2016 with juice.
An hour later, I managed to put the little counting beast to bed.
“Lights, iPad and Olivia, all three things in sleep mode now.”
“Okaaaaaay . . .”
Olivia turned off her iPad, opening and closing the protective case twice. One, two. She left it with the edges perfectly aligned with the corner of the nightstand. She rolled over, then rolled over again in the opposite direction.
“Oli, why don’t you try one night, just one night, not doing it?” The curious thing was, since the first time we did it together, I had gone on doing it every night. It wasn’t perfect, but it worked. “That could be your New Year’s resolution.” And mine, while we were at it.
“What’s a New Year’s resolution?”
“Well, when the old year is over, we decide to change some things we don’t like, or that are bad for us, so we don’t do them in the year that’s starting.”
“But I like it. And it’s good for me.”
“I’m just asking you to try, so you’ll see that nothing will happen and that the world’s not going to end.”
“So I can’t ask for another resolution?”
“You don’t ask for a resolution; you make one.”
“It’s not like a wish?”
“It’s like a wish. A wish that you have to grant yourself.”
“So I can’t ask for Daddy to come back?”
Jabbing pain in the heart.
“No. You can’t ask for that, sweetie. It has to be something you’re capable of doing. Like not rolling around and around in bed. Or being nice to Pony. Or when someone says bye to you, not getting scared. That would be a good resolution for you.”
Pause. She seemed to be reflecting on my words.
“I don’t like those resolutions.”
Another battle lost. I gave her a kiss and turned off the lights, leaving on the Peppa Pig nightlight.
“Bye, honey. I love you.”
“No, not that.”
“Till next year, honey. I love you.”
“No, not that either.”
“See you tomorrow, honey. I love you.”
“See you tomorrow, Mommy. And don’t close the door all the way.”
I shut the door until it was left open the exact length of my palm. First the fear of the cold. Then the OCD. Now she was in a phase where she couldn’t stand anyone saying bye to her because she was afraid she wouldn’t see that person again. Her father had said bye to her the last time she saw him. Bye, my princess, my love, he said to her. And she answered him with a simple, Bye, Daddy, goodbye. Now, months later, that memory had lit up and had turned into a new fear. I had realized it for the first time two weeks before, when I went to pick her up from school and she was taking leave of Lori Mambretti, the teacher who was in charge of going with them in the hydroplane that week. She had run off, and as she did, she had shouted: See you tomorrow, Miss Mambretti. Goodbye, Olivia. She turned around, still running, went back to the hydroplane and shouted once more as she ran away: See you tomorrow, Miss Mambretti Goodbye, Olivia. And again. And again. It seemed like an innocent game played by a child with too much sugar running through her veins. She only stopped when Lori had finally had it and said, See you tomorrow, Olivia. And a few days later, she had gotten sick at the Christmas party on the last day of school when she realized how uncontrollable the situation was as she tried to take leave of the dozens of children and their families. She got dizzy, but everyone chalked it up to the heat in the auditorium and the bear costume she was wearing. They had acted out “Goldilocks and the Three Bears.” She was the Mama Bear, and a happy one, especially because Oliver was Papa Bear.
When I told the psychologist, she tried to explain to Olivia that saying goodbye wasn’t necessarily definitive. A kind word you exchanged with the people you came across. But right now, for Olivia, the world, her world, was so fragile that a single word could change everything. That’s how my daughter felt. That’s how I felt. And then he told you: “Goodbye, my queen, my love.” And you never saw him again either, Olivia reminded me when I was trying to understand why she had prohibited the word goodbye. If I had ended up rolling around and around in my bed—once for each side—how did I know I wouldn’t end up avoiding the word goodbye for the rest of my life too? How many aftereffects awaited me still?
Miriam had invited me to spend New Year’s Eve at her house. And Karen at the inn. And the DeRollers, Father Henry, Frank Rush, the Burrs, the Nguyens, the O’Gormans and practically everyone I had run into on the island in the past several days. I cordially turned down all the invitations. In part because I felt guilty, remorseful. I was spying on them, on many of the people who had invited me into their homes so effusively. I wasn’t authorized to go into their houses. Punishment. It was remarkable how the more care and concern people showed me, the deeper my feelings of solitude. So I had decided that to exorcize it, the best thing was to be alone. I wanted to immerse myself in solitude, to face the monster. That night was the right one to do so.
The absence of a companion had plunged me into an internal dialogue so intense, so constant, that it made me fear all sorts of psychotic ailments. I was tired of spending the day with myself, of talking with Pony to justify myself. Tired of looking at that picture by Diego Sánchez Sanz and feeling like I was pulling further and further away. Who was that woman? I no longer knew. Now I only recognized myself in the shadows, on the dark side. I had done everything you shouldn’t do in circumstances like mine. When you fall into the sea, without anything to grab onto, you have to lie on your back and float, without wasting energy. Instead, I had been splashing in the water, desperately trying to keep myself afloat, and now my strength was ebbing. My body was starting to weigh me down. I was drowning in my own psyche.
I had three snitches active right then, simultaneously radiating conventional ways of celebrating New Year’s. A skein of noises, laughter, clinking glasses, shrieks, songs, partying, TV. All mixed together, whirling around, joining the storm in my mind. A perfect storm.
Bail out, Alice.
Not till this is solved. How do I only have four suspects? How many months, and only four suspects? It can’t be.
Disconnect.
I’ll take care of this right now.
Mike, for being a drug dealer and a dickhead and for trashing the life of the only person on the island I consider to be a friend, I declare you suspect number five.
Ray Schepler, for being a drug dealer, liar and not always giving me the best cuts of fish, I declare you suspect number six.
Summer, because even though you’re spoiled, unbearable and grating, by the dates, you could have Chris’s baby in your belly, so I declare you suspect number seven.
Jennifer, even though you are the kindest woman I’ve come across in my life, you’ve got something weird going on with your niece, not to mention Stephen, your husband in the coma, so I declare you suspect number eight.
Stephen, for . . . ah, no, Stephen’s already a suspect.
Karen, because of whatever it was you did with Chris in Room 202 of the inn and because I’m sure you drink so much to forget him, I declare you suspect number nine.
Conrad, because I’ll bet you opened the checking account for Chris and now you’re going to keep his money, I declare you suspect number ten.
Chief Margaret, because . . . because you’re Chief Margaret and that’s enough, I declare you suspect number eleven.
Frank Rush, because I don’t trust your episodes of dementia or Alzheimer’s are what they appear, I declare you suspect number twelve.
Barbara Rush, for taking a break from Jeffrey the pilot and for your lovely sky blue cat eyes, I declare you suspect number thirteen.
But wait, couldn’t he have gone to the island with someone else? A secret getaway for him and another woman. How did I not think of that before? I can’t believe it.
Cousin Keegan, because you’re still single and because you cried at the dinner table remembering Chris, I declare you suspect number fourteen.
Suz, my best friend from high school, secretly in love with Chris and head of the cheerleading squad, because even though Chris hated cheerleaders, I can’t trust anything anymore, I declare you suspect number fifteen.
All the girls who were at the University of Virginia between 1998 and 2002, especially those from the year 2000, when we broke it off for six months, I declare you as a group suspect number sixteen.
Twelve more suspects at the flick of a pen. Much better. Surely the solution is here. Everything’s here. I have to solve it.
You’re going in a spiral, Alice. Pull out.
Solve it already. Now. Because if not, they’re going to catch you. They’re going to send the police and social services to the house. They’re going to take away custody of your daughters.
You’re in a tailspin.
You’re not Moby Dick, or Captain Ahab, or gentle Ishmael.
Defocus your eyes and look at the map.
There is no map.
X marks the spot.
There is no map. There is no X.
You have no ship or crew.
You’re looking for a treasure that doesn’t exist. The Master Key doesn’t open anything.
There’s not even a minute left before the New Year. Hold on. It’s almost over.
Close your eyes to see it better.
The countdown’s starting. Count forward, Alice. Go.
Ten seconds to solve everything.
Ten!
Stephen is Chris’s father or secret brother.
Chris finds out he’s in a coma and goes to visit him. The first night he sleeps at the inn, but then the visits become more regular and he stays at Jennifer’s house.
Eight!
Jennifer keeps Stephen alive because she likes having Chris around.
Seven!
Then Chris meets Summer and screws her and leaves the poor girl pregnant.
Six!
Before or after he meets Miriam, too, and of course, he also screws her and ruins her marriage. So that makes Chloe his daughter too.
Five!
Then, one day when Mark isn’t there, he runs into Julia on the street, no, on the beach, walking, they see each other, they laugh, and he screws her too. Right there in the dunes.
Four!
So every time Chris goes to the island, he screws some chick.
Three!
And so all the kids born in the last two or three years are his!
Two!
Solved! See how easy it was?!
One!
Map, X and treasure, found.
Zero!
Happy New Year!