JENNIFER AND SUMMER had agreed to a ceasefire and an end to hostilities, though communication was practically null. Summer just breastfed Olivia II three times a day. That was her only responsibility with the baby; the rest of the time she spent watching reality shows on TV and putting cream on her breasts so she wouldn’t get stretch marks. Jennifer took charge of the baby all day. It seemed strange to me that she almost never took her out on the street. She didn’t socialize; it seemed as if she wanted to hide the baby from the rest of the islanders. She had always been very retiring and evasive, but now, with a baby in the mix, it was much more noticeable.
The conversation that intrigued me most was a phone call from a friend of Summer’s—maybe the only one—from outside the island:
SUMMER: Disgusted, girl, I mean I’ve got the urge to get up and go God knows where . . . So you’re going to flip out, but the thing is, being shut up in here, you go stir crazy. And all this time and breastfeeding the baby so much . . . So I don’t know, it’s like, even though you don’t want to, you end up caring about the thing. I don’t know, it’s like something weird happens in your head. I even thought about keeping her. That’s what I’m saying . . . What do you mean she’s not mine? I gave birth to her. The baby’s mine if I want her. Jeez, you’re always so negative. I tell you my shit because I don’t have anyone else to talk to about this, and instead of supporting me, you’re pouring salt in the wound.
Everything indicated she was going to give the baby up for adoption. To whom? Or was she a surrogate mother? For whom? Both questions pointed straight to Jennifer.
I had been following John’s steps all over the island. I was on guard day and night in case he made any strange moves or left Robin Island. I even decided to bump into him one day. Sometimes seeing and hearing a person just through the fishbowls was dehumanizing; it made them unreal. I needed to interact with the characters without the glass between us. Characters? When did you turn the people into characters?
“Hey, Alice, what’s up? They told me you were a hit at the Cherry Blossom Art Fair,” John said to me. I had run into him in the pharmacy.
“Yeah, it went well.”
“You’ve filled my house up with clocks. They’re pretty, though, no doubt.”
“How were things for you in the submarine? Where did you go on maneuvers?”
“Can’t say. That’s classified information. Well, look, now that you’re here, I’m going to give you something and save myself a stamp.”
He went through a backpack with a navy logo and took out an envelope with my name and address on it.
“An invitation. Keith’s going to have a blowout party for his fiftieth birthday.”
“Oh yeah, Karen mentioned it. How nice. I’m looking forward to going,” I said.
“Well, we’ll see if you get lucky this time. You know what I mean, right?” he winked at me.
“Yeah, I know. We’ll see . . .” I said, pretending to be shy.
“And Mark?” I felt obliged to ask Julia during our usual morning coffee at Le Café.
At that point his absence was more than obvious; it would have been weird not to ask. Julia might take my discretion as a sign of respect for her privacy, but she could also find it suspicious. And although she’d memorized the phone number I used with Mark, she had never dialed it. But he had gone on sending me almost daily messages.
Hello?
Are you there?
Did you change numbers? My message is showing as unread.
Yes, you’ve read it.
Fuck, Alice, at least tell me what’s going on.
I deserve an explanation.
No, I don’t deserve an explanation. I’m sorry I lost it. I just really want to see you.
Bad.
I’ve decided your silence is a good sign.
So don’t answer me, don’t write me, that way I’ll know you love me, deep down you love me.
I love you too.
I think you’re my Samantha.
Would you let me be your Paul?
Samantha was my brother Paul’s girlfriend, the one who died, in case you don’t remember.
Sorry, I was really drunk last night, I feel alone.
I’m pathetic. I make myself sick.
I’m not like this, at least I didn’t used to be. I don’t know what the fuck is happening to me.
I’m going to stop writing you. I don’t want you to remember me like this. I want to be the man who helped you bring a life into the world.
I want everything to be all right between us. You’re one of the few good things on this island.
You’ve given me and helped me a lot, but I don’t need you anymore.
Now, finally, I am going to respect your silence.
I will always be here for you, when you’re ready.
Two days without writing you, but I haven’t stopped thinking of you.
I’m in NY.
I’d love for you to be here with me.
I think I’m going to get a divorce.
I’m not happy.
Your silence doesn’t pull me away from you, it pulls me away from Julia.
It helps me to see things clearer.
Thanks, Alice, for being there without being there.
I’m not trying to be with you anymore. I’m really not.
I’m trying to be with me.
I’m going to throw this phone in the Hudson. I’m getting rid of it.
My message in a bottle for you.
I love you, m.
When I met him, he was full of life, a man sure of himself. Now it surprised me and made me want to reject him when I saw that he wanted me so desperately he couldn’t contain himself. Seeing him so fragile and vulnerable. But I had the feeling he was continuing to write me because I gave off something in the distance and in my silence, legitimizing him. Why didn’t I answer him or see him to put an end to the matter? Maybe I wanted to have him there? To keep sending me those messages that were so mysterious but so full of feeling? Three days had passed since he’d supposedly thrown the phone in the Hudson. At first I was thankful for his silence, but now I was genuinely worried about him. I needed to know he was all right. Maybe that’s why I had asked Julia.
“He’s in New York. He’s been there all week. But you know, if it was up to me, he could stay.”
“Why?”
“What time is it?” she asked, looking at her cell. “Eleven thirty. A little early, no?”
“A little early for what?”
“Mindy,” Julia said, “give us two of our usual.”
“They’re going to end up sending in inspectors, and then you’ll see . . .” Mindy complained without much conviction.
“Yeah, sure . . . And don’t even think about serving us in coffee cups again—this isn’t Prohibition.”
She didn’t even wait for the wine to get into her veins; she started opening up right away.
“I think that Mark is having or has had an affair. Did I say affair again? I’m hopeless . . .”
I was the one who drank my wine in two sips this time.
“So why do you think that?”
“Because all of a sudden, we’re fine. He started looking at me again. Seeing me. Being there again.”
“I don’t understand.” I did. “If being fine is a symptom of someone having an affair, that’s pretty messed up, no?”
“Guilt is one of the great driving forces of our society . . . Guilt, fear and vengeance are extremely poisonous, but in the right measure, they’re a revitalizing blend.”
“That’s kind of what your novels are about, right?” I said, just to say something, so she wouldn’t notice my nerves.
“That’s kind of what life is about, right?”
“I guess so . . .” I smiled and forced myself not to look down or take refuge in my almost empty glass of wine.
“You know what the novel I’m working on now is about? A successful novelist in a supposed creative crisis, because she always draws on what she lives and experiences, but since she’s just been through an extramarital relationship with another man, she doesn’t dare write about it for fear her husband will find out. But in the end she realizes her husband is having this torrid, passionate romance . . . Did I say a torrid, passionate romance? Good God, I’m awful. To hell with Nicholas Sparks, I sound like Danielle Steel. Which I also wouldn’t mind, as far as that goes.”
“Well, it sounds very interesting,” I said, forcing myself to speak. I was stiff with fear as she approached the truth, of being caught, as if she was setting out a trap for me. Unable to put a brake on my impulses, I asked, “So how does the story end?”
She took her time replying, as if she was celebrating something inside.
“You don’t want me to spoil it for you, do you? You’ll have to read the book. If I ever finish it . . .’
We laughed, and the relaxed tone of the conversation made any possibility of following up on the theme vanish. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t glad. Very.
Julia smiled.
“You know, someday I’d really like to write about you, Alice.”
And by her gaze and the silence that accompanied her words, I thought that what she was really trying to say to me was: I’m already doing it, already writing about you. This, all this, including Chris, is part of my novel. And that made me even more afraid.