Liza
“My hot spot stopped working.”
Mako had been either on his computer or on his phone nearly the entire drive from their house. They’d left before the sun came up and Liza, who loved to drive, had driven pretty much straight through to Sleepy Ridge, a seven-hour stretch.
The call Mako had been on just ended abruptly.
“Hello, hello? Jess, can you hear me? Shit.”
Liza found a certain kind of peace behind the wheel, especially on the highway, where she felt at one with the road, the car. Her parents had always enjoyed road trips, had an old Jeep Wrangler. She and her brother saw most of the country bouncing around in the back of that thing. There hadn’t been much money, so they’d camped. It had been nothing less than magical—those starry nights in the desert or in the forest, the sounds of nature all around—babbling creeks and hooting owls. She missed that time, when things were quiet. Married to a tech mogul, things were never quiet now—unless she retreated to her yoga studio, which she often did.
“Maybe that’s a sign that it’s time to stop working for a while,” she said gently.
He put a hand on her leg. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You drove the whole way listening to me bitch and moan.”
She glanced over at him, casting him a quick smile then setting her eyes on the road. “I get it. This is a busy time for you,” she said. “But look, we’re almost there. And it’s so beautiful. You brought us here. Try to enjoy it, okay?”
The trees towered over the isolated and winding road. The host had said that the navigation computer would stop working at a certain point and it had. He’d given her good verbal directions, and her father had taught her to find her way without the help of technology.
She always felt like she had a sense of where she was on the map, how to get where she was headed.
Mako tapped on her phone that was mounted on the dash. “Is this not working?”
“No,” she said. “But I know the way.”
He gave her a knowing smile. “You’re using your magical yogi powers, communing with the universe.”
“Not exactly. I talked to the host yesterday.”
He gave an easy laugh.
His voice was soft. This was her Mako—not the man at the office, not the philanthropist, or even the man-baby he was with his dysfunctional family. Not the Mako of rumor and conjecture. The true man beneath all the other layers—kind, funny, thoughtful, romantic; this Mako was hers alone.
He moved his hand from her leg to the back of her neck. It was warm against her skin; she pressed into him, shot him a grin.
“What would I do without you?” he said, and for a moment he sounded sad. She felt a little flash of something—regret, apprehension. Like any couple, they’d had their issues.
“You’ll never have to find out.”
He would have to find out, of course. Someday. They’d all have to learn what it meant to lose everything. That was the way of it, though most people could scarcely acknowledge that truth.
But not today. Today, she was going to help her husband to find some serenity. At least for the weekend. She knew things weren’t going well at work—that the new game wasn’t performing the way they expected, and that there were other things keeping her husband up at night. She just wasn’t sure exactly what, or how bad. She’d asked of course, but all she got were the typical Mako answers: “It’s all good. Just some bumps in the road. We’ll get it all handled.”
She tried to stay out of his work, to be his safe place. She could get him to do yoga and to meditate some. But only sometimes. He was a live wire, giving off sparks. It was one of the things she had loved about him first, his raw energy and drive. If she was cool—river water over rocks—he was fire burning bright and hot. They balanced each other.
“Oh, wow,” said Mako. “Holy cow.”
They were rounding the final bend that Bracken had described and the house came into view over the trees. Finally they were in the circular drive. The pictures had not done the place justice—hardly a cabin. A towering wood and glass design dream, with a wraparound porch, three stories, surrounded by old growth trees—pine, maple, birch—landscaped with fecund azalea bushes bright and hot pink. She could see inside through the big windows the elegant and spacious interior—towering ceilings, leather and wood furniture.
Mako got out of the car as soon as she pulled it to a stop, let out a delighted whoop. This trip. Why was it so important to him? She knew him well enough to know there was always an agenda—either internal or external. He hadn’t shared it with her.
She sat a moment, took a deep breath, and let the beauty of the place wash over her.
I am breathing in. I am breathing out.
She felt a twinge of nostalgia for the camping trips with her family—nothing like this of course. Luxury, which was Mako’s number one concern for all travel, was not on the menu for her parents, both teachers. Tents and hot dogs cooked over the fire, her dad snoring too loud, and her brother kicking her as he tossed and turned in the neighboring sleeping bag. Her mother’s slightly off-key but sweet singing as she made the coffee in the morning. It had been enough. More than enough.
Mako popped the trunk, grabbed some of the bags from the back, and headed up to the porch.
She waited a moment, liked to move slowly and mindfully so that everything didn’t rush past. I am breathing in. I am breathing out.
Sitting there, watching Mako try to punch in the code on the door, that’s when she felt it. A hard pain in her abdomen, followed by a mild nausea.
No.
Then the light around her seemed suddenly too bright, a throb beginning at the base of her neck. There, a little spate of floating white dots.
The IVF. It had brought back the migraines she used to get in college with a vengeance. She closed her eyes, took another deep breath and asked the pain to pass through her. It wouldn’t. You couldn’t, it seemed, meditate away a migraine. Maybe, she’d found, you could delay it a bit. But eventually it would come for her, fell her like a villain against whom she was utterly powerless. What are you trying to teach me? she’d asked the pain last time. What can I learn from you?
Be quiet, it had seemed to hiss back. Just lie here until I’m done with you.
Mako was cursing at the door, his voice carrying over the quiet. He was the smartest person she had ever known, and yet he had the hardest time with simple things. She sat another moment, settling into her breath. Finally, the pain and nausea passed. No, not passed. Receded. It was waiting.
Please. Not this weekend. Not now.
Her phone pinged on the dash. Okay. There was service after all. It was probably Hannah, saying they were on their way, or asking what she could do. Her sister-in-law who still, like all Mako’s family, felt distant, not welcoming. Polite. The facsimile of warmth. But maybe it was Liza. Maybe it was she who was keeping Hannah at a distance. This weekend. She’d make more of an effort. It was more important now than ever that they grow closer.
But it wasn’t Hannah.
It was a text from an unknown number; she felt her whole body stiffen.
You have something that belongs to me.
She stared at the screen. The words seemed to glow with malevolence.
“Liza! The code doesn’t work.”
Mako was looking at her from the porch like a disappointed little kid. He could run a company with a nearly billion-dollar valuation but he couldn’t unlock the door to the vacation rental?
If you think you can run away from this—from me—you’re wrong. I’m right behind you.
Liza glanced out into the thick dark of the trees all around them. She quickly blocked the number and deleted the message. She wrapped her arms around her middle.
No.
What she had belonged to her and her alone.
“Liza!”
She opened the door, lifting the weight of her secrets and regrets, and climbed out of the car to go help her husband. She’d push away the pain of her looming migraine, and maybe this weekend she’d share the big news with Mako. It was time, wasn’t it?
That twinge again, this time more mild, less startling. It was normal. It happened when your body was changing, right? She centered her breathing, made herself solid, drew energy from the earth beneath her feet as she approached the house. The air was cool and the trees whispered. The trees, her father always used to say, they know all the secrets of the human heart. They have borne witness to all our follies, but they don’t judge us. They just watch.
She hoped that was true. She hoped that she wouldn’t be judged for the things she’d done.
From the trunk, she grabbed her bag of equipment and her yoga mat. She’d have to find some place to set up for her morning livestream yoga class. Then she joined her husband on the porch.
“Look,” she said at the door. “It’s still blinking. You have to give it a second.”
She’d memorized the code, and when the keypad went dark again, she punched it in. The door unlocked easily and swung open. All she smelled was wood and flowers.
“I’m a dick,” said Mako, pulling her in. “Sorry.”
He kissed her deep and long. She wrapped her arms around him, took in the scent of him, relished the warmth and strength of his embrace. Then, a second later, he was sweeping her off her feet and she was laughing as he carried her over the threshold into the magical weekend they were planning.
5
Henry
Henry knew his mother was different from the other mothers. He just didn’t know exactly what was different about her.
The other women gathered on the sidewalk in front of the school were chatting easily, peals of laughter rising up every so often. They were all pretty at various levels with shiny hair and healthy bodies—not all thin but fit, holding themselves with confidence. They wore jeans and colorful tops, or bright clothes they would wear to the gym after the kids had gone inside. They clutched to-go coffee cups, or water bottles, carried big totes. There was a kind of carefree lightness to them, or so it seemed.
Henry’s mom was not like them. She was apart somehow, would not just slide easily into that group with a casual self-introduction and some friendly comment. I’m Henry’s mom. We’re new, but we just love it here!
He was apart, too, just like her.
“Have everything?” his mom, Alice, asked. Her hair was mousy and pulled back tight at the base of her neck. Her glasses were large. She wore a skirt—a too-big denim thing with buttons down the middle, a cardigan though it was warm, a big leather satchel slung across her body. All wrong.
“Homework? Lunch?” she said when he didn’t answer.
He nodded, feeling a little guilty because he wanted her to leave.
“Okay, then,” she said with a dip of her chin. “Be a good, quiet boy.”
He gave her another nod.
The other kids ran wild on the playground behind him. He, like her, would not just slide easily into the group. He was invisible, more or less, they both were. Somehow gray ghosts in the wildly colorful, brightly sunny, and warm going on hot Florida school day morning. Already there were waves of heat off the asphalt, the sun a burning ball in the sky. He didn’t mind the heat, had inherited a dread of the cold from his mother.
Quiet. That was the most important thing to Alice. She startled easily, looked around them always, like someone might be following, watching. But no one ever was.
“What are you so afraid of?” he’d asked her once.
She’d looked at him, the way she did sometimes. Blankly at first, then thoughtful. “The world, Henry. I’m afraid of the whole world.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s full of monsters. I have to keep us safe.”
What kind of monsters, he wondered. But he didn’t ask. He didn’t really want to know.
“Henry,” she said, snapping him back.
“Yes,” he said. “I will be. Good and quiet.”
“Okay.”
She seemed to want to say more, like I love you or you’re my special guy. But she must have intuited that he didn’t want that, pressed her mouth into a tight line. It was okay at night when she was tucking him in. But not here, not at school when the other kids were off and playing, moms forgotten for the day. He was aware of a desperation to be free of her—just for a while. He edged toward the school.
She moved away, too, getting it. “See you at three?”
“Okay.”
She turned quickly and walked away.
In the group of moms she passed, one of the women raised a tentative hand in greeting. But Alice didn’t seem to notice, kept her brisk pace. The woman, a green-eyed redhead with a full face and nice smile, looked a little embarrassed.
“She didn’t see me,” he heard her say.
“Shy, maybe?” said the slim brunette.
Not unkind or anything. When Henry looked after her, she was gone. Though he’d been eager for her to leave, he felt a brief, familiar flutter of panic. It was a complicated feeling. He desperately wanted her to go, and when she did he was afraid, always afraid that she might not come back.
He pushed the fear down, the way he’d learned to. Then he turned and walked purposely toward the playground where the other boys tore around with abandon. The girls stood in clutches, like the moms, chatting, giggling. One girl seemed to prefer the company of boys, playing soccer over on the far end. She was fast, agile, tough. He watched her for a while, her blond hair blazing, skin flushed.
There was no heaviness to them. They were not watchful, any of them. Not mindful, like him. It didn’t seem that anyone had ever told them to be quiet. He marveled at this for a moment, standing by the fence.
When the bell rang, there was a great jostling rush to get inside and he was pushed along in the current of bodies. He was new here. The new kid—again. Not his first day, which was always the worst. But the first week.
He didn’t fit. He knew that. His hair was wrong. His clothes were off. The boys wore Levi’s and Chuck Taylors, polos, and tees. Not khakis, and pressed plaid shirts, stiff off-brand sneakers that his mom got for him. If he was going to “fit,” he’d need to wear what the other kids were wearing. And even then he’d still be apart. He knew that. But less so.
What saved him from being bullied like some boys who didn’t fit was his size and his natural athleticism. He could catch, throw, and run. He was strong. He could scale the rope in seconds, beat most of the others in a sprint. Gym was a proving ground where he’d already earned at least the respect of the other boys. He knew how it went. He was in eighth grade. This was his fourth—or was it his fifth?—school.
Math was first period and he took the seat he’d been assigned by the window, just behind the pretty girl who liked to hang out with the boys. Math he understood. There was a calming simplicity to it, a comfort in following clearly stated rules and getting things right. Numbers were the opposite of people. People were mysterious.
The boy beside him gave him a nod, which he returned.
The teacher stood up at the board. He couldn’t help but notice her body, the way her blouse clung to her breasts, the shape of her calves beneath the hem of her skirt. The boy next to him gave him a knowing look, and Henry felt the heat come up to his cheeks. He looked down at his notebook and copied what she was writing on the board.
After a while, he looked out the window. He was surprised and embarrassed to see Alice standing across the street. She had both her hands around a coffee cup, leaning against the side of the building, nearly hidden in the shadows.
She was watching.