Chapter 20 #2
As I lay prostrate, chin resting on my hands and the vibrating sensations of the needle channeling my thoughts, a myriad of
memories washes over me, as sharp as photographs. Philip stopping our canoe in the middle of Lake Marion to ask me to marry
him. He’d seemed strangely shy and nervous, his hand shaking a little as he pulled the ring box from his jacket pocket. Philip
standing behind a five-year-old Heathcliff, guiding his arms as he taught him how to fly-fish in an upstate creek. Philip
in the bathroom with me after I miscarried our much-wanted pregnancy. He’d sat on the tub edge beside me, holding me as we
both cried. Soon we found out we were expecting Heathcliff. I remember how nervous we were, clinging to each other that entire
first trimester with cautious hope.
I’m not sure what stuff souls are made of, ethereal or more solid.
I tried to connect to Philip the other night in Darcie’s eccentric parlor.
Wherever he is, he still feels so much a part of my fabric that it’s too strange not having him living and breathing at my side. Grief is so fucking disorienting.
The needle stops as Vincent begins gently cleaning the area. I wipe my eyes, embarrassed that I’d been crying. As I stand
to look at the tattoo in a tall mirror, my surrounding skin still pink around the design, I feel like I’m going to cry again.
The heather blooms are beautiful, the lavender hues subtle and the small lines even. The script is perfect.
“It’s gorgeous,” Bella says from beside me.
“Yes.”
“Just what you needed,” she whispers, hugging me and lightly kissing my cheek.
Later that evening, I’m sitting coloring on the floor with Heathcliff.
Bella and I parted when we left the tattoo parlor. She’d been wearing the wig and sunglasses again as she’d hurried down the
street. She’s here for a few more weeks for events; she’d heard there’s a possibility they might do the film announcement’s
publicity shoot in Haworth if the weather behaves, but she’s not sure. She said she’ll keep me updated.
I smile as I try to keep my red colored pencil in the lines of Superman’s cape, still disbelieving that Bella Patel and I
now share matching tattoos.
Suddenly my phone rings, and Henry pops up on FaceTime.
“Hullo, Henry!” Heathcliff shouts, scribbling hard over Poison Ivy with a green crayon.
“Hello, buddy!”
“Guess what!” Heathcliff yells loudly.
“What?”
“I went to this cool museum where they had real torture devices.”
“Well, nineteenth-century medical devices,” I say, winking at Henry.
“Cool!” he exclaims, and then I notice he’s outside somewhere. It’s still afternoon in the Carolinas.
Heathcliff chatters for a bit more about the gorier parts of the museum. Then he gets back to coloring.
“Hey, Lizzie! This might be kind of a weird question . . .”
I hear the crunch of bushes, see ivy rising up behind him over painted gray bricks. I catch a glimpse of a familiar flowerpot.
I take the phone into the dining room.
“Are you at my house?”
“Yep, I’m breaking and entering.”
“Ha, ha. No really, what are you doing there? My neighbor, Edith, watches everything, and she’ll call the police.”
“Philip told me he found a packet of old family letters in an envelope. I was hoping to wait until you got home, but I think
I need them now. They’d be in the safe, right?”
“That’s where he kept everything important. Philip did have a manila envelope in there, but I always thought it just had extra
hard copies of the will.”
“I need to check it out.”
“Now?”
“Unfortunately, yes, so tell me what window you want me to bust.”
“What?”
He’s behind my azalea bushes at the back of my house, tapping at my windows.
“I really am breaking and entering. Damn it!” He jumps and yells, stumbling back from the bushes. “Do you know you have a garter snake back here?”
“Snakes live in bushes, Henry.”
“Oh . . . hey! You must be Miss Edith! No, it’s okay, I’ve got Lizzie on the line.” He flips the phone around. “See?”
In the grainy FaceTime image, I see Miss Edith standing at the picket fence between our yards, arms crossed over her floral housedress as she glares.
“It’s okay, Miss Edith. Henry’s a friend!” I say loudly after Henry puts me on speaker. She nods, glaring at him one last
time before walking back into her home.
“Strange male friend breaking into my house while I’m out of the country—you’re making a spectacle out of me, ruining my reputation
and all that.”
He laughs, out of breath as he peels a stubborn patch of ivy back from the window. “Now you sound like you really are in one
of those novels you love. Wait, does Miss Edith have a key?”
“Ha. I love her, but I wouldn’t in a million years give her a key to my house. She’d read my diary, drink all my Chardonnay,
and go through my drawers.”
“I guess I’m going to have to get in the old-fashioned way. You know, I’ve always wanted to do this. Which window?”
“I suppose that one,” I say, pointing to the pane closest to him. “Heathcliff already cracked it with a baseball this spring.”
“Yes, ma’am. Here we go! And you’ll take the call from your security system when it goes off, right?”
“Right.”
He puts in earplugs, wraps a towel around his hand, and punches through the pane. The alarms starts screeching. He hoists
himself through the window. As I wait for the security system to call me, I can’t stop laughing. This is like a crazy reality
television show. The security company calls; I give them the password, and the alarm goes quiet.
“Whew. That would wake the dead! I have to say, though, this was one of the most exciting afternoons I’ve had in a while.
So where’s that safe?”
“Bolted in my bedroom closet.”
I direct Henry to my room.
He comments on the dangerous number of LEGOs all over the floors. “No need for a security system with these all over. Jeez . . . It’s like Home Alone in here.” He sets the phone down and disappears for a minute. When he comes back, I give him the safe code. Once he’s in,
there’s a rustling of paper and then I hear, “Jackpot!”
“You found them?”
“Yep. A whole bundle. Philip told me he came across these when moving something down from Mirabel’s attic a couple months
ago. It’s where I bet he found the photo. I think it was the letters that kicked off his interest in the trust and Mirabel’s
relationship with the Duboses.”
“So the letters are between them?”
“That’s what it seems like. I’ve got some reading to do tonight.”
I hear more paper rustling as he walks back to the broken window. “I’ll be in touch. And don’t worry, Lizzie. I’ve already
paid someone to come out to fix this as soon as I’m done.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Anytime.” He pulls ivy back to cover the broken pane.
His phone dings suddenly as a text arrives. He goes very quiet.
“Henry?”
His expression crumples a little. He tries to hide it, scratching the corner of his eye. But his eyes water when he brings
his hand back.
“Hey—are you okay?” I ask gently.
“Allergies.”
“Liar.”
“Just got a text from my attorney. The divorce is final.”
“Oh—I’m . . . sorry.”
He shrugs. “It is what it is. It had to happen. It’s just—it’s been ten years, and it’s not how I wanted things to turn out.”
“If you need to talk, I’ll be here.”
“I know you will be, Lizzie.”
I give him a minute. It’s difficult to know what to say. I’ve been aware there were problems for years, but still my chest
tightens in pain for him.
“I guess I’d better go. I’m going to try to make yoga class tonight, and then I’ve got these letters to sort through and a
batshit romance book to finish.” He’s trying to be cheerful, but I hear the heaviness in his voice.
“Just take care of yourself, Henry. Please.”
“I will.”
After we hang up, I stare at my phone. His is not the same grief as mine, but this will be hard. There’s no easy way through
loss of any kind. I’d give anything for him to have a Ms. Fernsby at his side now, with a listening ear and steaming cups
of tea.
@BluestockingBadass: A tryst with a hot optometrist in an office chair? @ADHemmings even you can do better. #womenreadersaresmarterthanthis
Six Years Earlier
New Year’s Eve
We invited Henry and Ginger over for New Year’s Eve on a whim.
Although neither of us is a party animal, Philip and I always spent previous years at his law firm’s downtown gala.
There, Philip mingled with local judges while I sipped champagne and tugged awkwardly at my satin opera gloves, grateful this was the one and only time of year I’d be expected to wear them.
Fortunately, this year, two-month-old Heathcliff gave us an excuse to bow out.
Our holiday has been a long, sleepless stretch of pajamas, Netflix, breastmilk, poopy diapers, and takeout.
(It’s amazing how comfortable we’ve become with baby poop.) But it’s been sweet nonetheless—bonding with this squalling tiny creature the universe thrust into our arms to love and keep alive.
Now, as I pump breastmilk in the den while Philip puts together a charcuterie board in the kitchen, I feel nothing but gratitude
for our little family and this low-key evening with friends. Henry and Ginger snuggle Heathcliff in the living room, and I
relish a few minutes alone.
Maybe it’s the postpartum hormones, but I tear up staring at our hybrid Christmas tree of everything Midwest and Southern.
A little train runs around the tree base, circling a ceramic snowy village, the scene Dickensian and vintage except for the
little cousin Eddie figurine in his bathrobe. (Philip’s touch.) University of South Carolina football ornaments and an artsy
blown-glass set from Mirabel dangle from the branches. A large shiny “Baby’s First Christmas” bulb from Patrick hangs near
the tree’s star. Every decoration gestures to the life Philip and I’ve built together these past eight years.
Although Heathcliff must be hungry, I can’t help but stop in the kitchen, where Philip arranges the smoked meat and aged cheeses.
I hug him from behind, nuzzling my cheek against his warm back. He turns around with a half smile. “What’s that for?”
“I just love you. I really, really do.”
He gives me a lingering kiss as he opens the olive jar.
I sigh happily, tightening the breast milk bottle cap, and walk to the living room.
I never see Henry as much as Philip does, and I haven’t had more than passing conversations with Ginger. She’s nice enough, but I’m not sure we’ll ever be close friends. She’s an active member of the Junior Service League and loves everything monogrammed. Even her beer koozies.
“It’s all your fault,” she hisses angrily.
I pause uncomfortably in the doorway. They’re standing near the fireplace, in front of the draped garlands. A sleeping Heathcliff
snuggles against Ginger’s chest.
“I’ve said I’m sorry a million times,” Henry says.
“I’d still have my Zoie if you hadn’t been fiddle-faddling around with your tackle box.”
“Sweetheart, she was barking at a goddamn alligator. I tried to save her.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever get over this.”
“You seem to not be getting over a lot lately—how I wash the dishes, how I fold the towels, how yoga’s just not my thing,
the way I cook mac and cheese.”
I blush, hiding back in the doorway shadows. I should go back to the kitchen and warn Philip that they might need a few minutes.
Then I hear sniffing. Oh gosh, she’s crying.
I ache for them. Philip and I are far from perfect, but as a couple, we’re in sync. Only my parents and a handful of my friends
have our type of marriage. I’ve thought about Henry and Ginger on and off since their wedding reception. I’ve hoped they could
eventually find their way to one another.
“Ginger . . .” His voice is gentle, husky. Sad.
“Are we ever going to get it together, Henry?”
“Sure—it’s a new year . . .”
“But is this going to be the year we finally feel good enough about us to bring one of these sweet bundles into the world?”
“Sure . . .”
“Oh, come on!”
He sighs. “I don’t know.”
Heathcliff starts grunting, nosing Ginger’s chest, rooting around for a breast.
“Just in time!” I say, entering with false cheerfulness. I gently take Heathcliff from Ginger, warm bottle in hand. Flustered,
she turns away to dab her eyes, and I pretend not to notice. Henry sighs, thrusts his hands into his pockets and turns toward
the window, his expression miserable and defeated.