Chapter Twenty One
Twenty One
All that illuminates the room now are the lights of Manhattan and the fire reflected off the building opposite. It’s maybe four or five floors below them. He’s not sure because he hasn’t gone to the window to look. He needs to finish these emails.
Emails. Christ. Not how he would have chosen to say goodbye. But better something written than a phone call—a voicemail, for surely Jill and Caroline are both asleep. Writing, he can make sure he hasn’t left anything unsaid. That he’s included enough love and apologies.
He is a careful writer usually, judicious. But it’s pouring out of him now. In a good way. He’s in a confined space, a compartment the size of his laptop screen, and he can manage things nicely there. He can focus on the love, the apologies, for Caroline and especially for Jill, his sweet girl, his wonderful daughter, she has been his delight every single day, does she know that, did he tell her often enough? He’s telling her, right now.
Anyway that’s where he is, focused on them, which conveniently prevents him from thinking about the dark and the dire, the unbelievable unreality of what happened, is happening, might happen any minute now, which is why he needs to focus on the love, and the apologies.
So he does. Until he’s said it all.
Jenny comes back into the room. He connects his laptop to the phone’s signal, reads his emails one more time, then sends them. He closes the laptop.
Any news? he asks.
She’s scrolling on the phone. They think there might be firefighters still alive in the building, but they aren’t sure. If the sprinklers are functioning—they don’t know that, either—there’s a chance they could stop the spread. Otherwise…
He goes to the window. The exterior of the building across the street reflects an unfathomable sheet of orange flame, three or four stories down. An undulating mass of color, billows of smoke whipping away on the wind. It’s weirdly gorgeous.
And close. So close.
They could make it quick. Leave the room and find a stairwell. It would take only a minute or two for the smoke to overwhelm them.
He turns the idea over in his head, even as he knows it’s not an option. Not while there’s still an infinitesimal chance they might get out of this. Not while there’s still the boundless capacity of human delusion.
She’s on the sofa, arms around her knees. He takes a seat in the chair across from her. He drums his fingers on the arm. Crosses his legs. Uncrosses them.
He stands up. Sits down. Stands up again and goes to the minibar. There’s still so much booze left. Imagine being a recovering alcoholic and walking into this room. He takes a pint bottle of something—whiskey?—and returns to the chair. He cracks the cap and takes a swig.
My office at home looks down on the Parks’ back porch, he says.
She lifts her chin. The light in the room is dim, but he can see her eyes shining.
I can’t see it from my desk, he says. The place where we…I moved the desk, so I wouldn’t…I didn’t want to be looking down on it all the time.
He offers her the bottle. She shakes her head.
He walks to the window again, but comes right back, sits beside her and takes her hands.
How about this? he says. How about, if we get out of this? We be together.
She doesn’t respond.
We go legit, he says. You and me. It’ll be a shitshow, a scandal, but so what? Those can be fun. What are we here for but to provide entertainment for our friends and neighbors, right?
She is silent. Just looking at him with her big shining eyes.
How does that…what do you think? he says.
She raises their joined hands to her lips and kisses his.
Jenny kisses his hands!
I think it could be great, Nick. But we’re not getting out of this.
He barely makes it to the bathroom. That the contents of his stomach end up in the toilet is a matter of sheer luck. On his knees in the darkness he clings to the porcelain and heaves. He hasn’t vomited for years. Or cried, though he’s crying now. He feels the tears on his face, tastes them even as he’s spitting and spitting, trying to spit out that awful sour acid.
How is this happening?
He’s wasted his life.
She follows him in, using the light of the phone to guide her. He senses her moving around, then she’s kneeling beside him. He feels her hand on his back.
Take this, she says. She’s brought him a glass of water. He rinses his mouth and spits into the toilet. She has a washcloth, too. She’s thought of everything. She’s so good, she’s—
The glass slips from his fingers and smashes on the floor.
I’m sorry! he cries. Jenny, I’m so sorry!
Her eyes fill with tears. She can’t help it—she always cries when someone else is crying.
But Nick? Nick weeping? She can’t bearit.
I ruined everything! I’ve wasted my life, wrecked yours, I’ve—
Nick, no. It’s okay. We need to get away from this broken glass.
What does that matter? Broken glass? What the fuck does that matter?
I know, but…let’s scooch back so we don’t stand in it. Here we go. Good. We’re at the bath mat. Let me feel around and make sure…okay, we’re good. Come withme.
She leads him out of the bathroom and tries to coax him onto the bed, but he cannot be still. He stalks the room, clawing his fingers through his hair. He is raging, raging.
Then he stops.
I need to call Jill, he says. I need to talk to her. Where’s the phone?
Jenny lunges at the bed, feeling around until she findsit.
Here. But be careful. Try to…try to keep it together. For her sake.
He nods, already dialing. She returns to the sofa. When she hears his voice, she presses her ears closed, to give him some privacy.
Eventually he stops talking. He drops the phone on the bed and sits besideit.
We don’t let her have her phone in her room at night, he says. So she’s not up all hours, texting. She’ll get it in the morning. My message.
He bends over suddenly. He covers his face with his hands.
I wasted it! he cries. My whole life.
Nick, no…
He jumps up, stands in front of her, shaking and wild.
Why didn’t you come back? he cries. You said wait, and you went back inside and I waited, twenty minutes, thirty, I was freezing my ass off on that fucking porch but you never came back! Why, Jenny? Why would you do that?
I don’t know. She’s standing now, too, holding his hands. She would do anything to calm him. I don’t remember, Nick. It’s just what happened. I mean, wouldn’t you say I didn’t have a choice, going out on the porch was the inevitable outcome of—
Don’t, he says. No no no. Stop that now. That’s not relevant, it’s not…I just think, if you had come back, maybe, maybe we would have…but it doesn’t matter! You didn’t, we didn’t. We…
He tears away from her, rampaging around the room. Reaching a wall, he pounds on it with his fist.
You cheated me! he cries. You used me, to, to write your books, and change your life. And when I wasn’t any use anymore you talked yourself out of it, and you never fucking toldme!
She knows he’s not trying to upset her this time. Even if he was, it wouldn’t work. She’s had the occasional wobble, like when she left the message for Tom, but she has been essentially calm since she told him the truth. Even when the building rocked and the lights went out, and she thought for a few seconds that this might really be it for them—even then, her heart didn’t kick up. Her fear didn’t rise to choke her. And it hasn’t been back since.
I wish I’d told you, she says. I should have always told the truth.
Does he even hear her? He’s off again, pacing to the window, pressing his forehead against it. Then banging his head on it, hard.
Nick! Stop!
She pulls him away and he sinks to the floor. Sobbing, shaking.
You got to love, he says. It was fantastic, you said, it changed your life. I didn’t get to feel that. Don’t you see how unfair that is, Jenny?
The poor man. The poor, poor man. She wraps her arms around him. Should she say it’s going to be okay, they could still get out of this, there are miraculous rescues all the time, those Thai kids, the Indian road workers trapped for weeks in a tunnel, remember them? They’re all fine! And we’ll be fine. The entire world is watching, everyone rooting for a happy ending. Even now, great minds, daring adventurers are hatching a plan. It’s crazy but it might just work! We’ll emerge to cheers, swelling music, Ron Howard will snap up the movie rights. We’ll live.
And Nick will have his chance to love. If he really wantsit.
But she won’t say any of that. She’ll just hold him. Hold him and make hushing noises.
He cannot hush. He has not lived. If he had lived, he could hush, but he hasn’t. He made rules, put up his goddamn bulwarks. Constantly pulled back. He could have loved. Again. He could have been in love! And he would have felt ridiculous, a middle-aged fool clambering once more aboard the merry-go-round, but he wouldn’t have cared.
Because he’d be in love!
And there, in love with her, maybe that’s where the yellow room was. Him in bed, Jenny walking away across the dark floor. But she would have come back. She would have come back to bed, in the yellow room, in the house where they lived, for as long as their love lived. Because maybe she was the answer. Not a sealed-off compartment but a whole life. Maybe he misunderstood everything. He was supposed to leave England because it was on the way to her. Maybe everything, even Caroline, even his malaise, was leading him to that kitchen, that porch, her, them. But he couldn’t see it, couldn’t accept it because he couldn’t admit his mistakes. If he had…what if he had? He would have opened up to her. He would have been a pain in the ass about it but he would have shown her his true, full self. Been known by her, and known her in turn.
But he didn’t. He didn’t choose her when he could have chosen her and lived.
And now they’re dead.
We could have had a life together, he says. We would have stopped sneaking around. We wouldn’t be here.
She coaxes him up onto the bed, where he curls on his side. She curls around him.
We missed our chance, Jenny!
She strokes his hair. At what, happiness? It might not have worked, Nick. We might have only lasted a month. Anyway, we had a lot of happiness. You made me happy.
But—
Nick, stop. Okay? Stop. We’re here now. We’re together. This is what we have. It might not last for very long, but we have it. We’re here.
He’s still for a moment.
Did that work? Did she calm him?
No. Because now he jolts up, turning to face her, takes her hands and yanks her up, too.
He’s kissing her hands. Threading his fingers in hers. He’s smiling!
He looks so young all of a sudden.
She’s never seen him look so young.
You’re right! he says. We’re here. Fuck the past! I feel…you know what? I think…I think I love you, Jenny.
Oh, Nick.No.
I do! I love you. In fact, I think I always have.
You care about me, she says. You think much more highly of me than I do. But you don’t love me, and that’s okay. It’s enough.
You’re wrong, Jenny! I get it. The way I think about you, the things you do to me…I couldn’t want you as much as I do if I didn’t love you. I just couldn’t seeit.
And now you do? she says. Isn’t your timing a little suspicious?
Why are you being like this? he cries. All night you’ve been at me to talk about my feelings. Now I am, and you’re disputing them!
She kisses him. Untangles their hands and holds his face in hers.
I’m trying to be honest, she says. I’m being the real me. I finally found her.
What the fuck does that mean? How can you be so calm? Don’t you care at all?
She holds him tight, wishing she could lend him some of her calm. There’s so much she wants to tell him. Because she understands now. She was afraid her whole life—not to die, but to tell the truth. So she hid and cringed and deflected and lied. And because she lied she didn’t live. But that’s over now. The lying. Maybe the living, too, but that matters less somehow. Because the lying is over. And he helped her get there. She needs to tell him, Nick, I get it! Everyone is unfaithful, all the time. To themselves, and the ones they love, and the world. We don’t show our true selves, which means we don’t live as our true selves, which means we don’t live at all. We have to tell the truth. Terrifying as it is, awful, we have to! If we don’t, we’re not alive. I wasn’t alive, until tonight. But now Iam.
That’s what she would tell him.