Chapter 51
Night Twenty-One
Sybil
Sybil hadn’t heard from Zeke in three days.
She’d thought of reaching out every night during the long stretch of hours between midnight and sunrise, but in the end she stopped herself each time.
She was done making accommodations for other people.
Still, she hadn’t wanted to rebuild the evidence wall at home alone, in her suburban kitchen, so held out the smallest shred of hope that he would change his mind, call, apologize. He hadn’t.
She hauled the Bankers Box of papers out of the car in her garage and fished out all the postcards.
She snipped off one-inch pieces of Scotch tape, formed little sticky circles and pasted the postcards up on the wall by her pantry exactly in the order she had at Zeke’s.
She stepped back, hands on her hips, waiting for illumination, for clarity, but any flash of brilliance was interrupted by her doorbell.
For a second, she thought maybe it was fate: Zeke was indeed here to make amends.
Then she held out hope that it could be Betty, though it had been five weeks since she’d evaporated, and that was an even wilder fantasy.
When she unlocked the door she found Mark, a disappointment amid a sea of disappointments.
“Word of warning, his stomach is upset,” Mark said, unclipping Pluto’s leash.
Sybil had forgotten that they were doing a canine custody exchange tonight. Mark stood on the precipice and waited for her to invite him in.
“I come in peace,” he said finally, and she sighed and stepped to the side.
Mark found an old beer in the fridge, then loitered in the kitchen, glancing around like he’d never seen the place before.
“What can I help you with, Mark?”
“It feels different in here.”
“Must be the lack of the stench of betrayal.”
He raised both hands like he was being robbed, the beer still clutched in one. “Come on, Sybil.”
“Come on, what?”
He sighed. “I ended things with her.”
“Mazel tov,” Sybil said.
“I hate living in the pied-à-terre,” he said. “I want to come home.”
Sybil didn’t mean to laugh, but she couldn’t stop herself.
“You don’t hate me,” he said. “I know that you can’t hate me.”
“You don’t have any idea how I feel about you.” Pluto sat at her feet, like maybe he was choosing a side.
“I am well aware of how you feel about me.” Mark nursed the beer, then seemed to think otherwise and set it to the side.
Sybil hoped he didn’t think they were about to delve into a deep conversation for which he needed to be totally sober.
The Bankers Box was sitting in the middle of the kitchen island, and she had plans to rebuild the rest of the evidence wall tonight, Zeke be damned.
“If you are well aware of how I feel about you, then you wouldn’t show up whining about how much you hate the pied-à-terre and casually informing me that you graciously ended your affair.”
“Sybil, you never cared about the affair, let’s be honest.” He met her eyes.
She hadn’t taken a long look at him in years.
He was still attractive in the annoying way that some men grow into in their middle age.
He’d grown out his hair so it curled around his ears, and he had about a two-day stubble, which shaved off about half a decade.
She remembered why, in medical school, she used to want to peel his clothes off in the break room.
“That’s not true,” she said. “I cared about the affair.” She didn’t. But she had to at least put up a front.
He half grinned, then let it fall. “You think I’m not aware that if you hadn’t gotten pregnant, you would have left me? You think I’m not wholly aware that if you’d finished your residency, you would have been a far superior doctor than I am?”
“I would have—”
“Yes, you’re right, you would have been. You’re better at most things than I am,” he said.
Sybil opened her mouth to speak but decided she didn’t want to interrupt him while she was on a winning streak.
“What’s in the box?” He nudged his chin toward the island.
“Nothing that concerns you.”
“Is this about the baseball player?” He stepped toward the island, but she got there first, her fingers curling around each cutout handle on the sides.
“No,” she said firmly. She could say that without a doubt now. She placed the box by her feet. Her territory. This was not about Zeke at all.
“A new project?” He tried again. A project?
What sort of project had Sybil ever embarked on outside of whatever the kids’ school needed, whatever their sports needed, whatever this house needed?
She didn’t have the kids or school or sports or a renovation, so she had no idea what Mark thought she could do to keep herself busy anymore.
“Mark, honestly, what are you doing here? I have things to do.”
“It’s ten p.m. What do you have to do? That’s why I asked about this project.” He jutted an elbow toward the box.
Sybil huffed. “I never sleep. Okay? I never sleep so I have things that keep me busy at night.” She didn’t know why she was telling him this, not when she really hadn’t told anyone other than the Insomniacs, which was now down to Zeke. So now down to no one.
“You never sleep? Is this…Did it just start? Am I responsible?” His shoulders sagged. “Shit. Fuck.”
“You are not responsible, Mark.”
“Okay but—”
“But you’re right about the other stuff. I am better at most things, and I do hold that against you. Actually, no, I hold that against myself. I should have made different choices, and to be honest, you should have too.”
“I’ve already apologized for Vivian.”
Sybil waited for her insides to curdle at the sound of her name. They did not. They remained perfectly solid actually. The tentacles of ambivalence were too strong to shake.
“That wasn’t what I meant. Before that. Way before that.”
“So let me help. With that.” He pointed to the Bankers Box. “I’m off tomorrow, I have nowhere to be either.”
“It’s my thing.”
“I’m not trying to interfere,” he said. “Just offering to keep you company if you’re going to be up all night anyway. You’ve tried the usual things?”
He meant meds, meditation, white noise, blackout shades, acupuncture, all of it.
He didn’t mean finding a group of strangers online, one dying under suspicious circumstances, one disappearing, and the other one, the one Sybil trusted the most, the one Sybil had brewing, complicated feelings for, now ignoring her.
“Mostly,” she said. “Don’t worry, it’s not your problem.”
“Okay,” he said. “But don’t you sort of think that if we had made our problems each other’s problems, your lawyer wouldn’t have had to contact my lawyer this week?”
Sybil wasn’t expecting this from Mark, her milquetoast husband of two decades who suddenly sounded enlightened. It wasn’t that she had any interest in reconciling, but still, something about him felt like it had shifted.
“I don’t want to get back together,” she said.
He nodded just once. A patient accepting the diagnosis. “Before I leave, can I grab a snack? I haven’t eaten since lunch.”
She waved a hand since he knew the way to the pantry.
“What’s this?” he said from around the corner.
She found him staring at the postcards. “Oh, just…nothing.”
“I love this,” he said. “All the top tourist attractions across the country.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Well, yeah? Isn’t that what you intended?” He looked at her, befuddled. “Although actually, why are you tacking up photos of tourist attractions? Are you going like all Thelma I just sat there and drove.”
“Sounds right,” Sybil said but smiled.
“Jesus Christ,” he laughed.
“It was low-hanging fruit.”
“Fucking A,” he said, but laughed harder.