“I guess I can ask,” I said finally. “But theywillsay no.”
“Sure, yeah. Okay,” Zach said, but I could tell he wasn’t listening.
“Zach, I’m serious,” I said. “It won’t change anything.”
“I understand, I do. And thank you.” His stare lingered. He smiled slightly.
“Visiting hours have now ended!”came a louder, more insistent voice on the intercom.“Please proceed to the exit immediately!”
“I’ve got to go,” I said. “I should have a lot more information by end of day tomorrow if you call then. Let’s say seven p.m.? Here’s my cell.” I wrote out the number and held it up so Zach could copy it down correctly. “I’ll be sure to pick up.”
“Thank you, Lizzie,” Zach said. He pressed a hand flat against the dirty plexiglass, looked at me imploringly. “Thank you.”
I hesitated before pressing my hand up to meet his. It was a weirdly intimate gesture, even though we weren’t physically touching.
“Try not to worry,” I said, and pulled my hand away.
“Because there’s nothing to worry about?” he asked. “Or because it won’t help?”
“Both,” I said, before heading for the door.
I was breathing hard as I made it up the stairs to our fourth-floor walk-up. I’d googled Amanda on the way home. There was nothing specifically about her death, but there had been stories in thePostand theDaily Newsabout a murder in Park Slope over the weekend: “Peril in Park Slope” and “Slope Slay” were the headlines, respectively. Both stories featured a nearly identical photo—an ambulance parked outside a brownstone, a half-dozen police cars, police tape. Both had also been very light on detail, with no mention of Zach’s or Amanda’s names: “Pending notification of the family,” the papers demurred. They did not mention a cause of death either, but did indicate that an arrest had been made and that the police did not believe there was any risk to public safety. Sam and I had been at an old friend’s house at the Jersey Shore for the July Fourth weekend, so I’d missed the entire thing.
My searching did unearth lots of other pictures of Amanda and Zach elsewhere online—charity events, profiles of Zach. Amanda was beautiful. Hauntingly so. Thin and gazelle-like, with long, thick blond hair. She was the opposite in every way of my dark features and sturdy, capable frame. I couldn’t find mention of her age anywhere, but she looked young. Very young.
I was trying to imagine just how young as I stepped inside our apartment, the quiet and that familiar stuffiness greeting me. It was late, almost eleven. But Sam was usually up. Please don’t be out, I thought. Please don’t be out.
I dumped my bag in the hallway and worked my way out of my high heels, before stopping in the kitchen for a glass of water and something to eat. I grabbed a handful of Twizzlers out of the huge bag I kept tucked, pointlessly, out of sight. As I pulled the Brita from the refrigerator, I saw tomorrow’s lunch already packed for me.Oh, Sam, if only there existed enough turkey sandwiches in the world to make up for everything.
From the doorway to the dim living room I saw him, dead asleep on the couch. And I was pretty sure asleep and not passed out. He was curled on his side, the Yankees–Red Sox game on, sound muted.
I approached quietly and leaned over him. He didn’t smell ofalcohol—that’s what we were reduced to, me smelling him—and on the coffee table was a bottle of seltzer. I lowered myself onto the edge of the table and watched him sleep. He looked so perfect like that, sandy blond hair tousled over his angled cheekbones. Sam’s deep-set, bright blue eyes were lovely, but so troubled these days. Asleep, he was only beautiful.
He was trying, too. So hard. I did love him for that. Sam had stopped drinking cold turkey for two whole months after the car accident. Since I’d joined Young & Crane four months ago, there’d been the occasional beer at a baseball game, or a glass of wine at a friend’s dinner party. But he hadn’t been drunk again—certainly not passed out, bleeding drunk—not until last week.
Once upon a time, I would have said that blacked out was the same as passed out. Someone asleep, basically, facedown on the carpet. Eight years into being married to Sam, I was now an expert in drunken vernacular. In a blackout, a person—your husband, for instance—stays completely ambulatory, going through all the regular motions, albeit clumsily. He does not seem “passed out” in the least, though he is not “there” either, because the most essential portion of him—the him you love—has effectively vanished. Leaving you speaking to someone who looks like your loved one and sounds like your loved one but is not him in any meaningful way.
Ten stitches and a mild concussion, that was all in the end despite the blood. Such a short time later, and the gash was so neatly hidden by Sam’s hair that even our friends in Jersey hadn’t noticed. Part of me wished Sam had been left with a ghastly scar right in the middle of his perfect forehead. I would never forget those moments of thinking he was dead. Why should Sam? Zach was right: the worst part of marriage was the way somebody else’s problems became your own.
Rehab. That was the obvious solution. But, as Sam was always quick to point out, we didn’t have the money for the high-quality private treatment that wouldn’t be covered by insurance. The kind both of us had heard was really the only effective kind. Getting soberand staying sober is expensive. But there was one option Sam refused to consider: his parents.
Sam came from an extremely wealthy family, generations of money, going all the way back to the railroads. These days, his father, Baron Chadwick, was a tax partner in a prestigious Boston law firm and his mother, Kitty Chadwick, a society wife. But Sam had not had a happy childhood. No abuse, just unbearable coldness that had frozen into cruelty as Sam continued to disappoint his father with the passionate, creative, sensitive person he turned out to be. Sam’s father wanted an athlete, a class president, a lawyer, for a son. He wanted a corporate raider and a locker-room brawler, someone who would cut down enemy and friend alike. Anything to win. Meanwhile, Sam handed over study guides to struggling classmates and had once decided not to interview for an impressive internship his best friend had his heart set on. Sam’s dad couldn’t really see the point of a son like that. He couldn’t see the point of Sam. Sam had been estranged completely from his parents since right before our wedding. It seemed only fair to me that they pay for the damage. But Sam couldn’t bear the thought of asking, which was absolutely understandable, and also totally convenient.
“Oh, hey,” Sam said sleepily, stirring on the couch. He looked toward the windows, where he was always sure to keep watch for my cab. “Sorry, I missed you coming in.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m fine.”
But I was not fine. I was suddenly overwhelmed by this deep, tar-like anger. Stuck to everything. Was it sweet that Sam stood sentry, waiting for me to get home? Sure. Would I rather he express his love by getting himself sober once and for all? Um, yes, definitely.
What I could not explain for the life of me was how I could be that angry and yet want to climb up on the couch next to Sam and curl my body inside his.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“Almost eleven.”
“And you just got home?” Sam squinted his blue eyes, bright even in the dim light. “That’s late even for the gulag.”
“Yeah.”
