I order an Uber, and we sit on a bench outside the station while we wait for it.
“What were you drinking?”
“What do you think I was drinking?”
“But how much? And where?”
“Too much. And everywhere.”
“Fuck me, Jessamine, it’s Monday afternoon! I only said goodbye to you on Saturday. You were fine. What the fuck happened?”
She nails me with a narrow-eyed stare. “You left me. I told you not to, and you did.”
That’s when I feel it, pulling its many arms around me, tightening its grip all over me. My breathing becomes restricted and a sense of panic rushes through me. All my life I have been free to do whatever the damn hell I wanted. Nobody has ever asked me for more than I can give. Not my children, not my children’s mothers, not my family, not my friends, and certainly no woman I’ve ever been with. There’s always been this deep,beautiful level of respect and understanding between me and everyone I’ve ever loved or let into my life.
But now there is this woman who is sitting in her own urine, breathing stale vodka all over me and telling me in a voice that chills me to my very core that I am no longer allowed to be free. Or at least, that my freedom will be at her expense and that I cannot just pretend that none of this ever happened. It has happened and it is still happening and it will, I fear, continue to happen for a long time to come.
The Uber appears and I help Jessamine into it.
“She’s not feeling too good,” I tell the driver. “But she’ll be fine. I’ll give you a great tip. OK?”
I see him eye us both unhappily, but I also see his need for extra money override his distaste. “Fine,” he says. “But make sure she’s not sick, OK?”
“Scout’s honor,” I say, hoping for the best.
I spend the next couple of days at the cottage, tending to Jessamine’s two-day hangover, getting Daisy to school, doing laundry, walking the dog. Back to business as usual, in other words. But on Wednesday afternoon, after a morning spent tinkering with the jeep and folding sheets, I pick up my rucksack and stick my head around the door into Annie’s study. “I’m heading off now,” I say. “I’ll be back tomorrow to check in on her.”
Annie turns slowly and I see her purse her lips. “You’d better be,” she says.
I narrow my eyes at her and cock my head to one side. “What do you mean by that, Annie?” I ask.
“Imeanthat Jessamine is a girl who is used to getting exactly what she wants, and for some reason she wants you.”
I look at her curiously.
“Her father,” she says, “my husband, he spoiled her. If she asked for it, she got it. He spoiledallof us. We didn’t have to think aboutanything, do anything, worry about anything. He was like a god to us. Do you understand? Like a god. And we have never, ever recovered from losing him.”
A chill passes across the flesh of my forearms and for a moment I don’t know how to respond.
So, I deduce, Allen is dead.
I say, “I’m so sorry to hear that. And I know how you feel. My father was a wonderful man too and I miss him every day of my life. But, you know, we’re all grown-ups now. Life goes on—it sucks, but it goes on. And I do think that Jessamine is strong enough to deal with the real world. I really do. I mean, if she was strong enough to bring a child into this world, to raise a great girl like Daisy, then she’s strong enough to quit drinking, get a job, live a real life.”
I watch Annie’s face as I talk. It is impassive, unmoving, steely.
“Well,” she says crisply, when I finish talking. “I suppose you should go and say goodbye.”
She’s holding the blade of a small knife next to her wrist when I walk into her bedroom a moment later. She’s in a nightgown and thick socks, her hair is hanging loose on either side of her face, her eyes are wide, and her skin is pallid.
I see her press the blade of the knife harder against her pale flesh. “Jesus Christ,” I say, leaping toward her.
“Get away from me,” she cries. “Just let me do it. I want to do it. I want to fucking die. And don’t pretend you care, because I know you don’t. You couldn’t give a shit about me. Everyone would be better off without me, and you know it.”
“Jessamine,” I say, softly, but with meaning. “Jessamine, please, just give me that knife. Nobody wants you to die. Nobody.”
“I thought,” she says breathlessly, “I thought you were different. I thought you cared. I thought maybe finally,finally, I’d met someone whowanted to take care of me, who enjoyed being with me. But no, you’re just like all of them. Everyone leaves me! Nobody stays!”
A strand of spittle accompanies her enunciation of the word “stays” and lands on her chin. It sits there, refracting the weak January light from the east-facing window. Meanwhile, the blade is pressing ever deeper into the skin of her wrist, and I am stupefied into inaction. I don’t know what to do, what to say, I just know that I cannot bear to see her hurt herself.
