Despite the awfulness of it all, Perry smiled at his wife. He did not doubt this.
She turned to look at him. “Look, we may never know for sure if Jake was drunk. Your brother has always had a complicated relationship with alcohol. But we can’t keep pressing Emma,” she said. “It’s too much.”
“Do you think I like this? I hate having to ask her, seeing how tortured this makes her feel. But how else are we supposed to find out what happened?”
Amelia threw up her hands. “I don’t know, Perry.”
“I had hoped the police would take care of this, but they haven’t found out shit. They need to do their job.”
“Then let them! Let the police handle it. Stop trying to find out what exactly happened and let’s instead focus on getting Emma better.” Amelia’s eyes flashed. “That is our job!” She was as angry as he was, he realized, but for different reasons.
“I’m sorry,” he said, stepping toward her. “I’m trying.” He put a hand on her arm, but she shrugged it off.
“Please, Perry. You need to stop pushing everyone.”
He let his hands fall to his side. “I don’t mean to.”
The teakettle began to whistle and Amelia yanked it off the range. “I know Emma’s okay and I should feel relieved, but I just feel so…”
“Angry?”
She met his gaze. “And helpless.”
Perry nodded. He felt it, too. He was angry that their daughter looked as if she’d been mugged, but was clearly far more bruised somewhere on the inside. He was angry that their boat was destroyed, and now he’d have to deal with insurance. He was angry that he hadn’t finished his contract at work and that his colleague Spencer Ashe was probably taking it over at that very moment while he was standing in the kitchen. But most of all, he was angry at Jake. Jake, who was not a parent. Who had no idea what it was like to trust someone else with your only child and then get that phone call from the paramedics. To throw yourself behind the wheel of a car that simply could not deliver you fast enough to the hospital, not knowing what you’d find when you got there. The back of his neck prickled at the memory. It was only two days ago, and yet Perry had felt the pulsing course of adrenaline every hour since. He was poised and alert, ready to strike.
Amelia abandoned the teakettle and headed out of the kitchen.
“Want me to pour you that cup of tea?” he offered.
“What I’d like is a little space. I think we could both use some. I’m going upstairs to lie down.”
Perry watched her climb the stairs. How he wanted to flop down and give in, too. What he’d have given for a moment’s rest. He’d have slept like the dead, if he could. But he couldn’t. Just as he couldn’t seem to comfort his wife or daughter.
He spied his keys on the far counter, and retrieved them. He was halfway to the door when he heard Amelia call down to him. She was leaning over the railing.
“Where are you going?”
“For a drive.”
“A drive.” She said it with soft wistfulness, as one does when they name something they love. A favorite dessert. A place they miss.
He paused, his heart hopeful for a beat. “Would you like to come?” It was something they used to do, after a fight: go for a drive together. The destination did not matter, because the place they were aimed at could not be found on any map. It was a space between them. They’d get in the car and stare straight ahead. Mile after wordless mile. Until at some point one would reach for the other’s hand. Just like that. And then Perry would know they’d arrived.
Amelia shook her head. “I think we’re out of toilet paper.”
“Toilet paper,” Perry said, trying to hide his disappointment. “Right.”
As he turned his car onto the main road toward town, Perry could not think of toilet paper. Or stopping in at the small local market where everyone knew him and would have heard about the accident. This was exactly what Amelia claimed to love about living in a small town, and exactly what he loathed. Instead, he sailed right past the market turnoff and up Route 37 toward New Milford. From there he turned onto Route 7, wound his way through the back roads past the hospital, and continued left on Route 202. For the first time, Perry did not have a plan. What he had was an image. Of Emma in bed. Emma who did not want or need them right now. Who would not even make eye contact with him, and whose fingers drummed anxiously on her phone. Who was notperfectly fine, as the discharging hospitalist had assured him. And whom he could not seem to help.
So instead Perry switched mental gears and focused on the next image that came to mind. Of a little girl, smaller than Emma. With a pink cast.
Twenty minutes later, he sailed over the winding hills of Litchfield County that divided his town of Lenox and Olivia’s town of Washington. To the big white farmhouse with the shingled cottage in the rear. Where Buster lunged and barked on the other side of the door like a rabid animal. Where Perry was tempted to turn around and get his wits about him, but upon seeing a child-sized pair of polka-dot rain boots sitting on the front porch, he halted. He looked once more through the door. At the dog that little girl loved. Who might or might not take his arm off.
Perry did not believe in signs. He believed life was a string of unpredictable occurrences looming on the horizon. Planning was your only hope against it. There were no signs. But then he spied a length of rope lying on the porch next to the polka-dot rain boots. And when the door handle turned beneath his fingers, he had to wonder.
He knew his behavior could be construed as breaking and entering. It might even have constituted dog-napping. The only thing he could do now was push the front door ever so slightly ajar to give himself ample time for a head start. Then, he grabbed the rope and raced down the porch steps to his car, faster than he had run since his high school track days. To where he flung open the back door and stood behind it, shielding himself. By then Buster had nosed the front door open and galloped down the porch steps toward him. Perry closed his eyes, praying to remain unscathed and intact. Buster stopped short of Perry, who hid behind the open car door, and thrust his nose exactly where he should not. Perry winced, holding his breath as the dog sniffed up and down his leg, his nostrils making quick snorting noises. After determining Perry bore neither threat nor treat, he ambled over to a clump of daylilies and lifted his leg. For a moment Perry feared his mission would fail.
But as he imagined all the things that could still go wrong,Buster turned his way. He walked up to the open door and stuck his head inside Perry’s car. And then with the whole of his hairy being, like a magnificent mythical beast, Buster leapt into the backseat. Perry slammed the door. Before he could change his mind, he hurried around to the driver’s side and slid behind the wheel.
