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All around me the hospital is quiet, the long, lonely hours of the night ticking by as I wait for the verdict. The doctors say they’ll know more soon… whether you will wake up or not. Whether you will live or die.
I stare at you, willing you to open your eyes. To smile sleepily as recognition dawns. I crave that, the unutterable relief of it, because I can’t stand to think that you might not be all right, that a moment was all it took, a moment when I wasn’t watching, when I didn’t see.
Because no matter what I try to tell myself now, I’m sure, I’m so sure, that I could have kept all this from happening if only I’d been strong enough. If only I’d been different.
CHAPTER ONE
TESSA
Six weeks earlier
“We’re almost there.”
I crane my head around, taking my eyes off the winding road for a split second, to give Ben and Katherine what I hope is an encouraging smile. Ben isn’t even looking at me—his eyes are glued to his Kindle Fire tablet, as usual—and Katherine is staring out the window, twirling a strand of hair around one finger. Both of them already seem bored, and our summer vacation has barely started.
I turn back to the road, unsure if the clench of my stomach muscles is from excitement or terror. I’m doing this. I’m really doing this. Three months away from the city, away from Kyle, away from a life that has finally become unbearable. Three months alone with my children, in the wilds of Upstate New York, reconnecting with them and myself or whatever mindful approach made me think this was a good idea back in March. And it is a good idea. It has to be, because it’s the only one I’ve got left.
We’ve been driving for over an hour from Syracuse, where we picked up our rental car for the summer after taking the train from New York, down winding, country roads, the rolling fields and clumps of trees—what are they? Oak? Maple?—interspersed with occasional buildings—long, low, shed-like barns that sell tractor parts, or speedboats, or animal feed.
The cute little antique shops and local wineries I’ve been daydreaming about haven’t quite materialized yet, but I’m sure they will. This is the Finger Lakes, after all, a major tourist area, even if most New Yorkers probably consider it on par with Antarctica.
Suddenly Ben throws his tablet across the seat, making Katherine let out an irritable “ow” as it hits her leg, before he presses his nose to the window. “Mom, there’s a paintball place over there. Can we go? Please? Now?”
I picture my nine-year-old son pelting my body with paintballs and try to give him a bland look. “Not now, Ben, we’re on our way to the cottage, but maybe later. We’ll see.”
Ben groans theatrically and starts kicking the back of my seat. Katherine throws the Kindle back at him and they begin to bicker; before I can so much as offer a “hey, stop”, Katherine is in tears and Ben is back on his game. I’d close my eyes if I weren’t driving.This summer is going to be good,I remind myself.Really. It has to be.
The trees on either side of the road feel as if they’re pressing against the car as we inch along; after spending the last twenty years in New York City, I’m not used to driving, and I’m probably being a bit over-cautious. I’ve been passed by at least a dozen pick-up trucks and SUVs, two of the drivers flipping me the finger, but never mind. We’ll get there.
And then what?
I can’t quite see how this is all going to unfold, how I’m going to turn it all around. All I know is I couldn’t stand another day back in Brooklyn, feeling like a ghost in my own life, with everything piling on top of me, making it hard to breathe—Katherine’s sulky shyness, Ben’s boisterousness, Kyle’s heavy silences, the tension that covers everything, thick and toxic. Sometimes I catch Kyle looking at me, his eyes narrowed, his lips pursed, and I feel a chill penetrating my body all the way through. What happened, that made him look like that at me, his wife?
At least here there will be no frowning school teachers giving Ben yellow cards for being too rough. There will be no supposedly all-class birthday parties where Katherine is the only one who isn’t invited. There will be no smug mothers on the school playground, slyly rolling their eyes when they think I’m not looking.
And there will be no Kyle. That brings the most relief. There will be no silently accusing looks, no suppressed sighs, no endless tension that leaves me feeling as if I’m constantly making missteps, only I don’t know what they are and I’m afraid to ask.
Escaping it started to feel like the best option, the only option. So I went online and rented the first affordable place I could find for the summer—Pine Cottage, on the shores of one of the Finger Lakes, three months away from Brooklyn, from PS 39, the children’s school… and from my husband.
I wanted a place where we could put down the devices and let go of the worry and fear, where we could reconnect over barbecues and late-night swims and… other stuff. In my mind, it was a hazy mirage of happiness for the three of us; Kyle was never in the imaginary picture. Now that we’re actually approaching our summer destination, however, I’m not sure what the reality is going to look like, or more importantly, how to make it happen.
But that feels as if it’s been my story since I lost my own mom; I feel like her death cut me adrift, and I’m still trying to find something to anchor me back to my reality, to connect me to my children, both of whom feel impossibly distant sometimes. If my mom were still alive, she’d show me how to do it, I’m sure of it. She’d laugh and hug me and tell me not to worry so much. She’d remind me of stories from my own childhood, how moody and impossible I was when I was eleven, how I didn’t get invited to this or that birthday party. Stories I’ve forgotten, because I need my mother to keep telling me, to ground me in my own past, so I can help Katherine with her present.
“When are we going to get there?” Ben demands as he kicks the back of my seat again, making me let out anoofin response.
“Soon.” As if my answer is the magic word, we suddenly break free of the dense forest, to emerge on an open road with a glittering, endless expanse of lake before us. I nearly stop the car to take in the magnificent sight—endless blue above and below, the sun sparkling over everything, the world shimmering with promise, a picture postcard of what life could be like. Neither Ben nor Katherine seems particularly impressed, though, so after a second’s glance I keep driving.
I continue along the narrow road that hugs the lake, past gorgeous, sprawling log cabins and three-story lake houses with their own boat launches and docks, huge, rambling places with friendly front porches hung with American flags and Adirondack chairs scattered on the velvety grass; they all look like something from a photo shoot for Eddie Bauer or Abercrombie & Fitch.
Foolishly, I start to imagine that this is the kind of house we’re renting, even though I’ve seen the picture and read the description myself, online, three months ago, and I know our rental doesn’t look anything like these dream homes.
We are renting a two-bedroom ranch house with a scant twenty-five feet of lake frontage, a kitchen and bathroom in 1970s avocado green, and a screened-in porch with a couple of frayed wicker chairs. It was what was in our budget, even then just barely, but at least it will be ours.
Kyle muttered about it being a waste of money and he didn’t think we should go at all, giving me a dark look that I couldn’t interpret and chose not to try. I’m glad to escape him for a little while—except the realization, now that we’re here, suddenly seizes me with anxiety. Am I really doing the right thing, leaving my husband for nearly three whole months? Leaving mylife?
“Which one’s ours?” Katherine asks as we pass a three-story mansion covered in brown shingle, complete with a Rapunzel-like turret. My stomach clenches a little more. How are we not going to feel disappointed by our shabby reality, with all these gorgeous behemoths around us? But that’s not how I want to start our summer—with disillusionment rather than hope. I’ve had enough of that already.
“Let’s see…” I peer at the signs staked in front of various cottages with their playful, curlicue script, like each one is the entrance to a personal fairy tale. Ten Maples… Cove View… Twilight Shores… “Ah, here it is. Pine Cottage.”
