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Yes, he could, and I suggested as much when I first floated the idea of a rental past him. He agreed it was a good idea, but we made no firm plans. “Why don’t you ask him? Maybe he can come up for Fourth of July, in a couple of weeks.”
Katherine finally smiles properly—the first time she has since we’ve been here—I don’t let this hurt me. She has always been closer to Kyle than me, although his affection sometimes feels easy, careless. He used to toss her up in the air and tickle her; he buys her and Ben cupcakes on Saturday mornings; he effuses praise over her spelling test without bothering to notice the mistakes.
Everything difficult falls to me—the discipline, the cleaning up, the worry. And while I admit I might have dropped the ball for a little while, wallowing in my own grief, I’ve picked it up now while Kyle has never really bothered, at least not the way I have.
I give Ben and Katherine a quick hug goodnight before I close the door to their bedroom and then stand in the middle of the living room, listening to the stillness, trying not to feel lonely.
Now what?
I brought all my card-making supplies here—the cardstock, the fine-tip markers, the glitter and paint and sequins. I’m in the middle of working on a congratulations card, and this would surely be a good time to finish it.
Last year, when Kyle kept telling me I needed to do something, I suggested I try my own card-making business, make use of my art degree. He was cautiously encouraging, and so I started small, setting up my own online shop on Etsy, filling a few orders. Admittedly, after buying all the supplies, I don’t turn much of a profit, but it’s something, and Kyle no longer asks me to take up the kind of corporate job he’s suffered in since I got pregnant with Katherine.
We met, twenty years ago now, as freshmen at NYU. I was into art, Kyle into music, both of us determined to live the bohemian lifestyle, or at least a twenty-first-century version of it. Unfortunately, as we both discovered over the years, idealism didn’t pay the rent. Neither did busking or selling sketches in Central Park, fun as it all was.
But the people we were then—determined, dreamy, truly believing the world was ours for the taking—have long ago left the building. I don’t know where they are now.
From the bedroom I hear Ben tossing and turning, the springs of the cot creaking beneath him, and Katherine’s irritated sighs. They share a room back in Brooklyn, but it’s bigger than theirs here. It’s hard to believe this place is a step down from our small sixth-floor walk-up, with the kitchen tacked on the back and a bathroom you can barely stand up in, but take the lake out of the equation and it is. I walk outside, breathing in the cool night air, trying to recapture some of the optimism I felt earlier. But instead worries pluck at me as I realize the hugeness of the decision I’ve made. A whole summer in a strange place. How are we going to fill our days? What friends will we make? What is Kyle going to do all summer?
I sit on the sand and rest my chin on my knees, gazing out at the dark water, fighting the sweep of loneliness that always threatens to crash over me in moments like this. When I feel alone and lonely, I wish I could talk to my mom, because she was always ready to listen, always got where I was coming from. She’d put her arm around my shoulders, touch her head to mine. Just thinking about her brings the sting of tears to my eyes, and I can almost imagine I am breathing in her scent—Shalimar, the citrusy notes of lemon and bergamot.
A movement from next door catches my eye, and I turn to see Rebecca silhouetted in the picture window overlooking the water. I watch her slender, willowy form; she’s standing still, her head tilted upwards… what is she thinking? Feeling?
For the first time, I feel a flicker of genuine curiosity about who Rebecca is and why she’s here, as well as a reluctant tug of fascination. Is her life as easy and effortless as it seems from the outside? Is she feeling lonely, standing all by herself in that big house, an evening stretching out in front of her just as it is in front of me? I feel like I’m being fanciful, that someone like Rebecca Finlay couldn’t possibly feel the way I do, ever. Of course she couldn’t.
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