“What does Nate think?” Bridget asked.
“Hell if I know.”
Bridget appraised her. “You look nice.” She took in Alecia’s new outfit, her shoes, her fancy makeup. “Job interview?”
“Nope. Just your everyday four-hundred-dollar nervous breakdown, that’s all.” Alecia’s cheeks flamed red under Bridget’s gaze.
“Everyone loses their shit, darling. There’s no shame in it. I almost wish I could, some days.” Bridget grasped her hand across the island, her long, bony fingers entwined with Alecia’s. “Do you want me to say something to Nate?”
They’d done it before, years ago, run interference with each other’s husbands during fights or in-law disagreements. Theirs was a friendship of ease, almost too close, in each other’s lives and houses, sometimes without knocking, the kind where you can open each other’s fridge or mix yourself a drink. Then Alecia was consumed with Gabe and Holden died and Nate closed up and they scattered like pool balls hit with the cue.
“No.” Alecia toyed with her spoon, passing it between her fingers. Outside the window, a woodpecker worked a tree trunk with a rap rap rap rap like machine gunfire. She smiled at Bridget. “This was nice. I think I just needed this. To sit, to be with someone, talking about something other than . . . medical records or whatever.” She gave a hollow laugh. “I’m not feeling sorry for myself, swear. Let’s do this again. Like on a monthly basis. I’ll come over after school. I can get a sitter for Gabe.”
“What about Nate?” Bridget raised one eyebrow at her.
“Or Nate. Whatever.” Alecia stood. “It’s four o’clock. I have to go. Gabe has ABA tonight,” she said. ABA was applied behavior analysis, a specialized therapy for autism spectrum disorder. “Nate . . . he doesn’t really know what to do. It bugs him. He thinks they treat Gabe like a dog . . .” She even cringed occasionally at the parallels, waving a marshmallow or a magic marker in front of Gabe’s face until he complied with the smallest command. Point to the circle.
Bridget stood with her. “Come back. Next month. We’ll have tea. You can wear your pajamas if you want.”
They hugged and Bridget’s hair smelled like the coconut oil she used as shampoo. Alecia opened the front door and stepped out onto the sidewalk. A woman stood alone, leaning against the door of her car.
“Can I help you?” asked Alecia, thinking about the birds, those fluttering little bodies.
“Maybe. Are you Mrs. Winters?” the woman asked. She was tall, black hair cut in a bob. She looked severe, perhaps a scientist here to ask about the birds. Alecia was a witness at the ball field that day. Maybe they were talking to everyone?
“Yes.” Alecia stood straighter, her jaw clicked.
“Mrs. Winters who is married to Nate Winters?”
Alecia narrowed her eyes. Strangers called him Nathan. Nate felt friendly, intimate. “Yesss,” she drew the word out, cocking her head. She realized that maybe this woman was no scientist. In her hand she held a small digital recorder. A reporter? How would she have found her here? At Bridget’s?
“Would you be willing to talk to me about your husband, Mrs. Winters?”
Alecia was confused. “Sure, but he doesn’t know anything. He’s a math teacher, not a science teacher.” She felt like maybe she and this woman were speaking different languages. “Wait, who are you again?”
“I’m Rowena White with the Harrisburg Courier.” She touched a button on the digital recorder and it turned red.
“Nate doesn’t know anything,” Alecia repeated. “About the birds?” When she looked back at the house, Bridget stood at the screen door, watching them, her hand splayed flat against the mesh.
“I’m not here about the birds, Mrs. Winters.”
“Oh. Did they find anything out?” Alecia asked, her mind churning.
“Mrs. Winters, I was hoping to talk to you about your husband’s affair.” The woman inched closer; the digital recorder hovered around Alecia’s shoulder.
Alecia’s arms and legs went ice cold. “What? What are you talking about?” There was no affair. Nate was home, with Gabe, watching SportsCenter. “He’s been home all week, with me and my son. The school was closed.”
“I just need five minutes of your time.” Rowena held up her right hand, her fingers spread wide. Her nails were long and deep red. Almost black.
“I don’t understand, you’re a reporter?” Alecia felt thick in the skull, her tongue tangled. Her thoughts finally came together, clear as glass. “Nate isn’t having an affair, but even if he was, how would this concern you? Affairs aren’t news.” She started to push past the woman, her hand on the car door. She’d just drive away, that’s all. People had affairs all the time, they didn’t make the paper.
“Mrs. Winters, please stop. Just talk to me.” She sighed, resigned, and clicked off that red button. Tucked the recorder back into her purse. “This affair? It’s with a student.”
You,
We are linked, you and I, tethered together in transient world. Where everyone is so connected with their phones, texting and instagram and twitter and facebook and yikyak and snapchat, but we are all lost.
You are my comfort. You have no idea.
CHAPTER 5
Bridget, Sunday, April 26, 2015
Bridget was dead asleep when the phone rang, the kind of heavy, dreamless state where you wake up and can’t place the day. She loved that sleep; it was her favorite. There was no crushing blow once she opened her eyes and realized the Holden of her dreams was just that, a fantasy. There was no quick gasp for breath, clutch at the bedspread, no stab behind her eyes. Just a peaceful wakening, followed by the cloudy sadness that she didn’t get to see him last night. Or the night before, come to think of it. The dreams were getting further and further apart now and maybe one day they’d stop altogether. The idea left Bridget a little dizzy.
“ ’Ello,” she mumbled into her phone, not sure who would be calling at this hour of the night. Her clock blinked 11:13, which seemed irrationally late unless there’d been an accident.
“Bridget, honey?” Petra Peterson’s voice was smooth as honey. Holden’s mother was made of sugar and just as cloying.
Bridget shot up in bed. “What’s wrong?” Bridget looked around, the white light slanting in through room-darkening shades, and she realized with a sort of sickening thud that maybe it was actually eleven in the morning. Her mind skittered past thoughts of school and her classes and landed neatly on the word Sunday. She sighed.
“I’m calling to see if you’re up for lunch.” Her words tilted up insecurely, and Bridget could envision her baring her teeth in the rearview mirror looking for lipstick smudges or maybe a wayward speck of spinach from her morning veggie egg-white goat cheese omelet. She could see her coral pantsuit with the buttons matching her bracelets, matching her earrings. “I haven’t seen you and I’m in the neighborhood.”
That was a lie. Petra lived more than an hour away in Bucks County, in a suburb of Philadelphia where Holden grew up, ensconced in the tight, beating womb of private school, music lessons, and theater camp on the Main Line. Bridget could hear the roar of the highway in the distance. There was nothing here, the outskirts of a sleepy bedroom town on the edge of the crumbling paper mill industry, not so depressed that the people themselves seemed gray and daunted, but still. This town had never been anything but a repellent to Petra. No, she was in the neighborhood for no discernible reason other than Bridget.