He snorted. “She’s worried I’ll never get off her sofa. You look the same. And that’s not a compliment.”
I decided not to take the bait.
“I assume she told you,” he said, “about how my skanky bitch girlfriend locked me out of my own house.”
“From the sound of it, she had a good reason to lock you out. You hit her, right?” I’ll admit that it took some courage for me to speak my mind, but we weren’t children anymore. Even if he lashed out, even if he got physical, I didn’t have to sit back and take it.
His eyes narrowed. “I need a refill,” he called across the room to the waitress who was taking someone else’s order. “I hit her,” he said, “but you don’t know the whole story. Maybe she needed hitting.”
“Nobody needs hitting. Jenna tells me you lost your job.”
“Yeah, I’m a total loser. I beat my woman; I lost my job. I’ve stepped straight out of a country-and-western song.” His tone was sarcastic. “That idiot manager doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing. I tried to make a suggestion or two about how to run the office. You know how people are — so protective of their pathetic little territories. I was right, he knew it, and he couldn’t stand it. So he canned me.”
“You weren’t drinking?”
“Do you listen to everything Jenna tells you? You do realize she’s a total airhead? You may not be much fun to have around, but at least you’re not as stupid as she is. Did she tell you her snooty fiancé gave her an ultimatum? It’s me or him. I figure I’m doing her a favor if he dumps her ass.”
“That’s not your decision to make.”
“ ‘That’s not your decision to make,’ ” he mimicked. “So what are you doing these days? Still at Sarah Lawrence with the rest of the radical lesbians?”
“I had to drop out. I don’t have any money. The stocks Mom and Dad left me turned out to be almost worthless.”
He didn’t reply.
“I’m living in Connecticut. I work as a nanny.”
“A nanny?” He laughed. “I guess there’s no point in hitting you up for cash, then.”
“That’s right, there isn’t. But I can buy you dinner if you want.”
“At the Russian Tea Room? The Four Seasons?”
“No. Here.”
“How about buying me a drink next door instead?”
“Dinner here. That’s it.”
Mark hesitated a moment, then reached for one of the menus propped between the salt and pepper shakers and the wall. He looked it over in silence, then signaled for the waitress. “I’ll take a western omelet, hash browns, whole wheat toast, some orange juice, and more coffee.”
I ordered the same.
“I haven’t eaten all day,” he said. It wasn’t
thank you,
but I knew it was probably as close to it as I could expect from my brother. “So you came all this way. That surprises me.”
“You’re my brother. I thought maybe you could use someone to talk to.”
“Are we having an
Oprah
moment?” he said, but then his tone grew less malignant. “This isn’t a very good time for me. As I’m sure you’ve guessed.”
“What is it you’d want to do, if you could do anything?”
“Besides drink myself into an early grave?” The waitress set a glass of orange juice in front of each of us, and he downed his in two rapid gulps. “I want Debbie back. I want to live in my own fucking house.”
“What would convince her to let you move back in?”
“Hell freezing over?”
“Besides that. Something you can control.”
He looked miserable for a second. “I’m not going to stop drinking. Despite whatever Jenna told you, I’m not an alcoholic.”
Not that I would have expected him to admit it if he was. “Anger-management counseling then?” The waitress set our plates down before us, and Mark tore into his.
“You’re kidding, right?” Mark said, his mouth full.
“Why would I be kidding?” I pushed my hash browns around on the plate, suddenly aware that I couldn’t eat a bite. “You hit your girlfriend, Mark. That’s not okay in anybody’s book.” I thought a moment. “Okay. How about a plain old-fashioned psychologist?”
“How the fuck am I supposed to pay for that?” He kept his voice low, but I recognized the steely look in his eyes from childhood and had the sudden urge to run.
“I could help you find some kind of, I don’t know, agency with a sliding scale. You’re technically homeless. There are services for homeless people.”
“Homeless!” Mark laughed. “You’re such a freak. You always were. I may not have a home at the moment, but I’m not
homeless
.” He lowered his voice. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe Debbie is the crazy one? That maybe I’m not the one with the problem?”
“No, it never occurred to me.” I pushed my plate over to his side of the table. “You can have mine.” I thought with longing of Mr. Rathburn and my quiet bedroom at Thornfield Park. Why had I believed I could help in any way? Mark was unreachable. Or maybe somebody else could reach him, but certainly not the sister he had never liked or respected.
“Why did you hit
me?
” I heard myself ask him. I hadn’t intended to; the question just slipped out. “Why did you lock me in that
attic crawl space and leave me there all night?” Maybe the answer would give me some kind of clue about what sort of help I could give him. Or maybe it would simply tell me something I needed to know for myself.
Mark had finished his eggs and moved on to mine. “When did I do that? Are you making stuff up now?”
“Can I get you anything else?” The waitress stood by our table, waiting for some kind of coherent answer — a yes or a no — but I couldn’t remember my own name at that moment.
“I’d like some bacon,” Mark told her. He looked at me appraisingly. Was he wondering if he’d pushed me past the limit? The waitress left to place the order.
“You hit me.” I tried to keep my voice level. “You hit me often, and once you locked me in the attic and didn’t tell anyone. I spent a whole night up there.”
“I think you’re blowing things out of proportion,” he told me. “Siblings slap each other around all the time. A little rivalry’s normal. As for the attic thing.… Is there any grape jelly?” He grabbed the bowl of jelly packets. “Was it really such a big deal? I didn’t think it was, and I’m sorry you did.”
“You’re sorry I did?” Maybe I would have exploded with anger right there in the restaurant if I had been able to fully believe my ears. “That’s not an apology.”
“I don’t have anything to apologize for,” he said. “Not to you. Not to Debbie.”
I waved a hand at the waitress. “Check, please,” I said. Then I did what little — ridiculously little — I could do. “Then I can’t help
you. You’re on your own. But you have to get out of Jenna’s apartment. By tomorrow morning.”
“You’re taking her side?” He looked at me in disbelief. Maybe he’d expected me to keep trying to save him or, at the very least, to stay seated across from him, entangled in an argument I couldn’t win, until he prevailed by sheer persistence.
“I’m not taking anyone’s side. She wants you out, so you’ve got to get out. Wherever you decide to go next is up to you.” I grabbed the check and paid at the cash register. Then I walked over to the waitress and handed her the tip, certain that if I left it on the table, Mark would pocket it himself. Without glancing over at him, I stepped out onto the busy street.
The sun hadn’t yet set. I hurried back to Jenna’s apartment building and punched the up button once, twice, three times, until the elevator arrived. In response to her questions, I delivered the news: I had told Mark he had to leave by tomorrow morning. If he didn’t go, she should call the police and have him arrested for trespassing. That was the best I could do.
Jenna thanked me, or tried to, but I didn’t want her thanks. I gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and headed off in the direction of the subway station. Though I would have expected rush hour to be over by then, the subway cars downtown were all crowded. I hung on to an overhead bar amid the exhausted and disgruntled-looking commuters. I would spend one more night in the hotel and catch the first train back to Connecticut in the morning.
I felt relief and sorrow and disappointment. The last emotion surprised me. What had I been hoping for? Against the rushing
dark tunnel walls behind the subway window, I could see my reflection framed by the commuters to my left and my right. If my brother had apologized, if my sister had been truly happy to see me, if either of them had been interested in what I’d been doing with myself for the past six months, it would have made me happy. I might even have forgiven them. But they were just as I remembered them, and I understood, finally, that they would never change.
The trip back to Old Lyme took what seemed like a hundred years. I read and reread the same paragraph of my book, but I couldn’t lose myself in the words for fear of missing my stop. Benjamin was waiting patiently for me at the station, and at the sight of his craggy face I remembered the morning I had first arrived at Thornfield Park. I felt so glad that I had to ask myself what that gladness meant, and reminded myself that the home to which I was returning wouldn’t be mine much longer. I knew Maddy would be happy to see me; Lucia would welcome my return. But I also knew very well that I was thinking of someone else, and that he wasn’t thinking of me. Even so, I felt joy bubble up inside me and buoy me up like helium.
“How are the rehearsals going?” I asked Benjamin when we were on the highway. This time I had taken the seat beside him.
“They’re over, I’m happy to say,” he responded. “Nico sent the guys back to their homes. They need a few days to rest up before the rehearsal show. Once the tour starts, they won’t get many days off. And we get a few days of peace too. About time.”
“And what about Bianca Ingram? Is the photo shoot done?”
“She’s gone too — at least for now.”
I wanted to ask the question that had been nagging at me the whole ride home: had there been any big announcements in my absence? If Mr. Rathburn had gotten engaged, I supposed I would hear about it very soon.
When we turned into the driveway, I waved at the good-looking young guard. He waved back, looking almost as happy to see me as I was to see him. The sky was nearly cloudless that morning. Orange and yellow tiger lilies swayed in the front garden. Benjamin offered to bring my suitcase up to my room. I thanked him, jumped out, and started up the path to the house. Just then, I heard the soft strains of an acoustic guitar coming from behind the house. Instead of ringing the front doorbell, I hurried around the perimeter of the main building to the back deck, where Mr. Rathburn sat in an Adirondack chair, playing softly to himself.
I saw him before he noticed me, and my nerves vibrated like guitar strings. I thought about calling to him but couldn’t find my voice. I stopped in my tracks and even took a step backward, hoping to slip quietly into the house before I made an absolute fool of myself. But then he saw me.
“Hello!” he called, setting his guitar down beside him. “There you are! Get on up here.”
On trembling legs, I climbed the steps to the deck, hoping my
face hid my emotions. Mr. Rathburn pulled the nearest chair a bit closer to his and motioned for me to sit down. I complied.
“What took you so long?” His voice sounded more pleased than angry. “I gave you one day off, but you’ve been gone for three.”
“I told you I didn’t know how long it would take.”
“I was worried about you off in the big city, with that family of yours. But now you’re safely home.” He patted my hand, then pulled back. “Did you solve the world’s problems?”
“Not even close.” I suppressed a smile, realizing that he had suggested Thornfield Park was my home too. If only it were.
“And did you worry how we’d survive here without you?”
“I was only gone three days, Mr. Rathburn. Benjamin tells me that rehearsals are over and the band is gone.”
“And did you hear that Bianca Ingram has gone for the time being?”
The bubble in my chest popped abruptly. “I guess you must have been sorry to see her go.”
“What man wouldn’t be sorry to say good-bye to a woman like that?” He clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back luxuriously. “I only wish I were her equal in the looks department. What was it you said about me? That I’m a suburban dad? And I’m only rock-star handsome. While you’re saving the world, can you whip up a little something to make me look like a movie star?”
“I’m not a magician,” I said, and he laughed. Of course I couldn’t say what I was thinking: to me, his face was more interesting, more attractive, than the clear-skinned perfection of any pretty-boy movie star. He seemed to read my thoughts and looked at me the
way he sometimes did when we were alone together, with a smile more genuine than his public one.
“Go,” he said. “Get some rest. I’ll look after Maddy today. You can just take it easy. You’re back among friends now.” He turned to his guitar and began picking out a complex run of notes.
I started into the house, but something stopped me. Before I could think better of it, the words spilled out. “Thank you, Nico.” I’d never called him that before, and the name felt strange on my tongue. “You’ve been a true friend to me. I’m… I’m happier than you know to be back here. Thornfield Park feels like my home. My real home.”
And before he could speak or stand, I slipped into the house, letting the door slam behind me. Cheeks burning, I ran up to my room without stopping to say hello to Lucia or Maddy. Without bothering to change or unpack, I lay down. My bed felt so much more welcoming than the one at the hotel had been. I burrowed under the covers and slept more soundly than I had in days.
In the days between my return and the rehearsal show that would signal the start of Mr. Rathburn’s tour, the name Bianca Ingram wasn’t spoken. Maybe Mr. Rathburn was in communication with her, maybe the two of them had long telephone conversations when I wasn’t around, but I didn’t see any evidence that he missed her or looked forward to seeing her again. During those days, he spent more time with Maddy and me than usual. He even took us out to lunch again at the seafood restaurant beside the Connecticut River, the three of us lingering for hours in the otherwise empty dining room, Maddy so giddy with her father’s attention that she bubbled over with jokes and stories.