Night Blindness (37 page)

“I was just on my way over. Are you okay?”

“I have something to tell you,” I said.

He opened the door wider. I walked into the living room. It was the first time I'd been inside his house since I'd been back. He wasn't kidding when he said he'd gutted the place. The southwest wall was now a set of French doors and floor-to-ceiling windows. He must have cut down thirty trees, because the view of the harbor was spectacular. “Sit down and let me get you a sweater.” He stared at me. “You're shivering.”

“I'm not cold,” I told him, but still he started for the stairs. I reached up and grabbed his arm. “It wasn't our fault,” I said.

He turned back and squinted at me.

“I just saw him.”

“Ron Griffith?”

I nodded. Ryder backed up. “He never saw Will's MRI the night of the accident. Someone misplaced it and radiology was backed up. Will looked and felt okay, so Griffith let him go.” Ryder's eyes went very dark. “A few days later, someone found the scans and put them on his desk.” I could hear my voice trembling, my insides shaking. “Will had a brain bleed from getting hit on the football field. Griffith said it was so big that he would have died anyway. It was just a matter of time.”

Ryder had gotten angry very rarely when we were younger. But if people cheated at a game, called points that weren't theirs, or when the neighborhood kids used to bully the autistic boy on North Parker, he'd get mad fast and as thoroughly as if he were infused with some explosive. Now the blood rushed to his face, and it turned bright red. “That fucking bastard.” He backed away from me. “That squirrelly fucking asshole.” He was running his hand through his hair. “How does a doctor lose a scan? What the fuck does that mean? Radiology was backed up?” He was facing me, but I could tell he wasn't really seeing me. “You don't lose scans, Jensen. You stay all night until you find them. Do you understand me? Do you know what this means? Do you? All that fucking time, I felt like a murderer. I went through medical school trying to prove myself.” His chest was splotched from anger. “All those fucking late nights, trying to save people who couldn't be saved. And that asshole never saw the fucking scans? Never saw them? Never called us back when he found them?” I thought he was going to break something. Or cry. “I'll strangle him.” He picked up a shirt from the back of the sofa. “I'm going to kill him.” He started for the front door.

“Ryder,” I said. I caught his arm, but he swiped it away. “Ryder!” I yelled at him. For one terrifying moment, I thought he might hit me. “Ryder,” I said again, softer this time. “It's me.” He didn't look away. His eyes started to clear. “It's me, Jenny.” Stepping into him, I felt him relax.

And then he collapsed against me. I felt him bury his face in my neck. “Don't you know what this means?” he asked again. “We could have been together. We could have…”

“I'm here now,” I told him. “We can't go back.” I kissed his neck, kissed his earlobe, his jaw. His hands had been at his sides, but slowly he moved them up my back, tangling his fingers in my hair. A cloud must have moved away from the sun, because the room lightened slightly.

“Jesus,” he whispered. “I can't fucking lose you again.” He kissed my collarbone, felt my rib cage with his hands. “I can't.”

“Nic left yesterday.”

“He did? Why?” He kissed my earlobe. “You know what, I don't care. You can stay married forever and have me on the side.”

“Do you know what a petition of dissolution is?” I tasted his lips, his sweet Ryder taste. He groaned.

“No, what?” He kissed me again.

“It means I filed for divorce.” I put my mouth to his ear and whispered, “We're free.”

He quit kissing me. Then he took hold of my waist and set me in front of him. And in that moment, Ryder became Ryder again, that boy I had known as a child, the one with those trusting dark eyes, the boy who was so sure of the goodness life had to offer him. Then he started laughing. He picked me up and twirled me around and around, kissing me and kissing me and kissing me.

And finally there was nothing else in the world except for Ryder and me, undressing each other as we fumbled up the stairs, down the hall, into his old room with that same antique bed, that bed I'd dreamed of so often, all those years, when I was lost and alone, wanting for all the world to come home.

 

Epilogue

After dinner, Ryder holds the door open and we sneak out onto the back deck. The night is crisp; it smells of hickory smoke. Leaves litter the grass.

He lifts me into his old macramé hammock, frayed and stained, but sturdy between two oaks, and climbs up next to me, smelling of the apple pie he made for Thanksgiving dinner. I can hear them in the living room, the twins' high-pitched giggles, Luke's baritone voice, Jamie in the kitchen, rinsing the dessert dishes. Ryder squeezes my thumbnail between his fingers, something I find strangely erotic, and that warmth rises from the bottom of my belly.

A warm breeze blows chimney smoke our way. “You think this Indian summer will last?” he asks.

I don't answer, just lie back and weave my fingers through his. When I am an old woman, these are the days I'll remember: Luke giving me away when Ryder and I got married during a blizzard; the morning our twins, Piper and Will, were born; the night my dad was posthumously inducted into the NFL Hall of Fame.

Ryder puts his hand over his heart. He points at me with two fingers in the shape of a peace sign. It's our code, our silent love song. I put my hand over my heart, too, and do the same sign back. And we keep wordlessly signing like that, back and forth, under the bright November stars.

*   *   *

It all seems so long ago. Will's death, the first thing that fractioned my life, feels far away. And my father's death is less constant, if not less painful. I finally realized the things that split me open, then halved me again and again never really broke me. Seventh grade prealgebra taught me you could divide a number forever and never reach zero. Perhaps the same holds true for a person.

My night blindness is gone. I noticed it that first fall I was back in Colston. I could see clearly again in the dark. I went to a specialist, who said the same thing as the doctor who'd diagnosed me. Malnutrition can cause nyctalopia. And proper nutrition can help reverse its effects. Now it's the past that's out of focus, hazy and fading. I'm beginning to forget the time before Will and my dad died. I see that part of my life as if I still had night blindness. I can make out faint images but not specific memories. There is no before. Nor is there an after. It's only here. It's only now.

Still, there are times I want to see Will riding that yellow horse around the carousel, run with him up Heartbreak Hill. I want to be standing at Caller's Island, talking with my dad about his childhood, picnicking on the teak ketch he and Luke bought on a whim, racing down the Merritt in the car from
The Graduate,
or just sitting with him in the kitchen, reading the Sunday paper. But when I think back on those times, I can't quite remember if that car was candy-apple red or maroon, or what songs we sang to on the radio. When nostalgia hits hard, sometimes I wish I could bring my night blindness into focus and see everything, even the hard parts, clearly again.

 

Acknowledgments

I was not born a writer; I was made. When I was little, my family spent a lot of time fishing. Because I was neither a lover of fish nor of water, my mother would bring along a notebook and tell me to write stories about our adventures. So, my first thank-you is to my lovely mom, Nancy Moroso, who, although she probably didn't know it at the time, started the fire that would turn into my career as a novelist. Mom, for your boundless support and love, I thank you and I love you.

Suzanne Kingsbury deserves as much credit for this book as I do. I brought her a crumpled, neglected first draft that had been transferred from one computer to another. Never did I think it would go anywhere. For two years, Suzanne worked with me scene by scene, chapter by chapter. Through characters that I loved but couldn't fit into the book, seven different beginnings, more than that many endings, and figuring out how to do away with Will, Suzanne talked me off the ledge, sat on my living room floor taping scenes together, and made me laugh throughout the entire experience. Jenny, Ryder, Will, and all the others are as much her babies as they are mine. For her creative genius and beautiful style that regularly brought me to tears, I am humbled and honored to work with her and to call her my friend.

Sasha Weiss Sanford gets a huge shout-out for two reasons. First, she introduced me to Suzanne. And as I said, undoubtedly without her,
Night Blindness
would still be in a forgotten file in an old, cracked computer in my basement where old, cracked computers go to die. Second, Sasha has been my best friend, the sharer of our brain, the keeper of my secrets, and the source of my best times since we were nine years old. That's a privilege few people have. Sash—you are my family and I love you for that.

This book most certainly never would have been published without my agent, the incomparable Lisa Gallagher of the Sanford J. Greenburger Agency. A year before Lisa signed me, she personally wrote to me, providing detailed edits she thought would make
Night Blindness
the best it could be. At that point, we'd never met. She had no obligation or commitment to me, but she took the time to help an unknown writer and I am thankful every day that she did. I worked on her edits for months and emerged with a book that felt like home. The first time we spoke on the phone, it was as easy and comfortable as if I were talking to a close friend I'd known for years. Ten days later, she sold the book to St. Martin's Press. Ten days! Are you thinking what I'm thinking? This woman is nothing short of brilliant. Having never done this before, I wondered if after Lisa sold
Night Blindness
, her job would be done. How wrong I was. Lisa continues to be my biggest advocate, the giver of endless support and a constant source of amazing feedback and input. She sends me funny e-mails that have nothing to do with work, always asks about my family, and nudges me forward when I stall. Lisa—for your friendship, your belief in my writing, and your stand-back-and-get-out-of-my-way attitude, I am grateful beyond words. Every day I wonder why you chose me, but I am so thankful that you did.

Lisa's awesomeness led me to the fantastic team at St. Martin's Press. Publishers Tom Dunne of Thomas Dunne Books and Sally Richardson of St. Martin's Press made all this happen. Assistant editor Melanie Fried holds the flashlight that illuminates this magical journey. Thank you, Melanie, for being so wonderful and for answering my endless questions. Lisa Senz and Angelique Giammarino, the marketing and social media gurus, have helped me become a little less tragically unhip when it comes to the online world of getting my name out there. Lisa and Angelique, along with production manager Cheryl Mamaril, designer Kathryn Parise, team leader Dori Weintraub, production editor Lisa Davis, and publicist Katie Bassel have worked tirelessly to bring this book to readers. A thank-you to jacket designer Steve Snider for a terrific jacket. Thanks to Katie Gilligan for being the force behind acquiring
Night Blindness.
And a special high-five to Pete Wolverton, editor in chief and rescuer of all things that could have gone south. He kept me laughing while I was trying to write in a house full of kids in the middle of a snowstorm. To the entire St. Martin's Press and Thomas Dunne Books team, thank you isn't nearly enough. You all are the superstars.

My two closest friends from graduate school, Cindi Williams and Sallie Spignesi, were my original early readers. They both came back with such honest reviews that it was a little hard to hear, but their input helped produce a better book. To my two best Gestalt girls, thank you and I love you.

On to the multitalented Dr. Patrick Doherty. Not only is he a neurosurgeon extraordinaire, but he was one of the fabulous physicians who cared for my dad as if he were his own. For that, I am eternally grateful. Pat was also my own personal medical consultant, who strapped on his seat belt and rode this bumpy ride with me while I was writing
Night Blindness.
He responded to no fewer than two thousand e-mails and phone calls and explained his answers both patiently and in terms I could understand. He also spelled all the big words. And not even a month after I was done figuring out Sterling's fate, I decided the old chap needed a new diagnosis. Rather than changing his name and all his contact information, Pat sat with me while I asked him another two thousand questions (I'm not kidding here) and once again responded to each and every inquiry like the consummate professional that he is. Pat—for your friendship, wisdom, knowledge, and e-mails that made me laugh out loud while I was writing in crowded coffeehouses, thank you doesn't begin to cover it. I hope you know how much you mean to me. Pat is a genius. Any medical mistakes are mine and mine alone.

My father, Dick Moroso, and Clarence Clemons had a friendship unlike any other I've ever known. They loved each other more than brothers, more than best friends. Had they possessed any physical resemblance, I might have believed they were separated at birth. Their bond taught me so much about life and love. The two of them shared much the same kind of kindred connection that Sterling and Luke had. For giving me that story and for how much they both loved me, I will never forget how lucky I was to have them for as long as I did. Although they are gone, I love them still and miss them every day.

My brother, Rob Moroso, really did cut off my cat's whiskers. While I didn't see the humor in it at the time, it did make for a funny chapter. Rob was a lot like Will—a rock star who was taken from us long before his time should have been up. I wish that I could have grown old with him, but he will stay with me forever in pictures, memories, and in hints of Will.