Night Blindness (39 page)

“It's not safe,” Greg said.

“There are security cameras and guards everywhere.”

“Can't you just Google whatever you need to know?”

He held his hand between us, palm up, an offering. And I knew I should take it, but instead, I unfolded the letter.

“No, this novel is set in a prison. I have to go there and feel it out.” I pulled out my elastic and ran my hand through my hair. “But I haven't been able to find an inmate to talk to yet, so it could be a no-go.”

He said something that I didn't hear because I was reading.
Ms. Bernard: You have no imagination. You keep writing about the same thing over and over.
“My website says I'll read and answer adoring fan mail.” I handed him the angry scrawl. “Do I have to respond to this?”

He scanned the bottom of the letter. “Maybe Joe Mama is right. Scrap the prison drama and write something uplifting. You don't always have to be so dark.”

“Have you met me?” I snatched the letter back. “Dark is all I know.” Joe Mama didn't leave his contact information, so I tossed the letter on the floor. “I don't do cheery. Puppies and rainbows are not interesting. Besides, I must be doing something right. A lot of people love my books.”

He opened the file. “Except your mother.”

This was true. Every time I sent her a bound galley, she'd call, make small talk about how gorgeous Saint Augustine was, and tell me that the book was beautiful but upsetting.

“Let's leave my mom out of this. I don't blame her for not wanting to read about dead children and murderers.”

“It wouldn't kill your family to talk about Savannah every now and again.”

I winced at his choice of words. “I see my parents twice a year. I don't think that's what we want to discuss at Christmas dinner.” I could feel another fight coming on. “Besides, you know why we don't talk about her.”

“I know your reasons. I just don't agree with them.”

I reminded myself that I chose to marry a shrink. And that once upon a time, we had loved each other. “I don't talk about my sister because I don't want to. It fucking hurts too much, okay?”

He patted my hand. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you.”

I didn't feel like fighting. “It's fine.”

“You are a strong writer, you know.”

“But?” There was never a compliment without a
but.

“But your work is disturbing, hard to read.”

“No shit. My life is disturbing.”

He slid his hand over and set it on top of mine. Greg's hands were big and boney. “It is not disturbing.” He said it in the way you might talk to a child. Or a patient. “You live in a beautiful house.” After my first book was published, the same year we got married, Greg found this place. It was much too big for us, but we bought it, anyway. The day we moved in, I stood in the foyer with its echoey, sterile feel and cried. “You're happily married.”
To a man who wanted to fix me and hated Valentine's Day
, I thought. “Nothing about your life is disturbing. You're happy.” No. I wasn't. He leaned over and gave me a dry peck on the cheek. “Right?” Quick kisses were all I seemed to get anymore. I didn't know if I was disappointed or relieved. I just wanted things to be the way they were before the money fights and miscarriages.

“Yes.” I had at least seventy-five letters to read and didn't want to waste time arguing about something we were never going to agree on. “Life is good.”

I thought he might kiss me again and then switch off the light, but we hadn't had sex since December after the last miscarriage the month before. I'd been inconsolable for weeks, and there was probably nothing else he could think to do to comfort me. Now, though, he went back to his file, and I sifted through the mail until I found one I wanted to answer.

*   *   *

I woke the next morning with the letters spilling off my chest onto the floor. Greg's side of the bed was neatly made, his reading glasses against his bedside table light. The weight of my dream pushed against me, and I sat up, careful not to disturb the duvet. I heard the shower shut off. Greg knew about my Savannah dreams, but I hadn't told him how real they were. He didn't know that every time she came to me, I woke with a slight depression on my side of the bed, as if someone had been sitting next to me. It was there now. An indent where a person might sit if they were watching you sleep. Or trying to wake you. I could feel that warm, melting feeling pouring out of me, leaving me cold in the room. It'd been months since Savannah had been in my dreams, but after New Year's, she'd come back. Usually, she appeared in bright colors, ringing out her singsongy voice, her eyes full of mischief. I'd wake up smelling her honey shampoo. But when she came back a few days into January, it'd been in memory and feeling. I couldn't recall the specifics, just a strange sadness as though she were reluctant to do what she had to do. The only thing I remembered from the initial dream was the prison.

Before those dreams began, I'd been planning to call Deanna and tell her I was quitting, that there would be no fifth book. I was stumped and stuck beyond recovery, but when I'd woken from that first one with that strange sensation in my body—as though I'd not only seen Savannah but I'd actually
been
her walking toward a prison in weak sunlight—I'd gotten up groggily and Googled directions to the South Jersey Penitentiary. I didn't know why she wanted me to go. But I had one small hope: maybe the son of a bitch who killed her had landed there, and I was finally supposed to find him.

Because I hadn't known who to call about an interview and it was only twenty minutes from my house, I'd driven there, hoping to charm someone into talking to me. It was a long shot. Skinny girls with flirty smiles were charming. Awkward, fat girls got sent away. But they hadn't denied me. And now I'd been there three times already under the guise of research and had spoken to the head warden, two psychologists, the continuing education teacher, and a public defender. But when I asked about the prisoners, I got shut down. “Inmates don't give interviews,” the warden had told me. “They're convicts, not movie stars.”

Now I ran my hand over the depression on the bed. Through the bathroom door, I could hear Greg humming. He turned on the sink. I closed my eyes and entered again the blurred world of razor wire and armed guards. Deep in me, I knew what Savannah was really doing. She was telling me there was a reason to go back to the prison. She'd find someone to help me. Behind the guards, metal detectors, and bulletproof glass, I might come one step closer to finally knowing what happened to her.

*   *   *

It was Thursday, so after I made a cake for my weekly dinner at my brother's house, I got in the car and headed south on the Jersey Turnpike toward the prison. It was a nickel-colored day of spitting snow, and the forecast was for nothing but that and freezing temperatures for the next week. I was in a down parka and a ridiculous hat, and because the Volvo Greg had bought me had heated leather seats, halfway there, I was sweating my ass off.

A blond guy with handcuffs dangling from his utility belt handed me a plastic box from a visitor's locker so I could stick my purse in it. His left eyelid was limp, and it made him look sneaky and a little terrifying. His good eye stared at me as if he'd never before seen a porky girl with a notebook and a voice recorder. “Here to see?”

“Please,” I said, glancing behind him at the glassed-in office where other employees were doing paperwork. “I don't actually know any of the inmates. I've been here before and have interviewed some staff members. Everyone has been super helpful, but I'm trying to write a book, and now I really need to speak to a prisoner.” I was talking quickly. “Preferably someone with a life sentence, because—”

But the guy put up his hand.

“Please?” I asked him, leaning across the counter. “I only need one inmate.”

“No can do, ma'am.” His limp eye scanned my body from one end to the other. “Rules are rules.”

He staked both hands on the counter, and I tried to focus on his good eye. It was hard and steadfast, and I knew I wasn't getting anywhere. Having no one else to see and feeling foolish, I thanked him and hurried down the metal stairs, pushed the heavy door open, and stepped out into a gray landscape. Savannah, I thought, had steered me wrong.

I was unlocking my car door when someone in a blue DOC jacket came down the front steps. He was rough in a sexy kind of way, strong cheekbones, full lips. And as he got closer, I saw it was Brady Irons, the boy from high school who I had loved from the moment he'd transferred in as a junior at the end of my and Savannah's freshman year. He was a military kid whose father was stationed at Fort Dix, and I used to watch him as he walked through the halls with his head down, a white T-shirt on, and cigarettes rolled in the sleeve like James Dean, but I could never make myself speak to him. I did, however, talk about him endlessly to Gabby and Savannah. He seemed older, more experienced than all of us; he'd lived all over the country and in Panama and the Philippines, and I was just a stupid freshman. I was pretty sure Brady Irons never even knew I existed, and still I found myself shutting my car door and calling out his name.

“Brady!” I yelled.

He turned toward me, and I walked quickly to him. I could feel my thighs rubbing together as I went.

“Hey.” I was out of breath. “Brady, right?” He nodded, and there was no doubt it was him. He still had the same slicked-back hair and slightly uneven gait. Now he stood staring at me, not speaking. I could only imagine what he was thinking. It probably wasn't every day a fat girl charged him in a prison parking lot.

“I'm Cady Martino. Well, Cady Bernard now.”

He shifted his keys from hand to hand. I couldn't tell if he was nervous, late, or had no idea who I was.

“David Martino's sister. From Kingswood?” I knew if I'd said something about Savannah, he'd recognize me right away, but I didn't want to talk about her. It had been 5,914 days since she'd been gone, and it was still hard to speak her name.

“That's right.” He looked profoundly uncomfortable. “How're you doing?” He was holding the door handle of a baby-blue antique Ford pickup. “I was just leaving.” The prison took up the landscape behind him.

“Yeah,” I said, checking the time on my phone. I had forty minutes to get to David's house. “Me too. I don't mean to hold you up, but do you work here?” It was a ridiculous question given his attire, but I was a little desperate to keep the conversation going.

“Sure do.” He jiggled his keys. “Everything good?”

How was I supposed to answer that? “Um, sure.” And then I got it. What he really wanted to know was who I was visiting in prison. “Oh, I'm here on business.”

He let his eyes travel up and down my body, maybe trying to figure out what I might be pedaling.

“I'm a writer, doing research for my next book.” I'd forgotten how startlingly blue his eyes were.

He cracked a beautiful white-toothed smile. “I thought you called yourself a novelist.” That Brady Irons would know this shocked the hell out of me. The word
writer
made me think of a red-faced, sweaty reporter with a cigar hanging out of his mouth, pounding out stories for
The
Post
about why the Jets hadn't had a winning season in forever. But for some reason, I couldn't say
novelist
to him.

“You're on Facebook?” I asked, thinking of the
About
section of my page.

“Nope. I don't need to know when the guy next door buys new underwear. But I've been following your career.” He said this shyly, ducking his head as if unsure of himself. “It's not every day a friend from high school becomes famous.”

Friend.
If only he knew that I'd spent more than a year signing my name in cursive as
Cady Irons.

“Is your new book set in a prison?”

“It was going to be, which is why I'm here, but I need interviews with guards and inmates. There's only so much information the front desk clerk or the guy who runs the metal detector can give me.” I was rambling, but I couldn't stop. Seeing Brady Irons again after all these years made me nervous. It was like the crush had come rushing back in, or the feeling had never gone away. “Are you a guard?”
Please, please, please be a guard.

“Corrections officer.” He said it with the same disdain I did when I corrected people on my job title.
Right, you didn't call them guards
. But at least he wasn't a lunch lady.

“I really need some help.” I felt myself stepping toward him. “Can I pick your brain sometime? My agent is going to kill me if I don't get a move on.” I was doing it again. Babbling.

He spun his watch around on his wrist but didn't answer.

“Might you have time tonight? I'm going to David's house for dinner. He'd love to see you.”

I thought of my brother cooking Indian in the new fat clothes I'd bought him. He'd eaten his way out of his monogrammed oxfords and pleated pants since Emma had left him.

“That sounds great, but I volunteer at Hope's Place on Tuesday and Thursday evenings.”

“The women's shelter?”

“They have kids there too. But yes.”

“Wow. That's so nice of you.” Every year in December, I'd donate a couple of thousand dollars to the ASPCA when my accountants told me I needed to make some charitable contributions. I thought of how good that made me feel and imagined it was nothing compared to what Brady Irons did.

He shrugged off the compliment. “They feel safer with me there. I teach them self-defense and give them all my cell number in case their boyfriends and husbands find them.”

“Wow,” I said again, feeling shallow and stupid. “Can I give you my number?” As if Brady Irons, the do-gooder, were really going to call the chubby novelist from Kingswood, but I told it to him, anyway.