Seeing Julia (9 page)

“Evan,” I say into the darkness. But only silence answers.
He’s not coming back.

Kimberley sighs in her sleep disturbing the early morning’s daunting stillness while I give into the grief swirling all around me.

≈ ≈

Eighteen days.
It’s December 23
^rd
. We spend the day in New Haven at the cemetery. There’s this strange consolation in being there for me, while I watch Kimberley try to handle her high-powered public relations job with
Liaison
from a cell phone. She stalks with purpose in her black stilettos along the cemetery’s stone path and gestures wildly with her hands. Since Evan’s death, she’s been running triage from Amagansett for
Liaison
, when she should really be in Manhattan or at the new office in Paris. Even I can see, from this faraway place in which I inhabit, that it’s time for everyone to return to a normal life, whatever that may be. All of us. Kimberley, Stephanie, Christian. Even Jake. Everyone has put their life and plans on hold for me.

Good girl.
The whispered memory of Evan’s voice encourages me now. I start to smile, but then, my heart lurches when I glance down at his grave. The permanent granite headstone isn’t finished, so the freshly dug grave with its faint hint of new green sod laid over the top of it looks out of place in the middle of a snow-covered landscape. I gasp for breath in the chilly air and try to get warm by waving my arms around in the stillness.

“I miss you,” I whisper at his grave and then, rearrange the white roses I’ve put there. “I miss you so much.”

I spend a few minutes more at Evan’s grave and then retrace my steps along the familiar path to my parent’s grave site and finally Bobby’s.

This haven holds all my dead loved ones. Tranquility drifts over me in just being here with them.

≈ ≈

Kimberley drives my SUV back to Amagansett, since I remain incapable of really operating heavy machinery doped up on Dr. Stevenson’s magic white pills and still plagued at unpredictable moments by this overwhelming grief that stays with me like a chronic flu. If it were possible, I most certainly have it.

The three-hour plus drive, including the car ferry, provides this fleeting sense of serenity, a carry-over from the visit to New Haven.
Who gains solace in a cemetery? That would be me.

Settling back in the passenger seat, I note the holiday lights seem to saturate the world. “What about Christmas?” I steal a glance at Kimberley.

“What do you want to do?”

“You should spend it with Gregoire. It’s time for you to return to Paris.
Liaison
isn’t going to run itself. I’m sure Gregoire’s anxious to return home.”

“Paris can wait.
Liaison
can wait, too. We should spend Christmas all together. Wherever you want to be,” she says.

A scene from last Christmas comes out of nowhere. Evan and I were in the midst of wedding plans dealing with everything from the guest list to tasting wedding cake and dinner entrees and champagne to choosing theme colors and flowers. The fitting of my crème-colored wedding dress and Evan’s black tuxedo led to an intimate evening with just the two of us. We dispensed with tradition that night and he made love to me in my bridal gown two weeks before January tenth’s big event. The memories of being that happy overwhelm me. We were overjoyed at being pregnant and starting a new life together. Now, just a year later, Evan’s gone from me forever.

“If I told you I envision a large pitcher of margaritas in my future, on Christmas Eve, drinking myself silly and then wanting to spend the entire day in bed on Christmas Day, but, I let you choose where, what would you say?”

“I’d say, sounds good. I’m there. But you choose where.”

“Amagansett,” I say. “It’s Reid’s first Christmas.”

Kimberley nods and casually wipes away a tear and stares straight ahead intent on the road ahead.

“Yes. Thought of that.”

“But, no gifts.”

She looks forlorn. “No gifts?” The only thing Kimmy likes better than sex is giving and getting gifts.

“One gift.” I give her a determined look wondering exactly what I’m going to get her, since my sphere of existence has not been to venture beyond the beach house at Amagansett, the cemetery in New Haven, my sessions with Dr. Stevenson at Lenox-Hill, or the one-time requisite appearance in Manhattan for Evan’s funeral service and wake. This last occasion conjures up a clear image of Jake Winston’s handsome face, just above mine, which practically jolts me out of my seat.
Don’t think about him.

Kimberley peers over at me curiously when she sees this, while I shrink further as if this action alone will prevent further invasions of Jake Winston’s persona.

“One gift.” The way she says this already conveys she’ll be breaking this rule. “We’ll celebrate at the beach house. Serve margaritas for Christmas cheer. Just the inner circle.”

“You, Gregoire, Steph, Christian, Reid, and me,” I say.

“Right.” She has this bemused look on her face and I already wonder what I’ve gotten myself into.

≈
≈*

I make the familiar trek over to his large office window and look out. “I just want to be lost somewhere, where no one knows me, or who I am, or who I’ve lost.”

The good doctor sits silent, perhaps in search of the right words for consolation in talking me away from this particular ledge. My propensity to fill silence takes over.

“Kimmy wants me to go with her to Paris, possibly take a position with her PR firm,
Liaison
. There’s a project in Paris she’d like me to lead for a while.”

“I know the firm,” he says. “Is that what you want to do?”

I turn back and lean against the window ledge. “It’s all … a little overwhelming … what to do. Where to live. Right now, Paris sounds pretty good.” I give him a wry glance. “The Hamilton’s are … more than a little dismayed that I’m considering leaving.”

“It’s not their decision to make.”

“Right. Doesn’t mean they don’t want to make it for me.” I have trouble hiding my resentment. “I’m not their first choice for daughter-in-law. Not sure what I am now…” I turn and proceed to draw an imagined Christmas tree on the glass. “I had Evan buried next to Elizabeth, his first wife. You would think that would have made them happy, but it’s never enough.” I shrug reaching for the semblance of nonchalance. “Elizabeth died three years ago. Of cancer.”

“How did Evan deal with Elizabeth’s death?”

“He was devastated.” I make a conscious effort to hide my anguish over Evan’s first wife by avoiding the doctor’s insightful gaze.

“How did he make you feel about
her
?”

I shoot him a please-don’t-make-me-talk-about-this look; and then, before I can stop myself, say, “I could never be Elizabeth. We both knew that.”

“So, how did it make you feel that you could never be Elizabeth?”

I hesitate with my answer, knowing it could turn the tables on a lot of things we’ve discussed here. All the pretty, trussed-up stories I’ve put together for him so far could disappear.

“Our marriage wasn’t perfect.”

There. I said it.
Just saying it out loud causes some sort of release inside. I breathe easier.

“I wasn’t perfect and neither was he. We weren’t perfect together.” In defiance, I raise my head to look over at him, awaiting his judgment, I suppose.

“I didn’t ask about the marriage. No one’s is, by the way. I asked you how it made you feel that you could never be Elizabeth.”

I shake my head at him and give him a pleading look. He just returns my gaze, imploring me to answer. With a heavy sigh I say, “Inadequate. I always wondered how much he loved me. I knew he loved me, but I was always left to wonder how much. He didn’t always tell me everything. Share everything. I wasn’t Elizabeth. And, I sensed his disappointment in discovering that.” I wince and swipe at a tear that’s escaped down my face.

Did I take truth serum or something? Stop saying these things.

Silence ensues and I struggle to keep from filling it. As a distraction, I pace the room, while he just watches me for a moment and then starts writing in his notebook.

“What did she look like?”

His question stops me in my tracks. His perceptive ways are so eerie. I’m taken aback and unable to answer for a few minutes.

Finally, I say, “long dark hair, blue-violet eyes, slender, tall, she had a Liz Taylor in Black Beauty thing going on.” Reluctance sets in.
Do I really want to put this together for him?

“Like you,” he says.

Pandora’s Box opens.
Chocolate anyone? An abundance of heartbreak. Rare happiness. Plenty of self-destruction. Take your pick. Julia’s got everything in here.

I turn and face him and incline my head in his direction. “She looked a lot like me. Or rather, I looked a lot like her. We’d been married for a few months. I was almost eight months pregnant, when I made an unscheduled trip to the beach house in Amagansett—to the house that Evan had never taken me to—and discovered something I was never meant to see.” I’m transported back to the bizarre scene. “There she was, in every room, this persona of a woman, who looked a lot like me, who had died a few years before.” I shake my head back and forth and then, look over at him.
Are you getting this? Do you know what I’m saying?

“Except my eyes are green. I’m not as tall, not as organized, not as accomplished as a gourmet chef or a very good bottle washer.” I smile at my own joke and then, it fades. “I was a close second for the real thing, a fine-enough replica, but never as good as the original.” I don’t hold back my devastation from him as I say this. I don’t have to.

Dr. Bradley Stevenson seems momentarily stunned, so stunned; he isn’t even taking notes, but just staring at me. He’s become the epitome of a man who is at a loss for words. Then he swallows, looks down at his notes, flexes his hands, and picks up his pen.
Is there an answer for me in there, somewhere, doctor?

“What happened when you discovered this house was a shrine to Elizabeth?”

My bravado fades a little and this particular memory dredges up too much pain all at once, but I recover enough to say, “I flipped out and told him he could basically fuck off.” I make a face. “Sorry for swearing.”

He inclines his head and waves his pen, the wizard’s magical wand, indicating I should continue.

“Where was I? Oh yes. The Elizabeth discovery. Telling him he could fuck off. Yes, Dr. Bradley Stephenson, I was a mess.” I sound like Stephanie must when she’s reading a story to her kindergartners and then this happened and he said this and I said that. The pain begins to bubble up from deep inside. “I thought we had this perfect life. We had this huge fight about it. He left.”
Breathe
. I attempt to smile, but falter. “For a while.”