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“Definitely Jackie,” she repeated.

“Well, then I’d say that there’s nothing unusual about your resignation.”

“Huh?”

“You’re not going to lose your best friend, are you?”

She propped herself up against two pillows, contemplating the significance of his question, and her response. “I was thinking more in terms of, you know,
friends,
but—”

“Look, when I realized that Judy wasn’t the answer to that question for me,” he continued, “I was finally able to see that she was right about ending things. Because, really, shouldn’t we hold our best friends closest and not do anything to screw them over? Shouldn’t we
care
most about them? I just read somewhere that infidelity doesn’t kill a relationship. Indifference does.”

“Mm-hmm.” Claire knew instinctively that she never could have hurt or been indifferent to her sister. She also knew—or at least wanted to believe—that Michael had once been the answer to that question for her. She recollected how enthusiastically he would trumpet her achievements at Sotheby’s and her early fundraising projects, how he once actually looked forward to being her “plus one” at those events, and how he used to seek her impressions of potential investors he’d introduced her to. And how with every decision
she
weighed, Michael had been her first consideration. But those days were ancient history. She drew her knees up to her chest and hugged them tightly. The foggy nightmare of the last seven months, while no less heartrending, was starting to seem a little less illogical in terms of the whys and wherefores of her actions.

“Okay, I can hear your eyes rolling back into your head, Smitty. But sometimes a mulligan isn’t the right thing. You know?”

“I guess I do now,” she sighed, considering all the things she
didn’t
know or innately feel about her husband, and the probable laundry list of things she didn’t know that she didn’t know. So much had fallen away when it came to the man she should
get
better than anyone. She closed her eyes and tried to visualize a Michael Top 10 list. Squeezing them tighter and trying to push his Best Ofs into sight, she landed on Happiest Day, which she assumed was Nick’s birth. But like too many other things, she was no longer certain. She swallowed slowly, acknowledging the strange truth that her husband, with whom she had shared a hundred magic moments, had become a mystery to her.

“You okay?”

“What’s your favorite song, Richard?” she asked.

“Easy. Stones, ‘You Can’t Always Get What You Want.’ ”

Of course it was. She would have guessed that, if pressed. She also knew that Richard preferred peanut butter to chocolate chip, Mexican to sushi, ellipses to dashes. Inconsequential details, but they made her wonder when she and Michael had stopped noticing their details. “I suppose that should be mine, too,” she said, looking out the bedroom window. A full white moon lit the sky, and Claire experienced a fleeting swell of melancholy. “We’d have these moon moments when he was traveling, Michael and I,” she said, talking more to the memory than to Richard. “He’d call me from Hong Kong, or wherever he happened to be, and we’d describe the moon. It was . . . reassuring.”

“I know it’s hard to let go of all that, Smitty. But when your roof seems to be crumbling around you—and I don’t mean to sound cheesy—sometimes, for the first time, you can really see the stars.”

Though Richard had said the words solemnly and with the insight and candor she had come to admire about him, Claire burst out laughing at the absurdity that yet another greeting card adage could be apropos of her circumstances. She truly had become a cliché. “Well, I hope I can at some point,” she said, stifling a snicker.

“As long as I’m entertaining you, let me add this gem to the cheese platter: Falling in love is like falling off a building. It doesn’t hurt till the end.”

“Thank you, oh, Great Cheese Whiz. You are truly wise and witty, and I’m sorry for acting like a five-year-old.”

“You know,” he said, not sounding the least bit offended, “I’ve been thinking that I could use a little time on the slopes. Maybe I’ll head out to Vail next week, and swing through Denver. Can you spare an afternoon for lunch?” Jagger howled mournfully over his words.

“I think your friend will miss you.”

“No, he just needs a W-A-L-K.”

“And I need sleep,” Claire said, feeling relaxed and comforted by their easy rapport. “Call me when you’re coming, and I’ll take you to my favorite Mexican joint.”

C
HAPTER
35

“L
et’s go,” Nicholas said to Claire as he and Ray greeted her at the house the next morning. His voice was ebullient, his energy buzzing, and he was fully dressed with the hood of the new hoodie pulled up around his head and framing his eager smile.

“We talked about some of the folks he’ll be meeting at Craig today, and he’s pretty psyched about getting started on his new program,” Ray told her with a hesitant look.

“I need to catch up on classes . . . senior classes,” Nick said. “And then maybe my Stanford application. And APs.”

“Hold up there, Flash. Remember, you’ll be doing evaluations today so they can set up your training program,” Ray said in a calming voice. “The tutor and schoolwork will come a little later.”

“I want to start now. Dad mentioned getting a . . . college coach.”

“We can talk to your patient counselor about all of your goals,” Claire said.

Nick shuffled past them out the front door toward Claire’s car. “College. That’s my goal.”

Before the accident, Nicholas had been on track to have excellent chances for admission to most any school, with his high ACT scores, strong grades, and distinctions in varsity sports and art. But now that an entire semester had passed, along with college deadlines, never mind the study skills he’d have to relearn and all the deficits he still faced, it wasn’t likely he could make up five months of school work, much less get any applications in, Claire knew. Then again, she didn’t know what his team
could
help him accomplish now. Maybe the fervency of his desire to get up to speed academically would get him through all the sessions with the speech and occupational therapists. If college
was
his new motivation—and not just her own secret desire for him to have a normal future—then why not do everything in her power to help him play catch up?

“I think he sees academic improvement as a more manageable goal than overcoming some of his physical limitations,” Ray said softly. “Focusing on the cognitive stuff for a while is fine, but college next fall is pushing it.”

“But it’s possible, isn’t it?”

“Ingrained academic skills are already in the memory bank. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

The morning was still cold, and Nicholas cranked up the heat inside the car. “Chazz applied early . . . decision at Penn and got in, and Brice is going to Co . . . lumbia,” he said with undisguised envy as they pulled out of the driveway.

Claire was surprised to hear Nick bring up the friends he’d been doing his very best to avoid. “Did you talk to them?” she asked.

“Facebook.”

“Good for them.” She looked over to see him biting his lip. “Did you respond?”

“I will. Soon.” He pressed his hooded cheek against the window and stared at the oncoming traffic.

Claire understood that no amount of art or speech therapy would make Nick’s lack of relatable, “post-able” accomplishments any less agonizing. In the world of competitive teenagers with type-A parents, it was hard to compare graduation from inpatient to outpatient therapy, to an acceptance to the Ivy League in a Facebook posting. And no amount of arnica would make that psychic bruise heal any faster.

“You’ll get there, Nicky, and—”

“I know. I just want to get . . . moving forward.”

Sherry, the new social worker, greeted them inside Craig’s skylit waiting area and it was off to the races. They chatted about Nick’s desire to focus on a school reentry plan, with the aim of finishing out his senior year locally. There were meetings with recreational, speech, and physical therapists, and in the afternoon, Nick underwent the various functional evaluations that would provide “real life” assessments of his strengths and limitations. And as he pushed through them all, his silent resolve impressed everyone. By the end of the day, with a “nothing’s going to stop me” expression of intensity, Nick had established his own new approach. Sherry, who brimmed with all the confidence-building enthusiasm Claire had hoped for, reminded Claire that, like an adrenaline filled come-from-behind victory, today’s show wasn’t a sustainable high for Nick. There would still be down days, a need to temper expectations. Claire didn’t need reminding, but she saw no reason not to celebrate his commitment.

“How about an early dinner at the club?” she asked as they left the facility. “I think a steak’s in order after all that hard work.”

“Cool,” he said with a nod. He stretched and exercised the fingers of his left hand. “But I don’t need to be in a . . . hospital anymore.”

“You’re not, Nicky. The team there is just going to help you get to the best place you can.”

“I don’t want to keep doing step-ups and chest presses . . . and balance exercises. It’s not like that will college—get me into college.” The tone of his voice took on a familiar edge. “It’s not like lacrosse is going to happen again. Ever.”

When they pulled into the country club parking lot, she noticed lights on in the skate house and activity on the rink. She tried to distract Nick from the peewee hockey team on the ice, taking his hand in hers over the armrest. But he pulled away and opened the car door, stretching himself onto the pavement. She could see his face fighting to regain a neutral expression as they walked up the steps to the main entrance.

Inside the dining room Claire scanned the smattering of occupied tables for familiar faces. It was early, and only a few elderly couples were enjoying their evening cocktails. She hoped she and Nick could be done before the rush of hockey families. The maître d’ emerged from the kitchen, and Claire waved to him. He seemed to hesitate for a second before approaching them.

“Good evening, Mrs. Montgomery,” he said, guiding her away from Nicholas and toward the reservations desk. “May I have a word?”

“Of course, Eddie. How are you?”

He lowered his eyes and pulled a piece of paper from a leather folder. “I regret to have to say this, but your account is in arrears and we can’t allow you to dine until this has been taken care of.” He handed her a list of members not in good standing due to unpaid charges, and second from the top was Michael Montgomery. “I’ve tried to reach your husband about the matter, but I’ve, uh, not had any success. I’m so sorry, Mrs. Montgomery, I don’t want to turn you and your son away, but my hands are tied. Club policy.” He looked as mortified as she felt.

Claire faltered slightly, before placing her hand on his arm. “No, no, Eddie, I understand,” she said softly, folding the memo in half and handing it back to him. “It isn’t your fault. I’m sure there’s been some miscommunication. We’ll just straighten this out at home.”

Lack of lunch, combined with the ever-unfolding series of strange events, left Claire with a sense of hallucinatory wooziness. She didn’t understand what this latest surprise meant or how she should handle it, other than to tell Nick that the dining room was reserved for a private party and they could go to Larkburger instead. So she let the Nuggets basketball game on the radio fill the space between them during the drive and just focused on the present, got them to the restaurant, parked the car, and ordered food at the counter and sat down with her son.

“Mom, everyone keeps telling me I had this . . . this drug overdose,” Nicholas said, putting down his cheeseburger and making air quotations around the words that continued to confound him. “But I’m fine. I don’t need all these . . . people.”

And here we go again.
“Yes, Nicky, you
did
have an overdose. You snorted some cocaine, you had a brain hemorrhage, and you
do
need these people to help you get better. These people are going to help you get to college. We’ve talked about this with Dr. Adamson, and with Sherry,” Claire said in an overwrought voice. “Honey, you have to—”

Nicholas pushed his chair back and swept his food onto the floor. “No,” he shouted. “It’s not true. I don’t remember any . . . of that.”

Claire cupped her shaking hands over her face. “Oh my God, Nicky, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have—” Snapping back to time and place, she looked up to see that he was already rushing out the door and into the parking lot. She chased after him, ignoring the stares of the other customers.

Claire found him pacing around the car and blocked him, containing his quaking body in her arms. She could feel his heat and his heart racing against her shoulder, and they nearly fell against the hood with his weight. She balanced her foot on the tire and held him tightly, whispering into his chest. “I know this is still hard to believe or understand. And because of the way our brains work, it may never make sense to you. It was a terrible night, Nicky.” She looked into his flushed face. “The most frightening night of my life. But you came through it, thank God, and I will do everything I can to help you get better.” She stopped to catch her breath and wipe her eyes.

“Why?” he asked, his body relaxing slightly.

“Because you’re the most important thing in the world to me, and I want you to heal and finish school and do everything you want with your life.”

“No.” His eyes bore into her. “Why did I . . . overdose?”

She fell back against the Jeep. “I—uh—there was someone,” she said, her throat catching, her fingers grasping the hood like some tenuous ledge. “A person who came to the house, and he had some cocaine with him. I don’t know why he would have brought it, and it must have fallen out of his pocket. And you found it,” she went on, hearing the Valium-like lethargy in her own voice. “It was all a terrible mistake. I never should have allowed him to—”

“Who?” he asked, looking desperate and confused. “Was it . . . Taylor?”

Claire shielded her eyes from the headlights of an approaching car. “No, Nicky, I don’t know who Taylor is. It was someone you don’t know. It was . . . no one,” she choked. “All that matters is that you came through and you’re getting better.”

“I don’t get this,” he said, balling his fists. “Why I can’t . . . remember?” He backed away and opened the passenger door. “I just want to go home.”

“Nicky,” she said, meeting him inside the car, “we’re going to get through this. I don’t know exactly what will happen with . . . everything, but you’ll get there. We’ll get there.”

“Yeah.” He pulled the hood down over his face. “Right.”

Looking up to the moon, Claire searched for that old convincing fiction that everything really could be fine.

 

Michael had been delayed for about an hour according to Berna, who was standing sentry in the kitchen when they returned to the house. The counters were spotless, but his ever-efficient capo continued to wipe them in spite of Claire’s insistence that she would wait for Michael with Nicholas. Berna then began to clean out the refrigerator, checking expiration dates on yogurt and milk cartons, and arranging them like soldiers in rank order. The woman clearly had instructions, and Claire clearly didn’t have the authority to override them. She gazed slack-jawed around her kitchen, deciding it wasn’t big enough for the two of them.

“Nick, do you want to play some checkers in the study?” she asked, hoping this would have the relaxing effect on him it usually did.

He shook his head. “I’m going to bed.”

Claire followed him into his room. They both sat—he at his desk, and she on the bed—with the dog-tired relief of boot campers at lights-out. She wanted to close her eyes and fall asleep right there, but she watched Nick log into Facebook on his computer. He stared at the screen and, as before, skimmed the keyboard but didn’t type anything.

“Can I help?” she asked cautiously.

“I don’t know what I want to—” Nicholas said before abruptly powering off the computer. “No. Just . . . leave me alone. I’m tired of talking.” He didn’t turn around when she put her hands on his shoulders, wouldn’t look at her when she tried to turn his chin toward her.

“It’s been a long day. And I’m sorry for being short. But anytime you do want to talk, Nicky,” she said open-endedly, trying to imagine what was really going through his mind, what he was processing, and what his brain was purposefully keeping in the shadows. “I’ll be back tomorrow, and we’ll think of something fun to do.”

“I’m going to the mall with Ray to work on some . . . stuff,” he said, taking off his sweatshirt.

Ray had mentioned to Claire that they would be doing an outing where he would observe Nick’s ability to perform certain tasks and behave appropriately in a public setting. The idea left Claire queasier than she already had been, given the last hour. But she reminded herself that they’d likely be dealing with Nick’s confusion, disbelief, and outbursts for a good long while. Like their own shadow-filled Groundhog Day.

“Okay, buddy. Why don’t you brush your teeth and we can check your blood—”

“I know . . . what to do. I’m taking a shower,” he snapped, leaving the room and heading for the bathroom. He dragged his hand against the wall for balance.