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Authors: Emily Liebert

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BOOK: When We Fall
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“I mean it's not happening today, so you're off the hook.” Elizabeth delivered the news without so much as a hint of gratitude that Charlotte had rearranged her day to accompany her sister to her new shrink. The new shrink that, with any luck—more like a minor miracle, actually—would be
the last in a long line of shrinks who Elizabeth had decided “didn't get her.” Or “didn't understand all that she'd been through.” Because no one could ever understand the depths of her sister's pain. No matter how hard they tried or how many degrees they had hanging on their office wall.

The thing was, Charlotte had actually been looking forward to this appointment. Sure, she'd sat alongside Elizabeth for more therapy sessions than she cared to remember, but this time she had a purpose. A goal. She'd planned to tell this counselor—psychologist, psychiatrist, whatever she was—that she needed her sister's help. That, while she understood—perhaps better than anyone else—the impact of the unthinkable tragedy Elizabeth had endured, there had to be a light at the end of the ten-year tunnel. And if there wasn't, Elizabeth had to find a way to function as a normal, or at least useful, member of society, which meant assisting Charlotte in taking care of their sick parents. She'd pilfered the last part from Charlie.

“I don't want to be off the hook. I was looking forward to meeting Dr. Lisa,” Charlotte griped, though she'd been instantly skeptical of the informal designation. In her estimation, anyone who used their first name to follow their title came off sounding more like a late-night radio-show host than a steadfast medical practitioner.

“Well, sorry.”

“So what happened?” Charlotte walked back into the bathroom to turn off the shower and to dab at the hardened mask on her face with a wet washcloth. “Did you make a new appointment?”

“Not yet. I have no way to get there,” Elizabeth mumbled.

“I don't understand.”

“What's not to understand? I. Have. No. Transportation.”

“What's wrong with the Jeep?” Just three months earlier, Charlie had succumbed to Charlotte's unremitting pleas to buy her sister a new car. Elizabeth's twenty-year-old Volkswagen, which she never washed or had serviced, had smelled like a garbage dump and had been breaking down twice a week, and Charlotte, the ever-dutiful sister, had been driving all around town picking her up.

“Nick has it.” Nick was Elizabeth's boyfriend. Her notoriously irresponsible boyfriend, whose penchant for gambling at Mohegan Sun and Foxwoods every few weeks had earned him his “winning” reputation.

“Okay, well, where's Nick's car?” Charlotte rolled her eyes in anticipation of the answer. Rather, the excuse. “Don't make me pull teeth here, Lizzy.”

“I don't know.” She was immediately defensive, as well she should be. They both knew, at this point, that it was more of an indictment than an innocuous query. “He said something about a friend borrowing it.”

“A
friend
.” Charlotte exhaled dramatically. “I see. So, what? He took your car for the foreseeable future, leaving you bound to your apartment indefinitely? That sounds like a good plan.”

“Don't start.”

“Start? You think this is the beginning? This has been going on for three years, Lizzy. It's not only your life that's inconvenienced by his crap.” Charlotte flung her muddy washcloth into the laundry basket and instinctively ran the palm of her hand over her skin to make sure it was as supple and smooth as the bottle had promised.

“Oh, I'm sorry. Did I get in the way of your regular facial or massage? Which one was it today?”

Charlotte clenched her jaw and balled her free hand into a tight fist, coaching herself to breathe in and out. In and out. She wasn't going to allow herself to be sucked into Elizabeth's vortex of misery. Again. “Let's drop it, okay? Just try to give me a little advance notice when you reschedule.”

“Fine.”

“Do you want to use the Range Rover until Nick gets his car back?”

“That would be helpful.”

“I'll pay for the cab over here.”

“Can't you come get me?”

“Lizzy . . .” Charlotte stopped herself and took another deep breath. “I'll be there in twenty minutes.”

Chapter 2

“I
can't believe how great this place looks.” Allison scooted around the kitchen's center island and knelt in front of a low cabinet so she could reorganize the piles of neatly pressed linen place mats and napkins her mother had picked up, along with “a few other necessary items,” as she'd referred to the collection of brimming shopping bags littering the already congested foyer. “Can you hand me that orange tablecloth?”

“Just a minute, sweetheart.” Her mom fluttered across the space, swooping from drawer to drawer, cupboard to cupboard, and in and out of the refrigerator so many times that Allison's ten-year-old son, Logan, had said that Grandma was making him dizzy—at which point Allison's father had suggested that “the men” take a trip to Dunkin' Donuts for a tête-à-tête. And even though Logan had no idea what that meant, anywhere Grandpa was going, he was more than happy to follow. Over the past four days, that had included three separate trips to the toy store—apparently one could
never have enough sporting equipment in suburbia—a visit to Grandpa's office followed by a tour of the hospital where he did his rounds, and countless excursions to the Wincourt Library, where “the men” would get lost in the stacks for hours, while Allison and her mother whipped the house into tip-top shape.

Allison had no expectations that either Logan or her father would help unpack and organize things. When it came to complicated brain surgery, her dad was your man. But folding T-shirts and screwing in lightbulbs were not part of his repertoire. On the other hand, Allison's mom had been making preparations for their arrival since the house had been purchased in June. They'd arrived to working telephones, a cable package with more channels than any two people could hope to watch, and a refrigerator bursting with prepared meals—lasagna, chicken casserole, beef chili, you name it.

Allison had been anticipating their move out of Manhattan for months and had been promising herself for weeks that she wouldn't let Logan be the strong one. Resilience was deeply embedded in Logan's DNA, as it had been in his dad's; in Logan's case, it was coupled with the heartbreaking circumstance of growing up without a father. How many times over the course of the past decade had Logan been the one to remind her, even when he couldn't speak, that he needed to be fed, or dressed, or read a bedtime story? And he never cried, not even as a baby. Well, not never, but rarely. All the mommies in her mommy-and-me classes had been incredulous. Allison had chalked it up to God owing her one. A dead husband and a colicky baby; now, that would have been downright cruel.

It wasn't the norm for Logan to play parent. It certainly could have been if she'd let herself be pummeled by the forceful waves of anger, depression, and fear that had submerged her more often than she cared to admit. But she'd refused to do that to her baby. Logan—or at least the promise of him—had been the lone shaft of light illuminating the dark abyss that was her life. Her life
after
. Because that's how Allison defined it. Before Jack's death and
after
. She'd thought about terminating the pregnancy for a fleeting moment, when one of the few “bus tragedy” widows she knew had done it without so much as a hint of penitence. “It's not fair to bring a child into this world without one parent and with another who can barely get out of bed in the morning.” She'd said it so matter-of-factly. As if she didn't have a choice. As if a piece of her husband hadn't been living inside her. At the time, it had seemed evocatively hollow to Allison, but her mother had been quick to point out that everyone had her own method of grieving. And that what was right for this woman didn't have to be right for her.

She barely remembered being pregnant. Nine months of doctor's appointments, an ever-expanding belly, and knowing smiles from strangers had elapsed faster than a good night's sleep, an experience that, for Allison, had perished along with Jack. She hadn't returned to their marital bed
after
. She'd slept only on the living room couch, waiting for him to walk through the front door. Until his body was recovered, there was a chance he could come home, she'd rationalized.

Eventually, Jack's body had been identified—or at least parts of it had. Allison's father had handled those details,
keeping anything remotely grizzly well concealed, while Allison's mom had tended to things like grocery shopping and making sure her pregnant daughter was maintaining as healthful a lifestyle as could be expected for a woman who'd just lost her husband.

Her parents had also facilitated her move from the one-bedroom Upper West Side apartment she'd shared with Jack—their “love nest,” he'd dubbed it upon first sight—to a bright, spacious-for-Manhattan two-bedroom on the corner of Eighty-fifth Street and Lexington Avenue. The quiet of their West Side neighborhood, which had once seemed beguilingly romantic, had suddenly become haunting. Not to mention that every inch of space had reminded her of him. She'd needed noise around her. Something to drown out the unceasing turbulence in her head.

Initially, her mom had suggested, in her gentle way, that Allison move back home, to their intimate suburban enclave forty-five minutes from the hustle and bustle of New York City. If only for a few months, a year at most. But Allison had been resolute in her decision to stay put. She'd maintained that she craved the familiarity but had deliberately left out the truth—that she was terrified to leave Jack behind.

Now, eleven years later, she was still terrified to leave him behind. But she knew she was doing it for the right reasons. To give Logan the upbringing he deserved. And to give both of them a fresh start—a long-overdue fresh start. Logan was ready. For him, their move wasn't the volatile cocktail of mixed emotions it was for her. He wasn't beset with guilt over leaving behind a father he never knew. Or tortured by a slideshow of reminiscences looping in his head. He wasn't
even mildly bummed out about forsaking the only place he'd ever called home. Thankfully, these weren't the kinds of things ten-year-old boys dwelled on and, fortunately, Allison had enough perspective to realize this. Just because Logan acted grown-up didn't mean he was. And she'd be damned if she'd burden him with her own anxiety.

Perhaps Allison was the one who wasn't ready. Perhaps she never would be, not entirely. “You have to take a leap of faith,” her mom had reminded her, although this was easier said than done, they both knew.

Still, when they'd arrived at their new home late Wednesday morning and Logan had dubbed it “the best place on earth,” Allison had been markedly relieved. Apparently, to Logan, living in Wincourt near his grandparents and having a big backyard where he could play baseball and soccer on a whim was just about as magical as the kingdom itself. Maybe she
could
put off the long-overdue Disney World vacation she'd been considering for a bit longer!

Allison had been pleased to find that she too felt immediately comfortable in their new home—a recently renovated white colonial with polished black shutters situated on a quiet side street five minutes from town. She delighted in walking through the front door into the two-story entryway bathed in sunlight, which gave way to hardwood floors with intricate inlays leading to a gourmet kitchen complete with a suspended pot rack and a walk-in pantry. The kitchen rolled effortlessly into an airy and bright great room, which overlooked the backyard, complete with a fenced-in vegetable-and-herb garden, a mahogany deck, and a stone wall ideal for displaying vibrant flowering plants. Instantly, Allison
could picture Logan playing a game of tag football with her father and their neighbors while her mother grilled burgers and dogs for the voracious crew, and she ran through the vegetable garden barefoot, plucking ingredients for a festive salad. She could also see herself lounging on a recliner, sipping her morning coffee, and enjoying a warm croissant al fresco while Logan was at school. But, above all, the most enticing feature of their outdoor spread, certainly as far as Logan was concerned, was the built-in fireplace ready for roasting marshmallows at a moment's notice.

As far as Allison was concerned, her brand-new art studio, nestled in a quiet corner on the first floor, with French doors that opened onto the patio, was reason enough to flee Manhattan. “If you love copious amounts of natural light when you paint, this is the home for you,” was what her Realtor had said before showing her the house last April. And she'd been spot-on. The original owner had been a sculptor, she'd informed Allison, who'd considered this coincidence a sort of divine providence.

Allison had also been lured by the peace and quiet, something she'd grown to covet, having been a single mom in New York City for a decade. That and the master bedroom outfitted with two custom walk-in closets and a sprawling marble master bath with double sink, extra-deep walk-in shower, and two-person Jacuzzi tub. It felt fit for royalty or, in this case, one lone queen, even though Allison knew that, compared to the other houses in Wincourt, hers was ordinary at best. It was hard to imagine that all this space was hers and Logan's, when they'd so contentedly occupied an apartment half the size for close to a decade.

She'd fallen in love with the property at first sight, before the couple living there—who'd just become pregnant with their fourth child in six years—had even put it on the market. The price tag had been heftier than expected, but thanks to the income from a few of her pricier paintings, which had sold for Valentine's Day and Mother's Day, along with the steady stream of money that Jack's parents, Nancy and Bill, funneled into her account, she could afford it. That was the thing about Nancy and Bill. Physical presence was practically impossible for them, but they were nothing if not prompt and generous when it came to providing for her and Logan. Jack had come from a notoriously wealthy—and controlling—New England family. They drank more than they ate, always with stiff upper lips. And they couldn't be counted on for more than an occasional call, reserved for major holidays and birthdays only, but when it came to assuaging their guilt via financial support, Nancy and Bill had yet to disappoint.

Logan had met them only three times, which was why—to this day—he still called them by their first names. Three times in ten years. Once when he was five months old, which arguably didn't count since he had no recollection of that encounter. Once when he was four. And then again when he was eight. Initially, Allison had felt apathetic toward their indifference when it came to Logan. Nancy and Bill had been unpleasant to deal with when Jack was alive, so not having to deal with them once he was gone had seemed like an unexpected gift. Until Allison had held her sweet son in her arms and promised to give him everything in the world, including a relationship with both sets of grandparents. Whether she liked it or not, life was no longer about her.

They'd been invited to Logan's bris but had declined, offering a friend's daughter's wedding as their excuse. They'd also been invited to every birthday party over the course of a decade, but there'd always been one reason or another—nothing of any real merit—why they simply couldn't make the arduous drive from Boston to New York to celebrate an important milestone with their one and only grandchild. “Maybe it's too hard for them to face him, since they lost Jack,” Allison's mom had suggested, acknowledging the profound physical resemblance between father and son—slightly cleft chin, empathetic brown eyes, obnoxiously flawless olive complexion—while at the same time doing what she always did: trying to see the best in everyone. Even if there was no best to be seen. “If I died, would you stop seeing Logan?” Allison had countered, knowing full well it was not only a ridiculous thing to ask but an insensitive one. “Stop seeing him? I'd adopt him!” her mom had declared, immediately adding, “And don't say things like that,” after which she'd deliberately turned the conversation to her friend Martha Horowitz's botched total hip replacement.

Allison had stopped coddling Logan a long time ago, if only when it came to Nancy and Bill, once she'd finally realized that promising they'd come visit soon was doing more damage than good, since they never showed up. If they didn't realize how sweet and special her son was and how lucky they all were to have a piece of Jack with them forever, then it was their loss.

Initially, Allison had been wary of accepting their money. She'd felt like a kept woman, hired to ease their grandson into the reality that they weren't going to show on Christmas,
despite the dozen or so shipped boxes they sent of toys, clothing, and tickets to whatever kiddie show was currently live at Madison Square Garden or Radio City Music Hall. But Allison's mother, relying on her predictable Pollyanna posture, had insisted that Nancy and Bill were doing what they could do, the best way they knew how. She'd also told Allison not to look a gift horse in the mouth—some months her paintings sold and some months they didn't, so she should be thankful for Nancy and Bill's benevolent contributions.

“Mom, the tablecloth?” Allison looked up to find her mother balancing thick chunks of juicy red tomatoes on top of a precarious heap of shaved turkey, paper-thin Swiss cheese, and crisp Romaine lettuce. “Hungry much?” She stood and walked over to the counter.

“You need to eat something.” Her mother didn't make eye contact.

“I told you I have no appetite, Mom.” Allison sat down on a barstool.

“Voilà!” Her mother added a slather of mustard and a second hearty slice of sourdough bread to her masterpiece and reached for a knife to cut the sandwich in half. “Here you go.” Allison's mother nudged the plate toward her. “You need sustenance.”

“But I'm really not—”

“Eh-eh.” Her mom wagged her index finger. “I don't want to hear it. You're already skin and bones. And I don't want what happened last time to happen again.”

BOOK: When We Fall
12.55Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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