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“I’m retarded,” he suddenly cried. A dark stain bled its way down to his legs. “Why . . . am I . . . retarded?”

Claire snatched the cup from his lap and, gathering wads of tissue, pressed them onto his sweatpants, dabbing at the wet stain, her voice caught somewhere between her throat and her shock. Wiping her eyes, she bent over him and rested her cheek on his temple. His skin was warm and sticky. “Nicky, don’t ever think that. You’re not retarded,” she declared. “You had an accident with some drugs, which caused a blood vessel in your brain to burst. And it’s made things difficult for you, just like Dr. Adamson has explained. Remember?” she anxiously added. “But you’re recovering now. You are
not
retarded.”

Nick stared at her, his face reddening with anger or possibly a struggle to parse her words. Or exhaustion. “Leave me . . . alone,” he said, rolling away from her and looking out the window. “It’s not true. None of that’s . . . true.”

She gazed helplessly at the muted TV screen and reiterated the doctor’s explanation of brain injury and how it can make some memories difficult to access, how his brain had to heal and pathways had to regenerate—careful to balance Dr. Adamson’s optimism for an excellent recovery with his mantra of “no certainties.”

After what seemed like minutes of nonresponsiveness, Nick suddenly blurted, “Taylor.”

“What, honey?”

“Who’s Taylor?” he demanded, turning back to face Claire.

“I’m not sure who you’re talking about, Nicky. Is that another patient here?”

Nicholas squeezed his eyebrows together, looking even more frustrated and perplexed than he had just moments before. “No,” he shouted. “Tay-lor.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know who that is,” Claire said, trying to remember the names of some of the boys from Nick’s dorm or on his lacrosse and hockey teams, and thinking that the name did ring some vague bell. “What made you think of Taylor?”

“I don’t know,” he said, his cheeks flushing again. “Just . . . I don’t know.” He rolled back toward the wall and pulled the sheet tentlike over his head. “I’m tired. Never mind.”

The staff psychologist had also cautioned Claire about memories resurfacing in random order like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, and about the amount of details Nicholas could process. And with traumatic brain injury, there was also that distinct possibility that he might never be able to fully recall certain people or comprehend the events leading up to his overdose. Amnesia as a coping mechanism. As Claire bent down and kissed the back of Nicky’s head, she prayed that he might somehow be okay without
all
of the details and missing pieces. And she felt immediately ashamed.

 

Michael’s coping mechanisms, however, were another story. “I just can’t see him like this,” he told her over the phone that evening. “And I can’t see you. Not now.”

“He needs you, Michael. I know it’s hard, but we
both
need you,” Claire said evenly. “And you just can’t disappear when things are difficult or not up to your standards.”

“Nicholas wouldn’t be in this mess if”—he paused and exhaled a doleful-sounding breath—“if you’d thought about how much you needed me before hopping into bed with that pissant.”

Claire slid into a chair, astonished by the raw, uncorked emotion in his voice—an articulation that finally revealed just how deeply her betrayal had wounded him. Not just Nicholas, but
him
. And in that knowledge she found unexpected comfort. It was evidence of his lingering love for her, which, until that moment, he had hidden so well behind his detachment and strange behavior. She allowed herself a slight smile. Now all she needed was an opportunity to make things right, a second chance.

“We have a lot to work out, you and I,” she said, feeling ham-fisted and uncertain. “Clearly. And I don’t know how many times I can tell you how much I wish I could change the past, that I want to fix this. I’ll do whatever it takes, Michael. Anything. But we have our son to take care of now. And you just can’t opt out of the hard stuff. You can’t just bail like that.”

“God damn it, Claire, stop telling me what I can’t do. I’ll call Nick now, and I
will
go back to see him . . . later.”

“But—”

“And I’ll get updates on his progress from the doctors. But this isn’t working.”

“Michael?”

Silence.

Claire closed her eyes. She felt like she had stood at this precipice a hundred times before. When business deals became treacherous and convoluted, Michael was the first to jump in and get his hands dirty in the untangling, but when it came to difficult situations with an
emotional
price tag, it was full head-in-the-sand ostrich mode.
If we ignore our personal problems, they will go away.
Generations of Montgomerys had soldiered dysfunctionally onward with this motto. And so, apparently, had they.

“So you’re just giving up?” she pushed, “because it’s too painful? We have a history, Michael. A family that’s worth fighting for.”

“I’m not giving up on Nicholas. And I wish we
could
change the past. More than you know. More than anything.” His voice broke—pressed, it seemed, between the rock and hard place of the situation.

“What about us, then? I think we—”

“Us? There is no us now.” He clicked off.

Claire dropped her cell phone onto the floor. The little I-told-you-so she’d tried to banish from her consciousness, the desire to fight and the desire to curl up and cry rivers—they all bunched up inside of her.

Her heart ached. It was the same terrifying ache of uncertainty she felt those first few weeks in the hospital with Nick. Seemingly in an instant, though really it was a series of instants over eighteen happy, lonely, good and not so good years—all the shades of gray that constitute a marriage—it was done. Claire was incredulous that it could come to this without regard for any of the brightness. Because there
had been
brightness, she reminded herself. She thought of earthquakes and rubble. Of dusty piles of blissful moments frozen in picture frames, and jagged shards of fresh pain. The still-live currents of sizzling emotion, and the dull whiteness of so much fossilized anger and regret. She scanned the walls of her apartment. The wreckage was everywhere, and nowhere.

But then from beneath the fallout she imagined a noise, too. The cry of something wounded yet still alive, and in her mind’s eye she saw light. On and off it flickered like failing neon. Claire imagined digging her hands into the fallout, knowing if she could only reach it, she could save them. But might she be messing with the painful, natural order of things? The question weighed on her—breathe new life into something and give it a shot at survival, or walk away and let it sputter and fade to black? There were never any guarantees, no reliable odds. She heard the noise again, its pull so magnetic and strong, its history so much a part of her.

C
HAPTER
16

C
laire took off her clothes and threw them at the bedroom dresser, knocking over a lone bottle of perfume. A police siren wailed outside the window. She got into bed. Then she crawled back out and put the clothes in the hamper.

Lying in the semidarkness, she tried to assign significance to the faint patterns of streetlight and shadow on the walls. The curved silhouette of a rotund Henry Moore nude. The maroon and black portals of Rothko’s Seagram panels. Rodin’s
The Kiss. The Gates of Hell. Sometimes we see just what we want to see.
The words were Jackie’s, just before they’d hung up from their nightly phone call. Claire closed her eyes. The room smelled of musty paper and loneliness. She rolled over, longing for something more fragrant. Those perfumed yesterdays, Cora would say. Those perfumed yesterdays that steal your troubles away.

She opened one eye. The damask print on the bedspread shimmered in the moonlight. She opened the other and ran her hands along the fabric, feeling a shiver as images and memories leapt out at her like ghosts. She dug herself deep into the covers, thinking of her wedding day, and the cold chill she had felt as she stood in front of the mirror in her suite at the San Francisco Fairmont. The walls, she remembered, were covered in shiny pink-and-green damask and bathed in soft light.

Inside the Bridal Suite, Claire steadied her clammy hands on the vanity and stared at her reflection with vague detachment. Then, moving her hands down her lace bustier to her thighs, she began to sway her hips. She danced slowly, sensually. Michael had had the lingerie sent from La Perla and delivered with her orange juice and coffee that morning.
Dreaming of you in this—see you at six,
the card read. A fit of cold perspiration seized her. She picked up the note card and read it again, looked for more evidence of their perfect union in the blue ink.

Claire moved closer to the mirror and loosened the stays of her bustier, trying to admire the intricate lace detailing. Maybe she should call Michael for a pre-wedding peek. Some reassurance. Anything to blot out the crazy nightmare that had awoken her before the sun, with its surreal images of Michael dancing away from her, ignoring her pleas for him to come back, to take her in his arms and not run.

With a mother’s timing, Cora swept into the suite, a vision in pink chiffon. The menthol scent of cigarettes lurked just beneath a cloud of Norell. “Aren’t these shoulder pads terrific,” she said, eyeing herself in the mirror from behind Claire. “I feel like Joan Collins—very
Dynasty.
And I just love what your gal did with my hair.” Her short platinum bob was teased and curled to its biggest and highest glory, orange silk flowers sprouting from behind her ears. “What do you think, honey? Très chic, no?”

“You look great, Mother,” Claire said softly.

Cora placed her hands on her daughter’s shoulders and looked closely at Claire for the first time since she entered the room. “And you look pale, honey. Let’s put some makeup on you.” She reached for Claire’s cosmetic bag on the vanity, and began to apply powder to her own nose. “Didn’t you sleep last night? That was quite a rehearsal dinner. I probably had a few too many glasses of champagne, but this only happens once, and I’m so proud and excited for you.” She stopped to catch her breath.

“Actually, I had diarrhea all night after I came back.”

Cora frowned. “Maybe it was that rich butter sauce. I’ll call and have them send up something for your stomach.”

“Don’t bother, there’s nothing left in there. I’m empty. And I had this horrible dream.” Claire crossed her arms over her chest and could feel the perspiration inching its way across the fold of her breasts.

“Honey, that’s perfectly normal. All brides are nervous; it’s the biggest day of our lives. I was so panicked about my wedding night with Daddy, but I don’t imagine you and Michael have to worry about that.” She gave Claire an exaggerated wink. “Really, dear, don’t get yourself so worked up over it. It will all be beautiful.” She kissed Claire on her cheek and then pinched them both for color.

“Mother, did you ever wonder if you were doing the right thing. I mean, when you were getting ready to marry Dad?” Claire looked down into her lap.

“Nope. I knew he was the man for me, just like I know Michael’s the man for you. You two are perfect together. Two peas in a very elegant pod.”

“Yes, but I had this crazy—”

“You’re marrying for all the right reasons, Claire. Security. Shared interests. I certainly don’t know of another man who would spend as much time in a museum with you, or at the theater or jogging in the park. And he seems to positively bask in the light of your approval and admiration. Then”—she held up her fourth finger—“there’s his family. They really do adore you, honey. And to marry into a family like that, well, the opportunities you’ll have are beyond what I had ever dreamed.” Cora took a deep breath, readying for her finish. “And of course, there’s love, Claire. You two love each other. So I’d say you have quite a few wonderful reasons to marry Michael Montgomery, wouldn’t you?” She placed her hands on Claire’s shoulders and began rubbing. “Sometimes you just have to massage things a bit.”

Claire smiled wanly as Cora’s fingers worked to relax her apprehension about Michael and his occasional glimmers of—she wasn’t sure what to call it—overachiever burnout, angst? He had confided toward the end of a recent and otherwise animated night of mai tais at the Tonga Room about feeling the constant weight of his family’s expectations and standards, along with his own. And how this would sometimes make him want to just blow it all up and bolt, when he wasn’t Type A-ing his way to a major payoff on some deal. He was a relentless striver, a collector of accomplishments. But none of that seemed to make up for some haunting, unshakable failure he refused to name. The bar’s theatrical thunderstorms underscored the drunk, desperate quality of his eyes as Claire assured him that he’d already surpassed the vast majority of the population with his many triumphs, and that she was so proud of him. Then she confided her own secret fear about living a life of ordinariness. “When my life flashes in front of my eyes,” she had told him, her hands enclosing his balled fists, “I want it to be something authentic and worth watching.” The next morning, hungover and laughing at the tiki umbrellas on the nightstand, they had sworn to cut a mutually fulfilling swath through life.

Now as Claire sat at the threshold of that life, she was having a minor panic attack about her future partner. Or maybe, she tried hard to rationalize, it was just the dichotomy between their two families that had brought on the nightmare, and not some veiled fear that she and Michael wouldn’t be happy together. His parents were the very portrait of urbanity and culture in their East Coast sensibilities—in sharp contrast to her very salt-of-the-earth father. And peppery mother. Cora worked her way up Claire’s neck, and she began to relax slightly. Maybe it wasn’t Michael at all. Claire looked into the mirror at her mother and thought of the loud Norma Kamali number Cora had chosen for the rehearsal dinner, even louder alongside the quietly refined clothing of Margot Montgomery and her friends. It was Bill Blass versus the Macy’s White Flower Day sale. Claire closed her eyes, trying to wrap her mind around the idea of another mother in her life.

“Paul and I are thrilled you’ll be joining the family,” Margot had said the night before in a voice that sounded three Dubonnet-and-sodas in, after all the toasts had been made. There, at the Top of the Mark and overlooking the sparkling city, she welcomed Claire into the fold in her own special way. “My dear, you’re about to become a Montgomery. And as your mother-in-law to-be, I’d like to share a little secret with you.” Margot slipped her arm around the tightly cinched waist of Claire’s cocktail suit. “Relationships aren’t always as pretty on the inside as they are on the outside,” she slurred. “But we smile, because nothing ever truly is, darling, is it?” Margot smiled serenely in the direction of her husband, and then sharply turned her back on him. And in that gesture, Claire saw an entire marital history. “Your suit is gorgeous, as are you. And we are so happy that you will be at Michael’s side now.” She ran her palm across Claire’s smooth cheek and looked into her eyes. “Lips up, darling,” she said as she walked off to the bar.

Claire opened her eyes and stood. She made her way over to the window and pressed her forehead against the cool glass.

“Dear?” Cora whispered.

She gazed out at the bay and splayed her arms across the window like Dustin Hoffman in
The Graduate.
Margot was of a different generation, a different set, where marriages were permanent contracts in spite of the occasional dalliance or marked depreciation in affection. And Michael had made it clear that his parents’ relationship was not one that he wanted to emulate. Claire turned her cheek and looked back at her mother, took in her pleading eyes and excited hands. Cora was Cora, all bottled-up hope and ambition for her daughters—Mama Rose with orange lilies in her hair. Pressing her body tighter against the chill of the window, Claire boxed away Margot’s steely piece of advice along with Cora’s dreams of vicarious privilege,
and
the silly nightmare. She wanted to be Michael’s wife. Absolutely, she did.

“You’re right, Mother,” Claire said, peeling herself off the window. “I was just being the clichéd nervous bride.” She checked the clock on the nightstand. “I’d better get moving.” She walked back to the vanity table. “Would you help me with the dress?”

“Sweetheart, this is the moment I’ve been waiting for all your life. I’m so happy for you.”

 

Claire got out of bed and looked into the dark mirror over her dresser. Her wedding—one of the most glorious days for a young girl raised on the fairy tale of a happy ending—and her strongest memories were of a nightmare and the nervous hours preceding the ceremony. She walked naked into her kitchen for a glass of water to wash away the bad taste in her mouth.

When she returned to the bedroom, she wondered what was really true in her life. Michael was running from her now, just as he had in the nightmare. Of course she had pushed him. And yet. Did intuition reside in a dream or a nervous gut?
Could that have been my one true moment? While all of these years have been . . . what? An accident of choice?
Claire glanced at her bed. A hunched silhouette with dark, gaping sockets on his face hung in the shadows above the headboard.
Blind Man’s Meal,
she whispered into the darkness. She moved to the window and closed the mini-blinds, shutting out the Picasso patterns on the wall so they wouldn’t plague her sleep.

And as she pressed her cheek to the pillow and drifted off, the name
Taylor
occupied her dreams instead.