The Other Life (15 page)

Eugene’s TV talk show was on cable. Network television had always seemed like a dream just outside his reach.

“That’s fantastic,” she said.

“Network! Fuck me!”

“Eugene, this is
good
news. You should be thrilled.”

He whirled around to face her, as if she couldn’t possibly understand his point if she wasn’t looking straight into his eyes. “It’s lose-lose. If I don’t get it, I’m the laughingstock of the industry. Everyone will know I’m the schmuck who was passed over. And if I do get it and my ratings suck, it’s total public humiliation.”

This was just like Eugene. He always processed good news as apocalyptic. He just couldn’t accept that something wonderful could happen to him.

“Take a deep breath and consider one more possibility,” she said. “You could actually get it and do well.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t have what it takes to succeed in network TV. I’m not mainstream enough.”

“That’s why they want you. Late night is edgy. You’re perfect.”

He didn’t respond. Quinn folded her arms and watched Eugene pace. He was in a frenzy and locked shut against letting in a single ray of light.

“When will you know for sure?” she asked.

“Not for a few weeks—after we get back from Fiji. How am I supposed to enjoy this vacation now? I’ll be worried the whole time.”

“You’ll be worried the first day. Then you’ll unwind. The beach does that to you, remember? Once we’re out of the city, all this stress melts away. We’ll just enjoy the sun and the ocean. We’ll have slow meals and long walks. It’ll be wonderful. Sit down.”

He did as she said, and Quinn began rubbing his neck and shoulders. As she kneaded the knots in his muscles, she considered how familiar it felt to be massaging him like this. At the same time, she was glad it was the kind of touching that lacked intimacy. She didn’t want to risk feeling the stirrings of desire. Complete strangers could work on the kinks in your neck without any of the sexual connection of lovers. It was almost clinical.

As she worked, Quinn pictured what she knew about the exotic beauty of the Fiji Islands. She imagined the warm sun and the blue Pacific, palm trees and lush hillsides, waterfalls and rain forests. She started to wonder if the relaxed pace and soothing scenery were just what she needed as well. The idea of paradise was almost unbearably tempting.

Quinn rubbed her thumbs into the sides of his neck as she looked out the window at their view of Central Park. Eugene had accomplished so much and yet rarely seemed proud. Deep down, he had to know he was talented and that few people achieved what he had. All this anxiety, she thought, was the result of some foolish idea that if he admitted to believing in himself he would lose it all. Cynicism was his talisman, the charm that would ward off evil.

“You’re allowed to feel happy about this,” she said. “Nothing bad will happen.”

He pulled away from her and stood. “Give me a fucking break.”

“Eugene—”

“Don’t psychoanalyze me, okay? Even my therapist admits that I’m too fucked up for that.”

“I’m just trying to calm you down.”

“Then don’t tell me this is good news!” he said, getting angrier. “This is a potential disaster. You should know that by now, Quinn!”

“Don’t yell at me!” It wasn’t the first time she’d said that to Eugene. But it felt different now. It felt . . . justified. She didn’t deserve to be yelled at. She wondered then if being married to Lewis all these years had actually broken down her defenses and convinced her she deserved to be treated with kindness.

Eugene stopped pacing and looked at her. His face softened. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t mean to take this out on you.”

“I know.”

He hugged her. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he whispered.

She relaxed into the familiarity of his body. He was taller than Lewis, but still thinner, despite his personal trainer. And his embrace was entirely different. It was tighter, more desperate. She remembered the passion of making love with him, how the greedy heat in his eyes aroused her. She pushed him away.

“I wish I could help you,” she said, “but I can’t. I can’t make you happy. You’re just too stubborn about your misery.”

“You keep me from falling apart.”

“Is that enough?”

“It’s almost enough.” He kissed her neck, untied her robe, and opened it.

For a moment, she hesitated. It was so familiar, so tempting. And her body was still on high alert, as it had been only a few hours since she and Lewis had groped each other in breathless passion, only to be interrupted by Isaac. Her nerve endings were awake and hungry. She wanted to be touched.

Eugene ran his hand down her smooth back and grabbed her behind. She was about to push herself into him when she recalled her conversation with Georgette.
I would never cheat on my husband,
she had said.

Quinn pulled away. “Damn it, Eugene!” She closed her robe and tied it tight.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“I . . . nothing.”

He took a step toward her. “Come here,” he said, even though they were barely an inch apart.

“I didn’t finish my bath.”

He tugged at her robe again, smiling. “I’ll take you dirty.”

“Stop!”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re hot when you’re hard to get,” he said, and slipped his hand inside her robe again. He grabbed her naked breast.

She pushed him away. “I mean it, Eugene.”

“I have a hard-on and I didn’t even take anything.”

Quinn ran into the bathroom, slammed the door, and locked it. Eugene jiggled the handle.

“Let me in,” he said.

“Go away.”

“I’ll wash your back.”

The tub was still filled and Quinn tested the temperature with her fingers. It had gone chilly, which she knew was critical for her journey. She lowered herself into it and closed her eyes, praying she’d be pulled back quickly. It was cold. So cold. And she could still hear Eugene pounding on the door. Finally she felt herself being pushed into that other space, and the last thing she heard before the journey went silent was his muffled voice.

“I need you, Quinn!”

 

 

WHEN SHE EMERGED back in her basement, naked, shivering, and scraped down both sides of her torso, the phone was ringing and someone was alternately knocking on the front door and pressing the bell. She froze for a moment, not sure what to do first. She picked up her clothes and dressed as fast as she could, then answered the phone.

“Is this Quinn Braverman?” said the caller.

“Yes.”

“I’m calling from Cowitt Alarms. You’re listed as the emergency contact for the Gilbert residence at Sixteen Laurel Drive.”

Oh, God. Her parents’ address. The pounding on her front door continued. She tucked the phone under her chin and ran up the stairs as she continued the conversation.

“Is there a problem?” she asked.

“There was a security breach on the premises. The back door. We notified the precinct, and the police are already at the location.”

“Is the house okay? Was anything taken?” She looked through the peephole on her front door. It was Georgette.

“I don’t have that information, ma’am. The police will want you to inspect the premises and file a report.”

Quinn’s heart raced. She pictured two men breaking in, taking something that belonged to her father. Or maybe even her mother. She knew they were professionals and would probably get away with it, which infuriated her.

Georgette knocked again. Quinn swung open the door and held up a finger to let her friend know she needed a minute.

“Tell the police I’ll be right there,” she said to the caller, and got off the phone.

“Police?” Georgette said.

Quinn quickly explained the situation to Georgette, hoping her friend would understand it wasn’t a good time for a visit.

“I have to get over there right away,” Quinn said.

“You know there’s not much you can do, right?”

Georgette was correct, of course, but the thought made her want to scream. There had to be something she could do.

“They need me to file a report,” Quinn said.

“Is everything else okay? I came back because I left my cell phone here, and I was knocking for so long.”

Uh-oh, Quinn thought. How could she possibly explain her disappearance?

“Oh, I see,” Georgette said, pointing to Quinn’s wet hair. “You were in the shower. Sorry.”

Quinn felt as if she had dodged a bullet. Yet another reason why she had to stop doing this.

“Is there anything I can do?” Georgette said as she went into the kitchen to retrieve her cell phone. “You want me to get the little guy off the bus?”

“No, thanks, I’ll be back in time. Besides, he would freak if he didn’t find me waiting there.”

“But he loves me like a grandma.”

The two of them stepped out onto the front porch. Quinn closed the door behind her and locked it. “I know,” she said, and it was true. Isaac was very comfortable with Georgette, who often babysat for him. “But he still has this issue about seeing me at the bus stop when he gets home. I have to be there for him. Always.”

 

 

A POLICE OFFICER Standing outside Quinn’s childhood home explained to her that the lock on the back door had been broken, though they couldn’t tell if anything had been taken. “We’ve been seeing a lot of break-ins in this area,” he said. “Usually they just take jewelry and get out fast.”

“So you didn’t catch anyone?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Quinn and the officer went inside so that she could try to determine what was missing. When they reached the master bedroom, it was clear the thieves had ransacked the room, as drawers were pulled open and emptied. Quinn shuddered at the thought of strangers going through these personal things, trying to choose what might be worth stealing.

She took a deep breath. “I’ll have to call my father,” Quinn said. “I don’t know if he had anything valuable in here.”

She looked in the other upstairs rooms, which also showed signs of a quick search. Downstairs, everything seemed in good order. All the electronics—the stereo, the computer, the television, which was so rarely used—were still there. Quinn reached the studio and stopped. The landscape her mother had been working on when she died was still on the easel, covered. Stacks of framed paintings leaned against the walls, and her mother’s brushes were on the table where she had left them. Still, something in the room felt different. Then Quinn realized what it was, and a chill prickled her flesh. The series of family portraits—the last collection Nan had completed, including the only one that showed the two of them together—was missing. The thieves must have grabbed them because they were easier to carry, being the only unframed canvases. Quinn looked around the studio again and again. Those paintings couldn’t be gone. They just couldn’t.

She closed her eyes and tried to envisage the painting of her and Nan, together but apart. She hadn’t even bothered to look at it the last time she was there.

“What is it?” the officer asked. “What’s missing?”

“My mother,” Quinn said. “I’ve lost her again.”

That evening, Quinn left Isaac and Georgette tucked comfortably into the den, watching Nickelodeon and drinking hot chocolate, while she and Lewis went back to her parents’ house to clean up. Hayden and Cordell met them there to pitch in.

The four adults worked together in the master bedroom. Lewis was busy trying to get the drawers back on their runners while the others sorted and folded the massive piles of clothing that had been dumped onto the floor.

“We should do Dad a favor and throw some of these away,” Hayden said, holding up a multicolored cotton sweater that looked like it was from the 1980s.

Cordell held up another that was almost identical. “How many of these does he have?”

“That was his Cosby show era,” Quinn said, laughing.

Cordell looked at her. “I thought TV was forbidden in this house.”

“Not forbidden,” Hayden explained, “discouraged. Dad loved his sports . . . and his Cosby.”

“No kidding,” Cordell said, holding up another sweater. “He must have dozens. What was he thinking?”

“I bet Mom was going through a manic phase,” Hayden said, “spending like mad. She probably brought home bags and bags of these.”

“You know what’s sweet about that?” Quinn said. “He kept them.”

Quinn treasured her father for his sentimentality, especially since it was a quality her mother lacked. If someone was going to squirrel away the art projects, report cards, and other mementos from Hayden and Quinn’s childhood, it was always their father.

“Is your dad a pack rat like you?” Cordell asked.

Quinn bristled. She didn’t like Cordell calling Hayden names. “I don’t think either of them are pack rats,” she said.

Cordell rolled his eyes. “Are you kidding? Thank God Hayden has cute legs, because he’s got a drawer full of bicycle shorts he hasn’t worn since the Clinton administration.”

“I guess it’s all relative,” Hayden said. “Compared to you, I’m a pack rat. You don’t save a single thing—just like our mom. She threw away
everything
.”

“Not everything,” Lewis said, and the others turned to him. “I was wondering why this one drawer wouldn’t close, and I realized something was in the way.” He held up a package wrapped in creased white paper and tied with thick yellow yarn. Quinn’s name was artistically painted across the top in Nan’s handwriting. “It must have fallen out of the back of the drawer,” he said.

“What is this?” Quinn said, taking the beat-up package.

Lewis shrugged.

“Open it,” Hayden said.

The others watched as Quinn untied the yarn and opened the small bundle. Inside was a tiny pink baby outfit with matching hat and booties. The cartoonish teddy bear emblem on the front of the stretchie gave it a dated look. Quinn was confused.