you to know that I’ve been thinking about you constantly and feel terrible about what happened. I’m flying out tonight, but please call me if you want to. I know Ben is coming out there, and I”—she stumbled over the lie—“I really wish I could come, too. Well. I’m sorry I missed you. I’m … I’m really sorry.”
Now this was true. She was really sorry. But even as she said it, she was pushing Alison out of her mind. Because if she really let herself feel for Alison, she would have to feel all of it: the immensity of her own betrayal, the terrible cruelty of what she and Charlie were doing. And she couldn’t do that. Not now. Not yet.
Chapter Seven
October 2008
When Claire lost the baby, on a windy Monday morning in October, Ben had just arrived at his office. “I’m bleeding,” she told him when he picked up the phone.
“Holy shit, what do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Jesus, I don’t know,” she said, sobbing into the phone.
“Call the doctor. Do you want me to call the doctor?”
“Just come home,” she said.
He left work without telling anyone, left his sketches scattered on the floor. Took the elevator down forty-seven flights, hailed a cab, got stuck in crosstown traffic, climbed out and found a subway, changed at Forty-second Street and sat on the local watching the stops go by in slow motion: Fifty-ninth, Sixty-sixth, Seventy-second, Eighty-sixth. As he ran up the sidewalk, trash skittered across the street in front of their West Eighty-seventh Street building.
When Ben got to their apartment, Claire was in the bedroom. She wasn’t crying. She lay on the bed, facing the wall, wrapped in a blanket. “It’s gone,” she said.
“Are you sure?”
She didn’t answer. Ben went over and sat beside her and touched her shoulder, and she curled toward him, put her head in his lap. Silently he stroked her hair, cresting the waves with the tips of his fingers. After a few moments she said, “I wish we hadn’t told anyone.”
“I’ll take care of it,” he said.
She was silent again. Then she said, “Do you think God is punishing us because we weren’t sure?”
He looked down at her, lying there in his lap. He couldn’t see her eyes. “I was sure,” he said.
After a while Ben went to the window. The sky was the same soft white with gray undertones that they’d chosen for the living room from the Benjamin Moore sample chart several months earlier, when they’d moved into this family-friendly building. China White. He looked out the window and glanced back inside. It was as if he could open a window and step into another room, and for a moment he wondered what it would feel like to do it. He looked down at the street, the dirty yellow cabs, their downstairs neighbor in a striped fur coat like a human-size raccoon tapping her foot impatiently as her leashed Pomeranian sniffed the front tire of a parked car, and he closed the window.
He turned back toward Claire, but she seemed to have fallen asleep. Suddenly thirsty, Ben turned and made his way to the kitchen, a narrow alley at the back of the apartment, as streamlined as a ship’s galley. Opening the stainless fridge, he found a jar of sun-dried tomatoes, a deli container of Fairway olives, various ludicrous condiments like almond paste and truffle mustard, a half-eaten Belgian chocolate bar, and an expired quart of fresh-squeezed orange juice. He opened the cabinet above the sink and found a pack of organic brown coffee filters, but no coffee. Now that he thought about it, he couldn’t remember the last time they’d made coffee at home.
He shut the door and slid down the smooth stainless cabinet until he was crouching on the floor, staring out the large window at the other end of the apartment.
For the next few nights Claire tossed in her sleep. “Where are you?” she cried.
“I’m here.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m here. Right here, Claire.”
She’d shake her head and turn away.
“Don’t you
Now this was true. She was really sorry. But even as she said it, she was pushing Alison out of her mind. Because if she really let herself feel for Alison, she would have to feel all of it: the immensity of her own betrayal, the terrible cruelty of what she and Charlie were doing. And she couldn’t do that. Not now. Not yet.
Chapter Seven
October 2008
When Claire lost the baby, on a windy Monday morning in October, Ben had just arrived at his office. “I’m bleeding,” she told him when he picked up the phone.
“Holy shit, what do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Jesus, I don’t know,” she said, sobbing into the phone.
“Call the doctor. Do you want me to call the doctor?”
“Just come home,” she said.
He left work without telling anyone, left his sketches scattered on the floor. Took the elevator down forty-seven flights, hailed a cab, got stuck in crosstown traffic, climbed out and found a subway, changed at Forty-second Street and sat on the local watching the stops go by in slow motion: Fifty-ninth, Sixty-sixth, Seventy-second, Eighty-sixth. As he ran up the sidewalk, trash skittered across the street in front of their West Eighty-seventh Street building.
When Ben got to their apartment, Claire was in the bedroom. She wasn’t crying. She lay on the bed, facing the wall, wrapped in a blanket. “It’s gone,” she said.
“Are you sure?”
She didn’t answer. Ben went over and sat beside her and touched her shoulder, and she curled toward him, put her head in his lap. Silently he stroked her hair, cresting the waves with the tips of his fingers. After a few moments she said, “I wish we hadn’t told anyone.”
“I’ll take care of it,” he said.
She was silent again. Then she said, “Do you think God is punishing us because we weren’t sure?”
He looked down at her, lying there in his lap. He couldn’t see her eyes. “I was sure,” he said.
After a while Ben went to the window. The sky was the same soft white with gray undertones that they’d chosen for the living room from the Benjamin Moore sample chart several months earlier, when they’d moved into this family-friendly building. China White. He looked out the window and glanced back inside. It was as if he could open a window and step into another room, and for a moment he wondered what it would feel like to do it. He looked down at the street, the dirty yellow cabs, their downstairs neighbor in a striped fur coat like a human-size raccoon tapping her foot impatiently as her leashed Pomeranian sniffed the front tire of a parked car, and he closed the window.
He turned back toward Claire, but she seemed to have fallen asleep. Suddenly thirsty, Ben turned and made his way to the kitchen, a narrow alley at the back of the apartment, as streamlined as a ship’s galley. Opening the stainless fridge, he found a jar of sun-dried tomatoes, a deli container of Fairway olives, various ludicrous condiments like almond paste and truffle mustard, a half-eaten Belgian chocolate bar, and an expired quart of fresh-squeezed orange juice. He opened the cabinet above the sink and found a pack of organic brown coffee filters, but no coffee. Now that he thought about it, he couldn’t remember the last time they’d made coffee at home.
He shut the door and slid down the smooth stainless cabinet until he was crouching on the floor, staring out the large window at the other end of the apartment.
For the next few nights Claire tossed in her sleep. “Where are you?” she cried.
“I’m here.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m here. Right here, Claire.”
She’d shake her head and turn away.
“Don’t you
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