Barefoot: A Novel

Vicki? And hadn’t breathed a word about it? Vicki flung open the fridge, hoping to find a cold bottle of wine. No such luck. She wasn’t supposed to drink anyway. What did Dr. Garcia say? Water, broccoli, kale, watermelon, blueberries, beets. But wine wasn’t cigarettes. Vicki opened the cabinets, marveling at her sister’s gal . She was farming out her own nephews!

The front screen door slammed. Vicki looked up. There was Brenda, looking like a supermodel in her bikini top and jean shorts. Holding a yel ow legal pad. It was her “screenplay”—a screenplay based on a book that only six other people in the world had ever read, a screenplay that had no prayer of ever being produced. And yet this endeavor was more important to Brenda than caring for Vicki’s children.

“What’s the face for?” Brenda said.

“You know what it’s for,” Vicki said.

Melanie could hear Brenda and Vicki fighting in the living room even as she lay across her supremely uncomfortable mattress with a down pil ow over her head. Her leg was throbbing; somehow in the midst of al the commotion over losing Blaine, she had acquired an angry sunburn. Her stomach was sour—she had kept nothing down al day, not even plain bread. And her heart was broken. Melanie pictured it as an apple: sliced down the middle, then into quarters, cored, skinned. She deserved it al , and worse. Yesterday she had fal en while holding the baby, and today she had failed at the simplest child-related task. Will someone keep an eye on Blaine? Make sure he doesn’t die, or vanish. But even that had proved too much. Before Peter announced his infidelity, before Melanie learned of the living being inside of her, she had held great visions of herself as a mother. She would buy only wooden toys and only organic produce, she would spend hours reading colorful children’s books with strong messages bought only from independently owned bookstores. She would never yel , never condescend, never pick a pacifier up off the floor, lick it and put it back into her child’s mouth. She was going to do it right. She certainly never imagined getting so caught up in the disintegrating state of her marriage that she lost track of a child completely, that she couldn’t say for certain whether or not that child had wandered away or drowned. It was, Melanie decided, al Peter’s fault, but the result of this thinking only intensified her urge to speak to him. It was almost a physical need, more pressing than being hungry or thirsty. She needed to talk to Peter the way she needed oxygen.

Since she returned home from the beach, she had cal ed him six times at the office, and al six times she had gotten his voice mail. His voice sounded cruel y jovial. “Hi! You’ve reached the voice mail of Peter Patchen, senior analyst for Rutter, Higgens. I’m either on the phone or away from my desk, so please leave a message and I’l cal you back. Thank you!”

The first message that Melanie had left was at 1:28 PM: Peter, it’s me. I’m on Nantucket with Vicki. I’m staying for the summer, unless you give me a reason to come home. What I mean is, I’m not coming home until you end things with Frances. Okay. Call me. You can call me at the number I left earlier, which is 508-257-6101—or you can call me on this cell phone, which belongs to Vicki’s sister. The number is 917-555-0628. I’d like you to call me, please.

She had lain facedown on the bed and waited until the banjo clock chiming in the living room announced two o’clock. Melanie had left her own cel phone in Connecticut specifical y so Peter couldn’t reach her and so she would be less tempted to cal him. Ha. She cal ed back. Peter, please call me. My numbers, once again, are . . .

She had cal ed four other times at half-hour intervals, and on the quarter hour, she cal ed him at their house, where her own voice greeted her.

“You have reached the Patchen residence. We are unable to take your cal . Please leave a message and your phone number and we wil cal you back.” Melanie left no message. She cal ed Peter’s cel phone and was shuttled immediately to voice mail.

Peter, it’s me. And then, in case he didn’t recognize her voice, she said, Melanie. Please call me at 508-555-6101. Or you can call me on this phone at . . . She cal ed the cel phone three more times and hung up each time.

Surprise! The phone rang. Melanie’s heart leapt. She studied the number on the display. It was an unfamiliar Manhattan number. The display said Walsh, J.

“Hel o?” Melanie said.

“Brindah?”

Deflation. Disappointment. Not Peter.

“No, I’m sorry. This isn’t Brenda.”

“Vicki?”

“No,” Melanie said. “This is Melanie. I’m a friend of Vicki’s.”

“Oar right.” The voice was beefily Australian. “Is Brindah available?”

Melanie listened. Out in the living room, the fight continued. Never met such a selfish . . . the world doesn’t revolve around . . . “She’s not available this very second.”

“No worries. Would you tel her Walsh cal ed?”

“I wil ,” Melanie said. She paused. Was this the student? He sounded rather old to be the student, but then again, Melanie knew nothing about the student except that he was, in fact, Brenda’s student. “Do you want to leave your number?”

“She has the number. Leaving it again would be pointless.”

Pointless, Melanie thought. She had left her number again and again, as though it were the lack of a number that was Peter’s problem.

“I’l have her cal you,” Melanie said in an authoritative voice, as though she had the power to make Brenda do a single thing. “I promise she wil cal you. You can count on me.”

Walsh laughed. “Wel , I thank you, Melanie.”

“You’re welcome,” Melanie said.

Walsh hung up. Melanie hung up. The cal had only lasted a minute and three seconds, but Melanie felt better. She felt less isolated somehow, knowing that this person Walsh was in New York City trying to reach Brenda. But she also felt pointlessly jealous. Men loved Brenda. Even the young stud policeman had been unable to take his