Die For You

He wanted to feel her skin, bury his face in her hair. His hands wanted to roam her body, reclaim her in this room that was the home of their young marriage. He wanted to hear her breathing in the dark of their bedroom, look at the sliver of light under the bathroom door when she got up in the night. He wanted to listen to her blow-dry her hair in the morning while she sang out of tune to whatever was playing on the radio. He wanted to sit on the porch with her on Friday nights and sip wine, watch the neighborhood kids play stickball in the street like he used to a lifetime ago. Such little things he wanted, nothing fancy-not weekends in Paris and Veuve Clicquot. But there was so much distance to cross, such rough terrain between where they were now and that warm, comfortable place. He didn’t even know if she wanted those things, too. He realized he’d never asked her what she wanted, that even now he had no idea what might make her happy.

“He didn’t get mad about the phone call. That’s the worst part. He wasn’t even angry. It’d been you? You’d be screaming like a jealous little boy.”

He took the hit and didn’t argue. She was right. He’d have blown his stack had he been on the other end of that call.

“Then what?”

She ran her fingers through her hair. “He just asked me why I’d called. Was I missing you? Was I sure I was ready to move on?”

She blew out a breath, pushed the blanket aside and crossed her legs. She was wearing black leggings and one of his old Regis sweatshirts, soft and faded from years and years of washing. Her at-home uniform, he used to call it.

“He said he wanted to know we were both there, heart and soul, before we walked down the aisle. He didn’t want to marry Angie. She was pregnant and they were young. He thought he had to do that. Maybe he did. But he never loved her enough to ride the ups and downs of a real relationship. He didn’t want to make another mistake, this time marrying someone who didn’t love him enough.”

He was about to make a smart comment about what a deep guy his good friend Sean was, so wise in the ways of love, but he could tell by the look on her face that she was actually waiting for him to say something shitty. Suddenly he knew he had to man up now, tread carefully, or watch her walk back to Mr. Wonderful. He went for a solemn head nod. In the mirror, it looked good.

“And what did you tell him?”

“I told him why I called you, what I called to tell you.”

“Why did you call?”

“I told him I was pregnant,” she said, simply, quietly, still not looking at him. “That we made love after the divorce hearing and that three weeks later I didn’t get my period.”

Grady felt as if something had washed over him, some cleansing rush of air. He felt as if it would carry him away if he let it. He stood up.

“I didn’t tell him that I think about you every day, wonder where you are, what you’re doing, if you’ve found someone new. I didn’t tell him that when he and I are”-she looked up at him, embarrassed-“together, I’m remembering how it used to be with you.”

He was afraid for a minute that he was dreaming, that he was going to wake up crushed by disappointment. He’d dreamed scenes like this before, could barely get out of bed afterward from the weight of his sadness when he realized she was still gone.

“Clara.”

“And before you ask how I know it’s yours and ruin everything-Sean had a vasectomy after their second child. He intended to try to reverse it if we decided later on that we wanted children together.”

She looked up at him then, her hazel eyes-green in the center, fading out to brown at the edges-locked on him. He felt paralyzed.

“I’m pregnant, Grady. I want to come home, but there have to be changes. A lot of changes-or I’ll be on my own, raising this child without you. I’m not afraid to do that.”

“No. No,” he said, moving over to her quickly. “I know I have a lot to learn, that I have to grow up to be the man you deserve. I’m capable of that. You’ll see.” He hoped it was true; he would have promised her anything.

He dropped to his knees before her, put his hands on her hips. He took in the scent of her, the citrus of her shampoo mingling with her skin. She already felt softer to him, wider at the hips in a nice way. She leaned down to kiss him and he pressed his lips to hers. He felt her open to him like a flower. She was so soft, so sweet.

“I’ll do anything, Clara,” he said, pulling away. He pushed the hair back from her face with both hands. “I’d die for you.”

He realized then that he was crying. He hadn’t cried once in his adult life, not even when she’d left him.

“I need you to live for me, Grady” She put her hands to her belly. “For us.”

“Yes,” he said, putting his head in her lap. She rested her hands on his head. “Yes,” he said again, but his voice was just a raspy whisper. He wasn’t sure she’d heard.

24

I look back on it all now and see that my motivations were murky. Then it all seemed very clear. I remembered Ivan’s sullen anger: He betrayed me. And I thought that was it for me, too. He’d stolen my money he’d stolen from Linda and Erik, jeopardized Emily and Trevor’s education, their future. He’d taken my love and used it for his own purposes. He’d made a fool of me; I, the seer, the one who misses nothing, never once suspected he wasn’t who he claimed to be. There was a powerful drive. Sometimes I thought I was looking for justice. Sometimes I acknowledged it might be revenge I wanted. Other times I thought I just wanted to get our money back, at least something to bring to Linda and Erik, some offering. She’d warned me after all, hadn’t she? Just wait and get to know him better before you jump in. Izzy, he’s so cold.

But maybe it wasn’t any of these things. I risked my life, my best friend’s life, our futures, to get on a plane to follow a ghost of a man, when I wasn’t even certain I was heading in the right direction. But now I think I wasn’t chasing Marcus at all. I was chasing my father.

There was a light in my father’s eye for me that wasn’t there for anyone else. And even as a little girl I knew it. He loved Linda; they shared their unique bond. But when he looked at me, there was something-maybe it was just a chemistry-that I knew was unique to us. Linda and I never discussed it. We never talked about our father at all after his death. Her wounds stayed raw for years; some of them still bled occasionally. Linda chased him in life; she was always at his heels, pulling at his coat. Look at me, Daddy. She saw his death as the ultimate abandonment, which, of course, it was. And all her adoration-which in the end meant nothing to him- turned to rage. She turned away from him forever. After his death, it was my turn to chase. Daddy, why?

It’s the word that drives me, the question, the answer just on the next page if only I can get there. I write, letting a river of possibility flow through me, letting all the energy of all the stories in the world pass from the air onto the page. Some writers fear the enormity of the blankness before them, that empty white field. I live for it.

“Is it just about the knowing?” Jack asked me again. “Is that what this is about? Is it worth it?”

Could anything be more worth it? In every character is a universe, every shade of black and white, every potential darkness, even the potential to turn from darkness and walk into the light. I have to go there, into the shadow of unknowing. I’d rather die in the dark alley than bask a lifetime ignorant in the light.

“Well, that’s just ridiculous,” Jack said. “In fact, that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Most people run from the dark, Isabel. With good reason.”

“I’m not most people.”

“I know.” He sounded sad, nearly pitying, when he said it.

“WHAT ARE YOU thinking about?”

We were at the end of a long day that had yielded nothing, both of us tired, drained. We sat at a thick wooden table in a dark pub, much like the one where Marcus proposed. It was dark, lit by candlelight-sconces on the wall, glass votives on the table. Huge orange flames leapt in the stone fireplace.

“You know.”