The One In My Heart

And with everything I now knew, the pictures she’d sent took on a whole new light. Instead of a glamorous showcase, as I’d always taken them to be, they were actually desperate appeals from a woman who didn’t know how else to be a part of my life. Look at this, said her pictures. Don’t you want to be here? Don’t you want to join us in our rustic idyll? Come. Do come.

We were all fucked-up. And we were all fuckups by choice. My father chose not to change. My mother chose not to engage. And I chose to pretend that nothing was the matter, that I was—and had always been—the most perfect girl living the most perfect life.


FOUR HOURS LATER, I PULLED into a rest stop somewhere in Massachusetts, to stretch my legs and check my phone for messages.

There was an e-mail from Zelda, who had reunited with quite a few friends and relatives at Mrs. Asquith’s funeral the previous day and gone out for dinner afterward. The first attachment showed a large group around a dinner table. Larry was there, a few seats down from her.

I thought the other attachment would also be a shot of dinner. Instead it was a shot of Bennett, standing before the still-open grave, looking somber and thoughtful in a long black overcoat.

The phone dinged—Zelda had e-mailed again.

I forgot to tell you, darling. Bennett found an earlier flight and left yesterday evening. He must already be back in the city.

With the time difference, he’d have landed late last night. I didn’t hesitate long before I texted him. You didn’t tell me you’re already back.

I thought you knew.

You’re not working today, are you?

No. Headed for Cos Cob now. And I have your tiara.

What?

Mrs. Asquith left you her tiara, the one you wore in that picture. Now you’re a real princess. When are you coming to rescue me? From lung cancer, if nothing else.

He was joking, of course, but not entirely. I was the only one who could rescue him from his heartache and disappointment, I who loved him, but didn’t have the courage of my conviction.

I resumed driving, but at the next rest stop I again pulled off the highway.

It was a sunny day. A family of four were having chips and sandwiches on a nearby picnic table. I opened my windows a crack, and in came the noise of a car zooming by.

My phone sat on the passenger seat, waiting.

One does not simply walk into Mordor.

Except, as I’d told Bennett, that was exactly what one did, one foot before the other, for thousands of miles.

I picked up the phone, my heart thumping hard against my rib cage. I’d never known anything but this pretense of strength and serenity. Never known what it was like to voluntarily expose the rawness underneath. Never known how life was to be lived, except behind all the closed doors in the world, and with a high wall thrown in too.

I’m fragile, I typed as quickly as my fingers could move, the fragility of a hopeless romantic trapped in a reality in which there is no happily ever after.

I hit send—and covered my mouth as the phone made the tiny whooshing sound of bytes being delivered at the speed of electrons. The muscles of my right calf twitched. Tiny involuntary whimpers escaped my throat. The tips of my fingers tingled, as if their circulation had been cut off.

But it had happened: I had taken the first step toward destroying the ring in the fires of Mount Doom.

Some people outgrow their fragility. I never did. Instead I became proficient at packaging it. Have you ever encountered a product that comes in a box covered with duct tape, which opens to an explosion of packing peanuts, and then you are faced with layers of tightly taped bubble wrap, only to find after that there’s :still: a hard plastic shell that’s a pain in the ass to pry apart?

That’s me. Except I never let anyone get past the duct-tape stage. Okay, maybe occasionally Zelda saw the packing peanuts, but no further, no deeper.

I read over what I’d written and felt like an underground creature suddenly exposed to air and sunlight, wriggling desperately to get back to the stale darkness I knew so well.

Too late.

So what’s underneath it all? Fear, yes. Need, so much of it. More wishful thinking than there is in the entire country on a Powerball weekend. Maybe greed too, a greed for happiness that’s matched only by the fear of losing it.

I exhaled, every last one of my muscles tight and knotty. But I was almost done. Almost.

You told me you’re not afraid of the baggage I bring. You might be the only one. I believe that if I were sitting on a mountain of pure gold, most dragons, including Smaug himself, would prefer to hire themselves out as furnaces, rather than face the trouble of dealing with me.

That said, I’m coming to rescue you. Brace yourself.


I PARKED MY RENTAL CAR outside Bennett’s house and rang the bell.

The door opened quickly.

“Evangeline!” said Mrs. Somerset. Her eyes widened as she took in the bouquet of gladioluses I had in one arm, the bag of takeout in my other arm, two large heart-shaped Mylar balloons, the ribbons of which had been wound around my wrist, and the big princess gown I’d rented from a Greenwich costume shop. “What a lovely surprise! Come in! Come in!”