But he couldn’t. He couldn’t. He’d picked up the phone to Dr. Philippoussis more than once, but he knew what he’d say. Go to her. Tell her.
But she didn’t fit in his life. She couldn’t. She didn’t know it yet, but she belonged on the island. Communing joyously with that whale, or baking something marvelous, or bantering with her brothers. Her face, so pale and pinched in London, was something else at home. And even if she thought she’d be happy back in the city, he could see deep down that she wouldn’t be.
And there certainly wasn’t room for him up there. That huge chap, Charlie, though that wasn’t what she called him. Always there. Biding his time. He’d be more suitable. Not someone like Joel, who carried around more baggage than Newark. What if she tried to fix him? She wouldn’t be the first. And then they’d really be in trouble.
It wasn’t in his nature to be unselfish. He’d never been able to take care of more than himself. But when it came to her . . .
He picked up the paper. There it was, as soon as he turned the page, the story about the whale. What was it about her? She wasn’t a supermodel. But somehow, that face, with its clear, direct gaze; the milky, creamy skin that must cover every inch of her . . . it made everyone else look overdone, too made up; those ridiculous eyebrows that looked like they’d been drawn on with a Sharpie. All the other girls he knew looked like bizarre overpriced cocktails, while she was a cool, clear glass of water on a boiling hot day.
Margo came in with a box full of files and he started as if he’d been caught looking at pornography, and thrust the paper underneath the box.
Normally he could attack his work like a machine. Get through it. Get to the nub of things, the nitty-gritty of contracts and points of law, and see clearly to something that was always to his clients’ advantage. Always.
Now he was staring out of the window, wondering what kind of bird he was looking at.
He should call her. But what was he going to say? It felt like stepping out into midair.
He sighed and picked up the phone.
The voice on the other end was gruff, and belatedly Joel remembered that it was very early in New York. This in itself was utterly uncharacteristic; normally he held all the time zones in his head in a tight line, accustomed as he was to doing business everywhere.
“Sorry,” he said.
“Who is that?” said the voice. “No, of course, it’s Joel, isn’t it?”
There was a pause, and the noise of a coffee machine grumbling. Then the voice immediately turned softer.
“I seem to be hearing from you a lot recently.”
There was such kindness in it. Such a gentle tone.
It struck Joel that he had never known how to return the kindness, and thus never had. But now, when he had a real problem, he realized he didn’t really have anywhere else to turn. Flora . . . yes, it was bad what she’d been through. But she had that huge noisy family of hers. And all her friends on the island, and all those people walking past who just seemed to know her anyway.
“So,” said Dr. Philippoussis. “You must have met someone.”
Joel pulled the newspaper out from under the box.
“Um,” he said.
It was a beautiful shot; someone had caught her kneeling down, nose to nose with the beautiful animal, the sun lighting through her hair. There was no one else in the frame at all; they’d cropped out the RNLI and the tractor so that it was just Flora, alone with the whale, singing it back to sea.
“She? He? It?”
Joel blinked.
“She.”
“Interesting.” Dr. Philippoussis hummed.
“Don’t make humming noises,” said Joel. “I don’t need a therapist.”
“You don’t?”
“No,” said Joel firmly.
He paused.
“I need a friend. For advice. Not just for me. Real advice.”
Dr. Philippoussis looked out of the window of his downtown apartment. He never got tired of watching the sun rise through the skyscrapers, even on days that were guaranteed, like this one, to be hot and sticky and difficult to get through. The humidity made him want to shave off his beard. In the bedroom, his wife was still asleep. She’d be delighted to hear Joel had called. She’d have adopted him if it had been remotely possible, if they hadn’t run the risk of making things far worse than they already were. Joel hadn’t been neglected, exactly. He’d been clothed and fed, more or less, all his physical needs seen to.
But there was something about the boy, something so closed. Abandoned by his mother, then passed around, he had not, as so many children in his situation did, become overaffectionate, clingy, and desperate to please in a way adults could find appealing. Instead, he had shut himself off to such an extent it was thought he had a diagnosable illness, like autism.
Dr. Philippoussis had not tried to prize him open; he had simply let the young boy be himself, pointing him toward things he might like—books, order, comprehensibility. Studying the law had been perfect for him—things were black and white, right or wrong. They could be categorized and put into boxes in the way human emotions and messy human lives could not.
“I’m that too,” said Dr. Philippoussis, watching the tall buildings of Manhattan gradually sparkle pink and shiny gold, and the city bristle into life, the streets full of joggers and dog walkers and hurrying professionals whose faces looked every bit as closed off as Joel’s always did.
“She lives on an island . . . sometimes . . . and it’s so strange up there. And she’s a part of it. And I don’t think . . . I don’t think I should drag her into all my stuff.”
“Why not? Is she cruel?”
“No.”
“Would she make you feel small about what you’ve been through?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What’s the worst that could happen?”
Joel couldn’t say it. A long silence fell between them.
“Well, call her,” said Dr. Philippoussis.
“But I’m not . . . I’m not sure I’m ready.”
There was a long pause.
“What? I asked you to give me advice!”
“I can’t,” said the good doctor. “I know we’re friends. But I have a professional responsibility toward you too.”
“You don’t!”
“I do.”
“Well, if it was you . . .”
“Nobody can ever stand in for anyone else,” said Dr. Philippoussis.
“Oh, great, thanks.”
“I could also say that nobody ever thinks they’re ready.”
“Is that your professional opinion?”
“No. You’ll have to choose for yourself.”
“How?”
“Use your imagination.”
“I don’t have an imagination! I’m a lawyer!”
Joel stared at the paper. His own life, below the surface, was empty. A gaping hole, he sometimes thought. And hers was not. It could not be a little step. It would be everything. And he knew what the worst thing that could happen was, because it had happened every single time he’d been moved on to a new family. Until he’d learned to seal himself off.
Chapter Forty-four