Eleanor Marie born at 9:45 a.m. Tuesday. She is too small and wiggly for me to hold her. Her eyes dart around like a lizard’s. If I give her my finger, she holds on tightly. Even when she sleeps, she jolts. Mother wonders when she will calm down.
Eleanor makes all sorts of noises. I think I can understand her, but Mother says that’s impossible.
Mother compares Eleanor to Alban constantly, talking about when Alban was a newborn. I watch the way Father stares at Mother feeding Eleanor. He has not been leaving as often, thank goodness. When I am alone with Eleanor, I tell her I will always look after her and give her guidance. This is the role of a big brother.
And then the neatly written entries end. I scan through the pages of layered text, but time has lightened and smeared the graphite so that it looks less like letters and more like a pattern, unreadable. I blur my eyes, looking for a hidden message. I remember from my childhood the shape of a dolphin forming from a stereogram. No such resolution is revealed, though. I put the book onto Julie’s bedside table. I head down to the basement to develop some photos. I try to see what it is I’ve been looking at.
36
“WHAT’S WRONG with you?” Connie says. “Why do you look like that?”
I touch my hair delicately. “Like what?” I can feel the tangles beneath my palm.
She lowers her voice. “Your hair is all mashed onto one side of your head, and—I’m sorry—I’m only telling you because I’d expect you to do the same for me, but you smell awful. Like urine, maybe?”
I sniff at my arms and ask myself, How long does it take to become immune to a smell, to trouble?
“Julie, we’re supposed to meet with the investors this afternoon. Did you forget?”
“No,” I say. “Why?”
“Tim, Julie and I are taking a personal hour, okay? We’ll be back soon.” Our colleague raises his eyebrows and Connie rolls her eyes and takes me by the arm. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” she whispers in my ear, and I don’t resist.
She unlocks the car doors and says, “Wait.” She pulls an old camping blanket from the trunk and places it on the passenger seat before she’ll let me sit. “Okay. Go ahead … You in? Watch your elbow.” She shuts the door.
On the way to the house, Connie asks me all sorts of questions that don’t seem to matter, and then we pull up and I follow Connie to the porch. “Okay, open her up,” she says.
I stare at her.
“Where’s your purse?” she asks.
I shake my head.
37
“COME IN!” I shout from the darkroom. They don’t hear me.
I wash the fixer off the photo I’ve been developing. I hang it to dry. I worry about being found out. Julie will be furious I’m not at my office. She won’t accuse me of anything before she checks the bank accounts. If I say I feel sick, it wouldn’t be untrue. I consider staying in the basement. Maybe they’re just stopping home to pick something up. Maybe they’re grabbing an early lunch. I hear two sets of feet climb the stairs to the second floor. I lose track of their voices beneath the hum of the house.
I lean in to look at the picture I’ve just clipped to the line. The tree trunks cluster in a row like tick marks on a timeline. I look in the branches for anything. I try to remember what I was trying to record when I’d snapped the photo. I think about how to help her. Julie, the dedicated perfectionist, was known for following through. But now, all of her patterns have splayed into chaos. The balance of our collective reliability has been thrown off. If she’s not in charge, no one is.
I crawl out of the basement. Worry at how long I’d need to hide down there powers my movement. I reach the top of the second-floor stairs, undetected. I pause outside the door. I lean against the wall. I am afraid I’ve waited too long now to let them know I’m here.
Connie says, “This place is a mess. I’m sorry, but it is.” Julie doesn’t argue. She says nothing. I consider breaking in, but Connie goes on. “Schmutz pact, but it reeks in here. Do you remember what a schmutz pact is? Like if you have a little dirt on your face, as a true friend, I will tell you so you can take care of it, rather than letting you walk around like that.” She coughs. “Don’t look at me with those big eyes. Fix this place. I’m a friend, and I’m giving it to you straight. Figure out where that smell is coming from. Let’s get you into the bathtub.”
I pivot my body into the doorway. “Hey—”
Connie screams. She bumps into the dresser behind her. She grabs at her spine where it caught the corner. “James! Jesus Christ! Have you been here the whole time? Holy fuck.” She leans on the dresser. She looks at Julie. Julie hasn’t said a thing. She hasn’t even looked at me. Connie notices this. She examines my face. She waits for an explanation. She waits for one of us to own up to something.
“I’m sorry, I was down in the darkroom. Why are you home? Is everything okay?”
Connie’s breath is still working itself out. I watch her nostrils expand and contract. I can see her collarbone flare into view. “That explains why the door was unlocked. We need to clean Julie up. Wouldn’t you agree?”
I nod tentatively, unsure if this will elicit a reaction from Julie.
“Why are you home?” Connie asks me.
I panic and lie, “Oh, to let in an electrician.” I wait for a moment that I can walk away to make a call, to make the story true.
“Oh, yeah? Julie, did you know an electrician was coming today?” Julie remains still. Connie glares at me, as if Julie’s behavior were my fault.
The two of them disappear behind the door. I wish I’d told Connie I could take care of Julie myself. It feels too late. It feels like help we need.
38
CONNIE RUNS THE bath and undresses me and I don’t wonder why James isn’t the one doing this and I let Connie see the bruises newly formed near my ankles and along my armpit. “Let’s be real here,” she whispers, as she holds my arm and I lower into the warm water. “Is he hurting you?”
“No.”