In my mind, I complete the exchange, the way I always do: That sounds good.
And that’s when it hits me, why he seemed so familiar that day at the Woodside party. Back in college, I never knew his name; I always thought of him as “the jumper on Sproul.” JoAnne married the boy she talked down from the roof. She married the boy she saved. What would Freud say?
And why, then, did she tell me she had met Neil after a car accident? Why did she lie to me?
I walk steadily toward the Cessna, watching JoAnne’s plane as it taxis down the runway and rises into the air. It disappears into the shimmering desert heat.
77
The Cessna’s wheels shudder on the runway in Half Moon Bay. I grab the Ziploc bag, thank the pilot, and stumble down the stairs.
In the café, still groggy, completely starving, I sit down at a table in the corner. The waitress in the retro uniform slides a menu in front of me. “The usual?” she says in a friendly voice.
“Sure,” I reply, surprised that I’ve been here enough times to have a usual.
She returns with French toast and a side of bacon.
When the food is gone, I turn on my cellphone. It takes a while to kick in. When it does, I notice there’s a new icon on the main screen. It’s a small blue P. I try to delete it, but nothing happens. It disappears for a second, then returns. There are a handful of texts and several voicemails. I don’t look at any of them. Instead, I dial Alice.
“I’m home,” I tell her before she even has a chance to say hello.
“Are you okay?” I hear the sounds of her office in the background.
“I seem to be.”
“I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
Outside, I find a spot on the bench. The planes circle overhead. A black Chevy Suburban is parked at the corner of the lot.
I hear the distinctive rumble of Alice’s old Jaguar as it turns off of the highway. She pulls up beside me and leans over to open the passenger door. I grab my Ziploc bag and slide in beside her. She runs her hand over my bald head, gives me a sympathetic look, and then pulls out of the parking lot and back onto the highway.
The Chevy edges out of the parking lot and turns onto the highway behind us.
Alice is wearing her favorite wrap dress, the one that shows her small waist, her beautiful hips, and just a hint of cleavage. As we move into the tunnel, pointed toward Pacifica, I slide my hand under the hem and rest my palm on her bare thigh. She feels so warm. I remember precisely how I got to where I am. This wonderful marriage, this terrible nightmare, all began with that touch—the surprise of warmth, the smoothness of her skin.
I see the SUV in my side view mirror, and I hear Neil’s voice in my head: I will not rest until balance is restored.
Alice’s iPhone rests on the console between us. A small blue P in the top corner blinks off and on.
78
During the car ride home, Alice doesn’t ask questions, and I don’t offer up my story. I’m not quite ready to share what I’ve been through, and I sense she isn’t quite ready to hear it. Still, after she pulls into the driveway and leans over to give me a kiss on the cheek, I’m hurt when I realize she isn’t coming inside. I need so badly to be with her right now.
“So sorry,” she says. “Big court date tomorrow. I’ll be home late.”
After being apart for a while, it takes time for a couple to reconnect. I tell my patients this. In movies and literature, there’s such a fascination with couples who are meant to be together, the idea of Mr. or Mrs. Right. But, of course, none of that is true. For some people there are many Mr. Rights. For others, there are none. Like atoms, the fact of couples coming together is based more upon timing and circumstance than magic.
Of course, there is magic too. Like atoms, couples can only combine if there is attraction, some sort of logical connection, chemistry producing a reaction. When two people are apart, though, even the strongest bonds inevitably dissipate, so it is necessary to rediscover the connection, rebuild the bonds.
Several years ago, I did an internship with the Veterans Administration. One of my first patients was Kevin Walsh. He had joined the reserves as a way to pay for college but was surprised to get deployed to the Middle East. One tour led to two, two to three. When he returned to San Francisco, to his wife and two kids, Kevin said he felt like he was stepping into someone else’s life. The kids were well behaved and fun, the wife was pleasant and attractive, but he couldn’t escape the feeling this life wasn’t his, that it was a life chosen by a different man and he was an impostor trying to make it work.
I wander around our home, becoming reacquainted with our things, our life. The place is a mess. Clearly, Alice didn’t expect me home today. In the garage, her studio has been rearranged—two chairs, two amps, two guitar stands facing each other. A worn piece of sheet music lies on a table. I pick it up and scan the page futilely, as if the bars and notes might contain some secret code to Alice. But it is a bizarre, impenetrable language.
I’m worried. Less for myself than for Alice.
Back upstairs, I see the house with fresh eyes: two plates in the sink, two forks, two empty wineglasses on the floor beside the couch. I feel sick. I go to the window and scan the street for the black SUV, but it isn’t there. I peer up at the streetlight. It has always been there, rendered invisible by its mundane presence. But now I notice three small boxes on top. Were they there before?
What has happened inside the house while I’ve been gone? More important, has The Pact been watching? Of course they have. How can Alice be so reckless? If The Pact comes and takes her away again, it will change her forever. She might be more faithful, she might be more obedient, but that’s not what I want. I want Alice. Beyond that, I want Alice to be Alice, good and bad. Finally. Is this love?
I call the office to let them know I’m back. Huang is surprised. “Where have you been, Mr. Jake?”
“Here and there. I got a haircut.”
A notebook lies open on the couch. All of the guitars and speakers are scattered around the house. The Teac four-track is set up on the breakfast room table, another notebook beside it, song titles scribbled. On our bed, I find a wrapped present with my name on it. A compact disc.