“She didn’t tell me, and, by the way, she understands plenty. She’s the one taking care of the kids, of you.”
“You’re right.” He blew out a large sigh. “Remember the last time we were here?” he asked.
She put a hand to her chin, rummaging memories. “No. I don’t.”
“We took the girls to F.A.O. Schwarz, and you bought half the store for them. Then you felt guilty about buying toys instead of giving them education and values, so we came here. When they got tired, which was pretty fast, since they were far too young for the Met, you took us to the Patrons Lounge. We didn’t have to sit on benches that day. Jesus, how much did you and Dad pay for that privilege?”
“Do you miss it so much?” she asked.
He shrugged. “It’s just a memory of when we were somebody. Let’s go upstairs and find someplace they serve drinks.”
Phoebe wanted to say no. Bring him to his senses. Nurse him back to health. How did you do that with a grown child—what could you offer to heal them?
“Please, Mom. I know you want me to stop. And I will. But for today, let me pretend to be happy for one afternoon. And I don’t know any other way.”
CHAPTER 37
Phoebe
March 2010
Phoebe divided her possessions into “keep” and “Goodwill,” covering the fragile items first in plastic supermarket bags and then wrapping them in newspaper. The donations covered a wide swath of floor; the “keep” stack filled only a few cartons. Noah would come later today to bring a few boxes to her new apartment. The place was empty, and the owners were fine with her bringing things in early. If she moved a little each day, with Zach and Noah transporting the heavier stuff on April 1, she’d save the cost of hiring a mover.
Her new space was half the size of this apartment—which wasn’t much to begin with—but she’d be in Montclair, New Jersey, with her children and grandchildren nearby. The train to Manhattan would get her to Noah’s apartment quickly. Kate’s house was a ten-minute drive.
Phoebe swathed the last white Ikea mug and placed it with the rest of her service for four. In her before life, she’d owned multiple sets of china: the treasured Rosenthal lapis, blue edged in gold; the expensive and gaudy Flora Danica—so overpriced it embarrassed her—that Jake had insisted they buy; and others that she could barely remember. What else had she left behind in the penthouse? Though the feds had banished her only seven months ago, she’d forgotten so many of her things. Still, visions arrived at odd times. The cashmere throw in which she’d wrapped herself for comfort. Densely woven wool socks. Did some woman wear them now, or were they displayed like the pelt of a captured animal?
Sometimes she dreamed her objects all returned, stuffed in every corner of her tiny apartment. She’d wake smothered by the memory of things. With her children back in her life, with being able to hold her granddaughters, she didn’t care if she drank out of Ikea for the rest of her life. Though there was something to be said for fine bone china touching your lips as you enjoyed a perfect cup of coffee and not the gritty edge of cheap ceramic.
She imagined the field day the press would have if a thought like that got out: “Phoebe Purses Lips Against Cheap Pottery.”
The phone’s shrill ring shattered the quiet. Phoebe dropped a half-wrapped water glass, watching as it rolled on the rug.
“Mom.” Kate’s panicky voice held no tone Phoebe wanted to hear. She clutched the receiver. Dread spiraled down her throat.
Tears muffled Kate’s words.
Noah.
Blood alcohol.
Motorcycle crash on 95. Near Greenwich.
? ? ?
Beth barred her from Noah’s funeral.
Kate brought the message: Phoebe would attract the paparazzi, Beth said.
Hordes of media would follow Phoebe, allowing Jake’s apparition to mar the ceremony. He was forbidden in body and spirit—even if the prison system had allowed him a compassionate leave.
Phoebe knew that Beth blamed her for not helping Noah more. She couldn’t disagree. She charged herself with her son’s death.
“We might be able to talk her into letting you come, Mom,” Kate had said. “Right now she’s so angry she can barely form words. I took Holly and Isabelle to my house.”
Phoebe visualized the three little girls huddled together in one bed. She ached to hold Noah’s daughters, bury her grief in being there for them. “No,” she said. “Let her lash at me. What else can I offer?”
All previous pain meant nothing. Jake’s crimes fell away, diminished in importance. But she blamed him. The misery he brought Noah. She blamed herself. Staying by Jake’s side.
For brief moments, she imagined Jake. Him tortured. She questioned so much about him—their marriage—but never his love for Noah and Katie. The part of her still unbelieving of the tornados in her life, those vestigial emotions that hadn’t yet caught up with the unraveling of her life, of knowing her husband was a crook, a cheater, and a bastard, that part of her ached for Jake’s arms.
But only for seconds, until she pushed away the feeling.
Anguish hollowed her into a brittle vessel holding nothing but Noah’s specter. Death seemed reality and life an apparition. Nothing could staunch this grief except draining her body of all blood, all life.
? ? ?
Phoebe was alone the day Beth buried Noah.
Neither alcohol, food, nor pills passed her lips. No coffee. Only sips of water. She wouldn’t satisfy her needs. Allowing relief after ignoring Noah’s desolation for so long, after months comforting herself with the belief that Beth could care for Noah, seemed obscene. Jake alone wasn’t responsible. Phoebe owned the blame and welcomed laceration.
Mortification seemed vital that day: suffering in mind and body until nothing but pain filled her. Jake tried to reach her, but she refused his call, afraid the hate would overwhelm her—more frightened that he’d offer comfort and that, in her anguish, she’d clutch at his consolation.
They’d killed him, she and Jake.
Cold metal pressed against her forehead, splintered wood from the edge of the sill ground through her black pantyhose as she knelt against the door. Her wet cheek took on the imprint of the rough mesh grid covering the door panels.
Security measures. To keep the thin door from being kicked in. Phoebe wanted that protective barrier knocked in and gone, that steel, the mesh. She prayed for the roughest of thieves to break in and steal her life, end what she lacked the guts to do. She wanted the thud of a boot against her face.
A clutter of half-packed boxes surrounded her. She wore black, an ugly dress woven of smothering polyester that made her first hot and then cold. How did you not put on a black dress the day of your son’s funeral? That morning, she carefully inched on black pantyhose, new, from CVS, and too-tight black shoes from Target.