Lost Along the Way(36)
When she and Steve had bought the house back in 2010, they knew they had their work cut out for them. It was a fixer-upper in every sense of the word—a neglected, outdated beach shack that they just knew could be a perfect spot to spend summers and holidays over the next sixty years if they took the time needed to fix it up. Steve’s uncle had left him a little bit of money when he died, and they decided to take advantage of the real estate market collapse and invest in a second property they’d otherwise never be able to afford. It took about two years, but they accomplished exactly what they had set out to do. They’d gutted the inside, ripping out ancient fixtures, broken tiles, and linoleum flooring in favor of farmhouse sinks, bamboo floors, and white subway tiles. The parochial green paint in the kitchen had been stripped off and the space redone with white cabinets and butcher-block counters. There was an old office on the right side of the first floor that Meg had hoped would be a playroom one day, and they managed to furnish the entire home with items they found at flea markets and tag sales all over the Hamptons. She had scoured Coastal Living magazine for more than a year looking for inspiration, knickknacks, and new uses for refurbished wood. The old aluminum siding had been replaced with gray clapboard shingles, the dead plants had been dug up and carted away, and new cherry trees and rhododendrons were brought in to redo the landscaping in the front. When they were finished, she and Steve sat on the porch out back with glasses of wine and talked about how lucky they were to have everything. At that point, Meg was still hopeful that things would work out for them. She hadn’t given up yet.
Now she was living in the house alone, separated from her husband, and that office on the first floor was still an office. It’s a sad day when you accept that all of your childhood dreams are dead. I’ve made my peace with it, she told anyone who knew anything about her and had the indecency to ask. Then she went home and baked bread, and soothed her soul with the rhythmic pulses of her kneading.
She was waiting for the timer on the oven to count down the final ten minutes of cooking time on her Pullman loaf when there was a knock at her front door. She wiped her hands on a striped kitchen towel, threw it on the counter, and casually opened the door. She couldn’t have been more surprised to see the ghosts of her past standing there next to her potted plants.
“Hey, Meg,” Jane said.
She had seen pictures of Jane on the news and in the tabloids over the last few months, and she more or less looked the same in person. Truth be told, Meg had thought about reaching out to her. She wasn’t sure why they had stopped speaking. It was more like Jane had just decided that she didn’t want to be friends with Meg and Cara anymore and simply disappeared. Meg couldn’t possibly understand how they could’ve been as close as sisters and then just have her walk away for no reason. She’d felt abandoned, and it was something that she hadn’t ever really gotten over. The part of her that still loved Jane had wanted to call her and tell her that she was sorry her husband did what he did to her, that she knew without a doubt Jane had nothing to do with it, and that she would be there for her, whatever she needed. She never called. The scab that had formed over the part of her heart that loved Jane wouldn’t let her dial.
“Hi,” she said back. “It’s good to see you.”
“It’s good to see you, too,” Cara answered.
“No,” Meg answered, turning an icy glare in Cara’s direction. “I wasn’t talking to you. I told you I never wanted to see you again, and I meant it.”
“I . . . I knew this was a bad idea. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come,” Cara said quickly as she walked back to the car and got in the driver’s seat. Her white button-down nipped in at the waist, her jeans were perfectly cropped, her driving loafers were immaculately clean. Meg felt rage begin to build as she realized that Cara hadn’t changed at all. She was still pretending to be some perfect Stepford something or other when they both knew that wasn’t the case. The fact that Cara had the nerve to come anywhere near her made her so angry that she had to quell an urge to stomp her feet on her own doorstep.
She hadn’t seen Cara since her last miscarriage, three years ago. The pregnancy had been progressing perfectly, and Meg had finally let her guard down, believing that this time, things would be different. She was thirty-four and had been through it enough times to know better, but still, she’d made herself believe that she’d paid her dues. When she found out that she’d lost the baby, she didn’t have the heart to call Steve at work and ruin the tenuous happiness he’d allowed himself to feel over the past few weeks. Instead, she just got in her car and drove. She wound up at Cara’s house, without any recollection at all of getting there.
June 2010
Meg knocked softly on the back door and entered the kitchen, finding Cara sitting at the table staring out the window. She walked over and sat down next to her, not really stepping outside of herself long enough to notice that Cara uncharacteristically looked like shit.
“It’s gone,” Meg said. She followed Cara’s gaze out the window, but there was nothing there. It was like she was staring at the wind.
“What?” Cara asked, turning to look at her. For the first time, Meg noticed that Cara was very pale, and her eyes were vacant. Still, there she was, in her white shirt and jeans, her hair brushed, her nails done. Just once Meg wanted to feel like Cara wasn’t an android—like she was capable of sitting around the house all day in her pajamas or going out without a full face of makeup and a strand of pearls. Just once Meg wanted to know that Cara knew what it felt like to unravel. She knew that her anger was misguided, that lashing out at Cara for anything when she had shown up at her house unannounced wasn’t fair.