The Break(33)

I look at Dave’s number and feel myself relax a little. Dave Larson is my literary agent and pretty much family at this point. He’s been with me for a dozen years or so, ever since I sent him something I wrote my senior year of college. We didn’t sell that first novel, but he stuck with me. “How are you?” he asks when I answer my phone. His voice is so careful. Everyone’s is lately.

“I’m all right,” I say. “Well, I’m at a headshrinker right now, but besides that I’m just fine.” I trust Dave with my deepest confidences and my entire career. This is not a typical experience for all writers and their agents, but it is mine.

“Should I let you go?” he asks.

“No,” I say quickly. “We’re just waiting. I’ll hop off when she comes and gets us.”

Dave’s quiet a moment on the other end of the line.

“The pages you sent me, Rowan,” he finally says, but then his voice trails off. It makes me nervous. I swivel on Sylvie’s counter stool, more uncomfortable by the second. I think back to the writing frenzy I was in last week. I pressed send on that email to him having barely reread my work. Lila had fallen asleep in her bassinet and I felt a starburst of energy, the itch to write so strong I chose it over brushing my teeth/showering/cooking or any of the other items on the long list of things I’m supposed to do when the baby sleeps. I don’t think it’s mania or anything diagnosable, but it’s almost like a fire in my feet that spreads through me right into my fingertips, and then I need to write right away or else.

Or else what?

I’m not sure.

“These new pages are very unlike you,” Dave says, his words soft.

“Oh,” I say, trying to exactly remember the work, the feeling of it. There was a thick forest with wild threats at every turn, and a family of four who went deep inside it. Only three of them made it out.

“I like it very much, don’t get me wrong,” Dave says. “The writing itself is beautiful. I just, it feels so stream of consciousness, so unlike most of your writing. Some of it . . . some of it doesn’t really make much sense, Rowan, so I thought maybe you could let Gabe take a look at it.”

He’s never suggested this—not once in a dozen years.

“What does Gabe have to do with this?” I ask. It’s a strange thing to say with Gabe sitting right next to me, but like I said, Dave and I run deep. Gabe knows this. He barely turns to look at me, he’s so focused on rubbing Lila’s back.



The line is quiet again. And then Dave says, “Rowan, how about you take some time. For you and the baby. No one is expecting new work from you.”

“Okay,” I say numbly, embarrassed.

“Do you need anything from me?” Dave asks. “Is there anything I can do for you? Anything at all, you know I’m here for you.”

I do know he’s here for me. But what I need is my mind back, my postpartum hormones to level out, and my nipples to stop hurting so badly when I nurse—among other things—and that’s not something he can do. (I’d also like a phone call or a text from June, telling me she’s okay. I texted her last night and tried to sound calm and cool. I started with how nice it was to see her in the café, and then when she didn’t respond I came out with it and asked if she was all right. She didn’t text back.) “There’s nothing I need from you,” I say to my agent, trying to keep my voice from letting on how bad I feel.

Sylvie’s opening the door, back again. She looks sheepish.

“I’ve got to go,” I say into the phone. “My therapist is here.”

We hang up. Sylvie compliments Lila’s beauty and then tells us to follow her. I must be somewhat less paranoid, because I feel less like Sylvie is trying to figure out if I’m a fit mother and more like she might be trying to help me. We follow her through the door behind the kitchen into an office with neutral furniture and soft edges—pillows with tassels and a circular, tufted white coffee table. I scan the diplomas on the wall. I wonder if June’s boss, Louisa, goes out to drinks with Sylvie, and if Louisa spills her problems. I don’t picture Louisa with her doting husband being the kind of person who has too many problems, but what do any of us really know about each other? Practically nothing.

I’ve always liked Louisa, but she only represents actors, so we haven’t had much interaction with her at WTA. Sometimes we see her out and about at WTA events and parties. When I called her last night about June there was so much worry in her voice. “Are you okay, Rowan?” she asked me, as if I was the one who’d gone missing, and then Gabe took the phone away to tell her what we knew about June. But Louisa hadn’t seen June at all, not since the day before she went missing, when she abruptly told Louisa she needed some time off. Gabe said Louisa sounded kind of pissed, like June leaving came out of nowhere. But I’d bet it was hurt, not anger. Maybe, like me, Louisa had become attached to June.

“Sit here, Rowan,” says Sylvie, gesturing to a beige settee. And then she surprises me: she motions for Gabe to sit on a different sofa, far enough away that I couldn’t reach for his hand even if I wanted to.

“Let’s talk about the birth,” she says. She takes a seat equidistant from us, like the tip of an iceberg. She folds her hands in her lap and waits for me to start talking.