The Break(68)

The door swings open. It’s James, Louisa’s husband. I’ve met him twice at WTA when he’s been by to bring her flowers or lunch.



“Hi, James,” I say carefully. “Is Louisa all right?”

James’s face is drawn, lines etched from his eyes to his hairline. “She isn’t, not really, but she will be,” he says. He tries to smile, but it doesn’t work. “She said I could bring you back, if that’s okay with you?”

“Of course,” I say, because all I want is to see her.

We walk through the living room into a long, slim hallway lined with a smattering of carefully curated beautiful things: photos of James, Louisa, and other family members; some random vintage ads for perfumes in ornate silver frames; and a few pencil drawings of birds. James knocks on a door, and Louisa’s quiet voice says, “Come in.”

James gently pushes open the door. “Let me know if you guys need anything,” he says before leaving us alone.

I creep into Louisa’s room and see her sitting up in bed. Her eyes are bloodshot and there are still tears on her face.

“Are you okay?” I ask, going to her.

She shakes her head slowly, her eyes on me. “I had another miscarriage,” she says, her voice so soft it breaks me.

My hands cover my mouth. “Oh no, Louisa,” I say through my fingers.

“I was going to tell you about being pregnant today. Because it’s my fortieth, I don’t think I told you that, so I thought it would be fun to celebrate by telling you and Sylvie and a few of my close friends.”

I start crying. “I’m so, so sorry,” I say.

“Me too,” Louisa says, patting the bed beside her for me to come sit. I do. “The miscarriage started last night,” she says. “And I think, you know, I think it’s all done. I have an appointment at my OB in a few hours to make sure. No one ever tells you what a miscarriage is like. I mean, the details of it. You know miscarriage exists because people talk about it somewhat, but no one tells you the details. It’s crazy, June, it’s almost like giving birth, and I just don’t know why no one ever tells you these things, so you’re prepared, and so you could know what to do, and so it wouldn’t be so terrifying and traumatic because maybe you’d be more ready, if that’s even possible . . .”

She starts sobbing. I wrap my arms around her and hold her tight as she cries. I’ve never wanted something so badly for someone else, something I can’t even come close to giving her, and I’ve never seen grief like this up close; I’ve never felt my body so consumed with how someone else feels. Maybe it’s the whole point of being here on this planet; to be close to each other and love each other. Maybe I don’t need to rise to the highest point in the pop culture heavens or have a million Instagram followers to feel happy.

I cry harder into her shoulder and my tears are about her and so much more: some of it just plain gratitude for how she always makes me feel—loved and included. That she would choose to tell me about an early pregnancy, that I’m that important to her . . . I swear Louisa makes me feel more special than anyone has in forever. This is the real kind of special: the kind I should be searching for, not the fake kind that comes with being an adored actress, the kind I’ve been chasing.

Maybe it’s just this.





THIRTY-SEVEN


Rowan. Friday evening. November 11th.


It’s still only early evening, but my mom’s room is pitch black except for the glow of my laptop, and she and Lila are both sleeping soundly. The cops haven’t called me yet, and my fingers shake each time I check my phone.

In the dark I reread my writing over and over. The pages that follow that first section from Josephine detail two women: one who knows a tragedy has happened and is on the brink of insanity trying to get everyone to believe her, and another who stands by and watches carefully, at first observing the mad woman with curiosity, then empathy, then desperation. Suddenly the second woman’s life becomes about helping pull the first woman from the depths of madness. The storylines of the two women dovetail—at first they’re barely acquaintances, and then they become so deeply involved in each other’s lives that they’re ultimately the only ones who can save each other.

My heart beats erratically as I fly through the chapters, unsure of the problem my agent had with the pages. Certainly they’re more fragmented and metaphorical than what I usually write: it’s as though I was writing about a feeling rather than the plot-driven stuff that’s my bread and butter. There’s also an allegory of a lush, deep green forest the first woman enters with her family: four go in, and only three come out. Some of it is stream of consciousness, as Dave said. But some of it is good, and the insidious, dark feeling of it reaches a hand into my brain and twists. There’s something here, an undertone of warning and danger. When I write my novels I write circles around the things that scare me, the things I can’t—or won’t—face in myself or in others. I have a creeping feeling that I’m getting closer to understanding what it is I was trying to say. I remember the night I wrote this—it was like I was in a delirious frenzy. Rain was pelting the window in a rhythmic tap-tap-tap that lulled me somewhere deep, almost sleepy but too wired to pull myself away from the keyboard. And then around midnight I fired off the pages to Dave in an email and powered down my laptop.