At Last (The Idle Point, Maine Stories)(53)

"I don't want to know any more," Gracie cried. All of her pretty stories were being smashed under his heel. "Please stop—"

"We had it all worked out. I would leave Ruth and Noah well-provided for. She would let Ben down as gently as she could and you—"

"No! Please..."

"—would be with us."

She tried to leave the room but he stepped in front of her, blocking her way. They were almost the same height. Both tall, both lean, both brown-eyed.

"Do you understand now, Graciela?"

She pushed against his chest but he didn't budge. "I don't care about anything you have to say. It's old news. It doesn't matter anymore."

"We were going to be together, the three of us. That's where she was going the day she died. We were going to be a family."

"She wouldn't do that. She would never have taken me away from my father." Ben hadn't been drinking then. They had been a happy family.

"She wasn't taking you away from your father, Graciela; she was taking you to him." He forced her to meet his eyes. "I am your father."





#





Done, Simon thought, as he left Gracie behind. He had seen her dreams crumble with his own eyes.

He waited for the elation but so far there was none. Where was the sense of payback he had sought for so long. That Mona had died and her daughter lived... unfair... more than unfair... unthinkable... she had ruined everything the girl had... better she had never been born... that's why Mona stayed with that drunk she'd married... for the child... for that plain and forgettable child...

Hot. Why was it so hot in the car? He fiddled with the air conditioning. Beads of sweat dripped down his temples and down his cheeks. His shirt stuck to his back. He hated the heat... felt better when it was cold out... brisk, he called it... heat made him queasy... dizzy... hard to focus on the road... pull over for a minute...maybe call Ruth... the car phone... it's somewhere... that's what he should do... catch his breath... catch his breath... catch





#





Keep moving, Gracie. Don't stop. Put your bags in the trunk. Leave the house keys on the kitchen table with the letter for Ben. Now you know why he drinks, why he does everything short of putting a gun to his head in order to stop the memories. Of course you can't tell him that. You can't tell anyone anything at all because if you do you'll be forced to believe it and right now that's more than you can take. Isn't it enough that your heart is breaking and there's nothing anyone can do to make it whole again?

Don't think.

If you think, you'll go crazy. If you think, you'll start crying and you'll never stop.

Forget all the sweet stories. Forget the mother you thought you knew. The mother you dreamed about. The father who broke your heart. Don't think about his pain because if you let it seep into your skin you'll never be free of it. Forget everything that made you who you are because it is all a lie.

Write a letter to Noah. You can leave it here on the kitchen table because you know he will come looking for you. You wrestle with each word, but what can you say now that could possibly matter? Let him go. Don't burden him with questions. Tell him it's you, all your fault, tell him that you thought you could do it but you couldn't leave everything behind, school and work and all your dreams of a future to call your own. Tell him that you wish him Paris and sidewalk cafes and garlicky wine-soaked lunches with Hemingway's ghost. Tell him you wish it could have been different but maybe you had been a fool to ever believe it would end any other way.

And then just tell him goodbye.





#





Five o'clock came and went.

Five-fifteen.

Quarter to six.

By six o'clock Noah was convinced something had happened to Gracie and he climbed back behind the wheel of his sports car and started toward her house. Damn it. Why hadn't he pushed the issue and picked her up at home the way he'd wanted to in the first place. What if Ben had come home, drunk and pathetic, and begged her to stay and help him. She didn't need that. She shouldn't have to deal with it. Or maybe that old car of hers had finally fallen apart and she was stuck in the driveway, hoping he would show up.

The roads were clear. It was the lazy end of summer when everyone moved more slowly than usual. Tourists stayed at the beach past sundown. Townies headed over to Hidden Island or one of the other secret spots. He'd never fit in with either group, a stranger in both camps which was a lot like the way he felt at home. More like a visitor than a real member of the family.