Tips for Living(24)

Squinting, I flipped down the visor to block the sun as I drove back over the bridge. I caught my reflection in the mirror again. That scratch had grown redder. That mysterious scratch. You never had any physical marks from sleepwalking before. There it was. I’d finally let myself hear the whisper in my psyche. Had I begun sleepwalking again? After twenty-one years without any incidents?

I tuned out the worrying voice, even as the scratch’s unexplained source gnawed at me. So did my hunger. The clock on the dashboard read 10:11 a.m. I hadn’t eaten since Mao’s Chinese take-out shrimp and broccoli the night before. Despite everything, I had an appetite. As I turned off Crooked Beach Road onto the dirt lane that led to my driveway, I looked forward to fried eggs, a hot bath and clean clothes.

I live in the Coop, as it’s known. A white clapboard chicken coop. The long, low, shoe box–like structure sits at the back edge of a former strawberry farm next to a swath of county-owned woods. The landlords are Summer Weekenders, a gay couple whose renovated 1880s farmhouse is on the other side of the property and who had returned to their city residence in early September.

They did a lovely job on the farmhouse, forgoing the typical million-dollar expansion and staying within the existing footprint. They installed solar panels, a copper roof and oversize casement windows, but those cost more than they’d budgeted, and they couldn’t fix up the Coop as they’d planned. No solar for me. I have space heaters and a Danish woodstove, along with lots of old, leaky, wood-frame, six-over-six windows that fill the Coop with clear “vodka” light. The rent is reasonable, the place is charming and has real potential, but it’s freezing in winter.

When I spotted the red Prius parked in my driveway, I almost turned the car around. Grace had used her key to let herself in. As much as I’d wanted to see her earlier, I wasn’t up for her company. I was worn out and wary of questions. Grace is an expert interviewer; I could feel the heat of her grilling already. She’d want to know where I’d been. I was reluctant to admit, even to my best friend, that I’d been spying at the scene of Hugh and Helene’s murder. And that I worried I’d been sleepwalking. And worse . . . No, that was absurd, and I refused to even think about it.

I parked and walked wearily to the front door. As I reached for the knob, the door flew open. Grace stood there talking into her phone.

“She just got here, Ben. I’ll call you later.” She hung up and threw her arms around me. “Nora. I was so worried. You heard about Hugh and Helene?”

“Yes, I did. It’s horrible.”

She released me and stepped back, scowling down at the consequence of our hug: streaks of mud from my trench coat decorated her NPR T-shirt.

“Are you okay? Where were you?”

I hesitated. Was a lie of omission still a lie?

“I went for a drive.”

I scooted around her into the living room, noticing how it had been tidied up. I’d let my housekeeping slide with my depression. There were no clothing and magazines strewn on the wicker couch or kilim-covered floor. The take-out food cartons had been cleared from the pine dining table. The aroma of fresh coffee wafted through the rooms.

Grace followed me inside and shut the door. All this domestic handiwork was hers. In college, she managed to make staying in and doing laundry on a Saturday night seem like a party. Of course, smoking pot always helped.

“You went for a drive? Really?” She evaluated me skeptically. “That explains why you look like you’ve crawled through a sewer.”

I averted my gaze.

“And how you got that nasty scratch under your eye.”

I heard my cell phone—my only phone—ring in the kitchen. Saved by the bell.

“You’ve had about ten calls since I got here,” Grace said, trailing me as I went to fetch it. “One was from Lada, but I didn’t answer because I couldn’t tell her where you were. I’m sure she’s upset.”

The phone sat on the butcher-block kitchen counter next to a pile of mail. Its face read “Unknown Caller.” I silenced the ringer.

“You should call her,” Grace said.

My back was to Grace, blocking her view of Hugh’s letter. It still sat on top of the mail stack. I’d reread it a dozen times but couldn’t make a decision about how to respond. Grace obviously hadn’t noticed the return address or she would have said something. This was not the moment to show her a maddening letter from Hugh. There was no point in letting her know he’d hurt me again, or in stirring up anger at him. I picked the envelope up discreetly and stuffed it in the pocket of my trench coat.

“Nora?”

“What?”

I pivoted and walked back to the living room with Grace still on my tail.

“You should let her know you’re okay.”

“Who?”

“Lada! If, in fact, you are okay. Have you heard one word I said?”

I flopped onto the couch and began the struggle to take off my Wellingtons, twisting and yanking first one, then the other to no avail.

“Talk to me, Nor.”

“Fuck!” I yelled as a boot finally gave way and I pitched it across the room. The toe grazed the framed photograph of my father that sat on my desk and toppled it, filling me with regret. Grace came and stood over me, her brow furrowed.

“Give me that,” she said, pointing to my remaining booted leg.