The Middle of Somewhere(51)

Without sleep, she would go mad.

Facing away from Dante, she pulled her knees up to her chest and chewed her lip to stop from wailing along with the wind. She rocked herself in time to the pulsing bulge above her head. The pressure pushed against her heart.

A hand on her shoulder. “What’s wrong?” He turned her over. She squeezed her eyes shut, afraid that in the moonlight she might see his pity for her. In a moment, he would want it back.

“I cheated on Gabriel! I cheated on him!”

He pulled his hand away. She opened her eyes. His lips were pursed with concern, but she couldn’t see his eyes. He twisted away. “Oh, Liz.” It came out like the last air in a balloon. “Did he know?”

She pictured her husband’s face on that sweltering night, his disbelief morphing into pain and anger. “Yes—”

“But his family doesn’t know? You’re still friends with them.”

“No one knows! No one!”

The wind bore down once again, as if to drown her out. She had the impulse to leave the tent to meet it, shout at it, run at it. Dare it to snatch her off this earth and take her away into darkness.

He was talking to the ceiling. “I don’t see how you could do this. I know you were unhappy. I understand that now. But this?”

She sat up and threw her hands in the air. “I knew you’d react this way, because nothing’s worse than cheating, right? In your little morality play, loyalty is everything! You don’t get it!”

“What am I supposed to get? That you had your reasons? That he drove you to it?”

“No!” She stuck her fists against her temples. “I told him! I told him and he got up and he got in his car. He got in his car and he crashed it! I told him and then he died!”

She tucked her head to her knees and sobbed. The spasms, like the gasping wind, threatened to crush her. Dante put his arms around her. He held her until the spasms eased. She lifted her head to wipe her face and he zipped himself wordlessly into his bag. She lay down, and waited for the wind to scream across the lake and throw itself at the tent, at her, but it had steadied now, and howled in a single octave, not three. Shivering, she closed her eyes and pulled the bag over her face. She focused on the throbbing pain at her temples. In time, she slept. Her tears dried as frost.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN





The police came to the door the way they do in movies. A man and a woman, he with his hands crossed in front, she with her thumbs in her belt loops, both with serious, guarded expressions, as if showing sadness before delivering bad news was unprofessional. Information first, condolences after. You never know how people will react.

And, as in a movie, Liz knew why they were there as soon as she opened the door. Police don’t stand on your doorstep, unhurried and grim, on the same hot August night your husband stormed out, for more than one reason.

“Is this the residence of Gabriel Pemberton?”

“Yes. I’m his wife.” She almost asked them what had happened—even though she knew—but went along with the script. They were in charge. They had Gabriel. Somewhere, he was lying on—what?—a stretcher, a gurney. There would be blood. His clothes would be torn. She tried to remember what he had been wearing, but couldn’t. Maybe his arm, or his leg was the wrong shape, or detached. Maybe he was still in the car, pinned by the steering wheel, or upside down, hanging from the seat belt like a parachutist. No, they would have taken care of that first, before they came here.

Heat radiated off the concrete landing. She felt it go through her, and put a hand on the doorjamb to steady herself.

The officers glanced at each other. “Do you mind if we come in?”

She turned and lowered herself into the nearest chair. She never sat in that chair. From this new vantage the house appeared unfamiliar. The officers sat on the couch—her usual spot.

They told her what had happened. He’d lost control of the car on Central Boulevard. He might have been speeding. They weren’t sure. They would know more tomorrow. He hit a retaining wall, flipped. They said he was “already gone” when the paramedics arrived on the scene and hadn’t suffered. They offered their condolences.

The woman said, “Can I get you something? A glass of water?”

She shook her head, eyes on the jute rug at her feet, following the pattern of the weave. Over, under, over, under.

The man said, “We need to ask you a couple of questions, if that’s all right.”