The Middle of Somewhere(92)

The last ember of twilight lingered. Liz could just make out the half circle of the screen door.

Dante said, “I’ve been wondering about something since you told me.” She held her breath. He went on. “When you knew you were pregnant and were deciding what to do, did you think about me at all?”

“Yes. I felt awful for you right away. And ever since.”

“Because you knew you wanted an abortion.”

“I didn’t want it at all. And I didn’t think in a logical way.” She searched for the right words. The true ones. “I panicked.”

He exhaled sharply in disbelief. “I was around you, Liz. Almost the whole time, except for that short trip. I didn’t see you panicking.”

“No. You wouldn’t have. I don’t realize it myself sometimes.”

“You could have told me that. Exactly that. ‘I’m pregnant and I’m panicking.’ It would have been a start.”

“Followed closely by the end.” She rolled on her side to face him in the darkness. “If I had managed to say that, it wouldn’t have changed what you wanted to do.”

“But it was my decision, too.” His voice was hushed. “It was also my child.”

“I know. You deserved to know. But can you honestly say we would have discussed anything other than my impending motherhood?”

He lay very still. “Probably not. I would have done everything I could to have that child with you.”

Tears pooled in her eyes. She let them fall. “Can’t you see, Dante? You’re entrenched in your beliefs. And I’m entrenched, too. In, I don’t know—my fear. There’s no place for us to work it out. There’s no middle ground.”

“Fear? It seems more like independence to me. You do things your way and do them alone. Keeping things to yourself. You were brought up that way and nothing’s changed. All those secrets in your marriage, then having an abortion and not telling me, or anyone.” He paused. “Did you tell anyone, Liz?”

“No.”

“Not even Valerie?”

“No.”

“Because you were ashamed?”

“Because I couldn’t tell you first. Because I knew it would come to this.” She turned away and chewed her lip. Each breath snagged in her throat. She strove to calm her breathing, to clear her mind. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “I’m trying to do the right thing now, Dante. I realize it will never be enough, but I’m trying.”

“I wish you had come to me. Or that you felt you could.” His voice grew hoarse. “I don’t want to become my father, who stands with his beliefs like a king with his army.”

Liz reached across to stroke his cheek. His beard was so much softer than it looked. “Maybe the world is simpler for him.”

He took her hand in his. “He’s skilled at trimming the pieces that don’t fit without bothering about the reason.”

She knew he was thinking of his sister, Emilia, and himself. “That doesn’t sound like you.”

Dante held her hand against his chest and tucked the sleeping bag around it. “We should sleep. Good night, Liz.”

“Goodnight, Dante.” She wanted to say “Te amo” but could not. What if he said nothing in response? In that moment, she could have poured herself into him. But a splinter of doubt, hard and sharp as glass, remained. He might not want her.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“I know.”

She closed her eyes, having said everything her heart knew to say, and wandered along the border of consciousness. She pictured their tent as viewed from far above, the regularity of the dome the only hint it did not belong to the jumble of granite chunks and slabs surrounding it. Somewhere, perhaps near Guitar Lake, was the wedge of the Roots’ tarp. The brothers were under it, like cockroaches. She willed them to remain.





CHAPTER THIRTY





Liz lay awake, expecting the alarm at any moment or, rather, dreading it. The exposed part of her face was numb. It had to be the coldest morning so far. She burrowed deeper into her sleeping bag.

The alarm sounded. The trumpeting of reveille, over and over. She sat up, her back stiff.

Dante silenced the trumpets. “You sleep well?”

“Yes, finally. You?”

“Yes. It was heaven.”

“It’s freezing. I’m hiking in my leggings until it warms up.”