One True Loves Page 12

  Because lately it’s happiness and fear, joy and sorrow, guilt and validation.

  It is not simply happiness. Simply fear. Simply joy. Simply sorrow.

  The deafening silence in the room means that my ears can only focus on the sound of the water spraying from the shower in the bathroom.

  I think of the steam building up.

  I think of how warm it must be.

  I think of the way the hot water must feel soothing and comfortable. I think of Sam. The way he looks when he’s wet. I think of the hot water running down his shoulders. The shoulders that carried my obscenely large desk up four flights of stairs when we moved in together. The shoulders that brought up two boxes of books at a time as he teased me that I should stop hoarding books, knowing full well that would never happen.

  Sam is my life. My new, beautiful, wonderful, magical life.

  I get up out of bed and I open the bathroom door. It’s just as steamy in here as I imagined. The mirror is too fogged up to see myself as I take off my shirt and slide out of my underwear. But I know what I’d see if I could: I’d see a short, blond, pear-shaped thirtysomething woman with a pixie cut and a smattering of freckles under her right eye.

  I slide the curtain open just barely and I step into the shower. Sam opens his eyes. I can tell he is relieved to see me. He puts his arms around me and holds me tight. The warmth of his skin warms me up exactly as I knew it would.

  His chin is nestled into my shoulder.

  “I know everything is really complicated right now,” he says to me. “I’ll do whatever you want. I just . . . I need to know what you’re thinking.”

  “I love you,” I say into his shoulders as the hot water hits my face and pastes my hair to my forehead. “I love you so much.”

  “I know,” he says, and then he pulls himself away from me and turns toward the water.

  He washes the shampoo out of his hair.

  With his back to me, I grab the bar of soap and lather it up in my hands. I rub it across his shoulders and down his back. I reach forward and soap up his chest. As the water washes it away, I put my cheek on his back. I put my arms around him. I’d glue myself to him if I could. For the past three nights, I’ve had dreams of wrapping the two of us together in one rope. I’ve dreamed of tying it tight so neither of us can escape. I’ve dreamed of knots so taut they can’t be undone. Rope so thick it can’t be cut.

  Sam puts his arms forward onto the shower wall to steady himself. And then he says, “Just . . . just do me a favor.”

  “Anything.”

  “Don’t stay with me if you want to be with him,” he says. “Don’t do that to me.”

  My dreams, the rope and the knots, I know exactly what they mean.

  You don’t tie yourself to something unless you’re scared you might float away.

  The beginning of December is one of my least favorite times of year in Massachusetts. It always feels like the calm before the storm.

  The air is often thin and frigid, as if it could shatter like glass. But, today at least, it’s warm enough that the light precipitation is just a drizzle of rain and not the beginning of flurries. Although this is a somewhat unwelcome reminder that our first snow is looming.

  I am wearing black jeans, a slouchy cream sweater, tall brown boots, and a black peacoat. I never wondered what I’d be wearing when I saw Jesse again because I never thought it would happen.

  And yet here is the answer to the question I never knew to ask myself: jeans and a sweater.

  There’s no dress code for this sort of thing, for seeing the love of your life who has been missing since your first anniversary.

  One of the loves of your life.

  One of.

  Sam left early this morning and didn’t wake me up to say good-bye. I opened my eyes only when I heard him shutting our front door on his way out. I watched him from the bedroom window. I saw him walk to his car and get in. His face looked stoic but his posture betrayed him. Shoulders slumped, head bowed, he looked like a man at the end of his rope.

  He pulled away before I could call out to him, and when I dialed his number, he didn’t answer.

  Meanwhile, Jesse lands at three. Which means I have the whole morning and most of the afternoon to get through as if this isn’t the most unbelievable day of my life.

  Just before nine, I pull into the parking lot behind Blair Books and make my way inside, turning on all the lights and bringing it to life—the way I do almost every morning.

  My parents are officially retiring next year. But at this point, they have retired all but in name. I run the store. I am in charge. The clerks report to my assistant manager, Tina, who reports to me.

  My dad still oversees the bookkeeping. My mom comes in on Saturday afternoons and works the floor—she wants to know what people are reading and she likes to keep in touch with the same customers she’s grown to care for over the past twenty years.

  Everything else is me.

  Blair Books is the one thing in my life right now that I am unequivocally proud of.

  I may be a bit overwhelmed and sometimes feel like I’m in over my head, but I am good at running this store.

  Sales are staying solid in light of the changes in the industry. Not many people can say that. Just being able to keep the lights on at a time when even big-box chain stores have closed is, obviously, the most important thing. But the truth is that’s only a fraction of where my pride lies. I am, more than anything, incredibly excited about how we are engaging readers.

  We have author events at least twice a month. We have signed copies of best-selling books. We have eleven different reading groups and a writers workshop that each meet here once a month. We have a thriving online business. We have exceptional customer service. We have free doughnuts once a week.

  I am especially proud of the free doughnuts.

  When I’m done tidying up the store this morning, I head to my office and sit down at my desk to check my e-mail. I see a message from my mother at the top of my in-box.

  The subject line says Did You See This? The body of the e-mail is a link to the article in the Beacon about Jesse. It must have gone live this morning. Underneath the link, my mother wrote, Call me anytime today if you need to talk. I’m thinking of you.

  I’m not sure that I want to read the article but I can’t stop myself from clicking.

  Missing Local Man Surfaces on Pacific Island

  BY ELIZABETH IVAN

  Jesse Lerner, 31, from Acton, has been found after having gone missing three and a half years ago.

  Lerner had been involved in a fatal helicopter crash that killed the other three passengers on board. The team was on their way to film in the Aleutian Islands when the helicopter experienced a critical engine failure. Lerner, then 28, was presumed dead. Seven weeks ago, he was discovered at sea by a ship heading to Midway Atoll.

  Midway is a former naval air facility and is currently managed by the United States Fish and Wildlife Service. Though it is far out into the Pacific, a third of the way between Honolulu and Japan, there are anywhere from thirty to sixty FWS members stationed there at any given time.

  Lerner is believed to have spent the majority of his time stranded on an islet within a thousand kilometers of Midway. There has been no official word on how he made his way to safety.

  Hospitalized shortly after rescue, Lerner has recently been cleared for travel and will arrive back in Massachusetts sometime this week, most likely by way of Hanscom Field. His parents, Joseph Lerner and Francine Lerner of Acton, eagerly await his arrival. “We cannot tell you the depth of the pain of losing a child. And we cannot begin to describe the relief in finding out he’s coming home,” said the Lerners in a joint statement.

  Over a decade ago, Lerner made headlines when he beat the high school state record for the five hundred–meter freestyle. A year before he went missing, Lerner married local woman Emma Blair. When contacted, Blair had no comment.

  I finish reading the article and I read
it again. And then again. And then again. I snap out of it only when Tina calls my name.

  “Good mornin’, Emma,” she says to me as she comes in through the back just before ten. With her thick Boston accent, my name sounds more like “Emmer” than “Emma.”

  She pronounces “library” as “libry,” calls water fountains “bubblahs,” and leaves work on time so she’s not late for “suppah.”

  Boston accents are warm and cozy and wonderful to me. When I hear people make fun of them on TV, I always wonder if they’ve ever been here. So many people in Massachusetts don’t even speak with a Boston accent, and the ones who do would never pahk they-ah cah in Hahvahd Yahd.

  There’s nowhere to park in Harvard Yard.

  “Good morning, Tina,” I say.

  Tina is the sort of employee you search high and low for. She’s an empty-nested stay-at-home mom who loves books more than anyone I’ve ever met. She is sweet to everyone, but firm with people who are unkind. She misses her kids, who are all in college, and works here to busy her mind. I don’t think she or her husband needs the money she makes. It’s not that I’ve asked, it’s just that she uses at least a quarter of her paycheck every week to buy books with her discount.

  When I start to get overwhelmed by all that there is to do running this store, it is Tina who I count on.

  The other thing that I like about her is that she has absolutely no interest in being my friend. We work together. I am her boss. We are kind to each other and occasionally share a laugh in the stockroom. That’s the beginning and the end of it.

  When I first started managing people, I had a hard time setting boundaries and expectations. I wanted everyone to like me. I wanted the people here to feel like they were part of a family—because that is what this store has always been to me. Family. But business doesn’t work like that. And I don’t need my employees to like me. I need them to respect me and do their jobs well.

  I’ve learned that lesson the hard way a few times, but at least I can say I’ve learned it. Now, I have a group of employees who might sometimes go home and complain about me but take pride in their jobs and run a great bookstore.

  Today I am especially grateful that my employees are not my friends. I know that Tina reads the Beacon. I’m sure she read the article. But I know she will not ask me a single thing.

  When the Acton Ladies Reading Society comes in at eleven to start their book group, I begin to get anxious.

  Jesse’s plane lands in four hours.

  Jesse, my Jesse, will be home today.

  I dropped him off at LAX three years and seven months ago and I will be at the airfield this afternoon when he lands.

  I am not good at my job for the hours between noon and two. I am scatterbrained, unfocused, and impatient.

  I ring up a woman for $16.87 and when she hands me a twenty-dollar bill, I give her $16.87 back.

  A man calls asking if we have any copies of Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close and I tell him, “Yes, we carry all of Jonathan Lethem’s books.”

  When I see Mark, the only one of my employees whom I would say classifies as a book snob, come to relieve me, I am the very definition of relieved.

  It’s time to go.

  I can go.

  I can get out of here.

  As I gather my things and take a look at myself in the bathroom mirror, I regret, for a moment, that I’m not better friends with Tina. It would be nice to look at someone and say, “OK, how do I look?” And have them say, “You look great. It’s all gonna be fine.”

  I consider calling Marie when I get to my car. She might be the perfect person to give me whatever sort of pep talk a person needs before they go meet their long-lost husband. But when I pick up my phone, I’m sidetracked by a text from Sam.

  I love you.

  It’s the sort of thing we text to each other every day, but seeing it now, it is both life-affirming and heartbreaking.

  I stare out the windshield, stunned at what is happening to my quiet and stable life.

  I have a husband and a fiancé.

  I turn the ignition, start my car, and head out of the parking lot.

  After years without him, the man I lost is coming home.

  I pull into the airfield to see that the parking lot is empty. I check the time. I’m eighteen minutes early.

  I fidget in the car, unsure how to contain all of the nervous energy in my body. And then my phone erupts with the sound of my ringtone and I see Olive’s face on my screen.

  I answer.

  “How are you doing?” she asks, even before saying hello.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “Is he home yet?”

  “He will be soon. He’s supposed to land in fifteen minutes.”

  “Jesus,” she says.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “What can I do?”

  This is Olive’s go-to mode of function. What can I do? It’s a wonderful quality in a friend. It means that she is always the one that is clearing the plates when she’s staying at your house. She is always the one sending thoughtful gifts and checking in on you at opportune moments. But in a situation like this, she’s not in her element.

  Because there is nothing for her to do.

  There is nothing to be done.

  All of this just . . . is.

  “Can I at least send you flowers?” she says.

  I smile. “I don’t think flowers are going to help me deal with the fact that I have a husband and a fiancé at the same time,” I tell her.

  “What you’re describing is completely absurd,” she says. “Flowers help with everything.”

  I laugh. “Thank you,” I say, “for managing to be funny right now.”

  “And thank you for thinking that joking about intense things is appropriate,” Olive says. “Tracey does not agree.”

  Tracey is Olive’s girlfriend. I have to say that their pairing makes absolutely no sense to me. Tracey is serious and erudite and corrects other people’s grammar. She’s regal, thin, and gorgeous. Whereas the best part of Olive, to me, has always been that she says whatever pops into her brain, eats whatever is in front of her, and will try anything you propose.

  Sam easily explains it away by saying that opposites attract, but I’m still digging for some piece that I’m missing. Sam must say to me, “Do we really have to keep talking about Olive and Tracey?” at least once a month.

  “Do you think he is OK?” Olive says. “I mean, I know he’s alive and they say he’s healthy enough, but do you think he’s going to show up and have gone mad? I mean, wouldn’t you? Three years alone? He was probably living off of coconuts and talking to volleyballs.”

  “This isn’t helping,” I tell her. “This is the opposite of helping.”

  “Sorry. I’ll shut up.”

  “No,” I say. “Don’t shut up. Just stop talking about how my husband is probably mentally unstable. Talk about something else. I have time to kill until everyone gets here and I’m afraid if I have to kill it alone, I’ll be the one that’s mentally unstable.”

  Olive laughs. “Like I said, you keep a good sense of humor in a crisis.”

  “I wasn’t joking,” I tell her.

  And then we both start laughing because that’s the funniest thing of all, isn’t it? How serious this is, how unfunny it is.

  Just as I’m laughing my hardest, I see a white SUV pull into the parking lot and I know, even before seeing the driver, that it is Jesse’s parents.

  “Ah,” I say to her. “I have to go. Francine and Joe are here.”

  “Oh, my God,” Olive says. “This all sounds so uncomfortable.”

  “A bit, yeah,” I say as I turn off the car.

  “I mean, when was the last time you talked to them?”

  “I basically haven’t since he disappeared,” I tell her. The three of us kept up the pretense of family for a few months, calling one another on holidays and birthdays. But that faded quickly. To be honest, I think it was too painful for all of u
s. For the past few years, we’ve lived in the same town and not seen each other except for the occasional run-in at the grocery store.

  “All right, wish me luck dealing with this. I gotta go.”

  Olive has a very bad habit that I never noticed until we moved away from each other and had to conduct our entire relationship over the phone. When you say you have to go, she says OK and then talks for another half hour.

  “OK,” she says. “Good luck. I’m here for you. Is Sam okay? How’s he doing?”

  “Sam is . . .” I don’t know how to finish the sentence and I don’t have time to. “I don’t know. I really have to go,” I say. “Thank you for calling. I don’t know how I would do this without you.”

  “I’m here anytime, you know that,” Olive says. “If there is anything I can do, please let me know.”

  “I will,” I say. “I promise. All right, I’ll talk to you soon.”

  “Talk to you soon. Are you and Sam definitely going through with the wedding? I mean, at this point everything is up in the air, right?”

  “Olive!” I say, losing my patience.

  “Sorry,” she says, realizing what she’s doing. “I’m being such an Olive right now.”

  I laugh. “You kind of are,” I say.

  “OK, I’m going. I love you. I’m here for you. I won’t even ask how Sophie and Ava are because I know you don’t have time.”

  “Great. Thank you. I love you. Good-bye.”

  “Bye.”

  When she hangs up the phone, I realize how alone I am. For a moment, I thought the problem was just that I needed to get Olive off the phone. Now, I remember what the real challenge is.

  I get out of my car. Francine waves as she sees me.

  I wave back and start walking over to them.

  Francine is wearing a fitted burgundy dress with a navy peacoat. Her wavy dark brown hair just grazes her shoulders.

  She hugs me, firmly and passionately, as if she’s missed me all these years. I pull away from her just as Joe puts his arms around me. He looks like he’s dressed for church. Gray slacks, light blue button-down, navy blue blazer. I notice that he has started losing his hair. His face has low valleys in places that used to be plains.