Barefoot (9 page)

“I’ll come with you,” Caroline said.

“No, no,” Vicki said. “I’ll go myself.”

“I’ll carry the baby,” Caroline said.

“We’ll be fine,” Vicki said.

“This is all my fault,” Melanie said. “Oh, Vicki, I am so, so sorry.”

“It’s okay, Mel,” Vicki said.

“No, it’s not okay! I should have been . . .”

But Vicki didn’t have time! She turned and hurried for the dunes.

It was hot in the dunes, and Porter’s head drooped. He made a sucking noise against Vicki’s shoulder.

“Blaine!” Vicki shouted. “Blaine Theodore Stowe!”

It went on like this for fifteen minutes, thirty minutes, an hour. Vicki searched every inch of the dunes; they all looked the same, white bowls of sand crowned with eelgrass. Vicki got lost herself a couple of times; she had to climb into the eelgrass (which was just crawling with ticks, she knew) to get her bearings. She called Blaine’s name until she was hoarse. She wandered back out to the street, all the way down to the market, all the way over to Shell Street. No Blaine. Vicki returned to the beach. She was parched, pain seared her lungs; she collapsed on a beach towel under their umbrella. Porter had fallen asleep. She laid him down and hunted through the cooler for water. Even if Blaine were alive, he would be thirsty by now, and hungry. Wherever he was he would be afraid, crying, alone.

Caroline Knox was gone—to her tennis lesson, Vicki thought angrily, though she was relieved. Melanie lay facedown on a towel, her face buried.

“I have to call Ted,” Vicki said. “I don’t know what else to do.”

“This is all my fault,” Melanie said. “I am going to be a terrible mother.”

“No, Melanie,” Vicki said. “Do not say that. Do not think that.”

Vicki dialed home. Ted had promised to clean the attic and get someone to check for powder-post beetles. He would see Brenda’s cell phone number on the caller ID, but he would have no idea what Vicki was about to tell him.

Four rings, then the answering machine picked up. Vicki’s own voice—happy, unconcerned—a voice from another time, before today, before her diagnosis. “You have reached the Stowe residence . . .” The message played in one ear, and in the other ear, Vicki heard the growl of the ocean, like some kind of animal ready to attack. The growl grew louder—something about the sound made Vicki turn. Just as Ted snapped the receiver up, saying in a breathless voice, “Sorry, I didn’t hear the phone. Hello?” Vicki saw the ATV, the smug
Top Gun
smile of the summer policeman, and two little hands clasped around the policeman’s waist. She heard Melanie shriek. And then—a wave from the back of the ATV, like Blaine was the mayor in a parade.

“Mom!” he cried out. “Look at me!”

When Vicki woke up from her nap, Porter’s hand was on her breast and Blaine was curled under her left arm. They had fallen asleep immediately upon returning home from the beach; Vicki hadn’t even bothered to rinse off their feet, and now the sheets were sandy. The room was dark, though Vicki could see golden sunlight in the living room. She eased out of bed, then stood over her children and watched them sleep. In ninety harrowing minutes, her world had shattered and then, like magic, been made whole again. Blaine was alive and well; he’d wandered all the way down the beach throwing rocks into the water. He’d walked well over a mile, the policeman said, but he didn’t seem upset or worried in the slightest.

“I’ve never seen such a brave kid,” the policeman had said. “And he’s got quite an arm. The Red Sox should sign him now.”

The tops of Blaine’s shoulders were sunburned. When he climbed off the ATV he suffered through Vicki’s whimpers and sobs of relief and the tightest hug of his life; then he showed her a handful of shells and asked for his milk. Now, even with robust stage-two lung cancer and thirty-six hours until chemotherapy, Vicki felt like the luckiest woman on earth.

She tiptoed out and shut the door so the boys could sleep awhile longer. Melanie’s door was closed. She had slinked off once they reached home, apologizing again and again, until it was like a joke she’d told too many times. Vicki had done the best she could to assuage Melanie’s guilt, but she knew Melanie would flagellate herself just the same.
It’s my fault. I should have been . . .
Vicki considered tapping on Melanie’s door.
Don’t worry about it. You have enough on your mind as it is. Everything turned out okay.
Vicki put her ear to the door and heard nothing. Melanie was probably asleep.

A note on the kitchen table said,
Gone writing!
From Brenda. Predictable. Brenda swore up and down that this summer would be about helping Vicki, but Vicki knew better. She flipped Brenda’s note over and started to make a grocery list. She wanted to walk to the market to get food for a proper dinner. They couldn’t continue to eat like French college students.

The phone rang, loud and grating. Vicki leapt to answer it before it woke the kids or Melanie.

“Hello?”

A young female voice said, “I’m calling about the ad.”

“Ad?” Vicki said. “I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong number.”

“Oh,” the girl said. “Sorry.” She hung up. Vicki hung up.

A few seconds later, the phone rang again.

“Hello?” Vicki said.

“Hi,” the girl said. “I dialed really carefully. 257-6101? The help wanted? For the babysitter?”

“Babysitter?” Vicki said.

“For the two boys in ’Sconset?” the girl said. “I live in ’Sconset and my parents want me to get a job this summer.”

“We don’t need a babysitter,” Vicki said. “But thanks for calling.”

“Too bad,” the girl said. “It sounded perfect for me. Not too hard or anything.”

“Thanks for calling,” Vicki said. She hung up. The house was silent. Vicki’s brain started to fizz and pop. Babysitter, two boys in ’Sconset, this number? Brenda had placed an ad for a babysitter and hadn’t checked with Vicki? And hadn’t breathed a word about it? Vicki flung open the fridge, hoping to find a cold bottle of wine. No such luck. She wasn’t supposed to drink anyway. What did Dr. Garcia say? Water, broccoli, kale, watermelon, blueberries, beets. But wine wasn’t cigarettes. Vicki opened the cabinets, marveling at her sister’s gall. She was farming out her own nephews!

The front screen door slammed. Vicki looked up. There was Brenda, looking like a supermodel in her bikini top and jean shorts. Holding a yellow legal pad. It was her “screenplay”—a screenplay based on a book that only six other people in the world had ever read, a screenplay that had no prayer of ever being produced. And yet this endeavor was more important to Brenda than caring for Vicki’s children.

“What’s the face for?” Brenda said.

“You know what it’s for,” Vicki said.

Melanie could hear Brenda and Vicki fighting in the living room even as she lay across her supremely uncomfortable mattress with a down pillow over her head. Her leg was throbbing; somehow in the midst of all the commotion over losing Blaine, she had acquired an angry sunburn. Her stomach was sour—she had kept nothing down all day, not even plain bread. And her heart was broken. Melanie pictured it as an apple: sliced down the middle, then into quarters, cored, skinned. She deserved it all, and worse. Yesterday she had fallen while holding the baby, and today she had failed at the simplest child-related task.
Will someone keep an eye on Blaine?
Make sure he doesn’t die, or vanish. But even that had proved too much. Before Peter announced his infidelity, before Melanie learned of the living being inside of her, she had held great visions of herself as a mother. She would buy only wooden toys and only organic produce, she would spend hours reading colorful children’s books with strong messages bought only from independently owned bookstores. She would never yell, never condescend, never pick a pacifier up off the floor, lick it and put it back into her child’s mouth. She was going to do it right. She certainly never imagined getting so caught up in the disintegrating state of her marriage that she lost track of a child completely, that she couldn’t say for certain whether or not that child had wandered away or drowned. It was, Melanie decided, all Peter’s fault, but the result of this thinking only intensified her urge to speak to him. It was almost a physical need, more pressing than being hungry or thirsty. She needed to talk to Peter the way she needed oxygen.

Since she returned home from the beach, she had called him six times at the office, and all six times she had gotten his voice mail. His voice sounded cruelly jovial. “Hi! You’ve reached the voice mail of Peter Patchen, senior analyst for Rutter, Higgens. I’m either on the phone or away from my desk, so please leave a message and I’ll call you back. Thank you!”

The first message that Melanie had left was at 1:28 PM:
Peter, it’s me. I’m on Nantucket with Vicki. I’m staying for the summer, unless you give me a reason to come home. What I mean is, I’m not coming home until you end things with Frances. Okay. Call me. You can call me at the number I left earlier, which is 508-257-6101—or you can call me on this cell phone, which belongs to Vicki’s sister. The number is 917-555-0628. I’d like you to call me, please.

She had lain facedown on the bed and waited until the banjo clock chiming in the living room announced two o’clock. Melanie had left her own cell phone in Connecticut specifically so Peter couldn’t reach her and so she would be less tempted to call him. Ha. She called back.
Peter, please call me. My numbers, once again, are . . .

She had called four other times at half-hour intervals, and on the quarter hour, she called him at their house, where her own voice greeted her. “You have reached the Patchen residence. We are unable to take your call. Please leave a message and your phone number and we will call you back.” Melanie left no message. She called Peter’s cell phone and was shuttled immediately to voice mail.

Peter, it’s me.
And then, in case he didn’t recognize her voice, she said,
Melanie. Please call me at 508-555-6101. Or you can call me on this phone at . . .
She called the cell phone three more times and hung up each time.

Surprise! The phone rang. Melanie’s heart leapt. She studied the number on the display. It was an unfamiliar Manhattan number. The display said
Walsh, J.

“Hello?” Melanie said.

“Brindah?”

Deflation. Disappointment. Not Peter.

“No, I’m sorry. This isn’t Brenda.”

“Vicki?”

“No,” Melanie said. “This is Melanie. I’m a friend of Vicki’s.”

“Oar right.” The voice was beefily Australian. “Is Brindah available?”

Melanie listened. Out in the living room, the fight continued.
Never met such a selfish . . . the world doesn’t revolve around . . .
“She’s not available this very second.”

“No worries. Would you tell her Walsh called?”

“I will,” Melanie said. She paused. Was this the student? He sounded rather old to be the student, but then again, Melanie knew nothing about the student except that he was, in fact, Brenda’s student. “Do you want to leave your number?”

“She has the number. Leaving it again would be pointless.”

Pointless,
Melanie thought. She had left her number again and again, as though it were the lack of a number that was Peter’s problem.

“I’ll have her call you,” Melanie said in an authoritative voice, as though she had the power to make Brenda do a single thing. “I promise she will call you. You can count on me.”

Walsh laughed. “Well, I thank you, Melanie.”

“You’re welcome,” Melanie said.

Walsh hung up. Melanie hung up. The call had only lasted a minute and three seconds, but Melanie felt better. She felt less isolated somehow, knowing that this person Walsh was in New York City trying to reach Brenda. But she also felt pointlessly jealous. Men loved Brenda. Even the young stud policeman had been unable to take his eyes off of her. Melanie sucked in the stale air of her room. She should open the window. But instead she dialed Frances Digitt’s apartment. She didn’t even need to check her book for the number; she had it memorized. Frances Digitt answered on the second ring.

“Hello?”

Melanie wasn’t worried about caller ID since she was using Brenda’s phone. She hung on for a minute, listening for Peter. Was he there? What she heard was a dog barking (Frances Digitt had a chocolate Lab) and what sounded like the baseball game on TV. Dog, baseball. Of course. The irony of the situation was that Frances Digitt was not a woman who had ever threatened Melanie, or any of the other wives at Rutter, Higgens; she was the opposite of a bombshell. She was the girl who beat the boys in races in gym class, the one the boys forgot come seventh grade when all the other girls developed breasts. Frances was small and boyish. She was, Melanie reflected, the only kind of woman who could survive the locker-room miasma of Peter’s office: She was the little sister, but smart as a whip, she knew the market, she did her research, she organized the office football pool and the brackets for March Madness. Everyone assumed she was a lesbian, but Melanie had seen it all along—she was too cute to be a lesbian! She had a certain recklessness that might translate to her being a dynamo in bed. It made Melanie sick just to think about it. She hung up, then pressed Brenda’s phone to her pounding heart. She dialed Frances Digitt’s number again.

“Hello?” Now Frances Digitt sounded irked, and Melanie thought,
You have no right to sound irked. If anyone should sound irked here, it’s me
.

Thus prodded, she said, “Is Peter there?” It was more a question than a request for his presence on the phone, and Frances, predictably, paused. No need to ask who was calling, no need to play games, or so Frances ultimately decided, because she said, “Yes. He is.” She set the phone down a bit too firmly on what Melanie pictured as her cheap, shoddily assembled plastic-laminate-over-plywood side table from IKEA. People in their twenties had no taste.

“Hello?” Peter said, sounding wary.

“It’s me,” Melanie said. And then, in case he still didn’t get it, she said, “Melanie.”

“Hi,” Peter said—and this was the syllable that squashed Melanie’s heart once and for all. He sounded uninspired, uninterested; he sounded caught. Melanie felt like his truant officer, his Sunday school teacher, his dentist.