Heartbroken (9 page)

She gathered up the bag containing the items she’d bought for the island—some cute fleece pullovers and a pair of Keen amphibious shoes. Lulu had complained about Chelsea’s
seriously unsexy
purchases. But there was no one to be sexy for on Heart Island. That was one of the things she liked about it, the complete cessation of all pressure to be cool in any way.

Looking at her BlackBerry, Lulu frowned. Chelsea glanced at the clock; her mom would freak if they were late. She expected Kate to start calling any minute. “Are you coming?”

Lulu was spending the night since her own parents were planning an evening in the city to celebrate their anniversary. Even though the girls spent almost every weekend together, Lulu didn’t seem especially psyched about it. Chelsea suspected that it had something to do with Conner Lange. She knew Lulu had been doing some sneaking out lately. And that wasn’t going to happen at Chelsea’s.

“Yeah,” Lulu said. “Sorry.” She had that tone, angry or sad but trying to hide it.

“What’s wrong?” asked Chelsea.

“Nothing,” she said. She picked up her stuff. “Just my parents being assholes.”

Lulu’s parents were practically ghosts. Her father managed a hedge fund; her mother was a plastic surgeon. They had lots of money but very little time, it seemed, for Lulu. Their family trips were to Europe or exotic tropical places like Fiji. Lulu rarely talked about those trips and never had any pictures to share.

Chelsea looped her arm through Lulu’s, and Lulu dropped her head against Chelsea’s shoulder as they left the mall. Who cared about Adam McKee or Conner Lange when they had each other?

O
utside, Chelsea’s mom was waiting in the idling Range Rover. Kate was staring up through the open sunroof. For a second, to Chelsea, Kate didn’t look like herself. She seemed small and young, almost unfamiliar—a pretty blond woman in a big SUV waiting for something or someone. She looked sad and a little lost. For whatever reason, it caused Chelsea a flutter of anxiety. She used to ask her mother,
Where were you before I was born?
Her mother would tell her about growing up in New York City, going to college, or getting married. It always sounded like one of the bedtime stories Kate made up for her. Because how could her mother be anything or do anything without her? It hadn’t seemed possible.

As she got closer, Chelsea could see that Kate was probably trying to meditate, to take a few calming breaths the way she’d taught Chelsea to do. Now Chelsea did that all the time, when she was freaking out, or overexcited, or trying to make a good feeling last.
I am breathing in
, she’d say to herself as she inhaled.
I am breathing out
. She didn’t know why it relaxed her, made a moment seem to expand, but it did.

Chelsea opened the door, and her mother turned to her with a wide smile and was just her mom again—normal, happy as always to see her daughter. Both Lulu and Chelsea leaned in to kiss Kate. And then the car was filled with the three of them chattering. Both Lulu and Chelsea knew better than to tell Kate about Adam McKee, so they talked about everything else.

Chelsea was wondering what they’d have for dinner (probably pizza, since it was Friday, or Taco Bell, if Brendan got his way again), while her mom and Lulu were talking about Conner Lange.
Kate had seen Conner on the other field while watching Brendan practice before the spaz sprained his ankle. Kate agreed that he was
sooooo cute
.

“But is he smart? Is he a good guy?” Kate predictably wanted to know.

“Oh, yes,” said Lulu, even though Chelsea knew Lulu couldn’t care less about either of those things. “He is.”

Chelsea felt her phone vibrate in her bag. She pulled it out and read the window that had popped up on her screen.

Adam McKee sent you a message
. She didn’t say anything as she opened up Facebook.
Can’t make it to the mall
, he’d written.
But what are you doing tonight?

She felt a jolt of excitement as she quickly stuck the phone in her pocket. She’d tell Lulu later, but she wanted to keep it to herself for a bit. She knew that as soon as she shared it with Lulu or her mother, it would be less special than it was right now, when it was her little secret. A cute guy wanted to know what she was doing tonight. Before anyone warned caution, or Lulu found something to make fun of on his page, Chelsea took a few minutes to enjoy it.
I am breathing in
, she thought.
I am breathing out
.

chapter six

J
oe was half listening to the weather on the radio while answering e-mail on his phone—a habit that annoyed Birdie to no end. There was absolutely no reason not to get the weather from the computer. But there was something that appealed to Joe about listening to the weather forecast on the radio. He favored the foreign-language stations because he fancied himself a polyglot (which he wasn’t; he had a middling knowledge of French, did better with Spanish). Meanwhile, whatever the language of the forecast, he wasn’t really paying attention to it. So he frequently made serious misjudgments about when to take the boat out because he hadn’t quite heard or understood the weather predictions. She would be forced to correct him in order to avoid disaster, which always got them into a screaming row. Birdie spoke fluent French and was quite capable with Spanish.

“How was your swim this morning?” he asked.

“Fine,” she said.

“You weren’t gone long,” he said. She didn’t answer.

“Sounds like the weather will be nice this weekend,” he said into the silence.

The weather was
not
predicted to be nice. There were heavy thunderstorms in the forecast, as was evidenced by the gathering dark in the sky over the mainland. If he’d only look outside, he’d see that. Wasn’t it Benjamin Franklin who said that people were divided into two groups: the weather-wise and otherwise?

When Birdie met Joe—a hundred years ago, it seemed—she
knew on sight that she would marry him. She was at a Christmas party, one that her friends had forced her to attend. They’d showed up at her door—Belle, Patty, and Joan—and lured her from bed with a bottle of champagne and a red party dress “borrowed” from Macy’s. (They’d paid for it with credit. They would hide the tags, be extra-careful with their drinks, and return the dress on Monday.)

She didn’t realize it at the time, but she had been depressed, hiding out in her tiny one-bedroom Manhattan apartment on Bank Street. Depression was a private monster she would battle over and over in her life, and this was her first real taste of it. She had suffered a humiliating split-up from her fiancé, and she was sure she’d never marry. A pall had settled over her life. It wasn’t black but gray. A grayness that leached into every other color, draining her energy and spirit. She was consumed with gray thoughts. She knew she’d languish in the secretarial pool until the day she died. She was certain of it even though she was only twenty-three years old.

“Lying around here isn’t going to make anything better,” said Joanie.

“No, I’d wager it will only make things worse,” agreed Belle.

They were all so pretty and fun—dressed up, hair pinned, lips red, skin white and flawless. Had they really been as beautiful as she remembered them? Or was it that they were all so young, so hopeful, with everything before them?

She allowed them to do her makeup, sweep her long blond hair into a stylish chignon. The dress—even in her doldrums, she had to admit it—was sensational.

“It’s like someone poured you into it,” said Patty. “Oh, Birdie. It’s wonderful.”

Whatever happened to friendship like that? That selfless, cheerful, loving camaraderie? Did it go the way of the bouffant, a silly style that people laughed about now? All Birdie’s close female relationships had fallen away over the years. She wasn’t quite sure why.
That easiness, that sweetness, when they were all on equal footing and just starting out, had turned bitter. Choices turned to consequences, opinions turned to judgments, and admiration turned to envy. Envy curdled everything, like lemon in milk.

And then they were on the chilly streets. Their coats were all awful, practical tweed and wool affairs worn two seasons too long because none of them could afford new. At the Stork Club, the coats were immediately shucked aside like embarrassing relatives from Brooklyn. Of course, they were
all
Brooklyn-born and -raised. But they thought of themselves as Manhattan girls now, leaving the outer boroughs far behind. They had educations and jobs, small apartments in the Village or on the Upper East Side. Men still paid for drinks and meals back then; a girl could live well on very little until she found a husband. For a certain set in 1960, New York City was a candy store.

What Birdie remembered most about that night was how everything sparkled—Christmas lights on the trees, sequins on the dresses, gloss on the lips, and bubbles in the champagne. A jazz quartet played hip renditions of classic carols. And then there was Joe, taller, bigger, than the other men. He didn’t belong; she could see that. He played the game as well as everyone else, but there was something about him that stood apart and above. He had a way of squinting when he looked at people. He could have been amused or disgusted. It was hard to tell. Something about that excited her.

When his eyes fell on Birdie, there was something in his gaze that made her draw in a little gasp. Birdie had been beautiful then. She wouldn’t have said so at the time, but she could see it in photographs of herself. She was slim and strong. The scarlet dress that night, her matching lips: Joe claimed that she cast a spell on him. He walked over to her, abandoning his conversation, as if drawn by a rope through the crowd. The men with whom he’d been talking turned to stare and then started laughing among themselves. She
heard Joan, Patty, and Belle giggle and whisper and drift away. The band was playing a jaunty rendition of “Jingle Bells.” In that moment, Birdie felt lighter, happier, than she had in weeks.

“You’re too pretty to work at our company,” Joe said as he approached her. In those days, it passed as charming.

What did she say to him? She didn’t remember. All she remembered was the feeling she had when she looked into his face. He was strong. He was honorable. He would take care of her. She could see it all there in the square of his jaw, the wide knuckles, the thickness of his neck. She felt washed over by a sense of relief that left her lightheaded. He was the first safe place she had found, and she mistook it for love at first sight. Of course, that was before she knew the truth about love and marriage, about life.

“I
’ve had a call from Teddy,” said Joe. He poured her a cup of coffee, stirred in the perfect amount of half-and-half. He always knew how to make her coffee just right. “He’s not coming.” Joe tried to sound light, but she could tell he was angry.

He hadn’t shaved, she noticed. When they were younger, she used to think he looked so sexy in the morning, before he was all combed and pressed. She hadn’t had those kinds of thoughts about her husband in a very long time.

“Oh?” She felt something grow heavy and sad inside her. When she’d talked to Teddy last week, she’d had a feeling he might cancel. He’d hinted twice about work being hectic.

“Busy with work, can’t get away,” said Joe. “You’d think he had a real job, the way he carries on.”

Teddy owned his own company, a consulting firm—whatever that meant.

“Oh, Joe. You know he has a real job,” she said. “He’s very successful.”

Her husband issued an unkind grunt.

“What is it he does now?” she asked. Teddy had told her about his business. But Birdie honestly didn’t understand what he was talking about—systems and infrastructures.

Joe shrugged, peering down at his phone. He was always staring at the thing as if whatever he saw there was much more interesting than anything going on around him. “Something with computers.”

Birdie believed that Joe knew exactly what Teddy’s company did. He simply, for some mean personal reason, pretended not to. Joe and Teddy had never really gotten along. Even when Teddy was small, Joe seemed to have trouble connecting with his son. As Teddy grew, the boy seemed so delicate, so frail—so
different
in every way from the thick and powerful Burke men. Teddy was slender and more careful, creative and quiet, like the men on Birdie’s side of the family. Whatever early attempts Joe had made with Teddy—catch, ball games, fishing, golf—had generally ended with Teddy weeping in Birdie’s lap.
Why do you have to be so hard, Joe?
Birdie had asked him a thousand times. Joe would rage:
What’s wrong with that boy? He’s like a china doll
.

Joe had worked as an aeronautical engineer for the entirety of his career. He understood meticulous design that led to the creation of a tangible object, preferably something made out of steel, something that defied the laws of nature. To her husband, if labor did not result in a physical product, no work had been done. Teddy couldn’t show his father a solid result of his work, so Joe pretended not to get it. Was it coding or programming? Something like that. It had been lucrative for Teddy, she knew. He was successful. Of course, it wasn’t really about Teddy’s work, was it?

Kate had accomplished almost nothing, and Joe had only praise and words of affection for their daughter.
Oh, our Kate’s so lovely, such a good mother, always stays in touch
—blah, blah, blah. Maybe because Kate was a girl, Joe had expected less from her and, unlike Birdie, wasn’t disappointed or surprised when she never made anything of her life.

“It’s just as well,” said Birdie, though she didn’t mean it. “He’s always very distracted when he’s here.”

The truth was that he was always distracted, even when he wasn’t here. That wasn’t the right word. It was more that he was distant, disconnected. On the phone, he sounded like he was doing or thinking about something else, certainly not interested in anything Birdie had to say. When they were together, she found herself trying to catch his eye. He was forever looking away from her.