The Invisibles (18 page)

“A waxing gibbous,” she said. “Two more days, and it'll be full.”

“A waxing what?” Ozzie asked.

“A waxing gibbous,” Nora repeated. “That's what it's called at this stage. It won't be completely full until Monday.”

“Huh.” Ozzie sat back, obviously placated. “You know, for all my screaming and yelling about the moon back then, the only phase I ever got around to learning anything about was the full
one.” She shrugged. “Pathetic. So obvious. Well, whatever it is, it's fucking gorgeous.”

“Oh my God, I have a great idea.” Monica clapped her hands together. “We should have an Invisibles meeting!” She opened her eyes wide, as if letting everyone in on an enormous secret. “I know the moon's not completely full, but we're leaving tomorrow, and when are we going to have the chance to do this again? Let's go out in the backyard and do one. Just for old times' sake.”

Four pairs of eyes drifted from face to face, gauging one another's reactions. Nora could tell their interest was piqued. She herself felt like her heart would burst.

“But we don't have anything,” Grace said. “To share, I mean. You know, of our own.”

“What're you kidding me?” Ozzie's eyes opened wide. “You've got about ten original paintings hanging twenty feet away! Go take one of them off the walls and bring it out here!”

Grace laughed, and for a moment Nora thought she had only imagined the sound. But then Grace stood up and laughed again. It resonated under the pale light, fragile and melodious. “All right,” she said. “I will.”

“Well, I
really
have nothing to bring to the meeting.” Monica looked mournful. “I mean, I don't even cook anymore, much less bake. Liam and I either go out every night or order something in.”

“Who says it has to be the same thing you brought to our old meetings?” Ozzie said. “Shit, we were teenagers back then. You can't tell me that in all this time, you haven't figured out something else that you can do well.” She caught herself, and Nora could see her mentally backtracking on her choice of words. “I
mean, look at you, Monsie. There's gotta be twelve million things you're an ace at these days.”

Monica looked up at the ceiling. “Well,” she said slowly, “I guess there is one thing I could share.”

“Perfect.” Ozzie turned her head. “What about you, Norster? You in?”

Nora nodded. “I guess so. I'll have to—”

“And even if you want to share something else of yours, can you give us a first line, too? Just because I love them so much and because this whole visit will have been worth it if I can hear one again?”

Nora blinked, her heart swelling. “I told you I don't do that anymore.”

Ozzie leaned in close. “I don't believe you,” she whispered.

Nora paused, studying the vibrant starburst pattern around Ozzie's pupils. Then she leaned in, pressing her forehead against Ozzie's and closed her eyes.

“All right,” she said softly after a moment. “I can probably come up with something.”

It was lie number six.

She had thought of a first line for a possible Invisibles meeting before she even boarded the plane.

T
he women settled themselves in a circle on the far right-hand side of Grace's yard; the spot itself, with its soft grass, an overhanging lilac tree bough, and an uninterrupted view of the moon, seemed to have been waiting just for them. A small pile of sticks had been arranged next to the candle Ozzie brought out and centered in the middle of the circle. Monica and Grace giggled as they crossed their legs and then giggled some more. Nora wondered if they were too high to be participating in such a solemn affair, if in fact all of them were. Ozzie withdrew a lighter from inside the breast pocket of her shirt and lit the candle. The light from the flame danced over the women's faces, alternately shadowing and illuminating their features. Around them, the crickets chirped ceaselessly, as if trying to relay a message.

Ozzie straightened up and looked around the circle. “We are here to commence the thirty-first meeting of The Invisibles.”

“The thirty-first?” Monica echoed. “Where the hell did you
get that number?” She had brought the bottle of wine out with her; it rested against her hip, corked and slightly tilted.

“I'll tell you exactly where I got that number.” Nora wondered if the look Ozzie shot Monica was the same one she used on her children when she was trying desperately to be patient. “We had an Invisibles meeting every month when we lived at Turning Winds. Twelve months for two and a half years makes thirty meetings. That means that this makes our thirty-first.”

Monica and Grace exchanged a look and then dissolved into giggles again.

Ozzie rolled her eyes. “Can we begin now?”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

Nora nodded.

“All right.” Ozzie gestured with her chin. “Monsie, do you remember the rules?”

“Of course I remember the rules.” Monica grinned and then grew solemn. She closed her eyes and rested both hands on her knees. Ten seconds passed. Twenty. Thirty. Monica was still silent.

“Monica?” Ozzie pressed.

“Hold on!” Monica didn't open her eyes. “I just need a minute. It's been a long time.”

Ozzie dropped her head. It was the second time, Nora thought, that Monica had put her in her place.

“Rule number one.” Monica raised her head and spoke in a loud, clear voice. “Never speak of The Invisibles outside of this circle. To anyone. Ever. Rule number two: Members must always bring something of themselves to share at every meeting. Rule number three: Stick wishes are private, unless a member wants to
discuss it with the rest of the group. No stick wish—no matter how weird—will be judged. Failure to abide by any said rules can result in immediate dismissal.” She opened her eyes on the last word and gasped. “I remembered all of it, didn't I? I can't believe it! I remembered every freaking word!”

All of them laughed, including Nora.

“Great job.” Ozzie gave her a wink across the circle. “Okay, now we have to share something of ourselves. Who wants to go first?”

Grace raised her hand, only to lower it and then raise it halfway again. “I guess I'll go.” She reached next to her, centering a small framed print in the middle of her lap. Even in the dark, Nora could tell it was one of the bruises.

“This is
Melancholy
,” Grace said. “It's the first of a six-part series I did a while ago.”

“There are six
Melancholy
s?” Ozzie asked.

Grace turned the painting around. The expression on her face darkened, as if she were seeing it for the first time. “This is the only
Melancholy
. There's also
Staid
,
Pulse
,
Mania
,
Spiral
, and
Void
.”

A chill ran over the tops of Nora's arms, and she shivered.

“What do they all mean?” Ozzie asked gently.

“Nothing, really. Just what I was feeling at the time.”

“Where does
Melancholy
fit in with all the rest of the series?” asked Monica. “I mean, what number is it?”

“Second to last,” Grace said. “Number five.”

“Are the other ones in the series hanging up in the house?” Nora asked.

Grace nodded. “There's one in every room. Henry framed
them all for me and hung them up. He says they're work to be proud of.”

“It
is
work to be proud of,” Nora said, fighting off her alarm. She knew now what bothered her. The paintings had such different names. But every one of them looked the same: a pulsing bruise in a white, screaming sky. Every one of them was “Melancholy.” She had a feeling that Grace had been depressed for a much, much longer time than any of them knew. “You've always had a way of being able to transfer what you feel onto the canvas, Grace. It's amazing.”

“Petal,” Grace said softly, placing the painting back down on the grass. “Please.”

Nora stared at the grass, her cheeks burning. An owl hooted somewhere in the distance, and out in front of the house, a swath of headlights swelled and then dimmed as a car sped by.

“Okay,” Ozzie said. “Who's next?” She raised her eyebrows in Monica's direction. “Mons? You up?”

“All right.” Monica began to giggle. She slid the bottle of wine into her lap. The cork made a bright popping noise as she pulled it out of the neck, and she laughed again. Nora tensed. There was more than half a bottle left. She wasn't going to chug the rest of the wine in front of them, was she? Surely Monica was above fraternity tricks.

“What the hell are you up to?” Ozzie asked.

Instead of answering, Monica raised an eyebrow. Slowly, she lowered her face over the top of the bottle. It took Nora a moment to realize that the entire neck of the bottle was in Monica's mouth, and then another twenty seconds before she understood what Monica was actually doing. Up and down, up and down.
Monica's lips and tongue moved over the glass neck so smoothly that Nora might have been in awe if she had not first been so disgusted.

“Oh. My. God.” Ozzie guffawed. “Monica Ridley.
Really?
”

Grace giggled hysterically. “Keep going, keep going! I could use some pointers!”

Nora tried to giggle as well, to prevent suspicion, but it came out awkwardly, like a cough. On and on Monica went, saliva dripping from the corners of her mouth now, her eyes locked in a heavy, glazed state as the minutes ticked by. Nora shut her eyes as the women continued to scream and laugh. It was not their fault that she had never told them about Daddy Ray. They were the last ones to blame for what she was feeling inside and she knew—she knew this to her core—that if she had ever told them the truth, none of them, not one single one of them, would be doing this in front of her now.

After a lifetime, it was over. Monica finished with a flourish, removing her mouth with a loud, sucking sound, and then raising the bottle high in the air.

“Bravo!” screamed Ozzie.

“Encore!” giggled Grace.

Nora clapped and tried to smile.

Monica wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I know it's not very ladylike,” she said, “but it's also something I'm really,
really
good at.”

Grace and Ozzie laughed again. “No one said we had to be ladies here tonight,” Ozzie said. “I, for one, am duly impressed.”

“Ditto!” Grace clapped again.

The three of them glanced over at Nora, and from the expression
on their faces, Nora got the faint impression that they had forgotten she was there.

She tried to laugh, but it came out like a squawk. “Way to go, Mons.” Her voice caught in her throat, squeezed up like a dishrag.

“Nora Walker.” Ozzie straightened up from her slouched position. “Tell me you've never given a guy a blow job.”

Behind them, the crickets screamed.

“Ozzie,” Grace said. “Don't.”

“You don't have to be so vulgar about things all the time, Ozzie,” Nora said. Wait, had that been her? Had those words actually come out of her mouth? From the look on Ozzie's face, they had. And they'd registered, too.

“I'm sorry.” Ozzie looked as if Nora had just slapped her. “I didn't mean to be rude, Nora. Really.”

Nora put her hand on top of Ozzie's. She left it there for a moment and then took it away again. “How about you? Are you going to tell us a joke?”

“Oh, I've graduated a little bit from jokes.” Ozzie's face relaxed itself again. “I thought I'd use another skill I've honed over the years.”

“Ooooh!” Monica clapped her hands. “Are you going to read our palms?”

“I thought I would. Although I can't do everyone's. We'd be here all night. But if someone wants to volunteer . . .” She grinned as Monica stuck her hand up and began waving it back and forth. “I thought you said were afraid of things like this, Monsie.”

“I am,” Monica sounded slightly out of breath. “But I trust you.”

“All right.” Nora and Grace leaned in as Ozzie took Monica's hand in her lap and held it up by the wrist. “Okay, first we'll look at the size of the whole hand.” The candle flame illuminated Monica's thin fingers and beautiful nails; they shone in the light like tiny pink shells.

“It's small,” Grace volunteered. “And so feminine. God, Monica, every single part of you is just exquisite.”

“Oh, honey, thanks.” Even in the dark, Nora could see Monica beaming.

“A very small hand,” Ozzie conceded. “Especially in relation to the rest of the body, which is incredibly long.”

“Is that a good thing?” Monica sounded worried.

“None of this is good, and none of this is bad,” Ozzie said. “It's just what is. That's all.”

“Well, what does a small hand mean?” Monica insisted.

“Generally, a small hand means that a person is more active, that they spend less time thinking about things and just go do them instead. It also means you're emotional, and a little bit naïve. Especially when it comes to money issues.”

“Oh.” Monica looked thoughtful. “Well, I guess that could be me.”

“Okay, now we'll look at your palm lines.” Ozzie pointed to the three most obvious lines running the width of Monica's palm. “You've got a nice long life line, which is always good. Your head line isn't as long as it could be, but then . . .” Ozzie paused, maybe unwilling to say more.

“The head line is for intelligence?” Monica asked.

Ozzie nodded, pressing her lips together.

Monica sighed. “It's fine. Keep going.”

“All right. This top horizontal one is your heart line.” Ozzie winced and then ran her fingertip up and down the length of it. “From the length and deepness of this one, I can tell you that you have not met the real love of your life yet. But you will later.”

Monica pulled her hand away as if she'd just been burned. “What are you talking about? Liam is totally the love of my life. Are you saying we won't last?”

“No. What I said was that you haven't met the real love of your life yet. The length of your love line indicates that you won't meet him until you're older. Whether or not that turns out to be Liam remains to be seen.”

“But then how could it be Liam?” Grace asked. “I mean, if you said she hasn't met the real one yet?”

Ozzie shrugged. “Maybe they'll meet up again later. Maybe Liam will be different somehow. Changed. I don't know. I'm just reading the lines. And that's what your love line is indicating.”

Monica rubbed the inside of her palm with her thumb, as if trying to erase the lines. “Damn it,” she whispered. “That's exactly why I've never done any of this crap before.”

“Here's the thing about palmistry,” Ozzie said. “All it does is clarify things that we already know. Even if we aren't one hundred percent conscious of knowing it.” She tapped the side of her head. “Our subconscious minds already hold more information than we can understand. Whether or not we dig deep enough to excavate that information is something we can decide—or not decide—to do.”

“Sort of like deciding whether or not to listen to your gut,” Nora said.

“Exactly.” Ozzie put a hand on Nora's shoulder. “Exactly like deciding whether or not to listen to your gut.”

“But that still doesn't make any sense.” Monica's voice shook around the edges. “I love Liam. I love him more than I've ever loved anyone in my entire life. I can't imagine loving anyone more. Ever. Anywhere.”

“Things don't happen or not happen just because you can't imagine them,” Ozzie said. “Look at 9/11. Did you ever imagine even once that someone would use a plane as a weapon of mass destruction?”

“No.” Monica sounded slightly panicked.

“I'm not saying Liam's going anywhere, Monsie.” Ozzie reached out and grabbed her hand again. “Palmistry doesn't predict the future. It just reads your lines and interprets them. You do the rest. How your future plays out will always be up to you. Always.”

“Okay.” Monica nodded, her shoulders sagging. “Thanks. I think.”

“Nora's turn!” Grace chirped after a moment. “Norster, you ready?”

Nora blinked a few times, trying to focus, realigning the first line in her head. It was a good one. She wanted to say it just right, to give it just the right amount of emphasis.

The three women stared at her expectantly, waiting.

“Well, it's a first line,” she said. “From a book called
The End of the Affair.
”

“A first line!” Monica clapped her hands together once. “Oh, Nora! I was hoping you'd do one!”

Nora sat up straighter and cleared her throat, a vague excitement rising in her chest. It was then that she heard the noise,
faintly at first, but gathering strength, as if someone were dragging it closer. She pulled at her earlobe once and then twice, as if to ward off the sound, but it only got louder. She couldn't be one hundred percent sure what it was, but something about the way her heart clutched and unclutched itself told her she didn't have to be certain; that the look on Grace's face told her everything she needed to know.