When she thought about the petty complaints that used to bring her and Wolf to screaming matches that sent the kids scuttling to their rooms—the ones that spanned days, had him sleeping on the couch—she was ashamed of herself. Literally ashamed. She would pay money to care about things like that again—his adrenaline addiction, how he spent too much time on the computer, how she knew he still jerked off to porn, how his “epic” nights with the boys left him reeking and completely useless the next day. But these days she only cared about one thing. Everything else in her life had turned to ash.
A big sign loomed to her right: Welcome to The Hollows. Population 9780. Established 1603. She breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that the town was just another fifteen minutes away. If the car broke down now, which it wouldn’t, she could theoretically walk. (Though her ruined knee ached at just the thought.)
Silence. No radio, she couldn’t stand the sound of chattering voices. Even NPR with its dulcet tones of liberal self-righteousness, or the classical music station on Sirius, things that once had been soothing, now grated on her nerves. Jackson and Wolf were back in Manhattan. Even they were moving on in the ways that they could: Wolf was working again; Jackson was back in school. But not Merri. No. She had stepped into quicksand and she was up to her chin, stuck and sinking fast.
If Wolf knew where she was, he’d have her committed—again. The first time, she barely remembered. She couldn’t recall the exact events that had led to her hospitalization or the time she spent there—except for these kind of shadow memories—soft lighting and gentle voices, a kind of floating cloud feeling. She liked to think of it as a brownout. Just a momentary dimming of circuitry, her system overwhelmed by grief and rage and loss. Anyway, she couldn’t go back to that place—literally or figuratively. Time was running out; she didn’t know how she knew that, but she did. Her instincts were powerful and usually dead on, even when she ignored them, which she often (too often) did.
She followed the signs and pulled off the rural road and into the quaint and tony town square. She remembered being impressed by just how pretty and clean The Hollows was when they’d first arrived; she’d even briefly (like for five seconds) entertained that fantasy about moving from the city out to a place like this. Wolf was right, she’d thought. This is going to be a nice getaway. And we are overdue for some time off.
On their way to the cabin, they’d spent the first afternoon -having lunch at the little diner. Then they’d wandered around and browsed in the cute boutiques—blankets and sweaters made from wool harvested from local sheep; simple, stylish clothing as nice and high quality as anything you’d find in the city; a glass and pottery shop—grabbing (really great!) lattes for her and Wolf and frozen hot chocolates for the kids at the Java Stop. She made a mental note to come in the morning to pick up pastries at The Fluffy Muffin.
“Where did you hear about this place?” Merri had asked.
“You know,” he said, shaking his head. “I can’t even remember. An article in the Times maybe? One of those 36 Hours pieces?”
“Such a weird name for a town, isn’t it?”
“I like it,” he said. “It’s a little creepy-cool.”
“Must be pretty in the fall,” she’d mused.
Then they’d driven up to the place he’d rented on the lake. She had to admit when they got there that he’d been right; it was idyllic. She immediately felt lighter, more relaxed than she had been in a long while. A beautiful log cabin sat nestled among tall oak and pine trees. A wide blue lake glittered at the end of a long dock.
“Wow!” said Jackson, looking up from his iPad (for the first time in three years). As soon as the car came to a stop, Jackson burst out and made a beeline for the tire swing. Abbey hung back with Merri, always the cautious one, the careful one (at first). She clung to Merri’s hips.
“I saw a wasp,” she said.
“It’s okay,” said Merri, pulling her close. “It’s pretty here. We’re going to have fun.”
Wolf spun around, arms open. “So? Did Daddy do good?”
That he was energized by natural places was one of the things she first loved about him. She used to say that Wolf, in the beginning, before the kids, brought her out of the controlled climates and sanitized and quiet environments she preferred and into the air. And he would say that she’d taught him it was okay to have his feet on the ground sometimes. He was the writer; she was the editor. He was the one repelling into the ravine; she was the one making sure the rope was secure. They were proud of how they’d balanced each other, yin and yang. She was disappointed at the cliché they became later, how the things she’d loved at first grew to infuriate her. And visa versa. More than anything else, resentment was the death of love. It killed slowly.
“You did good, Daddy,” Merri conceded. You did well, she said inside. If she’d corrected him out loud, the smile he wore would have faded. He hated when she did that, when she acted the “grammar Nazi.” But language was a precision instrument. Used imprecisely it could level all kinds of damage.
“I know, I know,” he said. His smile faded anyway. “I did well.”
“I didn’t say anything,” she said too quickly.