When I Looked Away Read online

  He stopped the car. Gail was about to reach for the door handle when his hand on her knee stopped her. “Say, pretty lady,” he said casually, an afterthought almost, “I just drove you a hell of a distance out of my way. I think I deserve a little something for my time and trouble.”

  “Please get your hand off me,” Gail said steadily.

  “Come on, darling,” he continued. “Just French me a little.”

  “ ’French’?” Gail asked, removing his hand and sneaking her other hand toward the door, her eyes holding onto his with an unspoken promise.

  “Yeah,” he answered, his hands moving to the zipper of his pants. “You know, darling, with your mouth.”

  He lifted his hand to bring her head down. Suddenly, Gail pushed her door open and jumped out, his hand slapping against the side of her hair as she made her escape.

  “Bitch!” he yelled as Gail ran from the car. She heard the screech of his tires as he threw the car into full speed. He obviously didn’t want to stick around any longer than she did. Gail stopped running, tears stinging her cheeks. She found an empty garbage can by the side of the road and threw up inside it.

  Gail was still feeling shaky when she got home. Jennifer was in the living room playing the piano. She jumped up as soon as she saw her mother.

  “Hi. You look frozen. Where have you been? My God, where did you get that coat?”

  Gail discarded it quickly in the rear of the closet. “I’ve had it for years.”

  “Where’s your nice red one?”

  “At the cleaners,” Gail lied.

  “What are you wearing?” Jennifer gasped. “Where on earth did you find those clothes?”

  “I was helping Laura move some furniture around at her office,” Gail told her, surprised how easily the lie came. “I didn’t want to ruin anything nice.”

  “Laura?” The question was more of an exclamation.

  “Something wrong?”

  “No . . . Just that Laura called before, wondering where you’ve been. She said she’s been trying to reach you for days . . .”

  “Did I say ‘Laura’? I’m sorry—I meant Nancy.”

  “Since when does Nancy have an office?”

  “Since she decided to get one,” Gail said impatiently, walking past her daughter into the kitchen and opening the refrigerator door. She took out the leftovers from the night before and laid them on the counter. Jennifer was at her elbow.

  “Where’s the car?” Jennifer asked, catching Gail by surprise.

  “I had to take it in,” Gail lied again.

  “How’d you get home?”

  “I walked.”

  “You walked all the way from Harold’s garage?” Jennifer’s face registered appropriate shock.

  “It’s not that far.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “Jennifer, have you done your homework?”

  “Yes.”

  “All of it?”

  “Yes.” Jennifer grabbed a carrot from one of the plates and sat down with it at the kitchen table.

  “Don’t do that,” Gail said.

  “Don’t do what? Sit down?”

  “Grab food off the plates. You know what I’m talking about.”

  “Sorry. Didn’t think you’d mind one carrot.”

  “Well, there’s not a whole lot of food for supper,” Gail admonished, surveying the meager fare, then swinging around abruptly. “Jennifer, do you ever hitchhike? I want an honest answer.”

  “Sometimes,” Jennifer answered reluctantly, sensing trouble.

  “Jesus Christ,” Gail muttered, slamming her fist down onto the counter.

  “I don’t anymore,” Jennifer told her quickly. “I haven’t since . . .” She broke off.

  “If I ever hear of you hitchhiking again,” Gail began slowly building, “for whatever reason, you’re grounded for six months. Do you understand me?”

  Jennifer regarded her mother with growing concern. “Yes.” She lowered her eyes.

  “Jesus Christ,” Gail cried again. “How stupid can you be?”

  “What brought this on?” Jennifer demanded. “Did someone get hurt or something? Has something happened to somebody we know?”

  “Does somebody have to get hurt for you to use your head?”

  “Why are you yelling at me?”

  “I don’t want you ever to hitchhike again. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes,” Jennifer cried. “I’m not arguing with you.”

  There was silence. Gail turned back toward the sink.

  “And something else I’ve been meaning to talk to you about,” she said slowly, carefully.

  “What’s that?” Jennifer asked warily.

  “Eddie.”

  Jennifer’s eyes widened in surprise. “What about Eddie? I thought you liked him.”

  “I do,” Gail agreed quickly. “But you’ve been dating each other exclusively for almost two years now, and I think it might be a good idea if you were to start dating other people.”

  “Nineteen months,” Jennifer corrected. “And I don’t want to go out with anybody else. I love Eddie.”

  “How do you know you love him if you have nothing to compare him with?”

  “I don’t need to compare him with anybody!”

  “Sweetie,” Gail pressed gently, “I’m not suggesting that you stop seeing him, just that you see other boys too.”

  “I don’t want to see other boys! Where is all this coming from?”

  “Okay, okay,” Gail said, backing off. “I just thought I’d mention it. Will you do me a favor and think it over at least?”

  “No.”

  Gail and her daughter exchanged stubborn glances.

  “Julie called before and asked me to have dinner over there tonight. I said I didn’t think so, but if it’s all right with you, I think I’ve changed my mind. You’re only serving leftovers anyway, and this way there’ll be plenty for you and Jack. Is it okay if I go?”

  “Only if your father picks you up and brings you home.”

  “He will,” Jennifer told her, getting up and reaching for the phone. Gail pretended to be busy as Jennifer talked easily with her ex-husband’s wife. “He’ll pick me up in half an hour.”

  Gail nodded but said nothing as her daughter left the room.

  Chapter 19

  Friday morning Jack insisted that he and Gail get away by themselves for the weekend. They needed some time together alone, he stressed; they needed a couple of days to get away from everything and everybody.

  He chose Cape Cod.

  The first time that Gail and Jack had been to Cape Cod had been on their honeymoon almost nine years before. Then it had seemed, as everything had seemed to her in those early days, a magic place. Now, though even the most jaded could hardly dismiss its charm, it seemed much more commonplace. While the magic wand had been waved lavishly across certain sections, giving added vibrancy to the paint of the old wooden cottages that lined the streets and conjuring up the word “quaint” from the old Patti Page song, in other areas the magic had been applied in too desultory a fashion. Quaint had given way to tacky. Even in October, tourists seemed to outnumber the natives. The sand dunes seemed smaller, the salty air less pleasing. For eight years Gail had thought Cape Cod to be paradise on earth. Now she knew there was no such place. One town was the same as another. While before, Gail felt only peace and serenity when she and Jack walked these streets, arms intertwined, now she was aware of every automobile horn and faulty muffler. The formerly romantic breezes were harsh against her cheeks. She longed to escape them but was afraid to suggest to Jack that they go inside.

  Once she had resigned herself to the trip, Gail had found the drive up from Livingston to be a pleasant one. It was sunny; the weatherman was promising a relatively mild few days. Even the traffic had moved along at a decent clip. There were only two accidents along the way and neither seemed from her vantage point to be particularly serious. She had wondered briefly as they passed one car that had
been rear-ended by another what it would be like to be rammed sharply from behind, to collide with another car at a high speed. How would it feel, she wondered, to witness the sudden explosion of her flesh as another automobile plowed right through her body? Would she feel anything at all?

  Jack regularly consulted his new map (“What happened to all my maps?” he had asked before they left the house, and had been forced to purchase a new one at the gas station) even though he knew the way, and could probably find Cape Cod blindfolded.

  Gail wondered how Jennifer was doing with Mark and his wife. Would Julie be there when Jennifer returned from school today? Would she remember to get Jennifer up in plenty of time on Monday morning or would she be too busy rushing to her own job? Julie worked as a secretary for an accountant. Would she have enough time and energy left at the end of the day to be bothered with a moody teenage girl? Though Jennifer adored her father, would he be strict enough with her about her homework and her bedtime? Would he make sure that she and Eddie stuck to their curfew?

  Several times during the lengthy drive, Gail had been tempted to ask Jack to turn the car around and go home, but then she had reminded herself that they would be back on Monday evening and that Jennifer would undoubtedly manage fine without her for a couple of days. Probably better, she thought, recalling their frequent bickering of late.

  Gail also realized how important these next few days were for her and Jack. He was right—they did need some time together alone. They were drawing further apart from each other with each new day, retreating rather than risking open argument, burying their anger and their guilt rather than confronting it, or each other.

  It wasn’t Jack’s fault, Gail recognized. He had made repeated attempts to draw her out. At first, she had also tried, but as much as she admired and relied on his strength, she also found herself resenting it. Though she had been the one to press for a speedy return to their normal lives, she begrudged him his ability to adapt so readily, to simply pick himself up and carry on.

  Stop it, she told herself, knowing she was being unfair. There was no reason for her to be angry at Jack (or at Jennifer, for that matter) because he had somehow been able to adjust to the tragedy. If anyone had reason to be angry, if anyone had a right to assign blame, it was Jack, not herself. How could he not blame her? she wondered.

  He had to blame her; he had to be thinking each time he looked at her that if only she’d been at home on that last April afternoon, Cindy would still be alive. Every time his eyes confronted hers, she felt his unfocused distaste, just as each time she tried to reach out to him, she resented . . . what?

  Gail glanced at her husband as he walked along beside her, his hand in hers, his attention seemingly devoted to the local scenery. Was his mind really on these old clapboard houses? Or was he seeing, as she was, Cindy’s face behind each curtain, Cindy’s smile in each window? Could he hear their daughter’s careless giggle in each lingering laugh of a passerby?

  “They painted that house,” he said suddenly.

  “What?”

  “That house over there. Second one from the corner. They painted it white. Remember? It used to be blue.”

  “That’s too bad. I liked it blue.”

  “So did I.”

  “I guess they felt it was time for a change.”

  “And those people cut down some trees,” Jack added, pointing across the road.

  “It looks nicer this way,” she said, not remembering how it had looked before.

  “Really?” He seemed surprised. “I liked it with the trees.”

  “Gives them more sun like this.”

  “I suppose,” he shrugged, taking a deep breath. “I love the smell of this town.”

  Gail took a deep breath the way Jack had done, but with the intake came a sharp stabbing sensation in her chest.

  “You okay?” he asked quickly. “Want to quit? Go inside somewhere for a cup of coffee?”

  “No, I’m enjoying the walk,” she told him, trying to sound convincing, knowing he was no longer so easily fooled.

  “Do you want to walk along the beach?” he suggested.

  “Sure,” she agreed.

  “It might be too cold,” he cautioned.

  “We can always turn back,” she said, taking comfort in the small choices that were left them, as she had earlier sought refuge in their small talk.

  He was right—the waterfront was cold, even unpleasant, though each pretended for a time that it wasn’t. Jack had such a kind face, Gail thought, studying him, his nose strong and prominent in profile, his cheeks red with the wind.

  Another couple passed them, nodding a chilled hello as they burrowed their faces against the collars of their jackets.

  “Crazy tourists,” Jack laughed. “You don’t see any of the natives out walking the beach in this cold.”

  Gail’s eyes followed the other couple as they hurried along the sand, imagining herself in the other woman’s place, wondering what thoughts were filtering through her mind as she strolled with her arm through her husband’s, in much the same way Gail walked beside Jack. Just another ordinary American couple, probably entertaining similar thoughts about herself and Jack, Gail surmised, trying to guess what secrets were hiding behind the woman’s rosy cheeks and smiling eyes, knowing there were always secrets. And scars. Gail knew that things were rarely the way they seemed, that happiness was only a momentary illusion. Walk a mile in my shoes, Gail thought and then, judge not lest you be judged.

  She shook away the unwelcome thought with a prolonged shrug of her shoulders. Jack immediately let go of her hand and put his arm around her, pulling her close against him, trying to make her warm.

  “Let’s go back,” he said. “I’ve had enough.” Gail nodded silently. “Not quite the same when it’s cold, is it?”

  Gail said nothing. They both knew that the weather had nothing to do with things not being the same.

  *

  They returned to the tourist home and spent half an hour talking with Mrs. Mayhew. She had wondered about them, she told them, when they failed to make their usual summer arrangements. The summer season had been slightly slower than usual. Local residents were blaming it on the economy, she embellished. Things were slower all over the country. What could you do?

  She asked about Jack’s business—had the economy affected it as well? Jack told her there seemed to be no shortage of sick animals, although people were cutting down on certain luxury expenses, such as pet grooming. Mrs. Mayhew then inquired after their family. Jack explained softly that there’d been a tragedy, that their child had died. He didn’t say how; Mrs. Mayhew didn’t ask. The conversation drifted to an uneasy stop and Jack led Gail upstairs to their room.

  How different this rooming house was from the ones she was more recently used to frequenting, Gail thought as they walked down the warm, softly papered hallway. An expensive narrow rug ran the length of the dark hardwood floor; a small antique table with a suitably decorative lamp sat in the corner, its frosted bulb casting a welcome and unobtrusive light.

  Their room was equally pleasant, done in well-modulated shades of peach and brown. The bed was queen-size and felt as comfortable as it looked. Folk art from the Canadian Maritime Provinces hung on the walls. Gail took an appreciative glance around. She had always loved this room.

  “Remember that little dog I was telling you about?” Jack asked, as he removed his jacket. Gail said that she did. “They finally got around to mating her. It’ll be a couple of months, of course, until she has her litter, and then six weeks after that before they’re ready to give any of them away. Have you given it any thought?”

  “Not really,” Gail said, feeling guilty. “But I will.”

  Jack walked over and stood very close to her. “I don’t want to push you,” he said, his hands reaching around her, and Gail knew that he wasn’t just talking about the dog.

  “You’re not,” she told him, knowing that this moment could be put off no longer, that the time had come f
or them to make love. She lifted her eyes to his and watched as he lowered his mouth onto hers, her arms stretching under his and around his back.

  The kiss was gentle, their lips barely parted. She heard him moan, felt his hands as they stroked her back, careful not to squeeze her too hard. He kissed the side of her face, her eyes, her neck, slowly circling back to her lips, this time his touch a little stronger, his mouth now open, his tongue gently searching for her own.

  His hands traveled down across her jeans, cupping her buttocks, then running across her stomach up to her breasts. A few seconds later, she felt his fingers at the buttons of her blouse, stumbling over them as if he were a teenager, shyly tugging the garment off her shoulders and letting it drop to the floor. He fumbled with the hook on her bra, and for a brief instant, they giggled with the absurdity of what they were doing, until Gail reached behind her and undid the clasp herself.

  Jack fell to his knees, his hands lifting up to her breasts, burying his head between them, Gail’s hands clutching at his hair. She felt the snap on her jeans come open, heard the sound of her zipper as it separated, felt the tug on her legs as Jack pulled off the heavy denim.

  She couldn’t remember when he had removed his own clothes, had no recollection of how they had gotten over to the bed, and was not able to pinpoint the precise moment that her stomach began to churn inside her. She had not consciously thrust Cindy’s face before her tightly closed eyes; she had tried hard to push away the memory of last April, to not compare what was happening to her now to what had happened to her child six months ago.

  And yet it was the same, she realized, opening her eyes wide and looking up at Jack, understanding now the resentment that up until this moment she had been unable to consciously define. It was his very maleness that she resented. This so-called act of love was the same act that had been forced on their daughter just prior to her death.

  And suddenly, all she felt was pain, her own pain and that of her daughter, and she cried out in anguish.

  “What’s wrong?” Jack asked, alarmed. “Did I hurt you?” He pulled out of her when he realized she was crying. “What is it, Gail? Please tell me what it is.”