My spirits always lifted the instant my car started. Abandoning the grocery store pretense, I backed out of the driveway and headed in the familiar direction of my ex-boyfriend's house, driving the same direction I'd driven the previous three, eight, or perhaps thirty-eight nights. Passing through familiar neighborhoods: ferocious Highland Park, sleepy SMU, earnest M Streets, stopping for lights, I played the protagonist careening toward destiny, Anna Karenina rushing to Vronsky, or Marianne seeking Willoughby. One soulful connecting glance and Martin would confess he'd missed me. We would share his blue denim sofa like the old days, Martin watching ESPN, me reading a novel. But Martin didn't expect me anymore; I was no longer a part of his life.
At the red light a mile from his house I opened the book on my passenger seat: Jane Austen's Unfinished Novels and Juvenilia. Having read all six novels, I now trolled her minor works desperate for the sort of Jane Austen fix a book like Sense and Sensibility offered. But instead of reading a few sentences at the red light, I studied the postcard doubling as a bookmark: a postcard promoting a summer literary festival in England where people enact Jane Austen's novels. Vera, owner of my favorite indie bookstore, gave me the postcard the day I bought Mansfield Park, saying, "I think you're ready for this."
The light turned green and my stomach lurched. This drive-by spying thing wouldn't be happening if Jane Austen hadn't died so young. I'd started reading Persuasion aloud to my mother shortly after her cancer diagnosis, kept reading Emma as her faculties deteriorated, and finished Mansfield Park alone. I read the last three in a state of denial and hit the wall after Pride and Prejudice, confronted with the stark reality there would never be any more Jane Austen novels. The sequels and prequels failed me; no amount of fan fiction could bring her back to life in my mind. All other books paled; I reread random pages from Mansfield Park for days, postponing the inevitable withdrawal, jilted by Jane Austen. If only Austen were still alive and writing, I wouldn't have to stare at the walls of my bedroom, studying the Braille-like texture under the paint, as if the clues to my failure hid there.
Or stalk my ex-boyfriend.
At first, I drove by his house late at night and saw the blue light flickering in the front room, Martin operating the remote from his sofa. Once, on a Saturday evening in early spring, I drove down his street of stately trees and found him outside, his back to me, relaxing with a beer in his hand, talking to a neighbor. As much as I loved seeing his familiar male legs and broad shoulders, the close call scared me into staying home the next two nights. But great windows of free time opened up after my termination, allowing me to drive by earlier and more often, lured by the notion that discovering Martin's secrets would reveal my own missing pieces.
Lately, he'd been up to something. Last Wednesday evening Martin had not been home. His car gone, windows completely dark, the dog didn't even come to the fence. Thursday I drove by a little later and he was gone again. But the dog was home. On Friday, stopping just beyond his driveway, lurking in my dark car as if I were the secret, I noticed an unfamiliar bicycle leaning against the garage wall. I told myself he slumbered alone, tired from the busy week, but the unfamiliar bicycle troubled me.
At home, I tidied up my kitchen and went to bed with Henry James, unable to engage The Wings of the Dove no matter how many times I started over. Did Martin sleep alone in that dark house? I reviewed the clues: the bike, the pattern of absence, the missing dog. Saturdays were the critical night. I could barely function, couldn't even stare at the walls for the anxiety of Saturdays because, if Martin was going to have a date, he would have it on a Saturday.
Turning off Mockingbird Lane, my pulse quickened, driving through the neighborhood where I'd long imagined Martin and I would eventually reside: mannerly Tudors with yard signs announcing births, advertising remodeling projects, or proclaiming enrollment in elementary schools, private or public. The closer his house, the more nervous I felt, but nervous was so much better than the desperate loneliness of sitting at home wondering whose bicycle had moved in.
My mother had said Martin wasn't my type and I should let go, but she just didn't like him because of his commitment problem and his habit of sometimes closing his eyes when he talked to you. I reminded her Martin was the first guy who would ever agree to a date in the bookstore on Saturday night. I missed the way I could always find him in the magazine department reading Car and Driver when I was ready to go. Now, the scorching pain of my emptiness was unbearable. I began the final approach to Martin's street; one more turn and I would see his car in the driveway. Twenty feet farther, the dog would recognize me. Adrenaline surged as my car accelerated into the turn, putting me on the street that had been mine. My heart stopped for just a moment because there, on the sidewalk directly in front of me in cargo shorts and flip-flops, was Martin. I'd never seen Martin walk the dog. Too late to backtrack; I was nailed and he wasn't alone. Stopping the car, my mind raced for excuses.
Martin contemplated his cargo pockets and then fixed his gaze on the air just over my head, waiting. The woman holding his hand turned and stopped speaking when she saw me. The dog, straining on his leash, stopped pulling. Stepping out of my car, ankles teetering on my optimistic stilettos, keys jangling in my trembling hand, I tucked my hair behind my ears and smoothed my stalker-black sheath as if I had a purpose in interrupting their walk. Martin adopted the expression one saves for door-to-door magazine salesmen, but the woman smiled warmly, as if unaware of our adversarial position as well as her advantage.
"Hi, I'm Ginny," she said; her hand twitched as if she had considered extending it, and I could tell she knew everything. I tried not to study her dark blond Afro, her T-shirt advertising a hunger walk four years ago, and her lack of any of the Car and Driver curves Martin found interesting. My replacement was so contrary to my expectations I began to think I'd completely misread Martin.
"Hi," I said, looking at Martin. The dog sniffed my legs, pulling the leash Ginny held. Martin had never walked the dog with me.
"Scout," Ginny whispered, coaxing the dog to her side.
Martin glanced down the street as if help might be coming. "What's up?" he said.
Tucking the hair behind my ears again, unfortunately using the hand holding my keys that tangled and pulled out several long brown strands, I prayed for inspiration. She was down-to-earth, ordinary, and apparently sweet, not a single quality I could claim for myself. Is that what he wanted? I'd been struggling with cosmetics, lingerie that guaranteed cleavage, and sheaths selected to accentuate all things slim, when, all along, he had preferred Mother Earth. I could have done earth for him.
"Scout, please," Ginny said, "remember what we talked about?"
We waited for Scout to answer.
"Ginny works in a vet's office," Martin said.
I found my perky face and smiled, then changed the subject. "I just wanted to let you know"—I cleared my throat—"that I'm going to England for the summer." This was news to me, too.
"England?" Martin directed his face at me, but closed his eyes. He'd been expecting a hormonal rage or paternity test results.
Ginny stood apart, reminding the dog about not jumping on people.
"Yes," I said, trying to remember the words below the English manor house on Vera's postcard: "Featuring Mansfield Park, June through August." Vera's invitation was thoughtful, but did she understand my utter dependence on salary and benefits? "I'm going to a lit fest," I said.
"What's a lit fest?" Ginny asked, smiling, way too familiar.
I shook my hair and stared meaningfully at Martin: my Countess Olenska to his Newland Archer, urging him to indulge his true passion or be sorry. "Literary festival," I said slowly. The postcard said, "Literary escapes in rural England: A novel approach to the study of literature." "They feature a Jane Austen novel every summer."
"Oh, I love Jane Austen," she said, handing the leash to Martin like a wife passing a baby off to the husband.
"Really," I said, disconcerted by the friendly hand rubbing Martin's back and the way Martin took the rubbing for granted.
"And what will you do there?" Ginny asked.
"I don't know yet." Leaning on my car, I crossed my arms over my chest, unable to bear the idea of sharing Jane Austen, as well as Martin, with her. Jane Austen was my new best friend. Even with the age difference—me twenty-six, Jane eternally forty-one—we understood each other and agreed on everything. Ours was a possessive relationship. I crossed my legs at the ankles and gave Martin the look that always brought him closer. "I'm still working out the details." Like whether to toss the postcard in the trash.
"What about work?" Martin asked. "They giving you more vacation?" He took two steps backward, aware I had exhausted my vacation time watching him ski.
"Work is not a problem."
Martin nodded, taking two more steps away from me.
"I quit my job." I pursed my lips and gazed upward.
"Really." He stopped walking away.
Ginny raised her hand. "Nice to meet you," she said. "I'm going to get Scout a drink of water." Then I witnessed an exchange between them, a look so packed with understanding and implying such a depth of intimacy I had to glance away. Ginny walked to the house, leaving Martin to me.
"So," he said, blinking rapidly.
"Now you know," I said, remembering how my boss caught me reading Northanger Abbey in my cubicle, my lunch hour so far in the past that even the fumes from my tuna sandwich were history. Phones, copiers, and printers resumed business while I danced in Bath. I made a show of tidying my lunch bag while my boss counted the five other novels stacked in my corner. "You've been busy," he said. Then, using his chain saw voice, he informed me that I'd cost the company over ninety-two thousand dollars misrouting payroll tax deposits. As my boss explained termination benefits, it occurred to me that books should come with a warning from the surgeon general: Literature can be dangerous to your mental health and should be indulged in moderation. Read in excess, fiction may blur the line between fantasy and reality, causing dysfunction in personal and professional relationships. Readers should refrain while operating heavy machinery or driving automobiles. Or working in offices.
"So what are you going to do?" Martin asked.
"Move home, of course," I said. "As you know, my duplex is two doors from annihilation." I'd complained to Martin for a year about the McMansions invading my street, moaning about moving, but he'd left me to the wrecking ball rather than propose marriage. "And my dad needs me."
"How is your dad?" Martin asked. His concern might have been touching had he not ditched me in the wake of my mother's death, exercising his option while I grieved, optimistic that one more hit could hardly matter.
"Not good," I said. "He has a girlfriend. Twenty years younger."
Martin's eyes bulged. "Really."
"I'm not happy about it."
"Doubt your mom would approve."
The last time I saw her, my mother had been dead ninety minutes and the look on her face conferred anything but approval. Rather than the peaceful repose I'd been promised in books and movies, her jaundiced features were frozen in tension, her cheekbones raised, and her mouth slightly open as if she'd died in pain. Eyes were closed but her head tilted up, giving the impression she had been trying to raise herself as she died. I bent and kissed her forehead as she had kissed mine all those nights I pretended to be asleep clutching the still-hot reading light under my covers. Her forehead felt chilly under my lips and she no longer labored over the ragged breathing that sustained us halfway through Mansfield Park. In spite of these powerful indications of death, I wanted to believe she was pretending, as I had once pretended with her.
"Well," Martin said, raising a hand in farewell, taking steps away from me. "Have a great time in England."
"Martin," I said, perhaps too loud.
At the sound of my voice, Ginny and the dog closed the front door behind them. Martin halted in his tracks and slowly returned, his head bent. "Let's not have tears," he said. His eyes scurried up and down the street, waiting for someone to turn our page. His porch light came on. "You need to go home."
A car passed behind us.
"Martin, look at me."
He reluctantly focused on my face.
"Is it really over?" I asked. "Is this what you want?"
Martin shook his head. "Ginny's not needy." He raised his hands in supplication. "If you can't stay away, you need to get help." He enunciated as if I were dense. "We've seen you drive by. Even Ted's seen your car." He gestured at Ted's window, especially damning since Ted's eyes never left his video screen.
"I can't believe we're saying these things. Martin, how did we get to this point?" He took a breath and closed his eyes and I knew he was considering whether to reveal a painful truth. I braced myself for the hit.
"I let it go on way too long," he said, stepping away.
"Wait." I reached out.
"Are you listening?" he whispered. "You're a lost dog." He shook his head. "Go home."
At home, my phone was ringing and I raced to answer it, expecting a remorseful Martin.
"Hi, Lily." It was Karen, my sister in Houston. I'd never had much use for her growing up except during tours of my house I gave my six-year-old friends. I'd fling open her bedroom door to reveal a real live teenager in bedcovers; we'd scream and run if she moved.
"I'm so glad to hear your voice," I said. "Do you think I'm needy?"
Karen hesitated. "No," she said.
I waited in case she wanted to elaborate. "You don't sound good," I said, clutching the gold cross around my neck and twisting the chain around my finger.
"I just got off the phone with Dad." Karen inhaled sharply; the news was bad. "And I'm counting on you not to fall apart." In the early stages of Mom's illness, Karen had counseled me not to jump to conclusions. She reminded me that the doctor hadn't ruled out tuberculosis. Or bird flu. We clung to the hope of bird flu. Now, I sat on my kitchen floor, preparing myself. It hadn't been bird flu and Mother had died within six months of the diagnosis.
"What happened?" I asked, wishing for a tissue, wiping my nose on the dishtowel hanging from the fridge handle as I felt something slither around my neck, into the dishtowel, and then onto the floor. My necklace lay sprawled on the linoleum—the necklace my mother had made for me when she knew she would die. I couldn't bear to let it touch the ground, much less lie there broken. "Oh my God," I said. "My necklace just fell off." Karen had one, too, a cross, made from the melted gold of our mother's wedding rings. It wasn't just a necklace to us, and my dad's girlfriend knew this, so I always made sure the cross hung outside my shirt in her presence. "Hang on," I said, bending to gather the cross and chain from the floor, making sure none of the tiny links had skittered off under the fridge or stove. "Things are really falling apart," I said.
"Is it the chain?" Karen asked.
"Yes," I said. "But I think I got all of it. Don't worry, I can fix it."
Karen sighed.
I braced myself for the bad news.
"Lily, I talked to Dad."
"Yes?" I held my breath, staring at the legs of my breakfast table, fuzzy dust freeloading in the curves of the woodwork.
"Dad and Sue are going to be married."
I remembered then where I'd seen The Look Martin and Ginny exchanged. My father shared the same exclusive look with his new girlfriend, Sue. A look that telegraphed secret communication—about me—and conferred privileged status to the gold digger sucking the life out of him. The pain was exquisite, razor-sharp surprise from a dark corner, completion of the outrage that began with my mother's senseless death.
I'd puzzled so long over the mystery of Sue's sudden arrival in my father's house that I wondered if she found him in the obituaries. She would have seen my mother smiling from the newsprint, her face cropped from the family portrait we'd taken right after Karen's second was born. Sue shed no tears over my mother's life story, the Great Books Club she ran for the library, her term as president of her garden club, or the years Mother spent touring children through the Butterfly Garden. Sue skipped instead to the list of survivors, underlined my father's name, and marked her calendar for one week after my mother's funeral, the standard grace period in her business. Sue gave us a week to say good-bye. The bridge club, Mother's Bible group study buddies, and her hairdresser all paid respects, dropping off food, hugging my sorrowful dad, and lending support in the funeral home. But then everything changed. The day Sue appeared in my mother's house, my dad met me in the front hallway. He stood in front of Mother's antique armoire we named The Monster, stopping me with his eyes as if I'd committed a mistake entering his house without knocking, something I'd done every day of my life and would continue to do when I moved back home. When I asked him who was talking on our kitchen phone, he said it was "Sue." I asked if Sue was from hospice, noting she'd collected my mother's unused meds from the counter and loaded them into a box.
"Lily?" Karen said. "Are you there?"
"Yes," I said, my voice breaking. I cleared my throat.
"So, what will you do?" Karen asked, knowing I'd soon be homeless.
"I'm going to England."
"You don't have a job, how can you afford England?"
"England is a job," I said. "I'll get paid." I pulled a bottle of Chardonnay from the fridge, kicking the door shut. Vera had never mentioned pay. "How did Dad tell you?" I asked.
"I don't remember and it's not important," Karen said, unwilling to feed the old dysfunction.
"But did he use the word love?" I asked, recognizing early stages of fresh turmoil like a black wind howling inside me.
Karen sighed. "Don't make me say these things to you. I'm not the bad guy, Lily."
"But I just want to know what happened to my father. I don't know this man who's taken over his body." Where was the father who held me up on ice skates, who loved me enough to punish my white lies and celebrate my report card? "What did he say?"
Karen sighed. "He told me Sue had been cleaning out the garage to make room for her stuff. It went from there."
I found a glass and slammed the cupboard. "It makes no sense. How could he care about someone so different from Mom? I can't even stand to look at her, those eyebrows tweezed to death and hair teased like a rat's nest. She is so opposite of everything Mom was. I can't stand by and watch him do this to our mother," I said. "Can you?"
"He's an adult." Karen paused. "You know, this really isn't a good time for you to be making big changes. Is there someone at church you could talk to?"
"No," I said, pouring wine, spilling on the counter. "I know what I have to do." The important thing was to get off the phone, hide my car keys from myself, and focus my energy on figuring out how to get to England. There, I could start over without all this mess. My mother would want me to go, her well-known desire to travel unfulfilled because Dad objected; he traveled too much for work. "See the world," Mom had said, offering me A Passage to India when I was twelve, teaching me to escape the confines of my life through literature. "I've got to go," I told Karen. I hung up, gripped by new fear of the many potential obstacles, financial and otherwise, between me and Mansfield Park.
I had to see Vera.