Here‘s what kept flashing before my eyes: the image of Mr. Connolly jamming his finger into Mitch‘s chest; Mr. Connolly shoving Mitch—and the way Mitch stood there and took it.

Like, maybe, he deserved it.

d

Mitch said, ―Is that what you think?‖

―I don‘t want it to be true,‖ I said. ―But I want you to tell me the truth. I‘m old enough for that, too.‖

―I know that.‖ He darted a glance my way. His skin was gray-green in the lights from the dash and his eyes were glittery black, like polished obsidian. ―No, I didn‘t, Jenna.

I was never even tempted. You‘re . . . you‘re the only one, ever.‖

―But there‘s something.‖

―Yes. But . . . damn it. Jenna, honey, I can‘t tell you what that is.‖

―Why not?‖

―Would you want me telling other kids about you, your mom, your father? What you‘ve told me, you‘ve said in confidence. Even if we weren‘t lovers, you trust me. It‘s the same for Danielle, sweetheart. She‘s dealing with a lot. I haven‘t been there for her the way I used to, and she‘s hurt and that‘s really my problem, not yours.‖

Lovers. I wasn‘t prepared for how that little word made me feel. Breathless, I guess, and a little afraid, too. Like the word was almost a promise. I was Mitch‘s lover; I was someone no one else had ever been. ―Can you at least tell me what her father said?‖

He hesitated for only a moment. ―He told me to mind my own business,‖ he said, then added ruefully, ―and that she‘s too young to know what she wants.‖

e

The CD clicked off. The wipers thumped. The snow was falling fast, sheeting like a heavy rain through which the truck‘s headlights cored a cold, bright tunnel. Maybe the snow was a good thing, though, because it gave Mitch someplace else to look and, I think, made it easier for him to do what he did next.

Mitch said, so softly I almost didn‘t catch it, ―I haven‘t told you everything, though.

About Kathy and me.‖

My insides went still. I wanted to say that he hadn‘t really told me anything because I had been so careful not to ask. Kathy was a black hole whose event horizon would kill us.

But, somehow, I found the words. ―It‘s about the baby, isn‘t it?‖

He said nothing for a moment, but I felt his surprise. ―I‘d forgotten about that picture,‖ he said.

―Is her dad really sick?‖

―With cancer? Yes. I wouldn‘t lie about that. It would be too awful. But he‘s not so sick that she needs to stay.‖

―So why is she? Is it because of the baby?‖

―Yes and no.‖ He went quiet for so long I thought he might not say anything else.

Then he sighed. ―The first time Kathy got pregnant, she also got very . . . depressed. I missed it. I chalked up her moodiness and all that to, you know, what happens when you‘re pregnant. I just didn‘t understand what I was looking at. I didn‘t even find out until a lot later that she had a history of depression. Been in a hospital, suicide attempts with pills, the whole nine yards. Anyway, she relapsed. Pills again, and she slit her wrists. Insurance, I guess. She‘s alive only because all the blood scared her and she called her mother.‖

―Where were you?‖

―Away.‖ He gave a bleak laugh. ―Diving. I told you I gave that up when my dad yanked me out of Stanford, but that‘s not entirely true. Kathy and I argued about it a lot.

We‘re . . . opposites, but sometimes you only really find out things like that when it‘s too late. I was mad at my family, and I got married too fast, too young, on the rebound, and for spite when you get right down to it. Anyway, I wanted to move, take our chances, go to grad school.‖ He sighed again. ―Try to salvage something. But Kathy wasn‘t having any of that. She lost that first baby—miscarried right in the emergency room—and then getting pregnant again, having another baby, was all she could think about. She‘d decided it was my fault, too, for not being there. Never mind that it was the pills that did it.‖

―Did you want another baby?‖

―No. I hadn‘t wanted the first one, but I felt so guilty. Getting married was my idea; I rushed us into it. Letting go of what I‘d wanted to be made me feel so . . . empty.‖ He bunched a fist over his chest. ―Like everything I‘d ever been, every dream, was gone and now there was only this hole. I tried to fill it with all the things that are supposed to make you happy: a wife, a house, a job. Don‘t get me wrong. I‘m not an asshole. I did love Kathy, but sometimes I wonder if I used her as a kind of distraction so I wouldn‘t dwell on what I‘d lost. Anyway, after I realized my mistake, I wasn‘t brave enough to undo it and then all I could do was keep running in place, trying to fix us. And now, finding out that she was ill, I was so scared she‘d try again that I couldn‘t say no even though I didn‘t see how she could handle herself much less a child. Know what her answer was to that?‖

―What?‖

―For me to quit teaching, be with her 24-7. But I couldn‘t do it. Teaching was the last thing that was truly mine. At school, I could be closer to what I always thought of as the real me, and now she wanted that, too. I felt like . . . Jenna, it was like drowning in slow-motion. Our lives were contracting, collapsing. And then she got pregnant again. I‘m not blaming her for that.‖ He paused then said, wryly, ―Obviously, I helped.‖

He fell silent again. This time, I spoke first. ―What happened, Mitch? To the baby?‖

―It died,‖ he said. ―Stillborn. We knew it would be because I . . . I convinced Kathy to get a sonogram.‖

―I don‘t understand.‖

―Her mom had a couple miscarriages and her sister, too. She would never have told me either except it all came out after she tried to kill herself. So I know enough to know that a family history of miscarriages is sometimes a bad sign. She didn‘t want genetic testing; she didn‘t even want a sonogram. She fought me the whole way, but when I threatened to leave, she caved and I won that one.‖ He gave a bitter laugh. ―Oh boy, did I ever. The sono showed that the baby was anencephalic.‖

Anencephalic: no head. My stomach went cold. I didn‘t know medicine, but I know words, Bobby-o.

―The whole top half of the baby‘s skull just wasn‘t there. Not much of a brain either. The baby would either die right after birth or in utero. There‘s no way to fix something like that. Most people would have an abortion, but Kathy wouldn‘t do it. No matter what, she would deliver that baby and there wasn‘t a damn thing I could do about it.

It was . . .‖ He swallowed. ―It was horrible. The thing was a monster. You can‘t know what that‘s like, Jenna, to know you made something like that. I watched Kathy hold and cry over it as if it were the most beautiful child ever born . . . and I just . . . I couldn‘t . . .‖

―Mitch.‖ I put my hand on his thigh. ―You couldn‘t know. You had no control over that.‖

―But I did, Jenna, don‘t you see?‖ He pulled in a shaky breath. ―If I had said no . . .

if I‘d been half the man I always thought I was we‘d never have made that baby in the first place. I told myself I was stuck, no way out, that this was kinder than a divorce, but that‘s not true. I made a choice. I won‘t say it was easier because that would be a lie. Everything I‘ve done to fix this only breaks it just a little bit more. If I were really brave, I‘d end it. No matter what my part has been, I can‘t be responsible for her happiness forever. So . . . that‘s where we are. I guess you‘d say we‘re separated. I haven‘t seen her since February.‖

Almost ten months. ―Do you want to get back together with her?‖ You don‘t know what it cost me to ask that, Bob. But I did it.

―Oh, God, Jenna, I don‘t know,‖ he said. ―Most days, I don‘t think so. She‘s nobody I recognize anymore. We tear at each other, bring out the worst, and I‘m so tired. Not having her around is a relief, but that makes me feel guilty. Isn‘t that crazy? I mean, she‘s sick and so I should keep trying, right? That‘s what a good person does. But then there are other times when I sit in that cabin and stare at the lake and think about how my life was before . . . and part of me wishes I could go back and stop all this before it ever has a chance to start. But I‘m stuck. I can‘t go back and be what I was, and we can‘t move forward because what I thought we were is a lie.‖

I heard what he felt. He might as well have been telling me the story of Rubicon Point all over again: whether it‘s true that you can fall in water or only hover over the abyss. He was there, all over again, and I was down there with him.

―Mitch,‖ I said, ―do you want to fix it?‖

Silence. The thump of the wipers. The whirr of the heater.

And silence.

Then:

―No,‖ he said. ―No, Jenna, I don‘t think I do anymore.‖

40: a

When we finally turned onto my road, it was nearly midnight. We‘d driven behind a snow plow on the main interstate, but they hadn‘t gotten around to the smaller secondary roads and wouldn‘t for hours. Once off the highway, the road disappeared beneath a white carpet. Although I knew where other houses ought to be, it was like the trees had crept in with the darkness to swallow them whole. A hump of snow crouched over the mailbox at the end of my parents‘ driveway. I made out only the barest glimmer of light at the very top of the hill where the house was. Mitch slowed, but instead of turning into the driveway, he pulled to the side of the road.

―Mitch?‖

No answer.

―Mitch?‖

No answer. He only stared straight ahead. I have no idea what he saw, Bob. Then he killed the headlights and, after another moment, the engine.

Darkness swallowed the truck. A fist of wind grabbed and shook the chassis. Snow sizzled over the windshield.

I groped for his hand. The cab was warm from the heater, but his fingers were ice.

At my touch, he said, brokenly, ―Oh God.‖

―Mitch.‖ As my eyes adjusted, I could just make out the dim outline of his head and shoulders. ―Mitch. Talk to me. Are you okay?‖

He gave a sudden, savage groan. ― Nooooooo.‖ He jammed a balled fist into his thigh, hard: once, twice, three times. ―No, no, no, I’m not, I’m not, I’m—‖