Lies of the Heart (30 page)

Later, after they’ve tucked her into bed like a child, after more coded words from her mother—
No one expects it to change overnight
—and they’ve reluctantly left the house, Katie lies with the comforter up to her neck, the sheets below bunched inside her fists. Replaying their conversation over and over, seeing again their worried expressions.

“I don’t get it,” she says to Jack, who lies at the end of the bed, his head nestled between his paws.

And then, before the anger comes back, before the frustration starts to well up because they’ve only added to the questions swirling inside her head: “What were they saying, Jack?”

She asks this in a whisper, watches the dog angle his head at her, staring back. Like he doesn’t understand her family one bit either.

T
he cafeteria at the Warwick Center was deserted except for the women wearing hairnets in the kitchen, chatting back and forth as they cleared away the morning snack trays and rinsed large plastic bins in the sink. It reminded Katie of her own elementary-school cafeteria—the bumpy concrete walls painted a light yellow, the faint scent of Salisbury steak and ammonia—but it was Nick, sitting beside her at one of the long tables and silently examining his fingernails, who occupied most of her attention.

—This isn’t a reflection on you, Nick.

He turned his head sideways at her.—Who said it was?

—No one. But no one expects you to have all the answers either. It’s been weeks, and if he’s still not talking—

—Please don’t lecture me on failure, Katie. Not
you
, Nick said, his mouth twisting with sarcasm. He went back to his fingernails, leaving Katie to absorb his words.

Composing herself took a few minutes. She stared down at the floor, caught the fluorescent lighting sparkling off the sequins on the sides of her black pumps. Shook her head ruefully—so much attention to what she wore today, as if the right pair of shoes would make this meeting perfect, despite Nick’s resistance.

—Jerk, she finally said quietly.

—I’m sorry, okay? he said.—But this is ridiculous.

—What if Marty is right? I’ve seen Jerry watching me, too.

—And that’s going to convince him to work with me?

—It might, if he—

Conversation stopped with Patricia’s entrance; she gave them a brisk nod and turned back to the door. Nick sat up, folded his arms.

A few seconds later, Jerry’s thick body filled the narrow doorway—his thin brown hair combed to the side, a crisp button-down shirt tucked neatly into his jeans. The only sign of trepidation showed in his chubby, storming face: trying hard, it seemed, to arrange itself for this new situation. He finally ducked his head in, looked directly at Nick with wide blue eyes.

—
Uh-oh,
Jerry said.—Him.

—It’s okay, Jerry, Patricia said.—There’s someone else here I want you to meet.

Jerry reluctantly tore his gaze away from Nick; his eyes pulsed in recognition at Katie for a second before he hung his head.

The floor absorbed all his interest for a full minute. Patricia stood patiently by, whispering words of encouragement, her hands folded in front of her. With his chin remaining securely tucked against his chest, Jerry finally lifted his eyes to Katie for a brief moment—face still struggling, lips moving silently.

—You can do this, Patricia told him.

Another minute watching the floor, arms clamped to his sides like a soldier, his lips continuing to move in silent argument with himself. Patricia coaxed and encouraged, and suddenly Jerry’s right arm twitched, a little jolt of electricity. Katie watched in fascination: it twitched again, and then, slowly, it started to rise up. When it was straight out in front of him, Jerry closed his eyes tightly, pushed his arm through the doorway. Fingers reaching for an invisible rope to pull him into the room.

—Good, Jerry. Keep going.

He placed a tentative foot over the doorjamb, carefully tested the floor with small steps, arm still extended.

—You’ve seen her around here an awful lot, and I think you’ll like her.

His face flushed deeply at this, but then his other arm came up gradually, hand reaching.

—Almost there.

He rocked in the doorway, pelvis swaying back and forth, fingers pulling at air, eyes squeezed shut. The one sneakered foot already in the room taking quick slaps at the floor.

Finally, with a small grunt and a hop, his other foot landed in the room; he stood bent in half, his arms extended and his lower half jutting back toward the door.

—Good job, Jerry!

Katie waited until Patricia led him to the table; she stood slowly, said in a neutral voice,—Hello, Jerry.

Jerry looked at her, jaw dropping, then stared at her feet.

It was all scripted beforehand by Patricia—when Katie should stand, how much eye contact she should make, when and how she should respond directly to Jerry. Nick’s job, on the other hand, was easy: sit quietly and let Katie and Jerry interact as naturally as possible.

—Katie is Nick’s wife, Jerry. Can you say hello to her?

He towered over her, his lips whispering without words.

—Hello, Katie, Patricia prompted.—Nice to meet you.

Lips working faster.—Meet you, Jerry said without looking up.

—Can you tell Katie what you do here at the center?

Nick closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose.

—Sometimes, Patricia coached,—I put backs into earrings.

—Put da bags in, Jerry repeated, his voice like a boy approaching adolescence, high-pitched one moment, deep and guttural the next.

—And I eat lunch with my new friends here in the cafeteria.

—Lunch-teria.

Patricia nodded at Katie.—That’s great, Jerry, Katie said.

Jerry’s head snapped up. He stared at Katie, slowly lowered it again.

—Do you want to tell her about your new house? Patricia said.—I live on Dixon Street now.

—Dison.

—And I have two roommates, Bobby and Victor.

Lips practicing the words first.—Woom-mits.

—Bobby and Victor.

—Viter.

—I like Bobby and Victor very much, Katie said, smiling.—Do you?

Jerry stared at her, openmouthed. He turned to Patricia, and she nodded and smiled at him:
Go ahead, talk to her.

Jerry turned back to Katie, closed his mouth, opened it again—his light blue eyes fastened on her. After a moment he started making small panting sounds, his head pulsing forward with each exhalation, eyes growing big with urgency. Katie had to fight to keep the smile on her face: he loomed over her, his stare unnerving.

—Viter
cook,
Jerry finally said, face red with the effort.—Cook
macwoni.

Patricia beamed at him, at Katie, her eyes skipping between them triumphantly.

—
Good,
Jerry, that’s right. Sometimes Victor helps cook dinner at your new house. Good job!

One of the rules was no quick movements, to keep her body as still as possible, but as Patricia continued to coach Jerry, Katie watched him more closely. Was it her imagination, or was Jerry staring at her shoes? She carefully tilted her left foot one way, then the other, thinking of sequins and light. Jerry’s eyes widened, his mouth opening, until Patricia spoke again.

—Can you tell Katie what Nick’s job is here?

An instant frown, lips pressed together. But still trained on the shoe Katie displayed for him.

—Nick helps us try to speak clearly, Patricia said.

Nothing.

—Katie is Nick’s wife, and she loves him very much. She trusts him, and she isn’t only his wife, she’s his friend, too. Katie told me that she hopes you’ll let Nick be your friend.

A doubtful look directed at Katie.

—It’s true, Jerry, Katie said.—And I hope you’ll be my friend, too. Almost a smile for Katie then, but Nick shifted quickly in his seat and Jerry’s eyes were back on the floor, filled with impending terror.

Patricia’s office was a surprise, a sort of structured chaos—thick files piled on the corners of her desk, blue Post-it notes stuck to her computer, the windowsill behind her desk, and on the oversize day planner; phone numbers and names and meetings crowded each square on the planner, a few triple-circled in red ink.

—I discussed the possibility with Nick, and now I have no hesitation, Patricia said to Katie.—I think you both should be his resources.

—What’s that? Katie asked, turning to Nick.

Nick ignored her, his arm draped across the back of his chair, one leg thrust forward—a posture of studied detachment.

Patricia looked from Nick to Katie, said,—Some of our clients have elderly parents or, like Jerry, no family at all, and we match them up with what we call “visiting resources.” They take the clients out to eat, to a movie, that sort of thing. Over time the bond can become pretty strong. We have a few clients now who do sleepovers, spend the holidays with their resources. I’m hoping Jerry will be open to it.

—One meeting, Nick said.—That’s what we’re going on here?

—I’ve seen it, too, Nick, Patricia said.—He follows her with his eyes. Something about her has captured his interest. She shrugged.—It’s a start at least. We need to connect with him soon, or we might lose him.

—You really think Jerry is going to sit in a restaurant with me? Nick asked.

Patricia smiled sympathetically at him.—Maybe if Katie is there.

For their second visit with Jerry she wore bright red sling-backs with three-inch heels, the kind of narrow, teetering shoes that took painful bites of her feet with every step. Completely inappropriate for Pizza Hut, though Nick didn’t say a word about them. Since their meeting with Patricia, Nick had been either short and dismissive with Katie or infuriatingly polite. After the first visit, she thought of reasons to back out, rehearsing her excuses in the shower.
You’re the expert here, honey, not me. I know that Jerry will come around with your help. You don’t need me.
And it was true, too—she saw signs of it on their very first visit to Newport Creamery. Jerry sneaking quick looks at Nick when Nick dropped his long ice-cream spoon onto the floor, or when he pulled money out of his wallet and calculated the tip. Both times, in just those few seconds, there was an unexpected, open curiosity in Jerry’s light blue eyes, the fear completely gone. He caught Katie watching once, smiled shyly at her instead of glancing away.

But Katie didn’t tell Nick about these looks or the smile, and she didn’t back out of the visits. Because his mother had called once, twice, a third time. And each time Nick mouthed “busy” at Katie before retreating to the kitchen table with the thick textbooks Patricia had given him.

—Is something wrong, Katie? Candice asked on her third try. —This isn’t like Nicky.

—No, Candice, he’s just very busy with work. He’s been exhausted.

—Maybe I should try him in the morning?