The Invisibles (11 page)

H
enry served lunch out on the small enclosed deck behind the kitchen. The green wicker table had already been set with pieces of blue-and-white china, silverware, and white cloth napkins. A bowl of white and yellow flowers was set in the middle on top of a lace doily. Nora watched Henry as he set large bowls of steaming carrot-tomato soup in front of each of them, and then waited as everyone helped themselves to a dish of parmesan croutons. He was equally attentive to them all—passing the pepper to Monica before she asked for it, refilling Ozzie and Nora's water glasses when they got low—but especially to Grace, whose hair he would reach out and tuck behind her shoulder as she leaned in for a bite of soup. Did she like being doted on? Nora wondered. Or did she regard such demonstrations with impatience, the way she used to? Every so often in high school, when Max reached for her in front of the rest of them, he would get his hands shoved away and a dark look, as if he had just done something wrong. It was difficult to tell what Grace was feeling now; her face would
revert into a blank, expressionless stare as they ate, and her right foot jiggled against the floor.

Monica got up twice during the meal to answer her phone, disappearing into the back of the house to talk and then reemerging, full of apologies. She and Liam were in the middle of closing on a new apartment, she explained, and things were a little hectic. Ozzie did most of the talking as Henry served the second course—small plates of arugula, roasted chicken, and goat cheese—launching into a story about how she and her husband, Gary, had first met. “It was at a Yankees game,” she said. “Something I normally wouldn't be caught dead at since I'm a Red Sox fan, but my friend had an extra ticket and begged me to come. Anyway, Gary was sitting in front of me, and when the other team got a hit, I jumped up and screamed and accidentally dumped my beer all over him.”

“You didn't!” Monica's eyes were wide as cornflowers.

“I did.” Ozzie looked around the table. “I felt terrible, of course, and ran to the concession stand to get a bunch of napkins. And then, after he had gotten himself all cleaned up, he asked me out on a date.”

“Oh!” Monica squealed and clapped her hands. “I love it!”

“Now every year on our anniversary, at the very end of the night, we pour a bottle of beer over each other's heads,” Ozzie finished, laughing.

Henry laughed a little too loudly along with her, glancing over at Grace to see if she thought it was funny. She smiled and fiddled with an arugula leaf.

They talked a little bit, each of them, about their work: Monica,
who did not have a regular nine-to-five position, spent whatever free time she had planning and participating in fund raisers with other women in her new tax bracket. The events were all the same, she said. “Lots of wine, expensive outfits, and high heels, all disguised as assistance for the needy. And boring, to boot.” Nora talked about her job at the library and the degree she'd earned online, unable to hide the pride she still felt for her milestone achievement. “Oh, Nora, that's so fan
tas
tic,” Monica said, placing a hand over hers. “That's one thing I will always wish I'd done. I'm so proud of you.”

Ozzie was equally effusive, winking at Nora over her salad. “You were always the brains of our outfit. Goddamn, girl. Good for you.” Ozzie ran an egg-and-vegetable-selling business out of her house and also did palm readings in her kitchen.

“You wouldn't believe how many people out there want their readings done,” she said. “I get them from all over the place—people on road trips who stop just because they're bored, townies who've lived in the area for thirty-plus years. I don't think I've had a single day in the past three years—except maybe Christmas—when I haven't done at least one reading.”

“I've never had anything of mine read,” Monica said. “Or my fortune told, or anything like that. I've always wanted to, but I'm scared.”

“Of what?” Ozzie asked.

“I guess of hearing something I don't want to hear,” Monica answered. “What if I went to some lady who looked into a crystal ball and told me I had six months left to live? Or that she sensed the relationship I was in was coming to an end? It would change
everything, hearing something like that. I would live my whole life differently just because of what someone said.”

“But who's to say that what you'd been told was right?” Nora said, glancing over at Ozzie. “I'm sure the readings
you
do are accurate, Oz, but you don't know who else is out there. They could be telling you anything.”

“Real palm reading is an art, just like painting or writing or photography.” The defensiveness in Ozzie's voice had left, replaced now with an urgency that Nora had not heard before. “You've got to really believe in it yourself for it to work. It can't just be a way of making money.” She raised an eyebrow in Monica's direction. “And just to put your mind at ease, Mons, if someone you've paid a hundred dollars for a palm reading says that your life is coming to an end in six months, ask for your money back. No one can ever know when your life will end. No one.”

A silent, ponderous moment passed. Then Ozzie said, “Do you work, Grace?”

Grace's face blanched. She lifted her napkin and dabbed at the corners of her mouth.

“She's been painting up a storm,” Henry blurted out. “I don't know if any of you saw the pictures in the living room . . .”

“We did see them.” Ozzie nodded.

“They're lovely,” Monica added.

Grace forced a smile.

“We're thinking of showing them,” Henry said. “You know, in a gallery. There are a few buyers who've already expressed interest.”

“A gallery?” Monica repeated. “How fantastic!”

A noise that sounded like static floated out from somewhere in the living room.

“That's the baby monitor.” Henry stood up. “Let me just go check on her. I'll be back in a minute.”

Nora put her spoon down. She pressed two fingers against the bottom of her breastbone and took a breath. She could do this. She could. She looked over at Grace, who was picking at the lettuce on her plate. “Congratulations, by the way, Grace.” She was forcing herself to talk, dragging the words out of her mouth with a rope. “What's her name?”

Grace winced, as if Nora's eyes were burning a hole through her skin. “Can you please call me Petal?” She swept her eyes over Monica and Ozzie; it was a request for all of them. “Please. I've been Petal for three years now. I really,
really
don't like to be called Grace anymore.”

“Oh.” Nora dropped her eyes, embarrassed. “Of course. I forgot.”

“Thank you.” Grace's voice was soft as she looked back at Nora. “Her name is Georgia.”

“Oh, that's a beautiful name!” Monica burst out. “I love it! What made you choose it?”

“For Georgia O'Keeffe?” The name was out of Nora's mouth before she realized it had formed in her brain.

The tightness in Grace's face eased, a loosening of strings beneath the skin. “That's right,” she said. “My favorite artist of all time. Remember, Nora?”

Nora nodded. Of course she remembered. She remembered all of it.

“Why was she your favorite?” Monica asked.

“Oh.” Grace dismissed the question with a wave of her hand, as if it were unanswerable. “Just her . . . way with everything. I can't even remember specifically anymore.”

“Light,” Nora said. “You used to love her way of working with light. You said once that all her pictures, even the dark ones, had some source of internal light, which generated through the colors.”

Grace looked at her blankly. “I said that?”

Nora nodded. “And another time you told me that on really good days, when you drew something well, you felt as though you were borrowing some of that light.”

Grace locked eyes with her, and for a moment Nora thought they were back in that little room, Grace curled up in bed, her charcoal pencil making little
skitching
noises on a pad, Nora huddled against the wall, reading a book. Hours could go by like that, whole afternoons, without a sound or a word from either of them. And it had been enough, the easy understanding that hovered there between them like some kind of warm air. It had been more than enough.

Grace's brow furrowed. “I guess what I really loved about her was that she didn't copy anyone else. She trusted her own instincts, which were way off the beaten path, not like anything anyone had really seen before. She said in an interview once that it took courage to create your own world. And I guess what I like most about her is that she dug deep enough to find that courage.”

“Wow.” Monica ran a hand through her hair. “I love that.”

“Can I ask you a question?” Ozzie interrupted the moment. “Where'd you come up with the name Petal? For yourself, I mean. I'm curious.”

Grace lowered her eyes and stared into her salad. “I just like it. I think it's pretty.”

“It's beautiful,” Monica said. “It fits you.”

Grace rested her chin against the heel of one hand. Nora stared at the tiny white lines that ran across the inside of her wrist in sordid little tic-tac-toes. Had there been another attempt earlier? Maybe even before Henry? Had life really seemed that unbearable?

“I guess what I mean is, where did the whole idea to change your name come from?” Ozzie shifted a little in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Why would it even occur to you? Most people don't do that.”

Grace tossed her head. “I told you. I don't like the name Grace. I've never liked it.”

“Really?” Ozzie pressed. “You never said anything about it before.”

“Ozzie,” Monica said gently.

“Okay.” Ozzie took a swallow of mineral water and set the glass back down on the table. “I don't mean to pry. I was just wondering.”

Henry came back in then, smoothing a hand along the nape of Grace's neck and down along her shoulder before sitting in his chair. “Snug as a bug,” he said. “She should sleep for another hour or so before her next feeding.”

Grace looked away distractedly, as if the information about the child pained her. Nora couldn't help but wonder if Henry tended exclusively to the baby. Did Grace ever hold her or pick her up? Did she look at her, even from afar, or had the postpartum depression made even that difficult?

Grace pushed her chair back and stood up. “Excuse me. I have to use the restroom.”

Henry watched her go, his eyes anxious. Then he looked back
at the women. “That's my cue to get dessert,” he said. “Sit tight. I'll be back in a jiffy.”

“Well.” Ozzie tossed her napkin on the table and folded her arms across her chest as Henry disappeared. “What do you think?”

“She's like a . . . shell.” Monica reached inside her purse as her phone went off again.

Ozzie glared at the phone as Monica brought it into view. “Is there any way you can turn that thing off for a while?”

Monica glanced at the screen, bit her lip, and then pressed a button on the phone before sliding it back into the bowels of her purse.

“I think she's less than a shell,” Ozzie said. “She's like a zombie. I know I said that she was going to need us for more than a weekend, but there's nothing we're going to be able to do even if we do stay longer. I think she needs to go back into the hospital. Seriously. She needs really intense psychotherapy, or something. The woman is walking around like she's half dead! I mean, who are we kidding?”

For a moment, Nora agreed with her. This was too big for them. There was nothing any of them could do. None of them were trained in any sort of psychology or counseling, and Nora herself didn't have the slightest idea about medication or how any of it worked.

But.

“Do you remember how I was when I first came to Turning Winds?” she asked.

“Of course I remember.” Ozzie took her hat off and rubbed her hair.

“You didn't talk,” Monica said fondly. “You wrote everything down in that little unicorn pad of yours.”

“I
was a shell of a person,” Nora said. “And then I met you. And you brought me back to life. All of you.” She paused. “Remember when I talked for the first time?”

“Meeting Number Six,” Ozzie said, winking at her. “Never forget it.”

“Me either.” Monica's eyes glistened.

It hadn't been a “moment,” or even anything special. Certainly nothing wrapped in dramatics. There had been no scene or yelling, nothing yanked out of her by force. It had simply been another Invisibles meeting, her turn to share another first line that she'd already chosen and written down carefully in her notebook for Grace to read aloud. And yet for some reason she didn't pass the notebook to Grace that night. She'd stared at the cover of it instead, studying the swirl of blues behind the rearing unicorn, the narrow, conchlike pattern of the animal's horn, and realized that she didn't need it anymore. That part of her life was over. It was time to go on, to open another door.

“Nora?” Grace had prodded. “You want me to read it?”

She had shaken her head and placed the notebook down next to her. And then she'd opened her mouth. “I want—” she started. The words came out slowly, haltingly, a baby bird pecking its way out of a shell, and she cleared her throat and tried again. “I want to do it.”

For a moment, no one moved. The silence, combined with the weight of the girls' stares, felt intrusive, as if she'd done something wrong, and she felt a catch in her throat.

“Go,” Ozzie said before Nora could take another breath. “Go, Nora.”

Monica and Grace leaned forward just as eagerly, and Nora straightened up a little bit, feeling for the first time in as long as she could remember that nothing in the entire world could hurt her in this moment.