CHAPTER
THIRTY-EIGHT
The pages of my brand-new life insurance policy unspool from the printer.
I clip them together, then slide them into a manila envelope. I have made sure to select a plan that covers not only my demise from natural causes, but also death and dismemberment from an accident.
I place it on my desk, beside the note I’ve penned to Aunt Charlotte. It is the hardest letter I have ever written. In it I’ve left information about my bank account with my swollen new balance so she can easily access it. She is the sole beneficiary of my life insurance policy as well.
I have three hours left.
I pick up my to-do list and mark off that task. My room is clean, my bed neatly made. All of my belongings are stored in my wardrobe.
Earlier today I also checked off two other items. I telephoned Maggie’s parents. And then I called Jason.
At first he didn’t recognize my name. It took him a few moments to remember. I paced during the pause in which he made the mental connection, wondering if he would acknowledge our past encounters.
Instead, he thanked me profusely for the donations to the animal shelter, then caught me up on his life since college. He told me he’d married the girlfriend he’d met on campus. “She stuck by me,” Jason said, his voice thickening with emotion. “I was so angry at everyone, but mostly at myself for not being there to help my little sister. When I got arrested for drunk driving and went to rehab—well, my girlfriend was my rock. She never gave up on me. We got married the next year.”
Jason’s wife was a middle-school teacher, he said. She’d graduated the same year as me. That was why he went to her ceremony at the Piaget Auditorium and stood in the corner. He was there to support her.
My guilt and anxiety had concocted a lie. It was never even about me.
I couldn’t help but feel sad for the woman who let all that fear shape so many of her life choices.
I am still very afraid, but it is no longer constricting me.
Only a few items remain on my list now.
I open my laptop and clear my browser history, wiping away evidence of my recent investigations. I double-check to make sure my searches into airline tickets and small, non-chain motels are no longer visible to anyone who might access my computer.
Emma does not understand Richard as I do. She cannot grasp what he is truly capable of. It’s impossible to imagine what he becomes in his worst moments.
Richard will simply move on unless I stop him. He’ll be more careful, though. He will find a way to rotate the kaleidoscope and sweep away the current reality, forming a bright, distracting new image.
I lay my outfit on my bed and take a long, hot shower, trying to ease the tightness in my muscles. I wrap myself in my bathrobe and clear the fog from the mirror above the sink.
Two and a half hours left.
First my hair. I brush back the damp strands into a tight bun. I carefully apply makeup and select the diamond stud earrings Richard gave me for our second anniversary. I fasten my Cartier Tank watch around my wrist. It’s essential that I am able to keep track of every second.
The dress I’ve selected is one I wore when Richard and I went to Bermuda. A classic snow-white sheath. It could almost serve as a wedding dress for a simple beachside ceremony. It is one of the outfits he sent back to me a few weeks ago.
I’ve chosen it not only for its history, and for its possibilities, but also because it has pockets.
Two hours remain.
I slip on a pair of flats, then gather the items I will need.
I tear up my list into tiny bits, then flush them down the toilet. I watch as they swirl away, the ink blurring.
A final act I must do remains before I leave. It is the most wrenching item on my list. It will require every bit of strength and all of the acting expertise I have accumulated.
I find Aunt Charlotte in the extra bedroom that serves as her studio. The door is open.
Canvases are stacked three deep throughout the room. Splatters of succulent colors layer the soft wood floor. For a moment, I surrender to the beauty: cerulean skies, clinquant stars, the horizon in the ephemeral moment before dawn. A rhapsody of wildflowers. The weathered grain of an old table. A Parisian bridge spanning the Seine. The curve of a woman’s cheek, her skin milky white and creased by age. I know this face so well; it is my aunt’s self-portrait.
Aunt Charlotte is lost in the landscape she is creating. Her strokes are looser than they have been in the past; her style more forgiving.
I want to capture her like this in my memory.
After a few moments she looks up and blinks. “Oh, I didn’t see you there, honey.”
“I don’t want to disturb you,” I say softly. “I’m heading out for a bit, but I’ve left lunch for you in the kitchen.”
“You look nice. Where are you off to?”
“A job interview. I don’t want to jinx it, but I’ll tell you about it tonight.”
My eyes fall on a canvas across the room: a laundry line hanging outside a building above a Venetian canal, the shirts and pants and skirts billowing in a breeze I can almost feel.
“You have to promise me one thing before I go.”
“Bossy today, aren’t you?” Aunt Charlotte teases.
“Seriously. It’s important. Will you go to Italy before the end of the summer?”
The smile fades from Aunt Charlotte’s lips. “Is something wrong?”
I desperately want to cross the room and hold on to her, but I fear if I do, I might not be able to leave.
This is all in my letter, anyway:
Remember that day when you taught me about how sunlight contains all the colors of the rainbow? You were my sunlight. You taught me how to find rainbows. . . . Please go to Italy for us. You will always carry me with you.
I shake my head. “Nothing’s wrong. I was planning on taking you as a surprise. But I’m worried if I get this job, we won’t be able to go together. That’s all.”
“Let’s not think about that now. You just focus on your interview. When is it?”
I check my watch. “Ninety minutes.”
“Good luck.”
I blow her a kiss and imagine it landing on her soft cheek.