“Uncalled for. And not true. And Revvy. What kind of name is that anyway?”

“His name, I guess.”

“Okay, Amy. Get some sleep.”

“I will.” She closed her eyes and prayed for the blessed absence of consciousness, knowing it would be a long, long time in coming as the approaching dilemma of right and wrong, of inevitability and destiny intertwined.

What was right? What vows were made? She shoved the questions away, along with the burden of comprehending the agony she’d caused Nick, the grief she could cause Phil. She couldn’t look directly at any of this mess and she used the telegrams as a solar eclipse—blocking out what she knew was there, but couldn’t yet see or feel.

PART III

PART III

The only joy to be trusted is the joy on the far side of a broken heart.

—Alfred North Whitehead

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-five

The commode closet seemed to be where Amy spent most of her free time these days. Pitiful, but it was the only place where she could sit and reread Nick’s notes. The days were endless without borders on her feelings. Christmas had passed and Molly had started school, but SCAD didn’t start until mid-January. Amy sat and read—attempting to find what haunted her. An unfulfilled longing gnawed at her and she wanted something from these notes, or they were preparing her for something. She felt that if she just read them over and over she’d discover what it was. Only reading the notes brought her close to understanding the emptiness she felt. At the same time the notes conveyed a nauseating pain.

There was a certain sense of destiny within the messages. She hadn’t brought Nick back to her present life, and whatever came next wouldn’t be her choice either—it would come of its own volition.

Christmas had, paradoxically, been one of the most peaceful and quiet they’d ever had as a family. She thought it due to her own stillness, which she used as a survival mechanism. Her usual hubbub—running around, fixing, re-fixing, cooking, cleaning, wrapping—had decreased in both intensity and volume. She felt as she had right before the children were born—a conserving of energy, a withdrawing into her own body that allowed only the most necessary activities outside herself.

She sent Phil to his office party alone. Their unresolved disagreements over both the identity of the Oystertip buyer and her guest list at the open house ran beneath the surface like a sharp-edged danger they didn’t go near. Talking about any of it would only lead to what she really felt and she could not voice her emotions, much less explain them. Evasion of discord seemed to be in the best interest of their family.