eyes. The gunfire stopped, and there was an eerie silence from the garbage-strewn streets. Something made her stand up, leave the bar. Notebook tucked in the pocket of her shorts, she ran outside, cutting through dirt alleys. And then the gunfire started again.
It hadn’t been a premonition that had made her run outside. It had been the silence. Now, on an island far from war, she was enveloped by terror.
“Nadine?” Hank sat next to her on the church step. He looked concerned as he bent down to see her face.
“My head,” said Nadine. Her hands were shaking. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m sorry, I’m just feeling…”
“Continuing headaches are completely normal after head trauma,” said Hank. “Maybe this trip was too much for you.”
“No,” said Nadine. “I’m fine. Just some air, you know?” She looked into Hank’s eyes, and watched him decide whether or not to believe her.
“How about a burger?” she said, her voice controlled.
“There’s soup at my house,” said Hank.
“Really,” said Nadine. “I’m fine. Maybe I just need some food.” He nodded warily. She smiled, and took his arm as they walked back to the restaurant, wrapping around him tightly. She did not think of Maxim, the way his lips had felt on her skin. She did not think about returning to Nutthall Road the next day, staring at Maxim’s clothes abandoned on the floor.
Eleven
F or four days, Nadine woke early in Hank’s guest bedroom. The winter sun streamed through the panes of the upstairs windows; even when Nadine closed the white shutters, the light worked its way underneath her eyelids. Besides the hissing of the steam heat, the house was utterly quiet. Nadine’s dreams—which had always been blissfully blank—were filled with images like shrapnel: the clay Madonna on a sick child’s bedside table, the knot of skin where a Haitian boy’s ear had been. Ann’s wedding ring, nestled amid Jim’s spare change in a glass dish on his dresser in the Surf Drive house.
In her pajamas, Nadine made coffee and drank it in on the front porch, looking over the large yard, which led to a dirt road and then the beach. The yard was made for dogs and children, thought Nadine, but there was only Hank and his fragile patient, drinking coffee, wrapped in a scratchy red blanket. By the front door was a row of fishing rods and a green plastic tackle box.
In the afternoons, they would read in the living room. They had visited Nantucket Bookworks and bought each other books for Christmas. Hank was working through
War and Peace
and Nadine was revisiting
Cry the Beloved Country.
They sat at opposite ends of the couch, propped up by pillows. Once in a while, Hank would read a sentence to Nadine, or she would look up to find him focused on her, not his reading.
“What?” she said once, catching him staring.
“Oh,” said Hank, “I just hit a boring part. You thought I was gazing at you?”
“No,” said Nadine, smiling.
“Good,” said Hank.
After a lunch of cheese, sliced apples, and bread, they shopped in town and then sat on the beach. They told each other ribbons of stories: Nadine’s summer in South Africa, Hank’s mother in Florida, who was growing forgetful, the young girl he’d just diagnosed with diabetes. “That must have been tough,” said Nadine, when he described telling the girl’s parents.
“She’s fine,” said Hank. “Diabetes is a cakewalk compared with the worst things.” Nadine wanted to ask about the worst things, but stopped herself: she didn’t need nightmares about pediatric health disasters. Instead, she changed the subject.
“I had a boyfriend once with diabetes,” she said. “Cameron. He was from Vermont.”
“Cameron,” said Hank.
“Yeah,” said Nadine. “I loved his family. I loved his house. His parents built it themselves.” Nadine had met Cameron her freshman year at Harvard. He was tall, with brown hair and green eyes. He had to give himself an insulin shot
It hadn’t been a premonition that had made her run outside. It had been the silence. Now, on an island far from war, she was enveloped by terror.
“Nadine?” Hank sat next to her on the church step. He looked concerned as he bent down to see her face.
“My head,” said Nadine. Her hands were shaking. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m sorry, I’m just feeling…”
“Continuing headaches are completely normal after head trauma,” said Hank. “Maybe this trip was too much for you.”
“No,” said Nadine. “I’m fine. Just some air, you know?” She looked into Hank’s eyes, and watched him decide whether or not to believe her.
“How about a burger?” she said, her voice controlled.
“There’s soup at my house,” said Hank.
“Really,” said Nadine. “I’m fine. Maybe I just need some food.” He nodded warily. She smiled, and took his arm as they walked back to the restaurant, wrapping around him tightly. She did not think of Maxim, the way his lips had felt on her skin. She did not think about returning to Nutthall Road the next day, staring at Maxim’s clothes abandoned on the floor.
Eleven
F or four days, Nadine woke early in Hank’s guest bedroom. The winter sun streamed through the panes of the upstairs windows; even when Nadine closed the white shutters, the light worked its way underneath her eyelids. Besides the hissing of the steam heat, the house was utterly quiet. Nadine’s dreams—which had always been blissfully blank—were filled with images like shrapnel: the clay Madonna on a sick child’s bedside table, the knot of skin where a Haitian boy’s ear had been. Ann’s wedding ring, nestled amid Jim’s spare change in a glass dish on his dresser in the Surf Drive house.
In her pajamas, Nadine made coffee and drank it in on the front porch, looking over the large yard, which led to a dirt road and then the beach. The yard was made for dogs and children, thought Nadine, but there was only Hank and his fragile patient, drinking coffee, wrapped in a scratchy red blanket. By the front door was a row of fishing rods and a green plastic tackle box.
In the afternoons, they would read in the living room. They had visited Nantucket Bookworks and bought each other books for Christmas. Hank was working through
War and Peace
and Nadine was revisiting
Cry the Beloved Country.
They sat at opposite ends of the couch, propped up by pillows. Once in a while, Hank would read a sentence to Nadine, or she would look up to find him focused on her, not his reading.
“What?” she said once, catching him staring.
“Oh,” said Hank, “I just hit a boring part. You thought I was gazing at you?”
“No,” said Nadine, smiling.
“Good,” said Hank.
After a lunch of cheese, sliced apples, and bread, they shopped in town and then sat on the beach. They told each other ribbons of stories: Nadine’s summer in South Africa, Hank’s mother in Florida, who was growing forgetful, the young girl he’d just diagnosed with diabetes. “That must have been tough,” said Nadine, when he described telling the girl’s parents.
“She’s fine,” said Hank. “Diabetes is a cakewalk compared with the worst things.” Nadine wanted to ask about the worst things, but stopped herself: she didn’t need nightmares about pediatric health disasters. Instead, she changed the subject.
“I had a boyfriend once with diabetes,” she said. “Cameron. He was from Vermont.”
“Cameron,” said Hank.
“Yeah,” said Nadine. “I loved his family. I loved his house. His parents built it themselves.” Nadine had met Cameron her freshman year at Harvard. He was tall, with brown hair and green eyes. He had to give himself an insulin shot
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