The Paradise Problem (95)
Thirty-Two
LIAM
Anna and I break up about sixteen hours before a fifteen-hour flight. Which, I’m sure I don’t need to say, is pretty fucking awful. I’ve been seated beside strangers on a plane dozens of times, but never has that stranger been someone I shared a bed with. Never has that stranger been someone who looked at me and saw all of the good things I want to embody. Never has that stranger been someone I thought was on the way to being the most important person in my life.
We land in Los Angeles, and once we’re off the plane, I can tell Anna is dead set on getting the hell away from me, but we still do have some business to wrap up.
“Anna, wait,” I say, catching her wrist just before she manages to get on the escalator down to baggage claim. We step out of the stream of traffic, walking to the side of the no-man’s-land area of LAX customs where she stares up at me with red, blank eyes.
Had she been crying the entire flight?
“We have the issue of the wire transfer to settle.”
She blinks away, and for a beat I fear she’ll tell me she doesn’t want my dirty money after all, that she can’t stomach taking it. But then she inhales a steadying breath, and nods. “What information do you need?”
“Your routing number,” I tell her. “And your account number.”
“I can text it?”
“I think it’s better to write it down.”
Of all of the painful moments in the past twenty-four hours, this is the worst, I think. Both of us awkwardly searching for a pen, for a scrap of paper to write on. Anna shifts her purse onto her knee, digging around. “I got it,” she says, pulling out a pen from the Crowne Plaza Hotel at Changi Airport and a receipt for something she must have bought to eat after she left me alone in the hotel room. I stare helplessly as she swipes her phone awake, opens her banking app. I stare down at the screen, blankness washing through me as I realize her checking account has about twenty dollars in it. She’s already used the ten thousand dollars I sent her to pay her father’s medical bills.
Anna writes down her account number, the routing number. She straightens and hands it to me, not meeting my eyes.
I glance down and my chest twists as I realize it’s on the back of a receipt for a cheap hot dog. “I’ll send it tonight.”
“Don’t send more than we agreed on,” she says.
“Anna—”
“I know you, Liam. I don’t want you to send more.”
I nod, miserable. At this moment, I truly hate my father. I also hate myself. I hate the mess this has made, and how many lives will be affected if I don’t figure this out. Not just my family, all of them. I realize she’s waiting for me to break the tension, release us both; that it probably feels impolite to just turn and walk away after someone has assured you that they’ll be sending ninety thousand dollars to your bank account. So I gesture for her to lead us back to the escalator, where Anna collects her bags and wordlessly disappears into the crowd headed to the taxi line. I watch her until I can’t even see the pink of her hair anymore, knowing it’s entirely possible I will never see my wife again.
* * *
I MAY NOT SEE her again, but she’ll still be everywhere I look; while I was away, her three paintings were delivered to my house. I avoid unpacking clothes that likely smell of Anna by meticulously hanging her paintings instead. Freesia 2 goes on a wall in my living room, a blast of cardinal, coral, and a yellow so electric it seems to vibrate. Dahlia 4 goes on the wall in my study: concentric rings of soothing puffs of pinkish-white petals with a shock of pink in the center set against a delicate green backdrop; individual petals look nearly conical, their tender centers hiding a thousand shadows that reveal the true magic of the painting. And Three Zinnias goes in my bedroom, on the wall opposite my bed. When I first see it, it takes my breath away—a meticulous close-up of three overlapping flowers I assume are zinnias, one a brilliant green, one a shocking tangerine, and one a scarlet so vivid it seems three-dimensional. The energy, the colors, and the sequence of them reminds me so acutely of the dress Anna wore to the wedding that for a few minutes I can only stare at the painting, barely able to breathe. The paintings I’d assumed were her hobby in college were good, but now I see those were simple tunes, “Chopsticks” played on the piano with novice fingers. These pieces are her symphony, the result of natural talent and years of honing her craft.
Truthfully, all three are amazing. I wish I had seen them before buying them, only so she would have seen the honesty in my expression when I told her I loved them, that I believe in her talent.
I’m drained, but I can’t sleep. Haven’t eaten all day, but I’m not hungry. Collapsing on the couch, I stare at Freesia 2 until my eyes lose focus and I have no more mental defenses left. Thoughts pummel me.
I have to agree to my father’s demands. I’ll have to let go of my faculty position. I’ll have to let go of Anna. My brain makes these depressing rounds over and over.
My phone buzzes on the couch beside me and I pick it up, staring at Jake’s profile photo. For a few rings, I consider letting it go. I’m pretty sure Blaire and the kids left early, but the others have just left the island for Singapore, which means Jake is with Dad. Maybe—just maybe—something has happened to get me out of this.