The St. Ambrose School for Girls(87)

Reaching the second-floor landing, I get an inkling something has changed. Nick Hollis’s door is open. This is not unusual. There is, however, a pair of suitcases off to the side, like soldiers standing at attention in the presence of an officer.

Oh, shit. They’ve fired Nick and his wife is leaving him. I stumble and have to catch myself on the balustrade—

“Are you okay?”

A woman rushes out of the apartment as I trip, her arms stretched forward, her face concerned. She’s tall and slender, with luxurious brown hair, and she smells of faded perfume and faint cigarette smoke. In her professional suit jacket and skirt, she is beautiful in the manner of a news anchor, all even, symmetrical features and innate elegance.

“Mrs. Hollis?” I say.

She smiles, revealing perfectly straight white teeth. “Call me Sandy. You must be Sarah.”

Struck by how at ease she is, I look at the suitcases. Maybe she’s just coming home, not leaving? So she doesn’t know. Or maybe nothing’s been done?

The information vacuum makes my head spin in dangerous ways. “How do you know me?”

“Nick’s told me a lot about your book discussions, and happened to mention your favorite color is black. I figured it had to be you.”

“Oh.” Every time I blink, I see my sleeve-covered hand wiping my prints off the window crank of this woman’s husband’s Porsche’s door.

“—surprised him by getting home early,” she’s saying with another open and honest smile. “It’s so good to be here. I feel like I’ve been on the road all semester long, but I know you’ve been taking good care of Nick. God, you’ve done me a favor with talking about all his books with him. Fiction is not my thing.”

I nod. I say something. I’m not sure what.

“Anyway,” she says with a brisk cheerfulness, “now that my MacArthur Foundation grant has been discharged, I get to be home while I seek another round of funding. I don’t know if Nick told you what I do, but I focus on municipal programming and outreach to support HIV-positive—” She waves her hand to stop herself, and I see that she wears the same kind of simple gold band that her husband does, only smaller. “None of that matters. I want you to come have dinner with us. I’m a terrible cook, but I am determined to learn more now that I have a little time off. What do you say?”

I look into her eyes. They are hazel, that catchall term for irises that are too brown to be green and too blue to be brown, and they have flecks in them that make me think of the pepper I sprinkle on my French fries.

“He told you about me, didn’t he,” I hear myself say to her.

Sandra Hollis’s—Sandy’s—face remains calm and composed, like a social worker who’s been trained to stay calm and composed, no matter what’s revealed to them. It makes me wonder what would happen if I told her about Greta’s underwear. Would the expression change then?

“He said you’re super smart, and that you should definitely be an English major in college. He told me that he’s going to stay in touch with you after we leave at the end of this school year and give you a leg up at Yale in three years, if you want.”

She’s lying. Maybe not about the college admissions stuff, but certainly by omission about knowing the truth of my illness. She’s too smooth, too prepared with her words.

Abruptly, she tilts her head. “Are you okay?”

As I just stare at her, she glances over her shoulder into the apartment. “Nick? Can you come out here—”

I am so sorry, I think to myself.

“About what?” she asks.

When she poses the question, I realize I’ve spoken out loud. I also realize how high I have raised the stakes in this game I am trying to play with Greta.

“I have to go,” I say just as Nick steps into the open doorway.

He’s wearing a deep red cashmere sweater, at least I think it has to be cashmere given how fine the knit is. And he’s smiling as he drops a casual arm around his wife. She looks at him, her mouth moving as she brings him up to speed, and when she nestles her body into his, I doubt she’s even aware of how comfortable she is with him. How loose. How unwound. The way she is with her husband is honest intimacy, and I’m the only one among the three of us who suspects it’s not going to last much longer.

I look down at his jeans, and try to guess whether they’re the ones I took out of the washer, the ones that Greta’s panties were in. They seem similar. Don’t all jeans look the same, though?

“God, Sarah, I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever.” Nick smiles. “And you’ve got to come to dinner—”

“I have to go study,” I mumble.

“We’ll make a date,” he says as I trip over my feet again and take off.

I barely make it to the bathroom in time. Punching through the door, I go to the row of toilets, burst into a stall, and crash down onto my knees. I don’t even bother to put the seat up as I retch. Nothing comes out, though, so I retch again. And again—

“Are you okay?”

When I hear the voice from up above, I have a thought that God is a female and She’s checking in on me, and I promptly decide I must apologize for doubting Her existence all these years.

I lift my sweaty, flushed face out of the bowl.