“No, you took everything!” she yelled back. “You took my name away!”
Hal looked as bewildered as if she’d slapped him. Then his jolly, reasonable look was back, the mask once again in place.
“Daisy,” he said, his voice calm.
“That’s not my name!” she shrieked.
He reached out to put his hands on her shoulders, as he’d done so many times before, to hold her still, to instruct her, and in her head she ducked and saw Hal stumbling forward, grabbing for the wobbly post, the one that had never been repaired. She saw his feet skid on the slick surface of the deck, saw his arms pinwheeling, hands groping, reaching for her, for help that wouldn’t come. She saw him fall, thudding down one, two, three, four, five, six flights of stairs, to lie, broken and motionless, on the sand, limbs twisted, eyes open to the rain. She saw herself look down at him, seeing nothing but a male body around a man-shaped void. Not a man at all, but a creature with cold, flat eyes, a monster with instincts for self-preservation and a species of low cunning, but not a man, not a person who had loved her, or anyone.
Hal had looked like what she was supposed to want—the body, the name, the degrees and the job and the money that he earned. She had taken those facts and built a man around them; had taken a collection of gestures and phrases and called them love. She’d willed a husband into existence, because Hal had said he’d give her the life she’d wanted, because he’d caught her at a moment of weakness and unfurled his promises like a banner. You’ll never be lonely. You’ll never be afraid. You’ll never worry about money or worry that no one wants you. She remembered her mother’s face when she’d come home with the news, how Judy had grabbed her hand and kissed the diamond of her ring. She remembered Hal lifting their newborn daughter into his arms, with pride and adoration on his face. But had that been real, or again, just a projection, a mirage, her mind showing her what she wanted to see? He’d taught Beatrice how to ice-skate and swim and ride a bike; he’d coached her T-ball team, he’d taken her to every father-daughter dance. Daisy had thought that, too, was love, but now she thought it was closer to camouflage; the protective actions of a man who knew how he had to behave if he wanted the world to count him as one of the good guys. Hal, she thought, had only gone through the motions, doing what was required to get the life he wanted, the life that he thought he deserved.
All of those thoughts flashed through her head in an instant as the wind howled and the rain poured down. I could end it all, right now, she thought. I wouldn’t even have to do anything. Just duck. But, as much as the idea pleased her, she wouldn’t let him fall. Death would be too easy. Death would let him off the hook. Life, though, life with the knowledge that Daisy knew what he’d done and who he was… that would be close to intolerable for a man as proud as Hal Shoemaker. Let him live, like a parachutist with his straps cut, tumbling down and down, forever. Let him live, with his every moment a torment, every hour burning.
Through the rain, Daisy could see another life, a life where she lived out here full-time, with Beatrice, and Diana nearby. Where she could walk her dog on the beach every morning, with her friend, and spend her days cooking in a restaurant. Where Diana could spend time with Beatrice, where Beatrice could go to public school and figure out for herself who she wanted to be, if she wanted to go to college or not. Maybe Daisy could even help at the restaurant and give Diana and her husband time to travel, to see the world. Maybe she had gifts she could give them, ways to repair the damage, and stitch up what had been torn. The only thing she knew for sure was that there was no way forward with Hal, not knowing what she knew about what he’d done. Her life as his wife, as Daisy Shoemaker, was over. I divorce thee.
And so, instead of ducking, Daisy stood still. When she felt Hal’s hands on her shoulders, she said, “We’re done, you and I,” and waited until she saw that knowledge land in his eyes, before she turned and walked away with the rain scouring her skin, wishing only for a door to close, quietly but firmly, behind her.
Coda
On a hot August afternoon, a girl in a yellow bikini stood on a paddleboard and made her way across the glassy, blue-green waters of Cape Cod Bay. A breeze lifted the spill of shiny silvery hair that fell halfway down her back; the sun warmed her face and shoulders. She still didn’t know everything that her parents had discussed, in long conversations with their bedroom door locked, or how, precisely, her uncle Danny and her mother’s friend Diana fit into the story. Her mind shied away from the worst of the possibilities, like a little kid’s fingers from a hot stove. All she knew was that things had been tense with Uncle Danny and Diana, but, over the past weeks, there’d been a thawing.