The weather thankfully holds up, and we’re able to go outside as planned.
Getting downstairs is not the easiest task. There’s no easy way to get a wheelchair down an entire flight of stairs, so the only way to get down is for Adam to lift her out of the chair and carry her. Fortunately, she’s very light, and he’s able to do it without even breaking a sweat. He’s got another wheelchair down on the first level so he doesn’t have to carry her chair down too.
“I’m worried she’ll be cold,” I say to Adam as I zip up her hoodie sweater. It’s nice out, but a bit on the nippy side. I’m wearing a coat, but I feel like it might be hard for her to wear one. A warmer sweater would probably do the trick.
“Go look in the walk-in closet in our bedroom,” he says. “She’s got tons of clothes in there.”
I don’t know how I feel about going into Adam’s bedroom and sifting through the closet. He notices my hesitation and waves a hand at me. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
Adam’s bedroom, which I suppose used to be Adam and Victoria’s bedroom, is much larger than any of the other rooms. It has a large double bed, and the covers are in disarray since Maggie isn’t here today. I wonder if Victoria was the sort of woman who liked the beds to all be made every morning—my mother was like that. She drilled it into me so hard that I still make my bed every day, even though I haven’t spoken to my mother in eight years.
There’s a smaller closet in the bedroom that I suppose belongs to Adam. He keeps the door to that one firmly closed. He swings open the larger door and I can’t help but let out a gasp.
“Vicky liked clothing.” He shrugs sheepishly. “I don’t know what’s in here. I haven’t touched it since…”
I step inside the massive closet. God, there are a lot of clothes in here. Rows and rows of them. It’s practically a department store in itself. And when I check the labels, I realize nothing in here is cheap. Everything is name brand.
There’s a certain irony to the fact that a woman with such an amazing wardrobe now dresses primarily in sweatpants, T-shirts, and hoodies. Obviously, Victoria was someone who cared a lot about style. Even in the diary entries I read, it was clear she took a lot of care with her appearance. It must kill her that she’s always in her sweats.
And nobody can tell me she isn’t aware of it. She knows.
As if reading my mind, Adam says, “I wish she could still wear this stuff. But she spends all her time sitting or in bed. She needs to be in clothes that are comfortable and big enough not to rub against her skin.” He fingers a pair of designer skinny blue jeans. “The back pocket on these would cause a pressure sore. And she’s so stiff, I don’t know how we’d get them on her.” He’s got a point, but I still feel bad about the whole thing. So I sort through the closet and pick out one of the nicest sweaters I can find: a blue Ralph Lauren cable knit cashmere sweater that looks like it will compliment
her eyes.
“Do you want me to help you put it on her?” Adam asks.
I shake my head. It’s just a sweater, for God’s sake. “I think I can manage.”
When I show Victoria the sweater, I wait for a flash of happiness at the sight of it. Oh my goodness, Sylvie! It’s my favorite sweater! That was stupid, of course. She doesn’t react at all. And when I try to put it on her— well, I sorely regret refusing Adam’s offer to help. It is not easy to put this sweater on her. Her right arm is stiff like a board and her left arm is fighting me the whole time. I start out by putting her good left arm into the sweater since that is what she’s trying to do, but then I feel like I’m about to twist her other arm into an unnatural angle just to get her inside. I can only imagine what Eva would say if she witnessed this display.
Fortunately, Adam must have predicted this was going to happen because he comes down to the living room and rescues me. He gently eases the tangled sweater off her arms, then puts it back on her like he’s been doing it his whole life. First her limp right arm, then her good arm, then over her head.
“Don’t feel bad,” he says when he’s got it in place. “It took me a while to master. You’ll get the hang of it.”
He rests a hand on his wife’s shoulder, but she does what she always does—she turns her head away from him.
The weather is perfect for a walk. Sunny but with a nice breeze in the air. I’ve pulled my hair back into a ponytail, but Victoria’s is loose around her face. From the right angle, she looks very pretty when the wind lifts her hair in the air. This is one of those moments when I see a glimpse of how beautiful she used to be… before.
There’s a paved path that leads around the house, but Adam wasn’t exaggerating when he said it was overgrown. The grass has gone wild and every bush has wayward branches extending into the path. He needs to hire someone to take care of this mess. It would be fine for me to navigate on my own, but wheeling a chair over the path is a challenge. How did Adam ever take Victoria on a walk?
After we’ve done one lap around the house, I’m already getting tired. I look over at Victoria to see how she’s holding up, and her eyes are open wide.
“How are you doing?” I ask her. “Ready to go back in or do you want to stay outside longer?”
Her brows knit together. She looks like she wants to say something, but she’s struggling.
I put my hand gently on her shoulder the way Adam did, but she doesn’t look away this time. “What’s wrong, Victoria?”
“It’s…” She’s managing to get the words out, even though they’re slurred. “In…”
I shake my head. “What?”
“Glen Head.” Her words are slurred but intelligible. “In. Glen Head.” What?
I remember from when I was scouring the map of Long Island that Glen Head is part of the town of Oyster Bay, although it’s not anywhere close to here. Why is she interested in some tiny village in Oyster Bay?
“What’s in Glen Head?” I ask.
“No.” She looks up at me, and a drop of drool escapes from her lips, but she barely seems to notice. “No. Not…” She shakes her head. “No.”
Well, this is frustrating.
I’ve been reading more of Victoria’s diary, but I have to admit, I haven’t been reading it much. I mean, she loves the guy—I get it. I don’t need page after page of how wonderful he is, how good he kisses, blah blah blah. Frankly, given my silly crush on him, it’s a bit frustrating.
But maybe I shouldn’t have given up so quickly. More and more, I’m getting the feeling there’s something Victoria wants to tell me. And the answer is in that diary.
I’ll read more tonight.
She seems unsettled so I go for another lap around the house. It’s hard work but the weather won’t hold up forever, so we may as well take advantage. Come January, when we’re trapped in the house, I’ll be glad we got out a little bit.
“Sylvie!”
I freeze, startled by the sound of her saying my name. Every morning, I walk in to see Victoria and say, Hi! It’s Sylvie! But I never thought it registered with her. Apparently, it has.
“You’re right!” I say excitedly. I don’t want to make too much of this, but I’m thrilled. She doesn’t even say her own name. The only name she ever says is Adam. “That’s my name. Sylvie!”
“Sylvie!” she says again. And I realize she’s pointing with her shaky left hand.
I follow the direction of her extended hand. She’s pointing at a tree about twenty feet away from us, near the shed where Adam says they store the gardening supplies. The leaves have all turned red and yellow and fallen on the roof of the shed—it’s very beautiful.
“I know,” I say. “It’s lovely.”
And—I swear to God—she rolls her eyes at me. “No.” Her voice is filled with impatience. “Sylvie. It’s… nub.”
There’s a part of me that wants to scream. Victoria talks about “nub” all the freaking time. I have no idea what it means. At least once a day, she says “nub” in that urgent voice. At first, I was convinced it had to do with the way I was cutting her fingernails. But now I have no idea. I asked Adam and he didn’t know either.
But I’ve noticed she talks about him in association with nub a lot. Adam nub. Adam in nub. No nub Adam. Nub Adam. Any combination you can imagine.
So is “nub” a tree? Is that what she wants? A tree?
“Nub,” she says more urgently. Her left hand pointing at the tree is shaking violently.
What does she want, for God’s sake? Does she want to climb the tree?
Does she want me to climb the tree?
“Do you…” I look back at the tree. “Do you want me to go over there?”
She nods vigorously.
Well, fine. I abandon her chair on the path and pick my way through the wild grass to get to the tree. Or the nub, or whatever it is. I wonder if there are initials carved on the tree—maybe that’s what Victoria wants me to see. Or maybe there’s a secret message on it that will lead me to a buried treasure.
The tree is… a totally unremarkable tree. I circle it once, just to make sure there are no secret messages written on it—there aren’t. It’s a very normal tree. The only thing different about it is a small area on the front where the wood is splintered. I reach out and touch the imperfection.
“Nub!” I hear Victoria shout. It’s the loudest I’ve ever heard her speak.
I have no clue what she’s talking about. This is just a splintered area on a tree.
And then I see it. Embedded in the wood. A bullet.
“Nub,” she says, quieter this time but her voice is carried by the wind. “Adam… nub.”
I finally know what nub means.
I walk back to where Victoria is sitting. She follows me carefully with her good eye. She’s watching my face.
“Gun?” I say.
She nods slowly. “Gun,” she repeats.
