Page 37 of Beneath the Poet's House

Saoirse brings a loosely closed fist up, taps her thumb to her chest, and looks at each of the three shocked faces in turn. “So, I guess I’m not missing Sarah’s tragically romantic and ultimately chronic heart condition, after all.”

Chapter 21

Lucretia, Mia, and Roberto continue to stare at her without speaking. Mia is the first to break the silence. “When were you diagnosed?”

Saoirse rubs her temples. “Seven years ago. About two years after Jonathan and I were married.” She can’t say anything else about that time, the nightmare her diagnosis led to. She won’t. “Now that I know how to manage it, it’s not that big of a deal,” she says. “I get dizzy or lightheaded if I try to work out, but I’ve never been much into sports. My doctor back in Jersey reviewed my medications regularly, and I was honest with her about how well I was complying with my treatment.” She glares at Lucretia. “But I wasn’t typically being slipped unregulated hallucinogens without my knowledge.”

Lucretia looks as if she’s going to be sick, and Saoirse is opening her mouth to berate her further when a knock comes at the door. “That would be the food,” Saoirse says dryly.

Lucretia looks down at the floor then back at Saoirse. Tears well in her dark eyes, magnified by her thick glasses. “I’m so sorry. I’ll pay for the food, and we’ll leave,” she whispers. When Saoirse says nothing, Lucretia stands. Mia and Roberto get up to follow.

“Wait,” Saoirse says when Lucretia’s at the living room door. Before she can think about what she’s doing, she continues, “You don’t have to go. I’m not happy about what you did, but against all odds, it turned out okay. My physical health is fine, and, well”—she lets out a disbelievingchuckle—“it apparently worked, because I’m writing again. Better than ever, in fact.”

Lucretia grips the doorframe. “You’re not mad?”

“Oh, I’m mad. And I’m never eating anything that comes from your kitchen ever again. But—” She sighs. “Like I said, everything turned out okay.” She looks at each of them in turn. “And I like you weirdos.” The shock of Lucretia’s admission has Saoirse feeling bold. “I like the séances. I like who I am when I’m around you.” She doesn’t say she hasn’t had real friends since before Jonathan, doesn’t say she hasn’t had her own personality with which to make friends since their wedding.

Lucretia expels a huge sigh of relief. “Oh god. Thank you, Saoirse. Thank you for not being too angry with me. I promise you, I did it out of love. And I won’t do anything like that ever again. No more secrets.”

Saoirse looks down at her lap. If they’re committing to no more secrets, she should do the same. But before she can consider saying more, Mia pushes past Lucretia in the doorway. “I’m going to pay for the food before the delivery guy decides there’s no one here and takes off.”

Once they’re situated around the kitchen table with various cartons, Saoirse considers returning to the previous conversation, considers telling her friends the whole truth. But where would she even begin?Hey, do you want to hear what happened after I was diagnosed with cardiomyopathy? Do you want to know what my husband did when I told him I didn’t want to risk having children with a heart condition?

Mia looks up from her curry. “You’re seeing Emmit tomorrow?”

Saoirse recalibrates her thoughts. “I am. He told me we could do whatever I wanted to in the city. Any ideas?”

Mia ignores her question. “What’s he like? Aside from being really into you, which is great, of course.”

Saoirse puts down her fork. “He’s thoughtful, in an almost preternatural way. Intelligent, obviously. And intuitive, even putting aside allthat premonition bullshit. He’s confident but not arrogant.” She takes a sip from a can of seltzer. “Why?”

“No reason.”

Roberto scoffs. “Like Mia ever pries into anything without reason.” He looks at Mia. “But seriously, whydoyou ask? WhatcouldEmmit Powell be like, other than a literary genius?”

Mia glowers at him. “It won’t mean anything at this juncture of their relationship.”

“What won’t?” Saoirse pushes.

Mia studies her. “Have you ever googled him?” she asks.

Roberto scoffs again. “Who hasn’t?”

Saoirse ignores Roberto. “Maybe when I readVulture Eyeslast year? I can’t remember. But not after meeting him this past week. Why?”

Mia sighs as if something is paining her, and annoyance flashes through Saoirse like electricity. “No more secrets, right?” she says. “If you have something to say, Mia, please, say it.”

“If youwereto google him,” Mia says slowly, as if against her better judgment, “you’d be met with all the things you might expect. A Wikipedia page touting his writing credentials, descriptions of his work, a bibliography. You wouldn’t see a ton of details beneath the headings of ‘early life’ or ‘personal life,’ but that’s not out of the ordinary.” Mia pauses, and Saoirse resists the urge to shout,Get to the point!

“But if you google, say, ‘Does Emmit Powell look familiar?’ or ‘Is Emmit Powell a pen name?’” Mia continues, “you’ll find some increasingly odd entries. A blog post by an independent horror author who swears she was in a writing group twenty years ago with a man who looked like Emmit Powell but whose name was Willem Thomas. References to a series of now-deleted tweets that attempt to discover if ‘Emmit Powell’ is a pen name, to no avail. Reference to another series of now-deleted tweets by a reporter fromEntertainment Weeklyattempting to track down Emmit’s aunt and uncle, also to no avail.”

Saoirse doesn’t know what to say, but it doesn’t matter; Lucretia speaks first: “Maybe Emmit Powellisa pen name. What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is, he’s said in numerous interviews that he doesn’t use a pen name.”

Saoirse shakes her head, wondering if the bewilderment she feels is written on her face. “When did you do all this googling anyway? I only just told you I’d spent time with him.”

Mia waves her hand. “Lucretia said he ran into you on Brown’s campus this past Saturday.”

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