Page 52 of Beneath the Poet's House

“I’mnotsaying you were to blame,” Emmit says. His voice is calm and even. One half of his mouth jumps up in its usual tic. “I mean, honestly, Saoirse, you know me. Of course that’s not what I’m saying. You know me, so you know I’m going to push you on this, at least a little. Why do we write? To push past death. Why do we live? To push past death. I just want you to open up to me. To talk to me more deeply than you have any other human. Maybe more deeply than you have to yourself.

“You were right to do what you did. If I were you, I would have done the same. I wouldn’t have wanted to try for a baby if there was even a ten percent chance I could die. I mean, isn’t the rate of maternal mortality in healthy women in the US less than one percent? I’m on your side here. But the new book I’m working on is all about choices. And regret. I was just curious as to whether you’d ever wished you’d at least explored other options, in a philosophical sense.”

In a philosophical sense.Can she divorce her very painful memory from a philosophical question? She isn’t sure. And is he really pushingher on this because of some theme he wants to explore in the new book? She wants to turn away from him and walk inside. She wants to end this conversation. But some small part of her brain hasn’t yet reconciled the reality of the last few days, of being with Emmit, from the radicality ofsleeping with Pulitzer Prize–winning novelist Emmit Powell. And another part of her brain is stuck on the words Emmit spoke just yesterday:I’m falling in love with you.

“I don’t regret not trying to have a baby with Jonathan,” she says slowly. “Do I wish things had been different? Maybe. But only if alotof things had been different, and where does one draw the line on their ‘I-wishes’?”

She can sense Emmit’s about to ask her to clarify, so she continues, “I wish I’d never married Jonathan. Or else, I wish I’d married Jonathan and he hadn’t turned out to be such a bastard. And if he hadn’t been such a bastard, I wish I’d never inherited cardiomyopathy from my asshole of a father. I guess I wish I’d never inherited cardiomyopathy, regardless. But if Jonathan hadn’t turned out to be such a bastard and I was healthy, I wish I’d tried to get pregnant. I wish, in a perfect world, a different world, I was a mother.

“So, to answer your ‘philosophical’ question, yes, I wish I’d been able to carry a healthy baby safely to term, to have a family with a wonderful man who respected and loved me and treated me as an equal. But if some benevolent god or drunk jinn is handing out wishes, I’ll take infinite resources and unending inspiration too. Maybe my own private island.”

She turns to Emmit again, who’s staring at her as if considering a painting he can’t quite make sense of. In a tone that is tired rather than angry, she asks, “Is that what you meant by your question? Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Emmit turns back toward the cityscape and chews his lip. That he’s considering her question is obvious, trying to determine whether her response has, in fact, satisfied his sympathetic? ... academic? ... curiosity. She tries not to mind that the most intimate and painful piecesof her life seem to be fodder for the ongoing brainstorming process of Emmit’s new novel.

His probingcouldbe akin to their first conversation together at Carr Haus, and their exploration of whether death is the end-all, be-all topic writers set out to explore. It’s the same sort of deepening of their relationship, the same sharing of intimate information. But if she’s merely been “sharing intimate information” for the past twenty minutes, why does she feel as if the deepest parts of herself have been invaded? Why does she feel raw and used and exposed?

She watches as Emmit looks out over the Providence skyline. He never answered her question, but he’s clearly contemplating what she’s told him. Is he doing so as her lover, her partner, internalizing her trauma to know her better and to be there for her in the future, or as a novelist, conceptualizing, categorizing, and fictionalizing her pain?

Saoirse studies Emmit’s face, feeling like if she could discover the answer to that one question, she’d know whether she should move forward with their relationship.Say something,she thinks.Anything.And though the internal command goes unheeded, one side of Emmit’s mouth curls into the smallest of satisfied smiles.

Chapter 31

It’s late afternoon on Friday when the wall phone rings in the kitchen. Saoirse steps over Pluto lapping water from his silver dish to answer it.

“Saoirse, hi, you’re there,” Emmit says. “I called your cell a few times, but you didn’t answer, so I figured I’d try the house phone.”

She suppresses a sigh. Why had she given him the house number? “Sorry about that. My cell must be upstairs.” It’s not a lie; she’s been avoiding her phone, dreading the inevitable moment when a message appears from another unknown number, and Aidan is that much closer to telling her what he knows, to relaying what was in Jonathan’s final text.

On top of this, Saoirse’s exhausted, having expended most of her energy over the last twenty hours or so wondering what to do about Emmit. The whirlwind ups and downs of the past week play on a loop inside her head. She’s too uncertain of his motives, too undecided as to whether she should throw herself into the relationship even harder or tell him she needs a break.

“No worries,” Emmit says. “I understand. We’ve seen a lot of each other this week.” He chuckles, and she imagines the half smile flashing across his face. “But, as usual, I can’t stop thinking about you. Do you want to get together tonight?”

So you can mine my soul for dark shit to write about?“To do what?” she asks.

“I don’t know. Dinner. A movie. Whatever you’d like.”

“I need to take it easy on drinking and eating out,” Saoirse says. “You know, watch my salt intake, monitor my fluids.”

“Of course. We could stay in. I’ll cook for you.”

A quiet night in with him does sound nice, but it is Friday, after all. “I’d like that, but I actually have plans this evening.” She’s not sure why she didn’t say this to begin with, but something about denying Emmit outright felt ... not dangerous—of course not anything that extreme—but unpleasant. Anxiety-producing.

“Oh?”

“With Roberto, Lucretia, and Mia. We ...” She hasn’t told him about the séances, but after her admissions the night before, it seems silly to lie. Still, she laughs, trying to downplay the strangeness of what she’s about to say. “We’ve sort of been holding séances in my basement.”

There’s silence on the other end. Then Emmit says, “Wait, you’re kidding. Whose idea was this? Has anything ever happened at one?”

Saoirse laughs again. “No. Well, not really. I had a bit of a strange experience—I’ve only been to one, mind you—but that was probably because I convinced myself beforehand something weird was going to happen.” She’s not admitting to the microdose of LSD hidden in Lucretia’s cupcakes; Emmit would never want her seeing the three writers again.

“What happened, exactly?” He sounds breathless with excitement, the way he did in the Shunned House when they discovered the length of the basement exceeded the perimeter of its walls.

Through the phone, Saoirse hears the sliding sound she associates with an opening drawer and the telltale click of a pen.Is he writing this down?Her earlier suspicions return to her. She swallows but says nothing.

“Saoirse? Come on, you have to tell me.”

“I actually need to get going, Emmit. Another time.”

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