Page 63 of The Hundred Loves of Juliet
Even after Avery’s death, though, I never looked into how she’d lived. It was as if that were something sacred to her, something I could give to Juliet to have for her own, because I had tarnished all her other lives.
But now, with Helene here, I think it might be important to know what Avery’s life was like. Was it happy without me, as I hoped? Because if so, I will do whatever it takes to make that happen for Helene. Even if the curse is bent on revenge for my evasion last time.
My computer screen casts an eerie glow in my otherwise dark bedroom. Thousands upon thousands of results come up for a search about Avery Drake. There are interviews and features inThe New York Times,China Daily,National Geographic,and every other prominent news source in the world; endless catalogs of her wildlife prints for sale; a nonprofit foundation for nature conservation named after her; and more.
“Good for you, Avery,” I smile at the search results. “The only thing you don’t seem to have are children’s books about you, holding you up as a role model.”
But when I click on a posthumous story about her inRolling Stone,I suddenly understand why.
Avery Drake was a drug addict who bounced from one abusive relationship to the next. She went through dark periods of crippling depression and frequently cut herself, which is why she wore long sleeves in all of her photos. And although she died of natural causes, she’d harbored dreams of suicide many times.
“Despite all my achievements,” she’d said in one of her last interviews, “I’m haunted by a hollowness, as if there’s a ghost bymy side—or maybe more accurately,nota ghost by my side, just…nothing. There’s always an empty space next to me, like something or someone is supposed to be there but isn’t. I’ve tried my whole life to fill it—with awards or with cocaine or even razors and pain—but nothing ever feels right.” The interviewer noted how she laughed nervously, then said, “Maybe this is where I’m supposed to say I’m glad my life turned out the way it did, huh? Because if I’d been happy, I wouldn’t have poured myself into my work. Maybe misery is what drove me to success.”
“Oh, Avery,” I whisper, my fingers touching the screen as if I can soothe the image of the sad woman there.
In the hours that follow, I read dozens more stories on her. And while most stay positive and focus on her talent and boldness in getting shots that other wildlife photographers wouldn’t dare, the ones that delve into Avery as a person have a universal theme: Her internal life was tortured by suffering.
I thought I had spared her the curse, but it had found her anyway.
Foundus. Because I also suffered in that lifetime without my Juliet, knowing she was out there but that I couldn’t have her.
I had actually made Juliet’s—Avery’s—life worse by taking myself out of the equation.
Damn this wretched, godforsaken curse!
I shut down the computer and fall into bed. But I can’t get comfortable, can’t stop thinking that I had condemned Avery when I’d meant to set her free.
If I hadn’t run away when I met her in that café in Kenya, would it have been better? A brief but intense period of happiness in exchange for a longer life of external success but personal anguish?
And what does that mean for me and Helene? If I take the next flight out of Alaska and leave her, maybe she’ll be miserable, doomed to spend her time haunted by the sense that something is missing, just like Avery did.
At least when the other Juliets and I have fallen for each other, we’ve been blissfully happy for however much time we had.
Perhaps a life well lived isn’t measured in months or years, butin love. In kisses and gentle twining of hands, in fiery embraces and soft, whispered affections.
After centuries with the curse, I still can’t predict how it will punish me. But after reading about Avery—after dispelling my delusions that I’d helped her—I think that giving in to fate’s desire for Helene and me to be together might not be the worst thing.
Doleful whimpering rouses me from thoughts. It reverberates through the corridors and up the stairs, the pained hiccupping of someone trying to muffle their sobs but failing miserably.
Helene!
I jump out of bed. Did her ankle give out? I imagine her lying crumpled on the wood floor somewhere, and I swear at myself for building this house with so many hard surfaces. I careen through the hallways, following the sounds of her crying.
It’s loudest in the library. I should have known. She’s on the second floor, and I fly up the curved staircase and to the back corner where she’s huddled in a fort of pillows and blankets, my journals splayed open all around her.
“Hey…” I gather her into my arms. “Shh…it’s going to be okay. They’re stories. Just stories.”
That’s a lie—there’s nothingjustabout them—but I don’t know what else to say. All I want is for Helene not to be upset or frightened. I only want her happy and safe.
It’s all I’ve ever wanted.
“How long have you been here?” I ask, stroking her hair. She’s still crying, but silently now, each convulsion rattling through me as if her distress were my own.
Helene looks up at me, her eyes puffy and red. That’s answer enough for me. It looks as if she’s been in tears off and on for hours.
“But they’re not just stories, are they?” she asks, her voice strangled between ragged gulps for air.
I let out a long exhale. “No, they’re not. But you still shouldn’t read them all at once. You’ll overdose on heartbreak and go mad.”
