Stephanie’s eyes were clouded. “You mean you think that we should run off to New York City and play a gig?” She said it as though it was the most ridiculous idea in the world.
“Why not?” Ella stopped herself from rolling her eyes. “You and Brenda can just tell your parents that you’re sleeping here. Greta never checks up on me on the weekend. Or ever, really. She probably won’t even know I’m gone. Besides, I’m eighteen, aren’t I? The time to do this stuff is now.”
Stephanie scrunched her nose. “It’s Brenda’s thing. Talk to her.”
“But you’d be in?”
Stephanie shrugged and crunched through her cereal. Ella splayed the bills across the kitchen table and pocketed the letter from her father. Then, she reasoned that Greta hadn’t eaten anything at all that day. As it was now four-fifteen, it was time to boil a pot of water and demand Greta eat at least three forkfuls of pasta.
As Ella boiled the water and heated the sauce, Stephanie called Brenda to discuss the potential plan of heading to NYC for the “gig.” Ella hissed questions to Stephanie as they spoke over the phone, like, “Could your brother get us a thirty-minute slot?” and, “Do you know if any agents will be there?” Brenda didn’t have much in the way of answers. What she did have, just then, was a “oh, what the heck” attitude, which led her to convince Stephanie that this was the only way to live.
“We’re rock stars, Stephanie,” Brenda practically screamed over the phone so that Ella could hear it. “This is what rock stars do.”
Ella tiptoed up the staircase to her mother’s bedroom. The blue glow of the television illuminated the curve of her mother’s nose and outlined her toes, which stuck out on the other side of the comforter. On television, a movie calledThe Apartmentplayed for the fourth time that week.
“Hi, Momma.” Ella stepped over a pile of clothes and placed the bowl of pasta on the bedside table. On one end of her mother’s closet, her father’s clothing still hung, as though he was just on a work trip and would return soon. Just once, Ella had asked her mother if she would consider getting rid of that stuff. Twenty-five years was a terribly long time. Ella wanted to give her mother space and time to move on.
Perhaps another dashing gentleman would come into Greta’s life and make her forget her sorrows. Ella prayed for this, despite the fact that it broke her brain to think it. For the entirety of her life, Greta and Bernard had been the world’s greatest and most loving couple. Everything they’d done, they’d done with respect, with artistry, and with hope for a brighter future.
Then why had Bernard stolen all that money from his colleagues and friends?
Had he really wanted to head off and build a new life with some other woman?
Even a year and a half after Bernard’s trial, gossip still crept across the island like a parasite. As his youngest and only left-behind child, Ella received the brunt of the attacks surrounding Bernard’s trial. Many of her classmates were in some way connected to the people he’d stolen from— and they poured all that hatred onto her.
Ella had considered dropping out of school, of course. But what were her other options? Quentin and Alana had both been out of the house by the time the accusations had begun. Julia had run off with her high school sweetheart, Charlie, and subsequently gotten her GED. Although Charlie had left Julia in the city and returned to the island to care for his ailing mother, it was rumored that Julia had already shacked up with someone new.
It was poisonous to think about just how little Ella knew about her siblings. Rage about that often filled her stomach. She wasn’t always sure who to be angry with about that, though. She couldn’t fully blame her siblings for leaving. Perhaps she would have done the same.
That said, a phone call here and there wouldn’t have hurt. Ella did always make sure the phone bill was paid for that reason alone. Still, the only people who seemed to ever call were Ella’s teachers, who were worried about her performance, plus Stephanie and Brenda, Ella’s only friends in the world.
Greta didn’t make a peep about the pasta. She continued to stare at the television screen. A final time, Ella said, “Remember to eat it soon, Momma. It’ll get cold if you don’t.” She then walked slowly down the staircase and returned to the kitchen to find Stephanie digging through another bowl of cereal. Ella wanted to protest and tell her friend that that box of cereal was supposed to last her an entire week, but she kept her lips shut.
After Stephanie headed back home to meet her family for dinner, Ella cooked herself a bowl of pasta and sat with Bernard’s letter. A part of her wanted to read it if only to dig back into the gorgeous texture of her father’s mind. To her, he’d always been the greatest of all geniuses and often creative to a fault. The bedtime stories he’d told her back in the old days had kept her awake at night with their mysticism and their magic.
My darling Greta,
I’ve given up all hope on you believing my version of the truth. From within the walls of this prison, I know only that everyone comes here for a reason— and that God has put me here for the reason that I will spend the next twenty-three and a half years finding out.
It’s not all bad, I suppose. My cellmate is here for another seven years. Fraud. He tells me funny stories about his life working for the stock exchange, where he rolled in money as a sort of pastime until someone at the firm figured out what he was actually up to. I asked him whether or not he would take it all back if he could. His answer surprised me. He said that out in the real world, he took everything for granted. He’d watch a sunset and think, “I wonder how much money I’ll make tomorrow.” He said he was filled with the worst sort of poison because it made him endlessly hungry for whatever he could get next.
Now, he says that he feels every minute of every single day. He’s taught himself three languages since he got here five years ago, and he has a few more languages on his to-do list. When he leaves here, he says he wants to adopt a dog and roam the woods.
Anyway. It’s fascinating learning how people were “before” and the plans they have for “after.” It’s certainly given me time to reflect about my own “before.”
I like to think that I loved you as best as I could. I like to think that I kissed you enough, that I held you enough, and that we sang enough songs deep into the night. I like to think that we raised beautiful, kind, and creative children.
But the fact is— I’m here. I’m in prison. And again, I’m reckoning with the fact that I must have made a misstep along the way.
For the first year or so, I dreamed only of Nantucket and of your face. Bit-by-bit, the dreams are getting foggier. I’m so fearful that I won’t be able to see your face for years on-end. It keeps me up at night before I then fall into the most heinous nightmares.
I must go. To end this letter, all I can say is that I love you. I love you with every ounce of my soul. And I count down the days until I see you and our darling children again.
Yours forever,
Bernard Copperfield
ChapterTwo