Nora Goes Off Script

by Annabel Monaghan

I could never shake the feeling that he was really complaining about me.

This house is a disaster, sure. But I fell in love with it when I first looked down the long windy path of the driveway. The magnolia trees that line either side touch in the middle, so that now, in April, you drive through a tunnel of pink flowers. When you emerge onto the main road it feels like you’ve been transported from one world to another, like a bride leaving the church. It feels like a treat going out for milk, and it feels like a treat coming home.

I distinctly remember hearing Ben use the word “shed” when we walked into it, and I ignored him the way you do when you’re trying to stay married.

I don’t know the science behind all of it, but I know the rhythm of this property like I know my own body.

I decide I look perfectly fine for a thirty-nine-year-old mother of two. And it’s not like I’m auditioning for this movie; I wrote it.

The more competent I became at taking care of our family, the more he despised me. The more he despised me, the harder I worked to make things right.

I don’t usually mention Ben. Not because it’s too painful, but because I almost never think about him.

“Can’t he just come back? Like have an epiphany or something and come back?”

“He’s not coming back,”

And then he just decided, meh, this isn’t for me. Like the way you stop taking milk in your coffee. And then you act like you always drank it black, like you don’t remember that creamy taste that you used to say you loved.

The story opens in a cute college town that looks a lot like Amherst. I wrote the meet cute just as it happened. Interior: lecture hall. Handsome Jay Levinthal is whispering in my ear, and I laugh. Cut to Ben seeing this interaction. Class is over and I am waiting to talk to the professor. Ben approaches.

It wasn’t until we were making the invitation list for our wedding that I discovered Jay Levinthal was Ben’s sworn enemy. Which pretty much explained everything.

At the corner of arrogance and cluelessness, you find the worst kind of person.

We all make our way out front and say our good-byes. Naomi stops to give me a hug. “This film really wore me out. But I get it. And I hope other people do too. It’s important what you wrote.” Bernadette just about faints.

Leo’s missing.”

“I mean, we can’t find him. Bruno pulled the trailer right in front of his building to drop him off, no small feat he tells me, and it was empty. They didn’t stop for gas or anything on their way. I’m just, well I’m kind of freaking out.” “Well, he’s not here. Is that what you’re thinking?” “I don’t know. It’s just that he’s been kind of off these past few weeks, drinking too much and sort of disconnected unless he’s on camera. I’m worried.”

She reassures us both that if something had happened to him it would already be in the news, which is good. We’re both feeling maternal, I can tell, and we agree to call each other if we have any news. I’m glad to be in the loop, though I don’t know why I even care. It could be because he’s the lead in the movie I wrote, but of course his meeting a tragic end would just increase ticket sales. I try to review his whole persona to see if there’s something about him I like. He’s entitled and rude and never says thank you. I settle on the fact that I like the way he talks to Bernadette. I like the way he notices things. A noticer is a person who can never be entirely self-absorbed, though he’s pretty close.

“Hi.” I swing around at the sound of this greeting and spill half my coffee. Leo is sitting up on the porch swing, wrapped in his duvet, feet tucked under him. “People are worried about you.” “I know. I’ll call. But come sit for a sec before it’s over.”

When I face him again, he is giving me a soft smile, a younger unguarded smile of someone who is actually pleased. He says, “Your nightgown is see-through. You have nice legs.”

“You’re a real piece of work,”

And he doesn’t seem that interested in telling me why he spent the night on my porch in the rain. After a while, I say, “You need to text Weezie.” “Fine.” He grabs his phone and types a few words. “Happy?” “I was, about five minutes ago. In fact, I was ecstatic about today. But then I find a squatter on my porch and I’m worried I might have to call the cops and have a bunch of cars on my lawn again.” “What were you going to do today?” “Write.” “Another depressing love story where there’s no love?” “No.”

“Did I miss it?” “You did,”

“Leo! What are you doing here? Did you sleep there?” “I did. Wanted to make sure you weren’t lying to me about the sunrise. And you weren’t. It was spectacular.” Bernadette beams at him as he gives her the last bit of his duvet. “My mom makes pancakes. And bacon sometimes.” She might as well hang a for sale sign on me.

Leo eyes my legs again and smiles like we have an inside joke now.

“What if you let me stay for a week?” Apparently, Leo’s ride isn’t coming. He is following me on my way to the tea house, hot on my heels and kind of ruining my vibe. I have my laptop, my special candle, my two sharpened pencils, and a mug of tea. And I’m trying to ignore him. “No.” “I won’t bother you.” “Too late.” “You can write all day, maybe I’ll take some walks. And I’ll sit on the porch a lot and look at the trees. If you stay very still you can see them breathe and wave at each other.” I stop and turn to him. “Are you on LSD?” “No. I just need to get out of the city. Let me stay here; you must have a spare room. I’ll pay you a thousand dollars a day.” “I don’t have a spare room. Go to a hotel.” “Then I might as well go back to my apartment in New York. It feels like a hotel. And I hate hotels.” He stops as we approach the open tea house door. “Wow.” “You just spent two days in here.” “I wasn’t looking.”

“What’s all this?” “It’s a ritual; I’m starting to write. Next comes the candle.” “Oh boy.”

“I really like it here,” he says. “You’ve said.” “Let me stay a week, that’s seven thousand dollars, and you’ll never see me again.”

“Have you ever felt like you’re disappearing?” he asks. “Like you’re sure one day you’re going to wake up and find that the truest parts of yourself have been replaced by someone else’s plans?” Um, I just wrote a movie about it. I believe you read the script? How many times did I wake up next to Ben and wonder, Where did I go? His face would reflect either indifference or mild distaste, and I’d try to remember back when I was a person who deserved to be loved. I didn’t know what Ben was looking at, but it wasn’t me. I was gone.

“Yes, I have. But how is staying here going to help? Isn’t there a retreat or an ashram that would do a better job getting your feet on the ground? With better food? And professionals?” “The sun comes up here, Nora.”

But I know exactly what he means. There is something about the way the sun comes up right here that seems to wash the whole world clean. It touches every single leaf as it rises, leaving me both grounded and inspired. It was here that I started to find my lost self again.

“Fine. Seven days. Six nights. Today is day one. You can stay out here.” “Out here?” He stretches and looks around. “That’s perfect. Where will you write?” “Maybe you could be somewhere else between ten and two on writing days?” “Ten and two?” “Yes. I have a loose schedule. The sunrise-and-coffee thing depends on the time of year of course, but then I get my kids to school by eight, run until nine, shower and clean up until ten. Write from ten to two. Nap until two forty-five, get my kids at three. Homework and dinner. Wheel of Fortune and wine. Bed.” “Well, that does sound pretty loose. Spend much time in the military?”

“Can I tag along?” he asks. “On my errands?” I must have made it sound more interesting than it is. “I’m just going to the grocery store.” “Sign me up,” he says, swinging his feet onto the floor. “I’d like to see your grocery store.”

“I do not. That’s why I’m here.” He gives me a youthful, expectant smile. “Midnight in Jakarta,” I say. He looks at me, puzzled. “The smile. It’s the one you gave your parents, the shopkeepers, even the chief of police in Midnight in Jakarta.” “That’s creepy,” he says. “That you recycle old movie smiles? I agree.” “That you notice.” He laughs and gets out of the car. “Can you just try to fit in?”

“Maybe lose the jacket?” He takes it off and suddenly he’s all shoulders and abs and I have to look away from the excess of it. “Put the jacket back on,”

“So, it just knows what you’re buying?” He’s turning the gun in his hands, peering into the reader as if he’ll be able to see the tiny men who are making it work. “Yes, from the barcodes.” “What about fruit?” “I’ll show you,”

“What’s wrong with that woman? And who’s Ben?” “Ben’s Trevor. And I don’t talk about him in the supermarket.” “So it’s a true story?” he asks. “You’re Ruth?” “It’s mostly true, and I’m mostly Ruth.” “Badass,” Leo says, nodding his approval.

“Did you have a stroke or something?” Leo is watching me watch the chicken. “No, just calculating. I think we’ll take these, so we’re not paying for the bones.” I grab two packages of boneless breasts. Leo grabs a package of ground turkey. “Do you need this for your gross meatloaf?” “Not on a Friday. Ground turkey goes on sale on Sundays. Almost always.” “Huh,” he says. “When do we buy steaks?” “Around Christmas.”

Leo doesn’t seem to have a lot of experience with bringing groceries in from the car, but he manages to fake it and carry a few bags up the porch stairs. There’s a black Louis Vuitton rolling suitcase by the front door, along with a large white paper bag. “What’s all this?” “Oh, I had Weezie send me some stuff from my place. And she picked up lunch from Louise’s. You like lobster bisque?” “I don’t usually eat lunch. Why don’t I get this stuff put away and maybe you can go eat in the tea house?” “Sick of me already?” “A little,” I say. He gives me a playful salute and lugs his stuff out the back door.

Leo Vance is staying the week.

“I ate some soup and read a little and fell asleep. Perfect afternoon. Am I invited for dinner? I was thinking about trying your weird food.”

“Dinner’s included,”

“Mom says you’re not having a nervous breakdown.” “True?” he asks me. “I’m not sure if it’s true, but it’s true that I said it.” I start peeling carrots into the sink. “No, I’m not,” he says. “But my mom died, and it’s made me think about a lot of things.” I put down the scraper. “I’m sorry,” I say. “You know what’s worse? I really need to go to the bathroom. I’ve peed in the forest a couple of times, but I mean if I’m going to stay awhile . . .”

Why am I acting like such a lunatic? Because, I say to myself, Leo Vance is going to be naked in there.

We watch in silence, and when it’s all the way up, he yawns and says he’s going back to bed. Must be nice. Saturdays at my house kind of feel like a riddle to be solved. I’ve got to get a wolf, a sheep, and a chicken across the river, and everyone must survive. Our variables are soccer, baseball, dance, and playdates. Participants must be fed and hydrated, with multiple costume changes that take place in the car.

When Ben was around, he grumbled about Saturdays. I suspect his crankiness was twofold: the fact that Saturdays weren’t about him, and the fact that the hundreds of dollars we spent per season on the kids’ activities took away from his ability to buy more stuff for himself. “Can’t they just run around outside?” he’d ask, apparently forgetting that he was raised on a steady stream of tennis and golf lessons at a private club. This was one subject where I actually put my foot down. All the economizing with on-sale chicken and leaky gutters was so that my kids could have the chance to try things they might enjoy. This made Ben bananas.

He’d ask over breakfast, in front of the kids, which sports he had to do this time. Then he’d show up at the events, admittedly not at all interested, and go ballistic at the refs or the opposing team’s parents. Apparently, he did care a little. This, of course, applied more to Bernadette, who has a fighting chance of making a team that’s not legally required to take her. Arthur, on the other hand, has two traits that weigh on his athletic future: He’s remarkably uncoordinated and completely disinterested in sports. These are facts, not opinions. I have seen Arthur stop running down the court in the middle of a basketball game to wind his watch. The disgust on Ben’s face every time Arthur walked off the court was impossible to ignore.

Saturdays without Ben are twice as challenging and twice as good. The three of us figure out the plan together over breakfast—how the food exchange will happen, when the change of uniforms and cleats will go down, which games I’ll get to sit through and which I’ll have to drop and run. At the end of...

“Do it again!” From the sunroom door, I hear, “Good God, please don’t.” It’s Leo, shoeless, letting himself in. “You just . . .” He’s shaking his head at Arthur. “Dude, you’re hosed.” “No kidding,” Arthur says. And he and Bernadette both crack up. “Hey, I’m not that bad,” I say. “Nora, you are exactly that bad. I think your Fagin’s more depressing than your movie,” Leo says, and now they’re all laughing. We follow Leo into the kitchen, where he’s helping himself to another of Mickey’s beers. “Smells good in here.” “It’s a pot roast,” says Bernadette. “It’s better than her dancing.” More laughs.

“So, do you know Fagin? Like in the play?” “I do,” he says. “And I know it isn’t whatever that was.” He’s indicating me with his fork, and it’s all laughs again. “Yeah, I had a feeling,” says Arthur. “Do you think he’s a villain? It’s kind of confusing, because he’s pretty nice to the boys.” “I think he’s the best kind of villain,” Leo says. “He’s the kind of villain who does something horrible but who we still love. You can see his humanity, even though he’s taking advantage of those boys. Characters like Fagin get to the core of what it means to be a human being—we are both light and dark.”

“Well, this is sort of my wheelhouse. Oliver Twist happens to be my favorite play. And I’ve played Fagin.”