come to your senses and are getting out of that hellhole? Burning Stonehaven to the ground?”
“Not exactly,” I say. “I got married.”
“Married.” There’s a long pause. “To whatshisface? Victor? I didn’t know you two were back together. That’s great.”
“Not him, Jesus God, no. To Michael.”
An even longer pause. Finally, he speaks: “You got me. Who’s Michael?”
“The writer? Who was staying in the caretaker’s cottage?” Nothing. “He’s Irish? Old family? I told you about him.” Still nothing. “For chrissake, Benny. He’s the guy who came with Ashley—with Nina. When she left, he stayed. And we…well, we fell in love. I know it sounds strange, but I’m really happy, Benny. I really am. The happiest I’ve been in a really long time. And I just wanted you to know.”
The pause this time goes on so long that I start to wonder whether he’s fallen asleep on the other end of the line.
“Benny.” There’s a sinkhole opening inside me, and with every moment of silence it widens.
“I heard you.”
And I know what he’s thinking, because he’s my brother. And his soundless whisper of doubt exposes the fear I’ve been avoiding myself. “Benny…?”
There’s a strange sound on the other end of the line, a strangling cough, or maybe it’s a laugh. “You married a guy you know nothing about?”
“I know enough,” I say. “I know how I feel.”
“Vanessa,” he says slowly. “You’re an idiot.”
* * *
—
I remind myself that this is Benny’s disease speaking: a version of the same pessimism and paranoia and nostalgia that has torn his life apart. And yet, his words are a kind of poison, which seeps into my happiness and threatens to destroy it. You married a guy you know nothing about?
Do I? Do I know anything about Michael other than what he’s told me himself? Of course I don’t. I haven’t met his family, or spoken to his friends (other than her!). And yet I also can’t disregard this sense of knowing and being known that he’s given me: that he is the only person who has seen Vanessa Liebling as I really am, outside of the elaborate trappings of my name and public image. The truth of that emotion trumps his uncorroborated autobiography.
And yet. A day after hanging up on Benny in a huff, I find myself sitting in front of my computer, surreptitiously doing research on my new husband. I type Michael O’Brien into a search engine and get…nothing. Or rather: way too much. There are thousands of Michael O’Briens, maybe tens of thousands: dentists, musicians, spiritual healers, financial advisers, party clowns. By adding some parameters (teacher, writer, Portland, Irish) I find his LinkedIn profile, with a list of the schools he’s taught at, as well as a basic personal website with some of his poetry, a black-and-white portrait, and a Contact button. The same things I found on my original cursory Google search before we’d even met, but nothing more.
I try searching O’Brien and Ireland and castle and am relieved to discover that yes, there is a castle that belonged to the noble clan of O’Briens. In fact, there appear to be eleven, so it’s not clear which O’Brien castle belonged to his particular branch of the family.
And that’s it. If there’s anything else about him online, it’s been drowned in a sea of other Mikes and Michaels and O’Briens. He has no Facebook profile, no Instagram feed, no Twitter handle. But I already knew that about him. He warned me that he has no interest in putting his life out there for the world to see. And I get it, I do! (Now I do, at least a little.) A desire for privacy shouldn’t be cause for suspicion; privacy used to be something people even valued, once upon a time.
I stare at the blinking search field, feeling sticky and soiled. I sense something tenuous and vulnerable on the line, something that could be so easily broken if I’m not careful. So it’s almost a relief when there’s a clatter from the front of the house and then I hear Michael calling out my name. He’s home, a day early.