Read Online The Other Life by Ellen Meister - Free Book Online

showed it to her.
    “No, but I was tempted to pick one up the other day at Tiffany’s.”
    Eugene actually laughed at that, and Quinn was struck by how his face transformed when he smiled. His eyes disappeared into tiny slits, and the word that occurred to Quinn was mirth . When this man felt it, you felt it. Sure he was a sourpuss by nature, but underneath it was a reservoir of joy he guarded like a miser. When he decided to share it, you felt privileged indeed.
    Eugene pulled a Sharpie from his pocket. He turned the mug upside down and wrote on the bottom, To Quinn, who’s my cup of tea.—Eugene Ray .
    Score.
    Quinn looked up and watched as Georgette dipped her teabag into the mug and then fished it out with a spoon.
    “I was so surprised,” Georgette said as she wrapped the string around the teabag and squeezed out the moisture. “I didn’t know you two were thinking about terminating.”
    “Is that what Lewis said?”
    “He said it was an option.”
    Quinn wiped down the counter, which was still sticky from the peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich she had packed for Isaac’s lunch. “I see.”
    “Did I say the wrong thing? You know, honeybun, you don’t have to do anything you don’t—”
    “It’s not that,” Quinn said. And it wasn’t. She could accept whatever it was Lewis was feeling. But the thought that he could open up to everyone but her was too agonizing. Lewis was the one person in this world who loved her more than he needed her, and the idea of seeing him drift away was too much to bear.
     
    QUINN DECONSTRUCTED, NO. 2

    This would be another portrait that included Eugene. But here, it was the early days of their relationship, when Quinn was electrified by the idea of being the most important person in the life of a very important man. The composition was altered from the first, but only slightly. Eugene’s head was higher in the frame and closer to the center. Quinn’s eyes were focused directly on him and her expression was amused. Nan was careful in arranging her daughter’s features, as it was important to convey something more complicated than happiness. She wanted Quinn to look self-satisfied.
    Nan took a step back. The expression was just right, so why did she still feel that something was missing?
    “Talk to me,” she said to the painting.
    She knew it couldn’t answer back—not literally, anyway—but Nan felt something she couldn’t put her finger on. It was almost as if there were another portrait on the other side of the canvas, and if she looked hard enough, she would be able to see it. The feeling confused her, as she thought she understood her daughter so well. Why, then, did she sense some mystery locked in a box she had no access to?

7
    I’M NOT GOING IN, QUINN THOUGHT AS SHE OILED THE HINGES on the ancient ironing board, unless I know for sure I can get back. I’ll just stick my head in, take a look, see what it’s like. If it’s a one-way journey I’ll stay here, but at least I’ll know. Just in case.
    She put down the can of WD-40 and once again grabbed the top of the ironing board. This time she pulled it open three inches and closed it, testing the hinge. She did that a few times to let the oil work its way into the mechanism.
    Okay, she thought. Now. Quinn closed her eyes and pulled the ironing board all the way down. She stood there a moment with her lids shut tight, feeling the energy from the other side, sensing her life with Eugene pulsing close by. Then she opened her eyes and looked.
    Like the crack in the porcelain sink, the opening appeared as an ordinary fissure—a silvery jagged line against the rough concrete. This one was vertical, and almost three feet long. Quinn put her hand toward it, feeling that familiar resistance.
    Quinn rose up onto her knees and ran both hands together down the length of the crack. She did it a second time, spreading her fingers like butterfly wings so that the fissure would be big enough to stick her head into.
    She