When I realized what I’d done, I nearly threw up in the parking lot. It took everything I had to wait for Paul to reach the car before I blurted my confession.
He laughs softly and hugs me. “Charlie’s fine. Everyone’s just tired. And hey, it did make her stop crying, right?”
On top of the guilt came the shame. What if someone saw me and thought I was intentionally smothering my child to keep her quiet?
I remember another time, when Charlotte smacked a kid in the playroom at McDonald’s. Horrified, I’d hauled her out while apologizing to the boy’s grandfather. After we got home, I found a red circle around her wrist. Not only had I been hurting her as I marched her along, but she hadn’t complained. Had it seemed as if I was dragging Charlotte from the playroom? Had that grandfather watched me, and shaken his head, thinking, Well, I know where that poor child gets it from?
What if that was all I saw this morning? A frustrated dad forcibly putting his protesting son into their vehicle.
That could be what I saw.
But it doesn’t feel like it.
It just doesn’t.
* * *
An hour later, I get a call from Paul. He has a client emergency.
“Is there any way you can take Charlotte for the evening?”
“You don’t ever have to ask,” I say. “Even if I was working, I’d find a way to swing it.”
“Thank you.”
I tense hearing that. It’s genuine gratitude, which is the problem. He knows I’m eager to take Charlotte any chance I get, but he still acts as if each extremely rare circumstance is some great favor. I want a casual “Thanks, Bree,” perfunctory and offhand. I don’t want to keep score.
“She can stay the night,” I say. “I’ll drop her off at daycare tomorrow.”
Silence.
“Unless that’s a problem . . .” I say.
“No, no. That would be great. Saves me worrying about how late I get back tonight.”
I’m waiting downstairs when Paul arrives. He sees me out front and motions he’ll pull into the lot. He insists on that, as if dropping her at the curb smacks of abandonment. Also, there is a clear NO STOPPING sign in front of the building, and Paul always obeys the law. Which is one reason I never told him about my past.
I don’t wait indoors, because Paul has only ever seen my building from the outside, where it looks like a stately old apartment complex in the city core. Oxford began life as a small town before exploding into a bedroom community. What remains of that original town is well-preserved old buildings—like the library where I work—and shabbier ones like this. Paul grew up and works in Chicago, which means he doesn’t know Oxford well enough to tell the good areas from the . . . less good. He parks his Mercedes across the lot from my decade-old Corolla. I think he does that on purpose, so no one will see the disparity and judge him for it. They shouldn’t. The Mercedes used to be mine. He bought it when Charlotte was born, wanting a newer, safer car for us. When I left, I took his Corolla instead. That was fair. That was right. Which didn’t keep him from acting like I’d thrown the keys in his face.
“I bought that car for you, Bree.”
“You bought it for Charlie. Since you have her now, you keep the car.”
He hung up on me after that. Didn’t slam the phone down. Didn’t curse. Just disconnected and never said another word about it.
I open the door to get Charlotte as quickly as I can, so I don’t waste a moment of our time together. I remember when I used to fist-pump every time she went down for a nap, as giddy as a kid granted an unexpected recess. Now, when she naps, I sit in the room, reading with one eye, watching her with the other, waiting for her to wake up again.
As I open the door, Paul comes around the car. He looks . . . like Paul. Nothing new. Nothing different. Every time I see him, there’s a moment when I forget we’re separated, and I only see the face I woke up to every morning. Familiar and comfortable. Then I remember that I’m not his wife anymore. Not his wife, not his friend, not even an ally in raising our child.
I’m the woman who could take Charlotte from him.
I’m the enemy.
He looks tired. He always does these days, and guilt stabs me. Anger chases the guilt, though. I’m here, anytime he needs me, eager to take our daughter and give him a break.
I go to lift Charlotte out, but he waves me away. When he pulls her out of her seat, I see his expression, and I slingshot back to every time he came home from work, a little irritable, a little distant, and my first thought had always been He knows.
He knows about me.
Which was ridiculous, of course. If my past ever did reach Paul, he wouldn’t be coming home “a little irritable,” and telling me, “It’s nothing, just work.” He’d be scooping up Charlotte and making a beeline for the nearest hotel.
Now, when I see that expression, there is only a split second of the old fear. Then I realize the far more likely truth.
Someone told him about the boy in the park.
Someone at the police department recognized my name and knew my husband was a defense attorney and contacted him. Told him that I reported a kidnapped child . . . where, evidently, no child has been kidnapped.
And I am okay with that. I see him, see the set of his mouth, and all I can think is Good. If Paul knows, he can help. He’s a lawyer. He has contacts. I will explain what I saw, and even if he doesn’t quite believe me, it’ll be in his best interests to prove his ex isn’t delusional.
“Is everything okay?” I ask carefully.
He spots something on the passenger seat and heaves a sigh of relief. It’s Matt, Charlotte’s beloved stuffed rat. I made the mistake of watching The Princess Bride with her last year, and she’s obsessed, both with the movie and the ROUs—rodents of unusual size. Other kids have teddy bears and puppies; mine has a stuffed rat.
“I thought I forgot him,” Paul says. “That would have been a crisis.”
He slides me a smile, and when he does . . . God, I hate that smile. I hate how it makes me feel. I hate that it makes me feel. The first time we met, I will fully admit that I dismissed Paul. He was just a very average guy, the sort I never really noticed. Then he smiled, and I saw more. I paid attention, and I never stopped paying attention; even now, when he smiles at me, I stop and I stare, and I feel.
I feel so much.
He hefts Charlotte and glances at me. “Are you sure this is okay? Dropping her off?”
“Absolutely. Go save the world. I’ve got this.”
I find myself leaning forward to kiss his cheek. At the last second, I manage to divert and shut the car door instead, as if that’s what I’d been leaning in to do. How long does it take for this to stop? For the neural pathways of my brain to reroute. To see Paul and hear his voice and smell his aftershave and not tumble back in time, ready to kiss his cheek or lean my head on his shoulder or tell him all my troubles.
Well, not all my troubles. Never all of them.
He lifts Charlotte and kisses her cheek before passing her to me. “What time do you work in the morning?”
“Nine. Like I said, I can get her to daycare.”
He passes over Charlie’s bag. “Why don’t we meet up for breakfast first. Charlie would like that. And we can . . .” He shrugs. “Talk.”
Does that mean he has heard about the incident today? Or does he really just want to talk? I would love that. I really would, and I should be able to look at his expression and tell whether this is a “we have a problem” talk or just an invitation to breakfast. But we never developed that bond, the kind where couples finish each other’s sentences. I loved him. Still do. Yet there had been a surface quality to our marriage. My monsters lurk in the depths, so I swim in shallow waters, and if I insisted on staying there, I couldn’t dive deeper with him.
I do want to talk to him about the boy. I want his advice so badly. Yet if he doesn’t know, should I tell him? What if he uses it against me in the custody battle, as proof that I’m not quite stable?
“I take it that’s a no?” he says as his smile fades.
“I—”
His phone rings. He glances at it. “My client. Probably wondering where I am. I should go.”
I open my mouth to say breakfast would be fine, and yes, let’s do that. But he’s already saying goodbye to Charlotte and then walking around the car, without another word to me.
I circle the daycare lot, waiting for a spot. Two have cleared so far, only to have other drivers whip in while I was figuring out which of us had been there first. Evidently, not me.
I check the car clock. Five minutes to drop Charlotte off, twenty to drive to work, five to get at my post. Exactly enough time . . . if I find a parking spot in the next ten seconds.
“Mommy? I has cough. See?” Charlotte gives two quick—and obviously fake—hacks. “I stay home with you?”
I wish you could, baby. I really wish you could.
“Mommy works now, remember, Charlie?”
There! A spot. I start turning in . . . just as a toddler darts from between parked cars. I hit the brakes so hard I slam into the seat belt. The car stops twenty feet from the child, but I still squeeze my eyes shut, catching my breath as my heart pounds.
Careful. Always be careful.
It only takes a moment.
Another car ducks into the empty spot.
“Damn it,” I mutter.
“Dammit,” Charlotte chirps. “Dammit!”
“No, baby. That’s not a good word. Mommy—”
Spot!
I snag it. Out of the car in two seconds. Two more, and Charlotte is on my hip as I sprint for the door.
An exiting father holds it open. I race through with thanks.
I couldn’t sleep last night. I’d been stressed over the missing boy. After a night of tossing and turning, I’d woken early to go online, hoping for news that a child . . .
Hoping for news that a child was missing? That sounds horrible. Of course I hope to see he’s been found. That’s the ideal situation. A boy was temporarily missing, but now he’s home. Yet if that wasn’t the case, then yes, I hoped for proof that an investigation had been launched.
When I didn’t find it, I kept searching, digging deeper, calling on skills I hadn’t used in so many years, cursing my crappy computer as I hunted.
No, no, Paul, I don’t need a fancy laptop. I can barely use email.
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
I searched online until the last possible moment before getting Charlotte up. I managed to get her outside with just enough time to drop her off and get to work. Then, as I buckled Charlotte into her gazillion-point car seat . . . I realized she’d dropped Matt in the apartment hall.
For one moment, I had wondered if I could just go grab it. Leave her locked in the car and run back inside. The impulse only lasted a second, shut down by a wave of horror, but the memory still shames me.
I jog down the daycare hallway, ignoring the looks from other parents. Someone has jacked up the building’s heat. Sweat beads on my forehead, and the smell of a loaded diaper makes my stomach regret that wolfed-down breakfast muffin.
As I run, Charlotte giggles on my hip. When I plunk her onto the floor, though, her giggles evaporate.
“I has cough.” Big brown eyes look up into mine. Two more fake hacks.
“You shouldn’t bring her if she’s sick,” a mother says as she walks by.
“She’s not really—”
The other woman is gone, judgment rendered.
Charlotte’s hand reaches for mine. “No go, Mommy. Please.”
A dart of frustration, quickly squelched. If I’m running late, that’s on me.
I bend. “Charlie, if you really are sick, then I will stay home. But I’ll have to cancel our princess tea tomorrow, and we’ll do it another time, just to be safe.”
She straightens. “All better.”
I ruffle her hair. “Excellent. Then we shall have tea tomorrow. Mommy and Charlie in their new princess dresses.”
I take her hand. Then I spin and say, “Oh, wait! You don’t have a princess dress.”
“Yes!” Charlotte squeals. “Blue like Princess Buttercup. We buy.”
“Are you sure? I don’t remember buying a blue dress. Now, there was a pink one . . .”
“Pink? Nooo.” Her face screws up.
“Oh, I’m sure it was pink. Bright, bright pink.”
I continue teasing Charlotte as I lead her inside. The distraction works right up to the moment where I hug her goodbye and her arms death-grip my neck, soft face pressed against my cheek.
I swallow. Don’t feel guilty. The moment you leave, she’s fine. You know that.
“Tomorrow,” I say, as the daycare worker takes Charlotte’s hand. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow for the princess tea. Daddy said you can wear your dress all day.”
Charlotte nods and lets the worker lead her away. With each step, she glances over her shoulder, puppy eyes finding me.
She will be fine. I remember the first time I brought her, when she clung and cried. I got as far as the door before guilt forced me back. I think that might have been the one thing that could have sent me back to Paul, begging for reconciliation. I’d wanted to be a stay-at-home mom until Charlotte was in school. If she suffered because I left, it’d have been a reason to go home.
No, let’s be honest. It’d have been an excuse. A chance to say I made a mistake and beg Paul for another chance.
That first day, I’d run back into the daycare, ready to scoop her up and take her home . . . and instead found her happily playing with a little boy, already chattering away.
So I know now she will be fine. That doesn’t mean I can turn and walk away while she’s in sight. Every time I bring her, I stand here, and I suffer those sad eyes, and I remind myself that this was my choice.
I wait until she’s gone. Then I hurry back into the hall.
I’m at work, in the central library, a gorgeous period building where every whisper echoes under the domed ceiling. When my phone vibrates with an incoming text, I swear people in the stacks jump and spin, as if a swarm of bees is launching an attack from the circulation desk.
The text is from Paul. I don’t check it, just tuck the phone away. My supervisor, Ingrid, looks over, her long face drooping with disapproval.
“Sorry,” I say, and continue checking in returned books.
With a sniff, she swoops from behind the library desk and trills “Can I help you find something?” to a hovering patron.
I texted Ingrid to say I’d be a few minutes late. Texted from the first red light . . . and then glanced up to see a cruiser right beside me, the officer staring my way. I dropped the phone so fast it fell between the seats, and I spent three extra minutes in the library parking lot fishing it out.
I did not, however, get a ticket, thank God. That would have been the capper to my morning. Let’s just say it wouldn’t be my first traffic violation. That’s actually how I met Paul. I’d worked in the ground-floor bookstore of his law firm’s offices, and he’d seen me get a ticket out front. He’d suggested I fight it. It became a cute “how we met” story.
He’s a lawyer . . . and I needed one. Ha-ha.
As it turned out, that’s also the story of our marriage. The competent professional and his screwup bride.
My running-late text hasn’t cut me any slack with Ingrid. Nothing does, ever since she found out I’m a noncustodial parent.
“How does a mother lose custody of her child?” I heard her whisper to Nancy, another librarian. “Everyone knows the courts favor the mom, no matter what.”
There hasn’t been a court hearing. I don’t explain that to Ingrid. It would only lead to a bigger question: What kind of mom voluntarily gives up her daughter?
A good mother, I thought. Mature and fair.
Or stupid. Nai
ve and unbelievably stupid.
My phone vibrates, reminding me of that waiting text.
Ten feet away, Ingrid still hears it. Before I can apologize, she waves in annoyance.
“Take your break,” she says. “And leave that in the staff room.”
As I close the door to the tiny staff room, the smell of stale leftovers envelops me. I make a coffee to cover the stink as I check the text from Paul. It’s nothing more than a check-in, making sure all went well this morning.
I send back a thumbs-up. Then I pause. Pause. Deep breath as I send another text.
Me: Breakfast would have been OK. Just caught me off guard. Sorry if it sounded like I was hesitating.
He sends his own thumbs-up, and I spend way too long staring at that, trying to interpret it. Paul is not an emoji guy. I’m actually surprised he knows where to find them on his phone. Is he saying it’s fine, and he understands, or . . .
I rub my eyes. Stop, Aubrey. It’s an emoji, not the Enigma code. Just stop.
I set a timer on my phone, so I won’t linger past my break. Then I get to work on the old staff room computer, my fingers flying over the keyboard as I run a few lines of machine code to cover my virtual footprints.
I’m hacking the police department’s internal email system.
I glance at my phone and imagine saying that to Paul. Imagine the look on his face. There would be, of course, a moment of horror that I’d suggest such a clearly criminal action. But that would last only a moment before he’d laugh, certain I was joking. Hacking? His wife, who had to ask him to install security updates on her laptop?
Liar, liar . . .
It hasn’t been easy, pretending I barely know how to operate a computer. That’s part of the price I pay, though, for my choices straight from the How to Disappear handbook. Distance yourself from all aspects of your former life, particularly those you excelled in.
The first thing I ever hacked was a radio. It started with my dad bringing home a couple of walkie-talkies. Surplus from base.
“They don’t work that well, but I know a guy who can fix them up, give you and your friends something to play with.”
Which was great, except that Dad wasn’t always quick to fulfill promises. He got busy and remembering to get the radios fixed wasn’t a high priority.
Wherever She Goes (ARC) Page 3