The Secrets We Keep

by Nikki Lee Taylor

  “Something’s not right,” he mumbled. “Nope, I don’t reckon these will be any good.”

  “No good? Why? What did I do wrong?” I hated the idea of letting him down, or that maybe I wasn’t pretty enough.

  “It’s not you, Madelyn-May,” he began, “I think it’s…,” he looked me over and nodded. “Yep, it’s the nightie. The pink doesn’t go with the red lipstick.”

  My mind raced as I thought about the small selection of clothes I had tucked into my drawer. “I have a red T-shirt,” I beamed. “I’ll get it.”

  “No, I think we need something else,” he said, halting me mid-flight. “You know what would look so pretty, is if you had your hair out on your shoulders.” He sat down next to me. “How about if we get rid of that kid’s nightgown, and I’ll take photos with your hair spilling out over your shoulders, like the models in the magazines Mercy reads?”

  “My nightie?” I glanced down, and brushed at a crease that wasn’t there.

  “You’ll be just like those beautiful models, Madelyn-May. Maybe we could send the pictures to one of those magazines. You could be on the cover one day.”

  “I could?”

  “Of course you could – you’re much prettier than all those girls. You just need to seem a bit older. A bit more mature.”

  I glanced at the stack of magazines holding up the fan. Was it true? Could I really be in a magazine some day?

  As I was daydreaming about becoming a model, he grabbed the bottom of my nightie and lifted it over my head, catching me off-guard.

  “Alright, that’s much better,” he smiled. “Now kneel on the bed, and put your head down but look up at me with your eyes.”

  I did as he asked, but it felt weird being on the bed in just my underpants. He hadn’t seen me without a bathing suit or training bra since I was four years old, and Mommy always made sure I was covered up. She insisted I pull on my nightie or pajamas before I stepped out of the tiny bathroom. She wouldn’t even let me run to our room wrapped up tight in a towel.

  “Daddy, I kinda feel weird,” I told him. “What if I just get a swimmer top? My shoulders will still be bare.”

  “You’re doing great, Madelyn-May, you’re a natural at this. Don’t go ruining it. In fact, why don’t you lay down, and I’ll take the photo from above like those pictures of models on the beach. It will be a lot easier for you if you just lay down and relax.”

  Some of the girls in my class at school already had boobs, but I had none. Last year after I came home from gym class, crying, Mommy had bought me a training bra, but I knew it was just to make me feel better. Mercy still made fun of me all the time, calling me pigeon tits and surfboard. I didn’t know what pigeon tits meant, but I had a fairly good idea it meant having no boobs. But as I lay on the bed, I had never felt so self-conscious of my bare chest. “Maybe that’s enough, now?” I said. “I’m not really….”

  The camera dropped to his side. “…You’re not really what?”

  I shrugged, and buried my face into the pillows. “I feel weird.”

  “Madelyn-May, you’re doing so great. Don’t you want to be in all the magazines some day? That would show your sisters. They’d be so jealous.”

  I thought about Melody’s face if I was ever on the cover of Teen Vogue, or better still, her favorite magazine, Vibrant. She would be so jealous. We were twins, but we didn’t look exactly the same. She was prettier. Everyone knew that, including me.

  “Alright, maybe just one more.”

  He hovered above me at different angles, clicking the camera this way and that, until he was done. “That’s not too bad,” he said. Then, “Hmm….”

  “What is it? Did I do something wrong?”

  “No, you’re doing so great, but I think maybe….” He paused and rubbed at his chin. “…No, never mind, that’s too grown-up for you.”

  “What is?” I sat up and looked at him, my ebony hair spilling out over my chest.

  “Well it’s just… Your underwear looks kinda old. If it wasn’t for that, wow, Madelyn-May, you would be just like those models. I mean exactly like them.”

  “My underwear?” The word hung in the air between us.

  “The red lipstick is a little too old for you, anyway,” he said eventually. “I probably shouldn’t have given it to you.”

  The thoughts of letting him down, and of him taking the lipstick away, were unbearable. “Maybe just one picture,” I said, butterflies beating their wings against the inside of my ribs.

  “Here, let me,” he beamed.

  His fingers curled around the elastic of my underpants. As he slipped them over my knees, I closed my eyes. “Daddy….”

  “What? What is it?”

  “My tummy… I think I feel sick again.”

  “You’re just excited,” he smiled. “And you know what, Madelyn-May? That’s okay. It’s natural.” He leaned in and kissed me softly on the forehead, the way Mommy did when I had a fever. “You’re doing great.”

  I forced a smile and lay back down, my hand resting protectively across my privates.

  “Perfect. You look so pretty.” He clicked a few more pictures, then ran his hand softly up the inside of my leg. “We just need to….” He moved my leg a little to the right, and carefully placed my arm back behind my head. “…That’s it.”

  The night air fell across my privates, and more than anything I just wanted to put my nightie back on. I felt bare, and there was a gritty lump inside my throat, like a curse word that hadn’t been shouted. He knelt at the foot of the bed and took pictures, then stood up and took more from above.

  “Can we finish now?” I said.

  “Not without your reward for being such an amazing model,” he smiled.

  “I get a reward?”

  “Of course. All good models get a reward, and since you can’t keep the lipstick, I have something extra special for you. But Madelyn-May, once I give it to you, it means you’re all grown up. Do you understand?”

  I nodded, and glanced longingly at the unicorn’s face all bunched up on the floor.

  “Close your eyes,” he said.

  “Is it a surprise?”

  “Sure. Now, close your eyes, and keep still for me.”

  I waited for the sound of his footsteps going to get my surprise, but instead, he curled his fingers around my ankles. My eyes flung open, and I tried to sit up, but he gripped my ankles tighter, holding me in place.

  “I said, keep still,” he growled. “Are you going to be grown up, or are you going to act like a baby?”

  I swallowed hard as he parted my ankles. “Daddy, don’t….”

  “Quiet….”

  “No, I want Mommy!”

  “She’s busy with your sisters.”

  “But I want Mommy. Now!’

  “I said quiet Madelyn-May, and I fucking mean quiet! Now, lay down, keep still, and be quiet. We don’t have much time left.”

  Not knowing what else to do, I did as I was told. He moved in closer, and I squeezed my eyes closed as tight as I could. I wanted him to love me. I wanted someone, anyone to love me.

  And then he did. Just like he had loved my big sister Mercy, until she got her first period when she was ten and a half.

  Chapter Seven

  Sophie

  At 6.30pm, I close the manuscript, take off my glasses, and throw an empty tissue box into the waste-paper basket.

  “Jerk,” I say under my breath, causing Miss Molly to look at me with as much concern as a dog can muster. “It’s okay. It’s not you,” I tell her. “It’s Bastian. I hate to say it, but he was right. Jackson is a genius, but this storyline is killing me.”

  My eyes burn, and the soft skin at the base of my lashes feels raw from having constantly dabbed at it with tissues. If Bastian knew the truth, he would never have given me the manuscript. It’s too close to home. Every turn of the page is a paper cut; a hundred tiny slices across my heart.

  For the most part, there are no secrets between Bastian and I – t
hat’s the beauty of having an affair. You can be yourself, and it doesn’t matter if you don’t cook dinner or devote your Saturdays to cleaning the house. It doesn’t matter if you hate his friends, or share your secrets, the ones you’re too ashamed to tell anyone else. It doesn’t matter, because with an affair a different set of parameters is at play. You will never be his wife, and he will never be your husband. No consideration is given to whether you will be responsible with money, if you will be monogamous, or look the part at his work function. All that matters are the moments you manage to steal, spent in private, that come completely without judgement. But despite all of that, there is still one truth I keep hidden in the dark, and this manuscript is daring to bring it into the light.

  Outside, a flash of lightning illuminates the sky, and I pull down the blinds. Miss Molly is close on my heels – she hates storms, and it isn’t unusual for her to try and climb onto my lap, despite her size, the moment thunder rolls overhead. “You’re okay, Miss Molly,” I assure her. “It’s just a storm.”

  Unconvinced, she stays close by my side, and leaps onto the couch the moment I sit down. “Let’s have a look at the weather report, then I’ll get your dinner. How does that sound?”

  As soon as I turn on the television, a Severe Storm Warning alert flashes across the screen. The entire East Coast is about to be thrashed by a storm front moving in across the Atlantic.

  “Okay – dinner, toilet, then we’re on lockdown. You got it?” I tell Miss Molly. “No messing around, that storm front looks serious.”

  After Miss Molly eats, I stand guard outside while she pees, gauging how long we have by the inky tones of the sky. “Alright, come on, that’s it, I’m locking us in for the night.”

  As she trots up the stairs and into the house, an icy wind, unusual for the summer months, whips around my neck and tugs at my hair. Something is coming.

  On the counter, my phone lights up with a text from Bastian.

  This storm coming in looks pretty bad. Stay safe you two x

  I smile and hit reply.

  Will do. You too x

  It feels nice to have someone who cares. A port in the storm.

  I put down the phone, and consider what to order for my own dinner. The kitchen drawer is so full of menus it almost requires one foot against the cupboard for leverage to yank it open. There’s Chinese, pizza, Thai, and fried chicken, but all the options come with a side of guilt that some poor bastard will have to battle a storm just to deliver my food. Instead, I quickly change back into jeans, an old Penn State sweater, and a pair of runners. This probably isn’t the best idea I’ve ever had, but if I’m quick I can run the two blocks to Joe’s store, grab a frozen pizza, and be back in time. It will save someone from getting drenched, and I can also grab a tub of chocolate fudge brownie ice-cream.

  “Miss Molly, you have to stay here, alright?” I tell her. “I won’t be long.”

  But as I hurry toward the front door, Miss Molly decides she’s having none of it. She barks, and cries, and turns herself in circles, panicked at the thought of being left alone.

  “It’s only thunder, Miss Molly. You’ll be okay, I promise. I’ll be back before the storm hits you have my word.”

  As I’m closing the door, I turn to reassure her one last time, but to my surprise she rushes right by me and out onto the stoop. “Miss Molly, no! Stop right there.”

  I grab at her collar, but my fingers miss their mark, and she dashes out onto the street. Terrified she could be hit by a car, I immediately race after her. “Molly, stop!” But the wind blows my voice away, and she disappears into the dark.

  Overhead thunder crashes, and suddenly the entire street falls still. The wind holds its breath, and I gasp.

  “Oh no… Miss Molly, come here right now. We have to get back inside, it’s coming!”

  But it’s already too late. The sky opens, and driving rain blows in from the east, tattooing my skin as it soaks me to the core. Trees sway in the blustering wind, their summer leaves surrendering to the storm.

  “Miss Molly!” I call again, my tears mixing with rain. “Where are you?!”

  My runners slap against the wet pavement as cars speed by, spraying water from their wheels.

  I turn right at the next block, hoping she might be following our usual afternoon walking route. “Miss Molly!” I scream again, my voice breaking. “Miss Molly!”

  The storm swallows my words as I run aimlessly through the streets, hair plastered to my face, my feet squelching inside rain-soaked sneakers. Drowning in fear and fatigue, I try my best to keep going, but my legs burn, despite the cold. Outside the Sushi Bar where Bastian and I sometimes steal a Monday lunch, I bend forward, hands on knees, and try to catch a breath.

  “Miss Molly, please!” I shout, spluttering and gasping. “Where are you?”

  Has she come this way, or am I heading in the wrong direction? Maybe she ran left on North 26th toward the coffee place, or maybe she kept going straight? Unable to decide which direction to take, I push at my wet hair and step out into the street, where a blaring car horn stops me in my tracks. The headlights are blinding as I shield my eyes and stumble back.

  “No, no, no,” I gasp, as streetlights swim and mix with the rain. “Not now. This can’t happen right now.”

  I try to steady myself, but my heart races faster and faster. My breath is sharp and shallow, and my hands tremble. Pins and needles sting their way from my fingertips toward the insides of my elbows. Since the accident, panic attacks have been sabotaging my life. They are all-consuming, and despite suffering them for five years, every time they hit, I’m convinced this is the time I’m going to die. Too scared to move, I sink to the ground, and my vision narrows. The lights on Aspen Street blur into a sickening kaleidoscope of swirling colors.

  “Miss Molly,” I whisper. “Please, where are you?”

  “Are you alright?” A man’s voice cuts through the dark and I try to steady myself. “Do you need help?”

  “My dog,” I manage, as rain drips from my chin. “She ran away, and I’m… I’m having an anxiety attack, I think, or….” I count to three, and look up, hoping to see him clearly enough to communicate.

  “Do you need me to call anyone? Do you need an ambulance?”

  “No, no ambulance,” I mumble. The last time I called 911, a responder reminded me that anxiety was not a medical emergency, that I should try to breathe through it, and calm myself.

  “Someone else, then?” He glances down at the gold band on my ring finger. “Your husband?” He has messy hair that is probably blonde when it’s dry, and sympathetic eyes. “There must be someone I can call for you.”

  I think of Bastian at home, warm and dry, probably cooking dinner for his kids. He’ll want to help, but won’t know how.

  “No, there’s no one.”

  “Why don’t you come inside, and we’ll get you dried off?” he suggests. “That might be a good place to start?”

  “No, I have to find Miss Molly,” I tell him. “She’s scared of storms, and she’s out here somewhere. Thank you for coming out in the rain. I appreciate it, but I have to find her.”

  Talking to him has interrupted my spiraling anxiety, and the fog is lifting from my mind. I get to my feet, and hurry back toward home. When I reach Joe’s store, I burst inside, the crashing bell over the door signaling my arrival.

  “Jesus Christ, Sophie!” Joe says when he sees me. “What the hell are you doing out in this weather?”

  Joe is an overweight, fifty-something divorcee, with cheeks that are permanently blushed – the result of too many beers. He has known James and I since 2008, when we moved into our brownstone, and with no fridge, had come looking for food.

  “I’ve lost Miss Molly,” I cry, water dripping all over his floor. “She ran off in the storm, and I can’t find her anywhere. Have you seen her? Has she come past here?”

  Joe wipes his meaty hands on an old navy-blue apron, and makes his way out from behind the counter. He counte
d the days with us until Josh was born, and brought food to my house every day for a month when they both died.

  “Shit, Soph,” he says, folding an arm around my shoulders. “I haven’t seen her come by, but I can help look.”

  “Don’t be silly. It’s pouring out there, and I’m already ruining your floor. It’s okay, just call me if you see her, please.” Without saying goodbye, I turn and hurry back out into the storm, the wind whipping hair across my eyes.

  I imagine Miss Molly cowering in the dark, confused and alone. I see images of her running blindly across busy roads, searching for me. I envision her lying on the street, broken and bloodied, and not understanding why I’m not there. She is a dog, but I am still her mom and that’s what moms do – they fix things when they are broken. Toys, zippers, hearts, and even dreams if they can. But I have failed. I can’t find her. I couldn’t get to him in time. The paramedics worked on Josh for fifteen minutes before they had to call it. Fifteen long minutes of my baby wondering where his mommy was, and why she wasn’t there to fix him. It had taken twelve hours of labor for Josh to open his eyes, and only fifteen minutes for them to close. They had been the most important fifteen minutes of his life, and I wasn’t there. Instead he had spent his last moments with strangers, scared, alone, and confused.

  “Goddamn it!” I scream, my voice cutting through the storm. “Miss Molly, get back here right now, or I swear to God….”

  My heart is breaking, and my clothes are soaking. I call her name one last time, and when she still doesn’t appear, I consider throwing myself down on the ground and never getting up again. But another finger of lightning illuminates the rain-soaked street, and suddenly I see her. Miss Molly, cowering beneath an evergreen, three houses from the corner.

  “Don’t move!” I shout, but my feet are already sprinting toward her, before the words come out. “Stay right there! I’m coming.”

  As I crawl under the hedge, wet branches scratch and sting the side of my face. “I’m here,” I tell her. “I’m here, and I’m taking you home.” I close my fingers around her collar and finally let out a breath. “I’ve got you, Miss Molly. I made it in time.”