In Her Eyes

by Sarah Alderson

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’

  He presses his lips together so tight they bleach and nods thoughtfully. ‘So before you saw the Sheriff in the hospital you hadn’t seen him in over twenty years – is that right?’

  Blood pounds in my face as though someone is beating on a drum. ‘I . . . no . . .’

  ‘Don’t, Ava,’ he growls. ‘Don’t lie.’

  ‘I’m not,’ I protest.

  ‘Yes, you are. I know about you and him.’

  My mouth is dry and my heart has started galloping. What does he know? And how does he know it?

  ‘You told me you were going to book club. There was no book club. I saw you together in that restaurant.’

  Oh God. ‘Robert—’ I start to say.

  ‘I don’t want to hear it,’ Robert spits and he gets up, crosses to the door and bangs on it with his fists.

  ‘Robert,’ I say, standing up on legs that threaten to give way, the floor sliding beneath my feet.

  ‘I want to get out!’ Robert hollers.

  A key rattles in the lock.

  ‘Robert,’ I stammer again. ‘You can’t just go. We need to talk. We need to . . .’

  Robert turns around. ‘Save it for lover boy,’ he sneers. His eyes narrow. ‘Is he the one who sent you in here for a confession?’

  I don’t answer and he shakes his head at me in disgust. ‘It was, wasn’t it?’

  The door opens and a uniformed cop takes Robert by the arm and starts leading him back to the cells.

  ‘Robert!’ I shout, following him out into the corridor. He can’t just leave like this. We need to talk.

  ‘Tell the kids I love them,’ he calls over his shoulder, and then he’s gone.

  Chapter 22

  18 MONTHS AGO

  It’s just coffee.

  I keep saying that to myself. It’s just coffee. But if it’s just coffee, why did I lie to my family and tell them I was going to a book club meeting? If it’s just coffee, why did I take extra care with my makeup and wear the perfume I save for special occasions? Why did I spend three hours trying on different outfits and then, exasperated at how middle-aged I looked in all of them, drive fifty miles into Santa Barbara and spend almost a thousand dollars on a new dress, a pair of Spanx, and a cripplingly high pair of shoes? If it’s just coffee, why did I delete the text invite from my phone?

  I keep telling myself that it’s just coffee. Except it isn’t. And the moment I walk into Coffee Connection and see Nate, rising from his seat to greet me, I know that.

  Two days after we ran into each other he sent a text message asking if I wanted to grab a coffee. He’d got my number from one of the forms I’d filled in prior to them releasing Gene. I hadn’t expected him to call. I thought the comment about owing him coffee was a joke, just one of those throwaway comments you make, like when I tell Sam, Abby’s mom, that I’d love to go to her church fundraiser, or tell the PTA women that of course I don’t mind running as chair again.

  Is it wrong to admit that my heart skipped a beat when I saw the text? Hannah tried to peer over my shoulder to read it and I quickly dropped the phone to my side and then busied myself in the kitchen, tidying up.

  There was nothing going on – I hadn’t done anything wrong – so why was I feeling so guilty? I think it’s because from the moment I saw Nate again I’ve been feeling a low-level hum of electricity coursing through me; a buzz that emanates around my belly button as if a swarm of bees have set up a hive in there. And it’s been a long while since I’ve felt that kind of charge with anyone. Of course I’d had that with Robert – back before we had three children and conversations turned from what we wanted to do to each other to what we wanted the other to do about the washing up or the mess they’d made in the kitchen.

  I should have said no. I shouldn’t have replied. But I did. Robert’s been locked in his study for what feels like months, never present even when he is and, truthfully, reaching forty has sucked.

  After picking up Gene from the police station Hannah insisted on going shopping, as we’d intended, so I drove her to Santa Barbara. Walking down State Street with her, I realized that I was invisible. Everyone was looking at her. I was prepared for the menopause but not this. It’s too soon. There have been no warning signs. I’ve been shoved over the line from visible to invisible without even the chance to protest.

  You don’t realize how much you’ve spent your life being validated by the male gaze until that gaze bounces right off you and lands on your daughter. And while the feminist in you rears up in anger that you’ve allowed that gaze to define you and your worth, nonetheless you feel a jealous little stab in your gut.

  As we walked, every male eye snagged on Hannah as if she was magnetized. She wasn’t oblivious, far from it. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and swayed her hips and strolling beside her I felt a sharp pang. It’s not that I wanted to be her, but I envied the choices and the opportunities she had in front of her. Life was a runway and she was strutting down it with a confidence I had never had at her age and still didn’t possess. And now I knew I never would.

  It’s not an excuse but it’s where I was at when Nate texted me. Suddenly I was visible again.

  As I walk towards him I notice he’s wearing a pair of jeans and a black sweater with a little star logo on it which makes me wonder if it’s something off-duty Sheriffs wear. It reminds me of his football sweater back in high school and how he used to wear it even after he graduated, as though it was a badge of honor.

  ‘Hi,’ I say nervously as I reach him.

  He leans forwards and kisses me on the cheek and I feel a flurry of butterflies. I tell myself to stop being stupid.

  ‘You look great,’ he says, appraising me.

  Oh God. I immediately fluster and warm under his gaze.

  ‘Thanks,’ I stammer.

  ‘You want some dinner?’ he asks before I’ve had a chance to sit. ‘I just got off duty and I’m starving.’

  ‘OK,’ I say, and he grabs his jacket and ushers me towards the door.

  As we walk onto the street I find myself glancing around, worried that someone might see me. It’s Ventura, which is a bigger town than Ojai, but even so I know a lot of people. There’s nothing illicit about two old friends going for a bite to eat though. At least that’s what I tell myself. But then why do I feel so nervous, like I’m doing something wrong?

  Nate leads me around the corner to a quiet little Italian restaurant, nothing romantic, but not too pedestrian either. There are candles on the table but a couple of boisterous families seated beside us, and I glance around to make sure I don’t recognize anyone. Nate pulls out my chair and I remember he was always a gentleman. He summons the waiter and orders wine and, quickly checking that it’s OK with me, orders for both of us, telling me he’s a regular and that I won’t be sorry.

  After the first sip of wine I start to relax. There’s a lot to catch up on: June’s illness, Hannah’s academic success, our inability to shoehorn Gene out of the house, how much Hannah and Gene fight, my mom’s long, drawn-out death and my dad’s sudden one, Nate’s failed marriage to Kathy, a cosmetologist from Kentucky whom he married in a shotgun wedding when she fell pregnant nineteen days after they first met at a casino.

  He grins at me, his blue eyes flashing, and I shuffle a little in my seat, feeling awkward under his gaze. My own keeps dropping to his lips, remembering the first time he kissed me, remembering too the first time we slept together, the first orgasm he ever gave me.

  ‘How about you?’ he asks, jolting me out of my memories.

  ‘What?’ I reply.

  He studies me, a half smile on his face. ‘Are you happily married?’

  It’s such a direct question that immediately I start to stammer. ‘Yes, I mean . . . for over twenty years, I guess . . .’ I tail off. Nate’s still eyeing me with a curious smile, and now an arched eyebrow.

  ‘Twenty years? You got married in college then?’

 
‘Actually, I dropped out to get married and have Hannah.’

  ‘Wow,’ he says. ‘Twenty years, that’s a long time. You’re not bored?’ The look in his eye is testing, inviting and I feel a response in the deepest part of my core, a little spark of life. I shake my head, looking down at my plate. I feel disloyal to Robert. I should be announcing loud and clear how happy I am, how satisfied . . . but I can’t. And when I look up at Nate I feel a kick in my chest as my heart bangs against my ribs and a jolt of adrenaline rushes through me. I want to kiss him. I imagine what it would be like to sleep with him after all these years. Before I can stop myself, I’m thinking about him stripping me naked and fucking me. I’m imagining it in glorious detail. Oh God.

  ‘You still painting?’ he asks.

  I shake my head, trying to banish the image. ‘Not really,’ I say.

  ‘What happened?’ he asks as the waiter sets a panna cotta in front of him. I remember how proud I was to get into the New School, how I told Nate I’d come home and visit him in the holidays. He was staying put in Ventura, helping in his dad’s construction company.

  ‘Life,’ I mumble, thinking of all the dreams I had at eighteen. Where did they go? Down the drain when I had Hannah, that’s where. I’ve got no one to blame but myself for that. ‘I probably would never have made it as an artist anyway,’ I say.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Nate asks. ‘You were really good.’

  I shrug, pleased at the compliment.

  ‘I think I still have a few of your paintings, you know. I kept them.’

  I look up at him, astonished. ‘You did?’ I ask.

  He nods, picking up his spoon. ‘Couldn’t bring myself to throw them away.’

  I cringe once more. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, shaking my head with a sigh.

  It’s his turn to shrug. He gives me a wry smile.

  ‘I was a bitch,’ I say, thinking of how heartless I had been.

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘We were kids. I get it. You had a whole life ahead of you. Making new friends. Big city and all that. It’s all right,’ he laughs. ‘I’ll forgive you for breaking my heart.’

  I look down, feeling awkward. Did I really break his heart?

  Nate holds out a spoonful of panna cotta. ‘Tempt you?’ he says.

  My stomach falls away. Are we crossing a line? It’s been so long and I’m so out of practice I’m not sure. I swallow hard and then I open my mouth very slightly and he eases the spoon between my lips. I taste the panna cotta, let it slide down my throat, and he takes the spoon back, smiling.

  ‘Seriously though, you breaking up with me – it gave me the kick up the ass I needed. Figured I needed to get my shit together. I joined the army. Was in the First Armored Division out of Fort Bliss. Did eight years then came out and joined the Sheriff’s department.’

  ‘You did well, Nate.’

  He spreads his palms wide. ‘This high school jock didn’t turn out too badly huh?’

  He puts his spoon down and signals the waiter for the check, refusing to let me put my card down. ‘I got this,’ he says. ‘You can get it next time.’ He stares at me directly as he says it and there’s a glint in his eye. A challenge.

  My pulse leaps. Next time? I know I should get up and leave. I should tell him it’s been great to catch up but that we should probably go our separate ways. But my tongue is tied and my feet stay planted firmly to the floor.

  Nate signs his name on the receipt and then stands. I follow suit, nervous as he helps me with my jacket. What happens now? As we walk out of the restaurant he rests his hand on my lower back the way he used to when we were dating, and there’s a feeling of possession in it, of being desired, that sets my nerves jangling. He walks me towards my car and the whole way I feel shot through with an electrical current. We stop and I rummage in my bag for my keys, procrastinating, not wanting to confront Nate.

  ‘I’m not sure I should let you drive,’ Nate murmurs.

  ‘I really should get home,’ I say, too nervous to look at him.

  ‘Ava,’ he whispers, stepping closer, so he’s almost touching me. I can smell the woodsy, musky scent of him. My stomach gives way and I look up. He takes my face in his hands and then pulls me closer and kisses me. And I close my eyes and let him.

  PART TWO

  Chapter 23

  DAY 5

  There’s no deputy Sheriff on duty outside the ICU, guarding the door. A nurse buzzes me through the double doors and I ask her if she knows where the police officer might have gone. She says she doesn’t know and then quickly hurries off. I don’t fail to miss the sideways look she gives me, and as I walk to June’s room I can feel the heat of shame prickling my skin.

  Robert’s arrest is all over the news, but they haven’t yet released information about the second charge – the conspiracy to commit murder charge – so everyone thinks I’m complicit in some way. But I didn’t know anything! I want to yell after the nurse. I still don’t. My husband might have wanted to kill me!

  Laurie told me it can’t be true. She kept repeating it to me over and over in the car. Of course Robert didn’t do it, of course they’re grabbing at straws, of course he’ll be proved innocent. But the fact is . . . what if he did do it? What if he is guilty? What if he did want me dead?

  The door to June’s room is shut and I pause before opening it, readying myself for the sight of her. It’s only been five days but she seems to be getting paler and smaller by the hour – some essential light fading in her. As I step inside I see a doctor in a surgical cap and gown standing over the bed, reaching for the IV line running into June’s arm.

  ‘What are you—’ I shout, stepping into the room.

  The doctor turns, startled, and then bolts towards me, shoving me forcefully aside as he sprints for the door and then down the hall.

  ‘Hey!’ I yell after him.

  He doesn’t turn.

  In a panic, I turn to June and glance at her. What did he do to her? The machines are still beeping. Her chest is still rising and falling. She seems OK. But who was that man? And what did he want? I race back into the hall, just in time to see him disappearing through the fire exit at the end of the hall.

  I run after him, reaching inside my bag for my phone, but before I can pull it out, the door to the relatives’ room further down the hallway flies open and Hannah and the deputy Sheriff who should have been on duty rush out. The nurse yells, directing the Sheriff’s attention to the fire escape doors, which are slamming shut behind the fleeing man. The deputy starts sprinting towards them, drawing his gun as he goes.

  ‘What is it? What happened?’ Hannah asks, racing over to me.

  I ignore her and keep running down the corridor towards the fire escape, following the deputy. Hannah runs after me. ‘Stay with June,’ I shout at her over my shoulder.

  I carry on, past the nurse, who is already on the phone calling for security, and push through the double doors. I lean over the stairwell, out of breath, and see the deputy three floors below, thundering down the stairs in pursuit, gaining on the man fast. They reach the bottom and I hear the screech of a metal fire door being flung open and the smash of it hitting a concrete wall and then they’re gone. Was it the journalist from the other day? Or someone else? What was he doing in June’s room?

  ‘Mom?’

  A hand on my arm makes me jump. I turn and find Hannah standing in front of me. ‘What happened?’

  I glance over her shoulder. ‘I told you not to leave June,’ I hiss, pushing past her, panic surging through me.

  ‘It’s OK. The doctors are in with her.’

  Hannah tails me as I rush back to June’s room. The doctors are buzzing around her, checking the machines, calling out readings.

  ‘It’s fine, she’s fine,’ the nurse tells me, patting my arm. But even though she reassures me, I can’t drag my eyes off June. What was that man doing in her room? What would have happened if I hadn’t shown up?

  There’s a tap on my shoulder. I wheel around an
d find Hannah standing there, eyes wide with shock.

  ‘What were you doing?’ I demand angrily. ‘Why wasn’t that police officer watching the door? What the hell were you and he doing—’

  ‘The machine ate my money.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I was trying to buy a Coke and the machine ate my money and he heard me yelling and came in to find out what was happening. He was just trying to help me, that’s all.’

  ‘He shouldn’t have left her,’ I say, fury lighting me up.

  Hannah’s eyes brim with tears. ‘I’m sorry.’

  My anger leaches away at the sight of her tears. I drop my arms to my sides.

  ‘His name is Jonathan. He bought me lunch the other day because I had no cash,’ Hannah says, starting to cry. ‘My cards won’t work. And I didn’t want to ask you for money because I know you don’t have any and . . .’ She starts to sob loudly, big choking cries, and I open my arms and she falls into them. I hold her and stroke her hair, feeling more than a pang of guilt that a stranger has been taking care of my daughter because I’ve been too absorbed with other things. I’m a lousy mother. A familiar guilt drenches me like ice water. The same thing happened when June was in the hospital. Hannah and Gene became secondary to everything. If it hadn’t been for Laurie and Dave helping to take care of them and feed them, I’m not sure how we would have managed. They would probably have been taken into care.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I mumble, kissing Hannah.

  She hugs me back tightly. ‘I love you,’ she says.

  ‘I love you too.’

  I haven’t thought about Hannah at all in all of this. When did I have time? There’s been too much else going on. But of course this is affecting her the same as it’s affecting me. Probably worse, in fact. Who has she got to turn to? To talk to? And what is she going to say when she finds out about the other charges – oh by the way, Hannah, they’re also charging your father with conspiracy to commit murder. I need to find a way to tell her and Gene soon, before the media finds out. I can’t have them hearing it on the news.