I take in a deep shaky breath.
“Now exhale.”
As I blow out, I feel the pain of hundreds of hairs being ripped out by the roots. Holy shit!
“How many more times are you going to do that? Ballpark?” I ask, while silently praying…please say ten or less. Please say ten or less.
Kerrie just laughs. “Oh, honey. We’re just getting started. Now pull your right leg up toward your armpit.”
I do as I’m instructed and my already fragile self-esteem heads decidedly south. Kerrie decides to lighten the mood by making chitchat.
“Do you have any summer vacation plans with the kids? Exhale.” Rip.
Sweet Jesus! “Ummm…nothing planned yet,” I fumble.
“Well, if you are planning on renting a lake house in Michigan, you better jump on it. Now, exhale.” Rip.
For the love of God! I scream in my head as I try to coolly respond, “Noted. I’ll get on that straight away.”
After thirty minutes of Lamaze breathing with my hands firmly clutching the sides of the table, I’m sure we must be near the end. Just when I’ve mustered enough courage to ask again, Kerrie appears at the head of the table looking slightly embarrassed.
“Okay, we’re nearly done.” Her gaze drops to the floor before she adds, “But…I’m going to need you on your knees and elbows for this last part.”
As I crawl into position with my butt up in the air for the wax application near my anus, my dignity is in the toilet. Who the hell came up with this procedure and why do women subject themselves to it? Patrick sure as hell better appreciate this.
I text Zara the second my Lyft arrives to take me to the office.
Okay, you could’ve prepared me a bit better for that. Even just a heads up about the doggy-style position at the end would’ve helped.
OMG! I never thought you’d go through with it or I would have.
There is a pause for several seconds before another text pops up.
How exactly did you think they were going to yank the hair from there?
I concede the point. The truth is I was too uncomfortable with the concept to dive into the details. But, now that it’s over, I have to admit I’m enjoying the results. Even the tiny V-shaped section of hair at the very top of my vajayjay known as a landing strip. Makes the results seem slightly less extreme. Now to implement part two of my scheme after work tonight.
I planned to spend most of the day on Elizabeth’s work to try to make a dent in my billable hours target, but find my attention keeps being drawn back to the Tammy Sanford file. I guess murder is slightly sexier than student loan defaults. As I run through all the material in my “docs for expert” file, one anomaly keeps nagging at me. Why would Tammy wrap Kyleigh tightly in her comforter before making an exit? After strangling her only daughter, Tammy’s adrenaline would have been through the roof and she would have fled the scene immediately, right? Unless she’s a psychopath, that is, and Tammy didn’t exactly strike me as the type. Anyone who is that concerned about a dog must have some capacity for empathy. I’m just about to run this idea by Ethan when my Fitbit vibrates: “It’s step o’clock.”
My watch does have a point. I’ve been sitting motionless for over four hours. I’m surprised it didn’t instead text: “Do you need an ambulance?” I decide to take the stairs down two floors to Ethan’s office. And since I’m feeling snarky, I give him a taste of his own medicine by opening his door without first knocking.
Ethan looks up from his phone, startled, “Maeve. Shit. Don’t you knock anymore?”
I’m surprised by his curt response and give a little laugh before reminding him, “No, Ethan. I took that straight from your play book.”
Ethan is looking away and shoving his phone into the top desk drawer. He’d never been one to hide his personal business, so I boldly inquire, “What’s going on? Who were you texting?”
Ethan forcibly recovers his usual nonchalant persona and guffaws, “Oh, it’s nothing. Just my newest boy toy. Totally closeted and wants to be discreet.”
Typical Ethan. But I still chide, “You’re such a slut.”
“Thank you,” Ethan says with a shit-eating grin.
“Anyway, I just came by because I know you’re talking to our four potential experts. I have all of the material they need to review in the folder, but I want to highlight a couple of things for you to pass along.”
“Look at you, Marcia Clark,” Ethan smirks. “I thought you hated Crim Law.”
I begrudgingly concede, “I have to admit the dramatic subject matter is inherently fascinating.” Regaining my conviction, I add, “This will still be my one and only case in this area.”
Ethan looks annoyingly dubious. “Noted. What did you find?”
“Well, thanks to the police’s rescue efforts, we don’t have any pictures of how Kyleigh was found.”
“Yeah, can you believe their audacity? Confirming death before photographing the scene? Complete assholes,” Ethan interrupts.
Undeterred, I request, “Can you just bring up the police report?”
Ethan obligingly clicks open the Tammy Sanford file and scrolls down to the report. Once it is open on his oversized monitor, I continue.
“Note that Detective Myles found Kyleigh wrapped tightly in a comforter. So, the State’s theory is what?” I posit. “Tammy rolls up her daughter like a sausage after murdering her? Seems unlikely.”
Ethan nods his head while reading the relevant section. “Yeah, that does seem odd now that you mention it. I hadn’t really thought about it before.”
My face flushes pink with pride and excitement. “She is calm and collected enough to sushi wrap her daughter, but leaves her only grandson in the garbage-filled kitchen? Unlikely. And another thing, bring up the autopsy results.”
I wait until Ethan locates this document in the file. As soon as it’s open though, I move around to his side of the desk, lean over, and take his mouse. It’ll be quicker if I do it since I know exactly where these details appear on the page.
“Look here,” I direct him. “The hyoid bone is still intact. And the medical examiner doesn’t even bother to explain why there are no marks around Kyleigh’s neck.”
Ethan leans back in his chair. “Yes, Tom and I have talked about this several times. This is the weakest part of their case. That’s why we need a really good expert to shred Dr. Fagen’s theory as to cause of death.”
I realize I’ve been holding my breath for the last few minutes and let all my nervous energy out with the stale air. “Okay good. Just wanted to make sure we’re on the same page and the experts have been properly briefed before the interviews on Friday.”
I walk around Ethan’s desk to let myself out, but before I go his voice stops me. “Good work, Maeve.” His face hangs a bit as if he’s feeling sad or guilty about something.
I mean it was totally shitty the way he got me on this case knowing my history. But feeling magnanimous, I decide to let him off the hook…a little. “Ethan, I’m not going to lie. This case has been giving me some severe anxiety. But if it somehow results in me making partner, it will have been worth it.”
***
I’m so excited to execute the rest of my plan that I rush the boys through their usual bath and book routine. No bubbles and only two books. Quick smooches and lights out. I want to be ready for Patrick’s scheduled FaceTime. I run upstairs and rifle through my underwear drawer for a pair of black crotchless panties to show off my wax job. I locate the matching lacey, see-through bra and recall that this pair was a gift from Zara at my bachelorette party. Seems like a lifetime ago that the two of us, along with a couple other college and law school friends, spent the weekend in NOLA. We’d awaken to coffee and beignets at Cafe Du Monde, do a bit of sightseeing, and then enjoy happy hour at The Columns before hitting the bars on Bourbon Street. Awww…youth. Now, three hurricanes would land me in the hospital.
In just my bra and pointless-but-for-sex panties, I proceed to my vanity to frantical
ly search through my box of cosmetics. I know there is some sexy makeup under all of this wrinkle cream and foundation. I first apply a light brown eyeshadow accented with a darker brown in the corners just like Cosmopolitan magazine taught me in high school. I then get out the liquid black eyeliner I never use and do my best to attempt a cat eye. Harlot red lipstick and a little rouge complete the look. This is what I imagine high class escorts look like. Although, that image is based solely on having watched Pretty Woman twenty times. Who doesn’t want the fairy tale?
It’s almost time for Patrick’s call when I remember I took our Mac downstairs to look up an enchilada recipe for this weekend. Why did I have to pick tonight to also try to improve my culinary skills? I tiptoe down the stairs past the boys’ rooms like a damn ninja. Please God, don’t let them wake up. Please God, don’t let them wake up. My prayers are answered and I retrieve the laptop off the kitchen counter and make it back to our room unheard.
Now to choose my pose. Going for sexy with no visible cellulite. That means any seated position in front of the computer is automatically eliminated. If I lie on my back, I’ll have to hold the computer over my head. That’s awkward. Then I have an idea. I run to our closet and grab the black-and-white stilettos I purchased for my Cruella de Vil Halloween costume in college. I lie down on our bed on my stomach with the computer in front of me. I push my boobs toward the camera and have my legs bent behind me to show off the shoes. A check of my reflection in the webcam confirms I look pretty sexy…or as close to sexy as I’m going to get. Four minutes until eight. Patrick is supposed to call at eight. I want to call him first so we can use the bigger computer webcam rather than the dinky iPhone camera.
My heart is racing as I open the FaceTime app, find Patrick’s name, and select “make a video call.” He’s going to be so surprised. This is brilliant. As soon as I see the call has connected, I say in my sexiest voice, “Hey, there stranger. Want some company tonight?” The video feed connects and a conference room fills my screen. A conference room containing not only Patrick, but also several of his colleagues. I can see Patrick’s boss, Peter Gibson, filling a glass with Diet Coke over at the refreshment area. Patrick must have his computer connected to the room’s big screen TV. He was probably planning on saying goodnight to the boys before continuing his meeting. As comprehension sinks in, I scramble for the “end call” button.
Where is that button? Where is that button? Patrick must have just figured out what is going on because he emits a small nervous laugh. Bad move. His reaction causes everyone else in the conference room to turn slowly toward the screen. Oh, holy hell! Okay, I locate the red button. I just need to click on it. But wait. Who is that walking into the room? None other than Marcie freaking Spellman. I’ve spent enough hours obsessively stalking her website bio, LinkedIn profile, and Facebook photos to positively identify her within three seconds. As I stare at her, frozen, Patrick switches into damage control mode.
“Well, Maeve! This is certainly not the goodnight I was expecting.” More nervous laughter. “Probably should’ve given me a heads up that this call wouldn’t be the usual PG version. I was all warmed up for a rousing rendition of ‘Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.’”
I know Patrick wants me to hang up or say something witty, but I can’t stop staring at the next Mrs. Shaw. She has an almost defiant persona. Like she’s obtained an illicit preview of her opponent in action and is now confident she will easily win. Just then my bedroom door swings open. An elated Declan runs in screeching, “Is that Daddy? I want to say goodnight.”
How could I have forgotten to lock my door? I snap back to reality and slam my computer closed.
Declan begins visibly surveying me and the surroundings. “Mommy, what are you wearing?”
I dive under the sheets and wrack my brain for a cover story.
“Oh, sweetie.” More stalling. Think, think! “Ummm…Mommy just bought some new makeup today and wanted to show Daddy.”
Looking confused, Declan points out, “But why did you hang up before I could say goodnight?”
More stalling. “It…turns out…he was in a meeting. So…he had to go.” I see Dec’s face fall, so I rush to salvage the end. “But he told me to tell you goodnight and that he loves you to the moon and back.”
Disappointed but satisfied, Declan starts to climb under the covers.
I pull the sheets around me tightly and implore, “Dec, honey, could you go back to your room while I take this makeup off?”
He looks ready to protest. I must offer a carrot.
“If you go back to bed now, I promise I’ll come down and read a chapter of Charlotte’s Web when I get done.”
I just started reading chapter books to Declan whenever I have an extra fifteen minutes after putting Seamus down. Which isn’t often. Dec is loving the story of Wilbur and Charlotte’s quest to save his life. He takes the bait and starts making his way slowly back to his room. While I don’t think he understood what he walked in on, I worry this might become a repressed memory that resurfaces when he’s in therapy in his twenties. Trying to understand why he can’t hold down any job that requires the use of webcams.
Mortification doesn’t begin to describe my feelings as I pour makeup remover on a cotton round and attempt to de-hussy myself. I’m such an idiot. Why didn’t I text Patrick first to make sure he was in his hotel? In my excitement over my stupid plan I’ve managed to make the situation worse. I now look like a desperate fool while Marcie is the penultimate professional. She’ll also be there tonight to soothe Patrick’s bruised ego.
I grab my phone and text Zara.
I can’t go into details now, but suffice to say both Marcie and Declan saw my boobs tonight. You’re right. I am pathetic.
As I change into comfy Gap flannel jammies, my phone vibrates multiple times. I can’t bring myself to read any of the incoming texts. Instead, I head down to Dec’s room to hold up my end of the bargain.
Chapter 12
I sit in the back seat of Dad’s black Pontiac Bonneville watching the snow fall outside my window. We’ve been driving for what feels like an hour already, so I entertain myself by looking at all of the Christmas decorations. With Mom gone, we didn’t put up any this year. Not that Mom has put up many decorations in years past, but she usually helps me string a few lights along the porch. This year there is nothing. I imagine what Christmas must be like in these houses bedecked with lights and inflatable snowmen and reindeer. Does their mom sing carols with them before bed on Christmas Eve? Does she help them pick out frosted sugar cookies for Santa and carrots for the reindeer? Does the whole family go to bed in matching pajamas? Does their dad wake them early on Christmas morning so they can all go downstairs together and discover what Santa has delivered? I know that some of my fellow fifth graders have started acting like Christmas is no big deal. They must have had the luxury of enjoying a prior decade of amazing Christmases to be so dismissive of their eleventh.
We take a left and pass a sign reading Paths of Hope. We drive down a long lane with large swaths of snow-covered grass on both sides. The forecast was accurate and we awoke to three inches of fresh Christmas snow this morning. Of course, at our house that just meant a silent breakfast of Aunt Jemima waffles with plenty of syrup before getting dressed in our church clothes to come visit Mom. Santa must have forgotten our house this year. As did Mom and Dad, apparently. There were no presents festively wrapped and adorned with bows under our tree. Although, this morning I did wrap a present for Mom. A small rectangular gift in green paper with a shiny red bow on top. I am excited and a bit nervous to give it to her. Mom has always been hard to buy for so it took me until Christmas Eve to come up with the perfect gift. Something to let her know how much I miss her.
We exit the car, me holding my gift close to my chest, and enter the front doors of Paths of Hope. Dad walks up to the receptionist while I take a seat in the waiting area. It’s nice and cozy with comfortable chairs, a gas fireplace keeping the room toasty warm, and a
small fake tree decorated with red ornaments and tinsel. I take off my black wool jacket and straighten my red-and-black plaid Christmas dress with black sash. It’s the one I picked out last year. It’s getting a bit short, but it was the fanciest dress in my closet.
Dad appears next to me and reaches down to take my hand. He leads me into a larger sitting room furnished with several couches and armchairs. This room has a Christmas tree too, but it’s much bigger. Probably at least eight feet tall. And this tree is decorated with white lights and blue and silver ornaments. It’s magnificent. As I’m admiring the tree, my mother enters the room wearing jeans and a black turtleneck, her hair swept back by a black headband. She looks stylish, but gaunt. She takes a seat near the Christmas tree and immediately lights a cigarette without saying a word. Dad and I shuffle nervously for a few seconds before he puts his hand on my back and pushes me forward a few steps. I take the hint.
“Merry Christmas, Mom,” I say timidly.
Mother takes a moment to give me the full head-to-toe inspection. I’m found to be lacking and she shakes her head in disappointment.
“Maeve, you’re too old to be wearing such a short dress. What were you thinking?”
Wanting to divert attention away from my clothes, I hand her my gift. Mother considers it critically before finally taking her manicured red fingernail down the seam and slicing the Scotch tape. Although not one to reuse anything, Mother hates ripping wrapping paper. She turns down the folds of the paper to reveal a hardcover copy of The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis. She looks up at me questioningly.
“Thank you, Maeve, but you know I’ve never been much of a reader.”
I was prepared for this. “I know, Mom, but I thought it would give you something to do during your free time here.” I take a deep breath before continuing with my real reason. “I also just finished reading this for school. Did you know it’s an allegory of Jesus’s life? I thought we could talk about it when I come back to visit.”
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