by E. G. Scott
Our strong desire to release our guilt and move on was what really bonded us the most. The passion to heal people who were suffering was the second thing. We didn’t share our darkest marks on our consciences that day, but we would soon enough.
* * *
Trauma Survivors Private Chat Room: 10/4/19
6:15 p.m.
Harmnoone82: Hello, hello!
Miserylovescompany: There she is.
Harmnoone82: Sorry, ladies. I know I’ve been MIA.
Woundedhealer: So good to see your name! Are you okay?
Biggirlsdontcry54: I was worried you weren’t going to come back after your late-night diner summit with MaxineKD and Miserylovescompany. I thought maybe they scared you off . . .
MaxineKD: Thanks a lot, Biggirlsdontcry54! I’ll have you know that I’m just as charming in the flesh as I am on the keyboard.
Harmnoone82: Of course I came back! And the impromptu meet-up was just what the doctor ordered. The pie and good company fixed me right up. (That, and getting out of town and offline for a beat.)
MaxineKD: Harmnoone82, glad that our crying over key lime pie didn’t put you off us.
Miserylovescompany: If ever there was a dessert choice to cry over . . . not a lick of chocolate. Have some respect, ladies.
Woundedhealer: So that’s where you’ve been? You are feeling better?
Harmnoone82: Better than ever.
Woundedhealer: I was worried. Are you okay?
Biggirlsdontcry54: You got out of town? Color me jealous.
Makeupyourmindcontrol: Where to?
Harmnoone82: I went upstate. It was heaven. I sat around in nature and slept like the dead. I feel like a new woman.
Woundedhealer: So things are good, then?
Harmnoone82: Better than good!
Woundedhealer: Oh great. I was worried. Are you sure everything is okay?
Harmnoone82: Yes. I thought you’d be happy that I’m back, Woundedhealer.
Biggirlsdontcry54: For real, Woundedhealer.
Woundedhealer: Sorry. The last couple of chats, you mentioned that you were worried about things?
Harmnoone82: Honestly, Woundedhealer. I’m good. Jeez.
Woundedhealer: I’m sorry, I guess I’m projecting my shitty week.
Makeupyourmindcontrol: What’s happening?
Woundedhealer: I had to identify someone who died.
Miserylovescompany: Oh dear.
Biggirlsdontcry54: Terrible. So sorry, honey.
Makeupyourmindcontrol: Sending you hugs and love.
Woundedhealer: I’m still trying to process it all.
MaxineKD: So sad.
Miserylovescompany: Were you close with this person, Woundedhealer?
Woundedhealer: I didn’t even know her.
Makeupyourmindcontrol: That’s difficult. Sometimes we don’t realize how little we know about the people in our lives until they are gone.
Harmnoone82: Is now offline.
Miserylovescompany: Looks like we lost Harmnoone82 . . .
MaxineKD: So much for the long goodbye.
Biggirlsdontcry54: More like the “Irish exit.”
Woundedhealer: It was probably my fault. I can’t seem to say anything right this week.
MaxineKD: I hope she doesn’t stay away for too long again.
Makeupyourmindcontrol: Try not to beat yourself up, Woundedhealer. (Even if it is something you excel at.) She’ll be back.
Miserylovescompany: We always come back. No getting rid of us. We are like support group herpes.
Trauma Survivor Chat Room: 10/4/19
6:45 p.m.
Private message from Woundedhealer to Harmnoone82 (offline).
Woundedhealer: H, I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. It has been a confusing week. I hope you can accept my apology. You’ve been so supportive and kind to me in this group, and even though we’ve never actually met, I sometimes feel closer to you than some of the friends I have in real life. (Not that this isn’t “real,” but you know what I mean.) Hope things are okay with us. X WH
NINETEEN
RACHEL
Before I can pull into a spot, he idles his Mustang alongside my car in the 7-Eleven parking lot. His cigarrette is burning down to the filter between his fingers, but he doesn’t seem to notice. I have the briefest indelible nicotine craving, even after a decade of not smoking. There are a few things I’ll never be completely free from, and the desire to smoke is one of them.
Our cars are facing in opposite directions, and to the casual observer, we might look like undercover police officers, or shadier characters brokering something only suited for a convenience store parking lot.
I’m surprised he was able to identify me so quickly, since we have never seen each other outside of our usual setting. But then I realize he knows my car. I lower my window and say, “Hey,” and he looks to his left and right dramatically.
“Follow me, it isn’t safe here,” he whispers before he pulls out of the parking lot slowly. I pull a U-turn and follow his lead out of the exit and toward my house.
As he pulls into my driveway, I’m momentarily nervous. I’ve never had him over to my house; I’ve always gone to him. I don’t tell many people where I live for good reason. But of course he knows my address for the same reason he knows my car.
He gets out of his car and zips his jacket before donning chrome Ray-Bans and a skullcap.
“Why the theatrics?” I jokingly accuse. He’s left his car on and the bass of some indecipherable seventies rock ballad serves as our soundtrack.
The temperature has dropped significantly since this morning. I stand against the hood of my car and lean into the heat from the engine. I’m tempted to invite him inside, but I don’t want this encounter to last longer than necessary, and Charlotte’s expecting me for dinner.
“I could get fired for this,” he says as he hands me a manila folder.
“I know. I’m sorry.” I accept it, unsurprised that it’s as scant as it is.
“Whatever. I fucking hate this job anyway. Gotta pay the bills, though.”
“Thank you so much, Matty.” I put a grateful hand on his shoulder and he blushes. I know he is hoping for something more than our casual acquaintance, but he’s not even friend material, let alone anything more. He’s a child, for starters, and his taste in music (while from the same era as I am) is as misguided as his willingness to steal from his job.
“I don’t know how helpful this will be. I wasn’t able to find anything on this dude.”
“That is exactly the reason I asked you to do this.” I flip the file open and take a quick look at the single sheet of paper inside. “A-plus, bud.”
He beams. I don’t think he’s gotten many high marks in his life. He means well, but he’s definitely short on some of the life basics.
“Can you send this info to me via email as well?” This is what I’d asked him originally, but he pushed for an in-person meet-up, probably in the hope of a quid pro quo arrangement. Plus, there isn’t a lot of excitement around here in general, and I could sense his craving the need for intrigue. We all want to feel like our lives are more important and exciting than they actually are. Truth is, I don’t think anyone at his job is paying enough attention to the on-the-clock goings on, let alone the extracurriculars of their disgruntled employees.
“Oh yeah. No problem.” He pulls out his phone and touches the screen a few times. I feel my own phone vibrate in my coat pocket.
“Thanks again, Matty.” I look toward his car and hope he gets the hint.
“Anytime. Hope you get the bad man, whoever he is.” I nod seriously and he seems pleased. We stand for a minute until he finally catches the cue and leans in for an awkward hug, which I sidestep completely. Embarrassed, he gets into his car and rev
s the engine.
I wave lightly as he drives away, and once he is out of sight, I pull my phone from my pocket, remove my gloves, and click into my email to make sure it’s come through. Matty’s work email address is at the top of my messages, with the subject line PETER STANTON. I click on it to see what I already hold in my hands. It feels good to have the truth in all forms.
I just need to figure out how to break the news to Charlotte.
TWENTY
CHARLOTTE
Rachel looks absolutely possessed. Her eyes are as wild as her hair when she blows through the kitchen door with a large bunch of alstroemeria and an armload of Whole Foods bags. Her expression softens slightly when she meets my eyes, and she quickly twists her pensive look into a smile, as if I’ve caught her by surprise being in my own kitchen.
“Hi! Sorry I’m late. It feels like hurricane weather out there. Perfectly atmospheric for the coven meeting tonight.” She laughs hard and drops the grocery load onto the table before going for a vase on the top of the fridge.
“Everything okay?” It isn’t like her to be late—it’s half an hour later than we planned. But no sooner do I have the thought than I realize that she has been late a lot recently, and cagey about why. I’m fighting the sick feeling in me that she’s pulling away from me like everyone else in my life.
She hesitates just slightly before responding. “Yeah. Everything is fine. I just had an appointment go later than I expected.”
“Oh, I didn’t think you had anyone on the schedule today.” I’d just looked at the shared calendar earlier in the day and she wasn’t due for any clients this evening.
“It was a late addition. I didn’t put them into the system.” She is busying herself with the groceries and not looking at me. “I’m the first to arrive?”
“The only. I’m pretty sure you need at least four to constitute an actual coven, so that is out for this evening.” I say this drily to mask the very real pain I’m feeling over the ongoing group rejection of my friend circle.
“No word from anyone?” She shakes her head. “Well, we don’t need them. We’ll conjure the four winds just the two of us, then.”
We aren’t actually witches. We are a monthly women’s group that I’d been successfully hosting for more than two years, with a collection of smart, thoughtful women in the area who needed to get together with other women to decompress, laugh, and vent. Most of the women are friends from growing up who stayed in town or came back.
It especially is an escape for the mothers of the group, who are the majority. “The coven” is what Rachel’s most recent ex, Eric, called our group. The label stuck longer than he did. The nickname was less affectionate than it actually was backhanded and, frankly, misogynistic. She broke it off with him shortly after he made the comment. Him stealing all of her jewelry contributed as well.
“Fine with me. Honestly, I wasn’t in the mood for a big group tonight. Glad to just hang with you, honey.” She already seems lighter than when she walked in the door, and I have a nagging feeling of irritation that she isn’t as frustrated by the group’s unexplained silent treatment as I am.
She must sense this and she shoots me an empathetic smile. “Don’t worry, honey. Whatever the reason, they will come around. This can’t be about anything you did—you haven’t done anything. Don’t take it on.”
“Maybe. But I don’t understand why they are cutting me off. I’d like to know. If I did do or say something wrong, I’d like the chance to apologize.”
“Apologize for what exactly? People have things going on. You don’t know what each of them is dealing with as far as kid stuff and work.”
“Yeah, I don’t know. I was taken off the endless text stream about kids and husbands.”
“But that group text was annoying you,” she reminds me. She’s right, but now that I’ve been removed from the nonstop updates about childcare and marriage dramas, strep throat and diarrhea, I miss being included.
“It was, but I’d rather the constant updates and griping than the radio silence. This feels intentionally exclusive.”
“If that is what is going on, then it’s some high school mean-girl shit, and they are all being exclusive and petty. You don’t need that in your life, honey.”
There are moments when Rachel lets down her love-everyone earth-mother vibe and I catch glimpses of the anger and bitterness that lie beneath. There has always been a thin layer of tension between Rachel and the rest of the women’s group. But I’ve never brought it up for fear that acknowledging it would make it worse.
“I guess,” I concede. But the group rejections cut deeply and feel like another heavy sandbag of disappointment in the growing pile.
“My blood sugar is on the floor. I need to eat something. How’s the hummus coming?” she asks.
I add more roasted garlic and sea salt to the pulverized chickpeas and give the Cuisinart another pulse of power until the consistency looks right. I unplug the processor and dredge a carrot stick through the mixture before handing it to her. She accepts it gratefully.
“Maybe a smidge more tahini?” Rachel licks her fingers and then arranges the flowers she’s brought. When she’s satisfied, she pulls her curls into a bun before starting to unload her bounty onto the countertop. I left Peter’s arrangement at the office, knowing that the flowers would only garner excitement and unanswerable questions from the women who were supposed to attend tonight.
I survey the spread. “This is a lot of food for just the two of us. Maybe we should scale back on the menu?” It’s hard to conceal the disappointment in my voice.
Rachel nods. “Let’s just make the roasted veggies and the mushroom steaks. We can skip the guac and salad. I’m starving, so I’ll make short work of the hummus. Oh, and I brought those raw chocolate truffles you love.”
“I thought you were cutting out the all evil sugar?” I tease her.
“I’ve decided to give up giving up sugar. Life is too short to deprive myself,” she declares.
I don’t have the heart to tell her how sick of the raw chocolate truffles I am. And the regular appearances of sprouted bread, which isn’t really bread, and the gritty cashew cheese. I’m sick of the “healthy” food that doesn’t taste like food. What I really want is a cheeseburger and a Diet Coke. My medical school diet. “Great. Love those.”
Rachel is unscrewing a bottle of bubbly water and pouring two glasses full. I uncork a bottle of organic pinot noir while she toggles Pandora to set a new station without asking. She puts on the Greg Scott station, which I always listen to, so I don’t protest. Our shared favorite song starts and we both say “yay” and “turn it up” at the same time.
Rachel sings along as I spoon some of the chickpea mix into a bowl.
“A moment I will not forget / We met our match, the day we met;
“We shared a laugh, we shared a brain / You drove me nuts, you kept me sane.
“We leapt at the sky, howled at the moon / We whistled, we sang the same sweet tune;
“You might have known before I did / What it means to love, what it means to live.”
While I watch her and realize how self-absorbed I’ve been and how little I’ve been checking in with her about what is going on in her life, I belt out the chorus with her and we laugh-sing at top volume together.
“My rock, my heart, my air, the part / Of me that sees the light, the ease / You set me free, aflight, abreeze / Can’t tell you what you mean to me.”
“Honey. Come sit down and talk,” I say to her gently. “I feel like I don’t know what is going on in your life.”
She reaches for a carrot, and we both laugh as she dramatically begins singing into it while spinning around the kitchen. She serenades me while I abandon trying to talk during the song, and instead wash the portobellos. She has a great voice and I let her have the spotlight.
“The inside jokes, the s
miles, the tears / You’re the balm that calms my fears;
“You get to me, you let me be / You lend a smile, you let me grieve.
“You’re a part of me that will never leave / In my bones you live, you breathe;
“Away from the crowd, you’re never alone / You’re on my mind when I get home.”
I turn to face her and see that her eyes are filled. I reach for my phone to lower the volume as the chorus comes on again, but she grabs it from me and continues the performance. I watch, mouthing the lyrics along with her but letting her bring it home.
“Woke from a dream, was soaked in sweat / I’d never known you, we’d never met;
“I’d never known how sweet life gets / When you find the piece that fits.
“The one who sees you, knows your soul / Knows each part and loves you whole.
“I’d never said, to my regret / How much I love you, my best friend.” She sweeps her arms upward in a dramatic finale before opening them for a hug, which I oblige. When I break away we laugh hard as she bites the top off her carrot microphone before collapsing into a chair.
“You definitely missed your calling, honey.” I slide into the chair next to her and we take a moment before recovering from our giggling fits. It feels so good to laugh.
“Okay, will you now tell me what you’ve been up to?” I look at her expectantly.
“Hmm.” She looks down at her hands. “There’s not much new with me.”
Her laid-back response stings. “Oh. Okay. Are you sure?” Her phone chirps and she scoops it up quickly before I can see the screen. She reads something and I swear I see her recoil slightly before she puts it in her bag. “Sorry.”
“Everything okay?”
“Oh yeah. Totally.” She walks over to the unbagged produce and starts chopping cilantro as though she hasn’t just been singing and dancing around the kitchen. “Any word from the detective?” she asks, clearly looking to take the focus off her. I concede.