The Devil You Know

by Freida McFadden

  “So we’ve got a problem here,” he says. “Dr. McGill is unable to reach housekeeping and we’ve got to get this laundry downstairs and some new gowns upstairs. ASAP.” His smile broadens. “Any chance you could help us out?”

  “Of course!” Barbara jumps out of her seat so fast that it nearly falls over. She pushes past me, shooting me a dirty look, then grabs the handles of the basket. “I’ll be back in a jiffy!”

  And just like that, Barbara takes the laundry down to the basement. I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.

  “See?” Ryan says to me as I walk him into the hallway. “That’s how it’s done.

  “You seem to forget,” I say, “that I’m not a super handsome surgeon.”

  He grins at me. “You think I’m super handsome.”

  I feel my cheeks grow warm, which means I probably resemble an apple. “I just meant, you know, in a general sort of way.”

  “Nope, too late.” He’s still grinning. “Can’t take it back. Although it doesn’t explain why you won’t meet me for lunch.”

  I texted Ryan back a quick apologetic negative to his lunch request. And his second lunch request. And his third.

  “I’m just very busy,” I say.

  “It’s not like I’m asking you to meet me in the call room, Jane.” He lowers his voice a notch. “Although we could if you wanted.”

  During residency, Ryan and I desecrated nearly every single call room. Mostly it was out of necessity—at least one of the two of us was always in the hospital. And there were a lot of times we couldn’t wait till we could get to either of our apartments. I remember kissing him on that tiny, creaky twin bed in the call room as we pulled off our clothing, hoping neither of our pagers would go off.

  Those were nice times.

  “I just don’t think it’s a good idea,” I say.

  He raises one eyebrow. “The call room?”

  I stare at him. “No! I mean, yes. The call room isn’t a good idea. But lunch isn’t a good idea either. My husband wouldn’t… you know…”

  “Oh.” He looks down the hallway at the elevators. “So Pip doesn’t approve of us being friends then?”

  “I just don’t think it’s a good idea,” I say again.

  What I don’t say is that I don’t trust myself with him. I don’t say it because it sounds so stupid. I’m a grown woman—married with a daughter. How could I not trust myself with some arrogant surgeon?

  But the real reason I don’t say it is because he already knows that it’s true.

  Chapter 13

  When I pick up Leah from preschool, Mila is waiting to speak to me.

  “We have an issue with Leah, Mrs. Ross,” Mila says to me in a grave voice. She called me “Mrs. Ross” instead of “Jane,” which is very serious. Almost nobody calls me “Mrs. Ross” since I didn’t officially change my name, but some people just assume that’s what I go by since that’s Ben and Leah’s last name.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, glancing nervously at my daughter. She seems to be playing happily with her friends. Is there some broken bone that she’s hiding really well?

  Mila points to a corner of the room. I see that on the light blue paint of the wall, Leah has scribbled her name. My jaw drops open when I see it. Aside from the E being backwards, she wrote her name perfectly.

  “Wow,” I say. “She wrote her name!”

  “She wrote on the wall, Mrs. Ross!” Pink circles appear on both of Mila’s plump cheeks. “That’s not acceptable behavior.”

  “I know but…” I look at the scribbles in the shape of letters. She’s only three and she can write her name! My child is a legit genius. “It’s impressive. Isn’t it?”

  Mila gives me a look. She seems really focused on the fact that Leah wrote on the wall and less so on how impressive what she wrote was. I bet Einstein used to scribble on the walls. And his teacher probably yelled at his mother for it.

  By the time Mila finally gets done scolding me and I pry Leah away from the blocks she’s playing with, I’ve wasted a good twenty minutes at the daycare. It’s pitch black when we get outside and the first thing I do is step right in a big puddle of melted snow, soaking my foot. It’s my right foot, so every time I press a pedal on the drive home, I feel the water squishing against my toes.

  The house is dark when I pull into the garage—it seems like Ben had to go in to the office today. As much as I resent his easy days when he hangs around the house, I feel a little scared in this big place without him. Ben grew up in a big house with his two brothers, but I was always in a tiny apartment my whole life, so it can sometimes be terrifying here. I flick on all the lights the second I come in, so the house doesn’t feel quite so lonely.

  “Hey, Leah,” I say. “Want to try your brand new potty?”

  Leah stares at me blankly. “What’s a potty?”

  No. She did not just say that to me. My (newly discovered) genius child who I have been begging to use a potty for the last freaking year did not just ask me what a potty is. This is not really happening.

  “That’s a potty!” I practically yell, pointing to the Frozen potty that I spent a small fortune on. Then I point at the frog potty, “And that’s a potty.”

  Leah blinks a few times. “Oh.”

  I give up.

  “Mommy has to go change her socks,” I sigh. “Do you want to watch Dora?”

  Leah nods happily and skips off to the couch, singing to herself, “Skip, skip, skip to my Mommy.” I set her up with the television and a snack, then I trudge upstairs to get some socks that aren’t drenched with ice-cold water.

  When I get to our bedroom, I peel off my wet socks and toss them in the laundry hamper. I notice that Ben’s boxers are right next to the hamper. I’m not sure why he can’t seem to actually get them into the hamper. He’s so close—why can’t he get them inside?

  I go to the bathroom in my bare feet because I’ve got to go, and I know what a potty is. Right away, I discover that the toilet paper roll is empty. (Thankfully, I discover this before peeing.) I know this is a complaint in every marriage, but I’m not sure why Ben can’t manage to ever change the toilet paper roll. He claims that I use more toilet paper than he does, but that’s absolutely not true. I’ve seen him walk into that bathroom with a full roll of toilet paper in place that’s gone when he exits the bathroom. Honestly, I don’t even know what he does with all that toilet paper. I can’t even begin to imagine. Origami? Fake snow? Am I going to go up to the attic one day and discover rows of toilet paper forts?

  I asked Ben to buy some toilet paper a few days ago and he claimed to have done it. So I check under the sink, which is where we keep the toilet paper rolls. And sure enough, there’s a giant pack of twenty-four rolls of toilet paper. Except there’s only one problem: it’s Scott toilet paper.

  I’m going to have to call Scott out for being the absolute worst toilet paper in the history of existence. I’m serious—I’d rather wipe myself with some twigs and leaves than use Scott. It claims to be soft but it’s not. It claims to be two-ply, but that doesn’t mean much when each ply is practically nonexistent. Worst toilet paper ever.

  I can’t believe Ben bought Scott toilet paper. He knows I hate it. Now I’ve got twenty-four rolls of completely useless toilet paper. Wonderful.

  A door slams downstairs. Ben is home.

  I race downstairs without bothering to put on socks, the uncarpeted stairs ice-cold against the soles of my bare feet. Ben is coming into the foyer dressed in his big, puffy black coat. His nose and cheeks are pink since he parked on the street and had to walk to the front door, and when he pulls off his hat, his brown hair practically sticks up straight in the air. He looks so cute that some of my anger about the toilet paper evaporates.

  Ben pulls off his coat and hangs it up in the closet, but fails to get his shoes on the shoe rack. It’s like the laundry hamper—if you’re going to put them right beside the rack, why not put them on the rack?

  “Hey,” I
say.

  He looks up at me and offers a tired smile as he loosens the knot on his tie. “Hey, Jane. Sorry I’m late—rough commute today.”

  He leans in to give me a hug and a kiss, which I accept somewhat stiffly. He doesn’t seem to notice though and heads to the kitchen. I follow him.

  “Listen,” I say. “I was just in the bathroom and I noticed you bought Scott toilet paper…”

  “Yeah.” Ben reaches up on one of the shelves in the kitchen and pulls out a jar of Nutella. Every once in a while, he takes a break from peanut butter and has Nutella instead, which I believe has hazelnuts in it, but it’s basically just spreadable chocolate. After a full day of obese patients with heart disease, it’s hard not to wince when I see my husband eating spoonfuls from a big jar of chocolate. “I got it two days ago.”

  “But why did you buy Scott toilet paper?” I say. “You know I hate that brand. They’re the worst.”

  Ben pauses mid-bite of Nutella. “I didn’t know you hate Scott toilet paper. How would I know that?”

  “I’ve told you that a million times!” I cry.

  “I don’t remember that,” says the guy with the worst memory in the world, apparently.

  “Trust me.” I fold my arms across my chest. “I told you. Scott toilet paper is basically unusable.”

  “I had no idea you were such a toilet paper diva,” Ben mutters.

  “I’m not a toilet paper diva!” Any affection I had for my husband when he first walked in the door is fading fast. “I just don’t like that one brand! Anything else would have been better.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you.” He takes another spoonful of Nutella. “You told me to buy toilet paper and I did. I had no idea that I had to be so selective about which brand to buy.”

  “Well, now we’ve got twenty-four rolls of crappy toilet paper,” I point out.

  On another occasion, I’m sure Ben would have cracked a joke about my saying “crappy toilet paper,” but now he just sighs. “Listen, Jane,” he says, “I had a bad day at work and I’ve been stuck in traffic for almost two hours. Can we discuss the toilet paper another time?”

  “Fine,” I say, even though I know I’m the one who’s now going to have to go out and buy new toilet paper. He’s not even offering. He’s just standing there, eating spoonfuls of Nutella. Well, at least tomorrow is Saturday.

  “Please don’t eat half the jar of Nutella,” I tell him. “I’m making dinner soon.”

  “I’m not eating half the jar,” he says around a mouthful of hazelnut and chocolate.

  “You know,” I say, “maybe you wouldn’t be gaining so much weight if you’d stop eating peanut butter and chocolate all the time.”

  I counsel patients on their weight so often, the words come out almost automatically. But I can tell as soon as they leave my mouth that it was the wrong thing to say. The red that had faded from Ben’s face when he came indoors now rises up again in his cheeks.

  “Thanks for the tip, Jane,” he says through his teeth. He tosses the spoon on the counter and practically throws the Nutella back on the shelf. He slams the cabinet door shut. “I’m going upstairs. I’d like to be alone for a while.”

  “Okay,” I say in a small voice. “Um, do you still want to have dinner with us later?”

  “I don’t know,” he mutters. “I guess so. Whatever.”

  He brushes past me, and a few seconds later, I hear his footsteps on the stairs. The door to our bedroom slams shut and I’m left alone once again.

  Chapter 14

  Leah has gotten to an age where grocery shopping with her is impossible.

  When she was an infant, it was easy. I just put her in one of those baby carriers and I’d walk around with her glued to my chest. Usually, she slept through the whole thing. Then when she was a little older, I’d put her in the cart and she’d enjoy riding around while I shopped.

  Now Leah starts out wanting to be in the cart, but within five minutes, she wants to get out. As soon as she’s out, she wants to either run everywhere in the store, steer the cart herself (usually into other customers), or get back in again. It’s exhausting. And don’t even get me started on those carts that have little cars attached to the front of them. Leah will ride in that car for sixty seconds, then I’m stuck pushing around a giant, heavy cart that is impossible to steer while she runs away from me.

  Right now, Leah is running free, her red curls flying behind her, while I struggle to manage my rapidly filling cart. She’s running down the candy aisle, of course. It’s not bad enough that they taunt you with candy at checkout—they’ve got have a whole aisle devoted to it?

  “Want this,” Leah tells me, pointing to a bag of peanut butter cups.

  Those are Ben’s favorite. I used to frequently surprise him with a package of peanut butter cups when I went to the grocery store. Even though I did it fairly often, he always seemed so thrilled when I left the peanut butter cups on his pillow.

  I reach for the bag, considering the purchase. It will make Leah happy, that’s for sure. And Ben.

  But no. The last thing we need in our house is a ginormous bag of peanut butter cups.

  “It’s too much candy, Leah,” I tell her.

  Leah considers my words, deciding if it’s worth a temper tantrum. Finally, she points to a box on a lower shelf, “This, Mommy?”

  It’s cracker jacks. Sweet, crunchy, salty cracker jacks. I haven’t had cracker jacks in a really long time.

  Actually, I can tell you the exact last time I ate cracker jacks. It was when Ben and I had been dating for a little over a year.

  We were in a 7-11 late at night and he noticed the cracker jacks on the shelf. “Cracker jacks!” he exclaimed. “I haven’t eaten these since I was, like, ten years old.”

  “Probably because they’re disgusting,” I said.

  “No way!” Ben pulled the box from the shelf and stared at it eagerly. “They’re delicious. And there’s a prize inside. A prize.” He shook the box in front of me. “We’re buying this, Jane.”

  “Aren’t you a ‘foodie’?” I teased him.

  “Yes. And that’s how I know these are awesome.”

  So that’s how we ended up buying a box of Cracker Jacks. And actually, Ben was right—they were good. I couldn’t see myself eating a whole tub of them, but the caramel and peanut had that great salty and sweet combination that I love. And about halfway through the box, Ben fished out the prize: a cheap-looking gold ring with a salt-dusted purple gemstone.

  “Wow, a ring,” I commented. “Ben, you getting any ideas?”

  I was joking. I was obviously joking. But Ben looked at that ring with the oddest expression on his face, and I started to get worried, like I’d said the wrong thing. Just when I was about to apologize and assure him that I had zero interest in marriage, he did something that completely shocked me: he got down on one knee, right on the dirty sidewalk, and took my hand in his. With the other, he held out the Cracker Jack ring.

  “Jane McGill,” he says as he gazed into my eyes. “Will you marry me?”

  “What?” I hadn’t expected that to be my response to my first proposal, but the whole thing was so ridiculous. What else could I say? “Are you serious?”

  “Yes, I am.” His cheeks colored slightly. “I’m sorry. I know this ring isn’t… I mean, I’ll go out and get you a real ring tomorrow. I just… I want to marry you. I really, really do. And I know this proposal isn’t… look, I’m kind of starting to regret doing it this way, but I just thought… I mean, I saw that ring and…”

  “Get up off the sidewalk,” I said, because it was really truly filthy down there. He probably had his knee in urine.

  “I’m sorry,” Ben mumbled as he scrambled to his feet. “That was stupid.”

  I smiled at the embarrassed expression on his face. “No, it wasn’t.” I leaned forward and kissed him gently on the lips. “I will marry you, Ben Ross.”

  A smile of his own spread across Ben’s lips. “Yeah?”

&nb
sp; “Yeah.” I poked him in the arm. “But you better get me a nicer ring than that.”

  I allowed Ben to put the Cracker Jack ring on my finger. It was too small to fit on my ring finger, so I wore it on my pinky. We kissed for a long time after that, then walked home together hand in hand, excitedly discussing plans to move in together.

  I still have that Cracker Jack ring. It’s in the jewelry box on my nightstand. I actually treasure it more than the expensive diamond ring that Ben bought me a few days later. I still consider it my real engagement ring. I just wish I had decided that before I let Ben blow a thousand bucks on a diamond ring that I never wear.

  “I want it, Mommy!” Leah is saying.

  “Okay,” I mumble, and absently drop the Cracker Jacks in the cart. There’s no way I can escape this aisle without buying her something. May as well be Cracker Jacks.

  Leah is so thrilled, she decides now would be a good time to burst into song. Instead of her usual repertoire of children’s songs, she launches into a Meghan Trainor number. “You know I’m all about that Mommy, ‘bout that Mommy, no Mommy,” she sings. “I’ve got that Mommy that all the boys chase, and all the right junk in all the right Mommy.”

  And of course, just as she’s singing those lyrics, that would be the moment I’d hear a voice from behind me: “Dr. McGill!”

  I get a sick feeling in my stomach. One of the downsides to living relatively close to the VA Hospital is that I occasionally run into my patients. A lot of the times, I don’t even recognize them, and I have to desperately search my brain to come up with a name—usually, I can’t.

  Except this time, coming up with a name isn’t a problem.

  “Mr. Katz,” I say, forcing a smile onto my face. Of all the patients I could possibly run into at the supermarket, Herman Katz would be my last choice. It’s bad enough that I have to hear about all his physical woes when I’m at work. I’m really not in the mood to hear about it right now, in the candy aisle of a supermarket.

  “What a pleasant surprise running into you here!” Mr. Katz says. He’s wearing a tan sweater under his pea green coat and seems more relaxed than he usually does during our visits. “And this must be your little girl! She has a beautiful voice.”