by Laura Wolfe
My insomnia wasn’t uncommon. Sometimes, I could trace the problem back to a cup of afternoon tea, or a slice of chocolate cake after dinner, but at other times, like tonight, there was no obvious suspect. I’d never had sleep issues when Charlie was alive, so I guessed it had something to do with his absence, with not feeling secure, or having too many unspoken worries trapped inside my head.
My hands felt through the shadows to my closet, where I slipped my feet into my house shoes and wrapped myself in my terry-cloth robe, tying the belt snugly around my waist. Then I flipped on the hall light and made my way downstairs to the kitchen.
I removed a glass from the cupboard and filled it with ice and soda water. The bubbles tickled my throat as I swallowed. My hand raised the glass again, but then set it down. “What the heck,” I said out loud, and added two fingers of scotch for good measure. The second sip was more satisfying.
The incessant chirping of cicadas and occasional screams of nocturnal animals sounded through my loose windows. Summer nights in northern Michigan were chilly, so I removed my coat from the hook in the kitchen and zipped it over my robe. My toes inched toward the front door as I carried my drink in one hand and a citronella candle in the other. Turning on the porch light would be a mistake; insects would swarm around the glow with me caught in the middle. The door creaked behind me, closing with a thump. I struck a match and lit the candle, its dancing flame mesmerizing me as I lowered my clunky body into the wicker rocking chair.
I’d relaxed on this porch hundreds of times in the daylight or at dusk, but the view in the dead of night was altered in the flickering glow of the candle. A three-quarter moon and a smattering of stars shone through the impenetrable blackness, but the air around me was thick and dark as if my chair had sunk to the bottom of the ocean. I pulled the candle closer and strained my eyes in the direction of the tiny house. Not a thing was visible beyond the railing of my own porch. Although Beth’s lights were off, I knew she was out there, sleeping. I wasn’t alone, and that gave me some comfort.
An owl hooted in the distance, triggering thoughts of Charlie and how much he used to love that sound. “Did you hear that, Charlie?” I said, speaking to a ghost who I wasn’t sure was there.
I swallowed a mouthful of my drink and closed my eyes, embracing the familiar ache in my chest. I missed him. It had been two years, but the loss still shot through me as forcefully as it had the day he died. The closure mentioned in my self-help books had passed me over.
My hand squeezed the glass tighter, despair surrounding me. I’d been improving myself, making some progress by connecting with Ethan, talking to Beth, and using my workbook, but deep inside I understood that no amount of new friends and self-help books would take away the pain of losing my husband. Part of me relished the agony. The sorrow had become my most familiar and constant companion, a pit I’d willingly stumble into just to feel close to Charlie again. I took another swig. My throat burned first, then my eyes, as they filled with tears. I closed my eyes, letting the shadows from the candlelight dance across my eyelids.
A twig cracked from somewhere nearby. My eyes popped open and I stiffened in my seat. I set down my drink, wiping the moisture from my face. I leaned forward and listened. Another rustle of leaves from the direction of the woods, followed by more sticks snapping. My skin bristled.
A few weeks ago, I’d read about a mountain lion spotted in Charlevoix County. It was the first confirmed sighting in the lower peninsula in decades. Had the creature made its way to my property? I glanced over my shoulder toward the front door, planning my escape, as an equally terrifying thought edged its way into my mind. The police hadn’t caught the murderer of that young woman in town. What if he was hiding out on my property? I froze, afraid to look toward the woods.
A deep, raspy cough echoed through the night and halted my imagination. It wasn’t an animal. The cough was from someone familiar. It was Joe. The distant plodding of uneven footsteps confirmed my suspicion.
Slinking down in my chair, I peered above the railing and spotted a circle of light bobbing in the distance. Joe emerged from the edge of the woods, a flashlight aimed in front of him. I could only make out the shadowy outline of his body. A few steps later, at a point more than halfway up my dirt driveway, the light stopped bouncing and turned toward the ground. He lugged something heavy and bulky in one of his arms. I shielded the flame of my candle with my hand and then blew it out, wondering what he was doing and if I’d been spotted. Cold dread seeped through me as I waited, staying as still as I could manage. A mountain lion would have been more welcome.
Joe grunted, followed by the thud of something hitting the ground. A bag? The light swung wildly now as he picked up whatever he’d just dropped and continued trudging. I dug my nails into the base of the wicker chair, praying he wasn’t headed toward the tiny house, toward Beth. My heart hammered so loudly I feared it might give me away.
He continued past my house, far enough down the driveway that I could no longer see the beam of light from my position on the porch. Still crouched down, I tiptoed down the front steps and felt my way through the blackness around the side of the house. I pressed myself against a forsythia bush, its angled branches scraping against my back like jagged fingernails.
The beam of light floated away from me up the driveway. He was now opposite the tiny house, only the thin line of birch trees and fifty yards separating them. My muscles twitched. I was prepared to tumble back inside and call 911 if he headed toward her.
His path continued straight, toward his apartment. I unclenched my teeth and exhaled as the light followed the slope of the stairs next to the garage, the circular glow rising higher with each step. Finally, the apartment door clicked open and a triangle of light from inside illuminated Joe. He lurched through the entryway and closed the door behind him, but not before I glimpsed a large duffel bag slung over his shoulder, along with a second bag, the camouflaged one I’d seen earlier—in the shape of a gun.
Fourteen
Elizabeth
Before
Dad slumped on the couch watching SportsCenter and playing games on his phone, while Mom stumbled around the kitchen searching for ingredients. She’d decided to make egg salad for lunch. I’d barely been able to choke down a quarter of my veggie quesadilla at the Mexican restaurant we’d visited last night and the thought of egg salad made me queasy, but I didn’t have the energy to disagree.
“Do you have any green onions?” she asked, rummaging through the produce drawer of my refrigerator.
I sat on a kitchen bar stool, still wearing my pajamas. Caroline leaned next to me, checking emails on her phone.
“No.” Why would I have green onions? I’d barely been able to brush my teeth for the past five days, much less go to the grocery store and stock up for recipes I didn’t know I was going to make. “I don’t think I have any eggs, either. Or celery.”
“Might be hard to make egg salad,” Caroline giggled, looking up from her phone. “Want me to run to the grocery store? I don’t mind.”
My sister’s offer caught me off guard, and I was about to say, sure, but Mom spoke first.
“I’ll go. I forgot my aspirin. And it looks like you need some fresh fruit.” Mom shook her head and clucked, “I hope your kitchen isn’t always this barren.”
I inhaled and held the air in my lungs, ignoring her comment.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes.” She slung her purse over her shoulder and headed toward the front door. “Need anything, Ben?” she yelled to Dad on her way out.
“What?” Dad looked up from the TV. “Oh, no. I’m fine.”
The door clicked shut behind Mom’s purple windbreaker.
“There’s no stopping your mom once she gets an idea in her head,” Dad said, turning off the TV.
“Yeah,” Caroline and I said at the same time.
“Can I help you do anything around the house?” Dad asked. “I saw you had a loose shingle out back.” He slid toward the edge of t
he couch.
“No, but thanks for offering,” I said. “There’s a handyman who comes around a few times a year for stuff like that.”
Dad’s chin dipped. “Okay. How about your taxes? Should we take a look? It’s never too soon to start preparing.”
Dad was a semi-retired accountant who couldn’t keep his hands off other people’s tax returns. The more complicated, the better, I’d heard him say more than once. I knew he was only trying to help me in whatever way he could, but I couldn’t handle going through my finances with him, especially after I’d already completed my filing for the year.
“I’m sorry, Dad, I can’t deal with that right now.” The smile on his face faded, and I felt like a horrible person. I remembered the furniture upstairs and backtracked, “I do have something else you can help me with, though.”
He straightened his shoulders, the crinkles around his eyes returning. “Okay. Shoot.”
“I need to rearrange the furniture in my bedroom. It’s too heavy for me to move on my own.”
He stood up and marched toward the stairs, a man grateful for a mission. “Let’s take care of it.”
I followed him, Caroline trailing a few steps behind me.
“Your bed was really comfortable,” she said. “You should move back into it. I mean, you know, after we adjust the aura of the room.” She waved her fingers through the air as if she were sprinkling glitter all over the stairs.
I hoped rearranging the furniture would be enough to do the trick. I hadn’t been able to sleep in the bed since I’d found Jason and the other woman in it, but yesterday I’d dug out old sheets from the linen closet and made it up for Caroline.
We stepped into the bedroom where Jason’s dresser sat picked over and abandoned. Only a few shards of glass from a shattered picture lay on top. The door to our walk-in closet was ajar, revealing a wall of hanging clothes and towers of shoes and sweaters on my side, but not a single item on Jason’s half. I stared at the vacant shelves and exposed metal bar, an odd mixture of despair and satisfaction rising inside me. Not even a hanger had survived my wrath. The boxes of brand-named shoes, the rows of color-coordinated ties, the collection of button-down shirts and designer suits that he’d so neatly arranged, pressed together like the pages of a new book, now lay twisted and buried in a mangled heap somewhere in the back of a garbage truck, covered with soiled diapers, rotting food, and bags of dog shit.
Dad looked around, letting out a low whistle. “Holy moly. You really cleaned him out, didn’t you?” He turned toward me, scratching his forehead and chuckling.
Caroline lifted a piece of glass from Jason’s dresser and tossed it in the trash can. “Remind me to never get on Lizzie’s bad side.”
“Where do you want the bed?” Dad asked, still surveying the room.
I pointed to the skeletal dresser. “Let’s move that piece to where the bed is and put the bed against this wall.”
We tackled the dresser first, Dad at one end and Caroline at the other. Neither would let me pitch in due to the pregnancy. Adjusting their hands for a solid grip, they lifted it an inch or two off the ground and carried it out of the way. The bed sat on casters and was easier to move. They pushed it over to the open wall. A square of dust bunnies remained on the floor where the bed had been, so I retrieved the vacuum cleaner. By the time I returned, Dad and Caroline had already positioned the dresser nearby.
My hands guided the hose of the vacuum across the recently exposed floor. With every layer it sucked up, I reclaimed my room, cleansing it of each strand of hair, piece of lint, and speck of dust that may have originated from Jason or the other woman. When the area was spotless, I turned off the vacuum feeling as if I’d eliminated his filth.
“Okay,” I said.
Dad and Caroline lifted the dresser and placed it against the wall. They stepped back, admiring our work. The room was a different shape now, encouraging a different flow.
“Looks good,” Dad said. “What do you think, Lizzie?”
I nodded, my throat unable to produce words.
Caroline elbowed me, “We should buy some new sheets and a mattress pad. I’ll help you pick them out. It’ll be fun.”
“Thank you.” A hiccup formed in my throat, and—as had become a common occurrence—I began to cry. Only this time I wasn’t crying because I was sad. The tears flowed because I was grateful for my family. For my dad and sister, who’d gone along with my silly furniture rearrangement without question, and for my mom who was out buying the ingredients for egg salad because she wanted to feed her family a nice lunch, and for all of them because they had my back, even after I’d only recently been conspiring to keep them at arm’s length from my baby. They weren’t perfect. No. None of us was, but they were mine. I stepped toward them and we hugged.
“I’m back,” Mom yelled from downstairs. “What’s everyone doing up there?”
Dad released his solid arms from around us and turned toward the doorway. “We’ll be down in a second.”
I wiped the tears from my face and Caroline rubbed my back.
“Let’s go eat some egg salad,” Dad said.
Caroline giggled.
“I’m going to put some clothes on,” I said, glancing down at the rumpled flannel pajamas I’d been wearing all morning.
A couple of minutes later, dressed in jeans and a sweater, I joined them in the kitchen where Mom chopped green onions and already had a pot of water going on the stove.
“Thanks, Mom. That hit the spot.” The plate in front of me was clean. I’d eaten every bite of my egg salad sandwich, along with the chips and apple slices Mom had served with it. It had taken a while, but my body had finally realized it was famished.
Dad scooted back his chair. “Delicious.”
Caroline gave a thumbs up, her mouth full of food.
Mom leaned back and smiled. “I’m so glad you enjoyed it.”
A knock sounded from the front door.
“I’ll get it.” Mom jumped from her seat and strode toward the door a little too eagerly.
Caroline’s eyes found mine, and she shrugged.
Seconds later Mom stepped into the kitchen, her lips pressed together. “Elizabeth, you have a visitor,” she said, without making eye contact.
“Who is it?” I asked.
Mom loaded dishes into the dishwasher, ignoring my question.
“Tell whoever it is to go away,” I said, not caring if the person heard me.
“I’m not going to do that.”
Something about the righteous tone of her voice caused my stomach to drop and my blood to reverse course. I slammed my hands on the table. “I don’t want to see him. I don’t want to talk to him.”
“Is it that loser?” Dad asked, each word louder than the one before. He tossed his napkin on the table and stood up. “I’ll talk to him.”
Mom glared at him. “Sit down, Ben.”
Dad froze for a minute, debating. In a burst of defiance, he pushed past her, a vein bulging in his forehead. “I’m not sitting down until I give this clown a piece of my mind.”
My weight remained anchored in my chair, my head buried in my hands, my heart rate accelerating. The door yanked open with a forceful gust.
“What the hell is your problem? Is that how you treat my daughter?” Dad yelled.
Jason mumbled for a minute, his response not loud enough to hear.
“You know what I hope?” Dad yelled. “I hope she leaves your sorry ass, because you’re never going to find anyone like her again. She’s too good for you. I’ve always known it. She’s one in a million and you’re a sorry, insecure loser!”
My heart swelled with love for Dad, for the way he was fighting for me, protecting me. That was the way I already loved the baby inside me, fiercely and loyally. Jason said something back to him, but he wasn’t yelling like Dad. I couldn’t hear the words.
“Elizabeth, go talk to your husband,” Mom said in a loud whisper. “Before Dad ruins it for you. You took a vow. For better
or for worse. This is the ‘worse.’ You owe it to that baby to work this out.”
“Why did you come here anyway? No one wants you here!” Dad screamed.
More talking from Jason.
“What? She did?” Footsteps descended the hall and into the kitchen. Dad stood with clenched fists, struggling to catch his breath. He narrowed his eyes at Mom. “You told him to come here?”
Mom locked eyes with him, her pallor growing. She bit her lower lip, not speaking.
“Dammit!” I’d never seen Dad so angry, not even when he’d discovered Caroline had stolen his class ring to buy drugs. Although he’d never been violent toward any of us, I feared he might hit Mom. Instead, he lunged forward and kicked the chair he’d been sitting in a few minutes earlier. Then he barreled through the back door, cursing under his breath.
I leaned into my chair, the wooden backing the only thing supporting me. My own mother had betrayed me.
“Whose side are you on?” I asked, dumbfounded. The nausea had returned, rising inside me.
“I’m on your side. I’m on my grandchild’s side.” Her voice sounded thin and weak. “He wants to work things out. Please go talk to him.”
I shook my head in disgust and stomped toward the foyer. Jason wavered in the open doorway, his eyes hollow and arms crossed. He wore the black North Face jacket I’d given him for Christmas last year.
“Liz…” he began to say.
“I don’t know what my mom told you,” I said. “But I don’t want to see you. You can’t be here.”
“Please talk to me.” He inched toward me, his face gaunt, “I know I screwed up, but… this is my house, too.”
“I guess we’ll have to sell it then,” I said, mostly to get a reaction out of him.
He took a step back. “What? No! I want to live here with you. And our baby. Please. I’ll do anything to make it up to you.”
My fingers fumbled with the hem of my sweater. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get over it.”