by E. G. Scott
The radio hisses. “Vehicle is registered to a Dana Atwell. Eighty-two Cherry Lane, Smithtown, New York.”
“Ten-four. Over and out.”
The address matches the house we’re sitting on. Wolcott jots down the name Dana Atwell in his notebook, then looks back toward the house. I can see the gears turning in his head.
“This guy sure works fast,” I say.
Wolcott scratches his chin. “What is this son of a bitch up to?”
twenty-six
REBECCA
IT ISN’T DIFFICULT to convince Paul that I’m feeling unwell. After accessing his phone and reading the email from whoever the fuck Dana is, I haven’t slept a wink and I look every inch of it. When he tries to rouse me with warm hands up my shirt, I fight him off and tell him I’m going to sleep for a few more hours and go into the office late. I’ll need to venture out at some point, and work is as good a cover as any.
I burrow into the bed and remain without signs of life while he gets himself going for his day ahead. He’s chipper and whistling his way in and out of the shower, enraging me with his blatant happiness. He has no idea that I’ve been up all night with a thousand thoughts of betrayal and disappointment ping-ponging around in my head.
I listen to the sounds of his morning routine with my breath held and teeth gritted. Before he leaves, he kisses my cheek and I stir just enough to force a smile and whimper before I roll beneath the blanket. I can feel the lingering weight of him on the mattress looking at me. I wonder if he wishes it were me he rolled in that plastic and discarded. My tears are absorbed quickly into the pillow. When I hear the click of the front door behind him, I exhale and succumb to a wall of sleep.
When I wake a few hours later, Duff has climbed into bed with me for a midmorning nap and I have to reach under his giant body to retrieve my phone. I click on the eye-shaped icon and open the mirror of Paul’s phone. Looks like he couldn’t even wait until he was out of the house this morning to respond to her emails. It’s too hard to read those, so I look elsewhere.
There are also a few messages from Wes. The most recent one being a nearby listing address. I read from the bottom up their back-and-forth, which is innocuous, but come to one that is a gut punch. I smart at the realization that Paul’s best friend and business partner is also hiding his secrets. But I don’t know why I’m surprised.
You sneaking around behind your old lady’s back again?
I turn the heat down on my anger toward Wes for his complicity and focus on Paul. The blue dot on the GPS tracker shows that he is in Cold Spring Harbor. The coordinates don’t get more detailed than that, frustratingly, so I’m not able to zoom in on a specific address. This development of Paul’s whereabouts presents a problem; Cold Spring Harbor is exactly where I’d planned to go today. I have questions that I believe only the proprietors of a certain jewelry store and the Harbor Rose can answer. I’m not sure I can risk running into him.
Instead of getting out of bed, I take a Xanax from my nightstand stash and settle into my email. There is an email from the HR director at Launaria asking me to review the attached materials and sign them. They “will conclude the process of my resignation.” She’s requesting that I sign and scan the papers and email them in response as soon as possible. Her unsubtle urging that I never set foot in that office again only makes me want to do just that. They want to be done with me too. I seem to have become deadwood to everyone in my life.
I don’t open the attachment. I delete the email. An idea about work and Mark takes seed in an interior part of my brain for later. I know I’ll need to lean on Mark in the near future for a number of things.
I open the article link from Paul’s search history that I sent to myself last night, but before I can dip in, a text from him comes in. He’s acting the good husband by checking on me, although I’m well aware of how unconcerned he actually is. I feel as though he’s caught me in the act of spying, but the rational sliver left in me tells me otherwise. I take a deep breath and decide to hold off before replying since the only responses available to me at the moment verge on hysterical.
I let him know that I’ve decided to stay home from work. He responds quickly to say he’s going to come home to check on me. Fuck. I hadn’t counted on this and it makes me punch the pillow, disrupting Duff’s nap momentarily before he lays his head back down and resumes sleeping. It looks like for the time being I’m stuck at home and in bed. I’ll do what I can from here. The article sits behind the text, waiting for me when I swipe Paul away.
Suspicion Surrounds Honeymoon Drowning of Seasoned Diver
I don’t need to read a word beyond the headline to fill in the blanks when I see who the woman in the photo is. She’s standing next to a handsome ginger-haired guy cheerily posed in a wedding photo. The picture bears a quote below: “The couple during happier times.” Her hair is a different color in the photo than it was on our bedroom floor, but of course I recognize her right away.
Before I can read further, I get a notification that Paul has received an email and I switch over. Dana has responded to his response from this morning. My stomach drops a few hundred feet. He’s returned her sentiment of being in each other’s thoughts. Her reply is shameless.
Maybe when you come see me tomorrow we can do some role-playing?
He takes no time to reply.
I’d like that. It would be good to release some of this tension. I’m a little worried Rebecca knows something is up with me. And she’s home sick, so I feel like I’m sneaking around even more than usual.
My guts coil into a painful knot. My phone shivers with a nearly immediate response from her.
Is she asking questions? Do you think she has any idea? There’s nothing to be ashamed of. You need to find your own happiness.
I’m confused by the tone and her words. This feels like a different kind of flirtation.
As I’m watching their intimacy blossoming in real time in front of me, I start to feel a strange sensation of dead calmness. It is a stillness beyond the antianxiety meds. It reminds me of being deep underwater. I can’t look away.
Rebecca will understand when I can finally tell her everything. It’s still scary. But I know how much you can help me with that.
I have to sprint out of bed to make it to the bathroom in time. When I recover, I stand too quickly and get dizzy and sick all over again. After a few minutes with my burning cheek on the cool tile, I manage to right myself and splash my face with cold water. I hate that she knows my name. I despise that they are using me as foreplay. I’m fighting the urge to throw something at the mirror and watch it shatter. I stare at myself, in a standoff with the part of me who is on the verge of becoming homicidal and the part of me who is trying with every fiber to keep things under control. It is hard to tell who is winning.
I am taken aback by how awful I look. I have aged ten years in less than a week it seems. My skin is sallow, my hair is limp, and I’ve lost weight. I’ve bypassed svelte and gone straight to gaunt. Ironic how I’ve worked relentlessly for the last three-quarters of my life to get to a certain thinness, and all it took was for the bottom of my life to drop away to reach it, and then some. Trauma trim. If only I could bottle it. The money Paul stole would be pennies compared to what I’d make.
I consider taking a shower and washing some of the gloom off me. If I want to blend in with the outside world, I’ll need to clean myself up. But I can’t very well throw on makeup at this point, with Paul on his way home, and continue playing the sick card. I’m tired again and flip a mental coin to crawl back into bed or take some Adderall to perk my brain up. The bed wins. When I settle in to resume the article, a migraine has taken root in the back of my eyes so I close them and drift.
Less than an hour has passed when I hear the sounds of Paul arriving home. I stumble toward the back of the closet for my robe, the ratty one with loose Percocets in the pockets—one of my more ingeni
ous hiding spots for quick-and-easy grabbing. I slide my arms through and help myself to a pill. Then I steel myself for another performance.
At least I know that I look the part.
* * *
BY THE TIME I’ve eaten the chicken soup he’s brought me and set up camp on the couch, I’m satisfied I’ve convinced him of an illness worthy of at least a week’s stay at home. I tell him I’m going to the doctor for a late- afternoon appointment. This comes to me in a moment of clarity when I realize my doctor’s office is midway between our house and Cold Spring Harbor, making my claim reasonable that I would be in that area, should by some comedy of errors I get spotted by someone we know or, unlikely but possible, I run into him.
If he’s telling the truth, there’s no reason to worry. As he’s walking out the door he informs me that he is going to check out a potential sale property in the neighborhood and then have dinner with Wes at a bar close by because he’s on the outs with his wife again. If ever a couple were divorce soul mates, it’s those two. Any of these claims could be lies, but I’ll have the GPS to keep an eye on him. And I figure I have a good four or five hours before he’s back home.
As soon as he pulls away from the house, I jump into the shower and dress hurriedly in the smallest jeans and shirt I can find, since everything else I put on hangs off of me. I apply light makeup and pull my hair back into a tight ponytail, which helps temporarily smooth the creases on my forehead. I swipe on some lip gloss and decide a piece of jewelry for my errand would provide a good entree to my intended questions. I root through my jewelry box for the necklace Paul got me during our wedding weekend: two layered rose gold chains with doves on each chain, wings spread, giving the appearance of two birds flying nearly side by side. I’m not finding it among the usual tangle of necklaces. I suddenly remember that I was wearing it the day the detectives showed up, but can’t recall where I’ve left it. Untangling the knot in my hand and finding a different necklace will take a good amount of time and patience, both of which I’m short on. I look at my phone and realize I only have an hour and a half before the store closes.
I go without.
* * *
TRAFFIC IS WORSE than I expect and the drive takes nearly twice as long as usual. I find a parking spot with little time to spare before closing. It is still light out and there are enough people on the street to conjure the first warm feelings of imminent summer.
When I walk inside, the store is eerily empty. I hear activity beyond the half-open doorway leading to the back of the store. I walk up to the glass cases and peer in at the delicate necklaces of labradorite, moonstone, and opals encircled by delicate gold piping, each piece artfully draped over chunks of driftwood. I look around the store and get the feeling it hasn’t changed much in the last twenty years. Although I’d only really seen it at night from the sidewalk looking in. Even though I’ve walked by the store many times since our wedding weekend, this is the first time I’ve ever stepped foot inside.
It was probably the best weekend of my life, if I had to pick one. The night we stumbled upon Illusions, it was very late and we were hand in hand, walking and talking for hours. It always felt like there wasn’t possibly enough time to fit in everything we wanted to tell each other. I was euphoric over Paul finally leaving his wife and showing up at my door, insisting that we get married as soon as possible. We’d had to wait four months for the divorce to be finalized to get married, but Paul moved in with me immediately. We looked for our first apartment together and it felt like we were starting our relationship over again, the right way.
After city hall, we’d gotten into Paul’s car and camped on our plot of land, where we planned the house we were going to build there. But despite the body heat and the September humidity, we were ready for a hot shower and warm bed. The next morning, we stumbled upon the charming bed-and-breakfast nearby with a deluxe room available and a generous proprietress who gave us a reduced rate in honor of our local “honeymoon.” Fate seemed to continue in our favor at every turn.
We didn’t emerge from the room until late that evening, starved from long intervals of naked entwinement and sleep. Everything was closed down except for a 7-Eleven, so we strolled around town with armfuls of sweet and salty snacks, munching and talking and walking in circles until finding a bench in front of the store that I’m standing in now.
When we’d eaten ourselves full of Cheetos and Devil Dogs and washed it all down with Budweiser tall boys, I’d stood watch for Paul as he went between two shops to relieve himself, both of us giddy and laughing. I’d been distracted by something shiny in the window and crept closer, wobbly from the beer and sugar, leaving Paul exposed. The dove necklace was hanging from delicate branches and backlit in the otherwise dark store window. Paul had come up behind me, his arms around my waist, head on my shoulder, investigating what had caught my eye. We stayed like that for a long time, not saying much and feeling a shared sense of “finally.”
When I woke the next morning, the bed was empty. Before I could spiral into the familiar fear that Paul had chosen his wife over me, he burst through the door with coffee, flowers, and a wax paper bag hanging from his mouth dotted with butter stains from the warm croissants within. We ate in bed surrounded by flakes of buttery pastry. Satisfied more than I can ever remember feeling, I leaned back into Paul and closed my eyes. I wanted to lock all of these moments into a mold. I felt his hands putting the necklace around my neck and closing the clasp easily. When I opened my eyes and looked in a mirror by the bed, the two gold birds were perched on my clavicle.
Now, in the same store, I reach for my bare neck, punctuating the memory.
“Oh dear! I didn’t realize anybody was in here! I thought I’d locked the door.”
The woman peering out from behind a stack of cardboard boxes has a shock of purplish-tinged hair and a look of exaggerated surprise behind her oversize glasses. She looks to be about ninety years old.
“I’m so sorry if I startled you. I thought you were still open.”
She parks the tower of cardboard down on the counter between us.
“I was just getting ready to close, but if you promise not to tell anyone, I can let you look around while I finish tidying up.” She looks like what I’d always imagined a grandmother should. I never knew either of mine.
“Thank you so much. I really appreciate it. I came in because my husband was in here recently and I wanted to check if he’d bought anything.” I realize how off-putting this admission might sound and wish I’d come up with a better story. But she smiles and shoots me a knowing look. “Sorry, that probably sounds a little sneaky of me.”
“Not at all, honey. You wouldn’t believe how many women come in to see if their boyfriends or husbands have bought them something special. Mostly rings.” Her laugh is so much younger than her face.
“Actually, it’s our twentieth wedding anniversary coming up, and I’ve been at a loss for what to get my husband. You see, he tends to always outdo me with the extravagance of his gifts and I thought he might come here since he knows I love your pieces. I figured I might be able to get a sense of how much he’d spent.”
The lies tumble out so easily. She smiles even bigger and nods. “Aw, I see. That’s smart. Well, you know, honey, the twentieth-anniversary gift is traditionally china, and we don’t sell any of that.”
“My husband would never get me china. He’s definitely not traditional.” I laugh lightly. “I saw him come in here the last time we were in town when I was getting us ice cream across the street. He didn’t think I was watching.”
She looks to the left and right of us as though we are about to hand off drugs. “Well, I’m really not supposed to do this, but if you tell me your last name and when your husband came in, I suppose I could take a peek at the invoices from that day and see if anything matches.”
“That would be wonderful.”
She pivots 180 degrees to face the
computer and clicks into a screen with her back to me. The text is so big I can read everything clearly.
“My bad eyes.” She chuckles, reading my mind. “My grandson makes fun of how big I have to make everything. My phone is even worse! You could see my texts from two states over! What was the name, love?”
“Our last name is Campbell. He would have been by in the last two weeks.”
I feel my phone vibrate through my purse but don’t make a move for it. My palms are sweaty and I rub them on my jeans. I’m tensing up as the dull pain in my shoulder begins to throb. I wish I could take an Oxy, but I know better with the nighttime drive ahead of me.
“Aw. Lookie here. You were right!” I can see Paul’s name as clear as day from where I’m standing.
“I see that there’s a credit card on file for a special order with your last name. What would the first name on the card be, and the last five digits?”
“Paul. Zero-zero-zero-zero-eight.”
Her voice goes up an octave as she turns toward me.
“You are going to be pleased, I think. He’s gotten a very beautiful piece for you. And he’s spent a nice amount on it too. But I won’t spoil the surprise. I’ll just say we’ve had to special order it and it’s being delivered straight to you on Tuesday. Oh! And you’ve got the same name as my daughter! What a wonderful coincidence. Now I don’t feel so guilty bending the rules.” She winks at me conspiratorially.
Maybe Paul really did buy something for me. I hadn’t considered that my goose chase could lead me to myself. Another husbandly gesture to keep me in the dark and content in my sheltered world of us against everyone else? But I need to see it to believe it.
She turns her back to the screen, obscuring my view of the information below his name on the digital receipt. I lean forward, intentionally pushing the boxes over the edge with my elbow. They topple to the floor on her side of the counter in a small avalanche of string and cardboard.