For a few seconds, I hesitate, because I feel like a woman obsessed, but I know that if I don’t see this through, I’ll lie awake again tonight—and every night for the rest of my life—tossing and turning until dawn, wondering what the hell really happened to my husband that night.
I unbuckle my seat belt and walk into the store.
“I’m sorry. She isn’t in today,” the young clerk at the customer service desk tells me. “She’s home sick.”
My head throbs, and I rub at the back of my neck. This feels very anticlimactic, and I want to grit my teeth together and scream. But it’s not this young girl’s fault, so I fight to keep it together. “I see. Thank you.”
Taking a few deep breaths, I walk out of the store and try calling Paula’s cell phone as I cross the parking lot. She doesn’t answer, and I can’t help but suspect that she’s ignoring my calls. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. I’m being a pain in the ass.
When I reach my car, I get in and sit for a while, watching customers come and go.
Maybe I am going crazy. Maybe there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for why Alan was driving under the influence. Maybe there was some sort of medical emergency, and he had to make a choice.
If so, what was the emergency? And did it have anything to do with Paula? Was that why she called him on a Sunday night, hours after the store had closed? On her personal cell phone?
Had she even been at the store?
I blow my nose, pick up my cell phone again, and google Paula’s home address.
It’s kind of scary how easy it is to find out where a person lives. It’s even scarier that I’ve been moved to do what I’m doing.
A few minutes later, I’m driving up her street like some sort of stalker.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I get out of my car, sling my purse over my shoulder, and gaze up at the house where Paula lives with her husband. It’s a modest split-level home with pale-blue vinyl siding, located in a small subdivision on the edge of town.
For a brief moment, I consider changing my mind and going straight home, but I decide to bite the bullet. I walk up the steps and ring the front doorbell.
A pretty young woman answers. She has blonde hair and appears to be in her early twenties.
“Yes?” she asks but balks slightly at my appearance. Suddenly I remember that my face is still black and blue and my eyes are no doubt puffy from crying. On top of that, I’m dressed in baggy gray sweatpants, sneakers, and an ugly parka. I probably look like a homeless person, which is not like me at all. I usually make an effort when it comes to my appearance. I wear makeup and do my hair and dress fashionably—but I suppose I’ve been knocked around a bit lately. Looking put together isn’t at the top of my priority list.
“Hi,” I say in a warm and friendly tone, hoping to put her at ease. “I’m looking for Paula Sheridan. Is this where she lives?”
“Yeah, she’s my stepmom,” the girl replies with some apprehension. “But she’s not here right now. She’s at the store.”
I feel my eyebrows pull together in a frown, and I’m immediately suspicious. “I just went there looking for her, and they said she was at home today. That she was sick.”
The girl shrugs a shoulder. “Maybe the clerk got it wrong, because she’s not here.”
I can’t very well push my way past her and search the house, so I simply thank her and turn to go.
She stops me. “Would you like to try her cell phone?”
I face her again. “I already did, but she didn’t answer. I’ll try again later. Thanks.”
She shuts the door, and I walk down the cement path but stop halfway when I hear the door open again.
“Abbie MacIntyre?”
I immediately turn and look up.
An older man steps outside. He looks to be in his midfifties. He’s handsome, trim, and fit, dressed in jeans and a blue wool pullover. I realize how pathetic I must appear with my bruised face and unwashed hair.
“Yes,” I reply.
He regards me coolly. “I’m Paula’s husband, Michael. I’m sorry about your loss. I saw it on the news. Paula says she went to high school with you?”
“That’s right.”
He takes another step forward. “Well . . . she showed me your texts, and I’m not sure what to say. I’m sorry for what you’re going through, but I’m not sure why you think Paula can help you.”
“I’m not sure either,” I hear myself replying.
He studies my face for a moment. “You should know that Paula felt badly, because your husband was a regular customer at the store. She said he was always very nice. It’s a terrible thing that happened, but . . . you need to find a way to move forward that doesn’t involve my wife.”
We stand in silence for a brief moment, and I wonder if he thinks I’m a nutcase. I feel like one at the moment.
“If you could just tell Paula that I came by . . .” I begin to back away. “I’d appreciate it.”
“I will,” he says. “Take care. And again, I’m sorry for your loss.”
Paula’s husband disappears inside, while I hurry to my mother’s car, wondering if I’m not behaving rationally. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I just need to accept Alan’s death as a freak accident and try to begin the healing process. Maybe I need to take a step back and focus on what I have left.
When I arrive back at the house, Zack and the girls are in the basement watching a movie, and Mom is upstairs napping. I ask Carla if she’ll come for a drive with me because I need to get a lot of stuff off my chest. My sister takes one look at me, sees that I’ve been crying, and grabs her coat.
“Why didn’t you tell me about Paula before?” she asks a few minutes later as we leave town, heading toward the highway because, for some reason I can’t explain, I need to see the place where Alan and I collided with each other. I’m desperate for clarity, and I don’t know where else to look for it.
Carla is behind the wheel. Not me.
“I’m not sure,” I reply. “All I know is that Paula has been floating around since the moment Alan landed in the ER, and I have a weird feeling about it because it doesn’t make sense to me—that a store manager would care so much about the death of a customer she claims she barely knew. And why won’t she talk to me?” I pause. “I keep thinking about all the things Lester said . . . about encouraging Zack to sow his wild oats and get around. Is that how he raised Alan? Did he make it seem like he needed to prove his manhood that way?” I meet Carla’s gaze directly. “Or maybe I’m looking for answers where there are none. Maybe I’m paranoid and irrational. Or not. What if there was something going on between Alan and Paula?”
“Oh, Sis.” Carla’s tone is sympathetic. “Don’t let Lester do that to you. He’s a mean-spirited jerk. You’ve always known that.”
“I do, but . . .” I turn to her. “Do you think there could be any truth to this? Could there have been a side to Alan I didn’t know? A side that Lester created?”
Carla lets out a laugh of disbelief. “You were happily married for twenty years. If Alan was having an affair, there’s no way you wouldn’t have suspected it. But you didn’t, because it’s not true. I think you’re just trying to deflect the pain you’re feeling.”
I continue to stare out the window, feeling suddenly unsure of everything.
“Maybe I did suspect something was off,” I say with a small shrug of defeat.
Carla’s gaze shoots to my face. She flicks the blinker and pulls onto the shoulder of the road, shuts off the engine, and faces me.
“What are you talking about?”
I take a deep breath. “I never told anyone this, but sometimes lately I worried that . . . that he wasn’t attracted to me anymore.”
“What made you think that?”
I exhale heavily. “What can I say? We were married for two decades. The honeymoon phase was long over.”
“But you were making love, right?” Carla asks.
I glance out the window and force myse
lf to answer the question. “Over the past few years, not very often. We used to do it more, but we both got so busy with our call schedules, working late in the OR. By the time we finally fell into bed, we were exhausted. At least I was. I only felt guilty about it once in a while, whenever I realized how much time had gone by since the last time we’d been physical. Then I’d get my act together, plan a romantic date night, or we’d go for an overnight getaway somewhere.”
I feel suddenly defensive. “But he never complained. He told me he loved me all the time.”
She studies me carefully, and I find myself rambling. “It wasn’t always like that. The first few years were very passionate. I guess things started to change after Zack was born. But that’s normal, right? Having a baby is like throwing a hand grenade into the romance department.”
“I won’t argue there,” Carla replies. “It’s not easy to feel sexy when you’re up to your elbows in dirty diapers and you’re sleep-deprived all the time. All you want to do is collapse. I think every mother knows that feeling.”
And yet I can’t help but feel that with Alan and me it was far more complicated than that—that there were other issues at play. I remember waking up in the recovery room after I’d hemorrhaged on the delivery table while giving birth to Zack. I’d never seen Alan weep like that. Not ever. Not before or since, and nothing was quite the same after that.
“Sometimes, when Zack was little,” I tell Carla, “I would catch Alan staring off into space, and I’d ask him if everything was okay, and he’d snap out of it and give me a kiss, look me straight in the eye, and tell me that everything was perfect. We both knew how close I’d come to dying when Zack was born, and sometimes I felt like a part of him had pulled away from me a little.”
“Did you ever talk to him about it?”
“We did, that first year after Zack was born. He often told me how grateful he was that we both survived. He’d get emotional about it. But then we moved on because it was painful to talk about.” I pause, reflecting on some of the conversations we’d had. “A few times we discussed adopting a second child because we’d always intended to have two or three, and I wanted a sibling for Zack, but Alan was just so thankful for what we had. He didn’t want to upset the perfect balance. It was almost as if he felt like it would be greedy to ask for more. He would say, ‘Do you know how lucky we are? Let’s not tempt fate.’”
I look down at my lap. “I wish it could have been simpler. I wish I’d been able to get pregnant again and that it could have gone smoothly the second time around.”
Carla reaches for my hand. “At least you had Zack, and he’s an amazing kid. And we were all lucky you survived that day. As for Alan, I know he loved you and Zack. He was a good man. I think you’re just upset and confused because of what happened. Your whole world has just been turned upside down. You’re traumatized.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
We sit for another few minutes. Then Carla pulls onto the road, and we continue toward the accident site.
We reach the main highway and drive for about a mile before I ask Carla to slow down. I peer out the window and search for the spot at the edge of the forest where my SUV landed after rolling down the embankment.
Nothing looks the same in the daylight, but soon I catch a glimpse of skid marks on the pavement and bits of metal and glass on the shoulder. A rush of panic shoots through me as I relive the crash—the terrifying instant when Alan’s car struck mine. I feel the total loss of control as I fishtail on the pavement and can’t right the steering wheel. I tumble down the embankment. Glass smashes. Steel collapses. The noise is deafening, and I can’t stop the world from spinning . . .
I have to wrench myself out of the horrific memory, and I wonder how long it will be before I won’t feel nervous in a car on the highway.
“This is it,” I say, fighting to take a few deep breaths, to slow my pounding heart. “Can we stop?”
Carla checks the rearview mirror and carefully pulls over. She shuts off the engine.
We both get out. I leave the car door open as I look down the embankment to the rocky bottom, where I had been trapped in my SUV.
“Lord Almighty,” Carla says as she puts her arm around my shoulder and pulls me close. “You’re lucky to be alive.”
“Yes. Me and Winston both.”
We continue to stare.
“Should we go down there?” I ask.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I feel like I need to search around. Maybe some of my stuff is down there. I never did find my sunglasses.”
But do I really care about my sunglasses? What I truly want is clarity. Would I find it by wandering around in the ravine? Probably not.
“It looks dangerous,” Carla says.
Just then, a cell phone chimes from inside the car. I recognize the sound. It’s Alan’s phone.
My pulse quickens, because every time I hear it, I think it’s him and I feel a nonsensical thrill that he’s back. But the feeling only lasts for a fraction of a second, and then disappointment comes crashing down as I remember that he’s dead and he’ll never send texts to me again.
Nevertheless, I move quickly to check the phone. I dig it out of my purse and swipe the screen.
“It’s Paula.” My blood races as I read her message. “She’s changed her mind. She wants to talk to me.”
Carla’s forehead crinkles. “Really? When?”
“Right now. She wants to meet for a drink.”
My heart begins to pound faster and harder.
“What are you going to do?” Carla asks.
“Say yes, of course.”
Immediately, I text a reply.
I hit “Send” without hesitation and hope that the memory of my happy marriage isn’t about to be shattered as easily as everything else was when Alan and I crashed into each other.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It’s the middle of the afternoon.
Paula asked me to meet her in a bar in the neighboring town of Bridgewater, about a twenty-minute drive from my mother’s house in Lunenburg. This leaves me a brief window of time to go home and change my clothes and explain to Zack that I’m heading out to meet an old friend who also knew Alan.
A half hour later, I arrive at a sketchy-looking tavern on the outskirts of town. At first, I’m not sure I’m in the right place because it’s situated at the back of a large parking lot in an industrial area. The sign reads PAT’S PLACE, and the building is painted black, including the windows. There are only a few cars parked around back—a couple of rusty old clunkers and a pickup truck. I feel a bit like Alice about to fall down the rabbit hole.
After a moment’s deliberation, I decide to take my chances. I get out of the car, approach the front door, and walk in.
Based on my first impression of the exterior, the inside is exactly as I imagined it would be. It’s dingy and dimly lit, with low ceilings, fake wood paneling, and a pool table. There’s a noticeable stench of stale beer in the air.
My breathing accelerates, and I break out in a sweat, because I’m not the sort of person who frequents dive bars like this, especially not alone. At least there’s no rowdy biker gang in here this afternoon.
There are only a few patrons at the bar—weathered-looking old men, sitting forward with their hands cupped around mugs of beer. They sit apart from each other, watching an old box TV with a snowy picture. It sits on a shelf behind the bartender, who wears a tight, dirty gray T-shirt that barely covers his bulging belly.
Swallowing uneasily—and still not entirely sure I’m in the right place—I move beyond the entrance. My feet stick to the floor. Every step sounds like Velcro.
In that moment, I decide I’ll do whatever it takes not to have to use the washroom while I’m here.
I don’t see Paula anywhere, but there are a few tables around a back corner, so I venture deeper into the shadows. At last, I find her alone at a table near the washrooms, surrounded by empty wineglasses. Her head has fallen f
orward onto her arms on the table. She appears to be asleep. Or passed out.
I clear my throat.
Slowly, she lifts her head and meets my gaze with bloodshot eyes and smeared mascara. “Abbie. What are you doing here?”
“You texted me and told me to come.”
Seconds pass while she blinks up at me, struggling to comprehend my words. “Did I?”
“Yes.”
She wets her lips and leans back in the chair. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Well, you did, and here I am.”
Sitting down on a rickety chair across from her, I clutch my purse on my lap. The bartender walks by and pushes through the door to the men’s washroom. A terrible odor wafts out as the door swings shut, and I press the back of my hand to my nose to keep from gagging.
“Do you often come here?” I ask, because I still can’t believe she chose this place for us to meet.
Paula can barely hold her head up. It’s obvious that she’s drunk. “I know . . . it’s pathetic, but it’s the only place where I’m sure I won’t bump into anyone I know.”
Paula reaches for her wineglass, tips it back, and swallows the entire contents in a single gulp.
I shake my head at her. “You’re not planning on driving anywhere, I hope.”
“Definitely not.” She sets the glass down, slides it away, and burps like a trucker, then glances toward the bar. “Where did he go? I need another one.”
The doctor in me can’t help but try and talk some sense into her. “If you keep this up, you’re going to be sick, or worse. I’m sure you know that people die of alcohol poisoning. You should drink some water.”
Her glassy-eyed gaze meets mine, and she merely shrugs.
I notice her clammy skin and greasy honey-colored hair. I doubt she’s showered since the night I saw her at the funeral home. Nevertheless, despite her poor personal hygiene, she’s still a naturally beautiful woman with a dewy complexion and big blue eyes—the type who doesn’t need makeup. Personally, I have to work at my appearance, and this contrast makes my insides squeeze like a fist.
“Where’s your car?” I ask, remembering the clunkers I saw in the parking lot.
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