by Avery Aster
“Do you have a specific person in mind? Maybe an age range or sex?”
I shake my head and hand her the envelope.
She places it next to her on the bench. “It’ll take me a few days to get to the lab, but once I’m there, I should have the results for you pretty quickly. That is, of course, assuming everyone is in the database.”
“What’ll happen if they’re not?”
She takes a sip of her martini. I do the same.
“Our computers will store the fingerprints as an unknown. They’ll be assigned a file number. If and when that person is ever printed, they’ll then send me an alert that we have a match.”
“Wow.” Impressed with their system, I smile at her.
“It’s fairly new. We’re the only university in the country to have it. We call it FingerFinder. Usually, you have to run the fingerprints over and over again, even into separate databases, until you get a match. The only thing I have to do is keep it active and the system will check them every so often. The technology was designed by one of our PhD students.” Smugness glistens in her eyes.
“That’s really impressive, Keely. You must be so proud.”
“I am. Aside from the FBI, Havemeyer’s has the only database in the country that syncs up everyone’s fingerprints from civil to criminal. It’s a new biometric program that we’re piloting this year.”
“So you’re able to search noncriminal prints as well?”
“We have military, those who commit crimes, or anyone seeking a specific type of job that requires fingerprinting.”
Fascinated, I sit back in my chair and ask, “What types of jobs require fingerprints?’
“Well, like your profession, social workers.” She pauses, glancing up at the ceiling. “Dentists, child day care including teachers, and real estate agents.”
“Could you get in trouble if you’re caught doing this for me?” I lean forward and hold my breath as she nods.
“I’m doing this for you because you’ve given me my laugh back, Piper.” Her eyes, similar to Christie Brinkley’s, blue and beautiful, glass up.
I reach across the table for her hand. “Thank you. But if this is going to put you in the hot seat, please forget I ever asked.” I motion for her to hand the envelope back.
“Don’t be silly. Yes, we’re supposed to be above brow at work, but what’s the fun in working there and teaching forensics if you can’t help your friends out when they need it.” She crosses her legs.
We sit in silence for a minute as I take it all in, getting comfortable with the idea of having a former patient do something for me that pertains to my personal life.
“Do you mind if we get some of their yummy popcorn?” I ask without thinking as the waiter passes us by with a tray full of treats.
“Go for it.” Keely doesn’t seem fazed by my food question. Much like dairy products, things with salt and nuts, especially popcorn, can be a trigger food for some binge eaters.
I motion for the waiter, who brings us a fancy silver bucket filled with popcorn. Inhaling the truffle oil aroma, I ask one more time, “You sure you don’t mind?”
“I’m fine. I have that cruise coming up this summer. I’m not touching any snack foods. I’m really excited. It’ll be nice to get a tan on the coast of France and wear a bathing suit.” She arches her back, rounds her shoulders, and tosses her curly sandy-blonde hair over her shoulder playfully. “I’m ready for some fun in the sun.”
“You’ve worked hard.” I shove a few kernels in my mouth. “You deserve it.” I dig into the bucket and pull out a fistful. Shameless, I shove pretty much all of it in my mouth. I’m starving. I haven’t had dinner. “What cruise ship are you going on?”
“White Star.” Her taupe-painted eyebrows arch higher than usual.
“Did you rob a bank?” I laugh, pat myself on the chest so as not to choke, cough, and then swallow. “That is the fanciest cruise ship sailing the Mediterranean, is it not?” I know this because when Bo and I were planning our honeymoon, I begged and pleaded for us to go on White Star.
Bo had rolled his eyes and argued, “Maybe one day, after we’re millionaires.” He’d refused to put it on a credit card. We could’ve charged it and paid it off slowly over time. I’d gotten a new card in the mail with a low-enough interest rate to make it worthwhile, but my hubby wasn’t having it.
Keely’s face flushes with a hue of bright pink. “Let’s just say I have some money coming to me from my divorce settlement.”
When news of her divorce broke, the media couldn’t get enough of her estranged husband, Anthony Brock’s, affair. Not only was he leaving Keely for an eighteen-year-old college freshman, but he was running for reelection as our congressman. He’d been caught in a sexting scandal that landed on the cover of the Post. A picture with his erection had read ‘I love you, Monica. I’m leaving Keely for you soon.’ Pregnant at the time, Keely later miscarried from the stress of it all.
I couldn’t blame her for turning to food; I would’ve eaten myself to death too. Anthony lost his wife and unborn child. Monica turned down the proposal for marriage after he didn’t win reelection. The rumor on the street is that Keely was awarded upwards of twenty million dollars in the divorce, but she’s never spoken about her winnings until now. Something about Keely tells me beneath all her designer labels, she isn’t too into money. Like most women I know our age, she wants love, a family, and a chance for happiness.
As I reach for the glass of water near me, Keely pulls out a latex glove from her purse and slips it on.
“Do you always walk around with those?” My mouth falls open.
“I always come prepared.” She grabs the envelope, removes the paper, and stares at it. Lips moving, her blue gem-like eyes heavily smoked in gray shadow and mascara, narrow.
“It’s not what you think.” I crumble into my chair, fighting the urge to run for the door.
“Did you try to kill yourself?”
Suddenly the clanking of glasses from the table on the right, the high-pitched laugh of the lady behind me, the noises of everyone in the lounge become all too unbearable. I wish I didn’t come. I should’ve never asked Keely to do this favor for me. What the hell was I thinking?
“No. Not this time.” My breath hitches as I give her a blank stare.
“Piper. Have you ever tried to kill yourself?” she asks, her facial features taking on a serious look.
“Yes. Once. A long time ago,” I answer honestly. My eyes wet and my chin trembles. I press my fingers to my lips as if to prevent myself from crying. I thought I was over my past.
I was wrong.
Keely’s eyes goes wide with surprise as every wrinkle on her forehead flattens. “You don’t owe me an explanation. I’m sorry for asking. It’s none of my business.”
“It’s fine. If we’re gonna be friends, you might as well know a little bit more about me.” I clear my throat, cup my hands on my lap, and share, “When I was thirteen, child services removed me from my mother’s house in Westchester with the intent of putting me into foster care. Only thing is no one wants a teenage girl. I was too old. So eventually I wound up in a group home. Most of the girls there were prostitutes, hustlers, and high school dropouts. I didn’t belong there. But I knew my mother, who had an addiction to Oxycodone, needed help and couldn’t take care of me either. I didn’t see any way out other than trying to kill myself.”
“For what it’s worth… I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“What happened after?”
“I was placed in a facility for children with psychiatric challenges—”
“A mental institution?” Her chin dips.
“Sort of. I guess you could say that’s where my passion for social work comes from. I was assigned to this amazing psychotherapist who really was a mentor for me. I earned my GED. My mother eventually got sober, and I went back to live with her for a while before coming into the city for college.”
“Are you and your mother cl
ose?” Keely goes deeper and deeper with me on my life. I don’t mind; I guess this is what friends do, right? They bond by sharing stories. For Keely it’s her divorce. For me it’s my childhood.
“We are now. It’s hard to stay mad at someone when they’re ill. Like your food addiction, my mother turned to painkillers. It happens. What matters most is how we react to it. I choose to accept my mother for who and what she is. I don’t place any expectations on her. She comes in and out of my life as she pleases. In some dysfunctional way, we’ve made our relationship work.”
“I’m stunned. You seem so put together. If anything I thought you would’ve had folks in Connecticut, graduated from Miss Porter’s, and had a silver spoon in your mouth,” Keely jokes.
“Hardly. When I got to NYU, I dove headfirst into my classes and focused on making something of myself.”
“I was inspired by you before. I mean, hello, look at what a great therapist you are. But now I’m simply in awe.”
“Thanks.” Receiving compliments on my accomplishments once someone knows my past has always made me a bit uneasy. But I’ve gotten better at it.
“I’ll tell you what. I’ll go to the lab tomorrow, see what I can find.”
We get up to leave and Keely hands me a gift bag.
“What’s this?”
“A token of my appreciation for everything you’ve done for me.”
“You didn’t have to. I normally don’t accept gifts from patients, but now that we’re friends, I guess this is different.”
“Don’t get too excited. It’s not Cartier or anything, just some of my favorite nail spa products from the salon I go to.” She holds out her hands for me and I admire her manicure.
As we call it a night and I start my walk home, I can’t help but think of what an idiot I was for believing Keely wouldn’t take that letter well.
***
A few days go by. Boden returns from his trip to Palm Beach. The first night he sleeps on the sofa. The second night, after I cook his favorite meal and wear my best perfume, he comes to bed with me.
We haven’t made love in over a week. This is, by far, the longest we’ve ever gone without having sex.
Against all of my friends’ advice, I’d slept with Boden the night we met. I couldn’t help myself; he was and still is the most delicious man I’ve ever met.
In bed, I shimmy closer, looking at him. With his back to me, his hulky shoulders are horizontal. I run my hand over the curve of his spine and smile. “I missed you.”
He rolls over, facing me. “Missed you too.”
“I don’t like it when we fight.”
“Then let’s not argue anymore. Life is supposed to be easy. Marriage shouldn’t be this hard.” There’s an unfamiliar somberness in his tone, once I’ve never heard before.
“I agree.” I lean up and kiss him on the lips. Wet. Warm. He slides his tongue into my mouth and I french him. First he’s resistant, I can tell, but as he exhales through his nose, his erection presses against me.
“I love you.”
“Fuck me. Please. I need you inside of me.”
He pulls my underwear down and I wrap my legs around him. I’m on my back, lying there, looking up at my husband whose face squishes together in stress as he slides himself inside me. Deep. Firm. He holds himself there, just for a second. He always does this, gets more comfortable before the thrusting starts.
A smile graces his lips and he picks up rhythm, fucking me deeper and harder.
“Bo, yes. Right there.” I call out to him to keep going. Making love with my husband always brings us back together as one. We can have the biggest argument of our lives but if we make love, all is forgotten.
He leans down to me, suckling on my breasts. Pushing the bad thoughts out of my mind from last week, I escape into Bo, allowing myself to go there with him.
Closing my eyes, bright colors burst behind my eyelids as I climax.
Bo’s body jerks, lying on top of me as he comes, draining himself inside me. Every time he does this, I pray that one day a miracle will happen and I’ll get pregnant. Medically speaking, it’s a far cry from reality, but I can always hope.
Over the years I’d heard of people curing their bodies from cancer and other life-threatening diseases with the power of their minds. Why couldn’t I at least try to do the same to get pregnant? I envisioned the cysts in my ovaries shrinking and then gone. The sperm traveling happily to my healthy eggs as Bo falls onto his back and I cuddle next to him.
I must’ve fallen asleep because the next thing I know my alarm is going off. Bo is gone; must’ve left for work already. Orlane is in the doorway wagging his tail, waiting for me to take him out for his morning walk.
Sitting up in bed, I stretch out, thinking about what I’m going to wear today. A suit. No, a dress. Yes, a spring dress, like the one Keely wore yesterday. I think back on our talk last night and have no regrets. She isn’t a patient anymore. It’s okay.
My iPhone rings next to the bed. I glare at the screen and hit Accept. “I was just thinking about you.”
“Good thoughts, I hope,” Keely says.
“Very.”
“Listen, I have an update for you on that piece of paper.”
Biting my lower lip, my palms go sweaty as I bring my free hand up to my chest.
“Okay.” I put my feet on the floor and stand.
“You were right.”
“About what?” I pace my bedroom like a nervous freak.
“Your fingerprints are on there. So are Boden’s. I found a third set, one that isn’t in our system. At least one that we haven’t picked up yet. We’ve had a few snafus with FingerFinder.”
“What do you mean?” I go to the window and open it, looking out at the back terrace.
“Well, we’re learning that it doesn’t check all of the databases at once. It can take its time. Like a few weeks.”
“I see.” Taking in the fresh air, I close my eyes and muffle a sigh.
“I’m sorry, Piper. The good news is that there is a third print on the paper. The bad news is that I don’t know whose. I’ve assigned a tracking number and the minute we get a match, it’ll ping my phone with an alert.”
“Thank you, Keely. I really appreciate it.”
“My pleasure. I have a question for you. One that we didn’t cover over drinks.”
“Okay….”
“What are you trying to prove here? That Boden wrote the note?”
“I’m not sure. I know in my heart that I didn’t write it. Bo swears I did. I would hate to think he’d set me up for something like this. I don’t think that’s in him.”
“Well, honey, I never thought Anthony would leave me for a teenager, but he did.” She chuckles. “Men, especially when it involves another woman, will do things that you never thought were possible. Is he having an affair?”
“I don’t think so. I mean, I don’t know where he’d find the time.” I lean against the window, pressing my face to the glass.
“You said he travels a lot for work, to Palm Beach. Does he have a lover in Florida?”
“No.” Trying to calm myself from these questions, I focus on my breathing, counting back from ten.
“Are you sure?”
Four, three, two, one. Shaking my head, I reply, “I guess I don’t really know for certain. Does a wife ever really know? Did you know?”
“Didn’t have a clue. I was pregnant, in love, and thought the world of Anthony.”
“I believe you, Keely.” I just don’t know if I’m that gullible.
“Why don’t you drop off a writing sample at my office today. Write exactly what was on that piece of paper. I’ll show it to a handwriting expert and see if we have a match.”
“You’d do that for me?”
“Of course. Just drop it off in the main building. There’s an attendant at the mailroom. She’ll put it in my box.”
Looking down at my hands, I say, “Ohhh and thanks again for that lovely spa set of polish. I
really am enjoying the purple color. It’s got a nice shimmer to it.”
“That varnish is their bestseller. They call it Snoop.” She laughs.
“How appropriate.” I say my goodbyes and hang up, feeling a sense of defeat that there isn’t a match for the third fingerprint and yet hopeful that the handwriting will prove I didn’t do it.
On my way out with Orlane, I notice a small sparrow flying around in the lobby. Carmine is cursing at the bird to go outside.
Tightening the leash, my dog is ready to pounce.
“New furniture in 10C. They left the lobby doors open and that damn bird flew in. Look.” He points to the security camera near the elevator. It’s hanging by a few loose cable wires.
“What happened?”
“Their dining room table wouldn’t fit in the elevator. They hit the security camera when they were trying to force it. Damn fools.” Carmine mutters a few words in his native Italian. I don’t understand, but I can assume.
“Now we’ve had to stop recording until we get the camera fixed.”
Recording! I freeze with excitement that those cameras could help me.
“Do you have the tape for the night I got sick?”
“Sì.”
“May I please look at it?”
He pauses for a minute, slides his hands in his side pockets and stands tall on the front of his feet, then rolls back to his heels. “Take Orlane for his walk before he goes on my floors. I’ll look in the back. Usually we file the tapes by week. I’ll see what I can find.”
“Oh thank you, Carmine. Thank you.” I hug him and give him a kiss on the cheek. “You don’t know how happy you’ve made me.”
His face flushes a hue of red I’ve never seen before.
“Be right back.” Loosening my grip on the leash, I give Orlane some slack as he lunges forward. His long furry legs clumsily catch up with his enthusiasm and we walk down to York Avenue, passing Cornell medical students in their white lab coats.
Orlane does his business right in front of Sotheby’s auction house. We stop once we hit the sidewalk for the FDR. Glancing out at Roosevelt Island, I close my eyes for a minute and pray that Carmine will find the tape from last week, and on that tape will be the person who wrote that note.