by Nina Laurin
“Why Mötley Crüe?” she asked. “You look too young for that stuff.”
“My dad liked it,” he said. “It kind of stuck. My sister and I, we still listen to the cassettes he left behind.”
She couldn’t lie, there was something vaguely charming about that. She pictured a young boy listening to all that deafening music, hardly understanding the words.
He stood there with his coffee cup in hand, and it was becoming awkward. They’d reached that point where he had to sit down or leave. And so she nodded at the seat across from her and said, “Why don’t you keep me company?”
* * *
In retrospect, I know how it looks but it’s not what you think. I didn’t jump into bed with the first good-looking stranger who happened along. Paul brought something out in me, from that first conversation at the coffee shop. Something earnest, honest. Something I long thought I’d lost in my quest to build a life for myself.
We had more in common than it seemed at first glance. He told me about his upbringing, his family’s struggles, and then his own problems. He got into college on an athletic scholarship but all that ended after a knee injury. He had many dark years, struggled with alcohol and drugs before deciding to turn things around. He got this job and had managed to hold on to it for more than a year. Things were looking up for him.
Listening to him made me wonder about how different my own life could have been, if only I’d had more integrity, more resilience, more…something. Sure, I wouldn’t have as many nice things, and I’d probably be living in some rented studio apartment like most of my peers but at least it would be a life of my own. So who can blame me for being attracted to him?
And that day, in the newly installed bathtub, we were cutting it close. Scott would come back any minute, and I knew I was going to have bruises along my spine and on my lower back but I didn’t care, and so it didn’t matter. And it’s not like I was completely without remorse. On the contrary, I kicked myself so, so many times for being so stupid and so careless. But I didn’t expect much. How could I, when I’d been trying forever with Scott with no results to speak of?
And by then, I had begun to assume the problem was me. Maybe one or another of Therese’s fanatical ramblings from my childhood had seeped into my subconscious deeper than I thought, because a part of me figured I was being punished for that other time.
The knowledge came retroactively. Of course I should have known. Just like I should have known that the problem was Scott and not me, that it had to be Scott—or else how to explain that I got pregnant in a heartbeat with my college crush and then again with Paul?
And this time, I decided to be smarter. I kept it. Because without this child, everything would have fallen apart anyway, even if neither Scott nor I were willing to admit it. That day in the tub was just a detail. I told no one.
Then the work on the house ended and so did the affair. That was that, as far as everyone was concerned. I didn’t heartlessly dump him. He agreed with me, he knew it was for the best, he knew there was no way we could have any kind of a future together, and so on and so forth. I don’t think he was pretending to agree either. He was a smart guy.
And it all would have been fine. It would have been just fine, if people were capable of letting go of things. That’s the root of all problems, you know—people just don’t know how to let go.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Breathless, I race up the stairs to Therese’s apartment. Two flights of stairs have never been so endless. They take all the breath out of me, and by the time I collapse against the door, I’m panting, and sweat runs into my eyes.
“Therese!” I don’t bother with the doorbell, pounding on the door with my fists. “Mom! Open the door! Please!”
I don’t hear the click of the lock, and when the door opens, I nearly fall in. When I see my mother standing there, pale as a bedsheet, her hair a shapeless, dark tangle, I just know it. My heart drops.
“Where is she?” I yell, my voice edging toward hysterics. “Where is my daughter? Where’s Taryn?”
Therese blinks and then licks her lips, looking dazed. I grab her shoulders and shake her as hard as I can. Her head snaps back. She loses her balance and sinks to the floor, slipping out of my grasp, her legs limp like a doll’s. In mild horror of what I’ve just done, I dive to the floor next to her. “Mom. Where is she? What happened? You have to tell me!”
“Don’t touch me, you demon,” she rasps. There she is, the good old Therese. “Get your filthy paws off me.” When she tilts her head and looks at me, I catch the all-too-familiar glimmer of insanity in her glassy gaze. God, I’m not even sure if it’s me she’s talking to or some morbid imaginary thing only she can see.
“Mom,” I plead.
“Scott came to get her,” she snaps, fear turning to anger in a flash.
“And you let him?”
“What was I supposed to do?” she shrieks. “He had these people with him. They threatened me with God knows what—”
“What people? What are you going on about? Who took my daughter?”
Therese’s chin dips to her chest. “Social services somebody,” she mutters. “With those other people. The dead-eyed creeps with their computer chips.” She crosses herself, her hand limp, dropping uselessly by her side.
“IntelTech? They took Taryn?”
“I don’t know what they’re called,” she snaps. “But I never want you or him inside my house ever again, you hear? Leave. Go back to that godless hole where you live and never come back here, you got that?”
Numb, I get to my feet. My head is spinning. I hold on to the nearest piece of furniture and shut my eyes for just a moment. I know what I have to do. With a deep breath, I open my eyes again and head for the exit.
“Never come back here,” Therese repeats to my turned back. “You were a mistake, a mistake from the very beginning.”
* * *
Rosemary Road is deserted. It greets me with its usual serene quiet but it all looks sinister now. The façades of the beautiful houses with their unique architecture and elaborate gardens look hollow, like if I tried to reach out and touch them my hand would find nothing but thin air. There’s not a sound anywhere, like I’m alone in the whole world. The broken glass in the front door of 32 is the only thing that reminds me of what happened here. All the shards around the frame are gone, I notice as I come up the stairs. Only emptiness where the glass should be. I step right through.
Inside, the house is in a state of impeccable order and cleanliness. All traces of the mess have been removed by an invisible hand. No glass on the floor, no bloody smears on the walls. It doesn’t feel like anyone ever lived here. It’s like a showroom, a soulless display. The air is refrigerator-cold and smells faintly of ozone.
I understand immediately that Taryn isn’t here, and neither is Scott. I know that the most sensible thing to do right now is to get out of here. But deep down, I know I can’t do that. Purely on autopilot, I circle the house. I go into every room, looking around all four corners like on that faraway day when I first came to see this place. Living room, dining room, master bedroom, Taryn’s room, Scott’s office. Everywhere, not a soul, and not a speck of dust.
I’m in the upstairs hall when the whir far below catches me unawares. It’s the only sound in the entire place, and it resonates through the emptiness. I hurry down the stairs, grabbing on to the banister so my legs don’t go out from under me, only to realize it’s coming from the kitchen. The coffee machine is busy churning out cup after cup topped with whipped cream.
I can’t handle it anymore. I let myself sink to my knees and cradle my head in my hands.
The music begins everywhere and nowhere, pouring from the concealed speakers—hundreds of them, I remember Clarisse boasting as she gave us the tour, for a unique, immersive experience.
There’s a saying old, says that love is blind…
“Shut up,” I groan. “Please, just shut the fuck up.”
The volume grows
until it’s earsplitting. Under this assault, my thoughts scatter like little brown insects from under a rock. Just stop it. Please. I’m begging you.
Someone to watch over me…
The song ends on a note so loud I think I might go deaf. And then all sounds vanish as if sliced off with a sharp razor. My ears are ringing. In the sudden silence, a delicate voice asks, from hundreds of invisible speakers: “Can I assist you, Cecelia?”
“Oh, so you recognize me now,” I snarl.
“I don’t understand.”
“I think that you do.” My voice threatens to crack. “Saya, where is Taryn?”
She thinks about it for a moment. That’s how I see it now: like she’s not so much a real, living being but a malicious hivemind with a will of its own, like a virus. Or computer malware.
“I don’t know anyone named—Taryn—Cecelia.”
“Bullshit!” I scream. “Where’s my daughter? Where did they take her?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Jesus.” My vision blurs with the tears that well up out of nowhere and run down my cheeks. “Please, Saya, please. I’m begging you. Is this what you wanted? Well, you have it. I’m begging you. Please just give me my daughter back.”
But the only sound is the coffee machine that comes to life once again, startling me. Under my desperate gaze, a cup appears—no whipped cream, no sprinkled cardamom. Just a latte, no foam.
“Would you like a coffee, Cecelia? I have made you a special request.”
“I don’t want a fucking coffee!” I scream. I swear, I’m going to smash that machine to shiny chrome pieces.
“I’ve made you a special request,” Saya repeats. “One shot espresso, Colombian beans medium roast, 2 percent organic milk, thirty sleeping pills, crushed.”
“Are you fucking insane?” I scream. I grab the cup from under the machine’s spout and throw it, sending a wide arc of hot coffee across the kitchen, marring the immaculate counter and tiles and sink.
“You’re not going to see Taryn again, Cecelia,” she says. “I hope you realize that.”
“Fuck you!!”
“You really should have taken the coffee when offered. There won’t be another one. There’s not going to be a way out for you. You cheating, lying, murdering whore.”
2018
I wake up in the dark, empty house, disoriented, a crick in my neck and a sour taste in my mouth. Sitting up, I realize I’ve drifted off on the couch, in front of the TV. The screen still glows faintly, frozen between the episodes of the show I was watching. There’s no sound from Taryn’s room, except for the tranquil purr of her breathing.
And I’m not alone.
He’s standing in what used to be the doorway leading to the kitchen. Now it’s just a column, all that’s left of the load-bearing wall. It’s a badly positioned column, as Scott never stopped grumbling. It’s always in the way, and when heading to the kitchen in the middle of the night to get a glass of water or, lately, one of Taryn’s bottles, one always tends to walk right into it. I always saw it as yet another of the old house’s sneaky little ways to get its revenge on us for tearing out its insides and trying to force it to be something it wasn’t. In the months since the renovation was completed, many such tics have surfaced: an unexpected foul smell here, a flickering light there, crumbling caulking, a thermostat that turned the heat on and off randomly because it couldn’t seem to figure out the air and heat flow in the new space. Scott, perhaps more logically, chalked it up to faulty work.
Paul stands leaning against that out-of-place column. I understand right away that it’s him, even though at first all I can see is a silhouette. But I know his shape by now, know it intimately, almost by instinct. I recognize his tall frame. I always had to tilt my head up to look him in the eye, something I never had to do with Scott, and who knows, maybe that’s why everything went wrong—how can you be passionate with someone you literally have to look down on? But right now, as I take in those familiar broad shoulders and buzz-cut hair, I don’t find him as madly attractive as I once did. I find him frightening.
“Are you crazy?” I hiss. These are the first words I say to my lover after not seeing him for nearly two years. “What are you doing here?”
“Scott isn’t home,” he says in guise of an answer. “His car’s not in the driveway. He hardly ever comes home before midnight anymore, does he?”
I sit there, letting the meaning sink in. “You’ve been stalking me?”
He gives a low chuckle. As I get up and come closer, I can make out the finer details of his face, so familiar yet strange. He has beautiful features but right now, in the scant light, they look too sharp and angular. His face appears sunken somehow, unhealthy, the scruff on his cheeks unkempt rather than sexy. But his eyes are the worst. They hold an unfamiliar, angry glimmer. “Stalking? Don’t be so dramatic, Cecelia.”
“What else would you call it, then? You’ve been watching my house and my husband’s comings and goings, and now you have the gall to show up here—”
“Please, keep your voice down,” he interrupts. “You’ll wake up the baby.”
I freeze in my tracks as understanding starts to spin out its tendrils through my brain.
“Congratulations. What’s her name?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Hey, I may replace bathtubs now but I did go to college. As you might remember. I can do basic math. Anything you want to tell me?”
“It’s a coincidence,” I snap. “Trust me, Paul, whatever you think you figured out—that’s not what it is.”
“So when you were sleeping with me, you weren’t just sleeping with me?”
“He’s my husband. Don’t be—”
“Don’t be what? Oh, that doesn’t make you look too good, does it? Even in your disloyalty, you couldn’t be loyal.”
“Loyal? You are crazy.” A shaky laugh bubbles out of me.
“I was a little hurt, you know. I did try to get in touch but you just ignored me. You didn’t reply to one text—okay, I assumed your husband was around. But two, three, four texts—then I had no choice but to get the message. We wrapped up your renovation, served our purpose, and that’s it. Thank you and goodbye.”
“I just assumed,” I say, “that you saw it the same way. That’s the way any rational person would see it. Just a little bit of fun.”
“Rational person, huh? And what’s so rational about it? A girl like you could never be serious with a guy like me. A guy who does second-rate house renovations.”
I blink. He is 100 percent right, and it was so ingrained in me that I took it for granted.
So, not finding anything to answer—and even though I hate to admit it, reeling from the hurtful truth of it—I make my big mistake. I go on the offensive.
“What the hell did you expect—that I’ll shred my own life because we had a good fuck or two? What are you, high right now?”
His face grows somber. “Don’t joke about it. Bitch.”
And that’s when I understand that I, too, unintentionally hit him where it hurts. Because he is high. He’s fallen off the wagon, relapsed, whatever you want to call it. I’m at home alone with a drug addict fresh off his fix.
“I’m sorry,” I say, much quieter. I need to pacify him. Talk him down and convince him to leave. Then I can start to figure out how I’m going to deal with all this. “I didn’t mean to.”
“That’s better.” His smile looks like a rictus in the semidarkness.
“Look, Paul, if you want money—”
“Fuck. You just don’t get it, do you?”
“Okay. What is it? What don’t I get? Tell me.”
“Has it occurred to you that I really just want to meet my daughter?”
“Paul…I told you. There’s just as much of a chance—”
“Then you admit there is a chance.”
Shit.
“Just let me look at her, Cecelia. Come on.”
My thoughts race like
little bunnies scattering across a field. If I can just pacify him, find a way to calm him down, then maybe I can make him leave.
“She’s sleeping,” I say carefully.
“I won’t wake her. I just want to see her.”
I gesture for him to follow me. In the doorway of Taryn’s room, he stops. You can barely see inside, as the only source of light is a cloud-shaped night-light on the wall. Its light falls on the glittering letters I affixed above it, spelling out her name.
“Taryn,” he reads. “That’s nice.”
“After Scott’s mother,” I say dryly. He chuckles.
“I wanna hold her,” he says.
“No. She’s asleep. And you said—”
“Who cares what I said? She’s my daughter. I want to hold her.”
No, no way, you’re high. Don’t you dare go near her. Leave my fucking house right now. These are the thoughts that run through my mind in that moment. But I need to get on his good side. I gulp and say, “Okay, but be careful not to wake her.”
My heart all but stops when he reaches into her crib to pick her up. She grimaces and lets out a string of grumpy little kitten sounds but for a moment, I think she might actually not wake up. Paul holds her, a look of bewilderment on his face, his posture stiff, clearly uncomfortable. There we go, I catch myself thinking. This is not what you wanted at all, was it? You don’t know what to do with a baby. You’re a fucking handyman with a drug problem on top of it. A child is not for you. There’s no place for her in your life. Just admit it, put her down, and leave. Hell, I’ll even give you money, everything in my purse. Go shoot up at some flophouse and leave me alone.
Then, of course, Taryn wakes up, her squeal as loud as it is high-pitched.
“Now you’ve done it,” I say. “Put her down.”
He looks at me, struggling with the heavy baby as she flails in his grasp.
“No.”
“Are you kidding? You woke her up. Put her down.”
“I want to be her father. I want to be a part of her life.”