by Sara Shepard
“You canceled his episode?” Lauren repeated. She thought of how mopey Graham had been when he’d had to come collect her from the police station when he was supposed to be shooting his episode. Meanwhile, it had been canceled.
“I think he’s just one of those people who wants what he wants, and when things get out of hand, he . . . snaps,” Gracie said. “I should have seen through it, Lauren. I should have talked to you more. I feel terrible I believed what he said about you.”
“It’s okay,” Lauren said softly. She’d seen Gracie and Graham on one side, her on the other, and hell, even herself on one side, and the rest of the family on the other. But it wasn’t that way at all. Incredible that Graham could dupe so many strong, successful women into questioning their sanity. Or maybe, in Piper’s case, losing their sanity altogether.
She thought a lot about Piper pretending North was still alive for thirteen years. Neighbors were baffled when they found out North had passed away as a baby, as there was always evidence of kid things strewn around the property—bicycles, Rollerblades, balls. They swore they heard high-pitched kid squeals coming from the backyard pool.
As for an actual child, though? Collectively, no one could say for sure say they’d ever seen North, but they were the sorts of neighbors that didn’t meddle in others’ business. Piper kept to herself; her son kept to himself. Back when Piper first moved to Raisin Beach, she’d lived in a dumpy apartment on the outskirts of town—and must have perpetuated the North lie at least to herself back then. But the press, who was hungry for more of this story, couldn’t find anyone from that time in Piper’s life to verify that.
But how hard that must have been to keep up living a lie! All the maneuvering, all the pretense! Yet Lauren understood what might drive Piper to have done it. If something happened to Matthew—something could have, the night in the kitchen, if Graham’s fist had been a few inches higher—Lauren would have fallen apart, too. She could see the comfort in imagining a child growing and changing, achieving milestones. She could see how it could be a coping mechanism to buy new toys for him appropriate to the age he’d be if he’d continued to grow. She could see making a room for him in a new house, placing the books he might have read on the shelves, the posters of sports stars he might have liked on the walls. Lauren got it. She did. Maybe anyone was capable of doing such a thing, if the circumstances were just right.
She pushed to her feet, squeezing one of Matthew’s chunky arms. “You’re doing so good, buddy.” She cast Clarissa a departing smile and fetched her bag. “I won’t be too long.”
“Take your time!” Clarissa said, almost too quickly.
Lauren turned without saying anything else. For the first time since Clarissa had come to work for her, Lauren left without feeling ashamed, or guilty, or judged. Clarissa was no longer here as a buffer against Lauren’s instability; she was here to simply lend a hand.
And that reframing made all the difference.
* * *
• • •
There was a guard at Piper’s room. Not because the staff feared someone might attack her—although, with the news of the embezzlement scheme, that wasn’t so far-fetched—but because now that she was awake and growing stronger, she was a flight risk. Once the doctors cleared Piper to go, she would be thrown into county jail alongside Carson to await her trial and sentencing. The public, who’d so recently praised Piper and damned Lauren and the others, had quickly changed their tune. Lauren’s, Andrea’s, and Ronnie’s struggles were set aside—even Andrea, who’d been so worried Carson was going to expose her in retaliation, hadn’t had to deal with that yet.
But the public outrage at a school director stealing from hardworking, trusting parents was powerful. People were appalled that a nursery school had screwed them. The story was splashy—there were spreadsheets of the embezzlement operation, how brazenly they’d extracted small amounts from more than one hundred parents’ accounts. Piper’s and Carson’s finances had been subpoenaed; the amounts transferred into their accounts correlated to what had been stolen. In a time when so many people were laid off, they were making money—and, ironically, collecting state unemployment payments. It kept them more than afloat during that time—$500 times one hundred parents, after all, was a big chunk of change coming in monthly. It was enough for Carson to buy an Audi. Enough for Piper to assemble a very large closet of designer clothes.
But Lauren tried to put this aside as she stood outside Piper’s room. She had to think of Piper as a person who’d been broken and manipulated by the same man who had broken and manipulated her. Ironic that Piper had pushed Lauren away with that snarky email; had she let Lauren in, maybe they would have figured out the Graham piece much sooner.
The door squeaked open. Inside, a single bouquet of red roses rested on a side table. A tray held an untouched lunch. And there was Piper, sitting halfway up in her hospital cot, staring blankly at her cell phone. She looked pale, and her hair was stringy, and her lips were cracked. She peered up at Lauren with a defeated, expectant look that seemed to say, Oh. It’s you.
“Hello,” Lauren said quietly.
Piper just stared at her emptily.
Lauren pushed her hands in her pockets. She pulled a plastic chair over to the bed and sat down. She focused, as the first time she’d met Piper, on her beauty mark. Had Graham focused on it, too? Had Graham found it sexy? What had Piper seen in him? What had Lauren?
When it was clear Piper wasn’t going to say anything, Lauren cleared her throat. “He had me so mixed up, I was about to check into a mental retreat.”
This got a small eyebrow raise from Piper, so Lauren continued. “I thought Graham was protecting me. I thought he wanted the best for us.” She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward a little. “Was it that way for you, too?” Piper’s situation was a little different. Graham had been abusing her openly. He was stealthier about it with Lauren, using her untrustworthy memory to cover his tracks.
Piper concentrated straight down the bed at her toes. “When we first got together, I thought he knew better about everything,” she said in a small voice.
“Right?” Lauren felt a rush of deep despair. “Same. And with . . . with the baby,” Lauren stuttered. “Did he make you think that you were doing things wrong?” And then she swallowed raggedly, something new occurring to her: Did Piper still think North was alive, after all of this?
“I know about North,” Piper said, as if reading her mind. There was defeat in her voice. “I know he’s not . . . you know. But I just . . . couldn’t . . .” She waved her hands around, searching for the words.
“It’s okay,” Lauren said gently. “You don’t have to explain.”
Piper laughed bitterly. “But I do. To lawyers. To the reporters who keep calling.” She sounded a little unhinged. “Oh, and by the way, it was your husband who called my contact at Hulu. My producer said she slipped up and told you they’d pulled out. Graham did it as insurance, I guess. So I wouldn’t warn you about him.”
Lauren pushed her spine against the back of the chair. She hadn’t put this piece together, and she didn’t know what to do with it. Did this mean Graham did love her, in some twisted way? He didn’t want to lose her? Or maybe he just wanted to keep her close so he could control her.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.
Piper shrugged. “He really didn’t want you to know what kind of monster he was. That was his main concern. He kept talking about how he loves his baby, how he doesn’t want to lose what he has. Although, I’d keep him away from that kid, if I were you.”
Lauren nodded. And then she said, “Do you think Graham . . . Do you think . . . what happened, it was his fault?” She hated to even think of Graham accidentally hurting a baby—but she needed to know.
“I don’t know.” Piper sounded empty. “I always thought it was my fault. I put too many blankets in the crib. It was hot in the room. I seco
nd-guessed everything I did that day. But . . . I guess we’ll never know.” She shut her eyes as though she hadn’t slept in years. “I just . . . I just always wanted to be a mother. I couldn’t bear not being a mother.”
“You still are,” Lauren said sadly. It was such a secret society, motherhood. It defined you in ways a career couldn’t, not entirely. It gave you a center, it gave you a drive, it gave you an excuse to push forward every day. For Piper, it gave her a story—which launched Silver Swans. To have that ripped from you—it would be like losing a vital organ.
“Why did Carson write that note to me?” she asked. “That I wasn’t wanted at Silver Swans? Because of Graham?”
Piper shut her eyes. “I thought you knew something about the money. You were hanging around with those other women, so . . .”
“But then you left me a second note,” Lauren went on. “You wanted to see me in your office.”
“I did. I wanted to warn you. About Graham.”
Lauren’s mouth dropped open. “You did?”
“Well, sure. He would have been pissed if he knew. He said he’d tell everyone everything. But I thought you needed to know.”
Lauren felt touched. “I wish you would have told me. I wish . . .”
But she wasn’t sure what she wanted to say next. Even if Lauren had never run into Ronnie and Andrea and they’d never shared that they’d all received notes and drawings, Graham would have still come for Piper. Maybe he sensed Piper was going to tell Lauren about him.
“And . . . that day in the hall.” Lauren’s heart thudded fast. “When you were attacked. Do you . . . remember Graham there?”
Piper smiled serenely. “Oh, yes. I remember Graham.”
Lauren widened her eyes, surprised by Piper’s certainty. The police hadn’t specifically said they’d gotten a statement out of her. Graham, her husband. So he really was a monster, then. He was so far from the person she knew it was hard to even mourn his loss. Sitting in the hard plastic chair, Lauren began to think about what her life would look like going forward. She couldn’t picture visiting Graham in prison. What would she tell Matthew?
“I remember Graham in the hall,” Piper said again, her voice taking on a dreamy tone. “I remember a red sweater . . .”
Lauren mentally searched Graham’s closet; she’d bought so many of his clothes. “He has a good Burberry red sweater.”
“Uh-huh,” Piper answered. She stared at Lauren intensely. “That’s the one.”
“God.” Lauren sat back. Piper sounded dazed and maybe suffering from a touch of PTSD. “I’m . . . really sorry.” She felt herself welling up. “For both of us. What a fucking mess.”
“Oh, please. I did you a favor.”
Something light and strange had invaded Piper’s voice, and Lauren looked up. There was a twist to Piper’s mouth. Did she think something was funny? Piper’s mouth went slack, then puckered once more, like she was fighting not to snicker.
Lauren pulled back, suddenly uneasy. “What?”
A smirk slipped through, though Piper was quick to make her expression neutral again. “I’m sorry, I’m really tired. Maybe you should go.”
“Okay . . .” The world seemed to tilt as Lauren stood.
“Okay,” Lauren said again, lingering behind the chair, hoping that Piper would say more. Weren’t they compatriots at least, having endured the same enemy? But maybe that was foolish. Piper was still the same person as before—the same woman, in fact, who said Lauren was nuts.
Have your stupid secrets, Lauren thought bitterly, shoving the chair back against the wall. Pretend you’re better than me. I was just trying to help.
She mumbled a goodbye and then was in the hall. A nurse at the computer station looked up at Lauren curiously as she passed, but Lauren didn’t even look at her. Good luck in prison, Piper, she thought, not feeling particularly broken up.
Through the double doors, into the parking lot. Lauren peeled off the badge with her ID picture and tossed it into the trash can. Something about the way it pinged against the metal—or maybe the oily smell in the parking lot—knocked something loose in her brain. She stopped short, staring down the line of cars.
Graham didn’t have that red sweater anymore.
He’d loved that Burberry sweater—but it was so damn old and worn. Graham wanted to keep it, but Lauren insisted on throwing it away. Into the bin it went, the lid making the same clang as the sound that had just echoed in her ears. Unless Graham had a secret closet Lauren didn’t know about, she could think of no other red item of clothing.
Lauren swung around and considered the entrance to the hospital. Should she go back in and confront Piper? Only, why? Didn’t she want Graham to be convicted? He deserved it—more than Carson, more than anyone. But what if it wasn’t true? I did you a favor. Did Piper remember something involving Lauren?
Overhead, a jet cut through the clouds, leaving a trail of exhaust. Lauren studied it until her eyes blurred. No, she decided, shaking out her shoulders. No, that was Graham’s influence rearing its head. She hadn’t done anything. She was sure of that now.
Piper
Last Thursday
You are alone in your office. The Asshole has just left. You close your eyes, hold the edge of your desk, and take a centering breath. You can do this. You aren’t going to let him ruin you. But he scares you all the same. He knows where you live. He’s been poking around your house when you aren’t there—you’re sure of it. Looking for those photos, probably. He knows you took them all those years ago. When you left, he was relieved. He thought he’d never see you again, that your lives would never intersect. But now, they do. Those photos are dangerous again.
His baby’s eyes sear into your brain. His happy smile, his gurgling laugh. It broke your heart to see that baby today, and Graham knows it. That was how old North had been when it happened.
Finding North unresponsive. Pulling him from the crib, trying to get him to breathe again. Calling an ambulance, screaming to Graham, rushing to the hospital. It had been too late already. You’d known that the moment you’d found him. But you didn’t know what else to do. You wanted to be in the hands of kind nurses, knowledgeable professionals, someone to explain to you what the fuck had happened. You wanted someone to hold you close and tell you how sorry they were. You knew, deep down, that Graham would do no such thing.
You’d gone through the days after North’s death in a fog. There was the small, brutal funeral you barely recall. How, on your drive home—your fucking drive home from the cemetery!—Graham said that maybe he should sell the crib, and he knew some parents who might want some of the baby toys. You wanted to rip his head off. “We aren’t selling anything,” you roared. “North is still with us. He’s still here.”
How could someone be so present, so loud, so all-encompassing, and then . . . gone? Even worse, maybe gone because of something you could have prevented?
And it just sort of started there.
Part of you understood that there was no baby in your arms as you slowly moved around the nursery, rocking and cooing. Part of you knew that you should take the car seat out of your car, and fold up the stroller, and stop the monthly diaper delivery. Part of you understood that you could revert to a more adult sleep schedule instead of waking in the night and padding down the hallway to check if your nonexistent baby was still sleeping. But another big part of you really couldn’t bear North being gone, so you decided it wasn’t true. Your mind conjured him growing, changing, thriving. You bought him new baby toys, then toddler toys; you played nursery rhyme songs in the car and sang the ABCs and talked about plants and animals. You didn’t talk about him to your co-workers—they knew what had happened—but you mentioned him to strangers all the time. “My baby just turned one,” you’d say to people in the grocery store a few neighborhoods away as you plunked a jug of whole milk on the counter. “We’re going to see how
he likes full-fat milk!” Or, “My baby just turned two and a half,” you’d say to a new massage therapist you were trying out, one who lived in a different part of town and didn’t cross paths with anyone you knew. “And ooh am I sore from chasing him around!”
It was a salve to keep North alive in these moments. You cherished the pleasant, ordinary interactions you had with strangers who fully believed you were just another mother muddling through. It was the only thing that kept you going. Graham was already checked out—he was done with you just months after North died, unable to live with your coping mechanism, and it was only a matter of time until you would find those affair emails on his computer. And once that happened, once you headed off to Raisin Beach, you couldn’t go alone. So you brought North with you.
North grew from a toddler to a young child. You cuddled with him in bed. You played dump trucks with him on the carpet. It strikes you what this must have looked like to outsiders, had they been looking in on you: a woman playing alone on the floor, talking to thin air. Though, to be fair, you aren’t sure anymore if you actually played or if it all took place inside your brain. The strangeness of what you were doing didn’t even seem so strange anymore. It had become a habit, a crutch, maybe even a second personality. You couldn’t just excise North. You couldn’t just ditch him. And when you went for the position at Glory Be and blurted out North’s name in one of your first speeches, making him part of your narrative . . . well. You were in it for the long haul. You wanted to be a single mother of an eight-year-old, not a grieving mother of a child who’d died when he was a baby for reasons that were possibly your fault.
And so, on you went.
“Ms. Jovan, we’ve been informed about your child,” Jean from Hulu had said on the phone the day before. “And first of all, I’m very sorry for your loss.”
He’d paused for a long time, then, as though checking your level of sanity. Did you even know that your child was gone? You did, intellectually. But what most shocked you was that after all these years, someone else knew. Your neighbors, your co-workers, parents at the school—no one had ever asked point-blank. Oh, sure, they’d wondered where North was, but you always had an excuse. How lonely that had been! How removed your life was from anyone else’s.