by Jen Waite
Once the manic laughter stopped, Anne stuffed the loose page into her back pocket, pressed the notebook back against the underside of the tub, and eased herself out from under the bathtub. She tentatively lifted the full duffel bag. “Fuck.” She winced at the pain that shot through her body, and took one step and then another toward the front door. She paused on the way out of the apartment and let her eyes slide over the living room and kitchen. Takeout containers littered the countertops and dishes overflowed out of the sink. She shivered to see happy photos of the two of them still lining the walls. She took one last look and then locked the front door and slipped out of the building.
She turned left, the opposite direction of the subway, and walked east for several blocks, pulling up Google Maps to check she was headed in the right direction. It was a ten-minute walk, straight into the wind. She entered the building, tan and plain, and approached a woman at the front desk. She was led to a sparse room with two chairs and a table where she waited for an hour and a half. Finally, there was a short rap on the door and, as the door opened, she suddenly felt she was playacting an episode of Law & Order.
“What brings you here today?” “Today” came out as TAday in the officer’s Brooklyn accent. He was short and chubby, with jet-black hair and an open face. He introduced himself as Officer Thomas. Anne wasn’t sure if he meant his first name or last name.
“I need to report a crime. I mean, I need to report my husband.” On the word husband her voice cracked, and the officer said, “Take your time,” in such a kind tone that she almost burst into tears. She swallowed a few times and then explained everything that had happened—the stairs, the push, the hospital. She told him about going to her apartment and the notebook full of random numbers under the tub.
Officer Thomas listened quietly and then said, “What I’m about to say, I’m not saying to dissuade you from pressing charges. I just want to”—he wove his fingers together on the table—“be real with you. I want you to understand the reality of what’s ahead, ok?” He explained that with no corroborating evidence such as past documentation of abuse or witnesses or past injuries, it would be her word against Ethan’s—the process could be lengthy and expensive, depending on Ethan’s resources. And, with no hard evidence, would most likely end in a plea deal—six months of anger management counseling and a fine. “And I’m not gonna lie, that notebook sounds real sketchy, but it wouldn’t be enough to make an arrest or secure a search warrant.” Officer Thomas looked past Anne’s shoulder as he asked the next question, “Is it possible that the notebook might be related to . . . indiscretions that your husband might have had during your marriage?” He leaned back in his chair and gave a sympathetic smile. “I’d be angry, too, Ms. Thompson, your husband sounds like a grade-A jerk, but this might be a case better suited for family court.”
Anne stood and thanked the officer for his time, exited the police building, the wind pushing her forward, and made her way back to the NICU.
TWELVE YEARS
BEFORE THE CABIN
ROSE
Rose left Anne’s bedside at the hospital, pulled on her winter coat and hat, and walked from Lenox Hill Hospital twenty blocks south to Ethan’s firm. She had listened to Anne’s recounting of what had happened at the top of the stairs. Rose believed her daughter—Anne was terrified, that much Rose was certain of—but she also knew her daughter had a tendency to . . . love passionately. She thought of her daughter’s only other long-term relationship, the boyfriend right before Ethan. It had been tumultuous—starting and stopping every few months, terrible fights followed by flowery apologies, breaking up, always for the “last time,” and then getting back together.
Of course, the circumstances now were unmistakably serious. Anne had fallen down a flight of stairs. Pregnant. She could have died. She could have lost the baby. Which was precisely why Rose just couldn’t reconcile the Ethan she had known for the past two years with the man from Anne’s memory of that day. Rose had never been able to completely shake her misgivings of Ethan; he was too helpful, too cheerful, too polite (not exactly characteristics she could complain about aloud), but he loved Anne fiercely, unwaveringly. He might have given Rose an odd feeling on occasion, but he surely wasn’t capable of this. It was too jarring, too sudden, and she couldn’t make sense of it. Wasn’t there typically build up to this sort of catastrophic event? A slow burn before the dynamite went off? Anne hadn’t said a word to Rose about things souring between her and Ethan; as far as Rose knew her daughter had been blissfully happy with Ethan. It didn’t add up. Rose felt that she had to see him, look into his eyes, and then she would know.
She strode south on Park Avenue. The morning sun glared down on tall buildings and warmed the bitter air ever so slightly. Men and women walked quickly past her, hands stuffed inside pockets of heavy winter coats covering slacks and smart suits. Rose marveled at the women wearing high heels, expertly navigating the slippery sidewalk with their stiletto points. The walk went quickly and even though icy air whipped her face, she looked at her surroundings, up at the gleaming buildings and around at the people, as often as she could. She could only stand visiting Anne in the city for a few days at a time, not enough space and too much noise to live with, but she appreciated the food, the architecture, and all the different types of people living together on one little island.
She slowed as she approached Fifty-fourth Street, the street where Ethan worked. She had visited Ethan’s building several times with Anne, picking him up in the lobby and then strolling to Aquavit for lunch, where businesspeople paid fifteen dollars for a smoked salmon appetizer the size of her pinkie. Rose paused across the street from Ethan’s building and looked up the silver structure, her eyes resting on the dark windows of what she thought might be the twenty-sixth floor. She made her way to the crosswalk and waited for the red hand to turn into a white dotted figure. And then she saw him.
Ethan stood across the street. He had just stepped out the front doors of his building. He was on his phone, talking animatedly. Even from this distance, Rose could see his hair was perfectly coiffed. A woman tagged along beside him, dressed in a fitted tan coat with fur trim, texting on her own phone. Rose recognized the woman. Ethan’s firm was relatively small, albeit luxurious, taking up only one floor of the building. Rose remembered walking past the reception and Anne saying a cheerful “Hello” to the woman now at Ethan’s side. Ethan got off the phone and said something to the woman. She threw her head back and laughed. Rose stood completely still. Her daughter was in the ICU and her granddaughter was fighting for her life in a small box and Ethan was cracking jokes to his receptionist. Rose balled her hands into fists and started to trail them from across the street when they disappeared into the Starbucks next door. Rose stopped again. There was something about the way they moved together, the woman and Ethan. So familiar. But then again they were coworkers; they had probably spent countless hours together in the office. They were familiar.
Rose walked a few more feet down the sidewalk, positioning herself directly across from the coffee shop. She strained her eyes, trying to see through the glass walls, but the windows were tinted and all she could make out were indistinguishable shapes on the other side of the glass. A few minutes later, Ethan walked out, holding the door open for the woman. Rose held her breath. They walked to the front doors of the building. Rose started back toward the crosswalk. She would go into the lobby and confront him. She didn’t know what she was going to say, but she was suddenly furious. All the worry and fear from the last few days channeled into hot, red rage. She was practicing the words in her head when Ethan took the woman’s hand. It was so casual, so intimate, as if he’d done it a thousand times before, that it took Rose’s breath away. He pulled the woman toward him into a kiss; his hand dropped to her backside before the woman pulled away and looked around guiltily, laughing. She brushed his hair from his forehead and then swatted his hand from her rear. They separated and strode insi
de the building, both smiling.
Rose didn’t go inside Ethan’s work that day. She did not confront him, did not curse him out in front of his coworkers like she’d been planning. She stood still, turning over in her head what she had seen, and then she unballed her fists, put her hands into her coat pockets, and started the walk back to the hospital. By the time Rose got back to the hospital, she was, surprisingly, filled with a sense of relief and calm. Ethan was having an affair. Which meant he would leave her daughter and granddaughter alone.
TEN YEARS
BEFORE THE CABIN
ANNE
After Thea was released from the hospital, Anne quietly moved them from New York to her hometown in Vermont. Everything she owned at that point fit into a backpack. It wasn’t until she lost Ethan that she realized how completely she had folded herself into his life and given up so much from her own. She had quit her job, given up her room in the cozy, sunlit apartment she was renting with two other college grads, and fallen out of touch with the majority of her friends. All of those parts of herself, gone in a few months. At the time, though, it hadn’t felt rash or stupid. It had felt like she was falling in love and starting a new life with someone. And now it seemed she was back to square one—a football field behind square one, in fact. No job, no apartment, no money, no husband, and a newborn baby that required a feeding every hour and a half. Her daughter cried and cried those first months. Anne couldn’t blame her—she’d had to leave her comfortable home two months early and she was letting her indignation be heard. Rose was the only one who could soothe Thea in those early days. Rose was born to be a mother and grandmother. While Anne would often break down into sobs herself, Rose would walk Thea back and forth across the living room for hours, humming softly, coaxing her wails into slack-mouthed snores. Eventually Thea grew from a featherless baby bird to a wispy, towheaded toddler who laughed at everything and had three arm rolls of insulation.
They lived with Anne’s parents for the first year and a half of Thea’s life. A few weeks after Anne got a full-time job, Sam knocked softly on her bedroom door. Thea had been asleep for an hour and Anne was sitting in bed reading a thriller she’d borrowed from Rose.
“Come in.” Anne’s loud whisper floated through the silent room. She could tell by the knock that it was her father.
Sam opened the door slowly and peeked in cautiously, scanning the room first before directing his attention to his daughter.
“Dad, you don’t have to do that anymore. I’m pretty sure he’s not hiding under the bed.” Anne kept her tone light.
“I know, I know, just a habit.” He stepped into the room and stood awkwardly in the middle of an area rug next to Anne’s bed. “I wanted to talk to you about your future. Your mother and I feel it’s time for you and Thea to become more independent. Get a place of your own.”
“Oh.” He was right. She was almost twenty-nine, she had a full-time job, and Thea would be starting daycare next month. It was time. But she felt pressure behind her eyes and her throat grew dry and suddenly she couldn’t speak for fear of crying.
“Honey.” Her dad never called her pet names. “You’ve been through a lot. We’ve all been through a lot, but now it’s time to move forward with your life. You’re young. You shouldn’t be living with your old geezer parents.” He forced a laugh that sounded more like a bark. “I just . . . I don’t want you to get stuck.”
“I know. I know, you’re right. I’ll start looking for an apartment.” She didn’t want to admit she was scared. Feelings and sharing were not her dad’s territory. So instead, she smiled. “I’ll look at craigslist tomorrow.”
“You’re going to be fine, Anne,” her dad answered the question she hadn’t asked aloud. He cleared his throat and uncrossed his arms. For a moment, Anne thought he was going to touch her forehead. “Well. Good night. Get some sleep.”
“You, too, Dad.” He was almost through the door, just his hand still visible, pulling the door shut. She had to say it. It was now or never. She swallowed and then: “I’m sorry. For everything I’ve put you and Mom through.”
His face reappeared quickly. Anne braced herself for the anger she knew he’d been holding in the past year. She had disappointed him by choosing someone like Ethan and she’d disrupted her parents’ life, what was supposed to be their first “golden years” of retirement. She shrank against her pillow, wanting to get his bitterness toward her and what she had done to all of them by bringing Ethan into their lives out in the open.
“This is not your fault, Anne.” His voice was low and sharp. “That man is a parasite. A con artist. He tricked us all.” Anger pulsated from her father and she realized with confusion that it was not directed at her but at the invisible presence that had been sharing her parents’ house for the past year and a half. “If I can, I will kill him. I will—”
“Dad,” Anne interrupted. She was about to tell him to calm down, but instead, she simply said, “Thank you.” After her father closed the door, for the first time in a year, she cried tears of gratitude.
Three months later, Anne and Thea had moved into their own apartment, a small one-bedroom in the center of Charlotte, Vermont. Anne slept on a pullout couch in the living room and set up Thea’s crib in the small bedroom. She decorated with furniture she found at Goodwill that Rose helped repurpose—they stained and painted side tables and a small bookcase while Thea dug for worms in the yard. The apartment was tiny and bright with gleaming hardwood floors in the living room and a soft gray rug in the nursery. Anne worked during the day as a paralegal at a local firm specializing in domestic abuse and at night studied for her master’s of social work. Most days, and nights especially, it felt impossible—working, school, and Thea. The first few weeks, Anne was terrified, not of Ethan suddenly reappearing, but of being on her own with her daughter. She didn’t have her mother’s skills in the kitchen or her father’s ability to make Thea giggle by flipping her upside down and swinging her in the air. Steadily, though, they fell into their own routine—perhaps lacking in decadent home-cooked meals and acrobatics, but theirs, nonetheless.
She found a therapist who would take her on as a sliding-scale patient. During their first session, the therapist, a woman named Grace, listened intently as Anne spewed out the events that led to her and Thea moving back to Vermont. She recounted the days and nights in the NICU and that now—even though she was on Zoloft for anxiety and Klonopin for panic attacks—every sound Thea made at night, every time her daughter cried, brought her back to the hospital, to the fluorescent lights, and to the fear that the tubes and machines wouldn’t be enough to keep her baby’s tiny heart beating. She confessed to Grace that she thought about Thea’s health constantly and had started wearing face masks to the grocery store, terrified that she might bring home germs, even though Thea was proving to be a healthy, hearty toddler. She revealed the nightmare that woke her about once a week—the same one over and over, seemingly benign: Ethan cradling Thea in his arms, humming. Anne had had an idea of therapy from movies and TV shows—that the therapist would sit across the room, nodding her head, scribbling down notes, mostly silent except for the utterance of phrases like “Go on,” and “How does that make you feel?” But Grace was animated during their first session, her face warm and open, her voice strong yet soothing. She wore her black hair cropped close to her head and a simple gold chain with a heart pendant. Rather than sitting silently, Grace interjected her thoughts often: “So this sounds to me like a sort of ‘emotional reasoning’—letting a purely emotional response dictate what you think is going to happen, i.e., ‘I am scared and anxious about Thea’s health because of a past event and therefore she is going to get sick again’—it can be a very normal part of the healing process. But let’s keep an eye on it and work in more healthy and helpful thinking styles.” Hearing this woman put a label on and dissect some of the particular roots of her anxiety helped Anne to feel moored for the first time since Thea�
��s birth.
It was Anne’s time with Grace that led her to enroll in a master’s of social work program to become a therapist herself. She still saw her therapist on an as-needed basis, but between work, school, and Thea, it was rare that she could make the time. She was tired, yes, but she was happy. Life felt busy but also simple and full in a way she had never known before—her daily routine was set, she was working toward a career she was deeply passionate about, and she was raising an extraordinary person who filled her with a love that often took her breath away. The nightmares about Ethan had subsided to once every few months. She stopped checking his LinkedIn and Facebook page—though he hadn’t posted anything new in the past year anyway. She still found herself imagining Thea getting sick or falling off her high chair once in a while, but she was able to pull herself out of these thoughts by doing breathing exercises and focusing on the present. She began to relax into this new life. She was so occupied, so involved in the day-to-day, that when she got the letter from Ethan’s lawyer, she barely glanced at it, assuming it was junk mail, a solicitation. Her eyes skimmed the page and then stopped on the familiar name. “On behalf of our client, Mr. Ethan Mills . . .” Her breathing slowed, her vision became blurry. She couldn’t take in full sentences, only words. Motion. Petition. Custody. Daughter.
He showed up at her front door a few days later.
“Annie, how are you?” His eyes were warm, the eyes of the husband she knew and his tone was that of a long, lost dear friend. His hair was now sprinkled with salt, streaking through the same thick, dark hair. He had a five-o’-clock shadow and new lines creased his forehead. He looked good. Tired but good.