by Maria Semple
Then one evening I visited Soo-Lin at work. A woman came in and asked for Elgin Branch. I noticed an ID badge from Madrona Hill, the mental institution. I was intrigued, to put it mildly. My interest was further piqued when Soo-Lin lied to me about this woman’s identity.
Soo-Lin returned home late that night, and while she slept, I rifled through her bag. In it, I found a classified FBI dossier.
The contents were astonishing. Bernadette had unwittingly given her financial information to an identity-theft operation, and the FBI was conducting a sting. Even more shocking were Post-it notes stuck to the back of the file. They were handwritten, between Elgin and Soo-Lin, suggesting that he was meeting with Madrona Hill because Bernadette was a harm to herself and others. His evidence? That she had run over my foot and destroyed our home.
My sworn enemy was being sent away to a mental institution?! It should have been cause for celebration. Instead, I sat on the hall bench, my whole body quivering. Everything fell away but the truth: Bernadette never ran over my foot. I faked the whole thing. And the mudslide? Bernadette removed the blackberries exactly as I had asked her to do.
A full hour must have passed. I didn’t move. I just breathed and stared at the floor. I wish a camera had been trained on me, because it would show what it looks like for a woman to be awakened to the truth. The truth? My lies and exaggerations would be responsible for a mother being locked up.
I dropped to my knees. “Tell me, God,” I said. “Tell me what to do.”
A calm came over me. A calm that has protected me for the past month. I walked to the twenty-four-hour Safeway, made a copy of every document in that file, plus the Post-it notes, and tucked the originals back into Soo-Lin’s bag before anyone was up.
While everything in those documents was true, it was a partial truth. I was determined to fill in the story with my own documentation. The next morning, I ransacked our house for every email and note I could find about the mudslide and my “injury,” then spent the whole day assembling them chronologically with Bernadette’s emails from the FBI file. I knew that my more complete story would absolve Bernadette.
But from what? What had transpired in that meeting between Elgin and the psychiatrist? Was there a plan?
I returned to Soo-Lin’s at four in the afternoon. Lincoln and Alexandra were at swim team. Kyle, of course, was zombified, playing video games in the basement. I stepped in front of the TV. “Kyle,” I said, “if I needed to read Soo-Lin’s email, how would I go about it?” Kyle grunted and went upstairs to the linen closet. A dusty tower computer, giant keyboard, and boxy monitor were on the floor. Kyle set them up on the bed in the guest room and hooked the modem into the phone jack.
An ancient version of Windows loaded, with a turquoise screen, a strange blast from the past! Kyle turned to me. “I’m assuming you don’t want her knowing?” “That would be optimal.” Kyle went to a Microsoft website and downloaded a program that allows you to remotely take over another person’s computer. He had Soo-Lin’s password and ID sent to her email program on this computer. With that information, he entered a bunch of numbers separated by periods, and, within minutes, what Soo-Lin sees on her laptop at Microsoft appeared on the screen in front of us. “She’s away from her computer, it looks like,” Kyle told me, cracking his knuckles. He punched in a few more things. “She’s got a signature saying she’ll be out of the office for the night. You probably have time.”
I didn’t know whether to hug him or slap him. Instead, I gave him money and told him to wait outside for Lincoln and Alexandra and take them out for pizza. Kyle was halfway down the stairs when I had an even bigger idea. “Kyle,” I called, “you know how Soo-Lin’s an admin? Do you think we have enough information to take over, say, her boss’s computer?” “You mean Bee’s dad?” “Yeah, Bee’s dad.” “It depends,” he said, “if she has access to his in-box. Let me check.”
Warren, I’m not joking when I say that within five minutes I was looking at Elgin Branch’s computer. Kyle checked his calendar. “He’s having dinner with his brother right now, so he’ll probably be off-line for at least an hour.”
I furiously read correspondence between Elgin and Soo-Lin, his brother, and that psychiatrist. I discovered the plan for an intervention the next morning. I wanted copies of the documents to add to my new, comprehensive narrative, but there was no printer. After everyone was asleep (except Soo-Lin, who’d called to say she wouldn’t be coming home that night), Kyle opened two Hotmail accounts and taught me how to take something called a “screen shot” and email the image from one Hotmail account to the other… or something. All I know is, it worked. I printed them out from a computer at the Safeway.
The intervention was happening at Dr. Neergaard’s office. I didn’t want to interfere with an FBI investigation. But there was no way Bernadette was going to get hauled off to a mental hospital because of my lies. At nine a.m., I headed to the dentist’s office. On my way, on a hunch, I drove by Straight Gate.
There was a police car in the driveway as well as Soo-Lin’s Subaru. I parked on a side street. Just then, a familiar car zoomed by. It was Bernadette, behind dark glasses. I had to get this file to her. But how would I get past the police?
Of course! The hole in the fence!
I ran down the side street, climbed through the fence, and clambered up the naked hill. (An incredible side note: the blackberries had begun to grow back. All that work for nothing!)
I clawed my way across the watery mud until I reached Bernadette’s photinia. I grabbed the branches and hoisted myself up onto the lawn. There was one police officer at the far side of the house, with his back to me. I crept up the lawn to the house. I had no plan. It was just me, the manila envelope in the waist of my pants, and God.
Commando-style, I slithered up the grand stairway along the back of the house and onto the rear portico. Everyone was gathered in the living room. I couldn’t hear them, but it was clear from their body language that the intervention was in full swing. Then a figure crossed to the far side of the living room. It was Bernadette. I ran down the steps. A light turned on in a small side window, about twelve feet up. (The side yard slopes down steeply, so from the back of the house the first floor is the equivalent of several stories high.) Crouched down, I ran to it.
Then I tripped over something. I’ll be damned, but it was a ladder, lying across the side yard, as if God had placed it there Himself. From that point on, I felt invincible. I knew He was protecting me. I picked up the ladder and stood it against the house. Without hesitation, I climbed up and tapped on the window.
“Bernadette,” I whispered. “Bernadette.”
The window opened. Bernadette’s gobsmacked face was in it. “Audrey?”
“Come.”
“But—” She couldn’t pick her poison, coming with me or being locked up in a loony bin.
“Now!” I climbed down, and Bernadette followed, but not before she shut the window.
“Let’s go to my house,” I said. Again she hesitated.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked.
“Because I’m a Christian.”
A radio squelched. “Kevin, see anything?”
Bernadette and I made our break across the lawn, dragging the ladder with us.
We skidded down the muddy hill and into our backyard. The floor guys were quite surprised to see us mud creatures stagger through the door. I sent the men home.
I handed Bernadette my completed dossier, which also included a newly published article Kyle had found on the Internet about Bernadette’s architecture career. “You should have told me you won a MacArthur grant,” I said. “I might have been less of a gnat if I knew you were such a genius.”
I left Bernadette at the table. I took a shower, brought her tea. She read, expressionless, with furrowed brow. She spoke only once, to say, “I would have done it.”
“Done what?” I asked.
“Given Manjula power of attorney.” She turned the last page and took a d
eep breath.
“There’s still boxes of Galer Street gear in the living room if you’d like to change,” I said.
“That’s how desperate I am.” She peeled off her muddy sweater. Underneath, she was wearing a fishing vest. She patted it. Through the mesh pockets, I could see her wallet, cell phone, keys, passport. “I can do anything,” she said with a smile.
“That you can.”
“Please see that Bee gets this.” She slipped the documents back in the envelope. “I know it’s a lot. But she can handle it. I’d rather ruin her with the truth than ruin her with lies.”
“She won’t be ruined,” I said.
“I have to ask you a question. Is he fucking her? The admin, your pally, what’s her name?”
“Soo-Lin?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Soo-Lin. Are she and Elgie—”
“Hard to say.”
That was the last I saw of Bernadette.
I returned to Soo-Lin’s and reserved a space for Kyle at Eagle’s Nest.
I found out Bee was at boarding school. I confirmed it with Gwen Goodyear and sent the envelope of documents to Bee at Choate, with no return address.
I just now learned that Bernadette ended up going to Antarctica, and that she disappeared somewhere on the continent. An investigation was conducted and, reading between the lines, they want everyone to believe Bernadette got drunk and fell overboard. I don’t buy it for a second. But I am worried that she might have tried to get word to Bee through me. Warren, I know this is a lot to digest. But please go home and double-check to see if there’s anything from Bernadette.
Love,
Audrey
*
Fax from Warren Griffin
Darling,
I’m tremendously proud of you. I’m at the house now. There’s no word from Bernadette. I’m sorry. Can’t wait to see you this weekend.
Love,
Warren
FRIDAY, JANUARY 28
Fax from Soo-Lin
Audrey,
I got TORCHed at VAV. I am forbidden to return until I “WYP and Read It.” (WYP stands for Write Your Part, and it’s pronounced, “weep,” not “wipe,” which we think sounds scatological.) It’s an inventory we write, owning our part in our abuse. If I ever find myself slipping into victimhood, I have to TORCH myself. I spent the last three hours WYPing. Here it is, if you’re interested.
*
WYP by Soo-Lin Lee-Segal
After I got off to a rocky start as Elgie’s admin, our working relationship flourished. Elgie would request the impossible. I would make it happen. I could feel Elgie marvel at my wizardry. It soon became a skyward duet of me doing the best work of my life, and Elgie praising me. I could feel us falling in love.
(TIME-OUT REALITY CHECK: I was falling in love, not Elgie.)
Everything changed the day he asked me to lunch and confided in me about his wife. If he didn’t understand you don’t speak ill of your spouse to a coworker, especially a coworker of the opposite sex, I certainly did. I tried not to engage. But we had kids in the same school, so the line between work and our personal lives was already blurred.
(TIME-OUT REALITY CHECK: The moment Elgie began speaking ill of his wife, I could have politely ended the conversation.)
Then Bernadette got tangled up in a ring of Internet hackers. Elgie was furious at her, and confided in me, which I interpreted as further proof of his love. One night, when Elgie was planning to sleep at the office, I booked him a room at the Hyatt in Bellevue and drove him there myself. I pulled the car up to the valet.
“What are you doing?” Elgie asked.
“I’m coming in to get you set up.”
“Are you sure?” he said, an acknowledgement, to me, that tonight we were going to finally act on our crackling sexual tension.
(TIME-OUT REALITY CHECK: Not only was I completely deluded, I was preying on a emotionally vulnerable man.)
We took the elevator up to his room. I sat down on the bed. Elgie kicked off his shoes and climbed under the covers, fully dressed.
“Could you turn off the light?” he asked.
I turned off the bedside lamp. The room was blackout dark. I just sat there, coursing with desire, barely able to breathe. I carefully swung my feet onto the bed.
“Are you leaving?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
Minutes passed. I still maintained an image of where Elgie was on the bed. I could visualize his head, both arms over the covers, his hands clasped just under his chin. More time passed. He was obviously waiting for me to make the first move.
(TIME-OUT REALITY CHECK: Ha!)
I jabbed my hand toward where I pictured his hands to be. My fingers plunged into something moist and soft, then sharp.
“Gaahh—” Elgie said.
I had poked my fingers into his mouth, and he’d reflexively bit me.
“Oh dear!” I said. “I’m sorry!”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Where’s your—”
He was groping in the dark for my hand. He found it and laid it on his chest, then covered it with his other hand. Progress! I breathed as quietly as I could and waited for a cue. Another eternity passed. I wiggled my thumb against the top of his hand, pathetically trying to manufacture a spark, but his hand remained stiff.
“What are you thinking?” I finally said.
“Do you really want to know?”
I went wild with excitement. “Only if you feel like telling me,” I shot back in my best kittenish banter.
“The most painful part of the FBI file was that letter Bernadette wrote to Paul Jellinek. I wish I could go back in time and tell her I want to know her. Maybe if I’d done that, I wouldn’t be lying here right now.”
Thank God it was pitch-black, or the room would have started spinning. I got up and drove myself home. I’m lucky I didn’t drive myself off the 520 bridge, accidentally or otherwise.
The next day, I went to work. Elgie was scheduled to rehearse his wife’s intervention with a psychiatrist off campus. Afterward, his brother was arriving from Hawaii. I went about my business, fixated on a corny fantasy of a bouquet of flowers appearing in my doorway, waving in midair, followed by Elgie, hangdog, professing his love.
Suddenly it was 4 PM, and I realized: Elgie wasn’t coming to work at all! Not only that, but tomorrow was the intervention. The following day he’d be off to Antarctica. So I wouldn’t be seeing him for weeks! There was no call, no nothing.
I had been configuring a tablet computer for Elgie to take on his trip. On my way home, I dropped it off at the hotel where his brother was staying, and where I had also booked a room for Elgie for the next two nights.
(TIME-OUT REALITY CHECK: I could have had someone else bring it, but I was desperate to see him.)
I left the package at the front desk when I heard, “Hey, Soo-Lin!”
It was Elgie. Just hearing him speak my name made me swoon and filled me with hope. He and his brother invited me to dine with them. What can I say? At that dinner, everything flipped, in part due to the rounds of tequila that Van kept ordering on the basis of tequila’s “clear buzz.” I don’t think I’ve ever laughed as hard in my life as with the two of them telling stories of their childhood. My eyes would meet Elgie’s and we’d hold our glances for an extra second before looking down. After dinner, we all wandered into the lobby.
A singer named Morrissey was staying at the hotel, and a group of ardent young homosexuals had gathered, hoping for a glimpse. They were carrying Morrissey posters, records, boxes of chocolate. Love was in the air!
Elgie and I took a seat on a bench, but Van went upstairs to sleep. As the elevator doors shut on him, Elgie said, “Van’s not that bad, right?”
“He’s hilarious,” I answered.
“Bernadette thinks he’s a gigantic loser who keeps hitting me up for money.”
“Which is no doubt true,” I said, to which Elgie gave an appreciative laugh. Then I handed Elgie the tablet computer. “I can’t f
orget to give you this. I had Gio program it so it wouldn’t start until you watched a slideshow.”
The slideshow began. It was pictures I’d collected of Elgie during all his years at Microsoft. Him presenting his work in the theater, candid shots of him with Samantha 1, throwing a football with Matt Hasselbeck at the executive picnic back when it was at Paul Allen’s ranch, receiving his Technical Recognition Award. Also there were photos of three-year-old Bee sitting in his lap. She’d just been released from the hospital, and you could still see the bandage peeking out the top of her dress. There was one of her in day care, in leg braces, because she’d spent so much of her early years lying in bed that her hips hadn’t properly rotated. There was the famous E-Dawg photo, with Elgie in gold chains and a big clock around his neck, making rapper signs.
“It’s important to me that you see that every day,” I said. “To know that you have another family, at Microsoft. I know it isn’t the same. But we love you, too.”
(TIME-OUT REALITY CHECK: I cut Bernadette out of a few of those pictures. I also included one of me at my desk, which I Photoshopped to make it look like my face radiated light.)
“I’m not going to cry,” Elgie said.
“You can,” I said.
“I can, but I won’t.” We just looked at each other, smiling. He gave a laugh. I did, too. The future was glorious, and it was opening itself up to us.
(TIME-OUT REALITY CHECK: Because we were drunk.)
And then it started to snow.
The walls at the Four Seasons are made of thin pieces of slate, stacked like French pastry, and an edge had ripped a hole in Elgie’s parka, releasing feathers, which swirled around us. The Morrissey fans waved their arms around theatrically and started singing one of his songs that went something like “through hail and snow I’d go…” It reminded me of one of my favorite movies, Moulin Rouge!