"Why would Abbey call you?" I demand. I'm annoyed that Kat's been ribbing me, but even more annoyed that the source of her information is the woman I dislike most in this world. Having Abbey just pick up the phone and call my sister is the kind of thing that happens in happy families, ones where people's marriages last. Not families like ours where it turns out the sister-in-law is the antichrist.
"She pretended she needed information about the marketing stuff we did for her firm. You know, before you guys..." Kat shrugs. "Really she was just trying to milk me for information about your new girlfriend. Apparently you seemed pretty familiar. She was sure I was lying when I told her I didn't know anything and got pretty riled up about you nearly having sex on top of the table." My mother's shocked expression makes it almost worth the third degree I'm enduring.
"So I saved you the trouble of having to make something up by leaving my private life private. And for the record we were nowhere near having sex on the table. Not even close." Although now I'll never be able to get the image of Julia spread out in between the platters of sushi out of my head. I picture my face buried between her thighs and feel my neck start to burn. There's no way my sisters will miss me starting to sweat over this.
"Not to harp on your word choice here, but is it not a secret or is it private because those are two different things."
"Amy's right, either it's private or it isn't, so which one are you going with here?" Kat holds out her hands like imaginary scales and mimics weighing my choices. I give her my most annoyed look and put my hands on my hips.
"It's both, okay? It isn't any of your business, but I'm not trying to hide anything. I didn't mention it because it isn't a big deal. Or it wasn't until you got ahold of it. Now it's like the Spanish Inquisition in here."
"Extra points for the historical reference, Z, but quit trying to distract us." Amy's unfazed by my irritation. "You never even told us who this mystery friend is. How are we supposed to just leave you alone when you've been out doing who knows what with who knows who?"
"Oh, this is the best part!" Kat can hardly keep from wiggling. She shimmies from left to right and grabs the back of Amy's chair. "Zach was having lunch with... wait for it... Julia Myers!" She lets out a little whoop. "Abbey saw Zach holding hands with Julia Myers!"
"Julia Myers from high school?" my mother asks. "That Julia Myers?"
"She's Julia Andrews now. She got married," I tell her. "But yes, that Julia."
"Her married name's Julie Andrews? That's unfortunate." I shoot an are-you-kidding-me look at Kat.
"Julie Andrews is a fine actress," my mother volunteers, making my sisters look at each other in disbelief.
"Why were you holding hands with her if she's married?" my father asks, still holding the bowls of vegetables.
"She's not married now, dad. Her husband died."
My mother's mouth turns down a bit. "That's too bad. She was so pretty when you were in school together.”
I'm not sure what being pretty has to do with being widowed, but I spare my mother the lecture on non sequiturs. "She's still very pretty." I say it matter of factly but every eyebrow in the room shoots up to the ceiling. "What? I can't notice she's pretty?"
"Sure," Amy tells me, with the slightest hint of sarcasm. "You can notice that your friend is attractive. That sounds friendly." She glances up at Kat and they both put on mock serious faces.
"Yes," Kat chimes in. "That sounds like something a friend would notice."
"Both of you need to leave your brother alone." My mother chastises them but she's sliding next to me and giving my arm a protective squeeze. She's getting her hopes up and I have to make sure she knows that this isn't the moment when I come out of my losing streak to find true love.
"Everyone needs to calm down. I work with her kids and I teach her self-defense. There's nothing scandalous to report." And my one attempt at introducing anything scandal-worthy was quickly KO'd. I keep this to myself and plow on. "She's just moved back and I don't think she's looking to..."
"But Abbey said you two were all snuggled up." Kat isn't about to let this go.
"Well..." If anyone had any illusions about my relationship with Julia this will put them to rest. I'll also be opening myself up to merciless teasing from my sisters, but I'm used to that by now. "I saw Abbey come in and Julia was helping me out. You know, making it seem like we were..." Like we were more than friends. Like we were the only two people in the room. Like the way I felt when she touched me was something I'm allowed to feel.
"Oh." My mother gives my arm one last squeeze before letting it go.
"Your sister's making a mountain out of a molehill then," my father adds as he finally puts the bowls on the table.
"Yep. Sorry to disappoint."
"Oh, I'm not disappointed." Kat pulls out her chair and starts to load up a plate. "Zach managed to convince evil Abbey that he's boning the prom queen. I should be high-fiving you right now." She puts her hand up in the air and waits for me to slap my palm to hers. I hesitate but only to make Kat squirm. Then I find myself raising my hand to hers and grinning like a fool.
"You should have seen Abbey's face."
"And Julia was on board with that?" Amy asks as she helps herself to chicken. The food is undoubtedly cold by now, but we're going to eat it anyway.
"It was her idea. She's really great." I say it without thinking and fuck me if my voice doesn't sound all wistful and dreamy. Again, eyebrows hit the ceiling as both my sisters smirk from across the table. I try to make a show of filling my plate, avoiding eye contact with either of them. My father clears his throat and pulls out my mother's chair for her. As she sits she reaches over to pat my hand.
"I'm sure she is," Kat snickers. "I'm sure she is."
15
Julia
"Can I please speak with Mr. Paul Andrews?" the voice on the other end of the line asks, completely unprepared for the answer I'm about to give.
"I'm sorry," I start, assuming the robotic quality that allows me to get through these conversations. "Mr. Andrews passed away. Is there something I can help you with?" Usually if the caller is the unfortunate phone bank salesperson who happens to be trying to convince Paul to sign up for a "once in a lifetime opportunity" they stammer their apologies and quickly hang up. This woman, however, stands her ground.
"Oh, I'm terribly sorry to hear that, ma'am. Would you be Mrs. Andrews?"
"Yes."
"I'm terribly sorry for your loss, Mrs. Andrews. I'm authorized to speak to you on his behalf. He has an outstanding credit card bill that has gone to collections. Now that we know he is deceased we can start the process to clear this bill from the record." She's matter-of-fact, not the least bit fazed by the death of my husband. I guess making calls for a collection company will do that to you.
"Which credit card is this?" I'm still using all our joint accounts, now changed to only my name, and his brother David cancelled Paul's business accounts as soon as he found the information.
"It's a VISA card, ma'am."
“I think our debit card from the bank is a VISA. Is that the card you're talking about?" I wait for her confirmation, but she surprises me.
"No, Mrs. Andrews, this is a VISA credit card taken out by one Paul James Andrews around four years ago. Is this ringing any bells?"
"No." I try to make sense of this information. This has to be a mistake, of course. "Do you have a social security number associated with the account?" I ask, certain that this is where her questioning will fall apart. If this is a scam there's no way she'll have his social.
She rattles off a series of numbers as I write them down. I've memorized Paul's social security number after needing to recite it so many times. I might as well have had it tattooed on my forearm so that I could just show people. That would have saved me so much hassle. Once she finishes I find myself staring at my would-be tattoo.
"This isn't making sense," I stammer. "I've never seen a bill for this credit card. Nothing has ever come to the hou
se to let me know that the card even existed."
"That's probably because your husband was getting the statements electronically. When that happens you wouldn't necessarily have a paper trail. Do you still check his old email? If that's still active you could look there. Or you could try to call VISA, maybe they could help you. Like I said, I'm from collections so I don't have all the information here, just the account name and balance, stuff like that."
I massage the space between my eyes. I can feel the beginning of a frown line there from conversations just like this. "Can you give me the account number and tell me the balance then?"
"Sure," she says, her voice softening a bit. She rattles off the account number. "It looks like he owed $1,126.45. I'm sorry I don't have any more information. I'll make a note in the file that Mr. Andrews is deceased. They'll want proof of that, but I'll let them know that this was our first contact with you and that you're looking into it. We'll probably contact you again. I'm guessing that we've been trying to reach him using his email and phone and we’ve just recently gotten yours. That's how they do it, start looking for a spouse or something. Again, I'm sorry for your loss."
"Thank you," I manage.
"Yes, ma'am. You have a nice rest of your day."
My phone call with the credit card company doesn't go much better. I have plenty of information, but they aren't authorized to speak with me about a credit card that technically doesn't belong to me. Paul being dead changes that, but it doesn't open the doors wide by any means. I go higher and higher up the food chain until I'm speaking with someone who's authorized to tell me a little more, but not without proof that Paul is, in fact, dead.
"Can you at least tell me the address where you've been sending the bills?" I'm exasperated now and I can feel the irritation starting to rise from my gut to my throat. I don't want to yell at the innocent customer service representative, but the prospect of spending the entire day sorting this out has my blood beginning to boil.
"Mr. Andrews elected for electronic delivery of statements."
"I haven't been getting any emails about a VISA bill."
"I'm showing several payment reminders being sent to Mr. Andrews' address before the account was sent to collections."
"I've been checking Mr. Andrews' email account and I haven't seen anything about a VISA bill."
Paul had a work account and his personal account. I haven't been very vigilant about checking them lately, but for a few months I checked them with an almost religious fervor. Dead Paul Andrews had a very active life there as well. Although his work email had been set to automatically respond to the sender with the news of Paul's untimely end, his personal account had not and I couldn't bring myself to do it. Closing the account had seemed too final, like admitting to myself that Paul was actually dead. And so he continued to be offered amazing deals on sports equipment and reminders to service his car.
"Which address are you checking? Is it possible Mr. Andrews had more than one account?" She lets the question hang there for a moment. "Is that possible?"
My certainty falters. People sometimes have more than one email address, that's not unusual, but if Paul had more than one this is the first I'm hearing about it.
"I'm pretty sure he only had one personal account." Even my voice is starting to give away just how unsure I'm becoming.
"How about I tell you the email address we've been using, Mrs. Andrews, and you can tell me if that's the one you've been checking. Maybe that's our problem. Let me pull up the information." She's treading more lightly now, even more lightly than when I told her Paul was dead.
I scramble for a piece of paper and a pen even though I know the address by heart. Paul always wanted to make his email address something crazy since Paul Andrews isn't the most interesting name on the planet. But he stuck with the expected. Paul was predictable that way.
But the address the woman on the phone gives me isn't the one Paul has always used.
So much for predictable.
As soon as I hang up the phone, I'm tearing through the house looking for boxes marked as Paul's. At first, I hadn't wanted to move any of his things, leaving his shoes and clothes where they were even if that meant piled on the chair in our bedroom. I wanted things to stay exactly as they had been and so I froze time in the only way I could. That wasn't a long-term solution, of course, and eventually I had to start thinking about what to do with his things. It didn't make sense to have a closet full of suits and ties no one was going to wear or to keep all of his equipment for brewing beer. But I had issues with getting rid of the past. Paul's death made me clutch tight to things that could trigger memories of our old life together.
Each new box is like a time capsule, if time capsules frequently blew up in your face. First, there is the smell. The indescribable scent of Paul that rises up out of most of the boxes, assaulting my brain with memories of his shaving cream and shampoo. And then, depending on the contents of the box, there is the overwhelming punch of sadness that’s left me doubled over more than once, running my fingers over some forgotten item: an old fraternity T-shirt, the flask with his initials on it, photos from a New Year's Eve party. I try to keep from panicking and each new box reassures me that there’s nothing to worry about. I knew Paul better than anyone and there has to be an explanation for whatever’s happening here. There’s no reason for this anxious feeling that’s lodged itself deep in my belly.
I work for over an hour dumping out boxes until I find it. It's a box inside a box and from the looks of it David must have packed it for me. He had been the one to go to Paul's office and help clear out his desk, to gather his things and bring them home to me. The box is taped shut and clearly bears David's horrible handwriting. He's written "Paul—office stuff" in his barely legible chicken scratch. He wasn't much on declaring the contents. We were going for speed and so the exterior box says only "Paul” and nothing more.
Armed with my scissors, I manage to get into the box without much effort. David has arranged the contents of Paul's desk neatly inside. There's a framed photo from our last beach vacation sitting on top, Charlie and Noah's sunburned faces smiling up at me. Paul's got one arm around me and the other outstretched, holding the camera. I've got my face turned toward him, crazy grin and windblown hair. I gingerly move the happy family out of the way so that I can better dig.
It isn't hard to find what I'm looking for. I'd asked David to put Paul's work bag in this box when he brought it in. He had protested because I hadn't wanted to unpack anything, not even the laptop. Now I rifle through the box until I feel the familiar canvas of the bag Paul used to throw over his shoulder every morning on his way out the door. I used to tease him that he looked more bike messenger than executive with his black shoulder bag, but he scoffed at even an upgrade to leather. Again, this was classic Paul, keeping everything forever and not caring what anyone might think. I hoist the bag from the bottom of the container, displacing half used pads of sticky notes and desk trinkets. At least none of this smells like Paul. Instead all I smell is disinfectant and that bland office fragrance, no reminders of the crook of Paul's neck.
The bag is heavier than I expect, still full not only of the computer, but of a stack of now useless files. A thick binder stretches the zipper to its breaking point and I'm surprised the bag hasn't ripped. I pull out the laptop and open it up. David had wanted me to keep the computer out; he thought I could let the boys use it or maybe I would want to use it myself. But I had no use for it then and just thinking about erasing Paul's files or even touching the keyboard made me ill. Now I go to boot the thing up only to realize it's dead. Of course it's out of power after two years in storage. I curse and root around for the power cord. Maybe it won't even work at all. I plug the cord into the machine and then into the wall. To my surprise, the light on the end of the cord flashes green.
Now, with time on my hands I start to examine the bag. Once I have the big items out, I shake the open bag out onto the kitchen table. I'm not sure what I expect to
fall out, but I'm rewarded with only paper clips and a pile of dust. I run my hand along the inside, feeling for pockets. Even though Paul's bag was never off limits, I feel like an interloper going through his things.
When my hand hits the interior zipper, I pause. The rational part of me knows that there will be nothing of interest inside, but my heart starts drumming faster in my chest anyway. I rub the pad of my finger along the length of the pocket, feeling the teeth and then pulling the slider quickly. It's like ripping off a band aid and in the same spirit I shove my hand deep inside the pocket, fishing around. I fully expect my hand to connect with nothing but empty space, but instead my fingers slide over flat plastic and I pull out Paul James Andrews' mystery VISA card.
I hold the card in the flat of my palm, blinking in disbelief. I can feel the Earth starting to tilt. There's no way to ask Paul for clarification, if there's a lie here I'm going to need to find it for myself. There are all sorts of reasons Paul might have had this card. Any reasonable ones desert me, but I try to keep calm.
I slide in front of the laptop to try it again, the mysterious credit card propped against the screen. My tech skills aren't what they should be to hack into Paul's alleged email account, but before I can start thinking of all the possible passwords he could have used, the screen lights up and multiple windows open. The Mac is in recovery mode, pulling up the documents Paul had been working on—and opening an email account I've never seen before.
An open message with Missing You Already! in the subject line assaults me.
As I scan it, my heart cracks open.
16
Zach
I'm rounding the corner after the world's most perfect run when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I slow to a jog to fish it out and manage to just miss a call from Abbey. It's the third one this week and if I felt any connection to her at all I might start to worry something's wrong. Abbey doesn't have any real reason to contact me unless I do something that messes with our divorce agreement and I make sure to follow that to the letter. No sense in having her coming after me again and no reason to poke the bear when I keep hoping she'll decide to sell her part of the studio to me and be off my back permanently. That's taking longer than I anticipated, but now that I'm starting to feel like my own life is coming back together, I'm getting better at ignoring the gnawing feeling in my gut when I think about how much control she still has over me.
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