by Pamela Crane
‘I don’t think it’s enough. While it’s everything, it’s also nothing. One day the kids are gone and then where does that leave you? Empty. Motherhood takes every bit of you, and some days it’s hard to smile when you’ve given your all and have nothing left for yourself.’
‘You make it sound complicated.’
‘Sometimes it is.’
As Candace propped her new ultrasound frame up beside her bedside lamp, my eyes were drawn to Noah’s picture. It could have been his popular nineties heartthrob looks – a throwback to My So-Called Life-era Jared Leto, yum – but a familiarity seeped into me. How did I know this man? Why would I know this man?
‘Does Noah know where you and the baby are?’
‘I don’t know, but if I ran into him, he’d never get the chance to hurt me ever again.’ Her hand curled into a fist. Candace was capable of more than she gave herself credit for. It was frightening what a cornered woman was capable of.
Chapter 18
Lane
The click … click … click … of a man in a walker shuffling past the open door of Ms. Eidenschink’s hospital room blended with the beep … beep … beep of her heart monitor. The man’s open-backed hospital gown gave ample view of his wrinkled ass connected to bony, ashen legs. His body was mere parts, unusable and ready for donation. In this job, I was reminded daily of the fragility of life.
The patients I tended to were like ghosts, just waiting to fade away. Only a year ago Ms. Eidenschink had been living on her own, tending to her cat Lucy in a cluttered house fit for Hoarders. One bad fall and a broken hip cursed her to a bedridden life in a hospital room with little more than a television and the occasional visitor. Every once in a while a woman named Ari Wilburn would stop by and dye Ms. Eidenschink’s snow-white hair the inky black that she preferred. It was the little things that meant a big deal to people bound to their hospital beds.
‘How are we doing today, Ms. Eidenschink?’ I greeted her at the foot of her bed.
She smiled up at me, her full lips painted red, along with one of her teeth. ‘Doing well, Lane. Doing well. Where have you been? I missed seeing you.’
What she meant was she missed flirting with me. Any cute young stud – their words, not mine – was a welcomed treat on this floor. Everyone needed a hot-blooded interest in their life, even if it was the interest of a thirty-something married male nurse.
‘I’ve missed you too. You’re looking good today.’
She waved me off. ‘Nonsense. I look like Frankenstein’s bride.’
With the black hair and red lips, it wasn’t much of a stretch.
‘How is the new bride? Marriage is good, yes?’ Her accent – possibly Polish, though I wasn’t a language expert – covered her words so thickly I felt sorry for her mouth.
She extended her arm for me to take her blood pressure. Where needles probed her veins, her skin had turned into a stormy black and blue. When I finished taking her vitals, she stood, the chair squealing across the tile. Despite every effort, the inch of makeup couldn’t hide the sallow hue of her face.
‘Yes, everything’s good,’ I replied after a beat. ‘Although I’m still having a little trouble with my wife and sister getting along. I’m not sure why they’re at each other’s throats.’
She nodded, as if that was to be expected. ‘Jealousy does that. I can help. I know much about female relationships.’
‘Oh, that’s okay. I’m sure it will work itself out.’ The poor woman didn’t need to be burdened by my family drama.
She clicked her tongue at me. ‘You young people assume we know nothing about life. But you wrong. I know heartbreak, jealousy, revenge. My past not filled with wispy, sepia emotions that have been long forgotten. No, quite the opposite. At my age, the past is all I have. I feed off memories. Pass me your troubles. I help.’
‘Revenge, you say? What do you know of it?’ I asked. She didn’t strike me as the vengeful type.
Beneath penciled-in eyebrows her pupils slipped back and forth, watchful of eavesdropping ears. ‘Oh, that is story for another time. But I will tell you this: revenge is natural form of survival. Your sister and wife both protective of you. They fight to the death for you. Your job is to figure out way to keep them both thinking they are number one.’
We were interrupted by the squeal of the lunch cart being wheeled in by a food service worker. From the looks of him, he spent most of his time around food. Angling sideways through the door, he wiped the perspiration of a workout from his brow.
‘Lunchtime!’ he announced in a thunderous baritone.
While he doled out the food tray, the television hanging in the corner of the room flashed the local news. A ribbon of words scrolled across the bottom. Something about Benjamin Paris. Finding the remote on the bed, I turned up the volume.
‘Durham police have caught a break in a local murder investigation that had been cold for almost two months,’ the news anchor began, ‘In April, investigators received a call to the home of Benjamin and Harper Paris on Hendricks Way. When emergency workers arrived on the scene, Mr. Paris was pronounced dead from a knife wound to the chest. A murder investigation was then launched but quickly stalled, owing to lack of evidence and suspects.’
‘We had a body and the weapon, but no leads.’ Detective Levi Meltzer’s mustache wiggled as he spoke to the camera. ‘Sometimes a witness doesn’t step forward – out of fear, usually – but we’re fortunate when they do.’
The screen flashed back to the news anchor. ‘Neighbor Michelle Hudson heard the crash of glass the night of the murder.’
The wrinkled face of an old lady filled the television, and in the background I saw Harper’s house, slightly blurred. ‘I am considered the neighborhood watch because I don’t sleep much. I always keep an eye out on things. That night, when I heard glass breaking across the street, I naturally looked to see what it was. To be honest, it didn’t make sense what I saw, so I never said anything. At my age your brain can play tricks on you, you know? But eventually I figured I’d tell the police what I saw and see if they could make sense of it.’
‘The Durham Police Department hasn’t disclosed further details at this time, but they are confident it will help identify the killer and close the case.’
The ongoing repartee between Ms. Eidenschink and the food service worker slid into an absolute, cold silence. My thoughts turned like the gears of a clock, tick tick ticking down to some inevitable tragic conclusion. Outside the window, the clouds joined into an army of raindrops, like a billowing iron curtain. Lightning streaked across the gray.
The neighbor had seen us. Boom.
Another flash.
We’d be charged with insurance fraud. Boom.
And I was pretty sure that tampering with evidence was a jailable offense. I would miss my child’s birth, first breath, first wail. I’d never have the joy of waking to his screams just as I’m falling asleep. Or watching her chest rise and fall while she sleeps, ever nervous that her frail life hung in the balance of each breath. My sister had damned my life along with hers.
I had everything. And soon I’d have nothing.
I pulled my cell phone from my scrubs pocket and slipped into the hallway while dialing. Harper picked up midway through the first ring.
‘Did you see the news?’ I whispered before she got a full hello out.
‘No, why?’
‘They interviewed a witness – Michelle Hudson – who saw us that night. What if she identifies us to the police?’
‘Michelle?’ Harper scoffed. I could almost hear her eyeroll. ‘I can’t imagine that she would have seen anything but shadowy figures, if that. She’s as blind as a bat and a gossip fiend. I’m sure that’s all this is – a lonely old lady’s way of getting involved and feeling important.’
‘How can you be sure she didn’t see us?’ I needed more than Harper’s assumption. I needed certainty.
There was always the chance that Ben was in fact murdered, and Michelle Hudson saw the
real killer. But I couldn’t hang my life on a chance.
‘Do you want me to go ask her?’ Harper offered. ‘I can talk to her, find out what she told the police.’
I considered it for a moment. ‘Do you think she would actually come out and tell you to your face that she saw you?’
‘Like I said, the woman is starved for attention. She would probably serve tea and scones while telling me she thinks I’m a killer. But really, Lane, she may have seen something, but there’s no way she saw us. I’ll talk to her if it will make you feel better.’
Who knew what would happen if Harper confronted Michelle. If the police were watching, it could put Harper back under suspicion. I couldn’t risk it. ‘No, don’t do anything yet. I’ll take care of it.’
If only I knew how to take care of it.
Chapter 19
Harper
Lane told me to sit tight and he’d take care of the Michelle Hudson situation, but I’d never been good at sitting tight. I probably should have listened to Lane, but I knew Michelle. We had been neighbors for years. What harm could possibly come from a quick chat?
When I arrived at Hendricks Way, my first stop was to pick up my mail. It was odd that the mailbox was empty, because even after forwarding it to my new address, I still got advertisements and coupons almost daily. I didn’t think much of it before heading down the sidewalk to Michelle’s, waving at Mr. Radcliffe, a friendly enough guy who lived across from me. He was the kind of neighbor who barely spoke two words in passing, but would mow your lawn out of the kindness of his big, quiet heart.
When Michelle answered the door, her hair neatly coifed and linen outfit pressed, it almost looked like she was expecting someone.
‘I suppose you’re here to find out what I saw that night.’ She stepped aside, inviting me in.
‘You always were to the point, Michelle.’ I stepped inside, prepping myself for the worst. If only I had known the worst was yet to come.
***
By the time I was done at Michelle’s I needed to pick up the kids from school. A year ago, I would have welcomed the kids home with freshly baked cookies and questions about what they had learned. With crumbs scattered across the counter, they would chatter about the friend who they played with or the answer they got right. But ever since ‘the accident,’ they came home to an empty kitchen and silence. It wasn’t fair to them, I knew this. But sometimes I simply didn’t have the energy to do better. Today, however, I did. I could climb mountains today.
Once upon a time my love for my children was endless. Until one day my son did something so unspeakably horrible that it tore right down the middle of that love. Now, my love had edges. To make up for that, I rarely said no to them. Especially when all they wanted was some Dollar Store candy.
One tended to spoil children after losing a loved one, especially when that loved one was their father. Maybe it was out of guilt, or maybe it was out of empathy, or maybe it was just to stop the whining. Regardless, candy seemed to make things better, if only for a moment. But that single moment was priceless.
The line at the Dollar Store reached halfway down the hair accessory aisle. This gave Elise ample time to ponder the merits of headbands over hair bows while the cashier checked out customers with the speed of a corpse. My hair dripped on my shoulders, still wet from our mad dash across the parking lot in an impromptu downpour. I couldn’t wait to get out of my damp, white oxford shirt that I was certain now showcased my bra.
The cramped store – where everything was $1 or under! – was the only place I could afford to shop for unnecessary extras, like candy or toys. Without a job, or Ben’s income, or my savings account, or the life insurance payout, money was tight. No, not tight – invisible. Suffering didn’t get you much more than sympathy and a prayer these days, neither of which paid the bills. I was still paying a huge mortgage on the house, and I wouldn’t see my first rental check for another month. And I couldn’t – wouldn’t – accept Lane’s numerous offers of financial support. He was already giving me room and board for free; I couldn’t take his money on top of that. I had stretched the cash I had on hand for the past seven weeks since Ben died, but I needed money. Fast.
It was the last place I wanted to work – I preferred the company of plants over most people – but when I saw the Now Hiring sign posted in the Dollar Store window, I had decided to stop in. With half a dozen résumés sent out for more fitting jobs – secretary work, greenhouse manager, craft department supervisor – but no hire yet, I couldn’t afford to be picky. After handing the store manager my application for a job as a cashier – though, based on the current staff, possessing all of my teeth probably made me overqualified – I let the kids wander. Two minutes in, they were both whining for candy. My ‘no’ lasted another minute. By minute five they had each picked their favorites and were bumping into the legs of a cardigan-wearing man in front of us. When he scolded the children with a soft-spoken ‘how would you like it if I took your candy, little girl?’ then peered at Elise with buggy eyes made buggier by inch-thick wire-rimmed glasses, I was convinced he was a child abductor whose fashion sense was inspired by Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood.
The grandmother behind us wrestled with her grandson’s cowlick, slicking the tussock of hair down with a wad of spit. Her impatience at his endless babble was stamped on her face, a face wrinkled by exhaustion from raising her negligent daughter’s kid. At least that was the story I had made up for her.
Jackson counted the caramels in his bag while Elise fumbled with the packaging on her Sour Patch Kids gummies.
‘I thought you didn’t like the sour ones,’ I commented.
‘I didn’t used to, until Miss Eileen got them for me. I liked the ones she gave me.’
The name didn’t ring a bell. ‘Who is Miss Eileen?’
‘Grandma’s neighbor, duh,’ Elise said, as if I should have known who my mother hung out with.
‘When did you meet Grandma’s neighbor?’
Elise thought for moment. ‘The night Daddy died. Grandma dropped us off at Miss Eileen’s house after you left. And she gave me Sour Patch Kids.’
‘Oh.’
It was more of a concerned ‘oh’ than a satisfied ‘oh’ because I couldn’t imagine why on earth my mother would have dropped my children off at a stranger’s house when she was supposed to be watching them. What could she have possibly been doing that was more important than ensuring her grandchildren’s safety? And more pressing, why didn’t she tell me?
‘Can I have one?’ Elise asked, pointing to the bag of lollipops I held in my hand. A peace offering for Candace. I remembered during each of my first trimesters being constantly queasy, but lollipops seemed to offer a short-lived cure during the worst of it. I figured maybe it could help Candace too.
‘You’ll have to ask Aunt Candace. These are for her.’
It was the first time I had referred to her as Aunt Candace to the kids, and it felt comfortable, like a fuzzy sweater. My sister-in-law – there, I said it! – was still a mystery, but after she had opened up about her past to me, we connected. We had both been broken by someone we loved. Maybe we could heal together.
A feisty woman, with a small frame but a big voice, standing in front of the child abductor began arguing with the cashier over the price of an item, insisting it was two for a dollar. I was cursed to always pick the wrong checkout line. It happened at every store I shopped; I could switch to a faster-moving line, but whichever I chose, the curse would follow. The cash register would malfunction, or the cashier would go on break, or a customer would pay with a check. Who used checks in this day and age? The curse had given me every possible line-stalling scenario. This was new, however, finding the one person in the universe who would argue over a price at a store where everything was a dollar!
Shaking my head, I pulled out my phone. After my chat with Candace, we had left things between us in an awkward space. We hovered in the void between acquaintances and friends. She had been through some re
al tough experiences, and I wanted to trust her, to like her. But this nagging feeling … it tugged at my shirt like an insistent child. Something was off. The little details, like where she was from. Every new answer poked another hole in her timeline. Before, she had told me the baby was from a one-night-stand. Her revision implied Noah was the baby’s father. Which was the truth? Which was the lie? How did one even sift through them to find out? Plus she hadn’t yet been honest with Lane about the baby not being his. If I could just find something to prove she was who she said she was, I would feel so much better.
By now, the manager and two cashiers were huddled around the feisty shopper, trying to get to the bottom of the pricing fiasco. I still had to wait through child abductor’s cartful before it was my turn. The kids were occupied with hair scrunchies and a rainbow paper windmill. Opening Google on my phone, I searched for Candace Moriarty, Pennsylvania. Or was it Ohio? I had lost track of facts, if there were any. I expected an old address listing to pop up, or a White Pages listing. But there was absolutely nothing except a record for a woman who had passed away years ago. If there was no history of Candace Moriarty, did she even exist? Or did she go by another last name? Maybe Noah’s.
My online search came to a stop when the phone beeped with an incoming text from Lane: Is Candace with you?
I texted back: Who dis? New phone.
Apparently Lane didn’t find my joke funny: I’m serious. Have you seen her?
A moment later Lane’s name, along with his profile picture – a shot of us taken on a beach trip four years ago – flashed on the screen. My pregnant belly was cut off from the bottom of the image, but I remembered the trip like it was last week. The five of us filling the three-bedroom beachfront condo, sand toys scattered across the deck while our towels, hanging from the railing, whipped back and forth in the salty ocean breeze. Lane carrying Jackson on his shoulders, Ben carrying Elise and the beach chairs. I had been forbidden from carrying anything but the baby inside me. With our backs to the ocean and our faces to the sun, Lane held out my camera and captured a selfie of the two of us in a perfect day.