by Kate Hewitt
Still, it saddened me to think that Laura might have told me something like that, or tried to tell me, and I hadn’t listened. Even worse was the thought that she’d never told me, because she’d known I wouldn’t have approved or even cared. Or because she didn’t care about my opinion one way or another, since I was so busy with other stuff.
What kind of husband had I been? What kind of father? They were questions I thought I knew the answers to, but now I wondered, even though I was reluctant to. I was afraid to think too deeply about either of those questions, and worse, their answers. I didn’t want to go back over my memories and examine them like scientific objects: exhibit A. Evidence for what? For the truth of what our life together had really been like lately?
The only other thing in her bag was her phone. I’d saved it for last, knowing it was potentially the most important. Now I swiped the screen; Laura had never put a lock code or fingerprint on it, something that had always annoyed me, just a little bit. What if someone steals it? All your information… it’s the latest iPhone…
My fingers hovered over the screen; the wallpaper was a photo of us all at Cape Cod, partially obscured by various icons. I pressed the text message icon first, holding my breath, although I didn’t know what I expected to find. The police surely would have alerted me if something questionable or worrisome had been on there.
As it was, most of the texts were from me, a few from Alexa, all monosyllabic. Home at 6. Yes, I did. Can I stay longer? Did you pick up the dry cleaning?
I scrolled through, looking for texts from other people, friends from school or work, or even from someone at the refugee center, but there weren’t many, at least not recently. The last text she received from a friend from her editorial days was back in September, when we’d had dinner together, confirming the time.
I looked through the rest of the apps on her phone, finding out what she’d last bought on Amazon—a My Little Pony for Ruby’s birthday—and how many steps she’d walked the day she’d died—5,541—but no real information. Her life held no secrets, except I was starting to feel as if I hadn’t known her at all, and that scared me.
Of course I knew her, I told myself. I needed to stop being so melodramatic, so maudlin. I’d known her better than anybody. I’d known all her little vices—that she secretly bit her toenails, and how she hated the sound of cotton balls squeaking, and that she pretended to like smoked salmon to seem sophisticated. I knew her. And yet right then I felt as if I hadn’t.
Finally I clicked on the photos icon, and my heart squeezed painfully as the first photo came up—a selfie of her and Ruby, faces smushed up together, both grinning from ear to ear. According to the date stamp, it had been taken the day before she’d died, on the walk back from preschool. I stared at it for another moment and then started scrolling through the others.
Most of the photos were of the girls—in the park, at home, while on vacation, goofing around, hamming it up for the camera, a few candid shots they didn’t realize were being taken—one of Alexa laughing, looking happier than I could remember seeing her in recent memory. Laura had shown me some of them, but others had stayed on her phone, unseen.
I scrolled back to that first one of Laura and Ruby—probably the last photo ever taken of her. She looked so joyful, so alive—her hair falling out of its ponytail, her eyes glinting, the freckles on her nose. Studying her wide smile, I couldn’t believe she was dead. I simply couldn’t.
“Mister… are you all right?”
A hand came down on my shoulder, startling me out of my grief. I blinked in the dim lighting at the concerned face of another customer, an elderly woman. I realized that I was making a snuffling sort of sound, a kind of verbal weeping. My eyes were dry.
I shook my head, embarrassed, muttering I knew not what, and then, clutching Laura’s bag to my chest, I stumbled out of the café.
* * *
Back at the apartment, Laura’s parents were trying to be helpful, as they so often did, even if they weren’t actually all that helpful. This was what they always did, whenever they visited; Elaine re-organised the kitchen, Paul gave me advice I didn’t want. They tried to be overly involved, to seem as if they were so very helpful, but it was always on their very particular terms.
Wearily I listened to Elaine tell me how little food there was in the kitchen, how she intended to make roast chicken for dinner, which seemed like a lot of effort when none of us was eating very much and we didn’t have the ingredients she needed, which put her out considerably.
“I thought you’d have poultry seasoning,” she said with a sniff, sounding bewildered by such an oversight on our part. “I would have bought it otherwise.”
I muttered some sort of apology, hardly able to believe I was doing so. I could already see what the evening would entail—Elaine’s endless fussing in the kitchen, and then the meal none of us could ever seem thankful enough for. Plus, I knew she’d harangue Ruby for not using her fork, or Alexa for mumbling, and everyone would be ordered to clean their plates, no leftovers, not even the Brussel sprouts. I wasn’t sure I could stand any of it.
I’d never had a great relationship with my in-laws. I was always cautiously polite with them; we’d tolerated each other, for Laura’s sake, and at family gatherings we’d acted as if we actually got along.
The truth was, they had always felt Laura had married down. They were Boston bluebloods, old money, country-club-type people; I was a scholarship kid with too much obvious ambition and a loony single mother who had told them the color of their auras during their one unfortunate meeting at Laura’s and my wedding. It didn’t help that Laura had been twelve weeks pregnant when we got married, something that they blamed only me for.
Over the years, it only got worse, although I did my best to suck it up. Paul and Elaine Taylor muscled in on my marriage in far too many ways—co-opting our vacation plans with suggestions of their own, trips we couldn’t afford that were bankrolled by Daddy, even though they knew I couldn’t stand that.
When we couldn’t afford private preschool for Alexa—I was twenty-seven, just starting out—they told Laura they’d pay for it, without even asking me. She accepted, and then looked guilty, asking me if she shouldn’t have. What was I supposed to say? No, let’s deprive our daughter for the sake of my pride.
Still, it had always grated on me, over the years, to accept their handouts, for Laura’s sake. She couldn’t understand why I didn’t want her father to buy us an apartment of their choosing, when I knew it would always feel like their home, not ours. Gifts always—always—came with strings, but Laura was so used to them dangling down that she never seemed to mind. But I did. I did a lot.
When I was thirty-two, I finally made my mark, designing an office building in San Francisco that won a lot of awards. Three years later, I started my own business with Frank, a friend from grad school, and we were lucky and driven and made it bigger sooner than anyone had expected. The money started coming in, and finally—finally—it was me who could afford the apartment, the school tuition, the vacations, just as I’d always wanted.
Admittedly, all those things stretched us a lot. Our credit card was usually maxed out, and the mortgage on our apartment was bigger than I liked or wanted to acknowledge. There was a reason we had only redecorated the kitchen, a fact Elaine seemed intent on commenting on repeatedly.
“How long have you been in this place, Nathan? Four years? I think there might be lead paint in the bedrooms… have you had the girls tested?” Yes, we had, and there were no concerns, but I hated the way she asked, as if she suspected we hadn’t, as if we didn’t even care.
Death by a thousand cuts, or really, sly sideways knife thrusts, right into the gut. And now, with Laura’s grief such a raw, open wound, I didn’t think I could take any more, not without saying or doing something I wasn’t even sure I’d regret.
“I don’t know if we’re up for eating a proper sit-down meal, Elaine. Why don’t we just get takeout?”
He
r lips pressed together, her eyes flashing as she drew herself up, a posture I was well used to. “Nutrition is important, Nathan, and I doubt they’ll be getting many home-cooked meals in the foreseeable future. Besides, I’ve already ordered the groceries.”
I let it go; I didn’t have the strength to fight these petty battles that always seemed to mean so much to my mother-in-law. Alexa was still angry with me, for some unknown reason, Ella silent, Ruby being clingy or having meltdowns in turns. No one knew how to be. No one knew how this was supposed to go.
I wanted to curl up on my bed and sleep for about a thousand hours; I wanted to drink an entire bottle of Jack Daniel’s and forget everything, for just a little bit, but I couldn’t. Of course I couldn’t.
I couldn’t even grieve, not that I knew how, because I was trying to manage everything—the girls, my in-laws, the small scattering of neighbors and friends who texted, asking if there was anything they could do, without entirely seeming to mean it.
And then, two days after Laura’s death, the media found us. I walked out of our apartment building with Ruby, who had decided she wanted to go to preschool, only to stagger back at a blinding flash in my face. A camera.
“Mr. West, can you comment on your wife’s murder?”
“What are the police doing for the investigation?”
“Did she know her killer?”
“Get the fuck away from me,” I growled, shouldering past them, my hand clenched around Ruby’s so tightly she whimpered. “Sorry, Rubes. Sorry.”
I left them behind us, pulling her along.
“Daddy,” she said severely. “You shouldn’t swear.”
“I know. I know. I’m sorry.” I glanced at her, looking so stern, like a school teacher. Like the fearsome Miss Willis. “How do you know about swearing, Ruby?”
“Mummy told me. I asked her what the f-word meant when we heard it said by a dirty-looking man in the street. She said I should never say it.”
“And so you shouldn’t,” I agreed. “And I shouldn’t, either. I am sorry.”
It was one of those many fantasy-memories that could have me doubling over and gasping for breath if I let it. I could picture Laura telling Ruby all about it—how serious Ruby would look, listening with every fibre of her being, and how Laura would answer, gentle and smiling, always patient. I could practically see her; if I turned, she’d be there.
I forced my mind away from it. I couldn’t let myself think like that, dream and dwell on the impossible. It hurt too much, an emotional overdose that left me hungover and yet desperate for another hit. I didn’t want to forget Laura, of course I didn’t, but I couldn’t bear to remember her… if I was remembering her at all.
A few of the mothers lingering by the school doors came up to me, murmuring as I brought Ruby in.
“We’re so sorry… I can’t believe it… is there anything we can do?” It was the usual litany, and I felt a morbid sort of curiosity mixed in with the genuine sympathy, and I even understood it. Hadn’t I been like that once? Look at those poor people. Thank God I’m not one of them.
Now I was.
Miss Willis was all gushing sympathy when I came in with Ruby, putting her hand on my shoulder, looking deep into my eyes, a far cry from her demeanor yesterday.
“How are you, Nathan? We are so, so sorry…”
She never called me Nathan. It was a strictly Mr and Mrs type of place. I tried not to shrug off her hand as I gave her a quick, tense smile.
“We’re okay. We’re coping.” Lies. All lies. “Let me know if Ruby has any trouble, anything at all, and I’ll pick her up, okay?”
“Of course, of course.” Miss Willis got down on her knees, putting her arms around my daughter in a way that left Ruby distinctly nonplussed. “How are you, sweetie? Would you like to play at the craft table today? I know it’s your favorite…”
I couldn’t keep from thinking this performance was for Miss Willis’ benefit rather than mine or Ruby’s. See how caring I am. Such a good teacher. Or was I just a cynic, hardening to everything because of my own bitterness?
I pictured myself in days, months, and years to come—angry and resentful towards everyone, sneering silently at the entire world because no one had suffered like I had. Like I was now. How could I keep myself from it? Did I even want to?
Over the next few days, that question became harder and harder to answer. Alexa remained angry, Ella silent, Ruby a handful. Ruby had returned to school, but Ella and Alexa weren’t ready yet and the headmistress of Walkerton had agreed they could restart in the new year.
My in-laws made no signs of leaving, taking Alexa’s bedroom so she had to sleep in with her sisters, and continuing with their exhausting version of being helpful.
They were determined to arrange the funeral themselves, with hymns and Bible readings they insisted Laura would want. They also asked if she could be buried back in Boston, even though it would mean a huge trek for us all after the funeral.
I allowed it all, more out of weariness than anything else. I knew Paul and Elaine were grieving; Laura had been their angel, their only longed-for child, after years of infertility. If this helped them, so be it. I couldn’t even care about the funeral, something else to heap on to my guilt.
My mother, Nancy, flew in for it, offering her own kind of help— messages from angels, tearful hugs, and an irritatingly self-absorbed grief when she hadn’t actually known Laura very well. We rarely visited her, and she hardly left Arizona, having decided to settle down when I was in my twenties. I think everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief when she was gone again, the day after the funeral, when we returned from Boston. She promised to come again soon, although I knew she wouldn’t.
Over the years, I’d become used to my mother’s brand of caring—effusiveness without sincerity, all gushing sympathy, gone in an instant. The girls continued to be bemused by her theatrics; although, for the first time, they seemed more interested in her strange pronouncements.
“Can you see Mommy’s aura?” Ella asked, making me roll my eyes.
“Oh yes,” my mother said, her voice reverent. “It’s a lovely warm pink.”
Ridiculous, but I let it slide, for Ella’s sake, along with everything else.
The media were still hounding us, with phone calls and even text messages, pleading for interviews; a few photographers continued to loiter outside our building, and we’d learnt to leave with our heads tucked low, our hands flung out to ward off the invasive shots. No comment. No comment. We were celebrities, albeit reluctant ones.
I stayed away from the newspapers, from the musing editorials dissecting our pain to the updates or lack of them on finding Laura’s killer, which thankfully tapered off after the initial rush.
Still, ten days after Laura’s death, there were photographers at the funeral, snapping away, as we entered the church behind her coffin. I felt like walking up to one man who had a cigarette dangling from his lips as he lifted the camera to his eye and throttling him. I could picture my hands around his throat. I could feel them.
Finally, three weeks on, the media started to leave us alone; we’d become old news. Boring. And now I’d come here, to the doors of the Global Rescue Refuge Center, where maybe, just maybe, it all began.
The police still hadn’t found any incriminating CCTV footage, although they continued to scroll through the endless hours of it; there was still no definitive link between this place and Laura’s death.
And yet… I felt drawn here, to this surprising secret Laura had. To the people who might have known her. It was Tuesday morning, the same time as she had volunteered. I was desperate for answers, something to help me make sense of the senseless, even though the reasonable part of me knew that was most likely a pointless, hopeless task.
“Come on, Ruby,” I said, and holding my daughter’s hand, I walked inside.
Eight
Maria
I saw him as soon as he came in. I was in the lobby, sitting at one of the little tables
with an Armenian woman, Anahit, who needed help with some paperwork, trying to make sense of the jumble of crumpled sheets and receipts she’d given me.
I looked up as he entered, and my heart seemed to still in my chest. There he was, Laura’s husband, holding his youngest daughter’s hand. Ruby. Ruby and Nathan. I remembered their names, I remembered them, even though the news had dried up and everyone else had moved on.
I knew they hadn’t. I knew how grief stayed and stayed, morphing into different feelings and shapes, like some kind of mythical monster. Just when you thought you’d got hold of it, it turned into something else and struck again. And I knew how it eventually slithered away and left you alone, left you with nothing, which was maybe worse.
He stood in the doorway with his daughter, looking both uncertain and determined, as he glanced around the busy lobby with its table and chairs, the small makeshift café in the corner, with vats of coffee and tea. Then he saw me.
I was looking straight at him, even though I knew I shouldn’t have been, and our gazes locked for a second, like something clicking into place. Recognition flashed across his features and after a second’s hesitation he started forward. I tensed, not knowing where to look.
Next to me, Anahit babbled anxiously; Cathy had hoped I might be able to understand her a little bit, since Armenian and Bosnian were both Indo-European languages, but that was like assuming someone could understand German because they spoke English. Still, I was what was available, and we both tried, waving our hands and doing charades in an attempt to understand each other, with limited success.