God, I wished he was there with me then. He would have known what to do.
There were a couple of pieces of mail for Ally, too—a clothing catalog she’d signed up for when she was a teenager and had never canceled, a solicitation from a women’s refuge charity, a bank statement from her local account. We’d opened it for her when she was ten. I still remember the look on her face when we’d brought her to Saint Mary’s Credit Union and handed her a hundred-dollar bill. The account was long dormant—the last time I checked there was just a couple hundred in there, ticking over and earning next to no interest. We’d talked about closing it out, but there never seemed to be enough time when she came home, and then she stopped coming. The statements still turned up every month like clockwork, though, and I’d shove them in the desk drawer and forget about them until the next month. I set the envelope to one side. I guessed I’d finally have to do something about it.
I sat back down at the computer and stared at the blank screen, and for a second I wondered what in the hell I was doing. Ally was dead. At least that was what everyone kept telling me. What was the point of digging around the life she hadn’t wanted me in? But the feeling didn’t last long. It was overpowered by a voice telling me to keep fighting for Ally. She wasn’t gone, not then, not for me. My fingers found the keyboard. I’d searched for Ben and Ally separately, but not together. It seemed as good a place as any. I typed in their names and hit Search. Reams of hits came up on the screen, all about the crash. The details blurred past as I scrolled down the list, until my eyes locked on a headline from the San Diego Chronicle. BEN GARDNER AND FIANCÉE KILLED IN PLANE CRASH.
There was a photo of them together accompanying the article, their smiling faces appearing pixel by pixel until finally, there she was, standing in a long dress made of lilac silk. I could see the hard edge of her collarbone. The thought of it made the reel start up again in my head, and I had to shut my eyes against the vision of her burned bones lying at the pit of some mountain. I opened my eyes when it finally passed. The diamond ring on her finger sparkled in the camera’s flash.
They were engaged.
The piece linked to their wedding announcement, made a few months earlier.
Mr. and Mrs. David Gardner of La Jolla, San Diego, would like to announce the engagement of their son, Ben Gardner, to Allison Carpenter of Maine. The groom is a graduate of the Whitman School of Business at the University of Syracuse and is the CEO of the pharmaceuticals company Prexilane. The bride is a graduate of Boston College. The wedding is planned for September 8.
The wedding was meant to have been in just a few months, and she hadn’t told me about it. She hadn’t invited me. She hadn’t wanted me to be there.
I looked at the picture of the two of them. Did Ally look happy? It was so hard to tell. She was smiling, all right, but there was something about her eyes that wasn’t quite right. She was wearing the necklace, the gold locket Charles had given her. That gave me a little comfort. Ben looked so damn smug standing next to her. He was wearing a suit that even I could tell was a good one, and he had the look of someone who always got exactly what he wanted. I’d seen his type at Bowdoin, rich kids who thought they were doing the world a favor just by existing. I wanted to reach through the picture and throttle him.
I remembered Linda saying something about Prexilane developing some kind of wonder drug, so I googled his name again, this time with the name of the company. My eyes lit on a link to a piece in Time magazine. I clicked on it and leaned in to squint at the screen.
HEALTH
Mother’s Little Helper?
ONE MAN’S QUEST TO END POSTPARTUM DEPRESSION
Dee Sefton, February 23, 2015
Being the mother of an infant is always steeped in challenges. The sleepless nights, the constant worries about your child’s health, the struggles of breastfeeding: all of it can take its toll. But for some, bringing a new life into the world can come at a much higher cost. Recent statistics show that one out of every five women will experience postpartum depression after giving birth, with symptoms ranging from mood swings to difficulty bonding with her child. However, it’s thought that only 15 percent of women suffering from the condition receive proper treatment. Ben Gardner wants to change that.
“It’s a game-changer,” says the CEO of pharmaceutical giant Prexilane Industries. For the past three years, his company has been spearheading research about the causes of postpartum depression—and they’ve hit a breakthrough. The FDA is in the final stages of approving Somnublaze, a pioneering new drug that targets postpartum depression.
“Somnublaze is the first-ever antidepressant that’s been specifically developed to treat postpartum depression,” Gardner says. “With it, we hope to revolutionize the lives of new mothers and the lives of their children.”
If the FDA clears the drug next month, as it’s expected to do, millions of American women may soon be free of the shackles of postpartum depression so they can get back to doing what they do best—caring for their babies.
That must have been the drug Linda was talking about. She was right, too. I had heard of Somnublaze—hell, everyone had. It was advertised on TV every ten minutes, some polished-looking blond woman with too-white teeth holding a baby in one hand and a briefcase in the other. “Now I can have it all!” She beamed, before the voice-over kicked in. “Why not ask your doctor if Somnublaze is right for you?” I’d seen something on the news about it having the fastest take-up of any prescription drug brought to market.
I still remembered the early days with Ally, when she’d be up three times a night and Charles and I would both get up early to go to work, both of us bleary eyed and snappy, the very bones of us aching with exhaustion. It felt like living under a heavy rain cloud, just waiting for it to pour. Even so, I don’t think I would have chosen to put something like that into my system. Our generation believed in sucking it up and keeping quiet. We didn’t talk about how we felt. Times had changed, though. Now everyone wanted to tell you about their diagnosis.
I looked at the photograph of him that accompanied the article, all white teeth and rolled-up shirtsleeves. I pictured him holding her hand, kissing her, bending down on one knee and offering up a diamond. The images came too easily and I had to squeeze my eyes shut against them.
No. I didn’t care what kind of a saint they made him out to be. It was because of him that she had been on that plane. And that meant that I was going to do my damnedest to know every single thing about him.
Allison
My head throbs like the worst kind of hangover. I reach out for my bag, catch the zipper, and pull. There isn’t any water left, but there is still a little food, and I need all the energy I can get. My fingers find a handful of nuts. I count out four and feed them into my mouth one by one. Their jagged edges catch in my throat and I fight not to gag.
Another month, another event. I was a pro by then, and Dee and I were assigned the best table in the house. A real estate mogul. A former film producer. The chairman of a major defense company. A politician vying for a Senate seat. A hedge fund manager. And the CEO of a pharmaceutical company.
I was sitting between the real estate mogul and the politician. The politician wasn’t paying me much attention—he was too busy trying to butter up the chairman of the defense company—but the real estate mogul’s eyes had locked on me like a laser from the moment I took my seat. It was only nine p.m. and he’d already grabbed my ass and propositioned me to spend the night on his yacht. “It’s a big one, I promise,” he’d said with a wink, and then he lunged at me.
I was about to fend him off with a giggle and a feint to the left when someone clamped a hand on his shoulder and pulled him back. I looked up to see the pharmaceutical CEO standing over him, mouth drawn in a tight line, fist already clenched. “Don’t be an asshole.” His voice was surprisingly calm. The real estate mogul stood up, knocking his champagne glass and his chair over in the process. A hush descended on the room.
“Don’t
fucking touch me,” the mogul hissed, but I could see the fear in his eyes. The CEO was nearly half his age, and you could see the outline of muscle underneath his tailored white shirt.
Dee caught my eye and motioned for me to do something. If things escalated, the night would be ruined, and we’d walk out of there with nothing. “Boys,” I said in my sweetest voice. “Please.” I placed a hand on the mogul’s chest and ran my fingers down the lapel of his jacket. “Why don’t you sit down while I get you another glass of champagne, okay, sweetheart?” The mogul nodded petulantly and bent to right his chair.
I looked at the CEO, whose fists were still clenched. I took him by the arm and led him to the bar, where I asked the bartender for two shots of tequila. I handed one to the CEO and we downed them without a word. I sagged against the bar as the liquid burned my throat.
The CEO wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and managed a smile. “Sorry about that,” he said quietly. “That guy’s a prick.”
I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment. The tequila had started to do its work but it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t yet numb. I looked up at him and shrugged. “Comes with the territory, I guess.” I saw the look on his face and forced a smile. “It’s not a big deal. He’s harmless. He just wants to have a good time.”
He shook his head. “He didn’t seem harmless.”
I held the smile and signaled the bartender for another round of shots. “It’s fine,” I said, with more conviction than I felt.
He looked around the room with open disgust. “I don’t even know what I’m doing here. I thought this was supposed to be a fund-raiser, but this . . .” He shook his head. “You shouldn’t have to put up with it.” I felt a wince of shame. He was revolted by this place. By me. And for a second, I was, too, before it was replaced with a surge of anger.
Who was this man—with his $3,000 tuxedo and his Hollywood-perfect smile—to tell me anything? “I know you’re trying to help,” I said quietly, “but I really don’t need it.” I tipped back the second shot and slammed the glass onto the bar top. I glanced at my reflection in the mirrored bar and tucked an errant hair back in place. “I’ve got to get back to work.”
He held up his hands. “Fair enough.” He downed his shot and placed a twenty under the empty glass for the bartender. “I’m getting out of here anyway.” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a business card. “If you ever need anything, call me.” He pressed the card into my hand. “Take care of yourself.”
I watched him leave before I read it. BEN GARDNER, CEO, PREXILANE INDUSTRIES. A telephone number was printed underneath. I slid the card into my bra and walked back to the table. “Where did our little friend go?” the mogul asked as I sat back down. He was smirking but his eyes still held a glimmer of fear.
“His mommy called,” I said, pulling my mouth into a pout. “He can’t play with us anymore.”
I watched his face visibly relax. “That’s too bad.” He slid his hand under the table. “But I’m sure you and I can have plenty of fun just the two of us.”
After a few minutes, I feel strong enough to make another attempt at getting up. I’m still dizzy, but I’m able to make it to my feet and pack up camp. Before I set out, I tear the last of the button-down shirt into thin strips. I’ll mark my place this time, so I’ll know if I’m doubling back on myself. The hollow of the tree yawns at me as I tie a scrap to one of its branches.
I stop and stare at it, the white fabric stark against the bark. I tear it off and rub it in the dirt before tying it back on. I can’t afford for it to be noticed by anyone but me.
Maggie
I didn’t sleep again. Couldn’t. I just lay in bed letting the slideshow play out behind my eyes.
Terror. Pain. Blood. Fire. Bone. Ally. Only then, there was a new image: Ben Gardner smiling out at me from the photograph, all white teeth and ice-blue eyes.
I got out of bed as soon as the early-morning light started creeping through the slats in the blinds. Barney gave a plaintive meow from the end of the bed as I shifted out of the covers. It was just before six in the morning.
I went downstairs and opened the door to the backyard. I hadn’t set foot outside since I’d first heard the news of the accident, and the feeling of grass between my toes gave me pause. The sky was still pink, and most of the yard was still dark, but the sun had started to break through the trees, hitting the top of the swing set.
I should have had it taken out years earlier. The slide was dotted with patches of rust, and one of the swings was missing a seat. It was a safety hazard, probably. I wouldn’t trust the cat on it, never mind a kid. Charles and I had talked about getting rid of it every year, made grand plans about replacing it with a vegetable patch or a rose garden, though my heart had stopped a little when Charles suggested a beehive. Bees made me nervous. But regardless of our plans, the swing set was still standing at the end of every summer.
The truth was, neither of us could bring ourselves to throw it away. He never said as much, but I’m sure he could picture Ally swinging on that swing every time he looked out into the yard, her little pigtails flying out behind her, her cheeks red from the excitement. We never said this, either, but I think both of us imagined a little grandson or granddaughter out there someday, too—though of course we would have had to fix it up first.
I could still see her running up to me and pointing at her scraped knee after she’d gone flying one day. “How did you manage to fall off the swing?” I’d asked her as I cleaned the dirt out of the cut.
She looked down at me, eyes wide, and shrugged her small shoulders. “I wanted to see what would happen if I let go.”
My bones felt heavy now, standing in my bare feet on the lawn. I couldn’t bear being there one more second. I had to get away.
I showered and dressed and was on the road by nine. Owl’s Creek was wide awake. The bakery on Main had a line out the door, people waiting for their morning coffee, kids clutching white paper bags filled with muffins and sandwiches for summer camp. I watched a harried mother pull her little girl down the sidewalk on one of those scooters they all had then. The girl was blond and pigtailed and her mouth was wide open in a wail, her eyes scrunched up against whatever injustice had occurred. The mother caught me looking, and I gave her a sympathetic smile. Lord knows it’s not easy.
I took the lake road out of town and merged onto Route 1, thick with commuters heading to Bangor or Portland. I didn’t mind. Traffic eased after Freeport and I found myself driving past familiar landmarks. The Motor Court Motel. The big red sign for C&R’s trading post. The turn-off for Piper Farm. I see the signs for Brunswick Airport and know I’m almost there. I took the next exit and curled my way toward Bowdoin.
I parked on Federal Street behind Stowe Hall and made my way up to the quad. The campus was quiet in the summertime but there were still the occasional students sprawled out on the lawn with books, sleeves rolled up and legs bare, or hurrying past with a backpack on their shoulders and a frown pulling at their mouth. It was all so familiar—for twenty years I’d crossed this quad and seen kids just like those—but that day I felt like an intruder. I felt like that most of the time then. Like a stranger in my own life.
I walked past the tall arched windows of the Hawthorne-Longfellow Library and through the sliding glass door. Doug was still sitting there in his chair, same as ever. He got to his feet when he saw me.
“Maggie! What a good surprise! What are you doing here?” He flinched and I watched him remember. “I heard about Allison. Christ, I’m sorry. What a thing to happen.”
“Thank you, Doug. How’s Betsy? She still working?”
“She retired last year. She’s driving me crazy—every day it’s, ‘Where have you been today? When are you coming home?’ At nine o’clock in the morning, she’s asking me what I want for dinner. Nine o’clock in the morning!”
“It’s a big adjustment. She’ll get there. What about you? It’s about time you called it quits, isn’t it?”
“Me? Never. The day I stop working is the day I die!” He pounded on his desk to emphasize the point.
I rolled my eyes. “I bet my hat that in a year you’ll be on a round-the-world trip with Betsy, sipping mai tais on a cruise ship somewhere in the Pacific.”
He shook his head. “If you think that, you’re crazy. You here to see Barbara? I saw her come in a few minutes ago. You know where to find her, right?”
I promised to say goodbye on my way out and made my way into the library. The cool hush hit me immediately, along with the sickly sweet smell of carpet cleaner mixed with stale paper. The room was almost empty, just a couple of students dotted among the long wooden tables. I padded through the stacks to the reference desk at the back. There was Barbara, steel-gray hair wound into a tight bun on the top of her head, pencil stabbed through it. I raised a hand in greeting and she rushed out from behind the desk and wrapped me in a hug.
“It’s good to see you,” she whispered. Her voice carried and several people looked up at us from their books and narrowed their eyes. “Come on, let’s go to my office.”
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