by Nicole Bokat
“You would have kept up the pretense. You’re only sorry you got caught.”
“I didn’t want to lose your respect,” Isabel said, pleading. “That night of the accident, I saw Simon outside the hotel after the party. I went to the pool deck.” She was pacing now, gesturing. “He was at the bar in the restaurant next door, and I ducked out, thought I’d avoided being seen. Just to be sure, I told you to take that back road instead of the main one. That was stupid of me. I panicked.”
“You didn’t seem panicked.”
A swish of Isabel’s neck, like the tail of an agitated cat. “Nat, I’m good at hiding my emotions. You know that. I hardly slept. Simon texted me to meet him the next morning.”
“So, you were with him, not the Danish guy?”
“Yes. I told Simon I’d call the police if he didn’t stop harassing me.”
“You said I shouldn’t date him because of the car accident.” Here were Natalie’s tears. “You fucking lied right to my face.”
“I was trying to protect you.”
“You were protecting yourself.”
The ski marks appeared on Isabel’s forehead. “You were already dealing with so much.”
“You don’t get to do that, twisting it around to be about me. You accused Marc of being a horrible person for cheating on me.”
Isabel nodded. “It was hypocritical. But, Marc was a total shit. He left you.”
“Are you staying with George just because it’s good for your career or because Simon turned out to be stingy?”
“Of course not. I love George.”
Natalie pushed aside images of his honeyed skin, his hands moving over her body. A clot of nausea jabbed against her diaphragm. “Simon said you slept with him the other day, when he was in Boston.”
“That’s not true!” Isabel stood still; her body slackened against the desk. “I swear it’s over. That’s why I started therapy to figure out why I messed up.”
“And have you?”
“Starting to. My ambition, greediness, even my tendency to get bored.”
“Are you bored with George?”
“Sometimes,” Isabel said. “I have to learn to value comfort over excitement. I adore George. But I thrive on change, challenge. A long marriage isn’t like that.”
“You had so much advice on the subject. About me. About Marc.”
“I’m so truly sorry, Nat. Please don’t tell George.” There was a ribbon of fear in Isabel’s voice. “It will only hurt him. I’ll never do anything like this again. Please, for his sake.”
“Are you going to be honest about the money, at least?”
“Yes! I’m going to ask him to sell stocks so I can get out of this mess.”
Natalie reached for the ring finger on her left hand where she’d worn Marc’s diamond, then Isabel’s. It was a habit, fiddling with the jewel, but now her finger was bare. She rubbed the skin, which had been compressed from fifteen years of the tight band. “Why did you give me Simon’s ring?”
“You were sad. It seemed too pretty to waste.”
“You could have exchanged it. Sold it for a nice sum.”
“I wanted you to have something beautiful. I was sure I’d recoup what I’d lost without having to resort to selling my stuff like a fucking—”
“Person in trouble? Someone not rich?”
Isabel’s eyes were bloodshot and wet. “I made a mess of this.”
“Yes,” Natalie said.
“For months, all I’ve wanted was for it to be over, for Simon to leave me alone.”
Outside the long sweep of windows, the streetlights shone. Natalie needed to be there, away from Isabel and this clean room with the stark walls and the sheen of the wooden floors. “Maybe he will now. He’s back with his ex-girlfriend.”
“That’s good! Nat, how can I make it up to you?”
Natalie shook her head.
“Please forgive me.”
Doubt flew up like a bed sheet that refused to lie flat. “I don’t know…. I’ll try.”
Isabel’s sigh was deep and long. “I’m so relieved this is finally out in the open.”
twenty
—
JEREMY WAS OUTSIDE, CLAPPING HIS GLOVED HANDS TOGETHER. “Hey,” he said when he saw her. “Ready?”
Natalie felt dazed, like waking from the anesthesia after her C-section. “Yeah, let’s get out of here.”
“How’d it go?”
She stared ahead at the lamplights and the chiaroscuro sky. More snow was on the way, endless winter. She started in the direction of the T, pushing forward against the weather. “Simon was telling the truth.”
“Isabel admitted she was having an affair?”
“Yes. She says it’s over. He said it’s not. I don’t know who to believe.”
Jeremy whistled. “Wow.”
“I can’t wrap my head around it: the lying, saying she didn’t know him, all the crap about him being a fan.” Her words formed clouds in the frigid air.
“Did she explain or apologize?”
“Both. But … hasn’t sunk in.”
“Yeah, too soon. You up for a drink?”
“I would love to. But I promised Hadley I’d help her with an art project.”
He nodded, the earflaps from his aviator-style hat lifting like Hermes’ wings. She smiled at how sweet and boyish he looked, how easy he was to speak to. “Hey, no problem. I’ll ride with you.”
“You live in the other direction.”
“What can I say? I’m a guy with a lot of time on his hands.”
Natalie shifted her weight from one foot to the other. She wasn’t sure what to make of his offer, whether he thought her shattered. She didn’t want to be the perpetual victim, Hardy’s Tess or Richardson’s Clarissa—those tragic heroines from her freshman year’s Intro to the Novel course. “That’s sweet. But I’ll be okay. I’m not going to fall apart.”
“Of course not. You’re a strong person.”
Strong.
Had anyone ever used that word to describe her before?
“You’re very gallant,” Natalie said, tugging her hat out of her jacket pocket. “But I’ve been taking the T by myself since I turned forty.”
He grinned. “Maybe I just like your company.”
“Thanks. I like yours, too,” she said. They walked past filthy snowbanks littered with wrappers, plastic bottle caps, bits of newspaper, and splotches of dog pee. A good setting for a morality tale, she thought.
“Did I ever tell you what happened with my ex?” Natalie asked.
“Umm, nope. I didn’t think it was my business to ask.”
“This has to do with Isabel. Marc fell in love with someone else while we were still married. They’re already engaged, before our divorce.”
“Geez, not cool.”
They turned the street corner towards the train, the high-rise office buildings in the background illuminating the night. She’d done it again, portrayed herself as the dupe.
“We were wrong for each other,” she said, surprising herself.
Nat, there’s always a reason you can’t be happy.
Why do you always make me sound like some failing, nervous creature?
“Marc told me about Elizabeth before he got involved with her. He didn’t go behind my back. And all this time Isabel’s been bad-mouthing him to me.”
“I get that. My friends piled on about Greta when we broke up. They were just showing solidarity.”
“She was sleeping with Simon at the same time.”
For a moment, he didn’t reply. Then he said, “Yeah, that’s fucked up. But it explains her motivation for not telling you. She must have been afraid of your reaction.”
“It’s worse, though. She tried to convince me he was a stranger, or a fan. She never let on that she even knew him.”
At the station now, Natalie eyed the escalator, imagining the heel of her boot getting stuck in the step’s cleat and flinging her forward. Nothing was safe. She chose the stairs i
nstead, and Jeremy followed her lead, without questioning.
They arrived at the platform, and he said, “Isabel strikes me as someone who plays it very close to the vest.”
“She is, but that’s not the same thing as lying. I had no idea, not a clue.”
“Isabel’s an excellent saleswoman.”
Who is fucking up her finances and withholding it from George—a form of lying.
Even now, even after learning about Simon, Natalie wasn’t ready, not quite yet, to disclose Isabel’s business problems to Jeremy. He worked with a newsroom full of reporters, could expose Isabel. And why wouldn’t he?
I would if I were him.
Seated on the train, the odd sensation of the world akimbo lessened. Natalie found the movement soothing, that promise of home. The other passengers were preoccupied with their phones, except for one older woman, peering at the pages of a hardcover book through oversized glasses.
“No one belongs on that pedestal of hers,” Jeremy said.
“You sound like Marc. Even Isabel has told me not to idealize her.”
“I meant,” he took her gloved hand, “she shouldn’t put herself there. Guess it’s hard when you’re a Happiness guru.”
She squeezed his hand back. “Ever since her publicist told Isabel to work on her brand, she’s been obsessed. She suggested I come to her group because I was so upset about Marc, but maybe I was just another recruit. Maybe all of it—her books, her philosophy—they’re all just for fame.”
“You don’t mean that. You even convinced me that Isabel is sincere about what she does. Everyone now is getting crap over their ‘brand.’”
She felt a pang of love for him. There was no way to stop it. “She’s been more like a mother to me than an older sister.”
“Most mothers disappoint.”
Most daughters don’t kill their mothers.
Fatigue lapped at Natalie. She shut her eyes, but her mind wouldn’t rest. It was a nomad, wandering among the shrubs and inkberry plants and palm trees of Grand Cayman. Simon and Isabel hunched together, examining the hood of the car. What had ensued between the two of them, a quick quarrel, an understanding, a cover-up? She turned towards Jeremy whose cheek was close enough to rub hers. She tracked the movement of the pencil scar near his mouth, how it curled upward. How much disclosure could she risk? “Can I run another theory by you?”
“Course.”
“Isabel could be lying about Grace Cooke. She could have faked that report because she was worried about her relationship.” And her career. “If she was in the car that hit that girl, and Simon was there, someone could put the pieces together.” A scandal. Could blow up her whole fucking life.
“That’s a big leap.”
Natalie gazed at the young man seated across from them who was tapping his foot to the music on his iPhone. He had an afro and was wearing new sneakers, white as Milk of Magnesia. She couldn’t name the mixture of her feelings. They were huge and powerful without her usual skittish tempo. What she could do was funnel her emotions into pictures: the contrast of the train’s gritty floor, with spilled soda stains and a Taco Bell wrapper, against this passenger’s clean shoes, the older woman’s galoshes. Everything but portraits. The only one she wanted to attempt was Jeremy’s.
He asked, “You have a copy of the PI’s report. Can I see it?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I’ll double-check the information for you.”
“That’s really nice but …”
“Nah, it’s no big deal,” he said. “I’m sure it’s kosher. Isabel had an affair. She didn’t bury any bodies.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Are you going to contact this Godfrey character, tell him or her the jig is up, that you know about Isabel and Simon?”
“That’s a good idea.”
Jeremy chewed on his lower lip. “Do you think it could be Isabel’s husband?”
“Sending the emails? No way.”
“He could have discovered Isabel was fooling around.”
“George would never do that.”
Doubt shimmied its way up Natalie. Two years ago, she’d have sworn that Marc would never leave, that Isabel would never betray her or George, that her mother would never send her away. What did she understand about people, their underbellies?
“They were provocative messages, meant to be passed on to Isabel.”
She said, “I can’t swear to anything anymore. But I think he’s too adult to do something so small.”
“Have to trust your instincts.” Jeremy added in a bad Cary Grant imitation, “It’s something a newspaperman has to be good at. Stick with me and I’ll teach you.”
“Only if you promise to wear your Stetson next time.” She averted her eyes, lowered her voice. “What does your gut tell you about Isabel?”
“What are you asking me?”
“I guess I mean is she a good person, despite this terrible thing she did?”
“What does your gut say?”
Natalie shuddered with the realization she wasn’t certain. “It’s hungry?” she joked.
They exited at the Washington Square Station. Icy flakes flitted onto the pavement and cars, onto their shoulders and hatted heads. At her apartment door, Natalie said, “Let me just go check on Hads.”
“Why don’t you get me the report, and I’ll jot down the information. We can hang out another time.”
“But you came all this way.”
He grinned. “I wanted to be with you.”
She feared it would show, her bright center, like a fish that lit up to attract a mate. “Be right back,” she said and dashed into her office. She was still in her jacket, her pocketbook hanging down from her shoulder by its long leather strap. She heard the ping of her phone and ignored it.
“PI Richard Leroy,” he read when she handed him the papers. “Let me write this down.”
She touched his hand, and they exchanged glances. His eyes shimmered like drops of water on wax paper.
“Keep it,” she said. “I trust you.”
BEFORE BED, SHE sent bbGodfrey what she decided would be her final communication, with the subject line: I know now what happened in the Cayman Islands. She included the salient points Leroy had documented. Afterwards, she debated checking the text she’d received when Jeremy was outside her front door. It could be from Simon: I spoke to Gillie, and she’s your man. Won’t happen again. Or it could be: Told Isabel about you and me. She’s furious.
She didn’t want any part of it, this scandalous life.
It was from Isabel. I was terribly selfish. Forgive me.
As if she could will herself to do so. As if forgiveness were a transaction one could obtain through force or entice with pleading.
Mom, Mom, forgive me for the accident.
Grief ruptured in Natalie’s chest. She pushed her gadgets away, phone and computer. They frequently occupied her ex’s side of the bed. She shut her eyes and watched the yellowish orange light, flickering inside her eyelids. Time passed in a whoosh.
She saw herself in her bedroom of the Newton house. The crows were perched in the branches of the pink flowering dogwood, cawing, the sound that woke her every morning that first awful spring after her mom had died.
In her short skirt, Isabel twisted one leg around the other so that the soft white underside of her thigh peeked out. She was braiding Natalie’s long, curly hair. Her sharply delineated wrist bones peeked out from the sleeves of her peasant blouse. She wasn’t as gentle as Natalie’s mother. Her hands were too quick and impatient, catching the smallest wisps near her neck.
“What’s wrong?” Isabel asked. “Why are you so upset?”
“Lisa was whispering about me in the cafeteria again, how I was the one with the dead mother.”
“That’s unacceptable! Do you want me to deal with it? I’ll call her parents and tell them they raised an asshole. Or, I can go to your principal, get this Lisa suspended for a few days.”
“
I don’t think so. That might make it worse.”
“If someone hurts you, kid, don’t just take it. Retaliate.”
A thrill ran through Natalie. The sound of “retaliate” was like the click of teeth.
SLEEP WAS A jolt of a ride, stop, start. A setback, she thought, as she bit into the Xanax in the blood-bruised night. At breakfast, that hungover feeling from fatigue, she drank coffee from her favorite mug. It was a gift from her daughter, inscribed with the saying, “Don’t Make Me Shoot You,” and a cartoonish drawing of a camera on it.
What if Simon found Hadley’s number on Isabel’s phone? What if he contacted her as leverage? So many secrets.
He won’t. He wants to keep on Isabel’s good side.
Hadley, long-legged in tight jeans and woolly socks, slogged into the room. She yawned and fell into Natalie’s chest as if too weak to carry on. “Trig test first period is a form of abuse.”
Natalie stroked her girl’s cheek, the skin soft as a puppy’s ear. “You’ll survive.”
“Was Jeremy here last night?”
“Just for a minute, to pick something up.”
Hadley thrust out her pelvis and raised her palms. “Way to go, Mom. He’s so much cooler than Elizabeth!”
“It’s not a competition,” Natalie said. He is! He is! “Let’s get going, Beyoncé. You have a math test to take.”
“Queen B to you.”
At the front of the school, the rush of students entered the building, book bags hanging like baby carriers on their backs. Natalie watched Hadley walk with a girl in a puffer vest and a boy with the slope of a kid used to being the tallest in the crowd. They were a pack. Hadley belonged; she wasn’t suffering like Natalie had at that age.
The phone pinged, and she grabbed it out of her bag. Oh, how she wanted to disengage from this umbilical cord that afforded no freedom. Others ignored their messages or, at least, paced how often they checked them. But she was always on high alert. Fear was a hammer. It wouldn’t stop banging.
Isabel wrote, Sorry I let you down.
Just can’t wrap my head around it, Natalie texted back.