The Happiness Thief

by Nicole Bokat

  Dumbest thing I ever did. I should have gone to George in the first place.

  Did you now?

  Yeah. He’s pretty angry. But I’m hoping he’ll agree to speak to our broker.

  Good. I still feel like an idiot.

  You’re not. It will never happen again.

  Could Simon have Hadley’s phone number? I can’t risk her finding out about me, what happened with my mother.

  No, of course not! I swear. I’d never risk that, be that careless.

  Ok, good.

  Please forgive me.

  Natalie stared at the school yard, which was empty of all but stragglers. A moment passed in which she put her car in drive. She returned to park and typed: Give me time.

  Of course. Thank you. Love you.

  ONCE SHE WAS at her desk, everything else retreated. She needed to choose twenty images to correct from the sixty she’d shot of the pink, purple, and yellow, fondant-covered Easter cookies. In each photo she wanted the background to appear crisp and unfussy, not crafty—no bed of confetti paper or wicker basket—so that the “stars” would appeal to the sophisticated readership of the magazine. She loved them, then, these pretty edibles, incapable of harm.

  At lunchtime she put an English muffin in the toaster oven. While it heated up, she allowed herself to read her messages. Jeremy had sent one: The PI checks out. I’ll call you later, tonight a good time to talk?

  A shot of relief. One less thing Isabel had fabricated. And Jeremy wasn’t hurrying off. She hadn’t spooked him with her troubles. She wrote back, Yes. Good time. A million thanks.

  She clicked on the bird stamp to retrieve her emails. There it was. The name bbGodfrey, for whom this game was not over.

  Nothing you wrote made sense. No idea who Grace Cooke is. What do the Cayman Islands have to do with anything?

  twenty-one

  —

  NATALIE KICKED THE CHAIR NEAR HER FEET.

  What the fuck?

  Are you Gillian Monroe? I know about the affair with Simon. She didn’t use Isabel’s name in case Godfrey wasn’t the ex-girlfriend. Furious as she was at her stepsister, Natalie wasn’t about to advertise Isabel’s betrayal to some unidentified bully.

  She blasted her reply into cyberspace, fingers resting on the computer as if it were a Ouija Board. When no words materialized, Natalie figured she’d have to coach the ghost out of hiding. Tell me who you are, or I’ll track you down. I know someone at Google who owes me a favor.

  She ran her thumb over the track pad, searching her mind for some scripted television verbiage. I’ll give you till the end of the day.

  After sending this second message, Natalie peered at her inbox, then back at the time on the screen—until fifteen minutes passed. This person was desperate for attention. That’s all this was, a plea to be noticed, a hoax. Natalie needed to eat, to finish her assignment; she steeled herself with extra coffee and gulped down toast with cheese.

  An hour later, she was concentrating on her assignment when she received another alert.

  I don’t know anything about any of these people. I was only trying to help. It’s your life. If you don’t want to do anything, I’ll leave you alone.

  A precarious dip, like a surprise on a roller coaster. Heat and cold ran through Natalie at the same time. If it wasn’t Gillian Monroe or a witness on the island writing these messages, who was it? Another sycophant, a stalker? She could chase the questions on a loop in her brain and get nowhere.

  Tell me what you’re talking about, she wrote back. Otherwise my friend will find you and fuck up your email. Everything will be trashed. And I’ll call the police. Get back to me now.

  She unclamped her teeth, which were biting down hard enough to chip a tooth.

  This time the response took minutes. What can the police do?

  Harassment can get you jail time.

  She had no clue if this were true.

  After a few minutes of silence, Natalie added a flourish: I have my lawyer on speed dial right now. Let’s see what he says.

  Ridiculous. Her lawyer dealt with divorce, not crime.

  Ok, chill out. See you tomorrow at 11:30 at the Aristotle Café in Cambridge.

  She closed her eyes. Simon’s British slang coming at her: Gobsmacked. BbGodfrey had been here, in the Boston area, all this time.

  ARISTOTLE CAFÉ WAS quiet at this time of day, the mothers and their small children not yet here for lunch, and the college students who still opted for arty atmosphere over Starbucks not yet ready to study. One young man loped to the pastry counter and leaned towards the guy with the bun and goatee who was serving the customers. Neither of these laconic men looked capable of rescuing Natalie from Godfrey if he got aggressive.

  She took one sip of her cappuccino, too revved up to drink more. In order not to stare at the door until her eyes burned, she observed the student photographs on the wall. They were taken in foggy, mystical settings and weren’t very good, too wistful and obvious. It crossed her mind that she hadn’t informed anyone of her whereabouts. She figured she’d be safe here in public. Now, she wasn’t so sure.

  A girl not much older than Hadley slumped into the café wearing an open jacket, revealing a form-fitting t-shirt that read Florida. Life’s a Beach. She was so familiar, this kid with small, delicate features marred by piercings: silver studs in her right eyebrow, her left nostril, and a row down each earlobe. Her makeup was overdone: black eye-liner and vermillion lipstick as if, in aiming for sophisticated, she’d evoked the opposite effect.

  She glanced up in Natalie’s direction—just for a second, enough time for it to sink in. The girl knew her too. Was she a friend of Hadley’s?

  Natalie’s smile was automatic, and she almost called out in greeting. Then it struck her that the kid was cutting school. She could have been a senior—in fact, she most likely was—and they had more flexible schedules. Maybe this was Morgan, who’d driven Hadley home the day they’d fought about not taking rides from students.

  She stood up, ready to wave. Glimpsing at the girl’s wrist, on which several silver bands clinked together, Natalie suddenly realized who she was. The hair—a wedge cut, dyed brassy red with bangs that fell over one side of her face—had fooled her. It used to be tapered and dark. This was Ms. Anshaw who’d talked about twelve-step programs and Reese’s chocolate candy and wondered about people who’d struggled with mental illness.

  After one of the recent workshops, Ms. Anshaw had hovered around her stepsister’s desk, waiting for the usual stragglers to leave, her mouth a squiggle of anger, her eyes shining. Natalie had felt sorry for Isabel, having to cater to clients who viewed the Happiness Doctor as a wizard, a shaman.

  “You’re from Isabel’s group,” Natalie said once the girl stood next to the table.

  “Yeah, I’m, um, Lucy.”

  “Good to see you.” When Lucy didn’t make a move to leave, Natalie said, “I’m actually waiting for someone.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Lucy fidgeted with the sleeve of her coat. “It’s me … you’re here to see me.”

  Natalie felt her breath caught between her ribs. “You’re bbGodfrey?”

  “He’s my cat. Big Boy Godfrey.”

  The pressure in her chest was so acute, she slapped her hand over her heart to ensure it was beating correctly. Fast but regular. She sat down again. “Is this just a prank to you?”

  All this time, she’d tried to chase down the identity, Simon or Gillian, the odd man at the Joy & Wellness party, Robert Brampton who’d hit Grace Cooke. And, like the punchline to a joke, the culprit had been a cat.

  The girl slung herself into the seat across from Natalie. “You said if I didn’t show up, you’d wreck my mail account or call the cops.”

  “Our car accident, how did you know? From Isabel?”

  “No, she never told me anything personal, nothing that she hasn’t used as part of her act to get everyone to believe her crap. Her husband’s a big deal doctor who helps her with her work, her mom was an
unhappy Norwegian.”

  “That’s enough!” Natalie caught the young man at the counter looking her way and modulated her voice. “How did you know I was related to Isabel?”

  “From my aunt, Ellen Alden.”

  Another punchline. “Garrick’s secretary is your aunt?”

  “Yeah. I’ve been staying with her this year on a break from college after … I got into trouble my freshman year.”

  “You were in rehab.”

  The girl nodded. “I had to take a leave after the first semester. My parents found this asshole shrink who spouted Buddhist theories and put me on Trazodone, which gave me nightmares and made me barf. I refused to see him after a couple of months; my parents couldn’t deal. They sent me to this program for twenty-one days. Then, I came here.”

  “Did you come because of Isabel?”

  The lunacy of the last few months slapped Natalie on one cheek, then the other, like a Three Stooges’ routine. She’d visited Simon, slept with him, confronted Gillian, then Isabel, about the affair—all because of this hapless girl and her pet cat.

  “I came to chill,” Lucy said. “Aunt Ellen’s been great, letting me live with her, no judgment. Just for this year, till I’m ready to go back to school.”

  “So, that was you I spoke with about the tracking number?”

  “Wait … what?”

  “You told me Ellen didn’t want to be reached unless there was an emergency. The dog peed in the house while we were on the phone.”

  “Wow, weird! I thought you were someone from the school. A bunch of assistants called with questions about shit they couldn’t find.” Lucy sat straighter, proudly, and the words Life’s a Beach rose up. “They couldn’t seem to function without Aunt Ellen.”

  “What does this have to do with your messages?”

  “Aunt Ellen wasn’t so cool about my taking Dr. Walker’s workshop at first. Which was weird cause, like I said, she was totally chill about everything else, completely hands off.”

  “Can we get to the point?” Natalie’s knee thumped against the underside of the table.

  “I’m giving you the story. Aunt Ellen got upset when I told her I wanted to join Dr. Walker’s group. I thought it was cause of the professor, him being my aunt’s boss and everything. But I convinced my aunt, swore Dr. Walker was professional, would never talk about people in her workshop to her father, that she was this amazingly inspiring person, like Oprah, you know?”

  This was a girl raised on Twitter and snapchat and Instagram, and she was composing an epic.

  “Yes,” Natalie said.

  Lucy tugged an earlobe, loosening the last stud shaped like a flower bud. It popped off into her hand. “I’d seen her give lectures in Michigan and struck up a conversation with her. She was the opposite of my shrink, totally approachable.”

  “So, she was one of the reasons you came to live here?” Natalie asked.

  “Yeah. Dr. Walker encouraged me to do it and join her workshop. Said it would be a safe space for me. And it was at first. I fucking loved her.”

  “Everyone loves her.” Knee thump.

  “She’s good at that. She was so friendly, always available, said I could text her anytime. Once I found out about her, I knew it was bullshit. But I didn’t let on.”

  Natalie stared into the milky coffee; the foam and sprinkled cinnamon had dissolved. “Can you get to Godfrey, please?”

  “Okay, so it started after I mentioned Aunt Ellen. Professor Walker had died before the group started, and I didn’t know if I should, like, say that I knew about her dad. So, I didn’t at first.”

  Lucy ran her finger over the silver ball in her eyebrow, nervously. “When I finally confronted her, a couple of weeks ago, I wanted to see if she’d crack. She just turned into a whole other person, this icy bitch. She advised me to go home to Michigan. She said Ellen had an unhealthy obsession with her father and would be a bad influence on me.”

  So, this was a reaction to rejection, never mind how Lucy knew about the island. “What you did with me was payback?”

  Lucy rolled her eyes. “I’m not that twisted. Anyway, I sent the first one sooner than that.”

  Natalie calculated quickly. “That’s true. Why?”

  “Dr. Walker called the house one night, right before my aunt left for her trip. Aunt Ellen would never tell me what was going on—you should know that upfront. She is so loyal and respectful of that man’s privacy. But I overheard her talking on the phone, with Dr. Walker. She was freaked out.”

  “Overheard?”

  “Yeah, she was in the living room, and I could tell she was upset. I picked up the extension. Just for a minute.”

  Natalie nodded, seeing the pictures of Isabel rain down from Simon’s copy of Get Happy Now. They had amateur spying in common, she and this storyteller.

  “Aunt Ellen said Garrick insisted she carry out his last wishes: get papers to his stepdaughter, Natalie. She was conflicted, didn’t want to hurt anyone. Dr. Walker warned my aunt to forget about the package and stay out of her family’s business. A week or so later, Aunt Ellen brought home this envelope from the office.” Lucy fiddled with the flower bud on her other ear, a glint of desperation in her eyes. “I knew what it was, and that Dr. Walker didn’t want her to have it. I opened it when my aunt was asleep.”

  “You read my mail?” Natalie had the urge to grab this girl and shake her so hard the jewels would fall from her, like decorations off a Christmas tree.

  “Yeah, not cool. Aunt Ellen would kill me if she knew. That’s why I couldn’t say who I was. Also, I was afraid you might tell Dr. Walker. I didn’t know you, couldn’t risk it.”

  “Why does Garrick’s letter to me matter to you?”

  Lucy’s face flushed. “It’s because of Dr. Walker, the real person, not the fake, happy one she pretends to be. She’s out there, writing books and preaching to people. She shouldn’t be allowed to pretend that she cares when she’s horrible.”

  “This is based on Isabel’s conversation with Ellen and telling you to go back to Michigan?”

  “Of course not. It’s because of the accident.”

  Natalie shook her head and the confusion was a tug, like her hair pulled too tight when Isabel combed it. “I have no idea what this has to do with Garrick’s letter, but you got some wrong information. It turned out to be a mix-up.”

  Lucy glared at her. “What are you talking about? Your mother was killed.”

  Like a water main break: that gush of adrenaline. “My mother’s been dead for years. She wasn’t in the Caribbean.”

  “Jesus. What’s with you and the Caribbean? I didn’t understand why you weren’t doing anything about Professor Walker’s letter.”

  Natalie felt a wave of wooziness; sweat gathered under her arms. “I don’t see what you mean since I never got it.”

  “Right, but I didn’t know that,” Lucy said. “There was a police report. There was blood on the road. The police couldn’t figure out how it got so far from the car. But Isabel’s boyfriend must have seen. That’s why I told you to try and find him.”

  “Her boyfriend, Thomas, was there? Did he see what I did?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “The flashlight …”

  “Yeah, what about it?”

  Natalie’s mother had peered into the rearview mirror, fear radiating from her eyes. That fear had transferred to Natalie; although, by the time she realized what she was feeling it was too late. She’d asked, “Mom, what is it?”

  And she’d turned around toward the car, her stepfather’s Mercedes, trailing them. The headlights were off, when just a moment before a glow had obscured the street and sky. How could her tiny flashlight have illuminated the world like that?

  Her mother’s last word had been her husband’s name.

  “Garrick was behind us,” Natalie said.

  “No, he wasn’t. That’s the point.”

  The pieces were like scrabble tiles, not yet forming a coherent word. An
d she was playing this game with a screwed-up teenager. Who’d been locked away. “Then who was?”

  The girl pushed her bracelets up her arm, nearly to her elbow, and rubbed her wrists as if they’d marked her skin. “I’m not going to say anymore. That’s why I stayed anonymous and, umm, cryptic.”

  “You’re not getting off the hook this time,” Natalie said sharply.

  Manipulative, yes. Egocentric, probably. Empathetic: who could say?

  “It’s all very secretive and, maybe for you, a big laugh at my expense. But I’ll tell Ellen everything you said, everything you did, including reading the letters and harassing me, if you don’t explain right now. Why was Thomas, her boyfriend, there?”

  Lucy’s wrist rubbing accelerated, crept down to her hands. She whispered, “He was with her.”

  “Isabel wasn’t there. I know that. I would remember that.”

  “Professor Walker wrote to you about how the blood got where it did. Isabel.”

  “Where is the proof of this?”

  “Ellen sent it. I drove that day; we had lunch out after she ran her errands. One of them was going to FedEx. She addressed the package to you, to Natalie Greene.”

  “I never got it. Why would I even believe you?”

  “Believe whatever you want.” Her voice softened, almost scared, “Just be careful. Your stepsister is dangerous.”

  “Watch yourself.”

  A fissure opened inside Natalie in which doubt could grow.

  Lucy slumped in her seat. “You’re right. Why should I care? Just promise not to tell my aunt ‘cause she’s the only relative who believes in me. I can’t lose her.”

  “You should have thought of that beforehand.”

  Tears caused Lucy’s makeup to run into the hollows below her eyes. Her nose was red, which made her lipstick seem even more of a miscalculation.

  Natalie realized that for all her bravado, the kid was scared. “I’m not interested in discussing you with Ellen. It’s just unbelievably convenient I never got the letter. Did you keep it?”

  “I told you. She sent it! Why would I do that and then email you about it?

  “For attention.”

  “You think I’m crazy, fine. Join the club. You and my parents and the Buddhist assholes and half the people at rehab. But ask my aunt when she gets home.” Lucy rocked forward. “She’s coming back soon, in a couple of days.”