Not long after the funeral, I visited the wife’s home in the hope I would see things more clearly. I crouched outside her window and watched her guzzle a box of cheap wine. After she passed out on a pile of trash, I considered snapping a few choice photos. Then a train sounded in the distance, and I saw Rich on the tracks again. I stumbled away from the house that night barely able to breathe.
Now I’ve reached midsummer, and I’ve decided on one last try. See if a visit helps me to make my decision. If not, I’ll move away.
So on a warm evening in mid-July, I slip on dark sweats and take a spin to the promised land. After parking my car in the Upper Village, I make the two-mile trek up the road and arrive at the wife’s house, sweaty and winded. The side gate clicks behind me as I sneak into the backyard. The flash of a critter dashing past me jump-starts my heart until I see it’s just a calico cat. But it’s the buzz of startled voices that nails my feet to the ground. Visitors? That’s strange. The wife’s usually all alone. I count to twenty before I move again and peek around the side of the house.
What the fuck?
I’ve been sideswiped. Sucker punched. Quite possibly I’ve been duped. How else to explain Van Meter breaking bread with his victim’s wife?
A hundred scenarios flash through my mind. Is she prey or partner? Colleague or pawn? Is he setting a trap, or are they celebrating success? Whatever’s going on, this is dangerous. What if Van Meter catches me? I should leave. No, I can’t. I won’t. I want to know the truth.
I creep my way through the shadows until I have the couple in my sights. They seem to be having a nice enough chat until the wife wobbles to her feet. She takes a few steps and topples, hitting the ground with an ugly thud.
Van Meter acts like he doesn’t give a damn. He finishes his dessert and sips his wine, folding his napkin before he stands. Then he scoops the wife in his muscular arms and nuzzles her drooping neck. Something’s wrong. Not natural. The wife’s as limp as a corpse. I slink to the far side of the pocket doors to watch the action unfold.
The wife lies splayed across the couch as Van Meter yanks off her clothes. There’s pretty music playing in the background, which gives the scene the feel of a nightmare. He’s not fondling her in some sexy way. He’s handling her like she’s meat. He snaps off her bra and panties and drops them to the ground.
“You’re old,” he says. “And not my type. Know that? Of course not. You’re too dumb.” He snaps his fingers. “You in there? Oops. You might’ve had too much.”
Too much what?
He runs his hand across her breasts and squeezes. I can’t help but wince. “Do you feel this?” he asks. “No? Hmmm. Definitely too much. Don’t die on me, okay? Let me know if you can’t breathe.”
Backing away from the door, I tiptoe to their dinner spread and take a nip of Van Meter’s wine. It’s heavy and sweet but not poisonous. Then I dip my tongue into the wife’s glass, and bitterness floods my mouth. Scumbag. He’s drugged her. What the hell could he possibly want? Money? Sex? Revenge?
Whatever. Truth is I should leave.
A series of nagging thoughts stops me in my tracks. He killed Rich. Will he kill the wife? Will he then move on to the son? The smartest move may be to leave this place, but for whatever reason, I don’t.
I sneak back to the open doors. Van Meter is ranting, but I can barely catch his words. Something about Rich. And money. Money? Of course. He’s after the old lady’s missing money. I doubt the wife has a clue. And why get her naked? What’s the deal with that?
Van Meter gets up and heads in my direction. I edge behind the bushes, praying he doesn’t look my way. He picks up the wine glasses and returns inside, where he rinses and slowly dries them. Then he pours a tall glass of red.
“My, this is good,” he says. “Much better than your boxed crap, don’t you think?” He drains his glass and, without warning, hurls it against the wall. It shatters into a million pieces, leaving a bloody stain behind. “Now where’s my money? Huh? That’s all I want. If I find it, I’ll let you live. Just kidding.” He chuckles and slaps her face. Then he slaps it harder. “Oh dear, has it come to this?” He picks up her panties and presses them against her face. “Oh, Kathi, you’re such a moron. Don’t make me repeat my past.”
My heart beats loud in my ears. No way. Not again. I won’t let him steal another game and send it spinning out of control. But what can I use for a weapon? A tree branch? A chair? A rock? What about the tool set next to the fireplace? I might get to that in time. But then Van Meter stands and drops the panties and begins to rub his crotch. Can I stop him from rape? How? Should I call the police or play the part of the coward and slink off into the night?
I’m relieved when he moves away from the wife to search the house. He looks behind the artwork, rummages through the bookshelf, and eventually heads upstairs. I’ve almost gotten up the nerve to check on the wife when he jogs back down. He pauses to peer in the mirror and carefully arranges his hair. Then he turns to the wife.
“Found these,” he says gleefully, holding something sparkly in his hand. “Three carats, at least. Better than nothing. Now, I’m going to take you upstairs and snap a few photos—a memory of our wonderful night. They might be useful one day. After that, it’ll be time to wrap things up. I promised Eileen I’d be home by midnight, and I never go back on my word.”
Lifting the wife in his arms, he carries her upstairs and, after what seems like hours, jogs back down. He does another quick search of the house before heading out a side door. Moments later, the garage door rumbles, and a car speeds into the night.
I hurry up the stairs to find Kathi posed like a porno mannequin on the unmade master bed. Her eyes are closed, her hair mussed, and her limbs spread extra wide. I push her legs together, gagging at the crud pooled on her stomach. Ugh! He did that? Really? What a twisted mess of a man.
I think to clean her up, but I don’t have it in me, so I pull back the sheets and turn her on her side instead. She’s so small, so helpless. Less adult than an abandoned child. A pool of conflicting feelings swirls like dirty dishwater in my gut. I order myself to leave, but some part of me refuses to go. I finally settle on waiting until dawn and disappearing before she wakes.
I missed dinner, so I head downstairs and finish off the quiche. It’s the best I’ve ever had. Then I pour myself a warm glass of chardonnay and can’t help but neaten up. I clear the table and wash the dishes and pick up the pieces of shattered glass. I rub at the wine stain, straighten the paintings, and return a few books to the shelves. Turning out the lights, I carry my wine upstairs and settle in the chair by the wife’s bedside. That’s when I notice the pile of leather-bound books stacked on the nightstand. I open the first to discover a child’s handwriting scrawled across the face.
Kathi’s SECRET Journal—1979.
Wow. That’s a find. A key to the wife’s heart.
I skim through the sadness of the first few journals and slow when she hooks up with Rich. Moving on to her life as a mother, I almost take pity on the abused wife. The words make me strangely happy. They confirm what I’ve come to believe, that the wife was controlled by a monster. She was both kindly and sweet.
But then I reach the near-final entry, and my heart all but stops. December 25, 1989. I think I know what’s coming. But I’m wrong. I never expected this. Anger wells inside me, making monsters of my hands. I want to break her into pieces. Mush her into sauce.
“No!” I howl. “How dare you? How could you? How could anyone be so cruel?”
Tremors rake my body. My insides split in two. Saliva fills my mouth. I spit it on her sham of an innocent face.
Ripping the final entries from the journal, I stuff them in her hand. Then I thunder down the stairs and into the night without pausing to shut the doors. Stumbling out the gate, I sob my way back to my car. What is the worst? The very worst? But there’s no need to craft an answer. Van Meter will take care of that.
Kathi
December 25, 1989
>
“I’m disappointed in you, Kathi.”
The hospital room is dim. I can barely see Rich, only the outline of his body perched on the edge of a metal chair. His legs are crossed, so too his arms; his jaw is set tight as stone.
“We had an agreement, remember?”
I’m exhausted from the labor and fuzzy from the drugs, and I’m hooked up to all sorts of bells and whistles that won’t give me a minute of peace. There’s a whirring behind my head, a throbbing near my ear, a whooshing where the pump drains gunk from my stitched-up wound. I didn’t want a cesarean. I begged them to stop, but after twenty hours of hard labor, they’d given me no choice.
“The baby’s too big,” the doctor insisted. I continued to struggle until a nurse gave me a shot while saying a few kind words in my ear. “If it’s the scar that worries you, it’ll be worth it. That fading line will become a sweet memory you’ll carry with you forever.”
“Kathi?” Rich says. “Are you listening to me? Good. Now, please do what you promised, and hand the baby over. The adoption rep has been waiting for hours. Give her a break. It’s Christmas Day.”
I tighten my grip on my bundle of joy. “I don’t care. Tell her to go home.”
“All right, then.” The tension builds beneath his words even though he’s trying hard to sound nice. “But you really should sleep,” he continues. “You must be exhausted. The doctor offered to increase your Demerol dosage. You know you like that drug.”
“If I sleep, you’ll take my Rose away.”
“Stop calling her that. You shouldn’t name her.”
“I’ll name my daughter if I want.”
Rich makes a frustrated sound and jumps to his feet. “I’ve had enough. I’m going to grab something to eat. Hopefully you’ll have come to your senses by the time I return.”
He leaves the room, and I snuggle Rose close. She smells of sugar, of mown grass, of fresh ocean air. Her eyes are shut, her lips pursed, her dark hair thick and wavy.
“You’re mine,” I whisper, my heart blooming with joy. “I’ll never give you away.”
I must have slept, because I awaken to a brightly lit room with baby Rose tucked in a bassinet by my side. Rich stands just outside my hospital room conferring with the adoption rep. I don’t like her. She’s pushy, and her hair is dyed a shade of orange that looks hideous against her pale skin. The two of them glance my way and stop their whispering. Then the woman nods at Rich and slinks off.
Rich approaches my bedside. “Sweetheart . . .”
I throw my arm across the bassinet. “Stay away, or I’ll scream.”
“Don’t worry,” he says nicely. “No one will take the baby away, including me. You have to give her up willingly. We both have to sign the adoption papers.”
“That’s never going to happen.”
Rich pulls up a chair and sits beside me. He tries to take hold of my hand. “Kathi,” he says in a loving voice. “I know the past few months have been difficult. And I haven’t been very supportive. I’m terribly sorry about that.”
“Then let me keep my Rose.”
“But all the arrangements have been made. Her new parents are waiting.”
“I don’t care. They’re your arrangements. Not mine.”
His eyes narrow, but his tone stays nice. “I’d like to show you something that might help with your decision.”
“There is no decision.” I can’t believe I’m defying Rich. I feel a sense of power.
“Maybe not, but will you do something for me? Please? Just a little thing? I think I deserve that much.”
I don’t trust him. He’s brighter than me. And I know I’m not thinking clearly.
“Please,” he repeats, giving my shoulder a rub.
I bite my lower lip. “All right.”
“Good. The nurse’s aide will help you into a wheelchair, and then she’s going to take you for a ride.”
“With Rose?”
“Of course. I have an appointment to speak with the pediatrician. I’ll meet up with you in a few minutes.”
“You’ll meet me where?”
“At the viewing window.”
It takes some time to disconnect me from the tubes and equipment. Then the nurse’s aide lays Rose in my arms, swaddled in a pink blanket.
“Shouldn’t she wear a cap?” I ask, eyeing her bush of dark hair.
“I’m sorry,” the woman says. “We don’t have one large enough to fit her head.”
“It’s not that big, is it?”
“Not for a baby her size.”
“She’s large?”
“At eleven pounds? God, yes. She’s the biggest one I’ve ever seen.”
I take in Rose’s features as I’m wheeled down the hall. I don’t remember Jack looking so odd. She’s puffy and swollen, almost purple. There are rolls of fat ringing her neck. She kind of looks like a monkey. Not perfect and sweet like Jack. For a second I wonder if they made a mistake. Put the wrong child in my arms. But no. This is my baby, and I love her. I’m holding my big baby Rose.
We reach the viewing window, and the aide tells me she’ll be right back. I look at the rows of babies, all snugly wrapped in pinks and blues. A gray-haired woman steps next to me. She taps at the window and smiles. “There’s my granddaughter, Ella,” she says, pointing to a tiny baby resting in the far corner of the room. “Which one is yours?”
“This is my baby,” I say, holding up Rose with a smile.
The woman frowns. “She looks so much older. When was she born?”
“Last night.”
“Last night? Really? How much does she weigh?”
“Eleven pounds.”
“Eleven pounds? My god. That’s twice Ella’s weight. Ralph!” She signals at a balding man slouched against the far wall. “Get over here and check out this baby. You’ve never seen anything so big in your life.”
“Isn’t it time for lunch?” he whines.
“You’ve got to see this first.”
The man slogs over and leans close, his breath stinking of cigarettes and onions. “Damn,” he says. “That’s one hell of a baby. Is he healthy?”
“She’s healthy, yes.”
“She? Wow. Maybe she’ll be the first gal to play for the Steelers.” He laughs so hard he nearly falls over.
“Mind if we take a picture?” the woman asks, holding up her Kodak. “I’d love to show this to my friends.”
“No.” I cover Rose’s face with my hands. “You can’t take a picture.”
“Well, excuse me for asking.” She grabs her husband’s arm. “People are so rude these days. Come on, Ralph. Let’s go eat.”
I stare at the couple until they disappear down the hallway and then take a good look at Rose. She does look older than the babies in the window. That shouldn’t bother me, but it does.
“I’m back,” Rich says, giving my shoulders a quick rub. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired.”
“That’s understandable.” He moves to the window, and for several moments he stares at the neat rows of babies. “Cute kids,” he says, turning to me. He crouches down and places his hands on my knees. “Kathi?”
“Yes?”
“You need to prepare yourself.” His handsome face grows sad.
“For what?” My breathing begins to come hard and fast.
“The doctor is concerned about the baby’s size.”
I tighten my grip on Rose. “She’s just big. What’s wrong with that?”
“It’s not just her weight. It’s something worse.”
My lips move, but I can’t make a sound.
“She may have a condition called macrosomia.”
“Macrosomia?” I say the word slowly, panic rising like water in my chest.
“Yes. It’s a rare condition that results in a large birth. It’s highly likely this baby has a genetic disorder. It could take months to know for sure.”
“My god . . .”
“Even if she doesn’t, there could be long-term co
mplications with her health.”
“But—”
“You have to admit she doesn’t look right.”
I scour Rose’s face. Her eyes are open, her lips moving. I can’t deny she’s verging on obese. “So . . .”
“So the adoptive family is still willing to take her.”
I turn my head away. “I don’t want to talk about that.”
Rich wraps his arms around my shoulders. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I truly am. Sorry for everything I’ve put you through these past few months. I didn’t realize how important a second child was to you. I was horribly selfish. I won’t ask you to forgive me. I don’t think I can ever forgive myself.” He takes a quivering breath.
I’ve rarely seen Rich cry. My heart reaches out for him. “It was my fault too,” I say. “I shouldn’t have stopped taking the pill without telling you.”
Rich straightens, his blue eyes searching mine. “I was so scared of the financial implications. But I’m not anymore. I’ve received a job offer in Santa Barbara. My new salary will be more than enough to cover the cost of raising a second child.”
“That’s wonderful news.”
“It is.” His eyes shimmer with tears. “But you have to understand: we can only afford one more child.”
“I’m fine with that.”
He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. “So tell me. Is this the child you want?”
“Of course.”
“It doesn’t bother you that she’s not normal?”
“She is normal.”
“No, she’s not.”
I shake my head, confused. “So what’re you saying?”
“I’m saying that I do want a second child with you. I want a daughter, a beautiful daughter that I can proudly walk down the aisle one day. But is this the right child? I mean, look at her.”
“Oh, Rich . . . don’t make me . . .”
“Everything is already in place. We can follow through with the adoption and have a healthy child next year.”
“But I couldn’t—”
“Think about it, Kathi. How will we handle a child with a genetic disorder? What will that do to us? To Jack? All of our time and money will be spent on this child, and for what? No college. No marriage. No grandchildren. Or . . . we can give her up and try again. We can have the daughter of our dreams.”
What She Gave Away (Santa Barbara Suspense Book 1) Page 21