by Darcey Bell
The other car was an old brown Buick with Michigan plates. I didn’t know anyone in Michigan, except Emily’s mother, and I couldn’t say I knew her. We’d never met.
Maybe it was Emily.
I’d had a bad day at work. I’d found it hard to concentrate. That was understandable. I had a lot going on.
Carrington, the VP of international real estate, the guy who’d brought me into the firm and whom I felt I could depend on, perhaps because we’re both British, had given me several hints of impending trouble. The broadest hint was over lunch at the Oyster Bar. We had three scotches each and oyster stew. He said he hoped I wasn’t off my game, or that I would soon get back on it. I’d been working hard and, I thought, doing well. But on the day I came home to find the two cars in my driveway, I’d seen a project that should have gone to me assigned to a kid from Utah who’d just come to work for the firm.
As far as I knew, Nicky was spending the night at Stephanie’s, and I’d bought a bottle of good scotch with which I intended to curl up in front of the flat screen and stream Inspector Morse.
I unlocked the front door.
“Hello?” I said. Some guardian angel or helpful instinct prevented me—saved me—from calling out a name.
I walked into the living room. Stephanie and Emily sat side by side on the couch. I told myself: Focus, Sean, focus.
Emily said, “We thought this would be fun. Don’t you think it’s fun?”
I said, “What’s going on? Why are you here?”
“Ask Stephanie,” Emily said. “She’s the one who’s been living here.”
I looked at Stephanie. I thought, Tell her you’ve moved out. Tell her we’re not together anymore. As if that would save the situation. As if that would make any difference at all. No doubt Emily already knew.
“Where are the boys?” I said.
“Playing in Nicky’s room,” Stephanie said. “Let them be.”
Who was Stephanie to tell me to let my son be? I looked at Emily for support. It seemed unlike her to sit back and let another woman tell me what to do about Nicky. That was worrisome. And not just another woman. Stephanie was the fish we’d found to help us with Emily’s crazy plan.
Emily glared at me. Why was I asking Stephanie where Nicky was? Emily’s dark cloud of hatred and scorn glided over Stephanie and hovered above my head.
“It’s disgusting,” Stephanie said.
“What is?” I said.
“That you could have abused your amazing wife.”
“What? I never ‘abused’ her.” I couldn’t stop myself from hooking quotation marks around the word, though I knew it was a bad idea. “You know that as well as I do.”
“I saw it,” said Stephanie. “You slapped her in front of me.”
“You’re lying” was all I could say. It was two against one. He said, she said . . . and she said.
“And what about what you did to my sister?” Emily said. “How am I supposed to ever forgive you for that?”
I said, “I never even met your sister. How the bloody hell could you be married to me for six years and not even tell me you had a twin sister?”
Emily turned to Stephanie. “Don’t you just hate the way the British curse?” Then she turned back to me. Her eyes, which I’d always thought were so beautiful, which had once looked at me with what I’d imagined was love, had become two glittering disks of ice.
“You knew about her all along. You’d met her dozens of times. Your not knowing that she existed was another act. Another lie. I’m talking about how you treated her the last time we were all together in the cabin by the lake. And when she showed up unexpectedly at the cabin on your birthday weekend, you couldn’t have been more annoyed. You teased and baited her, telling her she wasn’t fit to live, that she should die, that she should do her sister a favor and die, that she had nothing to live for, that the world would be better off if she died. Until she finally believed you. It took months, maybe, but it worked. When I went back without you and met her there, in the middle of the night, when I was asleep, she took all those pills and drank all the booze in the house and walked into the water.”
“I was never there when your sister was,” I said. “You know that, Em.”
“Don’t call me Em,” my wife snarled. “I told you never to call me that. That was her name for me, and now because of you, she’s dead.”
I said, “I don’t recognize the person you seem to think is me. The monster you’re inventing, you, you—”
“You crazy bitch,” Emily said.
“You crazy bitch,” I said. “Your words.”
Stephanie gasped.
“Crazy bitches,” said Stephanie. “Did you hear him? That’s us. Crazy bitches.”
Emily and I wheeled to face her, both thinking, Shut up. So at least there was that. I felt as if I was gazing at the three of us from a great distance above. How small and pathetic I appeared, fantasizing about forgiveness, searching desperately for signs that Emily might still be on my side (we both wanted Stephanie to shut up!) when the ugly truth was Emily was making accusations that could get me put in jail.
“Tell that to the coroner,” Emily said. “Ask if they can date the time of death with that much precision. Ask if they can positively say that you weren’t in the cabin around the time Evelyn killed herself.”
I knew that what she was saying made no sense, that it wasn’t logical, that I could prove my innocence. But I couldn’t think. “That’s a lie. It’s all lies.”
“You’re the liar,” said Emily. “And I don’t want our son growing up to be a liar like you. You said we were in this together. And obviously we weren’t.”
“Sean, your doctor warned you that those sleeping pills could make you psychotic,” Stephanie said. “You could do things and not remember that you did them. You could take a trip and not remember. You could bully someone to death and have no idea that you did that . . .”
Emily looked at Stephanie like a teacher regarding a dull student who’d said something unexpectedly smart. Stephanie must have come up with the part about the sleeping pills on her own. If I had to, I could prove that my doctor didn’t prescribe them until quite a while after Emily disappeared. Would I really need to prove that?
“I want Nicky,” Emily said. “Now. Can I make that any clearer?”
I recoiled from the sight of Stephanie beaming at my courageous wife.
Emily explained why she’d returned, very calmly and coolly. She was determined to take Nicky. Stephanie was going to help her. They were both determined. Emily’s story would hold up. She had a witness. I’d slapped her. I’d hounded her twin sister to death. I’d forced Emily to disappear and pretend to be dead. I’d planned to defraud the insurance company, and I’d made my terrified, battered wife go along with my plan.
Having two women conspire against me was a classic male horror fantasy, but I never saw myself as the kind of male who had fantasies like that. I like women. I’d never been afraid of them—until now. In any case, this wasn’t a fantasy. It was real. These women would do anything to separate me from my son. They would lie. They would perjure themselves. God knows what they would do.
Stephanie said, “I’m only telling the truth. About what I saw you do.” And then, to my horror, I understood: She believed what she was saying. I had no idea how she’d convinced herself, but she had. It had been wrong, from the start, to put our fate in the hands of a woman who had no thoughts, only feelings.
“You can’t get away with this,” I said. “I’ll get a lawyer. There’s already an insurance investigation under way, and this time I’ll tell them the truth, no matter what the consequences are—”
I was bluffing, but so what? I half wished that Mr. Prager would ring the doorbell right then. He’d see the three of us together; he’d sense the mood, and he’d get it. He’d figure out the truth. Settle things once and for all. He was too smart to be fooled by Stephanie and my wife. It would be great to have another man present. Seeing all of us in th
e same room would crack his investigation wide open!
“Go ahead,” said Emily. “Get a lawyer. I’ve got Dennis Nylon’s legal staff on my side. They’ll tell the authorities that you threatened to take Nicky if I didn’t go along with your insurance-fraud scheme. And I agreed, out of fear. Or . . . there’s another version we could go with. I needed some time away from the family, and you panicked and called the cops. A huge miscommunication. Sorry! And the fact that you’d taken out the policy was just a coincidence. No fault, no blame. No payment. I’d be glad to go with the second version if you will just go away and leave Nicky with me.”
I couldn’t. I couldn’t give up my son and let my wife—my crazy wife—raise him. There had to be another way.
I said, “I’m just trying to understand. Look, can everybody just take a deep breath and slow down and—”
The two women exchanged long looks.
Stephanie said, “We know what you did to Emily. And Emily knows how she wants to proceed.”
“Oh, please,” Emily said impatiently. “Everyone knows everything. That is not the point.”
I was afraid to leave them like that. To leave things in that state. But I needed air. Only now did I realize that I hadn’t even taken off my coat.
“I’m going out for a moment,” I said. “I can’t listen to this. But first I want to see Nicky.”
I walked past them to my son’s room. He and Miles were building a parking garage with Legos.
“Hey, guys,” I said. “That’s cool.”
The boys hardly looked up.
“Hi, Dad,” Nicky said.
“Hi,” said Miles.
I kissed the top of my son’s sweet head, and grief washed over me.
“Mom’s home,” Nicky said, matter-of-factly. As if she’d never been gone.
“I know that,” I said. “Isn’t that great?”
“Is my mom still out there?” Miles sounded worried. Did he think it was his mom’s turn to disappear?
I only wished that Stephanie would disappear, though I wouldn’t wish that on Miles.
I said, “Your mom’s in the living room with Nicky’s mother.”
My home didn’t feel like home anymore. It had been invaded and destroyed by my wife and her friend. I couldn’t get them to leave without resorting to the kind of violence they’d accused me of. I needed to get out. I went to my room and pulled together a suit, a change of clothes, some travel stuff, my sleeping pills, and my laptop.
I said goodbye to my wife and Stephanie. They didn’t answer. They didn’t seem to hear me. They’d poured themselves glasses of white wine and were stretched out on opposite ends of the couch.
I drove to the station and took the first train back into the city. I checked into the Carlyle. It was way more expensive than we could afford, but I told myself that times like this are what money is for.
I called in sick to the office and spent the day in bed. In the evening I went down to the magnificent Carlyle bar, with the Ludwig Bemelmans murals. I’ve always thought it was one of the most stylish and sophisticated places in New York.
I needed style; I needed sophistication and service. My life had gone dark and lonely and rough. I didn’t want to think about how much happier I’d been when I’d believed that Emily was dead.
I ordered a civilized martini (straight up, extra olives) from a civilized waiter, and when it came, chilled perfectly, I looked around at this civilized place and, after the second martini, imagined that things between me and Emily—and now, I guess, Stephanie was in the mix—could be settled in an amicable and civilized way.
I went back to my room, took two pills—twice the recommended dose—and tumbled into a dreamless sleep.
The next morning, I showered in the luxurious bathroom and used every expensive bath product. I smelled like a floral bouquet. I ordered coffee from room service, tipped the waiter well, and dressed.
At work I went straight to Carrington’s office.
I was dreading this conversation. I was going to ask if Carrington knew a lawyer who might (I’d have to be circumspect about this) take my case, if needed, at company rates.
What would I tell the lawyer? Once again, I couldn’t think straight. My wife had scrambled my brains, as it were.
Carrington tilted back in his chair and rolled away from his desk.
He said, “Good God, Sean. Are you the only person on the planet who hasn’t seen this?”
He spun the monitor around. In order to read the screen, I had to lean over or squat in front of his desk. It was all terribly awkward.
On the screen was a Facebook page. The profile picture was of Carrington’s wife in her garden with an armload of rhubarb. It was Lucy Carrington’s page.
A headline said,
Mommy Blogger Solves Mystery.
Hear what this mom has to say about her friend’s disappearance.
Carrington handed me the mouse.
“Click on it. Wait. Come around. You can sit in my chair. I don’t have to be here when you read it.”
I said, “You can forward it to me.”
He said, “I don’t know how to do that.”
He left. I followed the links to Stephanie’s blog.
41
Stephanie's Blog
Mystery Solved!
Hi, moms!
First let me say that I hope you’re sitting down. Comfortably. At your desks and kitchen tables. For those of you who need catching up, I’m linking this to the post about my friendship with Emily, and then to the series of posts about her disappearance and death. Or anyway, what we all thought was her death. But I’m getting ahead of my story. By the time you’re done reading those posts, you’ll be pretty much caught up.
Anyway, the latest installment blows everything out of the water.
Moms, are you ready for some big news? Some shocking news?
Emily is alive!!!
I’ll skip a couple of steps. I’ll leave out my vague suspicion that Emily really wasn’t dead. Let’s call it my mom intuition. That maternal sixth sense that once again turns out to be right.
When I wrote that post about the afterlife, that post which so many of you reposted, I was actually trying to get in touch with Emily in case she was alive somewhere and could somehow read it. I wanted her to know that I hadn’t stopped thinking about her and praying for her.
Emily was the friend I was writing about when I wrote about the friend reaching for our help and about how we know whether or not it’s real. (link)
Let me say it as plainly as I can: Her husband was abusive.
She was so afraid of him that she faked her own disappearance and death. It was worse than that. He’d come up with a fraudulent scam to collect a fortune in insurance money after she disappeared and supposedly died. It’s the sort of thing you see on TV, but I guess it happens in real life.
In fact it was her twin sister who died, a desperate measure to which Emily’s sister was pushed (to be fair, partly pushed) by her cruel, unsympathetic, abusive brother-in-law.
Sean Townsend.
If it seems surprising that the nice guy and responsible dad I praised on my blog should have turned out to be a terrible person, all I can say is it happens. Hustlers and even serial killers prey on loving women. Not that I am implying that my friend’s husband is a killer. Not literally, I mean.
Sean is a very bad person. I don’t know what the insurance laws are. But according to Emily, a Mr. Isaac Prager has been spearheading an investigation. He tracked down Emily and got in touch. He offered her a deal and agreed that she would not be implicated in the case if she told him the truth. And of course she referred Mr. Prager back to Sean. The last Emily heard from Mr. Prager, he and Sean had arranged a meeting about thirty miles from our town.
Emily and I are friends again. She was brave enough to reach out for help, and I was a good enough friend to be there for her. Once again, we’re moms united in the same struggle. So here’s to the moms and to good friendship.
Love,
Stephanie
42
Sean
Carrington waited outside his office door the way a doctor waits for you to get undressed before entering the examination room.
“Bad stuff,” he said as he walked back in. “Women! You have my sympathy, dear fellow.” Whether he believed in my innocence or not, I was grateful that he was polite. Civilized. It was just occurring to me that I’d taken too many pills last night, that maybe in a few hours none of this will have happened. But I knew I hadn’t taken that much. This was real.
I said, “It’s all lies, I swear. Isn’t this cyberbullying? Blackmail? What are the libel laws in this country? None of this is true.”
I gave him my version. I made one trivial departure from the truth. I pretended I hadn’t known that my wife was planning to commit insurance fraud. It made the story less embarrassing. Less complicated. I said I’d seen no connection between the policy I’d signed up for and her subsequent disappearance until the detectives pointed it out. Whatever happened was her idea. She’d always been the thrill-seeking type, always needing to play the bad girl. I said this was not a quality that was going to wear well as Emily aged.
Carrington yanked at his cuffs, sign language for too much information. We’re British.
And yet I think he believed me.
Carrington said, “I’ll ask one of our men in Legal. Apparently the internet isn’t like print. There are lots more gray areas. Meanwhile, what do you need? What can I do?”
It was one of those “road less traveled” moments when one has to choose this route or that one. You only hope you feel guided, that you are guided. And I did. I was. Maybe the pills were a good thing. They kept me from overthinking.
First thought, best thought, as they say. Though not the absolutely best thought, maybe. I should have mentioned Prager.
I said, “I need distance and time.”
Emily had taken time off. It was my turn. Get away. Go somewhere else. Think. Wait for the dust to settle. All the signs and portents were pointing in that direction.