“You’re not making any sense.” He shakes me off and stands up, but I rise and follow him around the edge of the bed.
Maybe if I talk fast enough, he will hear what I’m really feeling. “I wanted to disappear. I didn’t want her to know anything else about me, ever. When we met, I really was working in a coffee shop. I really did fall in love with you. I really do love Emma, so, so much.” My voice wavers, but my stupid, treacherous eyes refuse to well with tears. “You are my family and this is my life. I never lied about anything that really matters.”
Andrew holds his hands up to ward me off. “Nothing that really matters? You lied about everything. We’re married, and I don’t know you at all. And what about your parents? Do they know about me and Emma?”
I can’t help it; a bitter laugh breaks free. “My parents? I waited thirty weeks before I called them, and they hadn’t filed a missing persons report. They never understood how much it hurt when Ava scooped out my personal life like the inside of a jack-o’-lantern. They told me to be happy for her, to quit being so sensitive.” Andrew and Emma are the only people who have ever truly loved me.
Oh, why can’t I cry now, when my heart is breaking?
I wrap my arms around my stomach, and I see pity in Andrew’s eyes. “Lizzie,” he says softly.
He’s come to a decision. I can see it in the steadiness of his gaze. Maybe if I grovel, I can change his mind. I have to change his mind. “I know. You don’t trust me around Emma. I’ve lied to you, you don’t know who I am, you can’t trust me, but—”
“But we’ve got time to think about all of that later.” Andrew’s voice is calm. “Right now, you have to go to the police before this thing snowballs. I may not know everything about your life, but I do know where you were last week. I know you weren’t making your sister disappear. You’ve been right here in Texas with me and Emma. The sooner you get that cleared up, the sooner we deal with everything else.”
“I’m afraid,” I tell him. “Anything I say is going to pull you and Emma into the spotlight.”
“All you have to do is tell the truth,” he says. “We’ll take Emma to day care and then drive over to the sheriff’s office. It’s not like you’ll be talking to the FBI. Emma was in playgroup with Bob’s daughter. Just make a statement here at the local office.”
“Will you stay with me?”
He doesn’t answer, and I can feel the unsheddable tears building inside. My voice rises. “Andrew, please. I need you. I can’t do this by myself.”
“That’s not my problem.” He sounds like he’s speaking to a telemarketer, an annoying stranger …
“We’re married. You can’t just—”
“Don’t tell me what I can’t do. You’re a liar!”
And the bedroom door opens. Emma’s eyes are huge and accusatory. “You’re too loud,” she says.
Andrew holds out his arms. “I’m sorry, baby. Let’s get you to school.”
“I want Lizzie.” She runs forward, darting around him, and holds her arms up to me. My knees give way and I am on the floor, embracing Emma, my face pressed against her sweet head. If I keep my eyes screwed shut, maybe I can stay here forever.
Andrew sighs, and I think maybe at least one of my prayers was answered. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. I’ll come with you.”
I raise my head and look at him. Does he love me? I can’t tell from his face. But even if this is just pity, it’s better than nothing.
Knowing he will be with me to talk to the police, maybe even to see my parents, softens the blow. I can do this. I can tell the truth if he’s with me.
For once, the truth really is that I’m innocent.
“I love you,” I tell him, but he looks away.
* * *
A happy soundtrack of Laurie Berkner, Dan Zanes, and other folksy kid-rock tunes fills the car on the way to preschool. In the back seat, Emma hums tunelessly and kicks her feet in time.
My phone is completely silent. Ominously silent. A number of the playgroup moms are inveterate texters. Usually there’s a continuous buzzing coming from my phone. Everything from a slowdown on Highway 90A to a plea to borrow a juice box for a school lunch to an FYI about the PTO (and I don’t even have a child in elementary school) to an invitation to meet up at the park.
I know without a doubt that texts are flying around. I’m just not included in them. Someone must have recognized me on the news. Who will be the first to report I am living under an alias? I hope it won’t be Felicia or Bethany, but they are the most likely to recognize my picture. The ones who would realize how vague I’ve been about my past. They were my friends, but I’ve been lying to them too.
I don’t give a shit about a “mean mom” thinking less of me. Playgroup is full of them, the kind of women who specialize in plastic smiles and sweet little burns. They wrap their venom in southernisms like “Bless your heart” or “I’ll pray for you” or “Just so you know, sweetie …” which is never followed by anything nice. No one says, “Just so you know, sweetie, your child is a genius and you’re an amazing mom.” It’s always something like “Just so you know, sweetie, your child ate the only yellow crayon and I barely stopped her from running into the street.” The subtext is clear: “Your child needs help and you’re a disgrace.”
I don’t understand the rules of this kind of girl-game, so I mostly keep a bland, unoffended smile on my face and back away, storing up the most cutting remarks to mock with Felicia later. Felicia was the second person to make me laugh and forget I was pretending to be someone else.
Andrew was the first. I glance at him, but he’s looking straight ahead. I’m afraid to say anything, afraid he might not answer me. Maybe I don’t exist for him anymore.
We stop at the intersection where the train runs parallel to Highway 90A. From the back seat, Emma starts singing “Little Red Caboose” in time to the crossing bell. Somehow, whenever you’re late, you’re always on the wrong side of the tracks. I can’t tell how long this freight train is, but it seems interminable.
With a jolt I remember I agreed to watch Felicia’s son, Sam, this afternoon while she gets her hair cut. Will I be back? I steal another look at Andrew. The longer we go without speaking to each other, the harder it is to be the first one to say anything.
I pull out my phone and text Can’t watch Sam. Family emergency. So so sorry. She’ll have to scramble to find someone else, or bring a squirmy child with her to the salon, or wait five weeks for another appointment while the mean moms give her side eye. One more way I’m letting down someone I care about.
Usually she would text back right away: OMG Hope all OK? But my phone is silent. The last car of the train—not a caboose, just a basic boxcar—slides away. The crossing bell stops and the gate swings up.
Andrew doesn’t ask who I’m texting, doesn’t even look at me. Either he doesn’t give a shit or he’s trying not to act like he doesn’t trust me. Which makes me feel worse. My heart is as heavy as my silent cell phone.
We bump over the tracks and back onto the smooth pavement. I can’t go back to who I was. This is my life, my husband and my child. This is where I have friends. This is where Lizzie has friends. And you’re not Lizzie.
As we pull into the school parking lot, cars are moving in every direction with kids darting between them. It’s an obstacle course, but Andrew pulls the car slowly into a free parking place and sits for a minute with the engine off.
Outside, moms and dads trudge into the school with their kids and practically skip out unencumbered. Some are clearly on their way to work in crisp trousers and skirts, holding their children at arm’s length to fend off sticky hands. Others are ready for a day at home in casual jeans or even sweat pants and tees. And a few of the übermoms are decked out in coordinated track suits or supertight spandex, ready to star in a workout video. I’m glad none of these stay-at-home parents has a name tag declaring “I used to be a lawyer” or doctor or accountant or whatever. Being a mom let me hide my past as a dilettante. St
udent of all, master of none. PhD in advanced lying.
Finally, Andrew says, “I’ll take Emma in. Be right back.”
“Okay,” I whisper, not sure whether I’m sad not to have what might be my final hug from Emma or relieved that I’m being spared a moment that might break my stone-cold heart. “Have a good day, bunny.”
“See you later, ’gator,” she shouts, squirming to get out of the car seat’s chest clip. “I can do it my own self, Daddy. You take care of you.” With a last grunt, she hits the ground, holds up her hand for his, and trudges toward the school.
Across the parking lot I can see Felicia helping Sam cross safely among the Expeditions, CR-Vs, and Odysseys. I want her to look up at me and smile, to text me that it’s all going to be okay. But if she knows I’m a liar, I can’t count on her friendship anymore. And then she’s gone, disappeared into the school.
Andrew took the keys in with him. Did he think I’d go peeling out of the preschool parking lot in his Escalade and make a run for it? Honestly, if I were going to, I’d have taken my own damn car, a little Ford Fiesta. Half the size of Felicia’s SUV, it’s the best car I’ve ever owned. Just big enough.
“Is this really what you want?” Andrew asked when I picked it out. “You can have something bigger. What if you want to carpool?”
“We can fit one other car seat in the back. They’ll just have to be cozy.”
I’m smiling at the memory when my phone buzzes. Felicia. She did see me. I snatch it up, but the text reads Get out of the car and run.
What? I do get out of the car, a rushing sound in my ears, and turn around, looking for Felicia. There’s an older woman sitting in the driver’s seat of the car parked next to us. Her head is bent over a screen, but when I slam my car door, she looks up and I see the GPS app on the screen.
Another text buzzes. What are you waiting for? Didn’t you see the news?
Is Felicia trying to warn me? I don’t understand. Then I see her coming out of the school without Sam. I tap her number, but as it rings I see her waving open-handed at the crossing guard. She’s not holding anything.
I stumble back, my hand with the phone falling down by my side. The emails sent from my account. This must be the same person, stalking me, framing me. Frantic, I look around, but there are phones everywhere. One of the dads is on the phone; so is a teacher standing outside the school; even a little boy is playing a game on one while being dragged through the parking lot.
Another text buzzes. You’re wasting time looking for me.
Fear skitters down the back of my neck, cascading in ice-cold droplets across every nerve ending in my body. Someone can see me right now. Where are they? I spin around again, but get nothing more than a curious look from the crossing guard at the drop-off lane.
And then my phone rings and I answer it.
A harsh voice whispers, “Don’t be stupid, Zoe. Run!”
CHAPTER
4
I SPIN AROUND AGAIN, scanning the parking lot.
“What are you doing?” Andrew has come up behind me, and I realize that not only do I look like a crazy person, turning in a circle, I’ve apparently developed tunnel vision. The more freaked out I am, the less observant I become.
“Someone sent me awful texts.” I hand him the phone and wait while he reads.
“It’s from Felicia’s number,” he says with the literalness that makes me call him Captain Obvious. He’s used to easily definable problems, where you identify each part, make a plan, and find a solution. Usually I find that deeply comforting. Now I’m worried that this problem is too confusing, too scary, and the obvious solution will be to write me—our marriage—off as a loss.
“It isn’t her. I saw Felicia taking Sam into school and I called her phone … it wasn’t her. She came out and got into her car and drove away, the whole time someone else was talking.” My voice is growing more shrill with every word. “Someone can see me. Someone knows who I am.”
Andrew keeps the phone in his hand and scans the parking lot.
My raised voice has attracted attention. Parents walking their kids are giving me a wide berth. I can see a mean mom standing by the driver’s side of a shiny new Lexus minivan, whispering to the driver. As soon as she sees me looking, she makes a little caught me face and pulls out her own car keys. Bitch. Why don’t bad things ever happen to people like that?
“Okay.” Andrew puts a hand on my shoulder. “The faster we get to the sheriff’s office, the faster we can clear this all up. You’ll be safe there, and I’ll be with you.”
Safe. Hasn’t my husband seen any scary movies? That word is the kiss of death. Nevertheless, I swing into my side of the car, shut and lock the door, and then, when Andrew climbs in and gives me my phone, I shut it down completely. I can’t remember the last time I did that. There’s always the fear that Emma could get hurt or the school might call or something could happen to Andrew. Every crash reported on Highway 59, every twenty minutes he’s late getting home, essentially every day he makes the treacherous journey across the looped deathways of Houston, I am worried and my phone is on—in my pocket or my hand.
Now I drop it like a brick into my purse.
As we pull out of the parking lot, Emma’s music is still playing. They Might Be Giants wails about the “Alphabet Lost and Found,” and I catch a line about slang words that don’t belong. There have been times I’ve felt that way even in my new life—out of place, like a curse word in a church.
I feel that way right now in this car, beside my silent husband. I wish I could make a joke to break the tension, but I’m so afraid it would sound careless, heartless. And if I say something serious, will he answer with something devastating?
I clutch the purse on my lap and wish Felicia really had called me. She felt like a real friend, even though she knew only the lie. Maybe she would like me just as much, or even more, if she knew who I really was. Her subversive edge has always made her seem like she’d want a double life of her own as a spy or a crime fighter or a superhero. We usually talk every day about kids, television, our husbands, and neighborhood gossip, an ongoing conversation that fills the gaps between the face suburbia shows and the truth that runs beneath it all.
Sometimes I drive entire days with Emma’s music blasting from my speakers, but Andrew must find the cheery voices grating. With a little too much force, he punches the button for the radio, and NPR comes on. He doesn’t want to talk to me either. That could mean he hasn’t decided what to do about our marriage. Or it could mean he knows, and this isn’t the right time to discuss it.
I squeeze my eyes shut, as if I could wish myself back just twenty-four hours to a happy, safe life. Instead I hear the Morning Edition host say:
“In breaking news, we have just learned that Zoe Hallett—the sister of missing New York Times best-selling author Ava Hallett—and Glenn Melcher, the author’s husband, have been named as persons of interest in her disappearance. In an additional twist worthy of the novelist herself, Zoe’s exact whereabouts have been unknown for at least three years, although her parents report phone contact as recently as last month.”
My heart rate skyrockets, and I taste sour acid in my mouth. Andrew veers a little too close to a parked car and pulls back into our lane with a jolt. “Don’t panic.” I can’t tell if he is talking to himself or to me. “There was no way you could be involved. You were here with Emma.”
He is definitely trying to reassure himself. He was out of town until Tuesday. Ava’s been missing since Monday. And that was the day Emma and I stayed home. She had one of those inexplicable high fevers small children sometimes get, and she spent the day cuddled next to me, drooping and damp with sweat, while I coaxed her to sip iced apple juice and we watched Dora the Explorer together.
Could anyone verify that I was in Texas that day? Felicia called to see if we were all right, but she didn’t see us in person. Surely if we traveled, there would be some kind of record. Or they could check the cell phone towers or someth
ing. And no one would stage a major crime with a four-year-old in tow.
“It has to be a mistake,” I offer.
“Why would they think you were involved with this Glenn person?” Andrew frowns at the road, and I wish he would pull over and look at me, really see me. I know he means involved with Glenn in Ava’s disappearance, but I already feel a flush rising to my face.
No more lies. Lies are what landed me in this mess in the first place. I take a deep breath, or try to, but all I can think about is how I’m about to add another nail to the coffin of my marriage.
Maybe I can shrug this off as a misunderstanding? But that’s crazy. Andrew’s going to find out anyway. I can do this. I have to. I press a hand against my stomach as if I can force the truth up and out of my mouth. “Before he and Ava were married, when they weren’t even together, he and I … we dated. For a couple weeks.” Ten weeks. Almost a whole summer. I thought it would be a lifetime, but then he went back to her. I watch Andrew’s face, wishing Glenn and I had lived our happily-ever-after or that Glenn had never existed and I really could be the true love Andrew deserves. Instead I’m not good enough for either of them.
“Do you think he’s sending the texts?” Andrew asks. I twist the strap of my purse around my hand as tight as it will go. Is he really asking if I’m still involved with Glenn, if we’re not completely over?
“No!” I’m speaking too loudly. “I haven’t seen him for years, and he doesn’t know … he couldn’t know how to find me. He and I were over long before I met you. He doesn’t know who I am now. I love you, you and Emma. My life is here in Texas.”
Andrew slows the car as we approach a stoplight. He darts a glance at me, and there’s so much sadness in his eyes. “Lizzie. How long has that even been your name? I just don’t know who you really are.”
“You do! I’ve been myself every day with you. I’m your wife. My name doesn’t matter; it’s not who I am.”
“You have a whole family, a whole past I know nothing about.” His lips tighten, and I can almost read the notes he’s making in his head as the light changes.
Once Two Sisters Page 3