You Can Never Tell

by Sarah Warburton

  If Michael and I had been renting, would she even deign to speak to me? I told her my neighborhood, and she countered, “Not the Sullivan house?”

  I hesitated, confused.

  Resting her hands on top of the stack of paper, she asked, “Are you three houses past Windswept Court? A one-story?”

  Nonplussed, I nodded. She was building up to something.

  She widened her eyes, blinking like that would make her seem guileless. “You’re very brave to live there. I’d just be too creeped out.”

  “What are you talking about?” Even as the words came out, I regretted them. This was exactly what Sandy hoped I’d say.

  Fanning the papers out with idle fingers, she asked, “You know what happened to the guy who lived there before, don’t you? I mean, didn’t they have to disclose it or whatever?”

  Elizabeth’s lips thinned, and her hands moved even more quickly, folding the papers with sharp creases and passing them to Sandy, where they were piling up.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said shortly, using a little extra force to sharpen my next pleat. She didn’t need to know we’d bought it from a young couple whose father had recently died.

  “Well.” Sandy leaned forward, abandoning all pretense of doing work. “The old man who owned the house died right there in the bedroom.”

  Before I could say anything, Elizabeth tapped the half-folded stack of stars. “People die everywhere, Sandy.”

  “Not like this. They say he slipped and hit his head, there was blood everywhere, and he wasn’t found for three days. The carpet was ruined. I just couldn’t live in a house where something like that happened.”

  “Oh please. I’m not afraid of the dead.” And my sharp retort not only shut Sandy up, it gave me a little thrill. This kind of low-stakes sparring made me feel like myself again.

  While we’d been crafting and chatting, the president had been making the rounds, and she reached our table just as the three of us fell into an awkward silence. “I see we have a new member! I’m Michelle, president of the Bluebonnet Women’s Club.”

  “Hi, I’m Kacy.” She was too far away for a handshake, so I gave a little wave.

  “Welcome, Kacy. I’m glad you found us. If you need anything, I know these two will take care of you. We like to pair up old members and new members.” With a wave of her own, she moved on to the next table.

  Elizabeth looked at me and smiled, but it was just a little too tight around the edges. Nice to know I was making friends so easily.

  I had seven paper stars in front of me, and the stack of origami paper between us now seemed wildly optimistic. The two women next to me turned their chairs back around. One of them said, “Sandy probably knows.”

  Sandy dropped the star she’d almost popped into shape and leaned forward. “I probably know what?”

  “Whose kids stole that car.”

  She shook her head. “Definitely from the apartments. The house they crashed into, wasn’t that near you, Kacy?”

  Without thinking, I said, “Two houses before Windswept. The car smashed right into the garage. It really scared Rahmia.”

  “Rahmia?” One side of Sandy’s mouth pulled up in a half sneer.

  The air conditioning suddenly seemed colder. “My neighbor, the homeowner. She was walking her dog, and when she got home, the police were there and the car, but the kids were gone.”

  “Was it a terrorist thing?” That would be where Sandy’s mind went. As soon as she heard an Arabic name, she’d stopped worrying about the juvenile delinquents and moved straight to blaming the victim. I knew way too much about that game.

  “Or a hate crime?” Elizabeth added.

  I could feel my agitation rising, as if all the trauma of the whisper campaign against me were starting up against Rahmia. “How? It’s just kids who stole a car. I think it was the road, the way it bends around. They lost control.”

  Sandy’s lips pressed together, like it was a flimsy cover story and she for one wouldn’t buy it.

  And that made me keep talking. If only I could make her see Rahmia’s round face, her fear, the way she lavished love on Bibi. But I feared Sandy wouldn’t look beyond Rahmia’s hijab. “She’s really nice. I’ve seen her walking her son to school.”

  Maybe Elizabeth thought she could defuse racism with logic. “There are always kids setting off fireworks on the playground or spray-painting the bridge. Plus, almost sixty percent of our neighbors are East Asian, and I haven’t heard about any problems. This was just a random accident.”

  “That’s right, you both live in the new section of Bluebonnet.” Sandy’s nose pinched like she could smell the nouveau riche stink on those of us relegated to the melting pot of this lush planned community. “I just think there might be more to the story. You can’t tell about those people, can you?”

  Heat rose in my face, and before I could check the words, I said, “Oh, I can tell a lot about some people, bitch.”

  Sandy gasped, and my hand flew to my mouth. Elizabeth’s hands were still, the women next to me stopped talking, the whole table was staring.

  I grabbed my purse and strode to the door, barely keeping it under a run. The tables closest to the door didn’t spare me a glance, they hadn’t heard what I said, but I wasn’t kidding myself. Anyone who hadn’t heard me firsthand would hear it secondhand from Sandy. And this wasn’t a swear-out-loud kind of place. Instead of making Sandy look bad, I’d made myself look worse. Vulgar, young, déclassé.

  Racist bitch, I thought viciously. I wasn’t going to burst into tears, but I might burst into flames. I wanted to drive at top speed, I wanted to scream, I wanted to crash.

  There. I spotted a haven, a ladies’ room, and veered into it. Before I got behind the wheel, I needed to splash some water on my face, calm down. I couldn’t lose control, but I couldn’t hold it all in.

  The restroom was empty, but I didn’t want to run the faucet. I didn’t want water cooling my face. A lone coffee cup smudged with peony-pink lipstick sat on the marble counter top. Without hesitation, I snatched it up and hurled it at the wall. It caught the edge of a brass sconce and shattered, spraying bits of china everywhere. And before I could catch my breath, from behind me flew another cup, exploding like the first.

  I whipped around.

  In the doorway stood a woman with curly red hair pulled back into a loose knot and her hand just lowering from the cup she’d thrown.

  She looked familiar, I knew I’d seen her somewhere, but in my shock, all I could do was gape.

  In a husky voice, she said, “Nobody should have to bust shit up alone.”

  C2C TRANSCRIPT

  4

  Helen: We’ve talked before about how underrated women are as killers.

  Julia: It’s true. I mean, there’s this idea of being nurturing—

  Helen: Or just not as physically strong—

  Julia: That poison is a woman’s weapon—

  Helen: Or a coward’s. Like you have to be brave to shoot or whack someone?

  Julia: I think only the Mafia whacks people.

  Helen: But the truth is there are plenty of examples of female serial killers—Belle Gunness, Myra Hindley, Aileen Wuornos, Genene Jones. And just like Ted Bundy or Dennis Rader, they were hidden in plain sight. If they had acted like serial killers—

  Julia: Whatever that means—

  Helen: Then they wouldn’t have had so many victims and they would have been caught sooner. Nannie Doss, Lydia Sherman, and Belle Gunness were active for over a decade each. From everything I’ve read, nobody was even looking for a serial killer linked to any of the murders they’d committed. They were just living their lives. That’s the thing: female serial killers—like all serial killers—have to blend into their community to escape detection. These women have friends, husbands, neighbors, even kids.

  Julia: Serial killers, they’re “just like us.” Creepiest new feature in Us Weekly.

  Helen: And the serial killer we’re talki
ng about today was no different. Family, friends, neighbors—she had it all. And then she met Kacy Tremaine.

  CHAPTER

  5

  THE WAITING ROOM was nothing like the one I’d been to in New Jersey.

  My old therapist’s waiting room had been New England Creative, but this one was Manhattan Hardass. The walls were a soft white, the carpet a neutral gray, the furniture darker gray and chrome. All of it matched everything else—the floor, the lamps. There was also a receptionist hidden behind a sliding frosted window. Even though I was the only person here, she spoke in hushed tones, passing me an electronic tablet with all the forms to sign and assuring me Dr. Lindsey would be with me soon.

  The only sound was the air conditioning, shushing like a white noise machine. No magazines on the table, no brochures advertising support groups or shiny new medications, nothing. This waiting room was a cryogenic chamber.

  I turned my phone over in my hands, remembering the aggressive rush I’d felt yesterday. Swearing and breaking things had made me feel more like my old self than months of medication. Even if my old self had been soft-spoken and careful.

  Last night I’d told Michael the whole story, and it had filled me with triumph rather than shame. He must have thought smashing things in a bathroom was better than sobbing on the floor of one, because he just laughed. “You probably said what everyone was thinking. If this club doesn’t work out, there’s always the one through my work. And who was that woman?”

  Lena. Lena Voss. Born and raised in Arkansas but a Texas resident for two decades. My neighbor.

  But I hadn’t known that right away. All I’d known was that I wasn’t alone, that someone supported me, even in my rage. She’d put a hand on my shoulder. “You’re okay now. Whatever happened, just fuck it.” The fragments of our coffee cups still rocked on the china-dusted floor as we strode out into the lobby.

  “Is everyone looking at me?” I’d whispered.

  “Nope. They’re all too busy worrying about their own selves. But you could smile a little. Don’t want anyone to think I’m marching you to your death.”

  Lena had pushed the big front door open, and the frigid air conditioning gave way to a heavy wall of humidity. Across the expansive parking lot, other women were heading for their cars, and one of them gave Lena a little wave.

  That simple wave triggered my memory. I said, “You live in my neighborhood. We saw you last night, my husband and I.”

  Her laugh would have been a full-bodied and uninhibited guffaw on anyone else, but it seemed perfectly sized and natural as breath for her. “Well, nice to meet you, neighbor. I’m Lena, and you are …?”

  “Kacy. We just moved in.”

  “So this is your first Bluebonnets meeting, and you’re already throwing dishes. Who pissed you off?”

  “Sandy.”

  “Ah, figures. That woman acts like she’s auditioning for Desperate Housewives. Don’t let her get to you. There’s a little drama at every meeting, but it always blows over.”

  I wanted to believe her, to believe in drama that was fleeting, not life ruining. I wanted to be confident and strong, to look to the future. Apparently I couldn’t get there on my own.

  Maybe Dr. Lindsey could make that happen.

  My former therapist had his office in an old Victorian with battered hardwood floors and white plaster walls. The furniture was well-worn leather and mismatched end tables, and Dr. Johnson matched the decor. He wore Mr. Rogers–style sweaters and often had a pair of glasses on his face and another pushed back on his head. His beard was pure white and he occasionally brushed it with his fingers while I was talking, as if reminding himself it was there. He sat on a chair by the door and I sat on a sofa near him and mostly cried. Sometimes he passed me a tissue. When our time was up, he would say something vague and I’d leave.

  The only thing of substance he’d given me was a prescription. But I hadn’t expected any more help than that. The problem wasn’t imaginary. Unless he could turn back time, appear at the museum and warn me about Aimee, denounce her and exonerate me, keep me from being so stupid, so trusting, so naïve, there wasn’t anything he could do for me.

  But six months and a big move later, I was still a certifiable basket case. At least, until yesterday. I tapped out some new affirmations on my fingers. I am strong. I speak up. I am not afraid. I hesitated, tapping my fourth finger before choosing the obvious. I am ready for therapy.

  “Remember,” Michael had warned. “You don’t have to commit to Dr. Lindsey. We’re going to find a therapist that you connect with, one that can help.”

  I had connected with my old psychiatrist, more or less. Something about his clichéd contemporary Freud appearance and nonthreatening passivity gave me the space to fall apart. I didn’t feel self-conscious or like I had to present a false front. He didn’t expect better of me, like my dad, or want to coddle me, like my mom, or suffer all the collateral damage like Michael. He was just there.

  And I was still the same.

  I took out my phone, but the internet didn’t pull up. No signal. Was this building made of solid lead? Even the wireless networks were locked. Every single one. Maybe it was the universe cutting me off from my online stalking addiction. No matter how many times I checked up on Aimee, all I got was a stomachful of envy, hatred, and grief. The residue still coated my insides, and I dropped my phone back into my bag.

  Then a little light blinked by the receptionist’s window, and the door opened. A man walked out quickly, without looking around, tunnel-visioning his way across the room to the opposite door. He opened it and was gone.

  “Kacy?” A woman leaned through the still-open door. She was older than me, maybe ten years or so, wearing the kind of professional outfit I knew well. Black trousers, silk blouse, slim blazer. Her hair was a sleek bob, shining in a brown as neutral as her waiting room.

  Dread pooled in my gut. This was it, the moment before she knew my pathetic story, the gap when I might still be anything—a woman who suspected her husband of cheating, a recovering drug addict, a high-powered professional with a bone-deep sense of ennui.

  I am strong. I speak out. And then with a rush of heat, I added, I bust shit up.

  I rose to my feet, and she held the door wider. “Come on back.”

  * * *

  The first session had gone as well as it could have; at least, that’s what I told myself. After warming up by answering some questions about my medication, my eating and sleep, I’d plunged into the story of me and Aimee, the same one I’d been running over and over in my head for six months. How I’d thought we were friends, what the first signs of betrayal were, how stupid I felt, how I couldn’t trust my own judgment, so maybe everything that happened really was my fault. Sometimes in the rush of my words, I almost expected her to sympathize with me, or at least acknowledge how terrible Aimee was and how much I’d suffered. But all Dr. Lindsey did was make mild noises that encouraged me to keep on talking.

  The time was up before I knew it.

  She shut her notebook, and we looked at each other. Was she going to make a pronouncement? In my professional opinion, you are a whiny, screwed-up excuse for a human being and you should get the fuck over it.

  But what she actually said was, “Let’s set a weekly appointment, if that works for you?”

  When I nodded, she stood up and opened the door to the hallway. “Sharon at the front desk will get you scheduled.”

  On the way home, I ran errand after errand—picking up new towels and blackout curtains, stopping by a plant nursery for some mint to place by the back door, and wandering through the largest grocery store I’d ever seen. But there was only so long I could stall. I didn’t have anywhere else to be, and the empty house was waiting. After my emotional purge in the therapist’s office, I felt hollowed out, laid bare. And it wasn’t only my own ghosts waiting there anymore.

  When I told Michael what Sandy had said about the previous owner, it hadn’t bothered him at all. “First, it’s
just gossip,” he’d pointed out. “And besides, what matters more? That he lived a happy life here, or that he died here? It’s only because these houses are so new that people are freaked out about living in a place where someone died. In New England, you couldn’t find a place where someone hadn’t.”

  Lying next to him in our bed, it had seemed like he was right. The hardwood floors in our bedroom gleamed innocently in the moonlight. I wasn’t squeamish, and there was nothing creepy about our house.

  But now as I drove into our neighborhood, I wondered if those gorgeous hardwood floors were exposed only because the carpet had been so soaked with blood. I didn’t want to go home, but I’d run out of errands. Turning onto my street, I was blinded for a minute by the glare of sunlight off Rahmia’s windows. I pulled into my driveway, turned off the engine, and hesitated. The temperature rose so quickly in the car that I got out, leaving my bags in the trunk. Nothing I’d bought was perishable.

  I’d walk to the mailbox, or maybe farther. Maybe I’d just keep walking until Michael came home. Or longer. How long could I go before I outwalked my own thoughts? Telling my story hadn’t erased the memory of Aimee, but it had given me a glimpse of life without that emotional burden.

  And it would still be empty.

  Once at the block of mailboxes, I opened the little door to ours and pulled out the mass of paper jammed inside—a rolled-up glossy magazine, a few advertising fliers and a postcard, and an envelope addressed to “current resident.”

  As I shoved everything back into the box so I wouldn’t have to hold it while I walked, I got a better look at the postcard. I yanked it back out and held it in both hands. Not a coupon for pizza or the promise of a free car wash. The front of the postcard displayed the Martina V. Umana Museum, the place where I’d spent so many hours curating, encouraging, and creating art. Longing and grief flooded me. They thought I was a thief, a liar, and they’d still kept me on some kind of mailing list? You’re fired, but don’t forget to attend our next exhibition.