But how had they gotten my new address?
I flipped the postcard over.
In Aimee’s spiky handwriting, I read, “Don’t you wish you were here?”
Hands shaking, I tore the card, over and over again, as if I could destroy Aimee and the museum and the entire past year. Tearing it wasn’t enough. I wanted to burn it and then bury the ashes.
Leaving the mailbox open and my key hanging out of its lock, I wheeled around and smacked right into someone. Hard.
I cried out, dropping the scraps of paper from my nerveless fingers.
Then strong hands grasped my shoulders and a familiar voice said, “You’re okay. Take a breath.”
Blinking to clear my vision, I saw Lena, her brow furrowed, her red hair brilliant in the sunlight.
“I’m not crazy,” I couldn’t help saying. “I’m really not.”
“Well, damn,” she said with a grin. “Then I guess I’m the only nutjob here. You might need these.” With a quick motion, she shut the mailbox door and dropped my keys into my hand.
I clenched them convulsively. “It’s just this woman, my friend—”
“Let’s walk it off. You can tell me everything.”
And in a rush, I did.
Maybe talking about Aimee with the therapist had loosened the jar lid, but as I walked with Lena past one blank-faced brick house after another, the whole story came pouring out: not just what Aimee had done, how it had ended, but also the way we’d met, funny things she always said, weird little inside jokes we had.
“Aimee used to send me postcards, not because she was traveling but just because,” I told Lena. A bright picture of a cat or an art print from the museum gift shop. Almost every week one would appear in my mailbox, stamped and addressed in her distinctive handwriting and bearing a single question. Have you ever sat on the sill of an open window? If you were a lipstick, what color would you be? No signature. None needed. Just a way of saying hi or surprising me even in her absence. And I’d send her a postcard back with my answer.
Another thing I’d lost when she did what she did. Another sharp blade to my gut when I got this new postcard. “She sent me another one, just now, as a jab. That’s why I was so upset.”
“What a bitch,” Lena said.
That’s the reaction I’d wanted from the therapist. Now that I was getting it, something contrary inside me still wanted to make excuses for my former friend. Instead, I just shrugged like What can you do?
“She totally betrayed you. She should be in jail.”
“Maybe karma—”
Lena stopped walking and grabbed my arm to hold me still. “Screw karma. That’s like waiting around and hoping an anvil will fall on her. No, she’s a disgrace to all women and she needs to pay.”
I knew this was feeding the worst parts of myself, but my anger felt so hot, so strong, so different from the soul-sapping exhaustion of being hurt. I was tired of being a wounded animal. “You know, when she was standing there in the director’s office, accusing me, I couldn’t believe it. It felt like she’d killed my real best friend, the one that did all that nice stuff. Because that person felt real. I loved her, and now she’s gone, and the murderer looks just like her.”
“It’s the mind games that make women the worst. My mother—” Lena looked away. “Well, she was one of those women who hates other women, but she could play all their games. Just like Aimee. And Sandy. And too many people who don’t get what’s coming to them.”
“I’m sorry.” Maybe I hadn’t been grateful enough for my own mother, her even-keeled unconditional love. The only thing she wanted me to do was be happy. And that was the area where I’d failed her the most. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“Nope. Only child.”
That was another thing I should have felt grateful for—my sisters. I knew if I needed them, if something happened to Michael, if our house burned down, I’d always have a place to go. But a sister both was and wasn’t a friend. We weren’t the same age or in the same stage of life or even in the same zip code. We had the same laugh and the same parents, but we were all three very different people. Maybe we would have been friends if we hadn’t been related, but being sisters meant we wouldn’t ever just be friends.
Of course—given what happened with Aimee—wasn’t that a reason to be thankful? Friends might disappear, but my sisters would be stuck with me for life. Whether they liked me or pitied me or found me exhausting.
I don’t know what my face looked like, but Lena said, “Screw her. We’re friends now, and we’ll be fucking unstoppable.”
And it was okay, I felt okay, like whatever I said, whatever had happened, it didn’t matter now. There was a future where I wasn’t alone.
By the time we finished walking a loop of our neighborhood, I could feel sweat beading at the back of my neck and under my arms.
As if she could read my mind, Lena said, “It’s hot as hell out here. I guess you had four seasons up north? We’ve just got two—scorching and bearable. That last one won’t come around again until November.”
“I don’t think I can make it three more months.”
“You’ll have to come over and hang out by the pool. I make a mean margarita.”
We’d reached the block of mailboxes again, and I slowed down, suddenly a little shy. “I’d like that. Can we exchange numbers?”
After the awkwardness of entering her number into my phone and sending a text to give her mine, I said, “Thanks. I mean, I really needed—”
“Hey.” She held up her hands as if to ward me off, but with a grin. “That’s what friends are for. And you’re going to be seeing a lot more of me.”
I nodded and held my phone up as if proving that I’d be in touch. Then I turned, but I’d gone only a few steps when I realized Lena was following me.
Stepping to one side, I slowed down so she could catch up and glanced at her questioningly.
She laughed, that deep, rolling laugh. “I forgot to ask where you live. I’m the second from the corner.”
I knew in my head we were just in the honeymoon stage of friendship, too early to really know anything about each other, but I couldn’t stop the feeling of joy that rolled over me. There would be so many coincidences that made us seem fated to be friends. And this was the first.
We were next-door neighbors.
CHAPTER
6
AFTER I WAVED good-bye to Lena, I unloaded the curtains and towels from the car and carried them up to the front door. Beside it was a package that hadn’t been there when I’d parked an hour ago.
I set down the bags, unlocked the door, and picked up the package. It was a shoe box not wrapped in tape or sent through the mail. My name was written on the top in black permanent marker, and my heart started to beat a warning.
Aimee wasn’t here, she couldn’t be, but I glanced up and down the street. Whoever had left the box had come and gone while Lena and I were walking. No one appeared to be watching, but the malicious postcard was still on my mind.
I removed the lid and found a note, written in a precise, dark script:
Kacy,
I’m sorry I missed you. I thought you might enjoy making more origami stars. We’re collecting them through the end of the month. Please call me if you’d like to work on them together.
Best, Elizabeth
She’d included her phone number at the bottom of the page, and underneath the note were two neat stacks of origami paper.
I could imagine Elizabeth choosing each word carefully, hesitating as she decided what to say. Her note was as sleek and controlled as her blond ponytail, and I didn’t know what to make of it.
Was this a thoughtful gesture because she’d noticed I enjoyed the origami, at least until Sandy ruined everything? Or was she implying that I should have done more work before swearing and storming off?
Pressing the lid back onto the box, I set it on the kitchen table. First I’d finish unloading the car, and then I’d put away
the groceries, wash the towels, hang the curtains, and plant the mint I’d picked up at the nursery. Then, if there was any time left, I’d think about the origami. I wouldn’t think about unboxing a new piece of art, the excitement of a new exhibit, even poring over a museum catalog. Those feelings were all mixed with Aimee now, tainted. A life of washing towels and gardening was all I had. It would have to be enough.
By the time I rescued the mint, it was limp from the intensified heat of the car. I carried it straight through to the backyard and set it down so I could search for the hose and a trowel.
* * *
All the backyards in our neighborhood were enclosed by high fences with gates facing the street. To get from one yard to the other, you had to go out through the front gate and then back through the other one. Our own backyard was a rectangle, barely twelve feet deep and a few feet wider than the house itself, planted with a hardy green grass. “St. Augustine,” our realtor had said. “Shade-tolerant carpet grass.” She might as well have been speaking a foreign language, but Michael nodded and asked some follow-up questions about our new automated sprinkler system.
Then, through a loose slat in the fence, I caught a glimpse of blue water in Lena’s yard, promising the cool relief that no shade could deliver in this humidity.
Giving up on finding the hose, I ran the mint under the spigot, blasting it a little too hard. When I turned off the water, I heard Lena say, “That you, Kacy?”
I turned and glimpsed her distinctive red hair through the gap in the fence. “I’m trying to plant some mint.”
“Need any help?”
“I can’t find a trowel.” Although, after looking, I wasn’t completely sure Michael and I even owned one.
“Hold on, I’ve got one.”
She moved away from the fence, and I set the dripping plastic pot down. A few mint leaves, bruised by the force of the water, released their scent, the sole hint of coolness in the heavy, humid air.
In only a second, Lena was back. “Heads up!” and a small hand trowel flew over the fence, glinting in the sunlight.
“Thanks.” I bent and jabbed the trowel at the tough ground, hacking out a small hole. I thought Lena might go back to what she’d been doing, but instead she stayed by the fence, where the slats were too narrow for me to see anything except the shadow of her presence.
After a minute, I felt like I should say something else, so I added, “We’ve been talking about a garden, so I thought I’d start with a little mint. Think it’ll grow all right?”
“Oh sure, mint will be fine. But the ground here is like gumbo. Red clay and really erratic water. Depending on what you want to grow, it’s probably better to do raised beds. Some stuff grows like crazy, but root vegetables struggle.”
I set the mint into the hole and pressed the earth around it. “Michael’s worried about the sprinkler system. He thinks a vegetable bed might not need the same schedule as the grass.”
“Brady’s working on that too. We should get those guys together. Why don’t you both come over tomorrow night? We’ll grill and hang out by the pool.”
For the first time in months, I felt flushed with success. “We’d love to. Look out, here comes your trowel back.”
As it spun end over end into the yard next door, catching the light, I almost smiled.
This would be something to share with Michael. I could make friends, good ones.
* * *
Michael was tired that night, although he tried to hide it. He agreed to dinner the next night, and we watched television together snuggled up on the sofa. I didn’t tell him about the postcard.
Before I went to bed, I turned my bottle of antidepressants upside down so that it stood on its cap next to my sink. In the morning it was a simple visual cue to take my pill, or a reminder that I hadn’t. Dr. Lindsey had mentioned tapering off, but vaguely, like it was something we might work up to. Now I thought about walking in the sunshine with Lena, and giving up the pills seemed almost possible. At the same time, panic fluttered in the base of my stomach. I didn’t ever want to feel the way I had six months ago. Never again.
In bed, the pillow was cool against my cheek, and I fell asleep almost immediately, barely registering that Michael was reading something on his phone beside me.
When I woke with a start, it was still dark. While the blackout curtains I had hung kept any light from seeping in through the bedroom windows, the skylight in the bathroom let in just enough moonlight to make out the outlines of the doorframe, the dresser, the crease where walls met floor and ceiling.
I couldn’t make out the floor itself; the dark wood was swallowed in the night. Now I couldn’t forget Sandy’s words: There was blood everywhere, and he wasn’t found for three days. And I couldn’t pretend that image didn’t haunt me. I should have asked Lena about it when we were walking. After all, the dead man had been her neighbor. Maybe she’d tell me Sandy was lying; maybe he’d died peacefully of old age. Maybe there was nothing to be afraid of.
But my mind offered up another half-dozen reasons for fear—the abandoned cars and missing people Rahmia had described, the home invasions and traffic accidents and smash-and-grab robberies at gas stations and Aimee out there laughing.
Beside me, Michael’s breathing was so quiet that I put a hand on his back, just to feel its rise and fall, but instead of being lulled back to sleep, I could feel the last shreds of drowsiness leave my brain. I was keenly awake, and the idea of lying in bed seemed intolerable.
I slipped out from under the covers, snagged my phone from the bedside table, and padded quietly out of the room. Because of the open floor plan, half of the house stretched like a corridor from the front door to the back, arching over the living room, dining room, kitchen, and family room.
As my fingers patted the wall, feeling for the light switch but turning on the ceiling fan instead, light filtered through the skylight in the kitchen, sinister light, the kind in an old horror movie, the kind edged with pools of darkness where things could hide.
And I noticed for the first time a small red light facing the bedroom, blinking in the corner where the back wall met the ceiling, like an eye watching over the exit. It must be part of the security system. I groped for the light switch, flipped it on, and turned off the fan, leaving it to run down in lazy circles. The red beam wasn’t noticeable with the overhead lights on, but the little white box that held it definitely looked like part of our alarm system. Nothing to worry about.
Two o’clock in the morning. Too late to still be up, too early to rise.
I picked up the box of paper Elizabeth had left and sat down on the sofa. Somehow, after only a week, my body had adjusted to the one-hour time shift. If Aimee was awake, it was an hour later for her, and she might be coming in from a club, kicking off her heels and dropping her keys, checking her phone … but there my imagination failed. Who would she be texting now? The only thing that used to make my insomnia better had been knowing I wasn’t alone, that there were two of us awake, our texts glowing fireflies to hold back the dark.
Now I had to stop kidding myself—I hadn’t known Aimee then, and I didn’t know what she might be doing now. She could be slipping out of the museum director’s bed; she might be working late with only the security guard for company; she might be online, hunting for someone else to scam; she might even be scouring the internet for any updates on my inactive social media accounts. I should have deleted them all, but if I had, I wouldn’t be able to see anyone else’s. Correction: I wouldn’t be able to see hers.
After a false start, my hands remembered the motions, slowly smoothing and creasing, as a new picture formed in my mind—Aimee thinking about me in these wee hours, hunting down my new address, writing a postcard. Malicious, yes, and creepy, but it was weirdly satisfying to know I wasn’t alone in post-stalking her, that she hadn’t just chosen me as her scapegoat and then forgotten me. If I’d gotten that taunting note a few days ago, I would have been devastated. I would have been back under the cove
rs, wishing the world away.
I ran my nail over the one sharp angle of the origami, then tugged it until I was holding a perfect paper star.
Maybe I could imagine a tomorrow made sweeter knowing that my happiness might make Aimee crazy. Lena’s voice, rough edged with anger, echoed in my mind. She’s a disgrace to all women, and she needs to pay.
Aimee had sent that postcard to hurt me, but all she’d done was make me angry. Finally, after all this time, the heavy sadness in me was giving way to fire.
There wasn’t anything to stop me from sending a postcard of my own.
* * *
The next night we were hanging out in Lena’s backyard and I sat at the edge of her pool, the August air warm and heavy, the water like cool silk on my calves. I swirled my foot, sending eddies across the surface.
Lena was getting another pitcher of margaritas, and the first two I’d had were already softening the edges of my world. Over the top of the high fences, the sky was a deep indigo and the moon was up. A bug lantern on the far corner of the yard crackled, and the scent of citronella overpowered even the lingering aroma of charred beef.
Michael was walking along the fence line with Lena’s husband, Brady. They stopped to investigate the loose slat between our two yards. Michael had a lower tolerance for alcohol than me, and from his expansive gestures, I knew he was buzzed.
Brady wasn’t as tall as Michael—he and Lena could probably stand eye to eye. His hair was as close-cropped as if he’d been shorn on an army base, and his biceps strained the sleeves of a Sugar Land Skeeters T-shirt. “Do you like baseball?” he’d asked when he saw me noticing it, and when I faltered, not wanting to offend him with the truth, he laughed. “No worries. This isn’t a team you support for its stats.”
Now he and Michael came over to me, their strides in sync despite the difference in their heights. Brady caught my eye and winked, like we were in on some kind of joke. Maybe I frowned a little, and he smirked, saying only, “Let me see what’s taking Lena so long with those ’ritas.”
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