You Can Never Tell

by Sarah Warburton

  We ordered tacos, the good street kind with carne asada or carnitas in thin double folds of corn tortilla and fresh spicy veg on top. The man who took our order nodded, calling it back to a younger woman with the same arched eyebrows and angular shoulders. His daughter? Sister? They were busy, efficient, their hands moving without pause.

  Only a few minutes later we had our Styrofoam clamshells and two full-sugar bottled sodas back in the car, because “It’s too damn hot to eat outside,” Lena had said. She wasn’t wrong. Intensified by the concrete and the chrome of cars and construction trucks, the heat rolled through everything, clogging our lungs. How could that woman, just a girl really, endure working in that truck, where the heat from outside must be met with the heat of the grill?

  Lena had already eaten half a taco, and I picked one up slowly, my appetite fading.

  “Listen,” she said, “about earlier. Have kids, whatever. But you swear to me that we’ll still have fun.” She frowned at the other half of her taco.

  I felt a warm glow. Lena, this force of nature, needed me. “Of course we’ll have fun. We’re friends. And that’s all in the future anyway.”

  She cut her eyes at me. “I can’t talk to fucking Brady the way I talk to you. It would suck if you just disappeared into some mommy-world.”

  “That would never happen,” I promised, and she relaxed.

  As I bit into my taco, a car drove past us, stopping at the open door of the mystery shop. Cilantro caught in my fingers as I watched a figure, bundled head to toe in a black hijab, exit the passenger side and hurry up the concrete steps to the open door, where she stopped, as though afraid to enter.

  “What are you looking at?” Lena asked.

  “Nothing.” I turned back to face her, but not before I saw that Rahmia, polished suburban Rahmia, had appeared in the doorway. With a furtive glance, she’d drawn the woman inside.

  The world seemed strange, unsettled. I didn’t understand anyone, least of all myself. I rewrapped the remaining tacos in aluminum foil. “Let’s go back the way we came. I want to give these to the man under the bridge.”

  “That’s not the quickest way home,” Lena protested. “Just give your leftovers to Michael.”

  But I couldn’t forget meeting the man’s eyes, the resignation in his posture, the darkness under the bridge. I didn’t know what his life was like any more than I knew what was happening in that shadowy storefront beside us now. But I had read the words on his sign. Hungry. And I had food.

  Maybe I couldn’t understand everything, but I could believe what he was telling me and try to help. “Seriously, Lena.”

  “Fine.” She buckled her seat belt and put the car in gear. “Fucking bleeding heart.”

  Then she winked at me, and everything was okay again.

  CHAPTER

  9

  WHEN MICHAEL HAD his first business trip, just two nights, I was acutely conscious of the exact amount of time I’d have to fill. The first day’s plan was simple. I’d pick up Elizabeth, we’d stuff the formal invitations for the fund raiser, and then we’d check out one of the proposed venues and have an early dinner there.

  Outside her house, I raised my hand to knock, but the door opened before I could. The Elizabeth I saw was not one I knew. She was wearing yoga pants and a boatneck T-shirt, but her feet were bare and her hair looked tangled and uncombed. Her eyes searched my face, and she reached out with both hands for mine and drew me inside. “I’m so sorry. I meant to call. I can’t—I mean, thank you for coming, but I’m not ready …”

  She trailed off, and we stood, her icy hands clasping mine for a minute.

  “It’s no problem,” I said. Her eyes were unfocused, as though she was also nervous about looking at me. What could be wrong? Not drugs, not Elizabeth, and she wasn’t visibly injured. I didn’t give a shit about the Bluebonnet business, I never really had, but I definitely gave a shit about Elizabeth. “Let’s sit down,” I said gently. “You can tell me all about it.”

  “Oh God.” She dropped my hands. “I didn’t even offer you coffee or—”

  “It’s okay.” I tried to make my voice as soothing as possible. “I’m fine. Let’s just sit.” And I walked over to the white leather sofa and sat down, patting the spot next to me like I was trying to coax a timid child.

  “Okay.” She didn’t look convinced, as though the role of hostess was still tempting her. I knew how easy it could be to escape into the rote lines—won’t you have some coffee, have you seen the new construction, are you going to book club later. But something was wrong, wrong enough for Elizabeth to need my help.

  “Sit down,” I said more firmly, and she finally did, perching gingerly on the far end of the sofa. It was the kind of sofa you sank into, an expanse of cushy leather, but Elizabeth sat bolt upright as if she were in a straight-backed wooden chair. “What’s wrong?”

  She darted a glance at me, and whatever she saw in my face must have reassured her. “Wyatt and I, I mean, we’ve been trying for about a year. And it hasn’t worked. It did, almost, once, but then—” She opened her hands as if the almost-baby was slipping through them, and when she looked back at me, her eyes shone with gathering tears. “And then two weeks ago, I took the test, and it was positive.” Her voice lowered on the last word, as if even saying it aloud might jinx it.

  “That’s great.” I kept my tone cautious, because she didn’t look great. Now that we were sitting down and I could study her, I could see a chalky-green tinge under her skin.

  She nodded, looking down at her hands, clenching and unclenching them in her lap. “I’m bleeding.” The words were so soft I almost didn’t understand, and I leaned in closer.

  “Have you called your doctor?”

  She nodded, but she still didn’t look up.

  I reached out, touching her arm. “What do you need?”

  Her restless hands stilled; then she turned one up to take mine, clinging to it. She faced me, tears overspilling now, wetting her cheeks. But she was so composed, so still. If not for the shiny tears and the tightness with which she held my hand, I wouldn’t have known how afraid she was. “He said not to come in. He said—” She took a deep breath. “He said it might be normal, but if it wasn’t, there wasn’t anything he could do.”

  Before I had a chance to think, I’d pulled her close, and she was crying now, really crying, on my shoulder, while I whispered comforting but meaningless phrases. My mind kept working. I didn’t know anything about this, didn’t have any experience, but I hated the doctor who’d told her to wait and see. What kind of shit advice was that? And I hated myself a little, too, for taking Elizabeth at face value.

  If anyone should have understood the difference between the way someone looks and the way they feel, it should have been me.

  When the worst of the storm abated, Elizabeth pulled back, wiping at her eyes and apologizing. That’s something I also understood, how embarrassing it was to be vulnerable.

  “Listen,” I said, “do you have another doctor? Because even if this is normal or he can’t do anything, you deserve a doctor who’ll listen to you. Is this your GP or your ob-gyn?”

  “My ob-gyn. If this time didn’t work, he was going to refer us to a fertility specialist, but he didn’t think it was necessary yet.”

  “How about your GP, would you like to call him?”

  Elizabeth half smiled. “It’s okay. You’re right, she’d be a better listener, but if something’s wrong, she can’t—” She gulped the end of the sentence down hard, her eyes creased with the effort of holding back tears.

  “Okay.” Wyatt and Michael wouldn’t be back until the next night, and this house was so quiet, even quieter than my own. I couldn’t leave her alone. “Tell me if I’m out of line, but would you mind if I hung out here? We could watch a movie, order pizza, just take it easy. Hell, we can even stuff those stupid envelopes. I mean, with Michael out of town, it’s not like I’ve got anywhere to go …”

  And she nodded, visibly relieved. “
Yes. If it’s no trouble, I mean, if you don’t mind. That would be great.”

  When I texted Michael—have Wyatt call E—I saw I’d missed a message from Lena about baking and another one about walking. I sent her a reply—sorry off grid today—and my phone buzzed again immediately: what’s going on?

  Elizabeth looked up, and I felt her watching me as I answered: tell you later. Another incoming text felt like an intrusion, so without even looking, I silenced my phone. I could see the messages popping up, but I turned my attention completely to Elizabeth.

  Right now, she needed me. Lena would have to wait.

  * * *

  Later that evening, I ordered out for pho from a nearby Vietnamese restaurant, figuring that chicken noodle soup would be nourishing and comforting. As we ate, I was relieved to see the color returning to Elizabeth’s face, even though she steered clear of the jalapeño and sriracha I added to my own plastic bowl.

  When we finished, the fragrance of lemongrass lingered in the kitchen. Elizabeth rose from the table and moved to help me clean up, but I waved her away. “What’s the point of ordering delivery if you’re still going to play hostess?” I teased.

  “Fine,” she answered with a grin. “I’ll go relax on the sofa while you do the heavy lifting.”

  Just then, her phone buzzed with a text. She glanced at it and reached for the back of a kitchen chair to steady herself.

  “Sit down,” I said. “What’s wrong?” The ringer on my phone was turned off, and anything might have happened. Maybe a car accident. Michael and Wyatt, speeding back from the oil fields, wrecked and bleeding by the side of the road.

  But Elizabeth shook her head, one fist pressed to her mouth. “It’s Sandy,” she said. “Marcia was supposed to pick her up for scrapbooking, but she didn’t come to the door or answer her phone. Marcia’s got the keypad code to open her garage, so she let herself in. But I just can’t believe—”

  “What happened?”

  “She’s dead.”

  The last Styrofoam container still clutched in my hand, I stared at Elizabeth, seeing instead Sandy with her bright clothing and supercilious expressions. Now she seemed fragile to me, always trying to look younger, attacking other people to make herself feel stronger. “How?” I whispered.

  Elizabeth sat down at the kitchen table and wrapped her arms around herself. All the color she’d regained had ebbed away. “She slipped in the shower. That’s where Marcia found her.”

  I stuffed the last of the trash into the bin and came to join her. “Was that Marcia?”

  She shook her head. “Rachael.”

  After the history between me and Sandy, I didn’t expect I’d be getting a text about this. “Are they organizing meals or collecting for flowers or …” I didn’t know what else might be needed.

  “She lived alone. We’ll probably do flowers, but it’s too early yet.”

  I felt conflicting pangs of pity for the woman who’d died naked and alone and pangs of irritation for Sandy who’d been so mean, so narrow-minded, and whose carelessness was putting Elizabeth’s health at risk. “Go sit on the sofa.” I patted her shoulder. “I’ll make you some tea.”

  But the lush leather sofa, the steaming mugs of mint tea, and the mindless drone of the television didn’t dispel the specter of Sandy, her neck at an unnatural angle, bleeding out alone on the bathroom floor.

  CHAPTER

  10

  I WOKE CONFUSED, WEARING my clothes, my nose filled with the rich smell of the leather sofa. Elizabeth and I must have fallen asleep watching a marathon session of mindless television. I could hear a key turning in a lock, a door opening.

  And Michael calling my name.

  My eyes fluttered open, and the first thing I saw was Elizabeth, asleep in the recliner, and the television display, frozen with a message asking Are you still watching?

  Something heavy hit the ground in the foyer, and I sat up as Elizabeth stirred. Wyatt was already crossing the room, kneeling beside her, smoothing her hair. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “I think so.” She leaned into him. “Kacy was here.”

  Michael stood by the door with an unfamiliar suitcase, probably Wyatt’s, at his feet. When our eyes met, he smiled.

  For the first time in ages, it felt like everything would be okay.

  * * *

  No new texts from Lena the next morning, but when I went out to check the mail, she was on the sidewalk, coming back to her own house with a bundle of envelopes in her hand. Seeing her, I felt a smile forming on my lips, but then I remembered the seven unanswered texts. Why hadn’t I replied? Maybe she’d be hurt. Maybe I’d messed this up.

  I stopped, and we stood facing each other at the end of her front walk. The sunlight glinted off her red curls, and with a quick smile, she said, “Hey there.”

  The flutter of panic in my chest subsided. All that fear was just my crazy talking. Lena and I were good. “Want to walk with me?”

  She waved the sheaf of letters. “Business day. Too much crappy paperwork. Tomorrow for sure.”

  “Definitely. Tomorrow.” I started to walk past her, but she didn’t step aside.

  “Where were you yesterday?” Her tone was light, casual, but her gray eyes were studying my face intently.

  “Over at Elizabeth’s. She needed help with that committee thing.” Unbidden, Elizabeth’s pale face rose in my mind. My expression felt artificial, a mask I was trying to control. Could Lena tell I was lying?

  She didn’t say anything, and her silence seemed deliberate. The force of her attention had been so bright, so welcoming, that by withholding it, she’d thrown me out in the cold.

  “Did you hear about Sandy?” I asked, hoping to shock this stranger into becoming my friend again.

  She nodded, her mouth a tight, unnatural line. Still she didn’t speak, but she didn’t leave either. We just stood there awkwardly.

  Finally I blurted out, “I know you’re busy with work, but if you ever want, we could use your help on the committee.” Please say yes.

  “Hard pass.” Another beat, and she glanced down at her phone. “Speaking of work … I’ll catch you later.”

  Again, I felt uneasy, like I’d done something wrong. But Lena was always so open, so forthright. If she had a problem with me hanging out with Elizabeth or thought I was keeping a secret, wouldn’t she just say so?

  The next day, she texted like nothing had happened. She and Brady came over for dinner at our place, and then the guys went back to disassembling the fence and putting together the tiered garden they’d been planning.

  While Lena and I sipped pinot grigio, we talked about our childhoods, places we’d lived, things we loved. She had a million stories about clients, descriptions of homes Brady’s company had worked on, and zero sympathy for Sandy. But I was too grateful to care. I listened and laughed and watched Michael setting a timber tie in place, his shoulders tensed with the effort, his smiling eyes relaxed.

  At one point in the evening, my phone buzzed, and I glanced down at a text from Elizabeth: Thank you again for your help. Feeling so much better. Doctor says everything is fine. It’s still a secret, but I’m happy that you know.

  Relief flooded me. I was glad Elizabeth was okay, glad I knew her better. But her secret was mine now, something I couldn’t, wouldn’t tell Lena.

  And secrets killed friendships.

  * * *

  Later on an early-morning walk, I saw Rahmia and Bibi coming back from dropping Emir at school. For once, I was on the same side of the street. I waved, and Rahmia quickened her pace to reach me.

  “Kacy.” I loved the way her entire face lit up. “It has been so long!”

  “I thought I saw you downtown last week,” I offered, “in one of those strip malls just past the Beltway.”

  Rahmia’s eyes widened for a second, and her smile disappeared. As I remembered the way the cloaked figure had hurried into the darkened storefront, shame blossomed in my gut. Just because Rahmia was friendly didn’t mean
we were the kind of friends who shared secrets. She probably thought I was a creepy stalker.

  “But I could have been wrong,” I stammered. “You know, when you’re thinking of someone, you see them everywhere. And I was thinking it had been a while since we’d talked.”

  “It has been a while.” She still appeared guarded, thoughtful, but we fell into step together.

  “How is Emir?”

  Just as I’d hoped, Rahmia relaxed, the tension ebbing from her face. “Oh, he is a handful! The school, they give the kids colors like a traffic light for how they behave, and Emir is red for talking, red for laughing, red, red, red. My husband says we need to give him consequences at home too, but I think he’s already getting punished at school, so why should he suffer twice for the same crime?”

  I laughed, trying to imagine the worst thing that tiny, impish Emir could possibly do, and Rahmia laughed too, but ruefully. “Finally, after so many red days in a row, I asked him, ‘Emir, why can’t you just behave like all the other kids?’ and do you know what he said to me? ‘Don’t worry, Mama, I only do a bad thing once. Someday I will have done all the bad things there are in the world, and I will bring you home good green marks every day.’ ”

  I laughed again, and I felt stupid for imagining Rahmia had been skulking around a derelict strip mall. Of course I was mistaken. I’d made a lot of mistakes.

  Some secrets had nothing to do with me.

  * * *

  My appointments with Dr. Lindsey had continued weekly, but they seemed a thing apart from the work of living my life. My biggest problem with therapy was the persistent feeling that I wasn’t doing it right. I understood how to write a paper on a piece of art, how to organize an event, how to make small talk or introduce a speaker. But my desire to make a good impression was constantly at war with my longing to let out all the pain. And as my pain lessened, my eagerness to act like everything was okay increased.

  So building a friendship with Lena, getting to know Elizabeth better—it was more than deepening personal relationships; I was also gathering “gold stars” to prove I wasn’t, had never been, the problem.