The Other Mrs (ARC)

by Mary Kubica

  times these things happen for no reason at all.

  They scooped up what was left of the babies and buried them

  in one big hole in the backyard. Mouse laid a carrot on top,

  just in case they would have liked carrots as much as Bert liked

  carrots.

  But Mouse saw the look on Fake Mom’s face. She was happy

  those babies were dead. Mouse thought that maybe Fake Mom

  had something to do with Bert’s babies dying. Because she didn’t

  like having one rodent in the house, let alone five or six. She

  said that to Mouse all the time.

  Mouse couldn’t help but think that it was Fake Mom who

  made Bert’s babies die, rather than Bert. But she didn’t dare say

  this because she guessed there’d be hell to pay for that too.

  Mouse learned a lot about animals from watching them

  through her bedroom window. She’d sit on the window seat and

  stare out into the trees that surrounded her house. There were

  lots of trees in the yard, which meant lots of animals. Because,

  as Mouse knew from the books she read, the trees had things

  that animals needed, like shelter and food. The trees made the

  animals come. Mouse was thankful for the trees.

  Mouse learned how the animals got along with one another.

  She learned what they ate. She learned that they all had a way

  of protecting themselves from the mean animals who wanted

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  to hurt them. The rabbits, for example, ran real fast. They also

  had a way of snaking around the yard, never going in a straight

  line, which made it hard for the neighbor’s cat to catch up with

  them. Mouse played that out in her bedroom sometimes. She

  ran in a zigzag, leaping from desk to bed, pretending that some-

  one or something was coming at her from behind and she was

  trying to get away.

  Other animals, Mouse saw, used camouflage. They blended

  right into their surroundings. Brown squirrels on brown trees,

  white rabbits in white snow. Mouse tried that too. She dressed

  in her red-and-pink-striped shirt, lay on her rag rug, which was

  also red and striped. There she made believe she was invisible on

  account of her camouflage, that if someone came into the room

  they’d step right on her because they couldn’t see her lying here.

  Other animals played dead or fought back. Still others came

  out only at night so they wouldn’t be seen. Mouse never saw

  those animals. She was asleep when they came out. But in the

  morning, Mouse would see their tracks across the snow or dirt.

  That’s how she’d know they’d been there.

  Mouse tried that too. She tried to be nocturnal.

  She left her bedroom, and tiptoed around her house when she

  thought her father and Fake Mom were asleep. Her father and

  Fake Mom slept in her father’s room on the first floor. Mouse

  didn’t like how Fake Mom slept in her father’s bed. Because that

  was her father’s bed, not Fake Mom’s. Fake Mom should get her

  own bed, in her own bedroom, in her own house. That’s what

  Mouse thought.

  But the night Mouse was nocturnal, Fake Mom was not

  asleep in her father’s bed. That’s how she knew that Fake Mom

  didn’t always sleep, that sometimes she was nocturnal too. Be-

  cause sometimes she stood at the kitchen counter with not one

  light on, talking to herself, though never anything sensible, but

  just a bunch of poppycock. Mouse said nothing at all when she

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  found Fake Mom awake like that, but quietly turned and tip-

  toed back the way she came from and went to sleep.

  Of all the animals, Mouse liked the birds the best, because

  there were so many different kinds of birds. Mouse liked that

  they mainly all got along, all except for the hawk who tried to

  eat the rest of them, which she didn’t think was nice.

  But Mouse also thought that was kind of how people are,

  how they mainly get along except for a few who try and hurt

  everyone else.

  Mouse decided that she didn’t like the hawk, because the

  hawk was ruthless and sneaky and mean. It didn’t care what it

  ate, even if it was baby birds. Especially, sometimes, if it was

  baby birds because they didn’t have it in them to fight back.

  They were an easy target. The hawk had good eyesight too.

  Even when you didn’t think it was watching, it was, like it had

  eyes on the back of its head.

  In time Mouse came to think of Fake Mom a little bit like

  that hawk. Because she started picking on Mouse more and more

  when her father went to his other office, or when he was talk-

  ing on the phone behind the closed door. Fake Mom knew that

  Mouse was like one of those baby birds who couldn’t defend

  herself in the same way a mom or dad bird could. It wasn’t as if

  Fake Mom tried to eat Mouse like the hawks tried to eat the baby

  birds. This was different, more subtle. Bumping Mouse with her

  elbow when she passed by. Stealing the last of the Salerno Butter

  Cookies from Mouse’s plate. Saying, at every chance she could,

  how much she hated mice. How mice are dirty little rodents.

  Mouse and her father spent a lot of time together before Fake

  Mom arrived. He taught her how to play catch, how to throw

  a curve ball, how to slide into a second base with a pop-up

  slide. They watched old black-and-white movies together. They

  played games, Monopoly and card games and chess. They even

  had their very own made-up game that didn’t have a name, just

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  one of those things they came up with on a rainy afternoon.

  They’d stand in the living room, spin in circles until they were

  both dizzy. When they stopped, they froze in place, holding

  whatever silly position they landed in. The first to move was

  the loser, which was usually Mouse’s father because he moved

  on purpose so that Mouse could win, same as he did with Mo-

  nopoly and chess.

  Mouse and her father liked to go camping. When the weather

  was nice they’d load their tent and supplies into the back of

  her father’s car and drive into the woods. There, Mouse would

  help her father pitch the tent and gather sticks for a campfire.

  They’d roast marshmallows over the fire. Mouse liked it best

  when they were crispy and brown on the outside, but mushy

  and white inside.

  But Fake Mom didn’t like for Mouse and her father to go

  camping. Because when they did, they were gone all night.

  Fake Mom didn’t like to be left alone. She wanted Mouse’s fa-

  ther home with her. When she saw Mouse and her father in

  the garage, gathering up the tent and the sleeping bags, she’d

  press in close to him in that way that made Mouse uncomfort-

  able. She’d lay her hand on Mouse’s dad’s chest and nuzzle her

 
; nose into his neck like she was smelling it. Fake Mom would

  hug and kiss him, and tell Mouse’s father how lonely she was

  when he was away, how she got scared at night when she was

  the only one home.

  Mouse’s father would put the tent away, tell Mouse, Another

  time. But Mouse was a smart girl. She knew that Another time really meant Never.

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  Sadie

  I step into an exam room to find Officer Berg waiting for me.

  He isn’t sitting on the exam table when I come in, as other

  patients would do. Instead, he ambles around the room, tinker-

  ing with things. He lifts the lids off the sundry jars, steps on the foot pedal of the stainless steel garbage.

  As I watch, he helps himself to a pair of latex gloves, and I

  say, “Those aren’t free, you know?”

  Officer Berg stuffs the gloves back into the cardboard box,

  saying, “You caught me,” as he goes on to explain how his

  grandson likes to make balloons with them.

  “You’re not feeling well, Officer?” I ask as I close the door

  behind myself and reach for his file, only to find the plastic box

  where we leave them empty. My question is rhetorical, it seems.

  It comes to me quite quickly then that Officer Berg is feeling

  fine. That he doesn’t have an appointment, but that he’s here

  to speak with me.

  This isn’t an exam but rather an interrogation.

  “I thought we could finish our conversation,” he says. He

  looks more tired today than he did before, the last time I saw

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  him, when he was already tired. His skin is raw from the win-

  ter weather, windblown and red. I think that it’s from all that

  time spent outdoors, watching the ferry come and go.

  There have been more police than usual around the island,

  detectives from the mainland trying to step on Officer Berg’s

  toes. I wonder what he thinks of that. The last time there was a

  murder on the island it was 1985. It was gory and ghastly and still unsolved. Crimes against property are frequent; crimes against

  persons rare. Officer Berg doesn’t want to end up with another

  cold case when the investigation is through. He needs to find

  someone to pin this murder on.

  “Which conversation is that?” I ask, as I set myself down on

  the swivel stool. It’s a decision I regret at once because Officer

  Berg stands two feet above me now. I’m forced to look up to

  him like a child.

  He says, “The one we began in your car the other day,” and

  I feel a glimmer of hope for the first time in days because I now

  have the evidence on my phone to prove I didn’t argue with

  Morgan Baines the day Mr. Nilsson says I did. I was here at the

  clinic that day.

  I say to Officer Berg, “I told you already, I didn’t know Mor-

  gan. We never spoke. Isn’t it possible that Mr. Nilsson is mis-

  taken? He is getting on in years,” I remind him.

  “Of course it’s possible, Dr. Foust,” he begins, but I stop him

  there. I’m not interested in his theories when I have proof.

  “You told me that the incident between Morgan and me hap-

  pened on December first. A Friday,” I say as I retrieve my cell

  phone from the pocket of my smock. I open the photos app and

  swipe across each image until I find the one I’m looking for.

  “The thing is that on December first,” I say when I find it,

  “I was here at the clinic, working all day. I couldn’t have been

  with Morgan because I can’t be in two places at one time, can

  I?” I ask, my words rightfully smug.

  I hand him my phone so he can see for himself what I’m

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  talking about. The photograph of the clinic’s dry erase calendar

  where Emma has written my name, scheduling me for a nine-

  hour shift on Friday December first.

  Officer Berg looks it over. There’s this moment of hesitation

  before the realization sets in. He gives in. He nods. He drops to

  the edge of the exam table, eyes locked on the photograph. He

  rubs at the deep trenches of his forehead, mouth tugging down

  at the corners into a frown.

  I would feel sorry for him, if he wasn’t trying to pin Mor-

  gan’s murder on me.

  “You’ve looked into her husband, of course,” I say and only

  then do his eyes rise back up to mine, “and his ex-wife.”

  “What makes you say that?” he asks. Either he’s a good liar

  or he seriously hasn’t considered that Jeffrey Baines killed his

  wife. I don’t know which I find more disconcerting.

  “It just seems like that’s a good place to start. Domestic vio-

  lence is a major cause of death for women these days, isn’t it,

  Officer?” I ask.

  “More than half of women murdered die at the hands of a ro-

  mantic partner, yes,” he confirms. “If that’s what you’re asking.”

  “It is,” I say. “Isn’t that a good enough reason to question her

  husband?”

  “Mr. Baines has an alibi. He was out of the country, as you

  know, at the time of the murder. There’s proof of that, Dr. Foust.

  Video surveillance of Mr. Baines in Tokyo. His name on the

  airplane’s manifest the following day. Hotel records.”

  “There are other ways,” I say, but he doesn’t take the bait.

  He says instead that in cases of domestic violence, quite often

  men fight with their fists while women are the first to reach

  for a weapon.

  When I say nothing, he tells me, “Don’t you know, Doctor?

  Women aren’t always the victim. They can be the perpetrator

  as well. Though men are often stigmatized as wife beaters, it

  works both ways. In fact, new studies suggest that women ini-

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  tiate more than half the violence in volatile relationships. And

  jealousy is the cause of most homicides in the United States.”

  I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean.

  “Anyway,” he says, “I didn’t come to talk about Jeffrey Baines,

  or his marriage. I came to talk about you, Dr. Foust.”

  But I don’t want to talk about myself.

  “Mr. Baines was married before,” I say and he looks skepti-

  cally at me and tells me he knows. “Have you considered she

  might have done this? Jeffrey’s ex?”

  “I have an idea,” he says. “How about if I ask the questions

  for a change, Dr. Foust, and you answer?”

  “I’ve already answered your question,” I remind him. And

  besides, I, too, like Jeffrey, had an alibi at the time of Morgan’s death. I was at home with Will.

  Officer Berg rises from the end of the exam table. “You were

  with a patient when I arrived this morning. I had a few min-

  utes to visit with Emma at the front desk,” he tells me. “Emma

  used to go to school with my you
ngest. We go quite a bit back,”

  and he explains in his usual blathering way how Emma and his

  daughter, Amy, were friends for many years and that he and

  his wife were in turn friends with Emma’s mother and father.

  He gets to the point. “I spoke to Emma while you were fin-

  ishing up with your patient. I wanted to be sure I’d dotted my

  i’s and crossed my t’s, and it just so happened that I hadn’t. Because when I was speaking to Emma I saw for myself the same

  thing you just showed me. And I asked Emma about it, Dr.

  Foust. Just to be sure. Because we all make mistakes, don’t we?”

  I tell him, “I don’t know what you mean.”

  But I feel my body tense up regardless. My boldness start to

  wane.

  “I wanted to be sure that the schedule hadn’t been changed.

  So I asked Emma about it. It was a long shot, of course, expect-

  ing her to remember anything that happened a week or two ago.

  Except that she did, because that day was unique. Emma’s daugh-

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  ter had gotten sick at school and needed to be picked up. Stom-

  ach flu,” he says. “She’d thrown up at recess. Emma is a single

  mother, you know; she needed to go. Except that what Emma

  remembers from that day is it was bedlam here at the clinic. A

  backlog of patients waiting to be seen. She couldn’t leave.”

  I rise to my feet. “This essentially describes every day here,

  Officer. We see nearly everyone who lives here on the island.

  Not to mention that cold and flu season is in full swing. I don’t

  know why this would be unique.”

  “Because that day, Dr. Foust,” he says, “even though your

  name was on the schedule, you weren’t here the whole day.

  There’s this gap in the middle where neither Joyce nor Emma

  can account for your whereabouts. What Emma remembers is

  you stepping out for lunch just after noon, and arriving back

  somewhere in the vicinity of three p.m.”

  It comes as a swift punch to my gut. “That’s a lie,” I say, words

  curt. Because that didn’t happen. I swell with anger. Certainly

  Emma has mixed up her dates. Perhaps it was Thursday, Novem-

  ber thirtieth, that her daughter was sick, a day that Dr. Sanders

  was scheduled to work and not me.

  But before I can suggest this to the officer, he says, “Three pa-

  tients were rescheduled, four chose to wait. And Emma’s daugh-