by Dianne Dixon
What Ali was thinking about was the brown suitcase in the attic, a place where only Matt had been. She’d known from the beginning that he was a man with secrets, but she’d never asked herself the questions she was asking now. Was Matt hiding more than just old wounds and childhood pain? Was he covering up things that were perverted and sick?
Ali doubted there was enough love in heaven, or on earth, to help her survive the answer to those questions.
• • •
Since the former guest room was now Sofie’s bedroom, Ali’s mother had been sleeping on the convertible sofa in Matt’s study.
She was reaching to turn off the light just as Ali came in. “Honey, what is it? I thought you’d be asleep by now.”
“I want to be…but I keep waking up.”
“Would you like me to bring you some tea?”
Ali shook her head. What she wanted was something that didn’t exist. She wanted to be in a place where she was a little girl again and her mother had the power to make everything right. “Mom, is it okay if I stay with you for a while?” she asked.
Her mother was already scooting over, making room on the bed—and Ali snuggled in beside her.
“What’s keeping you up, honey?”
Her mother slowly circled her fingertips across Ali’s back. Ali was seeing the image of the suitcase on the attic floor, remembering all the times she’d watched Matt climb the attic stairs. “There’re things I don’t know how to begin to understand,” she said. “Things that feel like they’re going to kill me.”
The steady circling of her mother’s fingertips continued. “Ali, I can’t imagine the agony you’re in. I have no way of guessing what the problem is. You still haven’t explained what happened in the attic that sent you racing out of there screaming. I want you to understand why I haven’t pressed you to do that, and why Jessica hasn’t. It’s because we can see how fragile you are right now. We don’t want to push you beyond where you have the strength to go.”
Her mother lifted her hands from Ali’s back and nestled in beside her. After a while, she told Ali, “Whatever it is you’re afraid of, don’t let it scare you enough to make you run. The only way to deal with fear is to stop and face it. See it for what it is and know you have the power to get past it.” Her mother waited, and then said, “As long as a woman has a good heart, a clear head, and plenty of determination, there’s nothing she can’t survive.”
Ali’s mother adjusted her position so that they were looking directly at each other. “And it’s not enough just to survive, Ali. You have to prevail. You have to come out whole, in a way you never were before. Ready to build a life that’s much better than the one you had.”
Hard-won knowledge, a lifetime’s worth of wisdom, was what her mother was offering. “No matter what happens to you, never let it turn you into a victim, honey. Always fight back. Stay strong.”
• • •
Early the next morning, as soon as her mother left to take Sofie to the park, Ali got out of bed, showered, and put her clothes on. The terror that had hijacked her when she first saw the contents of the suitcase was shrinking further into the background with each passing minute.
Ali was taking her mother’s advice. She was fighting back.
The first thing Ali did was call Matt’s mobile phone in Australia. It was time to find the truth, no matter how horrendous it might turn out to be.
Matt didn’t pick up; Ali’s call went to voice mail. Hearing the sound of Matt’s voice made her want to cry. “Call me,” she said. “I need to talk to you.”
After leaving the message for Matt, Ali went into his study. Her plan was to tell the police about the suitcase. Contact information for the detective who had talked to Ali on the night of her attack was in an old email file on Matt’s computer.
While Ali was clicking through files, trying to find the right one, she made an unexpected discovery—a travel confirmation sent to Matt just before he left for Australia. The itinerary listed two trips. One was for Matt’s Wednesday departure to Sydney. The other was for the day before, for Tuesday morning—a one-day, round-trip flight to Phoenix, Arizona.
Ice-cold dread raced through Ali. She and Matt didn’t know anyone in Arizona. And she’d had no idea that on the day before he left for Australia, Matt had been out of town.
It took only a few keystrokes, opening less than a half-dozen stored emails—and she found the one that made her gasp.
The message contained two briefly worded pieces of information. The directions to an address in Phoenix. And a demand for ten thousand dollars.
• • •
By noon, Ali had been on a plane for an hour and was landing at Sky Harbor Airport. A short time later, she was in a rental car, inching down a nondescript Phoenix street. Checking the front of each house, looking for the address she’d copied from the email.
Even though it was February, it was the desert. Heat was on the surface of the road and the hood of the car, on the dashboard and the windows. Yet Ali was teeth-chatteringly cold. Her bones were aching.
She had just spotted the house she was searching for. And she had no idea what, or who, she was about to find.
Ali was facing a squat, tan, single-storied box with brown trim and a black iron-grate security door. The place looked like it was barely two rooms wide. Ragged patches of cactus dotted the area where a lawn should’ve been. And in the narrow driveway, a woman was wiping down an old rust-spotted Jeep.
The woman watched coolly as Ali’s car came to a stop.
When Ali switched off the ignition, got out of the car, and began the walk up the driveway, her legs turned to jelly. The only thing keeping her upright was the intensity with which she was studying the woman standing at the side of the Jeep. Ali was trying to decode who she could be, what connection she had to Matt.
The woman was in her midtwenties. Lean, pretty. Gracefully tall. Her hair was spectacular. Long and golden brown. Her eyes were cornflower blue. The features of her face were elegant, and underneath the elegance there was a tough wariness. She was in shorts and a pair of cheap flip-flops. The sleeves and midsection of her T-shirt had been cut off; the body of the shirt ended at the top of her rib cage, just below her breasts.
She cocked her head to one side, casually assessing Ali, sounding bored as she said, “Lemme guess. You’re a wife, right? You have that look.”
Before Ali could answer, the woman told her, “Here’s the thing, lady. I’m a stripper, not a hooker. If your husband’s cheating on you, it isn’t with me.”
The woman turned and walked away. That’s when Ali saw the scar on her back—a wire-thin crescent, curving from beneath the uneven hem of her T-shirt and disappearing into the waistband of her shorts.
It wasn’t until the woman was going into the house and about to close the door that Ali was able to speak. “Matt. Matt Easton,” Ali said.
The woman’s toughness vanished. “Who’re you?”
“His wife.” Ali’s words were a thready whisper. “Who are you?”
The defenselessness in the woman’s voice was heartrending. “I’m Kim. I’m his baby sister.”
• • •
The living room Kim invited Ali into was tiny and bland—a glass coffee table, a floor lamp, a white imitation-leather sofa, and two matching chairs.
Kim and Ali sat across from each other, Kim on the couch, Ali in one of the chairs. The space was so cramped that neither of them could move without bumping the coffee table, rattling the beer bottle and soda can that were there.
Ali reached to steady the soda can, relieved and baffled as Kim told her, “The ten grand I asked for was for school. I ran out of money.”
“But I thought you said you were a stripper—”
“I am…and in two more years, I’ll be a pharmacist.”
“Has Matt been giving you money for a long time?”
“Not hardly. My bro and I aren’t close.” Kim’s laugh was cynical. “The only reason I tapped him for the cash was ’cause I was desperate. Luckily, he had a new contract for a job writing movies and his agent arranged for him to get a signing bonus.” She picked up the beer bottle, rolling it along the side of her neck. “It’s hot in here. I’m not in the mood to cough up a lot of answers. So let’s just hit the highlights, okay?”
Kim put the beer bottle down and looked at Ali with a smirk. “I bet my brother never told you about me. Or about who our mother was. Or about how I got this nasty-ass scar on my back. I bet he made up some story…lied his ass off to you.” She allowed time for what she’d said to sink in. Then she asked, “Want to know what else I can tell you about my brother?”
Ali was tense, hoping to hear the truth, yet deeply afraid of what it might be.
Kim leaned forward, locking eyes with Ali. “After where he’s been, he has the right to be one sick fuck.” She settled back, picking up the beer bottle, tipping it to her lips.
Ali understood Kim was toying with her, testing her—she kept her face expressionless. “Where, exactly, has Matt been?”
“I guess you could say he’s been right through the heart of stinking hell.” Kim took her time, kicking off one flip-flop and then the other. “So here’s my brother’s story. Starting when he was three months old, he was in a ritzy house in Boston, with his grampa and an imported English nanny. Our mother dumped him there because she needed to go on the road. She had a shot at screwing rock stars and jamming cocaine up her nose. And of course she didn’t want to miss that.”
Kim seemed to be enjoying the look of shock on Ali’s face. “Like they say…the truth’ll set you free. I’m assuming you want me to tell you the truth, right?”
Ali nodded.
“Well, my brother’s truth may not make you free. But I guarantee it’ll make you want to puke.”
Kim’s version of Matt’s history was bewildering. “Why was Matt left with his grandfather?” Ali asked. “Where was Matt’s father?”
“Out of the picture. Matty’s dad came from money, just like our mom did. But she divorced his dad before Matty was born. The guy’s respectability probably bored her.” Kim put the beer bottle to her lips and drained it. “Anyway, in the middle of her post-divorce rock-and-roll haze, she got knocked up. I was born in Cleveland so I’m guessing my father wasn’t anybody super-famous…or if he had been, he wasn’t anymore. Anyway, he unloaded my mother before I got here.” Kim pointed to the soda can Ali was holding. “Want another one?”
Ali shook her head. “No thanks.”
“Want a bathroom break?”
Kim was toying with her again, adding to the tension by putting space between the pieces of the story. But Ali didn’t think she was doing it to be malicious. She sensed Kim was playing for time, because it was difficult for her to discuss whatever was coming next.
“Okay, so here’s the deal.” Suddenly Kim was talking very fast, as if even while she was telling the story, she was trying to get away from it. “Right after my mom had me, she went back to Boston and snatched Matty. He was only four, but maybe she was looking for a babysitter. I don’t know.” Kim abruptly crossed her legs. She seemed irritated and jittery. “I swear to God, from the minute I was born, all I ever heard my mother say was ‘Matty, it’s your job to take care of your baby sister. She’s your responsibility.’ It was like her fucking mantra.”
The tension in Kim eased a little as she told Ali, “There was this one time I remember my mom laughing her ass off at Matty. We were out in front of the ratty motel we were living in. I was wearing this crummy dress I used to wear all the time. It had little flower sprigs all over it. And Matty was holding me…y’know…the way parents hold their kids with their hands kind of cupped under the kid’s butt? My arms were around his neck, and I had my legs wrapped around his waist. I was way too heavy for him, and he was trying super hard not to fall over.
“He was maybe eight and a half, and I was going on five, but giant big for my age. Matty was staggering all over the place. And Mom was laughing like she was gonna pee herself. Matty must’ve looked really dopey. But there he was, fighting like hell not to drop me. He’s just this little scrawny kid, and he’s killing himself trying to keep me from hitting the pavement…” Kim’s voice trailed off. She looked down and rubbed at a speck of beer foam on the sofa cushion.
“You were living in motels?” Ali asked. “I thought you said your mother’s family had money. Why didn’t your grandfather help?”
“My mother was a nutjob junkie. The old man probably didn’t even know where we were.” Kim shifted her position, bumped her shin on the coffee table, and winced. “The bottom line is we were always blowing through motels and trailers and crappy apartments…whatever got my mother closer to some new guy she was hot for.”
Kim sighed and ran her hand over the place where the speck of beer foam had been. “If it wasn’t for Matty, I probably would’ve never gotten my hair combed or my teeth brushed.” She sounded like she was talking to herself as she said, “It’s taken a real long time for me to figure out what a good person Matt is.”
Tears were welling in Kim’s eyes. She sounded exasperated. “Our mother was fucking insane. One time, this guy she was living with was beating the tar out of her, screaming he was gonna kill her and then kill us. Matty crawled into my room, hoisted me through the window, and we ran like maniacs. We hid under a bench in a bus shelter. It was like being jammed into a box of garbage and piss. But he stayed there with me, all night long, shaking like a leaf. Lying in that stink. Telling me I was safe, everything was going to be okay.”
Kim blinked away her tears and cleared her throat. “The next morning, my mom had a pair of black eyes from the beating she got from her three-hundred-pound boyfriend. Want to know the first thing she did when we came home from hiding under that bus bench? She smacked the shit out of Matty. Told him he was a coward. For running away, and deserting his mother when she needed him to protect her.”
Ali couldn’t speak. Her heart was breaking.
“I told you it would make you want to puke.” Kim turned around, displaying the scar on her back. “I got this when I was eight, from one of Mom’s drug dealers. She owed him money. He came by the trailer where we were living. She was off partying and the guy wanted to send her a message, so he ran a knife down my back. He did it while Matty was fighting him like a madman. The guy had to practically break both of Matty’s arms to make Matty stop. And when my mother saw the scar on me, she screamed at Matt that he’d torn her apart…that she’d counted on him to be the man of the house and take care of his baby sister…and he’d fucked it up. She told him he was a lightweight and nobody could ever feel safe with him.”
Ali thought about the broken lock on the apartment door and her rape—about how many times she’d told Matt he’d failed her and that she couldn’t rely on him.
“That’s when Matt left,” Kim was saying. “After the thing with the guy and the knife, Matty went back to live with our grandfather. He wanted me to come with him, but I didn’t. I was mad at him. I believed my mother’s bullshit about him letting us down.”
Ali was having trouble understanding all of this. “But Matt always said he had no family…”
“He doesn’t. Not really.” Kim got up from the couch and sat in the chair across from Ali. “Matt wasn’t lying about that. He is on his own. He’s got nobody. Before I tapped him for the ten grand, I didn’t even know if he was alive. I hadn’t said word one to him for years, not since that nightmare in New York, right after you guys got engaged.”
The soda can dropped out of Ali’s hand, thumping to the floor, spilling its contents. Ali didn’t care.
She was about to find out what Matt had done back in Rhode Island. During those three mysterious days when he had vanished.
Kim
“Brace yourself,” Kim said. “Because I’m gonna tell you exactly what happened, and it’s gonna be nasty.” Kim cocked her head and looked at Ali for a beat. “You sure you wanna hear it?”
Ali, Matt’s wife, was delicate. A girlie girl. Usually Kim didn’t like that type, but Ali had a real streak of tough in her, too—which made her okay. Right now, she looked scared shitless, like her mouth was so dry she couldn’t swallow.
Kim felt sorry for her. “Okay. So here’s what happened. On the day Matty went to that book-signing party in Providence, our mother, who hadn’t seen or spoken to him since he was twelve, checked herself out of a treatment facility in upstate New York and into a crappy hotel in Manhattan. She registered as Althea Ann Kenner, her maiden name, the hotshot family name she’d never given up.”
Telling this story was hard, harder than Kim thought it would be; her hands were clammy. She wiped them on her shorts. Then she said, “That night, the night of the book signing, I was with my mother in the sleazy Manhattan hotel room. Mom was paranoid, going through these violent mood swings. I had my laptop with me, and I managed to calm her down by getting her to play games and letting her surf the Net. And then—”
Suddenly, Kim didn’t want to go on.
“And then what?” Ali’s question sounded frantic.
Kim wanted to find a way out, but there wasn’t one—she had to finish the story. “Then Mom Googled Matt’s name. She found an article about Matt getting his PhD from the college in Rhode Island and about him being an assistant professor there. Then she came across a newspaper photo of him in this fancy wedding at some big mansion in Newport. And she found an announcement about his engagement to you.”
Kim grabbed another bottle of beer from the coffee table, chugged it, and said, “Mom started yelling, ‘Where does he come off with this shit? Graduating from a fancy college? Partying in Newport? Spending money on diamond engagement rings?’”