Surviving Goodbye

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Surviving Goodbye Page 19

by Morgan Parker


  “Ex girlfriends, Elliot? Someone from your past, maybe?”

  I hadn’t thought of that, but it seemed unlikely since I hadn’t been the whore; that was more Karen’s territory.

  “Maybe a woman you started seeing after your wife passed away, or—”

  “There’s been nobody,” I admitted with a bit of embarrassment, and it felt like her comment might’ve been a subtle way of digging up information she might’ve otherwise been too nervous or afraid to ask directly—how many women have you been with during your year of mourning?

  She went on, seemingly unaffected. “Or someone you were seeing before you got married, maybe a lady you flirted with during your marriage or at the office, someone that really liked you. Someone that might want to make sure you’re truly eligible and just wants to see what you’re up to.” She spoke quickly, but not because of heavy traffic or some kind of distraction; she wanted the answers but was too afraid to come out and ask the tough questions.

  “Veronica,” I said, “there’s nobody else.”

  Even as I spoke the words, I imagined that young woman from college, the one I had dated while second-guessing my love for Karen. Six weeks. We fucked at least a dozen times, the kind of sex that started with high-energy foreplay that pushed you beyond that point of reason, where you couldn’t say no or step back and see things for what they were. It hadn’t been love, not for either of us. Not anything close to love—more of a good fuck.

  “It makes sense why you think this is all coming from somewhere in my past,” she admitted. “Because Erik is a little crazy, and his friends are complete dicks, but I don’t know that car. Nobody in my past would have a car like that. If they did, they’d sell it for their next fix. Which leaves the only realistic option, Elliot. People from your past. It’s obvious, right?”

  “Why ‘obvious?’”

  “You drive a big Chrysler, which means other people like you, people from your past and present, would be more likely to drive a big Chrysler too.”

  Her theory had a bit of merit. “I haven’t thought of that, but I don’t know of anyone who would have an interest in me. Not now, not ever.” Outside of that ex from my six weeks of great fucking, that was the truth.

  “And,” she went on, “she parked outside my apartment, waiting for you to show up. Why would someone be interested in you, Elliot?”

  I reached my parked Chrysler, opened the trunk, and dropped the Lacoste bags inside.

  “Remember the other day, at Riverview Park?” she asked. “We were sitting inside your car, and you told me how Karen kept tabs on Eddie, tracked him down, and convinced his brother to fund his rehab.” She sighed. “I’ve been thinking about this, Elliot. Your wife, she had no enemies.”

  “I know that already,” I admitted, unlocking the door and settling inside. I hit the button to open the windows, allowing the warm air to flow out of the cabin. “She never told me about Eddie, or what she was doing with him. I probably wouldn’t have approved. It was dangerous, risky, and…” I shook my head, a little ashamed of what I was about to admit, “and it cost a bit of money to book him into a hotel every year or so.”

  Veronica didn’t seem to hear my reservations, or maybe she just didn’t care. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but your wife never pissed anyone off. Except you, when she told you about your daughter the day she died.”

  “What are you suggesting? And what does all of this have to do with the car that’s stalking me? Us?”

  “A couple of things.” Her tone suggested I was the idiot for not figuring this out on my own. “First off, you’re wife always had some kind of plan, a higher purpose to help people. Second, she never screwed any of these guys.”

  “Then what?” I asked, struggling to stay calm. “And who? Who?”

  A silent pause. “I don’t know. That’s something you need to figure out.”

  “And the car?”

  “Weren’t you listening? That car has nothing to do with your wife, Elliot. Or me. It’s there for you. Watching to see what you’re up to, what you’re doing. What you’re doing with me. So I’ll leave you with this: who would care if you’re seeing a new woman, one year after your wife passed away? And why?”

  Rather than drive straight home, I made a crazy detour and drove out to Grosse Point. Specifically, I turned onto Lake Shore and stopped in front of Nathan Darien’s property. The iron gates were open. Closer to the house and just outside the open garage, I spotted a Range Rover Sport, the overpriced model. I studied the house because, regardless of what Veronica had insisted, I felt there was more to Nathan and my wife’s relationship than anyone else saw.

  I’m the husband. Nobody knows a wife like a husband. And I know something stinks about Nathan Darien.

  Even though it didn’t quite feel right that Karen would’ve come here, to his house, to fuck Nathan and have him impregnate her, it made less sense that I could be wrong about it. I knew I was right, just knew it. I kept staring at the house, but that was when I heard the knock at my window, startling me.

  Snapping at the abrupt sound, I turned and found Nathan crouching so he could bring his face closer to my driver’s side window, his forehead glistening with sweat while he jogged on the spot. His pectoral muscles looked like they were trying to rip through the tight fabric of his running shirt.

  When he recognized me, he smiled. So I opened my window.

  “You were here before,” he huffed. “I know you. Wanna come inside?”

  I gave him a nod, and he motioned toward the open gates before taking off at a sprint. Turning onto his driveway, I followed him toward the house, staying back a safe distance. Part of me wanted to run him over for the role he might’ve played in Lena’s life, but the remaining sanity urged me to hear his story first.

  Parking next to the Range Rover, I got out and followed Nathan into a side entrance, which led to a laundry room the size of my kitchen. He reached into his runner’s belt and withdrew a water bottle, stripped out of his shirt—holy shit, Hollywood animators couldn’t fabricate that kind of muscle—and said he needed to take a shower.

  “I won’t be long,” he promised, opening the door to a hallway that led to a grand room with fancy furniture and an elaborate fireplace. “There’s water on the table and the apples on the table are fresh.”

  Before I could thank him, he sprinted up the grand staircase and disappeared. I surveyed the view through these big windows, the backyard with its luxury swimming pool, the waterfall, hot tub, and an outdoor kitchen that probably cost more than my entire house. It had depressed me to find him on my wedding video, and this was why.

  I grabbed an apple and started eating, like that might make me feel better about being here.

  Five minutes later, Nathan appeared in a pair of dress pants and a white shirt, unbutton far enough down his chest that the lines hinted at just how perfect his chest might be. He grabbed an apple as well, lowering himself onto one of the sofas. I left the window and sat opposite him. We smiled at each other.

  “I’m Elliot Fitch,” I told him, not because I thought he didn’t recognize me—he doesn’t—but because it felt like the most natural way to start this kind of conversation.

  “Karen’s husband.”

  I nodded, yes.

  “I was sorry to hear about what happened to her,” he said, his facial expression so grave I was admittedly a little jealous that mine hadn’t been so dark. He looked into his lap. “That was a little over a year ago, wasn’t it?”

  “A little more than that, yes.” I cleared my throat. “You two were close.”

  He allowed a shrug, but refused to make eye contact, which suggested he was full of shit.

  I forced a chuckle. “Nathan, you were at my wedding. I know you two were pretty fucking close.” I chuckled again, realizing my words had come across a little too aggressively.

  “Karen introduced me to Jeanine, who introduced me to my wife.” He huffed. “Christ, you know all that, Elliot. Leanne was in your wedding too.
” He shook his head, bit into the apple, and chewed it angrily while his eyes dug into mine.

  I stared right back. Leanne had been one of the bridesmaids. I never put those two together… Nathan and Leanne?

  Fuck, pull yourself together.

  I had worked so hard at burying all of these little details that I couldn’t remember some of the biggest ones, including the key players from my wedding day. Massaging my temples, I contemplated my next words.

  “Are you okay, Elliot?” Another angry bite out of the apple, more chewing while I stared back. “I hate to ask, but why are you here?”

  Do I tell him?

  No.

  So now what?

  “I saw you watching the house a few weeks ago,” he said. “So I’ll ask again, what’s this all about?”

  I reached into my pocket and withdrew my phone as a delay tactic. I noticed the alert in the top corner of the text-message icon, indicating I had a new message. Evidently from Veronica because she was the only person who texted me there. Tapping the icon, I caught a glimpse of her message.

  Can’t wait for tonight

  I scanned backward and found our conversation from earlier. Tapping on the photo of the stalking Chrysler, I handed my phone to Nathan Darien. When his fingers brushed against the back of my hand, I wondered if they might smell like my dead wife. I wanted to kill him all of a sudden.

  “Do you recognize that car?” I asked, wiping the back of my hand along my thighs.

  He frowned, but didn’t spend too much time studying the image before handing my phone back. “Elliot, what’s going on here? I haven’t seen Karen in years, so tell me where do I fit into whatever it is that’s going on?”

  Eyeing the phone he had just held, its sides warm from his touch, I repeated the question. “If you can help me, I’ll tell you. Otherwise…” I shook my head, chuckling because it seemed like a silly thing to suggest.

  “Yes, I know that car. It belongs to Leanne’s cousin.”

  “Jeanine?” I asked. I thought she had moved back home, out West.

  “No, Jeanine’s husband. I’m sure that’s his car. Those are after-market rims, and you don’t see them very often on these kinds of cars.”

  Her husband? It didn’t make sense to me. Nathan noticed my confusion; he sat back in the sofa, took a smaller and gentler bite out of his apple, and watched me.

  “What’s going on with this guy, Elliot?” he asked.

  I copied his relaxed posture. “He’s been following me. Or someone who has that same car with the same rims. Me and a female friend.”

  Nathan raised an eyebrow at my mention of a “female friend”, then he swallowed what was in his mouth. “So, what’s this all about, what’s going on with this car?”

  Shrugging, I admitted, “I don’t know. I guess I should start with Leanne’s cousin.”

  “I could make a call,” he offered.

  I shifted, uneasy all of a sudden. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea, getting you involved in this.”

  “I can get some answers out of Leanne’s cousin and give you a call in a few days.” It seemed like a genuine offer, but I still didn’t trust this man. Why did he want to help me?

  “I’d appreciate that, Nathan.”

  He stood up like that settled everything, a big smile on his face because he was happy to help, to pitch in and contribute to some obscure mission that he had inherited from a dead friend’s messed-up husband. He walked me back down that hall toward the mud room, but before opening the door that would dump me back outside, he asked, “How’s your daughter been dealing with all of this?”

  It wasn’t so much the question as the tone of his voice.

  Chapter 16

  Until that night, I never appreciated just how beautiful Lena truly was. I watched her move from the stove to the counter, then back to the oven. From the kitchen island, I admired how she made this look effortless—all of it, the potatoes and squash on the stove, the bruschetta and salad and uncooked apple pie on the counter, the ham in the oven—all while nursing a frosted mug of sparkling water with a hint of lime flavoring. She was moving like she had performed this kind of routine a million times, a culinary ballerina of sorts.

  “Wow,” I said. “It smells delicious in here.” And she looked great too, healthy in a black and white striped skirt, a red pullover, lipstick, makeup, and whatever else women painted on their faces these days. And she was pregnant, a small bulge in her tummy finally starting to show enough that I actually believed her when she complained about other kids at school shunning her. And she was my daughter, the perfect version that had to fend for herself for the past year while I withdrew from real life and drowned myself in denial about Karen’s crippling admission.

  When Lena finally spared a minute to glare back at me, she didn’t look happy. “Can you wait outside? I’m trying to concentrate.” She turned back to the stove, pouring a boiling pot of squash into a strainer.

  “I can help,” I offered, pushing my chair back.

  Lena’s response was a laugh, followed by one of her violent stares.

  So I left the kitchen and sat outside on the front steps, avoiding the porch because Lena had been sick there. I watched for my guests—no, Lena’s guests. She was doing all of the heavy lifting. I noticed Paul drive by—a late night at the Credit Union?—and then the breeze started to pick up. The grass had only returned to its lush green color a few weeks ago. The summer heat and dry air had sucked the life out of it by August this year. We didn’t need rain as desperately as we needed it back then, but the precipitation was coming anyway.

  When a Volkswagen Golf rolled onto our street, it stood out right away. Not so much because the driver had a streak of blue running through her otherwise blonde hair, but at least ninety percent of the vehicles on this street had been born within a hundred mile radius of Detroit. As the car rolled into my driveway and stopped behind my Chrysler, I spotted the smile on Veronica’s lips. But she suppressed it the moment she stepped out from behind the wheel, burying it like it never existed. I knew better, though. I’d seen it.

  I left my seat on the stairs and met her at the VW Golf, hugging her briefly before planting an innocent kiss on those perfect lips. For a moment, my world became something of a fairy tale, where nothing else surrounded us but cotton candy trees and lollipop lawns with golden-yellow stars in a sterling silver sky.

  “Mommy!” I heard from inside the car, and then Veronica stepped out of my arms and opened the Golf’s rear door to let Ava out. The young girl wore a similar outfit as her mother’s—dark blue skirt with a white top.

  “Hiya, Mister Elliot,” Ava said, extending a businesslike hand to me, which I shook and was instantly reminded of Lena, back when she was tiny with an unbreakable smile and keen wit.

  “Pleasure to meet you, little lady,” I said. Lena would’ve liked to be referred to as a “little lady” when she was a preschooler; Ava seemed confused or insulted by it.

  “I’m actually a princess,” she corrected me, then grabbed the sides of her skirt and curtsied with a gymnast’s grace. “So, what’s for dinner?”

  Veronica giggled at her daughter’s straightforward nature, covering her mouth with a hand. I noticed her blue-painted, glittering nails right away. They matched her toes in those flip-flop sandals. I grabbed Veronica’s hand and steered her and Ava into the house, introducing them to Lena who was busy setting the table.

  “Oh, you’re a princess, too,” Ava told Lena.

  Lena chuckled. “Hardly,” she answered with a wink. “Princesses don’t get pregnant when they’re seventeen.”

  Ava frowned. “Then who’ll replace us when we become queens?”

  Lena opened her mouth, but then frowned. She didn’t have an immediate answer, so she glanced at me. “Seriously? Tough questions on a Friday night?” Then to Ava, “How old are you? Twenty-five?”

  Ava laughed, ran to Lena, and hugged her leg. I watched my daughter, noticing how her arms skeptically wrapped
around Veronica’s young, smiling daughter. When a timer beeped on the stove, I also noticed the relief in Lena’s eyes. But before she hurried off, she asked Ava if she wanted to help with the salad. “The old people can go find wine or whatever it is that old people drink for dinner.”

  “Yeah,” Ava said with an undertone of slight disgust in her voice. “Old people stuff is gross.”

  As the two princesses retreated to the kitchen, holding hands, Lena glanced back and gave me a conspiratorial smile.

  “Damn,” Veronica said, watching the doorway where our daughters had disappeared. “I’m still not half the mother yours will be.”

  I slipped my hand into Veronica’s and led her to the basement, which seemed empty now that Lena had moved her things upstairs. Abandoned and stale. The wedding video was on a dusty speaker next to the television.

  “Is this where Lena lives?” Veronica asked, studying the vast space.

  “Not anymore; she moved back to the second floor. I painted the rooms, it’s nicer to have everyone on the same level.” I waved the large cassette at her. “Here it is. Take a look at this.”

  “What am I looking for?” she asked while I fed the cassette to the VHS player, hit play, and hurried to get the big television working. “Has she even opened the Liberator delivery? Or was that just a ploy, Mister Elliot?”

  I glanced back and saw the package with the sex wedge inside, tucked next to the sofa and out of sight unless you stood right where we happened to be standing. “I don’t know.” I pressed play.

  We watched the outdated crowd on the screen as the camera backed down the aisle. At the right moment, I pointed out Nathan Darien. “That’s him. That’s the guy.”

  “That’s Nathan,” Veronica said, unimpressed.

  I nodded. “Watch.”

  But then the bridesmaids started down the aisle. The second one to walk toward the camera was Leanne. I snapped forward and hit the pause button, pointing at the model-gorgeous young woman who seemed a good five years younger than either Karen or I had been, which made her younger than Nathan as well.

 

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