by Minka Kent
He’s back to clingy again. But clingy is better than crazy, so I’ll take it.
“The autopsy is done,” he says, pausing and squeezing me tight. His pause nearly gives me a heart attack.
“And?”
“They think she was under the influence,” he says.
I exhale. She did smell like wine that night.
“Drugs and alcohol,” he adds. “Her blood alcohol content was twice the legal limit, and they found traces of heroin in her system.”
“Heroin?”
“They think she was on a bender, and that’s why we didn’t hear from her for days,” Ben continues. “They think she fell and hit her head, and that knocked her unconscious, but they suspect it was the heroin that killed her. They won’t be able to determine a cause of death for sure until the secondary toxicology report comes in, and that could take a month or two.”
“Oh, Ben.” I lift my fingers to my lips. I’m shaking for a myriad of reasons, but he doesn’t notice. I’m slightly relieved. And horribly confused. “Marnie was a user?”
I had no idea. Zero. None.
His watery blues lift onto mine. “She was into heroin pretty good back in college. Mom and Dad had to send her away to some place in Malibu a couple times to get help. Guess it’s why we were so overprotective of her all the time. We thought she was clean but . . .”
I wrap my arms around him, and he melts into me, taking a second to just exist in the confines of my hold, as if I’m all he needs in this world right now.
None of this makes sense. She seemed drunk that night but nothing else. And she was wearing only a lace nightie. I didn’t see track marks on her arms, and there were certainly no questionable odors lingering in the air. And I can’t imagine Graham fooling around with a drug-addicted woman. That’s not his style.
Then again, what the hell do I know?
Apparently nothing.
Apparently I know absolutely nothing.
Forty-Eight
Daphne
“When are you going to stop moping around?” I try to make the bed this morning but he’s still in it. “Someone died. And in some roundabout way, you had something to do with it. Own it. Fix it. Move on.”
“Fix it how?” He clearly isn’t interested in owning it or moving on.
“I don’t know. Go to the police. Tell them you saw Autumn there after you left. Tell them about the affair and make an honest man out of yourself for once. If you didn’t do it, you have nothing to worry about.”
The house has been empty this week, and I’ve had more time to myself than I’ve had in over a decade. It’s been glorious. And I’ve been giving everything some thought, coming up with an exit plan.
I’m going to stick this out a little longer and wait until a few financial matters are handled, and then I’ll strike. I’ll serve him with divorce papers, clean him out as best as I can. Knowing my exodus is just around the corner gives me hope, and it makes it slightly easier to stomach all this casual discussion about his mistress’ untimely end.
“You know we can’t let her work for us anymore,” he says. “She could be a murderer.”
“She isn’t a murderer, Graham.” I roll my eyes and make my half of the bed, fluffing and arranging pillows. In this world there are sinners and there are saints, and Autumn Carpenter is absolutely the latter.
“Neither am I.” His hands fall in his lap, knocking the remote off the bed. Now he’ll be forced to get up. “I still think we should let her go. I mean, she was there the night Marnie died and so was I, and maybe that looks bad?”
“Yeah, it looks bad,” I say. “But it is what it is, and if you didn’t kill Marnie, then you shouldn’t be so concerned with how things look. The police will sort it out, I’m sure.”
Graham chomps on his thumbnail, an old, disgusting habit I thought I’d broke him of years ago.
“You’re right. I should go to the police and tell them everything,” he says. “That last article in the paper said that no one had seen her in days, that her friends and family were worried about her, but Autumn was there that night. I saw her.”
Forty-Nine
Autumn
I wake up before my alarm this morning. I haven’t seen the McMullen children in over a week, and today they’re back. I’m supposed to arrive at my usual time, but it feels like Christmas morning, and the sun’s not out yet and already I’m dressed and ready to go.
I flip on the TV in the living room, keeping the volume low. Ben’s still upstairs sleeping. He’s taking bereavement leave from now until further notice. His boss told him to take as much time as he needs and that everything will be covered until he gets back.
Marnie’s funeral was last week, and it was an awkwardly beautiful disaster to say the least. It was nothing but pink roses and baby’s breath, and Debra hired a string quartet to play the most depressing classical music I’ve ever heard. Chopin, I think most of it was? It felt more like a morose wedding-for-one than a funeral, and it went on forever. People came out of the woodwork to talk about Marnie Gotlieb, to share fond memories, and fawn over the beautiful soul she once was.
As soon as the service was over and everyone moved to the community hall for refreshments, I snuck out back and bummed a cigarette from a cousin of theirs, Payton. She was tall and lanky and wore too much black eyeliner. She was maybe nineteen and the cigarettes were slim and wrapped in black paper and tasted like strawberries, but I was grateful for the company the second she said, “God, she was a fucking bitch, wasn’t she?”
We laughed, then Payton cried a little. And then she lit another cigarette, offering me a drag.
I told her no thanks and continued to puff on the first one she gave me. I didn’t inhale. Smoking is stupid. I just needed something to do. I needed to escape everything happening inside.
Payton and I talked about how lovely Marnie looked in her casket, dressed in white like she was some kind of angel. And then Payton told me stories from their childhood. Marnie used to tease her and tell her she was ugly and that she needed a boob job and her nose fixed, and then Marnie filled the family full of rumors about Payton, getting them all to believe she was depressed and taking street drugs, which led her family to find a bag of magic mushrooms she’d been hiding in her room for months (because someone gave them to her but she was too afraid to take them), which then led to Payton being sent away to some military school for a year.
Fucking Marnie.
Payton’s stories made me feel better, and I silently thanked her for being the realest person there. I told her never to change as we headed inside, and she looked at me with the most quizzical look I’d ever seen. But I get it. When you’re young like Payton, all you want to do is change.
It’ll make sense to her someday, when she’s older and I’m long gone and she can’t, for the life of her, remember my name.
I head to the McMullens around a quarter to nine. It’s raining, so I bring my umbrella and watch for puddles on the sidewalk. There’ll be no swimming today, which is a shame because I know how much the children love to play in the pool.
Daphne answers the door in a floral robe. It’s paper thin and clings to her frame, which is looking gaunter than usual. She isn’t wearing makeup and her hair is pulled back into a low bun. I hardly recognize her.
She waves me in, staring at the pouring rain behind me. The sound of the wind and rain rustling the leaves on the trees is one of my favorite things to listen to. As a young girl, I used to stare out the window whenever it would storm, watching the way the rain made everything clean again.
“Did the kids have a nice time in . . .” I know where her mother lives. Albany. But I only know that from Instaface.
“Albany,” Daphne tells me what I already know as she re-ties her robe. “Yes. They had a wonderful time.”
She doesn’t seem to want to engage in conversation, and when she moves to the foot of the stairs, she rests her hand on the banister and turns to face me.
“The kids are ea
ting breakfast in the nook,” she says. Her stare lingers, her gaze narrowing in my direction. “You knew that girl? That one who died?”
I nod. “Marnie Gotlieb?”
“Yes.”
“She was my boyfriend’s sister.”
Daphne’s eyes flick to a painting on the wall. “So sad. Do they know . . . do they know the cause yet?”
I shake my head. “They have an idea, but it’s going to be a while before the final toxicology report comes in. Thank you for sending the roses by the way.”
“Of course.” Daphne presses her lapels together then flattens her palm against her chest. She says nothing more as she climbs the stairs and disappears around the corner at the top.
When I find the children, they’re seated with their father. I’m shocked to see Graham since he’s usually at work by now, but he’s sandwiched between Grace and Sebastian and he’s dressed in sweats. His hair is messy and there are bags under his eyes. He looks as if he hasn’t slept in ages.
“Morning,” I say, taking a seat across from him.
He reaches for a mug, pours some black coffee, and takes a careful sip. “Morning, Autumn.”
He doesn’t look at me. I bet he knows. I bet Daphne mentioned to him that I’m connected to “that girl who died” that the whole town won’t shut up about for two seconds.
“We missed you, Autumn!” Grace comes to my side, giving me a hug, and Rosie brings me a picture she drew last week that she’d saved just for me. Sebastian gives me a smile from across the table.
“I’ve missed you too,” I tell them. My gaze passes over them all, landing on Graham who’s staring vacantly ahead, unblinking. Without saying a word, he rises and shuffles to the sink, pouring out what remains of his coffee and heading out of the kitchen. His house slippers scuff on the hardwood, his feet dragging. Grace watches him, her expression laced with worry. I give her an extra hug and ruffle her hair until she smiles.
“I wanted to stay here with you, Autumn,” Grace tells me, her voice a soft whisper. “Mommy wouldn’t let me. She said we had to go to Grandma’s.”
“It’s okay to spend time with your grandmother,” I tell her.
Her lips bunch at the side and she rolls her eyes. “Not when she’s mean.”
“I doubt she’s mean.”
“She doesn’t like kids,” she says.
I laugh. “Sure she does.”
I glance up to see Daphne standing in the doorway, fully clothed. Her complexion is warmer now, blush on her cheeks and mascara on her lashes. Her lips are tinted in a healthy shade of pink, and she’s wearing expensive yoga attire.
Grace returns to her seat and grabs her spoon, returning to her bowl of oatmeal with zero commentary.
“Children and their stories.” Daphne chuckles, gathering her keys and wallet and placing them inside a new purse by the desk hutch in the far corner of the kitchen. “You can’t believe everything they tell you.”
“I’m well aware, Mrs. McMullen,” I say with a natural chortle. I don’t tell her I believe Grace. I don’t tell her that Grace is keen and observational, and she reminds me of myself as a child. Grace doesn’t miss a thing.
“I’m heading to yoga,” she says, as if the hundred-dollar Lululemon pants didn’t give it away. “And then I’m heading to the farmer’s market. I’ll be back around noon.”
“Sounds good.” I give her a wave and watch her disappear behind the garage entrance door.
“Autumn, can we play Barbies?” Rose asks.
“Take your dish to the sink, please, sweet girl,” I say. “And yes. Once everyone is finished with breakfast, we can play Barbies.”
Fifteen minutes later, the kitchen has been cleaned and wiped down and the dishes have been loaded in the dishwasher, and the children are quietly watching Sesame Street in the family room. I grab a box of Barbies from the toy chest and spread them out in the middle of the room. The girls, and Sebastian, lunge for them, divvying them up like baseball cards.
I take a seat on the sofa, watching them play.
I love that Grace has a little sister, and I hope they’re always going to be this close. I’d always wanted a sister growing up. An instant friend. A constant companion. Instead I had a jerk brother who made it his personal mission to make my life as miserable as possible.
“How could you do this to me?”
I glance down to see Grace holding a Ken in her left hand and a Barbie in her right. Barbie is shaking, and I imagine she’s the one doing the “talking.”
“It’s always about you, isn’t it?” Grace says, shaking Ken. She lifts his arm, making him point at Barbie. Barbie responds by slapping Ken across the face. “When did you stop loving me?”
My heart stops hard, and I’m glued, watching Grace act out an exchange that is better suited for two contentious adults. This kind of conversation would never originate in the mind of a ten-year-old.
“I sacrificed everything for you, and this is how you repay me?” Grace makes Barbie slap Ken a second time, and I’m stunned.
Does Daphne strike Graham? And does she do it in front of the children? Did this happen when they thought no one was looking? Did a fight prompt them to send the kids away for all of last week?
“You stopped loving me years ago,” Ken says via Grace. She repositions Barbie. “That’s not true. I never stopped. And for some insane reason, I still love you.”
“Grace?” I interrupt her little exchange, and she whips around, her cheeks glowing warm when she realizes I’d been watching her. “Everything okay with your Barbies?”
I offer a humored chuckle, and she tucks her chin against her chest.
“They’re fighting,” she says.
“I see that.” I lift my brows. “Did you see that on TV? Were you watching soap operas with your grandma last week?”
She bites her lower lip, choosing not to answer me. And then she turns around, her back toward me, and reaches for another Barbie.
“Hey, guys, you want to go swimming?” the new Barbie asks via Grace. “Okay, let’s go to the pool today! I can drive us. My car’s over here.”
She’s embarrassed.
And I shouldn’t have pried.
But now I know.
Trouble in paradise is officially a tropical storm.
The ceiling fan whirs overhead that night. Ben’s weight is over on top of me, sinking me into the mattress as he plows away. He grunts and groans and sweats, shoving himself in and out of me, and I dig my nails into his back the way he likes, but I’m not here. And I hardly feel a thing.
Earlier today, Daphne came home from running errands and Grace ran up to her to give her a hug. Daphne rolled her eyes, telling Grace her hands were full and she’d have to wait. Grace waited patiently, and when she finally got her hug, it lasted all of two seconds before Daphne flitted off to the next thing.
Later in the afternoon, Grace drew Daphne a picture of the two of them. She was so proud and had taken so much time and added so much detail. Daphne halfheartedly asked why her hair was green and then set it aside on top of a stack of mail.
Before I left the McMullens today, Grace pulled me aside and hugged me, the way she normally does, and then she whispered in my ear, “I wish you were my Mommy.”
A wave of emotion rolled over me, and I could hardly keep myself together. If she only knew. If she only knew how connected we were, how I’m the one who gave her life. If she only knew how badly I wanted to be her mother when I had the chance.
I gave her away because I loved her. And because I had no other choice.
Ben pistons harder and faster, a sign that this will be over in 5 . . . 4 . . . 3 . . . 2 . . .
He finishes with a groan and lingers inside me until he softens. His lips press against my neck, our skin sticking together until he rolls to the side and then disappears in the bathroom. And I lie awake, all night, thinking about all the ways I could make Grace mine again.
We would need new identities. And we’d probably have to leave the c
ountry. Maybe I could sneak her to Mexico. Or Cuba. I’d have to cash out my 401k and what’s left of my savings, but that should be enough. Maybe I can convince Daphne to let me take Grace somewhere . . . to the mall or to get her ears pierced. And we’ll just go. We’ll get in the car and drive and drive, and we’ll change our hair and buy a used car along the way and throw them off our scent.
I imagine Grace in the seat beside me, giggling and playing with the radio, and I’d let her listen to anything she wanted. And I’d tell her the truth. I’d tell her everything. I’d tell her I am her mother, her real mother, and I’d tell her no one has ever nor will they ever love her half as much as I do. I’ll tell her that Graham and Daphne haven’t been doing a very good job, and that it was time for me to take care of her now.
She’ll understand.
And she’ll grin.
And then she’ll ask for mint chocolate chip ice cream.
And I’ll teach her Spanish in the car.
And when we get to the border, we’ll adopt new names.
Maybe I’ll be Maria and she can be Eva.
And we’ll have our entire lives ahead of us.
We can make our way to Panama via Costa Rica and Nicaragua.
No one will ever find us.
And we’ll be happy.
And loved.
Ben climbs into bed beside me, smelling like soap and cinnamon toothpaste, and he slips his arm over my hips and pulls me against him. Ever since last week, when he freaked out on me and told me to leave, he’s been overcompensating.
But his words still echo, playing on repeat in my mind in certain still, small hours. Everything he’s ever wanted to say to me came blurting out in a fit of rage. He thinks I’m different. He thinks I’m cold and that I don’t know what the meaning of family is.
I may not have had the perfect upbringing. I didn’t have a mother who remembered every birthday and never missed a basketball game. I didn’t have a father who taught me how to drive. I didn’t have a close group of friends or a brother who chased away bullies.