by Minka Kent
It was always me.
And fuck Ben for judging me.
I tuck my pillow under my arm, thinking of Grace snuggled warm in her bed. I pretend I’m beside her, breathing in her sweet, perfumed hair and the fabric softener scent of her cotton pajamas. I imagine my arm around her. And I imagine her whispering, “Goodnight, Mommy” as she drifts to sleep.
Fifty
Autumn
“Autumn, can you come in here for a second, please?” Daphne calls for me the next day, moments before my shift ends.
“Of course.” I make sure the kids are busy in the family room, and I meet her in the foyer.
“I don’t know how to tell you this.”
My stomach sinks. I can’t breathe. She’s firing me. This has to do with Marnie, I just know it. Fucking Marnie fucking me over even when she’s fucking dead.
Oh, god.
“Graham and I have decided to enroll the kids in a summer educational program,” she says, clasping her hands in front of her waist, her mouth tugged into a phony frown. “We think the children need more structure and more interaction with other kids. You’re not doing anything wrong, you should know that. And this was a last-minute decision. There’s a program at Brinkman Academy, and they just had a family leave, so three spots opened for us. We’ve been on the wait list, but I had no idea they’d be placing us so soon.”
None of that makes any of this easier to swallow.
The foyer walls spin, Daphne’s marble console and oil paintings and flower urns melting into a dizzying shade of cream.
“Autumn.” Daphne places her hand on my shoulder, and it’s cold, bony. “We’ll still pay you for the remainder of the summer. This isn’t about money.”
No. It’s not. It’s not about money at all.
Daphne hands me my bag and offers an apologetic smile.
“I almost forgot.” She disappears into the kitchen and returns with a check written for eight thousand dollars; lost wages and then some.
“Daphne.” My lip trembles. I don’t want to cry in front of her, but this is the absolute worst thing that could’ve happened to me today.
“You can see the children whenever you’d like,” she says. “I know you have quite the bond with them. Grace informed me last night that she would rather you be her mother than me.”
Daphne snickers, glancing away, and I wonder if that is what this is all about.
I’ll never know.
“Is there any way you could reconsider?” I ask, feeling my chest rise and fall in quick succession. “The kids are so attached to me now, and we’ve really settled into a good rhythm.”
“Thank you for everything.” Daphne takes a step toward the door, ignoring my plea, and I take the hint. “You’ve been amazing, really. If you ever need a reference or letter of recommendation, I’d be happy to help.”
“What if they attended part-time?” I ask. “And I watched them the other half of the time? I’m just worried about the kids, Grace in particular. She doesn’t seem to do well with changes in her routine.”
“Grace will be fine. The staff at Brinkman happens to be very familiar with her.” Daphne pulls the front door wide, and her eyes trail toward the sidewalk before returning to me. She wants me to leave, and she’s growing impatient with this conversation. “Thanks again, Autumn. Enjoy the rest of your summer.”
I take the first step, my back toward the McMullen’s home, and the soft click of the door and the clink of the lock follows a moment later.
I’m stunned and speechless, my hands trembling and the check shaking. I walk home in a daze, and when I turn the corner of Linden and Maple, the tears spill down my cheeks. I can’t contain them any longer.
My daughter.
My Grace.
Just like that . . . it’s over.
The sidewalk turns into Willow street, and our home is up ahead. Ben is home. He’s going to see me crying. And he’s going to want to know what happened. And I won’t even be able to give him an answer because I don’t fucking know.
Moments pass and I find myself standing before the front door, swallowing the thick, mid-summer’s air and drying my cheeks on the back of my hands. I can hear the TV inside, and through the curtains, I see Ben perched on the sofa, his elbows on his knees and his face squinting at the screen. He needs glasses, but he refuses.
Twisting the knob, I step inside and brace myself for a million questions and a giant Ben hug.
“Autumn.” He seems surprised to see me, naturally. I’m home slightly earlier than he expected. Ginger runs to my side, and I drop my purse on the console table by the front door, and then Ben rises, his body twisting to the side as he grabs something off the sofa beside him.
A box.
Not just any box.
My secret McMullen box.
From beneath my bed in the guest room.
“You want to tell me what the hell this is?” he asks.
There are no words for this moment.
I have no explanation–at least none that would appease him.
“These pictures. These things. They all belong to that family, don’t they?” he asks, flipping the lid of the box open. “There’s jewelry in here. Addresses. Recipe cards. Pieces of mail. Small toys. Crayons. What the fuck, Autumn? Why do you have all of this stuff? Are you stealing from them?”
I close my eyes. At this point, stealing for the sake of stealing almost seems like the lesser of two evils. And maybe it’s something he would understand, as opposed to the truth of the matter.
“Cut ties with them,” he commands. “You’re done working for them or it’s over between us. And throw this shit away.”
I don’t tell him what happened. There’s no point.
Ben is all I have now anyway.
My lip quivers. “Okay.”
Fifty-One
Daphne
“I’m going to have to say something to Sebastian’s teacher,” I tell Graham over lunch. “That’s the second swear word he’s said in the last two weeks. I thought Brinkman had higher standards. Maybe they let just anyone into the summer program now, I don’t know.”
Graham nods, spooning his soup and staring vacantly into the bowl of steaming liquid.
“And they come home filthy every day,” I add. “Dirty fingernails, stained clothes.”
“Talk to the headmaster,” Graham suggests, and I will, but for now I want to vent. I miss Autumn, and I miss the days when we could roll out of bed and not have to cart the kids anywhere and hope and pray that we get them there on time, but this is the way it had to be.
Graham went to the police. He told them about the affair. And he told them he was there the night Marnie died. And then he told them about Autumn. It’s only going to be a matter of time before they look into her as a suspect, and if she were to find out Graham was the one who dropped her name at the detective’s feet, it just seemed like a conflict of interest to have her continue to watch the children.
“I miss having a nanny,” I say, forking through my salad and picking out the acceptable parts.
“It’s good for them to be around other kids,” Graham says. He seems to be going through the motions these days, dissonant and distracted. He’s still mourning her. His heart is broken.
I still have zero sympathy for his loss. The entire situation is tragic, and I feel for that young girl’s family, but I don’t feel for Graham. In fact, if anything, I’m frustrated with him for moping around like a piece of him died that night.
“Anyway, I thought we could try to sneak away next weekend?” I try to place excitement in my tone, but the truth is I’m anything but.
All I can do right now is make him think we’re going to recover, that we’re finally putting all the pieces back together. He still has no idea I’ll be leaving him soon, and I’m afraid the slightest little slip might set him off.
When you’re about to go to war with someone, the last thing you want to do is tip them off so they can prepare for battle.
If he knows I’m filing, he’s going to move money around, hide it away, and screw me over.
Divorce is strategic.
Hell, love is strategic.
Whipping my phone from my purse, I snap a picture of our bread basket and the adorable little butter pats cut and molded into sea stars, and then I post it to Instaface with the hashtag #lunchdate #daydate and #lovemyhubby.
Forty likes instantly.
My social media game has been sorely lacking these last few weeks, and I blame him and this massive squall he’s roped us into.
If for some completely insane reason Graham gets blamed for Marnie’s murder, her family will sue for wrongful death and take us for everything we have, and then all of this will have been for nothing.
Fifty-Two
Autumn
Ben has been detached these last two weeks ever since he found the box under the bed. Sometimes when he looks at me, it’s as if he’s looking at me for the first time. I feel him studying me when he thinks I’m not paying attention, and at dinner, when we eat together, he’s quiet and stiff.
“Marnie’s headstone is up,” he says out of the blue after dinner tonight.
“Oh, yeah?” I glance up at him. He’s seated in his armchair, the one Marnie always used to steal when she’d come over, and he’s staring blankly ahead at the flash of the TV screen.
“Thought we could go pay some respects tonight.” His words are monotone.
“Of course.” I rise from the table and finish cleaning up our dinner mess. He doesn’t offer to help, but that’s nothing new. “Give me ten?”
I keep my voice chipper and light. Now I’m the one compensating these days.
“I’ll be in the car.” He disappears into the garage after slipping into his sneakers, and I hear the door rise and the engine start.
Shoving the last of the dishes into the dishwasher, I grab my purse and slip into some flats and meet him out there.
He’s quiet as we drive toward Crestwood Lawns Cemetery, his knuckles white around the steering wheel. He’s like that lately: tense and overwrought. Always on edge. We stop at a flower shop on the way and grab a dozen pink roses, and then we continue on our way, finding a parking spot beneath a weeping willow when we arrive. We glance around for Marnie’s spot, and it takes us a while to find our bearings. It looks different now, without the tent and the chairs and the blinding midday sun, but we find a fresh mound of dirt covered by patchy grass and a shiny, granite headstone bigger than all the ones around it.
I follow Ben, keeping a careful distance behind. I don’t know if he wants me to hold his hand or give him space, so I keep back. He’ll let me know if he needs me. The second he reaches her site, he lowers himself to his knees, placing one hand on top of the stone while the other traces her name.
MARNIE ELIZABETH GOTLIEB - Beloved daughter, sister, and friend
There’s her chiseled-in-stone likeness that oddly makes her look more like Anna Nicole Smith than Marnie Elizabeth Gotlieb, and next to that are chiseled flowers and a cross.
My chest squeezes. For him. For Ben. Only for Ben.
Any day now we should be hearing back on the final toxicology report. I’m still scratching my head over the heroin in her system.
Approaching her stone, I lean the bouquet of roses against it and step back, jamming my hands in my pockets. Ben hides his face from me, as if I haven’t seen him cry a dozen times in the past weeks, and I take that as a sign that he needs me to give him space again.
Peering around the cemetery, my eyes catch a mausoleum in the distance. It looks like it’s been there for a million years, with creeping vines growing over the door and a giant oak giving it shade and shelter.
A shadow moves behind the limestone façade, and when I look again, I see the profile of a man standing beside it. Stepping away from Marnie’s site, I move closer because it feels like he’s watching us, and I wonder if it’s one of her many ex-lovers.
He disappears behind the building the closer I get, so I walk faster, my shoes snapping small twigs in the grass with each step.
“Hey,” I call out, keeping my voice low.
When I reach the mausoleum, I expect him to be gone, but he’s standing there, leaning against an exterior wall, and when our eyes lock, he says my name.
“Graham, what the hell are you doing here?” I ask, my yell more of a whisper.
His eyes water, and he glances down. There’s a small bouquet of flowers, mostly daisies, in his hand, and he says nothing. And now I know. He loved her. For some completely insane reason that I’ll never understand, Graham truly loved her.
“I know you were having an affair with her,” I say.
His eyes lift onto mine.
I don’t dare tell him I saw him there the night she died for the same reason police don’t go around yapping about all the evidence they have when they’re trying to solve a major investigation.
“How?” He seems genuinely shocked, and his eyes search mine. He’s contemplating something.
“One of her friends,” I say. “She mentioned it.”
“Oh, god.” He’s shaking, paler than usual, and it’s as if he’s been reduced to a fraction of the successful, confident man he once was. There’s a bluish tint beneath his eyes. He isn’t sleeping.
“Did you know Marnie was using?” I ask.
His blue eyes flick into mine and then narrow. “No. Using what?”
“Heroin.” I cross my arms.
Graham shakes his head with vehement force. “Never. I . . . never. No. Marnie wasn’t like that.”
“Are you sure? Because the night she died, she had a lethal dose of heroin in her system.” I don’t know that for sure, but I’m testing him. Baiting him the way cops do during interrogations. If you make him think you’re one step ahead of them already, often times you’ll get a confession where there once was none.
“I’m one hundred percent positive,” he says carefully, “that she was not on drugs. I’ve known her for years. I loved that woman. I knew her, inside and out. Hell, I was going to . . .”
His voice tapers off. I already know what he was going to say, and he knows better than to finish his thought in front of me.
“Don’t tell Daphne any of this.” His eyes plead, and he isn’t asking. “Autumn, it’s very important that you not tell anyone I was here.”
I cross my arms. “Why, Graham?”
“Because-”
“No,” I cut him off. “Why? Why would you do any of this? Cheat on your beautiful wife? Abandon your beautiful children? I don’t understand. You have no idea how good you have it, and you were going to throw it all away for a piece of ass.”
His jaw hangs. I’ve rendered him speechless. He’s never seen me like this. This isn’t pliable, amenable Autumn who used to watch his children with a benign, helpful smile on her face. This is angry Autumn who was wrongfully terminated from her job because the children were getting too attached and/or the McMullens were worried about an outsider having a front row seat to the dissolution of their picture-perfect marriage. This is broken, jaded Autumn who feels disenfranchised because the one thing she loved more than anything in the world turned out to be a carefully crafted mirage.
“You don’t know me.” Graham scoffs, folding his arms and looking away. “You have no idea what my life is like.”
“You’d be surprised. I know a hell of a lot more than you think I do.”
He laughs. He doesn’t believe me. “Let me guess. You follow my wife on social media. God, we look like the perfect little family, don’t we? All dressed up. Smiling. Laughing. Happily married. Adorable little hashtags.”
My chest burns.
“Pictures lie, Autumn,” he says. “Especially when the person taking them is the biggest manipulator of them all.”
“What are you talking about?” I glare at him. I refuse to believe his little manipulations. He’s delusional and he’s grieving and he’s trying to believe his own lies, that Marnie was worth it all.
<
br /> His fist clenches in the air. “I wish you knew Daphne the way I know her. Then you’d see.”
“Daphne is a wonderful person. She loves those children. And she loves you. And she works so hard to-”
“With all due respect, you know nothing. You know only what she allows you to see.”
“Autumn!” Ben calls for me in the distance.
Shit.
“I have to go,” I say.
He calls my name again, louder. He’s getting closer. I can’t let him see Graham, and I sure as hell can’t let him see me talking to him.
I jog around the mausoleum and flag him down, walking in his direction to keep him from walking in mine.
“Hey, sorry,” I say, slightly winded.
“Where’d you go?” He scratches at his temple, his other hand hooked on the loop of his jeans.
“I was just walking around . . . I thought I’d give you some time alone.”
He squints for a second, then reaches for my hand. “I wanted you here, with me. I needed you.”
“I’m sorry.” Sliding my palm against his, our fingers interlace, and I follow him back to the car. “You’re so quiet lately. I’m not sure what you want from me half the time.”
He looks up as we walk, toward a pond surrounded with ducks and geese. “I just want you to be you.”
Ben stops, turning to face me.
“Can you do that for me?” he asks.
I don’t know.
“After the other week . . . I feel like we’re strangers all over again.” His voice is low and calm. We reach his car, and he opens the door for me, something he never does. “I feel like I need to get to know you all over again, Autumn. Maybe we could start over?”
“Start over?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Maybe we can try to get to know each other all over again?”
“Ben, you know me.” I playfully nudge his arm. “None of this makes sense.”
“See, I don’t feel like I really know you. Not anymore.”