If You Must Know

by Beck, Jamie

  When Lyle burst into my life, her dislike of him made it easy to drift even further apart. I’d ignored her opinions because my life had become full of excitement and acceptance—or so I’d thought. Another bad decision to add to my growing list of mistakes. I didn’t want to continue making them, and it was past time to close the distance between us. “He might sometimes, but he’d still find you lovable.”

  A quirk of her lips disrupted her deadpan expression. Playfully, she fluffed her chunky waves of hair. “Well, I am sort of unique.”

  “For sure.” The shorn head, nose ring, and odd clothing used to embarrass me—possibly because all I’d wanted was for her to fit in so others wouldn’t talk about her. Now I realized how petty they’d all been, and how weak I’d been for not sticking up for her. I almost said something, but my phone rang. Mom.

  The moment with my sister was over. “Hey, Mom, are you finished?”

  “Yes. Where are you two?”

  “At the café downstairs.” I scanned the medical center’s cavernous lobby. “We’ll meet you by the elevators.”

  “Fine.” She hung up.

  “Uh-oh.” I shoved the phone in my bag and stood. “She’s not a happy camper.”

  Erin tossed the muffin wrapper in the trash and crushed her can before putting it in the recycle bin. “Bad news?”

  “It’s too soon for any news. She’s just mad that we forced her to come.”

  Erin grimaced. “More embarrassed than mad.”

  Embarrassed to seek medical care. That sounded ridiculous, but our mother was a proud woman who’d spent most of her life overcoming her father’s legacy, determined to prove herself to be nothing like him. That shaped her aversion to unwanted attention, as my need for her approval shaped mine. I had to find a way to break the decades-old cycle to spare my daughter this unhealthy anxiety despite her father’s crimes.

  By the time we made our way to the elevator bank, our mom had arrived. “I hope you two are satisfied now. Let’s go.”

  She marched ahead of us, clasping her clutch to her bosom.

  “Did Dr. Blount offer any preliminary opinions?” I asked, holding my belly while trotting to keep up with her.

  “That’s not your business, like making people think I’m losing my mind isn’t your business.” She burst through the doors into the bright sunlight.

  I squinted. “Mom, we haven’t even told Kevin yet, let alone ‘people.’ But we’re concerned given the pan, the keys, the fainting, the garage. You’ve got to admit you’ve been off lately.”

  She whirled around, wearing the stern expression she typically reserved for Erin. “With good reason, Amanda.”

  I shrank from the rebuke.

  Mom rarely yelled at me. I’d always hated when it happened, and I still did. “I’m sorry. You know I am.”

  I couldn’t feel any smaller unless I became invisible, which would have been preferable to being reminded, yet again, of what my husband had done.

  “Let’s chill.” Erin set her hands on both our shoulders. “Mom, so you’re a little embarrassed by the oopsies and this appointment. Embarrassment won’t kill you. Learn from me and roll with it. We hope this appointment was unnecessary, but as you always tell me, better safe than sorry.”

  “Hmph.” Mom huffed. “You’ve never listened to me.”

  “And aren’t I the last person you want as your role model?” Erin said it with a smile as she tweaked Mom’s nose, catching Mom by surprise. I might’ve laughed if I didn’t envy her carefree attitude about my mother’s viewpoints. She opened the front passenger door for our mom and then slid into the back seat.

  As the ignition turned over, I said, “Mom, I know it’s been a trying day, and I’m sorry to add to it, but I’m filing for divorce.”

  “Oh, honey. I suppose it’s time.” Mom made the sign of the cross. “We’d better get our stories straight.”

  “What story?” I asked.

  “You certainly won’t advertise the affair and theft. Blame everything on irreconcilable differences.” She clucked to herself. “Even with that, Becky Morton and Dodo will be all over me with questions.”

  My mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.

  “It’ll be worse if you get busted lying,” Erin scoffed.

  Mom twisted in her seat to face Erin. “It’s called discretion. Besides, Lyle’s gone, so Amanda can control the narrative. It’s better for all of us that way, especially her. It’ll be much easier to move forward with Willa if she doesn’t have to deal with snickers and pity.”

  Maybe. Or maybe keeping secrets would increase my stress. Either way, I hated being talked about as if I weren’t present.

  “For all we know, Ebba has friends who know the truth. Secrets never stay hidden forever. Just tell the damn truth!” Erin said. “He’s an asshole, and people should know it.”

  “Language!” Mom turned back around. I was surprised that the vicious glare she sent through the windshield didn’t crack it.

  “Stop talking about me like I’m not here,” I said.

  My mother faced me. “Ignore your sister. You understand what I’m saying.”

  “Wouldn’t a judge be more inclined to penalize Lyle for the affair with higher alimony and child support?” I mused.

  “Judges don’t care about that,” Mom huffed. “And you can’t trust Lyle to abide by a divorce decree, anyway. The only hammer you have is the ability to keep him out of jail. Anything you don’t get from him when we present our bargain will be lost. Accept that and move forward.”

  Every time I caught my breath, she knocked the wind out of me again by filling me with doubt. The worst part was that, in addition to ending our marriage, Lyle might actually be destroying the lifelong relationship I’d always considered secure.

  “Okay, Mom, let’s walk it back a bit. Filing for divorce is a big enough step for now.” Erin squeezed my shoulder. “We should celebrate. Let’s make something fun for dinner, like mac and cheese with bacon—or french toast.”

  I put the car in reverse, not feeling the least bit celebratory about my divorce or future. I needed time alone to think through everything I’d learned and to speak with Kevin. “Sorry, I can’t. I have to prepare for parent conferences.”

  “They’re three years old. How hard can that be?” Erin asked, then shifted to a prim voice. “Mr. and Mrs. Peterson, little Johnny is the top finger painter in our class. And he counts to twenty without resorting to using his toes. His potty training is by far the best we’ve seen all year.”

  “Ha ha.” Some people see me as a glorified babysitter. Never mind my early childhood development and education background. Or the creativity and flexibility I demonstrate to keep children that age engaged in learning and reading. Or the communication skills I possess to be able to converse well with kids that young and their parents.

  Sometimes I wondered if anything I’d ever worked hard at in this life mattered to anyone but me. Lyle had convinced me that he appreciated my devotion and enthusiasm. It had been the greatest gift I’d ever received—but it had also been a lie.

  The effort I put out for others rarely returned in equal measure—except with the children. They loved me. I hoped my daughter would, too.

  “Erin, don’t tease your sister. When you have kids, you’ll want someone like her taking them seriously.” My mom reached across the seat and patted my thigh, marginally lifting my spirits.

  “I’m only kidding.” Erin rolled her eyes, thinking we couldn’t see her, but I caught it in the rearview mirror. “So, Mom, when will we get the results from your tests?”

  In a blink, the giant tangle of questions about my future got swept off the table. Perhaps I should be grateful for the break, but what I most needed was a hug.

  “We won’t get anything. I’ll hear something within the week.”

  “That’s fast!” Erin sat forward, chin on the back of the seat like a dog. “What’d they make you do?”

  “Please, Erin. I just answered
a thousand questions for the doctor, and now your sister’s getting divorced. My head hurts.” Mom opened her purse and pulled out a bottle of Advil.

  My head hurt, too—not that they cared.

  Erin raised her hands in surrender, rolling her eyes again as she slid back onto her seat. At this rate, their living arrangement wouldn’t last very long. The mountain of problems I had to manage was grinding me down.

  Muscle memory had me navigating around the potholes and slowing for the speed bumps in the old neighborhood while my mind wandered. The Uptons had changed out some old boxwoods for hydrangea. Little ranches and cottages dotted the streets, and most of the houses needed fresh paint or new roofs, or both. But today these homes seemed well loved. Well lived. The lack of uniformity gave the neighborhood personality, and I could no longer remember why I’d wanted to leave it all behind.

  We rode in silence until we got to Mom’s house, which could also use a coat of fresh paint. I put the car in park in the driveway and leaned over to kiss her cheek, wanting to end the day on a better note. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “Okay.” She got out of the car.

  Erin paused on the edge of the back seat. “You okay?”

  I didn’t want to cry but was grateful she’d thought to ask. I nodded, so she scooted out and closed the door. She then looped her arm through our mom’s and pointed at something in the sky as they made their way up the walkway. Neither stooped to pull the weeds growing between the pavers, nor did Mom resist Erin’s hold on her. Mo made a brief appearance after they opened the front door, and then they all went inside.

  My hand rested on the key as I debated turning off the ignition and following them instead of facing another evening alone. I missed companionship. Warmth. The welcoming smile of someone who loved me. Most days my mom provided those things, but while carbs and cheese and Mo cuddling on my lap sounded like heaven, I knew no one would be handing out hugs tonight. Work would have to be my solace.

  Other teachers—lazier ones—phoned in parent conferences, but I’d sworn I’d never become one of them. My personal life might be in pieces, but Lyle couldn’t steal my professional reputation without my help.

  Yet once I entered my home—a prison I couldn’t even sell—the walls closed in.

  While a plate of leftover pasta spun in the microwave, my gaze drifted to the memory jar—now a farce. My jaw clenched as I pictured Lyle and Ebba snuggled on the bow of a yacht like Kate and Leo. In one swift movement, the jar crashed to the floor.

  The microwave beeped, but I remained frozen amid the glittering shards scattered across the tile. A dozen or so pink scrolls of paper lay among the wreckage.

  Squatting, I picked one to read.

  Lyle bought me chicken noodle soup from Oak & Almond because I was sick, and he did two loads of laundry so I could rest.

  Gestures like that had coaxed me into believing in his love, his lies. What I hadn’t recognized until after my conversation with Lyle’s dad was how he’d crowed about those actions for weeks afterward, making me work twice as hard to thank him for such thoughtfulness. I grabbed another scrap of paper.

  Watched the Jim Gaffigan special on TV with Lyle and laughed so hard my stomach ached.

  Date night at home had been my favorite. Our little cocoon—or love nest, as some say. That’s what this home used to be.

  One by one, I collected the rest of the scrolls, scanning each to discover that Lyle hadn’t contributed a single memory in three months. He’d probably been carrying on his affair for the duration, planning his escape while luring me deeper into a life he knew I could never count on.

  I released the papers into the trash like unwanted confetti, then got the broom and swept up my spectacular mess. No tears, only anger spreading through my limbs like a fever.

  All my life I’d been reliable. A team player. Generous with my time and love. Loyal. Hardworking. Self-sacrificing. What had it all gotten me? No one thought me any more special than anyone else. My own husband didn’t even care enough about my feelings not to humiliate me and steal from my family.

  What would my habits teach my daughter about love and commitment? About me? If I didn’t want Willa to feel unworthy and underappreciated like me, I’d have to change everything . . .

  But first I had to prepare for the parent meetings.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ERIN

  “Are you sure you want to add lime to this geranium scent?” My mother wrinkled her nose while sniffing it.

  “Absolutely.” I continued stirring the coconut and almond oils together with the beeswax and shea butter in the double boiler. “But first we add the vitamin E, remember?”

  She gave me “the look” that said she was sick of me testing her memory every day. Five days since the doctor appointment and still no news. I raised my hands apologetically while she measured a teaspoon of vitamin E oil and put it in the glass bowl.

  Her behavior had actually been better lately—except for the day she went to the pharmacy to get her cholesterol medication but came back with only sunscreen and shampoo. When I realized what she’d done, I ran back to get her prescription and left it on her bathroom vanity without calling out her brain fart. Things were tense enough with Lyle on the run. Oh, then there was the chicken that got charred to a crisp, but Aunt Dodo had a habit of calling when my mom was cooking, and I couldn’t quite blame her for getting sidetracked. But other than those incidents, she’d been focusing very hard on proving that she was “fine.”

  “Now let’s add the essential oils. The lime is a nice contrast note. Trust me, you’ll like it. A perfect summer scent. You won’t even need perfume.” I stepped back and let her take over so I could pop into the garage to get the mini mason jars.

  I stared at the now-empty corner where I normally stashed my supplies. Crap! I ducked back into the kitchen. “Mom, did you throw out my box of mason jars?”

  “No.” She glanced over her shoulder. “I put them up on the shelf by the lawn mower. If you want to run a business, you need to be organized, Erin. You should be keeping inventory lists and looking for discounts on supplies.”

  “When I get bigger, I’ll worry about that.”

  She shook her head like she used to when I’d doodle while Amanda tried to help me with homework. “You can’t grow a business if you aren’t organized and following a plan. We should be testing things and tracking what works and doesn’t. Let’s not wing this.” She went back to stirring the ingredients.

  Let’s? We?

  Shakti Suds was my baby—my vision—yet if Dad had been living, I would’ve welcomed his help and input.

  I’d already taken Amanda’s idea about contacting local stores, although I didn’t tell her I’d done so because I couldn’t willingly give her another reason to feel superior to me. However, this situation with Lyle and Mom’s forgetfulness had forced us to work together, and that hadn’t sucked.

  Maybe I should get Amanda more involved—officially. It wouldn’t be the worst thing for me to pass off the things I hated to do—math! and organization—so I could concentrate on the creative side of my enterprise. And Lord knew she could use something to think about besides Lyle.

  The idea made me a little sick to my stomach, though. I’d have to weigh the pros and cons more . . . maybe talk to Kevin about how to structure it.

  “I thought you’d retired from ever working again.” I looked at my mom.

  “I have, trust me. This is only a good distraction until this Lyle business is settled.”

  “Well, then, how about we finish this batch without making plans for an empire.”

  “Fine, but we should go to Home Depot today to get some sturdy shelves for the garage. I’ll make labels and create one central place for all these oils and bottles and things.”

  I had to admit I didn’t mind that help. “I can’t go today. I’ve got plans.”

  She looked up. “What plans?”

  I couldn’t tell her about my plan to investigate Ebba
Nilsson, so I hedged. “I’m taking the soaps we made the other day and some sugar scrubs to Castille’s.”

  Nalini Bhatt, the owner of the upscale local store that specialized in women’s lingerie and pajamas, had agreed to let me conduct a little trial in her shop. Granted, her place was a bit chichi for my taste, but women who would pay sixty dollars for a bra shouldn’t blink at spending eight bucks for a bar of organic homemade soap.

  “You’ve sold them all already?”

  Mom rarely graced me with an impressed expression, so I hated to erase it so quickly.

  “Not yet. Castille’s will sell them for a cut of the revenue. I made pretty lotus-flower labels with my website info listed on them so if people like the products, they can reorder directly from me.”

  Mom nodded, tapping her temple. “Good idea, honey.”

  “Thanks.” I nodded, encouraged. “I’ll grab the mason jars so we can fill them with lotion, then can I borrow your car?”

  Mom hadn’t driven much since the little accident. “Sure. Amanda’s coming over for help with baking for her school fair tomorrow morning, so I don’t need it.”

  Good. Mom wouldn’t be alone for long, which meant I wouldn’t have to worry about her microwaving anything covered with tinfoil again. Luckily I’d caught that one before she hit the “Start” button, but, yeah, that actually made it three incidents in five days. Guess she wasn’t doing as well as I wanted to believe.

  “Notice that the keys are on the hook . . . ,” she said, with a haughty raise of her brows.

  “Yep.” I didn’t react—as I hadn’t done any of the bazillion times she’d pointed out all the things she’d done right this week. “I’ll be right back with the jars.”

  After spending twenty minutes at Castille’s arranging small displays at the checkout counter and in the storefront window, I tossed my empty boxes in the trunk of Mom’s car and headed over to Chesapeake Properties.

  My dislike of Lyle meant I’d never once been to his office or met his coworkers, so no one would know that my real name wasn’t Roxy Cummings. While Stan ran down leads through online research and whatnot, I would carry out my own investigation. My years of working in restaurants and gyms had taught me a thing or two about how much women liked to gossip. After scanning the website to look at the agents who still worked there, I’d singled out two—Meghan Armstrong and Jane Bauer—who looked most likely to have been friendly with Ebba. In my experience, attractive women tended to band together.