The Secret Room

by Sandra Block

  “Is that right,” I say, as a lightbulb goes off.

  * * *

  Driving home, I’m trying to figure out a way to tell Detective Adams the news without mentioning that I might have met Abe’s sister-in-law for a spot of tea. Then again, he didn’t specifically ask me to stay away from Abraham Green’s family members, just from him.

  In the end I call Mike instead.

  “Hey, what’s up?” Mike asks. I can hear the hum of the ER in the background.

  “Not much. Checking on dinner thoughts tonight?”

  “Oh, I’m on tonight,” he says with disappointment. “Three-’til-midnight shift. I put the schedule on the fridge, remember?”

  “Yeah,” I say with equal disappointment. “I guess I forgot to look.” The noise of the background seems to grow over the phone, and I hear the muffled sound of Mike answering something. Then I hear another, more irksome, voice: “Mike, sweetie? Could you help me out here?” XO Serena. The voice has a plangent tone, soft and pitiful. Like fingernails on a chalkboard.

  “Gotta go, hon,” Mike says. “See you tonight?”

  “I’ll be there,” I say with resignation.

  When I get home, Arthur at least is happy to see me and announces this in the most explicit way by lustily humping my leg. “Arthur,” I grumble, and shove him away. He trots around the kitchen, unoffended, in pure merriment that somebody is home, even if it isn’t Mike.

  I pour him some kibble and freshen his water, then sit down in the kitchen chair, watching the night fall to the sound of Arthur’s munching. After pulling out my phone, I head over to my most visited website lately. “Congrats! You’ve hit the second trimester! Are you showing yet? Your very little one is now the size of a lemon!”

  Cranberry bean to apricot to lemon. At some point a watermelon, I suppose.

  I shut down pregnantbabes.com and feel Arthur appear under my hand for a head pet. The long night looms in front of me, and I pull out my phone again.

  “What’s up?”

  “Hey, Scotty. Want to come over for dinner?” I ask, hoping I don’t sound desperate. “I can order pizza.”

  He doesn’t answer right away. “I don’t know. I probably should—”

  “Bocce,” I add, to sweeten the deal with his favorite kind. “Invite Kristy if she’s free.”

  He pauses. “I’ll be there. Just me,” he says with a sigh. “See you in an hour.”

  * * *

  The pizza is cold by the time Scotty gets here. He mopes around a bit, then sits at the table, where I’m already eating. “So,” he says. “She gave me back the ring.”

  “What?” I put my pizza down, utterly floored. “She gave you back the ring?”

  “She did.”

  “Oh, Scotty.” I reach over and touch his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

  He shrugs, but his jaw is clenched from holding back emotion. He uncaps a bottle of beer.

  “Did she give a reason?”

  He takes a swig but doesn’t answer.

  “Oh no. You didn’t sleep with—”

  “No,” he growls. “I didn’t sleep with anyone, Zoe. But thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “Sorry,” I mumble. But it wouldn’t have been the first time my brother lost one girl because he’d slept with another. In fact, however deplorable, it almost seemed to be his go-to breakup method in the past.

  “And no, she didn’t give a reason.” He puts his beer down with a clunk. “Not a real one, anyway.”

  I drink my caffeine-free Diet Pepsi, though Scotty looked askance when I declined a beer from my own refrigerator. “What did she say?”

  His laugh is doleful. “She said that she loves me, but it’s not enough. Our long-range goals aren’t the same.” I have no idea what to say to this, except that it sounds like something a financial planner might say. “She said she thinks we should spend some time apart.”

  “Time apart,” I say, grabbing on to the phrase. “Not totally broken up, then?”

  “Yeah, I asked her that,” he says with a heavy sigh. “She said spending time apart was her way of saying breaking up.”

  Standing up to get more pizza, I put my hand on his shoulder again. I pull out a plate for him. “Here. Have some pizza.”

  “Thanks.” He tears into a piece while Arthur drools next to him. “Kristy didn’t like me eating pizza,” he says, his mouth full of food.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Said some stupid fucking shit about a calorie bank account.”

  “Yeah, I remember that.” I’m holding back from wholeheartedly agreeing with him, just in case they get back together next week.

  Scotty rips a piece of paper from the sweaty neck of the beer bottle. “Just because I didn’t want to go back to school,” he goes on, as if we were debating this point. And I’m sure it’s been a soundtrack in his head. “So what? I could teach fucking coding to those professors.” He feeds Arthur a slice of pepperoni, thinking I don’t see, which I do. I grab yet another slice of pizza for the lemon (though pregnantbabes.com chided me, “Don’t forget, you only need 300 calories extra per day right now!” I mean, seriously, who shames a pregnant girl for eating?)

  “So I’ve got this patient,” I say, to change the subject. “And his father—”

  “Zoe,” he says, spinning his bottle, “not to be an asshole, but I really don’t want to hear about your patients right now.”

  I nod. “No, that’s fair.” We sit in silence as Arthur softly whines for pizza.

  “What’s up with Mike?” he asks. “Anything new with him?”

  “Not too much. Some girl has a crush on him,” I say. “Hopefully that’s all it is.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I know. Another ER doc. Serena is her name.” I drink from my pop. “She’s absolutely stunning and vapid as fuck.”

  “Are you sure?” He sounds unconvinced. “Because sometimes you get a little jealous. I remember that Frog boy and Melanie.”

  He’s talking about Jean Luc, my ex. “Yeah, well, he ended up marrying her, so my suspicions were sort of borne out on that one.” It strikes me then that they look similar, in fact. Serena and my first love’s girlfriend, now-wife, Melanie. Both thin, glowing, nymphlike creatures with dreamy blond hair and dreamy blue eyes. Maybe that’s all this is. Me reacting to a Melanie doppelgänger. “She signs her texts ‘XO.’”

  “You looked through his texts?”

  “By accident.”

  Scotty shakes his head. “What did Mike say?”

  “That they’re just friends. And that’s just how she signs things.”

  We both stare into space a moment, thinking our own sad thoughts, then Scotty stands up abruptly. “He’s a good guy, Zoe. Don’t fuck this up. If he’s says they’re just friends, they’re just friends.” He grabs his black wool coat off the chair.

  “You leaving already?” I feel a beat of panic thinking about the maw of the evening opening up before me until Mike gets home. At which time I tell him about the lemon, or I don’t. If I’m even still awake at that point.

  “Yeah, I have to open tomorrow. Eddie’s got something going on.”

  “Still.” I look at my watch. “It’s early yet.” Then I figure it out. “You’re not going to go see her, are you?”

  “No,” he protests, but he looks guilty.

  “Don’t, Scotty.”

  “I’m not,” he answers, annoyed, then tromps out the door, either to plead his case to Kristy or not.

  * * *

  An hour later I have read hundreds of words out of my forensic psychiatry text and absorbed none of them. I turn on the television to a show about weight loss in which morbidly obese people are paraded on camera to be shamed for their adiposity. Arthur plays a game of I Just Came in So Now I Want to Go Out, and I open my psychiatry book again but it’s hopeless. My mind is skittish when I’m off my medicine, and I can barely concentrate on the reality TV show, let alone my psychiatry book.

  And my mind ke
eps returning to Zena’s words: She decided to leave everything to Andre.

  Which equals motive. If Abraham Green is behind the texts, then Andre is in danger, and despite my assurances to the detective and Dr. Novaire, I can’t just sit here and do nothing.

  I have to do something.

  A quick peek in the white pages gives me Abraham Green’s address, and I throw Arthur a treat and head out. I have no idea what I will do when I get there, and he probably won’t even be home, but I can at least investigate.

  As I get ready, which means practically dressing for a trip to the Antarctic on this blistery, zero-degree night, a text sounds on my phone.

  Just so you know, Puff Diddy is feeling better! See ya soon…XO Serena.

  There is a black cat emoji on there, which leads me to believe Puff Diddy is her cat, and she probably believes the name to be hilarious and not at all racist, and I’m trying to quell my rage when another text pops up two seconds later.

  Oops! Sorry. Meant to text Mike! Hahahaha

  Right, I think. Oops! I didn’t mean to plant a seed of doubt in your head! Hahahaha!

  How transparent could this woman be? And how the hell did she get my number, from Mike’s phone? I don’t bother to answer the text or consider the implications of that possibility, just shove the phone in my pocket. Heading out to the curb, I grab the scraper from the floor of my car and start stabbing at the ice on the windshield, getting out some aggression while simultaneously clearing my window and flicking pulverized ice onto the ground. Throwing the scraper in the back, I sit down on the stiff leather and turn on the engine. Cold air blows through the vents.

  “Okay, Google Maps, let’s go.”

  In about fifteen minutes I’m there, in an outer ring of the suburb of Snyder, near the Italian restaurant. The place is a medium-size, older brick house with a For Sale sign in front of it. I leave the engine running, squinting to see if anyone is inside. When I peer through the windows, the house is dark and empty looking. It might not even be occupied. I’m about to cut my losses and head back home in time for The Bachelor when I hear the garage door open and his dark-gray sedan snakes out of the driveway. I duck down and wait for Mr. Green to pass me, then I start trailing him. Mike has the radio on “new country” (whatever that is) from the last time he was in the car. I scan through a couple of ads, then just turn it off, preferring to sit in silence. We drive a ways out of Mr. Green’s neighborhood and into Kenmore. He parks on the street, then goes into a house without ringing the doorbell. About ten excruciating minutes later, he emerges with a shovel.

  He is shoveling the driveway now, hefting snow in heavy throws. I’m wondering if this is his mother’s house maybe, but then a woman comes out and yells something to him. It’s hard to see in the dark, but from the bit of porch light, she looks young. I’m fairly certain it’s the woman from the restaurant.

  Which doesn’t tell me much. As the detective said, they could very well be dating. He could in fact be moving in with her and selling his house. And good for him to find love again. Not exactly a crime.

  I yawn, the car heater having a stultifying effect on me, as a light snow falls and Abraham keeps up a hypnotic rhythm with his shoveling. Suddenly a little boy runs out in snow boots and no coat, barreling toward the mailbox. The woman comes out on the doorstep again.

  “Put your coat on! You’ll catch your death,” she cries out to him. So she has a child. I take a quick picture of him with my phone, sensing that he looks familiar somehow.

  “I’m just getting the mail,” he complains, trudging back over the snowy lawn.

  “Listen to your mother, Jermaine,” Abraham calls, out of breath from his shoveling.

  “Okay, Dad,” the boy says with apology in his voice. He races up the steps and in the front door.

  As Mr. Green returns to shoveling, I remember Andre’s words and am invaded by a deep chill despite the warmth of the car.

  The double. They sent him to replace me.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Timothy Gordon, I said.

  What about him? you asked.

  I told you that I didn’t really know. I heard her talking to the old doctor about him in the hall. They were saying something about him not liking his arm.

  Not liking his arm? You sounded unconvinced.

  I said I knew it sounded weird, but it was just what I heard. You nodded with that faraway look again, thinking.

  But I can’t get to a man, I insisted, before you could try to convince me otherwise. You said you would take care of him, but that I had to take care of Janaya Jones. I swallowed, my throat dry. We had talked about it, how to get her up there, just her and me. Then it would only take a second, and it would be over. But I still wasn’t sure I could do it.

  You told me that I was your soldier, that I had to do it. But I don’t want to be your soldier. I just want to be your lover. I didn’t say that, though, because I know you don’t want to hear it. You could tell I was getting upset so you grabbed me by the hips, pulling me on your lap. I wrapped my legs around you immediately, though we still had our clothes on. I could feel you getting hard and started rocking on you, but you stopped me, your grip bruisingly tight around my waist.

  Don’t, you scolded me. Just sit there.

  So I did. You wanted to play more games, fine. We stared at each other. Then you pulled my hips toward you again but would stop if I started grinding. You did it again and laughed. Teasing me, but not nice teasing. You’re too easy, you said with something of a smirk.

  And I started to crawl off you because I was mad and knew I didn’t deserve this but you kept me on top of your lap, your hands strong on my hips again.

  Go ahead, you said, I’m sorry.

  And when I started writhing on your lap, you let me this time. I leaned over and put my arms around your neck, and your hands loosened, gentle around my waist.

  We’re almost at the final act, you said, grinding against me, too, now.

  What’s going to happen? I asked, into your ear.

  You’ll find out soon, you whispered back, your breath hot against my skin. Very, very soon.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The next morning is a Saturday, and I am sitting in the chair, watching round women get weighed and waddle into rooms. I’ve been fasting, even though the procedure is not truly a surgery, just on the remote chance that it should be necessary. So now I am ravenous, with a blinding headache, and close to tears.

  A hormonal trifecta.

  The woman next to me is very pregnant, with bright-red lipstick. Her stomach protrudes between buttons on her top, and I look down at my own. Nary a bump. The lemon is still invisible. And will remain that way.

  It was selfish of me to go this long, I finally realized, just because I don’t want to make a decision. Not making a decision equals having a baby, and I’m not ready for that. Seeing as I unknowingly dumped medication into the poor thing for months, drank wine who knows how many times, am close to losing my job, and can’t even seem to tell Mike the truth.

  I’ve been waiting almost an hour now, light-headed and hungry. I’ve looked through my e-mail and Facebook a hundred times but barely have the mental capacity to concentrate on even the simplest of Internet tasks.

  The red-lipsticked woman is flipping through Parenting magazine and chatting with an older woman I assume is her mother. “I don’t know what’s taking so long,” she mutters, and a couple of other women around her nod in sympathy.

  “Did I tell you about the birthing plan?” she asks her mother. “Dustin told me to make sure I have it in writing, every detail.”

  “Uh-huh,” the mother answers, not sounding all that excited about the birthing plan.

  Red Lipstick tucks the magazine back in the basket and pulls a printed list from her purse. “Let me just go through it with you. Okay”—she clears her throat—“number one: natural. Of course. I’m going to make that totally clear. Absolutely no chemicals whatsoever.”

  “Uh-huh.”
The mother turns her own magazine page.

  “I read on one of my blogs that an epidural might cause autism,” she says. “I guess there are a lot of studies.”

  I actually have to bite my tongue, not figuratively, so as not to start screaming at her.

  “Number two: soothing music. Dustin’s bringing that in. He got a natural birthing CD off Amazon. It’s very important for the baby to emerge into a relaxing atmosphere. Or they might have issues bonding.”

  “Zoe?” the receptionist calls out, interrupting the idiocy spewing from Red Lipstick. The receptionist looks around the room. It’s a new woman, who doesn’t recognize me. “Zoe? Zoe Goldman?” Everyone looks up from their magazines or cell phones, then back down. “Huh,” the receptionist says, baffled. “She must be in the bathroom.” And when she returns to the back office for a second, I grab my purse without any idea why. I stand up and I leave.

  * * *

  On the way home, I send off a quick text to Detective Adams, too chicken to call him after he told me in no uncertain terms to stay away from Mr. Green and I completely ignored his advice. But I also can’t let Andre get hurt without doing anything. I already asked Jason to throw a tox screen in his labs, which he did. Just in case Mr. Green is getting a prisoner to slip him something. Like Elavil.

  What’s up? Any more texts?

  Not that. More news on Mr. Green. I can almost hear him yelling over the satellite. Getting to the red light, I keep typing. Charmayne changed her will a few months before she died. Andre is full beneficiary.

  How do you know that? pops right up.

  Can’t say.

  ???

  And he lied to me about Jermaine. Said he was his nephew. Actually his stepson.

  The phone rings then, so I have no choice but to answer it and take my lumps. The car behind me honks as the light turns green. “What do you mean, he lied about his nephew?” His gruff voice comes over the phone. “And how do you even know about a nephew?”