Wyatt reaches over.
Nate’s voice chimes in loudly. He’s mid-sentence, talking about taking her swimming.
She cuts him off, telling him all about how she’s going to build a swimming pool in the backyard, and it’s going to take a lot of work to dig a hole, and she’s going to need a lot of workers. I tune her out, I tune their conversation out.
I am picturing the dazed, barely interested expression on Natalie Boone’s face when she said, “I’m sorry, I’m bad with names. Am I supposed to know who that is?” She had no reaction when I said Leland Ernest’s name. None.
Through my phone’s speaker, Nate says, “Tell Mommy I need to talk to her. Ask her if we can meet at Burger King for dinner in thirty minutes.”
Which is irritating because:
1. I want to go home and take off my pants.
2. I despise all fast-food restaurants with kiddie hamster tubes. They are juicy and sticky with snot, and one of the kids always ends up sick exactly one to three days later.
3. If I shoot him down, Chloe will throw a tantrum. Her love for indoor playgrounds is fierce, and I have denied her a trip to Burger King for nearly a year. It’s hard to believe she even remembers the last time we went, but abstinence has made her BK memories stronger and deliriously magical.
4. The mental effort I’m expending to keep my shit together right now is massive. The right side of my head is pulsing, and the back of my shirt is soaked in sweat. I don’t think I can handle/manage/juggle one more thing.
How dare he ask in Chloe’s earshot? What can he possibly need to tell me that he can’t tell me when he picks up the kids tomorrow morning?
He heard about the murder. Fuck. That’s got to be it.
“I haven’t been to Burger King in a zillion years!” Chloe says. “And I’m starving!”
“Can we, Mom?” Wyatt says.
“OK, we can go,” I say, turning onto our street. “I need to stop at home for ten minutes first.”
“Yes,” Wyatt says, his fist pumping the air, as if he made his first three-point shot.
Chloe says, “You are the best mommy in the whole world.” Which makes me feel like crap on several levels.
I turn into our driveway. “Chloe, please say goodbye and hand me the phone.” I reach back with an open hand, and surprisingly, she gives me my phone. I expected a fight for a show or game. I sigh and turn off the engine. “Wyatt, please unbuckle Chloe and put your backpack away.”
“Did you ever find out about the police cars on the street?” Wyatt says.
“Not yet. I’ll tell you when I know.”
“What police cars?” Chloe says.
“It’s nothing to worry about, Chlo. Please try to go potty, and then we’ll go to Burger King.”
They bounce out of the car, their happy minds contemplating Burger King’s playland.
Sweaty and chilled, I head straight for the kitchen and open my junk drawer.
No hammer. I stare accusingly at the open drawer, as if it betrayed me. My lower lip trembles.
No hammer.
I swear I placed it here. Was it two nights ago when I woke up to find a hammer on the table? Seems like two. Or three. Could be four.
Other mundane things strike me as monumental.
On garbage night, you fell asleep on the couch, but woke in the tub. Why were you in the tub?
To wash away his blood.
Why were your clothes wet and crumpled on the floor?
You were out in the rain.
I give myself ten minutes to ransack the house and garage.
Where is that fucking hammer? Why can’t you remember where you put anything? Why are you so fucking lazy that you can’t put anything back in its place?
It’s not here. You got rid of it on garbage night.
No. No, I don’t believe it. That was a dream.
I try to tune out Chloe and Wyatt’s bickering and requests, but they gnaw at my nerves: He said. I need. I need. He took. She is. He called me a. She is.
I find two hammers in the garage, but neither is the one I’m looking for.
If only I knew how Leland died.
I search the basement, opening boxes, drawers, and cabinets, knocking over piles of papers and old bills I should have thrown away, but didn’t because I worry about identity theft and don’t own a shredder.
Something is off about the Boone family, I’m sure of it, but Ethan Boone didn’t kill Leland Ernest. Which makes me wonder if I did.
No. No, that was a dream. Of course it wasn’t you. Come on. Ethan did it. His wife is a great actor. She’s a psychologist. She knows how innocent people are supposed to respond.
True. But Natalie said if I hassle her family again, she is going to call the police on me. Which would put both of us under a microscope.
Or maybe Ethan killed Leland, his wife knows about it, and now he’s planning on killing me so she’s trying to keep me from going to the police.
That’s shit, and you know it.
You know what happened on garbage night. You’ve been thinking it over, pressing play, pause, rewind, play, for days. You said it yourself…
The Predator Mind considers a specific fantasy with such frequency, with such detail, the fantasy becomes familiar and natural. Doable.
I picture Leland. Bits of brain tissue on his cheek, neck bent wrong, dented skull.
Just a dream, wasn’t it?
Tasting his salty blood upon my lips.
It seemed like a dream.
Everything seems that way lately though, doesn’t it?
I give up on the hammer and lock myself in the bathroom.
You woke in the tub. Your clothes: wet in a pile on the floor. Your hammer: missing.
From the other side of the door, Chloe is barking demands, and Wyatt is yelling at me because she’s giving him a headache and I let her get away with too much.
You reviewed your plans over and over and over. Meticulously. Waited until garbage night.
I put my hands over my ears and close my eyes. When the kids do this, I scold them. It is not acceptable to cover your ears.
His voice muffled, Wyatt yells, “You say, no locking doors.”
I feign calm. “Uh, I’m going to the bathroom.”
“No, you’re not. You make all these stupid rules for everybody else, but you don’t follow them.”
I say nothing. Disengage. Disengage.
“Momma!” Chloe screams, banging on the door, “I command you to open this door!”
“Pee! I’m going pee!”
At the top of her soprano, glass-shattering range, she screams, “Let me in right now!”
“You should answer your phone,” Wyatt says. “It’s ringing.”
This is crazy. It was a dream. You know it was only a dream. Get it together. You were supposed to meet Nate five minutes ago. Compartmentalize.
I flush the toilet and wash my hands and open the door.
Chloe’s face is red and streaked. Wyatt is gone.
“I had to go pee, Chloe. It’s OK. I needed privacy. You want to go to Burger King?”
“Yes!” Even as tears are rolling down her chubby cheeks, she is delighted.
“We are going out for dinner right now,” I yell at the empty space above the stairs, which is the most slothful, pathetic mode of communication. I hate when the kids yell questions or commands at me from a different room, but I’m tired.
From his room, he yells, “I’m coming,” his tone buoyant, his resentment and irritation forgotten.
I grab my keys and phone. Missed call from Liz. Message from Liz.
-Call me when you have a chance. You should talk to someone.
I text back.
-You are so sweet, but I’m OK. Too busy right now to talk. Love you.
As I buckle Chloe into her car seat, I make the mistake of telling them I have to go to the bathroom.
“I thought you just went,” Wyatt says, skeptical.
41
COPPER AND IRON
AND ANIMAL
“I don’t think this is going to go well,” Nate says.
“Wow. In that case, I’m so glad we’re here. It makes the stomach flu the kids will have tomorrow night so worth it.”
He smiles because he likes my sarcasm, then hides his smile away because he’s gearing up to tell me something.
Please don’t let it be that he wants full custody temporarily because my neighborhood is not safe, because he heard about the murder. And also. Please don’t let it be that a girlfriend is moving in with him. I don’t think I can take Chloe and Wyatt having a second mom. Literally. I think my body would say, Fuck it, I give up, and heart attack out of this life.
Chloe and Wyatt are sitting separately from us. I ordered their food, set their tray on a table sandwiched in a booth to avoid one of them falling off a chair. Falling or tipping is usually inevitable. I told them they have to eat their chicken nuggets before they go play.
Chloe shouts, “Hi, Momma! Hi, Dadda! I’ll be right here if you need me. Me and Wyatt are eating like big kids.”
Nate gives her a thumbs up and an earnest smile, then turns to me with his beautiful, mischievous eyes. “This isn’t going to seem fair but I need to say a few things.”
“Fire away. I can’t wait.”
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, his eyes cast down, but he forces them up to meet mine. “I’m so sorry. I know I’ve said it before, but I haven’t said it for a while. Looking back, I can’t believe I betrayed you. I love you and I can’t believe I wronged you so horribly. I’m so ashamed. But—”
I knew there was a but coming my way. I bite my lip, force myself not to interrupt.
“But I was lonely,” he says sadly. “You can be withdrawn. Secretive.”
Relieved that he hasn’t heard about Leland’s murder, I tune him out and gaze over at the kids’ booth.
Chloe has a French fry in her hand, but she is entranced by Wyatt’s talking. He’s teaching her something. He’s using his hands, and his tone is patient and warm. If caught in the right mood, the kid is a fucking All Star.
Back to Nate. I’m not sure what I missed, but I get the gist. He continues, “You are so busy worrying about the kids, which is great, but you had nothing left for me. You can be a little cold.”
So glad I hauled my ass to BK.
“Men are supposed to be tough, non-emotional. I can’t be that way. I need attention.”
I roll my eyes.
He catches my eye roll and says, “Not physical attention, Grace. I needed you to let me in.”
Without anger, without emotion, I whisper, “So it’s my fault you fucked other people.”
He flinches as if his ears are delicate. As if I am vulgar. “No. It’s my fault,” he says. “Completely my fault. I wish I hadn’t. I’m explaining that I was lonely. And now, the loneliness is worse. It’s so hard being without you guys. And then when I have them, it’s even harder.”
Chloe is still cracking up. Wyatt deserves extra video-game time.
“So,” I say coldly, “it’s hard being lonely and it’s hard managing the kids so you’d like to go back to us being a family.”
“That’s not what I mean,” he says, trying to ignore my sarcasm. “It feels like,” he says, tilting his head back and letting his eyes fall closed. He’s trying to find some inner strength, so I brace myself. He opens his eyes, says, “It feels like you make up these secret reasons to hate me and then you let those reasons grow. If you had talked to me—”
“You fucking other people, did I make that up?”
He flinches again. “No, you didn’t.”
“How could I trust you again? Honesty is the foundation of a relationship,” I say, but it feels like I’m regurgitating a greeting card.
Is it? I mean, really? It’s supposed to be honesty, but maybe that’s not the most important thing to me. I was happy enough when he was cheating on me and I had no idea.
“You can trust me, Grace. I would never hurt you on purpose. I was immature. A midlife crisis, whatever. I’m done with it. I’ll change jobs. Whatever you want. I want another chance.” His dark, serious eyes are pleading. “I miss you. I miss us talking. Remember how much we used to laugh?”
He looks so sad, he is so sad, but I’m drained. I’ve got nothing left. I actually feel bad for him, I do, but my perspective is clinical. Impersonal. Like he’s a third cousin or something.
“We’re done, Mommy,” Chloe yells. “We’re going to go play hide and seek—don’t worry, we won’t touch our mouths and throw up tomorrow!” They’re taking off their shoes and then they disappear into a tube. I survey the doors. There are two, they have alarms. I spot a camera mounted high in the corner.
I scrutinize the families. There’s a man and woman with four kids. I notice one is coughing. It sounds moist. Another is technically too tall to enter the structure, a solid four inches above the cut-off line. I will have to keep an eye on him. There are two women with two little girls. There’s a grandma with a preschooler built like a pro wrestler. He’s eating a sundae and has two toys in front of him. Got to watch that kid the most.
“I can’t do this right now. I’m tired. I don’t feel that great. I can’t think. I don’t have anything to say right now because I’m that tired.”
He looks at me, then watches the kids for a long minute, savoring them, then looks at me again. “OK, Grace. I want to let you know one last thing. I’m seeing a therapist.”
Dating a therapist. Probably a massage therapist. I’d like to drop my head onto the table and sleep.
“Dating a therapist?”
He smiles and it’s a good smile. “Talking to a therapist. She’s helpful. If you’re interested, you could come with me. Or even go by yourself. No pressure.” Nate is not the type of person who sees a therapist. He has said, on more than one occasion, therapists are for weak people. If I wasn’t so tired, I’d be impressed.
He opens his mouth, then shuts it.
“What? What else?” I say, exhausted, annoyed.
He hesitates, considering what he wants to say. “Thanks for meeting me.” He moves his hand towards mine, but stops himself. He taps his hand three times on the table, stands up, hunts the kids down, gives them big hugs, and walks out of the playground.
I’m stuck here a good hour. Great. Thanks again, Nate.
* * *
While Chloe and Wyatt play tag in giant hamster tunnels with strange kids, I rest my chin in my open palm and allow my eyelids to fall.
I picture myself swinging my hammer at his skull. I’ve replayed this dream so many times, I know it by heart…
His blood hits my tongue. Oh God, why is your mouth open? I need to spit. You can’t. You can’t leave your spit in his house. I close my mouth, tasting his blood, copper and iron and animal. I think of pigs. His body is flat on the carpet, but his head is tilted awkwardly against the wall.
He says, “I know—”
“What?” I say. “You know what?”
His eyes close, his throat gurgles, and blood slips down his chin.
I dry heave, covering my mouth with the crook of my arm. I don’t want to, but I hit him again. Tissue splashes my cheeks. Splinters of bone pierce my neck.
Pale blue moonlight highlights the horror. His forehead is caved in like a sinkhole. His eyelids are closed, bulging and black. Stink is coming off him. Blood, sweat, and piss.
My heart is throbbing, panicky, expecting him to spring to life like an actor in a haunted house. I back away, gasping and gagging. What did he know?
Maybe he was going to say: I know you. You are exactly like me. Batshit crazy. You don’t belong in this world.
Or maybe, deep down, he loathed his impulses. Maybe he was going to say: I know I am heinous. I am a monster. Thank you. Finally. Thank you.
Or maybe he was going to tell me where he dumped Ava Boone’s body, in which case, I’ve fucked up.
Remember, it was just a dream.
Resting my chin on my open palm has
irritated the loose skin under my jaw. It feels as if I had a sliver there and now I’ve pushed it in deeper. I brush my fingertip over my skin and feel the slightest irregularity. It’s probably a stiff, defiant hair. I’ve never gotten one on the soft skin under my jaw, but the body gets more haywire every year.
I scan the play area for Chloe and Wyatt, and spy them up high on a rope net. Chloe is smiling, which is all I need to see.
I grab my purse and hustle into the play-area bathroom. I’ll be quick, and Chloe and Wyatt are up high, out of a potential kidnapper’s reach for at least a minute.
Under the harsh light in the bathroom, I move my face close to the large mirror over the sink. There is definitely something there, just below my jaw. I brush it with the pad of my thumb again and feel it move under my thumb like a hair, stiff and plastic. I drop my purse onto the counter and dig in my makeup bag for tweezers.
On my fourth try with the tweezers, the splinter comes out. I place it on my open palm. The sliver is opaque, white, and fine. It could be anything. The tiniest shard from the ceramic coffee mug I dropped in the breakroom this morning, a fragment from a plastic toy the lawn mower chewed up and spit out, an aberrant hair, anything.
My heart feels like it’s bursting. Sweat breaks on my upper lip.
Bone. It looks like a shard of bone. Is that even possible? What does this mean?
I run my hands under the water, washing the splinter away, down the drain, and then I dab my wet hands across my forehead and neck.
It means you better be really fucking careful.
42
ARE MY SOCKS WET?
After an hour of hamster-cage play with only minor injuries—a scraped knee for Chloe and a raspberry elbow for Wyatt—they are actually ready to put their shoes on and get in the car.
It is Friday night, which is Cherish Night.
I’ve never called it Cherish Night out loud as it would cheapen the affair.
Every other weekend Nate gets the kids. He picks them up Saturday morning and brings them back Sunday night. So, I’ve made it a tradition to show them a good time on Friday. Typically, we play board games, eat ice cream, and read books: all the things I want them to remember me by should I never see them again.
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