by Sara Shepard
Greg took a long pull of his beer. “I regret not having a biological kid,” he said softly. “My wife and I talked about it . . . but she wasn’t sure she wanted to go through the baby stages again. Sienna and Aurora are awesome—really, it’s such a gift to have them in my life. But it’s very different when it’s your own.” And then he slid his hand toward mine. “I’m so sorry, Laura. So fucking sorry. Of all people, you deserve to be a mother. You deserve everything good in the world.”
His hand lingered on mine, and I didn’t pull away. There were three empty bottles of beer in front of Greg, lined up like a fortress wall. A mirror reflected Greg’s face in sharp profile as he looked at me hungrily, a new light in his eyes. I was reminded of the way he’d looked at Kit in the patient room years ago. His eyes had hooks in them. They drew me in.
If I had been smarter, I would have left. But the alcohol—and the flattery—blurred my judgment. It also awakened a sense of entitlement. I’d longed for this man forever. Why not indulge in the way he was looking at me?
So I let Greg buy me a shot. The vodka sliced its way through my veins, reviving me, dooming me, and when I found myself pressed up against the bar’s sleek, sexy back hallway wall with him, deep in the shadows, my mouth clashing against Greg’s, our hands mapping each other’s bodies, I didn’t think, only acted. In that silvery-lit corner, I was no longer Laura the nurse or the beleaguered woman who couldn’t have a baby. A conquest like Kit had been in that exam room. I was whoever I wanted to be.
But then Greg pulled back. “Wait. Wait.” His gaze slid sideways. A shadow loomed against the wall. We waited, but no one appeared. I stared at Greg hungrily. The inch of space between us felt like too much. Greg panted, waiting. After it was over, I wished I could go back to that anticipatory moment of Before, the heady tension of it, when it was just intoxicating possibility. When I hadn’t chosen yet. When I was still pure.
There’s a crash downstairs, and the baby laughs. I stare at my pale face in the mirror. My eyes have purple circles beneath them. The corners of my lips pull down. I look like a ghoul. I pull the dress over my head, slip on some heels, and fluff my hair. My phone sits facedown on the bureau, and I regard it suspiciously. Has it moved to the left since I set it there last? Has Ollie looked at it?
Fingers shaking, I unlock the screen. Something has occurred to me. Phones can track one’s movements, recording the various locations where the phone has traveled. I need to make sure that hasn’t happened. I need to erase all traces of where I’ve been and what I’ve done.
I’m able to find the location services in the settings. Common locations, reads the banner at the top. I see my home address, and then the hospital. But underneath, there are a few locations that stand out. If someone thought to look, they might grow suspicious. Nausea coils in my gut. I tap on two addresses in particular, horrified at their date stamps: Wednesday, April 26. The night of the benefit. The night of Greg’s death.
A button in the upper corner reads Clear History. I press it, holding my breath. After a moment, all of the locations logged in my device are gone. I blink at the blissfully empty screen, praying this isn’t a mirage. But they don’t return.
The ringing in my ears begins to recede. I’d never, ever admit that I’m glad Greg is dead, but if I’m honest, it’s a great weight off my chest. Without him, my life can continue as planned. Without him, I have a chance at happiness . . . even if I’m not sure it’s happiness I deserve.
12
KIT
SATURDAY, APRIL 29, 2017
My second husband’s funeral falls on the day when the weather finally breaks for the first time. People don shorts to jog down Blue Hill’s main drag. They troll plant nurseries and sit outside for brunch. It’s a day to have a picnic, not to wear an itchy black dress and drive to a dark, stuffy church to stare at an empty casket that’s supposed to symbolize a death vessel for my dead husband. We can’t put his real body in there yet because the coroner hasn’t finished his autopsy investigation.
“Are we ready?” Willa asks us as we pull into the parking lot of the church.
In the back seat, my daughters grumble. Neither has spoken since we got in the car. Are they on something? Did Raina sneak them pills? Maybe I shouldn’t have let Raina see Sienna that morning Willa arrived. I still don’t understand why Raina lied to me about being with Sienna when I broke the news about Greg.
I open the door and step out. As I swing my legs toward the pavement, I realize I’ve got a black stiletto on one foot and a brown one on the other. Willa seems to notice at the same time, and she quickly whips off her shoes and hands them to me. “Here. Take mine. We’re the same size.”
I shake my head. “Stop. It doesn’t matter.”
“I could give a shit about whether my shoes match. Honestly.”
I flinch, taking the statement way too personally—like Willa doesn’t give a shit if her shoes match because she doesn’t give a shit about Greg. I could tell Greg found her toughness off-putting, and Willa thought he cared too much about what people thought. When I first introduced Greg to Willa, on a warm day when we’d visited her in California, Willa challenged Greg to a race on the beach, and he declined.
“Come on,” Willa chided him. “Are you afraid I’m going to beat you?” She was just playing, but Greg gave her kind of a sharp look, and the mood just . . . deflated. Conversely, there was a moment at our rehearsal dinner when Willa rolled her eyes when Greg name-dropped that he was buddies with one of the wealthiest CEOs in Pittsburgh . . . and Greg noticed the eye roll, and things got tense pretty fast. It was obvious they only stomached one another out of their affection for me.
I stuff my feet into her shoes. It seems so bizarre, the need for me to look good going to a funeral. But people are going to be watching me. They’re going to see how I behave. They’re going to watch for a breakdown. More than a few people think I am Greg’s murderer. It’s easy to read between the lines on Facebook. A few times, I’ve wanted to comment on the posts, sometimes saying things like It wasn’t me, I swear! Or maybe Yes, it WAS me—you bitches figured it out!
The feelings that have come over me in the past few days are surprising. I’m not sure who I am anymore. All I want to do is throw a big middle finger in everyone’s faces.
The church lawn is eerily quiet; we’ve gotten here a little late. Behind us, another car rumbles up. I turn, thinking it’s our father—he said he’d meet us in the parking lot—but a young couple climbs out of a white Subaru SUV instead. The woman wears a slightly too-long black dress and clunky heels and holds a baby with bright blue eyes that inexplicably strike a chord deep inside me. Her husband, a huge, shaved-headed dead ringer for Dwayne Johnson, takes her arm. As the woman raises her head and meets my gaze, I feel a ripple of memory, recalling the last time I saw Laura Apatrea: at the benefit, when she’d spilled my drink.
The man notices me and untangles his arm from Laura’s. “Kit, right?” he asks, walking toward Willa and me. His face is open and kind, and his voice is higher than I expected.
I nod, shakily. He offers a hand. “Ollie Apatrea. I’m part of the Blue Hill precinct. I just wanted to let you know that I’m so, so sorry for your loss.”
“Oh.” I limply pump Ollie’s firm, warm hand. I hadn’t known Laura’s husband was a cop. “I met with someone else when I was in there—Reardon?”
“Yep. Detective Reardon’s the best in the business—he’s going to figure this out for you.” Then he glances at my sister. “Ollie,” he says, offering his hand.
Willa fumbles awkwardly. “Kit’s sister, Willa. Hi.”
Ollie squints. “Do we know each other?”
“I don’t think so,” Willa says tightly, doing a half-turn away from him.
Ollie lingers on her for a beat and then turns back to me. “If he’s ever busy, let me give you my card.” He hands a card to me, holding my gaze. “This is a real shock
for all of us. Everyone at the station is trying to pitch in.”
“Oh.” I smile shakily. “Well, thanks.” Then I nod to Laura. “Nice to see you again.”
She gives me a mousy smile in return. Ollie’s gaze remains on me for a beat longer, and then they both turn for the church. I pinch the business card between my thumb and forefinger until it bends. That’s one thing I’ll say about the Blue Hill PD—everyone has been over-the-top friendly.
Willa watches them as they walk up the steps. “How do they know Greg?”
“Laura was one of Greg’s nurses.”
“Cute kid, but couldn’t she have found a babysitter?”
I shrug. What do I care if a baby cries through the service?
We step into the lobby, which is empty because the service is about to start—it’s possible everyone was waiting for us. The double doors of the church’s main hall are flung open, and every pew is stuffed with people. Dr. Cho from cardiology. Dr. Rosenstein, the hospital chief—and a huge donor to Aldrich University. A horde of doctors’ wives sit together, their eyes sharp and searching. Miles, Greg’s best man at our wedding, stares at me like he’s seen a ghost. Kristin, the sweet, sensible girlfriend my dad unexpectedly broke up with that previous August, sits in a back pew. Dozens of pretty women I don’t recognize are here, too. I wonder if one of them is Lolita. I wonder if one of them is Greg’s killer.
Faces turn when they see us and, just as I predicted, the farce begins. There are fake smiles all around. Murmurs of condolences. Pitying looks. I smile back, but in my head, I’m slapping cheeks, throwing drinks in faces. It’s so obvious some of these people are here just for the spectacle of it all. I search the crowd, finding Greg’s only living family, a dotty, out-of-touch great-aunt named Florence. Aunt Florence looks at me with pity, so I shoot her my only genuine smile so far today.
Willa touches my forearm. “Are you okay?”
“What do you think?” I whisper back.
“Do you want to leave?”
Yes, I want to say, but imagine how that would look?
Then another hand steadies me. “Come on, Kitty. Let’s go.”
It’s my dad, dressed in a gray suit and a dark tie. His strong fingers curl around my forearm. Relief fills me—he’s here. I fall into him in the same way I fell into him at my mom’s funeral, when I could barely stand. At the front row, Dad heads for the middle of the pew, and we all slide in, me in the middle, Dad next to me, and then Willa and the girls.
There’s a pause in the organ music. And then, like music all its own, come the whispers.
She looks like she’s drunk.
She’d have to be to get through all this.
Do you really think she did it?
Of course. I can’t believe she even showed up. It’s monstrous.
Kit Manning-Strasser doesn’t react to petty bullshit, I tell myself, but can’t they wait until they’re somewhere private? And worse, these are girls I socialize with, sit on sports sidelines with. Women who invited Greg and me to Christmas parties, festivals downtown, charity events. Will I ever be invited to those again? Or am I suddenly, irrevocably tainted, persona non grata?
A minister I’ve met only once—yesterday—appears at the podium. The crowd quiets down, and this man begins to talk about someone named Greg Strasser, who bears absolutely no resemblance to the man I married. He opens with a few words about Greg’s big heart, then waxes about Greg’s dedication to his work and family, then brings it home with some words about Greg’s integrity and honor. I nearly burst out laughing. Where has this guy gotten this information from? Yesterday, when we spoke, he asked me to write a few words about Greg’s life. I tried to think of positive things to say . . .
Like the memory of Greg the day of Martin’s surgery. Martin and I appeared in the cold pre-op room at 5:00 A.M., bleary-eyed and nervous. The moment I saw Greg in the hall, scrubs on, surgical mask around his chin, I’d felt that same perverse buzz again. Greg held my gaze, and I felt like he actually saw into me—saw all my fears, my conflicted emotions, even my faults. And it’s as if he said, It’s okay. I’ll make this better.
But then, hours later, after so much waiting for the results, Greg himself appeared over me in the waiting room, still in medical scrubs and a hairnet. There was a speck of something that looked like blood on his sleeve. I’d stood quickly, my heart dropping to my knees. I knew what he was going to say before he even opened his mouth. His expression said it all. And then I just sort of . . . fell into him.
“I’m so sorry,” Greg whispered in my ear, holding me close. “Kit, I am so, so sorry I couldn’t save him.”
I held Greg much longer than probably appropriate. He didn’t try to pry himself away. He didn’t say he had patients to see or paperwork to fill out. He just . . . held me, for what seemed like hours. It was a tiny moment of grace during such a terrible time.
But after that day, I didn’t speak to Greg for months. I was surprised when he reached out to me at work on a bright day in July, asking me out to dinner. “If you’re not ready, I totally understand,” he said.
But I was ready. It’s terrible, but in some ways, I’d felt ready the moment he told me Martin was dead. I hadn’t been alone since before my mom died. I had no skills for navigating life by myself. Perhaps I could have relied on my dad more, but he was so busy with his duties as president . . . and anyway, I’d never relied on him before. And so I accepted Greg’s offer.
And oh, those first dates we went on! Greg took me to restaurants, and we ordered everything on the menu. We flew in a private plane to New York City and stayed in a penthouse along Central Park West. Greg took me on lavish shopping trips, where we bought presents for the girls, sparkly baubles from Tiffany’s and cute quilted bags from Tory Burch. He invited the girls and me over for dinner at his town house in Shadyside, buttering up Sienna and Aurora, stocking the fridge with stuff they liked to eat. I remember how tickled I felt when Greg and Sienna sat at the table for hours after dinner to talk about which movie was better: The Godfather or The Godfather, Part II. He would always have art kits for Aurora, whose whole life was drawing—expensive Winsor & Newton paints, beautiful watercolor boxes, even a wooden easel, set up at his town house window. There were moments when I thought he was only doing this because my husband had been his patient and he had an exaggerated sense of guilt and duty. There was also the awkwardness of how it looked to be dating the surgeon who’d failed to save my husband. My father warned me to be careful, though after he got to know Greg, those warnings waned.
And I hedged the story for Willa entirely, just saying Greg was a cardiologist within the hospital and left it at that. Actually, I started hedging the story with everyone. And after a while, I began to believe Greg genuinely adored all of us. And it felt so . . . good. Greg tried so hard to make me forget that I’d just lost someone. He helped us all forget. And for a while, it was wonderful.
But I couldn’t tell the minister those things, I guess because it didn’t end up being the truth, when all was said and done. Instead, I’d hurriedly sent him some pictures of a trip we’d taken to Barbados a few months before, over Christmas break. I’d thought the pastor would use them as inspiration for a eulogy, but instead, to my horror, the photos are now playing on a slideshow on a screen behind his head. I see a selfie of me at the airport looking tired but optimistic. Then there’s a blurry shot of Sienna giving a thumbs-up by the gate. Another flip: Aurora’s waiting for our flight with her hat pulled down and her headphones over her ears. Down the pew, Aurora gasps. I shoot her an apologetic look. I didn’t realize they were going to show our entire photo album.
Next on the screen are shots of the girls jumping off cliffs, standing on surfboards, and eating corn on the cob at a fish fry—Greg is in none of them. Why hadn’t I weeded through these photos before sending? Why had anyone left the responsibility to me, period?
As the p
astor glosses over Greg’s later years, the Barbados photos devolve into shots of landscapes, flowers, and birds. Empty white beaches. Crisp blue-green water. Colorful tropical butterflies. From an outsider’s perspective, the trip still looks heavenly, but by that time, we were all tired of one another. In the airport, Greg’s disposition was sour, testy, and critical, which put me on edge—because we were on vacation, damn it, and couldn’t he just enjoy it? He tried to rally at the resort, surprisingly pleased at the accommodations and the quality of the rum punch the bartender whipped up. But the girls were getting on his nerves with their selfies and constant Instagram hashtagging and squealing over the cute boys on the other side of the pool. He snapped at them for the dumbest things. Because of that—or so I figured—they gravitated toward other young people on the property and hung out with us very little. Greg and I ate a lot of dinners alone—silent dinners. I couldn’t think of a thing to say to him, and in that beautiful, tropical oasis where romance should come easy, our silence seemed even more indicative of how much our relationship had fallen apart. By the end, Greg was a grump. Sunburned, tired, snapping at everyone, and spending several hours taking care of work e-mails in the afternoons instead of hanging out with us.
There’s a commotion in the aisle, and Raina Hammond squeezes into our pew. Her hair is perfectly blown out; she wears a black dress far too short for church. She grips Sienna’s hand, and Sienna squeezes back, but Aurora seems to shift closer to Willa, looking disgusted. I run my tongue over my teeth. Maybe she knows Raina is a liar, too.
More songs. A eulogy from a fellow doctor about the time he and Greg spent at medical school, that’s as bland as can be. Then, finally, it’s over. Everyone stands and exhales, and people turn to me. But there’s no way I can talk to anyone right now. I’ve got to get the hell out of here. As soon as the people to my right file out, I hurry toward a side exit, not caring that I’ve left my family behind.