Forget You Know Me

by Jessica Strawser

“Luke. I know it’s late, I’m sorry to bother you.…”

  “This isn’t the greatest time.” She’d never understood why people answered their phones if they couldn’t talk. If you can’t talk, don’t answer. As if reading her thoughts, her brother cleared his throat. “I’m never going to not answer a call from my sister, single in the city.” His voice was hushed, muffled, as if he’d stepped out of a room full of company to sneak in a private call. “But if it’s not an emergency—”

  “I’m okay, but it might be. I don’t know.” A beat of awkward silence descended, and she cleared her throat. “I was hoping you could drive over and check on Molly? Daniel is out of town, and—”

  “Liza, Steph is having a complication.”

  She let the words register, and her heart dropped. “With the pregnancy?”

  “Yes. We found out today.”

  “Oh no.” Her brother and his new wife had only recently announced the happy news, all smiles to have cleared the first-trimester danger zone. “Is it serious?”

  “We hope not. It’s rarely super serious, but it’s also rare for it to happen at all.” His voice sounded funny, off. She tried to picture him but couldn’t. He was such a walking dichotomy—stiff suit-and-tie by day, lovable slob by night—you never knew what you were going to get. She didn’t like that she couldn’t conjure him as he was now, and wished she were there sharing some comfort, even if she didn’t know her sister-in-law as well as she wanted to.

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Not much to be done at this point. But she’s scared. She’s upset. I can’t leave her tonight, unless this Molly thing is, like…”

  “No, no. I was just being—forget it. I’m really sorry, Luke. When you’re ready to give details, I’m here, okay? Keep me posted?”

  Afterward, she sat staring again at her phone, feeling bereft. There wasn’t anyone else back home she could think to call—especially, given the time difference, at this hour of night. She bit her lip and rang Molly again, bracing for her friend’s didn’t I tell you rage, better at least than silence. But again it went to voicemail.

  “Molly, it’s me. I just can’t shake what I saw. I only want to hear your voice. Can you please call?”

  She knew even as she hung up—even as she commended herself for uncharacteristic restraint in not screaming into the phone, Molly, holy shit! If this is some sick joke, joke’s over!—that her friend wasn’t going to. Liza would have a hard time forgiving her this. Molly knew, she knew, how Liza’s worried mind would churn. How selfish of her to let it. And when they’d both finally tried to reconnect just hours ago. Why would Molly back away from that? And how could she seem so aloof, as if Liza had witnessed a smoke alarm set off by burnt toast and not an actual masked intruder in her actual house?

  Unless, of course, Molly was not okay.

  Liza again regretted the wine. She probably wasn’t thinking clearly, shouldn’t do anything rash. Late-night obsessing wasn’t new to her, and though she didn’t usually have such a compelling reason to worry, this stuff almost always looked better in the morning.

  She brushed her teeth, shut off the lights, and climbed into bed.

  Her throat felt tight, her neck painfully stiff, and she tried to get comfortable on the pillow, tried to tell her muscles to ease up, to let her be.

  She had a rule not to look at the clock when she was having a hard time sleeping. It only made matters worse. So she tossed and turned in the timelessness, trapped inside her mind in the dark, for an hour, maybe two, or longer—for as long as she could stand it.

  Until she couldn’t. Not with these thoughts running races in her mind and sleep nowhere in sight. By the time she called Max, she didn’t even feel guilty about waking him. She only felt she had no other option. Without intervention, she’d go insane. And there was no one else to intervene.

  “Hello?” He sounded groggy, and she hedged.

  “Um. You asleep?”

  “I was. It’s one in the morning, on a weeknight.”

  “Right.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Max and Molly had met only once, at a funeral for Liza’s favorite uncle, not the most social occasion—but they’d been hearing about each other for years. So she told him everything. How the semi-awkward video chat had been turning warm when Nori cried; how the intruder had closed it down; how long she’d waited for the police to phone her back; how cold her friend’s response had been; how the only other person in Cincinnati she could call was tied up with problems of his own; how unsettled she felt; how she didn’t know what to do.

  “Would it be crazy to—I don’t know. Just get in the car?”

  “If you’re saying you have a genuine worry that she’s being held hostage, then yes, it would be sort of crazy to do it alone.”

  “Hostage.” Repeating the word only solidified its power—horror, dread, unthinkable outcomes. She tried to shake it off. “I’m so pissed she’s left me to worry this way. By the time I got there, it’d be morning. I could have her on the phone by then, giving me some explanation as to what the hell. Then again, she could be…” Liza couldn’t finish the thought.

  “In trouble?” Max supplied. “Unlikely. But nothing about this is likely.” She could practically hear him chewing his lip. He always did when he was nervous. “I’ll go with you.”

  She shook her head into the darkness. “I can’t ask you to do that. We’d both miss work.”

  “You didn’t ask me to. And I wouldn’t say I’ll miss it.…”

  She managed a laugh. “You’d really get in the car? Just like that?”

  “I don’t know what you’re supposed to think. This is kind of insane. But you’re upset enough to be calling me in the middle of the night, so … yes. I can’t let you go alone.”

  Liza was warming to the idea. The dark highway stretching before them, Max pulling her up and away from this awful sinking feeling, and some reassurance—or something—at the end.

  “What will we do when we get there?” she asked.

  As soon as the words were out of her mouth she knew what he was going to say. That was the thing about her and Max. The thing she liked most. It was how she used to be with Molly, only … different.

  “Knock on the door.”

  Anxious as she was, she couldn’t help but smile.

  4

  The thought hit Daniel like a line drive to the chest, him the shmuck in the cheap seats out in right field, caught staring absently into his overfilled popcorn and instantly dreading, upon impact, the slow-motion replay on the jumbotron.

  There would be no more Liza after this.

  The friendship’s odds of survival had to be nil. He could see it on their faces, his wife’s somehow managing to look both chalky and flushed in the harsh morning sun, Liza’s indignant and disbelieving. She wasn’t supposed to be here in his foyer, unannounced, but then again, neither was he—back early from the trip he never should have taken.

  No more Liza, fearless and vicarious, envied and oblivious, opinionated and choosey, loud and yet strangely quiet. Climbing the fire escape of their old third-floor walk-up, knocking on the window only to turn right around if she didn’t want whatever was for breakfast—yes to French toast or waffles, no to anything that made her “think too hard about unfertilized baby chickens.” Regaling them with tales of her short-lived but aptly nicknamed beaus: Ex–Reds Player. Hipster Bartender. Ping-Pong Hustler. Frat Boy Remix. Chasing raccoons from their campsite, wielding a flaming branch that had nearly ignited the tent, with a fear-strangled battle cry he and Molly would imitate for weeks, not unkindly, laughing until their eyes teared.

  He’d paid close attention to it all. Because not only was Liza his wife’s most amusing friend, she was also the one who had a knack for saying whatever Molly was thinking but wouldn’t dare voice. If he watched his wife’s lips carefully as Liza spoke, he could recognize flickers of truth by the delighted satisfaction that would twitch at the corners before they settled them
selves back into a soft line.

  In that way, Liza was like a sort of reverse lie-detector test. And he knew of no other. If she vanished from their lives, so, too, would those rare glimpses of unfiltered truth.

  He stepped back behind the china hutch, out of view.

  Molly was unaware that he’d followed her from the breakfast table, and her voice was low, practically a hiss. “Gross overreaction” and “told you I was fine” and “just tired” and “probably nothing” and “right outside all night” and “for fuck’s sake” and “not my fault” and “took it upon yourself” and “really not a good time.”

  Not one sorry or tell me again or come in and show me or can’t believe you came all this way or I appreciate your concern or I feel awful you were so worried or you must be exhausted or how long can you stay? and please do.

  He knew what women wanted to hear. Usually. Not that Molly believed it.

  He’d been sure he was saying all the right things this morning, in fact. He’d been so eager to get home, in spite of the fact that Molly hadn’t seemed sorry to see him go. He was careful to stride in all smiles and light, explaining to the slow-blinking Molly that the clients had pulled the plug on the deal last night and he’d woken before the sun to drive the two hours and change home from Louisville. He’d brandished good coffee for Molly and silly little wind-up toys for the kids and masked his sudden hesitation as best he could with bear hugs.

  Yes, he did know the right things to say. He’d memorized his lines.

  I missed you all too much to stay away one second longer than I had to.

  I had this great idea to surprise you all for breakfast—banana pancakes, anyone?

  I told you I’d be back soon, Grant-man.

  If I’d known you were going to wake up looking this beautiful, I’d have driven straight back after the dinner meeting flopped, Mols.

  Well, okay. The last bit had been overkill. It’d been too long since he’d spoken to her that way, and she’d looked at him with bewilderment, made him feel insincere.

  Fair enough, but at least he was trying. And what had Molly said then?

  Not a word about Liza, and what she’d seen, and what had happened next or how it had possibly freaked her out enough to traverse three states in the dead of night to see for herself what the hell was going on.

  Not a word about the cop outside, who naturally Daniel had approached with concern, and with relief that the address was current on the driver’s license he immediately offered, and whom he chatted with for quite some time as he gathered all the details of the strange incident the night before. The officer assumed he was recapping what Daniel had already been told—what woman wouldn’t speed-dial her husband, after all, first thing after a scare like that?—and Daniel didn’t correct him. The cop was tired, bored, and satisfied enough with Daniel’s return to start the engine with a tired wave and drive away.

  The realization took a while to set in, doubling back on itself in the process: Not only had his wife had an intruder reported in their home the night before, and not only had she not called Daniel to tell him, but he’d been home for more than an hour and she still hadn’t mentioned it. She’d been acting downright normal.

  He’d hung back—sensing without quite knowing why that it might not go over well if he were to rush in, demanding answers—to let her be the one to broach the subject, never dreaming that this particular game of chicken was about to ensue. So he found himself watching her out of the corner of his eye, his jaw clenched, as he gave the kids too much syrup just to shut them up and refilled Molly’s coffee so she could keep her back pressed into her heating pad and waited with increasing unease.

  Until the doorbell rang.

  Oddly enough, Daniel hadn’t truly, thoroughly considered the awful possibility of a life lived apart from Molly until he walked into the foyer and saw Liza filling their doorway in the morning light and his wife standing before her, hands on hips, not about to invite her in.

  A distance he might have considered. The tense volley of a negotiation, the unsteady terms of a cease-fire, sure. But only as a means to finally move forward—not as an end to everything. And certainly not when he was still absorbing what they all may have very nearly dodged the night before.

  He was no innocent. He knew he had to take some responsibility for letting the Molly he’d fallen in love with fade. He’d known for some time that he’d neglected too much, that she didn’t like the way he let certain things slide, and not just in their marriage. They’d reached a monotone he never could have imagined in the earnest inflections of their early days. He’d been increasingly consumed by longing to have things back the way they were, wrapped in uncertainty as to how to get them there.

  And then that moment arrived, just days ago, the tears in her eyes, not about him and yet everything to do with him, and the old conviction had seized his soul: He loved her still. Had he really doubted it?

  He loved her even now, as he hid in his own foyer, watching her slipping away.

  Because Liza was the only person who seemed able to bring what he thought of as the Old Molly back to the surface, even if these days she never floated there for long. And so good-bye to Liza could only mean good-bye, in the worst of ways, to Molly, too.

  Good-bye to fun Molly. Forgiving Molly. Occasionally irresponsible Molly. My fire escape is always open Molly. Ex-boyfriend-renaming Molly, who generated the nomenclature that would actually stick when they looked back on so-and-so: Ex-Benchwarmer. Buttster Bartender. Ding-Dong Hustler. Frat Boyzilla. Flaming branch–dousing Molly, who’d frantically upended her can of beer midair while Liza squealed with laughter, ducking the foam.

  He could end the whole charade right now—stomp into the entryway, full of pleasant surprise to see Liza there, and let them both explain her presence, see Molly stammer over how she’d just been about to tell him all of it. But he didn’t know where he stood, and sensed that his position was one too easily transported to Liza’s side of the door.

  He’d always been too curious for his own good. But if he revealed himself now, he’d never know: How big of a hole would Molly dig? How long could she possibly justify not looping him in? How far gone were they, really?

  And if she could behave so unforgivably toward Liza of all people, could he be far behind?

  He’d once had a legitimate worry that he’d been second fiddle to Liza, and yet even then he’d learned not to mind.

  His wife’s hiss came again, encased in a hard, bitter shell. “Now you decide to show up!” She was talking to Liza as if she had previously and thoroughly abandoned her, which wasn’t fair—even if maybe, in the geographical sense, she had. But Liza hadn’t been the only one to let Molly down. Daniel knew this better than anyone, as he was the guiltiest party. And Molly, apparently, had had enough.

  He couldn’t tell if her tone was more embarrassed or angry or guarded or tired, maybe all of the above. But its directive, however mystifying, was clear: Stay away. Never mind. Worse: Forget you know me.

  And he worried she’d inadvertently borrowed that tone from him.

  Certain turning points become obvious only in retrospect. Others fly at you with the crack of a bat—no time to react, only to recoil.

  Behind him, the kids had started to bicker in the kitchen. Something to do with the damn syrup again. He’d need to go back in and referee, or Molly would storm across the tile to confront his incompetence and catch him here.

  Go home. Much as he didn’t want this distance between Molly and Liza, the space was here now regardless, and so the thought sounded so loudly in his head he hoped it might ride the tension across the hall, harmonize with Molly’s harsh words, and enter Liza’s ear in a chorus she couldn’t ignore.

  Go home and leave us to our mess.

  5

  Alone at last. Molly slipped out the back door, stealing a glance to make sure no one appeared to be watching—the best she could hope for at this desperate stage—and started off across the backyard toward the t
ree line. The warmer-than-average late-spring sun made a point of exemplifying broad daylight as if to make her rethink her choices. Which, of course, she was already doing—a useless exercise, as it was too late to change them.

  They hadn’t really been choices, though, had they? More like non-choices that had seemed secure in her hand but been swept up by an unexpected gust of wind. Now, her empty fist clenched, there was no point in chasing after the opportunities it had once held. She just wanted to tie everything else down, to salvage what she still could.

  The question, of course, was how much damage the storm had already done. She’d handled things so badly with Liza. In the few moments her friend had stood bleary eyed on her doorstep this morning, Molly had watched her traverse a spectrum of emotions with surprising speed: her initial worry turning to confusion to frustration to disbelief to anger to a deep and resolute sadness. The feeling of finality trailing Liza’s departure had cast itself over Molly like a shadow and stayed there.

  Molly had no one to blame but herself that she hadn’t been able to summon the gumption to get back on the phone with Liza last night and convince her, somehow, that all was well. She’d been too afraid that Liza, who knew her so thoroughly, would see through her: She hadn’t trusted her own voice. Nor had she been able to disguise her horror at Liza’s follow-up house call. She’d felt sick at the realization of how terrified she’d left her friend—and how much Liza must care for her still to have driven through the night. But no other emotion seemed capable of displacing her shame over what Liza had very nearly witnessed.

  So Molly hadn’t apologized, hadn’t pulled Liza into a hug, hadn’t so much as invited her in for coffee. Instead, a knee-jerk defiance had lashed itself out, as if Liza’s concern were a silly overreaction, as if the two of them hadn’t been laughing together the night before, trying to reclaim what they’d once shared. The second her friend turned on her heels, Molly wanted to chase after her, to call her back, to explain—but she couldn’t. Not with Daniel there, chattering with the kids in the kitchen, mere steps away from poking his head out to see what was taking his wife so long to shoo away the paperboy, or whoever had come knocking.