Forget You Know Me

by Jessica Strawser

  In the moments when she and Daniel still talked of the future, there was a dream of the life they’d settle into once the kids were gone. She’d contributed aggressively to long-term funds in her days of a full-time, white-collar salary, and when she scaled back it was a bone of contention with Daniel that she wouldn’t be able to sustain that rate. He’d helped her roll what she had into an IRA—but, still smarting from his reaction to her career shift, she insisted she could take it from there. Didn’t need his help, thanks anyway.

  She wished now that she hadn’t been so convincing. If he’d had access to her monthly statements, he might have saved her from herself. As it was, hiding her missteps was for the most part as simple as beating him to the mailbox. She continued to contribute to the joint accounts, as always, and ignored the rest.

  Now Rick’s voice echoed in her mind. He’d been the only one who knew anything about her debts. Are they … on the up-and-up?

  She’d scoffed at the question. But should she have?

  Did it stand to reason that alternative loans might have alternative collection methods when you failed to pay up?

  The idea of having to tell Daniel how she’d not just violated his trust but also squandered their future and by the way possibly endangered their family’s security was almost scarier than the prospect of trying to find a solution on her own.

  Almost scarier than the idea that if it was they who’d come for her, then they’d be back.

  No. This was not the seedy side of Las Vegas; it was the suburbs of Cincinnati. If she couldn’t pay, she’d be dealing with collection agencies. Not henchmen. She had to keep her head.

  She would cling to the theory that the intruder had been random.

  But she was also going to have to solve this cash-flow problem, regardless. She’d been living in a state of denial about how bad things had gotten, but she was facing it now.

  Well. Technically, she was only facing its paper trail. But she had to start somewhere.

  “Mom?”

  She whirled around. Grant stood barefoot and pajama clad in the kitchen, looking somehow smaller than he did by day.

  “Sweetheart.” She glanced uneasily back at the invoices. “What are you doing up?”

  Grant was a restless sleeper, prone to waking at random and coming to stand at her bedside until an uneasy feeling would compel her to open her eyes. She expected that zombie-like, mournful stare now, a mumbled excuse about wanting to be tucked back in, but instead he surprised her by running at her and leaping into her lap, sending papers fluttering off the table, skimming the carpet, and sliding under the sectional.

  “Oh no, no!” she hissed. “Damn it, Grant!”

  He recoiled, and she regretted her words, her tone, the fact that all the worst parts of her seemed to have become perpetually spring-loaded. It wasn’t his fault the mess she’d made was so precarious, so easily scattered. And he’d only wanted a hug.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, sinking to the floor and opening her arms. “I didn’t mean to snap. I was only startled.” He hesitated, then let her pull him close. He smelled of bedtime—tear-free shampoo and bubblegum toothpaste and slightly sweaty sheets.

  “Are you ow-y, Mommy?” She hated not knowing whether the question was a guess at the source of her insomnia or of her quick temper. Neither boded well for her track record.

  “I’m okay,” she said, tipping his face up and smiling into it. “What about you?”

  He buried his head in her torso again, which was just as well. Involuntary tears were welling at the way he’d looked at her, like she was the frightened child. “You weren’t in your room,” Grant said. She was glad he’d come looking for her rather than waking Daniel, alerting him to her absence in the process. Even if it was an extension of the mind-boggling phenomenon by which the kids would seek her out—in the shower, in the garden, in the laundry room—to request a drink or a snack, only for her to comply and find their equally capable father right there in the kitchen all along. “Being ow-y makes you sad,” he said.

  She shook her head, dismayed at her failure to hide it even as she cringed anew at the still-fresh memory of his less sensitive take, just days ago: Girls aren’t strong. “Don’t worry about Mommy,” she said. “Mommies should worry about their kids, not the other way around.”

  “But…”

  “It makes you sad, too?” She held her breath. She’d feared this moment, tried to avoid it. He didn’t answer. Maybe she was making it out to be worse than it was. “You wish Mommy was less cranky because of it? That’s my fault. I can do better.”

  He shook his head.

  “There’s a race,” he said. “At school. A fun raiser.”

  “Fund-raiser?” He nodded. “That’s when people do something to raise money for a good cause. Fund, with a d, is another word for money. Though they do try to make them fun.” She looked around at the windblown receipts and felt an inappropriate urge to laugh. Maybe she should throw one for herself. If only she were a sympathetic cause.

  “All my friends are doing it.”

  “All you have to do is ask, buddy. How far is it?”

  “Five. And there’s a letter.…”

  “K? A five K?” He nodded, and she considered it. “That is pretty far, for kindergarten legs. You’ll need to practice.” This would default to Daniel. She was under no-impact-exercise instructions from the sports medicine doctor she loathed to visit, so conspicuous did she feel alongside actual athletes, the sole patient whose body had just decided to give out. Even a short jaunt across the yard, if she didn’t stride just right, could leave her arthritic knees protesting for days. But what parent didn’t have to run a little?

  “You have to run with a grown-up,” Grant said. “You’re a team.”

  “Well, Daddy has been saying he wants to get in better shape. I’m sure he’d be happy to.” She began gathering the receipts into a pile. It was time to get Grant back to bed, and she couldn’t risk leaving this out.

  “He can’t. He says he has a big persuasion that day.”

  She bit back a smile. “A presentation?” Grant nodded, and she tried to think of what that might be. “When’s the race?”

  He told her, and then she understood. The start of the fiscal. The budget proposals. Every year, Daniel would get so keyed up about them he couldn’t hold a conversation about anything else for days beforehand. It was the one time of the year that he behaved as if his job was actually on the line. They had to like what he had to say. And he had to be there to say it.

  “Ah. He does have something important that day.”

  Grant nodded. “And you’re too ow-y.” One of the bigger invoices—cataloging a laundry list of mistakes resulting from an ill-considered trip to Urgent Care—sliced through the tip of her ring finger and she winced, reflexively putting it in her mouth, tasting blood.

  “Well, usually you can walk these races. I can walk it.”

  “Mom!” He looked mortified. “It’s a race. Our team cannot walk.”

  “Plenty of people do.”

  He shook his head firmly. “I’d rather sit. Do you think Granny or Gramps would run with me?”

  She shook her head, trying not to dwell on the fact that her son thought senior citizens more likely to complete a race than she was. And that he was not entirely off base. Her parents were pretty fit, recent retirees, but as such were at this moment in an RV somewhere, exploring the West Coast. Daniel’s mom and dad, who were at least in driving distance, were not exactly in poor health but were more into quilting and astronomy, respectively.

  “I don’t think so,” she said gently.

  “Everyone else has someone to run with,” he said, his bottom lip jutting out. There was no guilt trip in his words, merely a matter-of-factness. He was a good sport, usually. Sometimes he’d catch her sitting with a certain reluctance to move and come over, set a gentle hand on her arm, and ask, “Ice or heat?” And get it for her. Unbidden.

  She was just as tired of this as ever
yone else was. Every wistful look from her husband, her children, her friends, even her parents—who kept their visits short and asked conspicuously few questions about her state, having earned their newfound freedom—chipped away at her sense of self. They thought she was tiresome, but they had no idea how much she held back. Even at the risk of—well, as it turned out, damn near everything.

  “Maybe I could try,” she heard herself say. What was she doing? The training alone would do her in. All that pounding on her joints—it would start with her knees, then reach her back, her neck, her jaw, her mind. It would be too much.

  Unless she didn’t train. Unless she just … showed up on race day and had a bucket of ice waiting at home.

  “Really?” He had the good sense to look not unkindly skeptical, and her heart swelled.

  Never mind that she couldn’t tolerate anti-inflammatories anymore, that even a single over-the-counter pill would leave her so nauseated she feared her stomach must be bleeding. Maybe the only way through this pain was to just contend with it without letting it slow her down. She’d had this conversation with herself before—after she’d been told she didn’t meet the criteria for fibromyalgia and had been filled with such relief it had felt like a second chance—but it hadn’t stuck. Maybe this time, though, things could be different.

  “Well, I’m a lot younger than Granny,” she teased him, as if there were no other reason she couldn’t follow through. Excitement sprung to his eyes, and she realized she hadn’t seen enough of it there lately. Usually he looked more … resigned, maybe?

  Not a good look for a five-year-old.

  She ran her fingers under the edge of the couch to make sure none of the receipts had escaped her reach, and shoved the crumpled stack into a file folder, which she tucked into one of the oversized photo albums. This was a problem she still didn’t know how to solve. But maybe there was another one that deserved her attention first.

  “Do I get a ribbon, too?” she asked, and he looked worried.

  “I think they’re just for the kids.… But I can make you one?”

  “Deal.”

  He flung his arms around her neck, and she got to her feet, carrying him in a way she hadn’t pushed herself to do in months.

  So what if it would hurt later.

  13

  Liza couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept so late. Then again, she couldn’t recall ever having slept so little as in the days prior. The phone woke her after ten, the house quiet, Luke and Steph gone to work. They’d offered to stay home, but she insisted she’d be fine, reminded them she had shopping to do and a résumé to re-create. She didn’t mention that actual forward motion seemed beyond her, that she still felt outside her body, as if observing this disaster’s fallout from a vantage point several degrees removed.

  “Good morning. This is Amelia, from Front Door Insurance—I’ve been assigned to handle your renter’s claim.”

  “Oh. Right.” She’d never been one to tempt fate—she even bought insurance on car rentals, even though she knew that was supposedly a redundant expense. She told herself it was not because the reps at the counter were so insistent; it was simply a small price to pay for one fewer worry.

  “The report your agent submitted says this fire was a total loss for you—is that correct?” This woman—this Amelia—sounded too matter-of-fact, like she talked to survivors of fatal infernos every day.

  Then again, maybe she did.

  “Pretty much.”

  “I’m so sorry. Fortunately, you’re one of the lucky ones. You wouldn’t believe how many people forgo renter’s insurance. We’ll get you taken care of.”

  Liza blinked into the morning light. She wouldn’t have even had the presence of mind to call her insurance agent if not for Max, who’d taken charge while she sat teary eyed and shivering. She’d been so shaken by the understanding that she was lucky to be alive that it hadn’t occurred to her how lucky she was to be insured.

  “Let’s start with where you are now. Do you have a place to stay?”

  She licked her lips. Her mouth was uncomfortably dry. “I’ve arranged to stay with my brother and his wife.”

  “So you won’t be needing—”

  “What if I hadn’t had renter’s insurance?”

  The claims rep hesitated, as if reluctant to go off script. “Well, then a total loss would be just that, I’m afraid. Your deductible is five hundred dollars, but that’s all this will cost you. Now, will you require temporary housing assistance? If you need to be set up in a hotel or a furnished sublet until you find a new place, that’s something we can do.”

  Liza squinted at the phone, surprised. “That would be covered?”

  “Absolutely. Sort of like a rental car allowance while yours is in the shop. I could make recommendations if you’d like—how close to your original apartment were you hoping to stay? Are there other areas of Chicago that would be suitable?”

  “I’m in Cincinnati, actually. I mean, my brother’s in Cincinnati.”

  “I see. Okay. When do you plan to head back?”

  Liza swung her legs over the side of the bed and reached out to pull the sheer curtain away from the window. The sunlight-dappled branches of an old, thick tree sprawled across the frame, and her eyes followed their lines, looking for some sign of the owl she’d heard the night before—a nest, a feather. But she found none. The tree was not yet budding; it offered no cover.

  “I’m not sure I do. I’m, um…”

  She should have said a firmer no, set the woman straight. It was just that it hadn’t occurred to her someone might have paid for her to stay somewhere other than on Max’s futon in Chicago, figure things out there. If Max knew, he’d say this was just what he meant about not making snap decisions. But it was too late now. Wasn’t it?

  And she wanted to be here instead.

  Didn’t she?

  “I’m from here,” she said finally. “Originally. I’d been thinking of moving back.”

  In the swath of blue sky showing between the branches, an airliner was crossing a maze of vapor trails, leaving one of its own. She imagined the passengers looking down at Luke’s tiny roof, perhaps, or engrossed in something else, something they could put their hands around. You could get from one city to another, even hundreds of miles away, just like that. You could decide at any point to go back or not to go back. Surely it wasn’t so unusual? She let the curtain drop.

  “I see,” the woman said again. “Well, certainly no one plans for something like this. Take a few days to get it sorted. We can assist with the transition, regardless of what you decide. Have you begun replacing any items yet? Clothing, smaller necessities?”

  “Just a few things my mom brought me. I haven’t had a chance…”

  “Save the receipts. Probably best for you to foot the bill, though I understand your family is trying to help. We’ll get you reimbursed—we’ll get to that. First we need to do our best to catalog what you’ve lost.” The sound of typing was faint across the phone line as Liza conjured a picture of her old living room. The futon, the flat-screen TV, that vintage Tiffany lamp … The idea of making a lifeless list of it all when others were mourning the loss of entire families made her feel sick.

  “What about the cause?” Liza asked. “Of the fire, I mean.”

  “The cause? That wouldn’t play into a renter’s claim.”

  “It doesn’t matter what caused it?” She hadn’t meant to snap. She drew in a steadying breath.

  “If you were the property owner, that would be different, but your coverage is the same regardless.”

  “But someone is investigating? The paper mentioned possible safety code violations. Negligence.”

  “That would be up to whoever insured the building commercially to investigate. And the fire marshal and whatnot. But again, that’s not something we get involved with.”

  “What about me?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You don’t get involved, but will the tenants be inv
olved?”

  “I can’t imagine why. Unless a tenant was at fault somehow.”

  She couldn’t imagine why? People had died.

  “How long can it take to determine who was at fault? Not a tenant, but say a contractor.”

  “Liability, that sort of litigation? A long time.”

  “Months?”

  A heavy sigh. “Unless it’s clear cut, maybe years.”

  Liza’s temples throbbed. It was hard to imagine going even one more day without knowing why this had happened. Surely others were just as motivated to find answers—especially those who’d lost more than just things. People, for God’s sake. If someone was responsible, then that person should have to face them.

  “Who would I call, about that sort of thing?” She didn’t sound at all like the proud survivor her family had made her out to be around the dinner table last night.

  “I’m not sure—all I know is it isn’t me. I understand this is upsetting, and I do want to help. The best way I can do that is to focus on this claim.” The keyboard clicked again in the background, and Liza imagined the notes she must be keying in. Total basket case. Please reassign. “Making this list could take a while—if this isn’t a good time, we can set another one?”

  How much, Liza wondered, for the family photos I promised Mom I’d digitize, but never got around to? The souvenirs from the semester I spent in Italy? That cheesy under-the-arch prom picture of me and Matt—the only one I didn’t tear up when we broke up the next month, the only one I had left to cry over when he was killed in that motorcycle crash the next year?

  Liza considered the bizarre blank of the empty day in front of her. She had nowhere to be, no witnesses to attest to whether she accomplished anything or nothing at all. “Can we do this tomorrow, actually?” A day would help—just one. A day to process this, to remove herself from the absolute tackiness of getting reimbursed for her life while others had lost theirs. Now that she was fully awake, the pulsing in her head was reminding her that she’d usually had several cups of caffeine by this hour. And that she might need it more than she wanted to admit she did. Among other things.