Little Voices

by Lillie, Vanessa

  We sit down at the eat-in kitchen table. The plates of pasta steam as we swirl noodles and take a few quiet bites.

  I set down my fork. “I met Belina the afternoon before she died.” I pause as he stops eating. “She left me her day planner full of notes. It was in my hospital stuff, and I forgot until today.”

  He wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Notes about what?”

  My heart is heavy with love and guilt. He doesn’t immediately demand I give it to the detective, even though that’s obviously what I should do. I hope he still respects my decisions, even when they’re different than his.

  You’re not deserving of his trust.

  You don’t deserve anything good.

  I leave the kitchen and return with Belina’s planner. His brown eyes go wide as I hand it to him. “Look at the last page,” I say. “The day she was murdered.”

  He angles his head forward, flips through the planner, and finds the page. “Transfer money. Library with E. Tell Alec. Find Devon.” He flashes a concerned glance at me before continuing, “Meet with A and CF at SP. Jesus, is A with a circle Alec?”

  “Read it again,” I say but manage to wait only a few seconds. “She writes ‘tell Alec,’ but when listing who she’s meeting with, it’s two other names. Why would she change the code midlist?”

  “Why have a code at all?” he says, flipping back through a few pages. “She’s a nanny.”

  I nod, relieved he’s trying to understand. “I’ll give the journal to the detective. He’ll need my statement, since I saw her that afternoon. But I’ve got to have the rest of the week to finish my analysis. To develop a theory.”

  “There were a couple of hairs from Misha at the crime scene,” he says. “That makes sense with what you said about the coat.”

  “I can do this,” I say, meaning it, wanting it to be true. “I need time to put an alternative theory together.”

  You’re just embarrassing yourself.

  Embarrassing him.

  Jack scratches at the back of his neck. “Okay,” he says finally. “What if you tell the detective about the planner at one of Uncle Cal’s happy hours?”

  Uncle Cal hosts big schmoozy and boozy events at his house a few times a year. Detective Ramos’s bosses would be there, and hopefully, it’d communicate that he should give me a pass on withholding the evidence. And make him more open to us working together to find the real killer. “When is the next one?” I ask, liking the idea.

  “Friday,” Jack says. “I thought if the walk went well . . .”

  So he has his own plans. “The wrap was so I could go hands free with a martini.”

  “That’s a thought,” he says. “Or we get a sitter.”

  I shake my head. “No, it’s too soon.”

  “There’s a nice lady from the office, Gillian. She’s a grandma type. I’ll forward her resume and references. You can check her out as thoroughly as you want. As long as it’s legal.”

  I slice him a glare, though it’s a point well taken. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Imagine a shower and your old clothes? We’d talk to adults and be our former selves. It has to happen at some point.”

  I try to tamp down the nasty words about how he’s been his old self this whole time.

  You’re the one who can’t adjust.

  You’re the problem.

  “What if you talked to your mom group about it?” he says.

  That is the generous term. It is group therapy that started in the hospital. And I hate it. “It takes too much . . . time,” I say, starting to eat again to avoid the topic.

  He knows you’re not doing well.

  “If you’re going to . . . help Alec,” Jack continues, “you need more support. Please.”

  “That’s your price?” I ask.

  He shakes his head, but I’m right. “I’ll talk to Uncle Cal and get the detective there,” he says. “I understand why this is important to you. It’s important to me too.”

  The bread beeps, and I stand, running my hand across his before heading to the stove. I open the door, and heat warms my face. I rest the pan on a pot holder on the counter. I hear him pouring another glass of wine. I slice the bread and coat the steamy side with large swaths of buttery garlic.

  “How many spreadsheets have you made so far?” he asks behind me, nuzzling my temple.

  He hasn’t teased me about my process in so long. This is as close to normal as we’ve been since Ester. I smile up at him, and the frisson curls in my stomach. He raises one eyebrow, the playful look that asks: Upstairs?

  It’d be our first time together since the baby. I let the idea linger and lick my lips to respond but freeze.

  Ester is crying. “She’s up.”

  His face falls, but he recovers, finishing the wine.

  “Sorry,” I say, even though it’s not my fault. Or maybe it’s all my fault.

  He wants his old life back.

  You pushed him to start a family and ruined his life.

  “You got her?” he asks, though he’s not really asking.

  “Of course,” I say too brightly, rushing toward the fridge to grab her milk. “Finish dinner without me. The pasta is al dente,” I add in my terrible Italian accent.

  It’s a joke from our honeymoon, but he doesn’t smile.

  Chapter 8

  Friday, December 9

  My head snaps up from my desk at Ester’s wail, a four a.m. call to arms. I rush to get her from the bassinet in the bedroom. Jack continues to lightly snore through the activity, and I resist the urge to shove him awake.

  You wanted this before either of you were ready.

  Before you deserved to be a mother.

  Ester shouldn’t be hungry, so I bounce her for a while in the lamplight of my office as dawn catches up to our restless night. She’s docile on her play mat, and I leave her there, content, for a few minutes at least. I rub my eyes, focusing on the spreadsheet on my computer. I click through the tabs, delaying my final review of Belina’s planner. It’s been five days of analysis since I remembered the yellow book stashed in my hospital bag. Since I promised Alec I’d help him. Since I tried to find my new self.

  Five days of failure.

  Five days of being selfish.

  Taking time away from your too-tiny baby.

  For what?

  I can’t put it off any longer. Now I must decide on a theory about her murder. One that will get Detective Ramos’s cooperation at the happy hour tonight. One that will save Alec’s life.

  I start at the first tab focused on time, inputting eighteen months of entries, her entire time employed as a nanny. I reviewed and categorized each day, noted who Belina saw, where, what she did, and anything unusual or different from other entries. It’s a rough approximation, but I need data.

  I haven’t cracked the code, and the voice is right. I feel like I’ve failed already.

  You were never going to succeed.

  I click over to my computer file with every photo I could find of her. I stare at the Instagram shot of her along Blackstone Boulevard. She captioned it “the best walks are with friends.” I’d taken that photo.

  It took one afternoon with Belina, seeing her care for Emmett, to realize she was different. Ninety percent of nannies are too calm. Their subtext always, This isn’t my child. They want their charges safe, sure, but the sunshades aren’t always pulled down enough to block the glare. The scraped knees not attended to as fast as a mother or father would.

  But Belina nurtured Emmett. She worried over every cough. Swooped in instantly with each stumble. I first noticed her planner because she logged details about Emmett’s day.

  “What kinds of things matter?” I asked, rubbing a contented hand over my slight baby bump.

  “How he laughs on the swings. Which slide is too fast and scares him. What snacks he ate all of and which were left on the bench for the birds.”

  But now I have her planner. I’ve spent the past week with her words, and the only thin
g I’m sure of is that she was lying.

  Like recognizing like.

  Belina’s day planner is in a language new to me but familiar enough. Some sentences in the planner are the language of a caregiver: “Peas with cheese; big slide too scary; playhouse board is loose on north side.” But after reading and analyzing, I believe the real purpose, and what comprises 72 percent of this journal, is notes about Alec and meetings she had with CF.

  Back at the whiteboard, under her name, I write WHY NANNY?

  And then:

  1. “NEEDED A CHANGE” (FROM WHAT?);

  2. INTERLOPER;

  3. HOME WRECKER;

  4. JUST A JOB.

  There’s a balance to drawing conclusions and moving forward with a theory. I’m going at a faster pace because I must.

  I decide the notes about Emmett were for Belina. So I disregard those, hiding them in the spreadsheet. What’s left are the meeting notes and code names I have yet to break. I sort the data by the code to see every note about every person and group theme by theme. I search for patterns and apply the fraud triangle.

  You’ll never be that good again.

  I click and sort.

  Who is CF to Belina? To Alec? To ?

  Click. Click.

  I search the time line. She met with CF as soon as she had the job. Met with him regularly. Then Alec met with him.

  Click. Click.

  Is there pressure to commit a crime? Did CF ask Belina to watch Alec? To inform on him?

  Click.

  What would be her motivation to work for CF? Money? Usefulness?

  Click.

  How did she live with it? If she did care about Alec, her feelings growing, was there guilt? Resentment? Was she living a lie?

  Was it fraud? Was she a fraud?

  You should know.

  I flip through the pages of her journal, running my finger over her final sentence:

  Friday: Transfer $. Library with E. Tell Alec. Find Devon. Meet with & CF at SP.

  I’m stuck on “transfer money.” I need to know what money. To whom? My gut says Alec knows a lot more than he’s telling.

  After swiping the eraser across the whiteboard, I write my theory about Belina: spy.

  I reach for my phone to text Phillip again because he hasn’t responded all week. I linger over the words and settle on: We must talk. Please. It will be different this time.

  There is no bubble that indicates he’s responding. I doubt the little check mark that says the text was received. It’s likely he’s blocked me. If that’s the case, this reaffirms what I have to do. Where I have to go.

  “Ready?” Jack calls from downstairs.

  I glance at Ester in time to hear her cry as if she senses my anxiety. I pick her up and whisper that it’s going to be okay. I bounce her, humming a country song I used to listen to as a girl back in Kansas.

  Finally, we’re both quiet, and I get us dressed before heading downstairs. Jack’s in the kitchen with coffee in a travel mug.

  “Let me drive you,” he says as he hands me the cup.

  It’s possible he doesn’t trust that I’ll go to “mom group.” But more likely, he knows it’s my first time in the car with Ester since we left the hospital. I don’t like either thought. I bounce Ester, running my hands along her green outfit with ruffles on the bottom. “I can drive myself.”

  Jack swallows thickly, and the curve of his lips presses together.

  He doesn’t trust you anymore.

  I hand him Ester and pack the larger travel diaper bag for the first time. The list of the top twenty must-haves from various mom blogs rolls through my mind. Ten minutes later, I return to him in the kitchen. Ester is slumped in the crook of his arm as he sips coffee with the other hand.

  “Careful,” I snap, letting my nerves out on this silly situation. “You could burn her.”

  “I’ve got it,” he says, defensive as I quickly take her back into my arms.

  I nuzzle her as anxiety punches my gut until it finally deflates into embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m nervous.”

  He raises his eyebrows.

  “No. I’ll drive myself.”

  He bows his head to the side as if he knew I’d say that. “Call me when you’re back. Tell Dr. Lauren hello.”

  I kiss him on his smoothly shaven cheek before he can notice my eyes filling with tears.

  I really do hate lying to him.

  Chapter 9

  From the rearview mirror, I see Jack with his hand in the air and a relieved smile as if I’m actually doing what I said I would. But I have to see Cynthia to apologize for how I failed her and find out if she’ll trust me again.

  What kind of friend are you?

  One friend dead.

  The other hates you.

  Ester wails in the back seat. I head toward Hope Street in the direction of the Day Hospital for postpartum women, where Jack thinks I have an appointment.

  After a half mile, I turn back, toward Chip Bakery. I’m about to take the left into the small lot, but I can’t press the gas to cross both lanes of traffic. My foot won’t move at the idea of being hit on Ester’s side. I can see how the back door would cave into her car seat, tearing her body apart, and I can see it as real as her sitting there now.

  A car horn blasts, and I push the gas without looking as another car pulls around me. I scream and swerve, barely missing the huge truck. I overcorrect, and I’m going too fast, and I run up onto the concrete curb with a loud thud.

  “Shit!” I say as we slam forward. I reverse into the spot and shove the gear into park. Ester continues to cry, and my breath comes in quick white puffs. I forgot to turn on the heat. No wonder Ester is so upset. I blast us both with the warm air. A minute passes, a few more. I feel wet tears streaming down my neck before I realize I’m crying.

  I don’t want Cynthia seeing me this upset, but I hardly have a choice.

  She’ll know you’re hearing me again.

  You were stupid to tell her about me before.

  Dumping my purse onto the passenger seat, I rummage for some makeup, a brush, anything to seem more together than I actually am.

  I use my fingers and a pencil to tame my frizzed hair into a high bun. I have some old lipstick that’s too pink for my coloring that I put on anyway and a little Blistex over it for shine. My eyes are red with purple circles that paint spackle couldn’t cover underneath.

  At least I put on a clean shirt. My maternity pants look cheap because they are.

  It’s embarrassing you’re still wearing them.

  Cynthia will be ashamed to know you.

  Ester’s cries are becoming frantic. I read that most new babies hate the car seat, so it shouldn’t be a surprise she’s screaming. But it’s still frustrating. I try to keep my voice kind and even as I clench the steering wheel.

  “I’m coming, baby girl. It’s okay.”

  I pull the wrap out of the diaper bag. I wore Ester around the house this week as I worked. She calms down when she’s next to me. We both do.

  After turning off the car, I head over to her side. I stand in the snow as the wind pulls at the wrap, and I quickly have her on my chest, every inch covered by fabric and secure against me. With her cotton hat in place, I take a deep inhale of baby powder and detergent.

  The sun is bright in the cold stillness of early winter days. I breathe it, listen to the quiet, and try to feel a little better staring into the windows of the busy coffee shop. Cynthia opened Chip Bakery right after Jack and I moved to town. I usually spent several hours a day working at a table in the corner, enjoying the noises of customers over the silence of my home office.

  Cynthia is so disappointed in you.

  You’re not welcome anymore.

  Ester begins to scream again. I worry that she’s hot somehow and unzip her more. I shush while taking her hat off, letting her face feel more air.

  A mother with her baby in a stroller passes us but halts midstep. Her eyes widen, and her back stiff
ens at the sight of us. As if her baby never cries. As if her blankets piled into the fancy bassinet stroller with wind protection are so much better. As if there’s something wrong with Ester. Or me.

  She knows a mother like you would have an evil child.

  Ceaseless crying.

  Too small to love.

  My eyes burn with tears, from the wind and the voice. I begin to hum and bounce, heading down the block and back while I wait for Ester to sleep. I cannot give in to what I hear. She is not a monster. My sins are not hers. I must stay focused and move forward, or I will drown us both.

  Minutes pass, and the cool air seems to have calmed us. I zip my coat tight with Ester finally sleeping against me. I try to shrug off that mother’s expression, her mom shaming, which I read about many times but haven’t really experienced before.

  Better get used to it, girlie.

  No one will love your child.

  Just like no one could ever really love you.

  I force myself to head toward Chip Bakery and focus on my apology to Cynthia and convincing her to contact Phillip.

  Chip is the only coffee shop in the heart of Hope Village, the main shopping area along the commercial blocks of Hope Street. This was strategic. Cynthia’s capstone at Harvard Business School was to identify the most profitable venture using her credit line, skill set, and connections. She graduated with honors and brought her capstone to life, opening a coffee shop on the East Side of Providence.

  It is more than coffee, actually. She took the concept of cheese boards and added house-made desserts paired with slightly bitter, locally sourced coffee. It’s as if she’s saying, “Make no mistake. This place is worthy of your precious East Side.”

  I take a deep, satisfied breath at her success. The expanded menu was the perfect upsell, more than tripling profits over the past two years. I helped her run the numbers after she found out about my legal work with accounting firms.

  But her business hit a plateau, and she needs a liquor license and a second location to take things to the next level. I know that because I pushed her to apply for a grant through Uncle Cal’s Economic Development Council.

  She had a lot of hesitation. The fact that Uncle Cal and her brother had clashed, to put it mildly. I’d been in the middle of it, and I had forced Phillip out of the blogger business for a while. I didn’t regret it, but I wished it had been different.