Confessions on the 7:45

by Lisa Unger

  My problem can’t be solved, thought Selena.

  Divorce her husband, become a single mother with the kids gone every other weekend and holiday? Or stick it out? Fire Geneva, a girl the boys both loved, and try to find a reason that was palatable to them, that didn’t shame Selena and ruin her husband in the eyes of their kids? Then quit her job and live off savings until Graham found another position and went back to work. Confront him, couples’ counseling, maybe find a new way forward. There was no solution that didn’t introduce a whole host of new problems. Problems she frankly just didn’t have the energy to solve.

  “Maybe she’ll disappear,” said Martha. “And you can just pretend it never happened.”

  Her voice, it slithered like a snake, was a whisper in the dark.

  When Selena looked into Martha’s eyes, it was like staring into space, cold and distant, empty. The vodka was making Selena feel a little sick.

  What if Geneva just didn’t turn up for work one day? Disappeared. Graham would pick up the pace on his job hunt big time, Selena bet, if he was full-on with the kids. Maybe Selena could just pretend it never happened. It would be so much easier. For a second, it seemed possible. Her mother, after all, had done it for decades to keep her family intact.

  But no. She couldn’t. She couldn’t unsee what she’d seen, unknow what she now knew about her husband. She wasn’t like her mother. She couldn’t just stand by for the sake of the children. Could she?

  The train came to life then, lights coming on, lurching forward. Nauseated, heart racing a little, Selena started to gather her things.

  “Yeah,” Selena said, managing a thin laugh. “I don’t think I could get that lucky.”

  “You never know.” Martha twisted a strand of her dark, silky hair. “Bad things happen all the time.”

  Selena moved over to the seat on the other side of the aisle.

  “I’ll spread out,” she said as Martha watched with a polite smile. “Give you some space.”

  Martha nodded, pulled her tote up off the ground.

  “Thanks for the drink,” Selena said when she’d settled. “And for listening.”

  “Thank you,” said Martha. “I feel better. I think I know what to do.”

  “Sometimes we just need an ear.”

  “And a little push in the right direction.”

  What did she mean by that? Selena didn’t really want to know. Something about the conversation, the other woman’s tone, the vodka, had her feeling uneasy, and very much wanting the conversation to end. Why had she told this stranger about herself? Something so personal?

  She opened her magazine and started flipping through the glossy pages of impossibly slim bodies, flawless faces, enviable lives. When she looked over at Martha again, she seemed to have nodded off. As the train neared her station, Selena gathered her things, but the other woman didn’t stir. She slipped off as quietly as she could, not saying goodbye, not looking back, hoping that they wouldn’t meet again.

  FOUR

  Geneva

  Geneva stacked Crate and Barrel plates in the dishwasher, then wiped down the gleaming quartz countertop, listening to the boys bouncing around upstairs while Graham tried to read a story and get them settled for the night. Jumping off the beds by the sound of it, a heavy thud that caused glasses in the cabinets to rattle slightly. Something neither Selena nor Geneva would ever tolerate. Story time was for winding down, not winding up.

  She put away the leftover food from dinner, leaving a plate wrapped in the fridge for Selena, even though she’d probably already eaten.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered as she closed the refrigerator door. She was sorry. She liked Selena, respected her. She would never have chosen to hurt and betray her in this way. In the worst way one woman could betray another.

  She was used to it. That hot feeling of shame. Its familiarity was almost a comfort. The heat started in her center, then radiated up to her face in a rush. Finally, there was a bottoming out that left her with a gaping hollow in her center.

  Why? Why would she do this? Again and again. She didn’t want to.

  There was only one reason. And this was the very last time. She’d been putting money away. There was almost enough now to break free.

  She sat at the table and wrote a list for Selena.

  “Oliver needs a new uniform shirt, order from the school office; Stephen’s teacher—” who seemed like a bit of a tight-ass to Geneva “—said at pickup that he was a chatterbox lately, distracting his friends, and not paying attention.”

  In fact, Stephen was a chatterbox—but he was lovely and creative and sweet. Anyway, Selena would know what to say to Stephen, and to his teacher. Luckily, Geneva’s job was only to report the problem; she didn’t have to handle it. That was the joy of being a nanny and not a mommy. You got to go home.

  The pen felt heavy in her hand.

  She could still taste Graham on her lips.

  When she met him, during her interview with Selena and the boys, she thought he was the handyman, someone Selena had hired to do the jobs her high-powered husband didn’t have the time to do himself. He’d been struggling with stones in the low wall that surrounded their expansive backyard.

  During the all-important recon, she’d seen him in pictures on social media. Once, she’d seen him on the train from the city as he commuted home from work. At that time, he’d been dressed in a well-made suit, good shoes. He’d been clean-shaven, put together. When she saw him at the house, she didn’t recognize him at first.

  “Oh, there’s Graham,” said Selena, who’d just shown Geneva around the gargantuan kitchen. “He’ll be around some. But mainly he’ll be out interviewing, I’d think.”

  Selena misread the confused look on Geneva’s face.

  “My husband,” she clarified.

  “Oh, right,” said Geneva. “Of course.”

  Geneva had watched him a minute as he lifted the rocks, stacking them. There was something virile about him, even though—or maybe because—he was sweating from physical labor. Jeans, T-shirt, work boots. He’d gained weight since she’d last seen him, but his arms were muscular, shoulders broad. There was an appealing strength to his physicality. The stubble on his jaw was not unattractive.

  Still. When Geneva looked at Selena—slim, dark, with fine, proud features and unblemished skin. She must know, right, that her husband was not her equal in any way? Why did so many women do that? Not just a stunner, Selena was also smart, personable, a good mom. One of those Wonder Woman types this culture was so good at producing.

  And Graham, well, anyone could see—or maybe it was just her because she was good at reading people. Like, psychic good. He was a man baby. The world handed to him like a rattle he smashed on the floor when he didn’t get what he wanted. Geneva had known so many men like him in her line of work. Too many.

  It was definitely time to consider a career change. She wasn’t cut out for this game, its consequences. The kids were okay; that part she enjoyed. It was the adults that were the problem. The men especially.

  Geneva finished her note to Selena. The banging upstairs had ceased. She could hear Stephen and Oliver talking, laughing, the rumble of Graham’s voice. Maybe, she thought, she shouldn’t come back tomorrow. She gave the counter one last wipe down, moving aside the big toy robot, with all its funny gears and big red eyes. Danger! Danger! it said, among other things. It was one of those annoying, frenetic toys that kids loved and parents hated. She’d confiscated it from the boys when they were fighting over it. She thought about running it up to the playroom, but she didn’t want to go back there. The scene of the crime. She left it by the stove.

  Geneva packed up her bag, the portion of the dinner she’d made for herself stored in the Pyrex container she’d brought from home—meals were part of the arrangement. She let herself out quietly, locked the door behind her.

 
; It was only a couple of days after she started working for the Murphy family before Graham started hovering while the boys were at school—Stephen still just a half day at kindergarten and lunch bunch, Oliver in first grade until 2:30. She ran Selena’s errands, did the chores, and whatever Selena needed before Stephen’s pickup at 12:30.

  Graham would be there suddenly in the laundry room, talking about this or that—how he’d played football in college, might have gone pro if not for a knee injury. Sure. How he’d had a job offer but he’d turned it down because it “just didn’t feel right.” He had that faux-pompous aura that certain types of men had, putting it on to cover a deep feeling of inadequacy. She tried to communicate that she wasn’t interested. No eye contact. Polite, one-word responses. A quick: Oh, I gotta run and do an errand before I get the boys. Your boys, she didn’t say. While your wife works to support you all. And you’re doing what exactly?

  She almost quit before it was too late. Sometimes, you know, these things just don’t go down the way you expect them to and you have to pull the plug.

  But Selena was so grateful, so complimentary. The boys—well-attended to, loved—were so sweet, such nice kids. The house was beautiful, calming. Geneva enjoyed her time there, pretending when she was alone that it was her beautiful house. She’d go through Selena’s drawers sometimes—look at her makeup, her perfume, her pretty underwear. She never took anything. She looked.

  It happened in the laundry room the first time, knocking up against the dryer.

  It happened just like it was always going to happen. What was it?

  She knew that she was just slightly better than average-looking. Maybe it was the caregiving thing. She really had a knack for that, for taking care of other people. She wanted to do it, to give in that way that comforted others. Children. The elderly. Animals. She just wanted to be kind to others, and to help them. Maybe that was why she could never say no—even when she wanted to.

  The light was still on in the boys’ room as she crossed the street in the cool night, and climbed into her Toyota. Graham wasn’t the worst father she’d ever met, not even the worst husband. That particular award might go to her own father, a total stranger who she wouldn’t be able to pick out of a lineup.

  Shivering in the transition from the warmth of the house to the chill of outside, she pressed the start button on her new car, a consolation prize from her last disaster. The engine hummed to life, the dashboard glowing. It was a good thing people didn’t talk anymore. In this Instagram world, everyone wanted to broadcast filtered versions of their best moments, and bury everything else. All the dull, shameful things, all the flawed, failed ventures and endeavors, hidden. Where did people put those things?

  She drove, the air slowly warming, her body relaxing. No music, her smartphone stowed. Her place wasn’t far, just over the railroad tracks—away from the big houses and manicured parks, past the supermarket and the cemetery. Her building was a low, neat structure facing a manmade lake with a fountain in its center. There were trees and benches, a playground, a family of ducks that returned year after year. Not fancy, but not run down and sad like other places she’d lived.

  She parked her car in the spot reserved for her unit, climbed the outside stairs to the second floor, and walked down the exposed landing. As she went, she shed layers of herself—the smiling nanny, the accommodating millennial, the laundry room lay—all things that were her and weren’t really.

  Her place wasn’t much, a small one-bedroom with a nice-sized kitchen and dining area, a sitting room she’d made cozy. It was fine. It was hers. And when she closed the door, she was alone, could breathe a sigh of relief. She would never live with the family in her care like an au pair. She always needed her own space.

  Her phone chimed and it filled her with dread. Surely, not another text.

  Please. I’m desperate. I can’t stop thinking about you.

  She didn’t answer, had turned off her read receipt, so he wouldn’t know if she’d gotten it or not. She should block him, that would be the smart thing to do.

  Why won’t you answer me?

  I trashed my whole life for you.

  This was the usual pattern. Something casual—that had come earlier. Just thinking about you. Hope you’re doing okay. Then something pleading. Then more aggressive. Then nasty.

  The least you can do is answer me.

  Nothing to do but ignore it.

  Geneva changed into sweats, put her hair up, then ate her food without bothering to reheat it. Sitting at the kitchen table, she stared absently out of the window into the park where she watched two slim teenage girls on the playground. It was late for kids to be out alone, wasn’t it? Maybe not, just after seven. But it was dark. One of them stared at a phone. The other pushed herself languidly on a swing, her head tilted against the chain.

  The phone again: You know what? Fine. You’re ghosting me? You just make a mess, then disappear.

  The two girls on the playground reminded her of another self, another life, one so long ago that it was faded and seemed as unreal as a dream, or an episode of a bad television drama that she’d watched without really seeing.

  Two girls. One who wanted everything. And one who wanted nothing more than to disappear. She wondered if either one of them would ever get what they were after.

  Another chime: One of these days this shit is going to catch up with you.

  She reached over to block his number, but he got a final shot in before she did:

  Whore.

  The word burned a hole through her. She dropped the phone like it was hot. Her stomached knotted.

  We reap what we sow, her mother used to say.

  There was that rise of shame again. Was that true? Surely not. Because bad things happened to good people and good things happened to bad. Her sister was fond of saying how there was no justice beyond what you delivered yourself.

  Geneva walked to the window, but the girls were gone, the playground dim and abandoned.

  That’s when she saw his car. Windows black, headlights off. Just sitting.

  Had he watched her come in?

  She would call the police. But how could she?

  Was he the criminal, the one to fear? Or was she?

  She stood there watching the dark car, staying to the side of the window until finally the vehicle came to life and drifted away.

  FIVE

  Pearl

  Pearl listened, that was her superpower. She had a gift for making herself invisible in a room so that people forgot that she was there. Slim and dark, plainly dressed, she wore thick-framed glasses that mostly hid her face. She made sure her voice was always soft, that a small half smile always played on her lips. She blended into her surroundings and most people didn’t mind her company.

  At school, she was neither bullied, nor did she have any true friends. She made a point of being distantly agreeable.

  “Pearl’s an easy child to like, a good student, highly intelligent, and helpful to others. Should we talk about her quietude, though? Her shyness? I wonder if she spends too much time on the sidelines. Though she always knows the answers when called, she rarely raises her hand.” A gentle query from her English teacher on Pearl’s stellar report card, at which her mother had glanced quickly, knowing that Pearl would have straight As.

  “Shyness?” her mother, Stella, had mused, looking at Pearl with those watery blue eyes. There were layers and layers there. Pearl could almost get a glimpse of all the things her mother had been before she was Pearl’s mother—a neglected child, a stripper working her way through community college, a trophy wife cast aside for trophy wife number two, a single mother, a drunk, a bookseller with a struggling shop. Those eyes, they looked right into Pearl, knowing every cell of who she was. Stella, for all her failings as a mother, knew Pearl better than anyone.

  “The last thing you are is shy.”

&n
bsp; True. That’s the last thing Pearl was.

  Tonight, fifteen-year-old Pearl was watching Charlie. He’d been an object of fascination for her since he’d wandered into her mother’s life a few weeks earlier. Not Mom’s usual type. He was quiet, bookish, a regular guy. But not. There was something behind his eyes, a flicker, a slither, a slipping darkness. There was a laughter there, too—not the nice kind.

  One day he was the new clerk at her mother’s bookstore, unpacking boxes in the back, stocking shelves, ringing up customers. Pearl wondered how Stella could afford to bring on a new employee. The store was on the brink of going out of business. She knew better than to ask.

  Then the following week, Charlie was driving her mother home at night. Pearl had watched from the window as they lingered in the black car that looked like a shark. Its engine rumbled, body gleaming in the streetlight.

  Tonight, he was in their kitchen, cooking. He hummed, the kitchen alive with light and wonderful aromas.

  The others—and there were many—were not like this guy. Mainly big, loud men. Tattoos, fake smiles, empty eyes. Dumb. They were generally not her mother’s equal in terms of intelligence. Her mother would be giddy at first, all breathless smiles, and fluttering hands. Then, quickly, she would shift to annoyed or angry, let down or bored. There might be fights, yelling—usually her mother doing the yelling, the men cowering, or leaving abruptly, never to return. Or sometimes they just disappeared—there one day, gone the next with no explanation.

  Pearl had learned to pay them little mind. They ran together in her memory. She came to think of them as versions of the same man. Harmless; they never bothered her. Useless, one of Stella’s favorite critiques. Ultimately not good enough, lacking in some way. Pearl had collected an array of gifts—from Tom a bracelet with a real diamond chip, from Christian an iPod, a stuffed unicorn from...what was his name?

  Her mother was willowy and bottle blonde with sea-glass eyes. She was fire. She was ice. Bewitching, one of them had called her. Your mother, she casts a spell on men. We dance.