Confessions on the 7:45

by Lisa Unger

  “Not too much homework?”

  “No,” she said. “I’m good. Where’s Mom?”

  Charlie shrugged. “Like I said. Mysterious.”

  “Her purse is here,” said Pearl. She took a piece of Black Jack gum from its wrapper and stuffed it in her mouth.

  Charlie frowned, considering.

  “I’m pretty sure she had her wallet and her phone. Her keys,” he said finally.

  The bell rang outside, and they watched a group of kids enter the store from the monitor that hung on the wall. Charlie got up to greet them, giving her a smile as he left the room.

  Their voices carried back to Pearl, laughter bubbling. They’d put out some fliers at her school, and now kids were coming to study in the afternoons. It had been Charlie’s idea, one of many good ones.

  Pearl grabbed the box cutter, carefully slicing open the first carton. She loved unpacking—the smell of new paper, the shiny or matte jackets, the raised letters beneath her fingertips, the weight of a real book in her hands, the whisper of paper. She loved hardcovers, and floppy trade paperbacks, the blocky mass markets—each with their own place in the store.

  The store outside had grown quiet, the kids who came to study were actually studying. She recognized one of the girls, but not the other two. Pearl’s school was a sprawling concrete monster that looked like a prison. She didn’t know everyone. She didn’t know anyone really. She might sit with the other nerds at lunch; they were nice enough to her. But she mainly kept to herself, her nose in a book.

  A few more kids trickled in, headed for the donuts, then grabbed a space on one of the couches. They, too, settled in, took out notebooks and laptops. This was the most people she had seen here on a weekday afternoon. If it wasn’t for online sales, and the money that came from renting out the space for parties, meetings, book groups, Stella’s Pages would have gone out of business long ago. Charlie was good for the store. Good, it seemed, for Stella. And Pearl didn’t mind him either.

  She wouldn’t let herself get attached.

  The afternoon wound on. Pearl stocked the books on the front table reserved for big bestsellers. Then, she walked around with the feather duster—from literature to science fiction, from young adult to picture books. After she was done, she flopped into the overstuffed chair by the storefront window and worked on her homework.

  Finally, it was growing dark and time to close up. Stella had not returned.

  “I guess we’ll just meet her at home,” said Charlie, frowning at his phone. She’d watched him text a couple of times, then stare at his screen. She felt bad for him; this was probably the beginning. Stella was probably getting tired of him. Pearl knew the signs.

  “We’ll carry in dinner,” he said.

  They cashed out, locked up. Pearl took Stella’s tote along with her own bags and rode home in Charlie’s GTO. He was quiet, thoughtful. They stopped for burgers.

  The lights were on upstairs as they pulled into the driveway. The smell of hamburgers and fries filled the interior of the car. Pearl saw a shadow in the window. Then her mother’s silhouette joined the form in an embrace. A new boyfriend, Pearl guessed.

  Had Charlie seen it, too?

  “You know,” he said, pushing up his glasses. He kept his eyes straight ahead. “Maybe just have your mom call me. If she wants.”

  Pearl wasn’t sure what to say.

  “Take the burgers,” he said quietly. “Make sure you both eat.”

  He was pale in the streetlight, a muscle clenching in his jaw.

  “I’m sorry,” said Pearl, exiting with her bags, her mom’s, the food. She took a hamburger from the sack and handed it to Charlie. When he reached for it, their eyes locked and he smiled; she smiled back. It was the closest she had ever come to feeling something for someone. Which she knew, distantly, was weird. But you can only be who you are.

  She wanted to say something else, but he just waved her inside.

  In the foyer, she heard music, her mother’s laughter wafting down the hall. Then, the rumble of a man’s voice. She looked back before shutting the front door. Charlie still idled in his car in front of the house. What was he doing? Just making sure she got inside safely.

  She ate at the kitchen table alone, reading. The music from her mother’s room grew louder. After dinner, she cleaned up—loading the dirty breakfast dishes in the dishwasher, wiping down the counter. More laughter. An odd thudding.

  She went up to her room, to finish her homework where it was quieter. Then the house grew silent again.

  She was glad she hadn’t let herself get attached to Charlie.

  But when she looked out her bedroom window just before turning out her lights to sleep, his car was still there.

  TEN

  Selena

  Stephen and Oliver argued through dinner, fought as they all watched a movie, finally quieted down for a story, and took some parting shots at each other while they lay in their beds, Selena lying on the floor between them.

  “Boys, be nice to each other,” she whispered in the night-light-dim room. On the ceiling, stars glowed green. She remembered sticking them up there with Graham. It took forever, both of them with aching arms and backs the next day. “Love each other.”

  “Ew,” said Oliver.

  “Shut up,” said Stephen.

  “I’m one second from leaving this room,” warned Selena. They both quieted down at that, Oliver with a huff, turning his back. She felt the heat of Stephen’s stare. When he was smaller, he would watch her until his eyes closed finally for sleep.

  The hard floor felt good on her aching back. The day had been brutal. It required herculean effort to pretend that everything was okay when your whole life was about to fall apart. The energy that it took to smile, to talk with clients, to put on the mask of normal; she was drained, cored out from the effort. Her networking lunch—all idle chatter and polite laughter and immobile botox faces, and designer handbags worn like shields—just about did her in. She’d left with a pounding headache.

  “You okay?” asked Beth in the cab afterward.

  Did she not seem okay? She really thought she was putting on a good front.

  “Fine,” she lied. “Great.”

  Selena hadn’t been sure what it would be like when one of your best friends was also your boss; but it worked. Mutual respect, compassion, teamwork, lots of laughs. Wasn’t it only men who implied that women couldn’t work well together? She’d never had a problem with female colleagues. In fact, quite the opposite. Any leg up she’d ever had professionally had been due to female mentors and friends.

  “Just allergies,” Selena conceded. “My head is killing me.”

  She and Beth had been friends a long time. They were publicists together in their twenties at a small publishing house, been through it all—boyfriends, breakups, the death of a parent, meeting the right guy, weddings, pregnancy, the birth of children, Beth’s divorce, and Michaela, the friend they’d lost to a sudden heart attack.

  Beth nodded and offered a sympathetic smile, a squeeze of her hand. Her gaze lingered a moment, and then she went back to the email on her phone. Her nails were perfect candy-pink squares, glittering like the diamond in the ring that she bought herself after her divorce. Their tapping was hypnotic.

  “Let me know if you want to talk about it,” Beth said easily. Translation: It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me what’s really going on. But I’m here.

  “I’m fine,” Selena said. “Really.”

  “How’s Graham’s job hunt going?” Translation: When is your loser husband going back to work?

  “It’s going.”

  Another quick glance, then back to the phone. Beth didn’t like Graham. She’d never said so, but Selena could tell. There was a way she leaned on his name, a certain expression she wore when they all got together. But they didn’t need to love each other’s
spouses, just be nice. God knows, Selena had put on a smile and endured Beth’s cheap, controlling, adulterous ex-husband Jon for the near decade they were married. That was the golden rule of friendship. Be nice. It was a decent rule in general, wasn’t it? If more people followed it, the world would be a better place. Also: let your friends keep their secrets. Support them when things go to shit.

  As things had gone to shit last night.

  All day, she tried not to think about the scene between her and Graham. Her own voice—low because of the sleeping children but sizzling white hot with rage—rang back at her. Shocking. The things she’d said. His words like punches to the kidneys. How ugly it had been. When had so much vitriol, so much anger grown between them? It was like toxic mold; they knocked down the drywall and all she could see was black rot.

  “Dad didn’t call to say good-night,” said Oliver now, voice muffled.

  “Must have bad service,” she said to the ceiling.

  “He didn’t say goodbye.”

  Selena felt a pang of guilt—for what had happened, for the lies she’d told. She was lying to her children now. Nice.

  “He’ll call tomorrow,” she said lightly. “Now go to sleep.”

  “Mom,” started Oliver. “I saw—”

  “Not now, honey,” she said. If they started talking about this thing or that thing he saw in school or on television, or on the computer, it would be twenty minutes of conversation. Of course, Stephen would chime in on whatever it was. Then there would be an argument. “Go to sleep.”

  “But—”

  “Oliver.” She summoned her mom voice. “Go to sleep.”

  She wondered how many times you uttered that phrase over your life as a parent. Because your day as a parent didn’t end until your child was sleeping. In the life of the full-time parent, it was the only guilt-free, quiet space when you could just be yourself, you could drop your vigilance for a bit, the endless litany of wants and needs ceased for a few hours. She really needed some time to think—about what had happened, about what she was going to do.

  On the commute home, she’d scanned the train for the woman she’d met last night. She simultaneously wanted to see her and fervently hoped they’d never cross paths again. There was something about that moment they’d shared, that confessional space, that was more honest and true than any other place in her life right now. She badly wanted that release, and feared it.

  What had the other woman said? Wouldn’t it be nice if your problems just went away?

  Something about the memory, about the sound of the other woman’s voice, sent a cold finger down her spine. Bad things happen all the time.

  Selena closed her eyes, felt sleep tugging at her almost instantly. She wondered how long before she could crawl out of there. She didn’t want to sleep on the floor, wake up at 2:00 a.m. with aching bones. She waited, counting her breaths, listening to the boys. She opened her eyes and met Stephen’s steady gaze.

  “Don’t go,” he said, reading her mind.

  “Close your eyes,” she answered.

  After a while, their breathing grew deep and even. Stephen, her deep sleeper, sounded congested. Oliver, who like her would wake at any sound, shifted and sighed. She got up quietly and left the room, always a tricky maneuver.

  She padded down the hall, and closed the door to her bedroom. She took a breath.

  There were certain times when she was just Selena. Between her commute and the walk through the front door, where she was alone in the car maybe listening to a podcast, or an audio book, or just driving in silence. She relished it. It was about fourteen minutes. So, twenty-eight minutes a day—on the way to the train, and on the way home—she was just herself.

  Or when the kids were asleep and Graham was out, and she could choose what she wanted to do without considering anyone else. When she wasn’t the person she was at the office—efficient, reliable, always bright, on point—or the person she was at home—mom, wife, loving, accommodating, understanding. In the dark leather interior of the car, no one needed or wanted anything from her. It wasn’t a thing. She hadn’t been unhappy. She loved her life, didn’t she? All those smiling social media posts—#grateful #blessedtobestressed #lovemyboys—that’s what she put out there.

  Last night there had been screaming, shattering glass, sobbing that miraculously didn’t wake the boys. If it wasn’t their first blowout, it was certainly their worst. Her headache ratcheted up.

  But had she been happy?

  She and Graham stood on the sidelines at soccer fields and baseball games, smiling, laughing, cheering. They had their foldout event chairs, their cooler filled with water and oranges to share with the team and other parents. There were parties with friends and picnics and lovely family vacations. They had a legion of friends, acquaintances, neighbors. School functions, backyard barbecues, charity auctions, community fun runs. It was a life that they had built—one that seemed to spring up all around them without much thought. And it was a good one. Wasn’t it?

  But before all that—what had she wanted to do? What had she wanted to be?

  A writer.

  For the first time since last night, she let herself cry. She turned on the television and buried her face in a big soft pillow and let it rip. All her anger, sorrow, the fatigue of holding it all in, her fear for what came next released into the cotton. When she was done, she felt better, cleansed.

  She needed to think, figure out what to do.

  Her phone lay dark and silent on the comforter next to her. Who could she call? Who should she call? No one. Her sweet mother. Her perfect sister. Her successful friends. Who could she tell what a shambles her life was about to become? The only person she wanted to call was Will, her ex, the man who she’d left for Graham. Improbably, they were still friends. Good friends. She could call him; she knew that. He’d be happy she did. A little too happy. It was a bad idea. She didn’t call anyone.

  She thought again about the woman from the train. Martha, that was her name. Her confessor. She felt like maybe she would tell Martha what had happened. What would she say? Not that she had any way to reach the other woman.

  On the dresser was a photograph of Graham, Oliver, Stephen and Selena, a family portrait taken at a low point in their marriage. It had been sheer chaos getting everyone dressed and out the door to the park to meet the professional photographer. Stephen wailed the whole way there. Graham thought it was a stupid expense, groused about that, about traffic, snapped at the boys. It was miserable. But everyone managed to pull it together for the session, fake smiles plastered on bright.

  “Don’t worry,” said the photographer, an older woman with a wild head of curls and a wise smile. She must have sensed their stress levels, though Selena had tried to hide it. “It will be worth it.”

  She meant more than the photo session, gave Selena a warm squeeze on the arm.

  When the photos came back, they were perfect. All of them looking blissfully happy, she and Graham in love, the boys like little angels. She chose one for their photo Christmas card; everyone raved about it. The photographer was right, Selena thought when the proofs arrived. It’s all worth it.

  What a fraud, she thought now, holding the portrait. She wanted to smash it. Instead she placed it down again, lay back on the bed, blanked out staring at the screen. Game of Thrones—everyone beautiful, draped in leather, smoldering, urgent with the approach of war. She let herself escape into that beautiful, dangerous fantasy world for a while. Dragons. Dirty sex. The Three-Eyed Raven. An army of undead soldiers. All of it way more manageable than real life.

  Then she heard something, turned down the volume on the TV.

  The security alarm was set; she’d done that before they came up.

  Walking out into the hallway, she was greeted by quiet.

  At the landing, she paused and listened, then went down. She checked the front door—locked. Ala
rm still armed and active. Back door closed and locked. Selena checked each window on the first floor, moving room to room. There’d never been a break-in in this neighborhood that she knew of.

  But what the woman on the train said was true, wasn’t it? Bad things happen all the time. Randomly. When you least expect it.

  At the top of the stairs, a slim figure hovered. A scream crept up her throat.

  For a terrible, reality-altering second, she thought it was the woman from the train.

  “Mom.” It was Oliver. “I heard something.”

  Relief flooded her system as she climbed the stairs. At the top, she took his shoulders. “You scared me, buddy.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Back to bed.”

  “Stephen’s snoring. Can I sleep with you?”

  She looked into those wide, dark eyes. Her little old soul. He came out of the womb staring at her. Stephen wailed and fussed, wouldn’t nurse, was colicky and a general pain. But Oliver had been her angel baby, her kindred spirit. When she looked at him, sometimes when he wasn’t being a troublemaker and a con, she saw all the layers of past, present and future. Who he was before he was born, who she had been, the man he’d become, who they’d be together, and long after they were both gone.

  They climbed into the big bed, and she teddy-bear-hugged him, relishing the warmth of his little body, the role of mother that allowed her to back-burner everything else.

  “I heard you and Dad fighting last night,” he said when she thought he was asleep.

  She thought about denying it. Then, “I’m sorry.”

  She thought the boys had slept through it. But really, how could they have? It was epic.

  “It sounded like you hated each other,” said Oliver.

  She felt a dump of sadness in her middle. “No.”

  “You said that. You said, ‘I hate you, Graham.’ You said you wished you’d never married him. That you should have married Uncle Will.”

  Shit. Had she said that? That was low, and not exactly true.

  “Let me ask you a question,” she said. “Do you and Stephen fight all the time?”