by Britney King
It’s apparent that Ann is waiting for me to say something, probably something about how I’m like her, and I don’t need the money. That I’m blessed to be able to do what I love just for the sake of doing it. That it comes from the goodness of my heart. But we both know that isn’t true. Ann doesn’t do it from the goodness of her heart either. It’s just easier for her to pretend.
“There’s one more thing,” she says. “Neil was less than pleased with his English grade—to tell the truth, I really think his teacher has it out for him. Mrs. Terry. Do you know her?”
“Not very well.”
“Huh,” she says looking toward the door. “Well, it doesn’t matter. Where there’s a will, there’s a way, right?”
“It’s just one grade,” I say, and the room goes on spinning.
“Not to Neil, it isn’t. Not to Paul either. He’s very hard on him. Too hard, if you ask me. But it is what it is. Anyway—we have high standards for our children, therefore they have high standards for themselves.”
She says it like she doesn’t quite believe what she’s saying. “I can understand that.”
“Can you?” Her expression is serious.
“Sure.”
“Good,” she tells me. “It’ll make what I am about to ask you easier to swallow.”
A quizzical look is offered meanwhile a rebuttal dances on my tongue.
“I need you to change his grade.”
“I don’t really have access to grades…I’m just a sub.”
“But it’s possible…say…next time you’re in the office…to say…accidentally log in to the admin’s computer. It wouldn’t be too difficult. Would it? If, of course, you had the log-in information.”
“Where would I get that?”
“Leave that to me. Let’s say this is a test. Let’s say I get you the information, and you change the grade, and if all goes well, you’re hired.”
I choke on my own spit. I’m amazed that Ann would ask me to do this. But then, maybe not really. “Sorry,” I say when I finally get my bearings. I shake my head and push what’s left of the coffee away. “It’s really good. Really good,” I lie. “But unfortunately, I think I’ve met my quota for today.”
“It’s pretty strong stuff.” Ann flips on the faucet, fills a glass and hands it to me. “Anyhow—about the job—what I’m thinking—what I need is someone I can trust. Someone who will honor the very intimate details of my life. Someone to manage my schedule—”
“Like an assistant?” I’m surprised to hear my words slur.
“That’s right. That way I can do what it is I do best—help people. Therapy is an amazing gift, Sadie. You should try it. I could even make it part of our deal, if you wanted. We could be…well, not just friends…but more. We could be partners.”
The last time someone used the word therapy with me and spoke about how they wanted to do things like erase memories and replace them with other things, it hadn’t turned out so well, so I say, “I’m not very good at therapy. And I’m not very good at organizing.”
“Ah, now, Sadie. You shouldn’t sell yourself short. You were the president of the yearbook club back in high school…you were at the top of your game at Norris and Tillman. That is, before you left to start a family.”
I don’t ask how she knows any of this. But she does, which makes any answer she might give too late.
“I’ve been accused of being an overachiever,” I tell her. “In the past.”
“By who?” Her brow furrows. “Underachievers?”
I laugh, and I realize she’s the loveliest person I’ve ever met. “Something like that.”
“All winners and losers in life are completely self-determined. But only the winners are willing to admit it. You can’t let people justify their lack of success with criticism of your success. That’s a surefire way to hell,” she says. “And happiness isn’t found there, trust me.”
“I didn’t start a family, though.”
Ann rolls her eyes. “You have plenty of time.”
“Hardly.”
“Sadie. Sadie. Sadie.” Her face twists like I’m missing a key clue to the universe. “Don’t you know? You can have anything you want.”
This causes me to scoff. I don’t mean to. I’m afraid the people at that class are starting to rub off on me. “You don’t know me.”
“I know enough.”
She’s wrong about this, of course. Although, the confirmation that even people like her make mistakes is nice.
“Hang around me long enough,” she says, “and you’ll see.”
My vision blurs, and the room is off kilter. Suddenly, I just want to go home and go to bed. I nod, but I don’t know what I am supposed to see. I only know she is offering me something that seems of great value and that I want to accept it.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SADIE
I’m asleep. I’m awake. I’m sleeping while awake. I’m sleepwalking through life. I’d hardly made it through the front door. All I could think about was sleeping it off. I wanted to lie down in the middle of my floor, anything to make the spinning and the headache go away. I managed to make it to the couch, where closing my eyes brought sweet relief. I hadn’t even bothered kicking off my shoes, apparently.
I slept for an eternity, for so long that when I wake, it feels a bit like I haven’t slept at all. I feel delirious. I feel hung over. I feel stuck, half in this world, and halfway in another. My mouth is dry, my eyes are sticky, and my body aches in places I don’t even recall being possible.
Part of me hadn’t wanted to wake up. I had been dreaming of Ann. I dreamed we were digging. Digging a grave. Digging and digging. By we, what I really mean is, she was doing the watching. I was doing the heavy lifting.
While I was busy working up a sweat, Ann told me all about her life before she and her family moved to Penny Lane. Most of what she said was stuff I already knew. But her voice is lovely, and so long as she was talking, she wasn’t killing me. So long as I was digging, I was still alive.
She told me her family were members of a church. By church I inferred that what she really meant was she was in a cult. Something I find so, so interesting. Not that she referred to New Hope as such. But that hasn’t stopped the press—or the authorities—from doing it.
The details are hazy. It’s a pity I can’t recall the specifics of what she said, but dreams are rather like that, aren’t they? The further I get from sleep, the hazier things become. There were, of course, some answers she wouldn’t—or couldn’t—give. Nor were they found in any of the reading I’ve done. So much reading.
I guess you can’t really ever know everything about a person, can you?
Still, I suspect Ann did some shady things—things she’s not proud of, things she wouldn’t want anyone to know about. Not in her new life. Not with her growing fame. Which is why she didn’t tell me about any of that. She doesn’t trust me yet. I know because she accused me of spying on her. Before all of the digging started. Ann was livid. I promised—I pleaded with her—I wasn’t. It was just…well, I figured since she knew so much about my history, that it was only fair if I learned a little more about hers. I explained that I want to know her. Really know her. I want to know everything. The bad, the good, and everything in between.
My response only half pleased her. She said I could have just as easily asked. She was right about this, obviously. I just figured why bother with awkward conversation—when you learn about a person via a simple internet search and a few phone calls? That’s why spy novels set in present day aren’t very interesting. How hard do you really have to work at it when everything is literally at your fingertips? Not very.
It wasn’t hard to find out that Ann’s husband is a surgeon, or that he works with charities like Medicine Without Borders, which is why he is frequently away. (She told me that much.) It wasn’t hard to find out that she’s a licensed therapist in the State of Texas. (She said that too.) It was all listed in her children’s school records. Records I
had easy access to, thanks to Ann’s resourcefulness. She provided the admin password, after all.
What she didn’t say, in my dream or in real life, was whether or not she is a murderer. Or is it murderess? Do we still live within an era where it’s important to differentiate? Or is murder gender neutral too?
I don’t know. What she did tell me was that since leaving New Hope, since the Feds had disbanded it, since the court had suspended her license, that she had set her sights on something better: becoming a guru of sorts. Ann has big dreams. Real dreams, not like mine. Dreams she’s actually pursuing. She gives people advice on the internet for free, and she said it’s amazing because you don’t even have to have any sort of credentials to do it. But even if you do have them—and worse, they are stripped from you—likely for gross abuse and negligence— she says you don’t have to worry. If you’re good enough at deception, there’s still hope in the land of the internet, where you can say what you want, and it’s hard to be held accountable for anything.
But then, Ann doesn’t know about social scoring the way I do.
I told her all about it as I dug my way to the center of the earth, in an empty field with only the light of the moon to guide us. She said it was the perfect team-building exercise—that if we were going to work together—if we were going to be friends—she had to know she could trust me. She said after the incident in the garage, her trust was buried way down deep, and if I wasn’t careful, I might never see it again.
I threw out some accusations of my own, and it felt good. I told her I was aware that she’s using me—that she needs a success story, and I know she thinks I can be it. Look at me, look at what I’ve done. If I can help someone as wretched as Sadie transform, I can help you too.
That’s when she knelt down in the dirt beside me and cupped my face with her hands. She stared directly into my eyes and told me I was wrong. She told me I was worthy of transformation. She said she was glad I brought my insecurity to her attention. She said this was a breakthrough for us. She said I was a dream. She said that just because two people see things differently doesn’t mean they give up on each other. My feelings are normal. The truth sets you free, she said, but first it pisses you off. She said some things are hard to hear but those are usually the things worth knowing. And then, after she said all of that, she said the best and most important thing. She promised not to give up on me.
Afterward, right before I woke up, she asked if I hated her for making me do all of that digging. I assured her I didn’t. And I don’t. It wasn’t a lie.
I understand the dream. I understand all of that digging served a purpose, and that it was a form of symbolism. She told me I was right—that there are many more qualified and capable women in the community she could have called upon for help. Women more like her. But she didn’t ask any of them. She asked me.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
SADIE
It’s on nights like these that I really miss it, Sadie,” Ann tells me wistfully. Paul is away, and she has a lot on her mind. I know this because she texted and asked me to join her for a glass of wine so we could finish discussing the details of our work together. Also, there is something she wanted me to see. Something “unbelievable.”
“Austin?” I ask, thinking I’m glad she brought this up. It’s a good time to gather some intelligence. It’s a good time to see where her head is.
Ann has positioned her Adirondack chairs on her front porch so that they overlook the lane, which is really nice because it gives you a bird’s eye view. It makes me feel otherworldly, one step beyond, sitting here beside her. “That—and just—well…home.”
“I hadn’t really thought about it. I guess for me…this is home.”
“Really? Doesn’t it ever just all feel the same to you?”
I take a moment to consider what she is asking. “Well, the houses are constructed similarly.”
“Not the houses,” she says. “The people. Life. Every day. It’s all the same.”
“Hmmm. I haven’t given it much thought…”
“Well, now’s the time, Sadie…”
I watch as she nurses her glass of red. Something is clearly bothering her, but like most women, Ann isn’t the type to just spit it out.
She hasn’t yet noticed I’m not drinking, and I hope she won’t. I’ve already pegged the potted plant meant for the contents of my glass just as soon as I can divert her attention. After last night, drinking anything in her presence doesn’t seem like the smartest thing to do. “Look at my lights…” she points. “This is a disaster.”
I do look. A few bulbs are blown—maybe a quarter of them—actually, an entire strand or two, but it’s not what I’d call a disaster.
She runs her hands over the length of her face, pausing to massage her temples. “Wait until Paul comes home.”
It’s the first time I’ve seen her look anything close to tired. “This is unacceptable,” she tells me. “He works so hard, Sadie. So hard. I only wish you knew what he has to deal with. The least I can do is make things bright and cheery for him when he comes home. The least.”
“I don’t think—”
Her eyes focus in on me. Her stare is icy and cold. Heartless. “That’s right, Sadie. You don’t think.”
“I—”
“I paid the guy to purchase and install my holiday lighting. And you know what’s missing? THE LIGHTING, SADIE. The lighting is missing.”
“I’m sure if you called him…”
Her cheeks are flushed, and I don’t think it’s the wine. She cocks her head first, and then her brow follows as though on command. “You think I haven’t thought of that?”
“Well, I—”
“What do you take me for?”
“It’s just—”
She cuts me off, lowering her voice to a near whisper. “I wanted our first Christmas here to be perfect. That bastard—”
I press my lips together tightly in an attempt to suppress a smile. I can’t help myself. I’m almost amused by her anger at something so…so…trivial. It isn’t like her. Everywhere I go I can’t get away from hearing about how great she is. How kind and lovely. How she’s changing the world by motivating the masses. And yet, here and now, live and in color, she’s nothing at all like she portrays herself to be in public. Her emotions have hairpin turns. “Maybe—”
“There is no maybe. He gypped me. Claims he can’t fit me in his schedule for another two weeks. Paul will be home well before then, and the holidays will be half over.” She lets out a long and heavy sigh. “And then there’s the Christmas party to think about…”
“It’ll all work out.”
She looks at me like I’m crazy. The way my husband used to. “What’s the point?”
This time I smile, because she is not the person everyone thinks she is—and not just because she may or may not be a murderer either. This is not sunny Ann; this is not the cheerleader for all. This is someone who cares deeply what other people think and is desperately trying to hide it.
I do my best to redirect the conversation. Something that should feel familiar to Ann—a trick right out of her own book. “I don’t see how you find the time.”
“Are you kidding? I have nothing but time.”
“What about your work?”
“This is work, Sadie. That’s why you’re here.”
Her words sting. I’m still learning the boundaries of our relationship. The borders aren’t quite mapped out. Are we friends? Or am I just her employee?
“Are you writing?”
“Only every second of every day. But it’s not enough, Sadie. It’s never enough.”
I don’t know what she means. Although, I want to. I want to know how I dig my claws further into this situation the way Ann would, if she were me, so I ask what’s stopping her.
“Oh, you know... life…” She tells me as she fingers the stem of her glass. “Paul is away so much, and the kids need at least one of us around…especially at this age.”
&nb
sp; “Right.”
“It’s nothing new. You know, just the old ‘how to make it all work without fucking up the kids’ conundrum.”
I don’t know, actually. I probably never will. Still, I do my best to pretend by agreeing profoundly. “I absolutely get it,” I say. “It’s such an impressionable time in their lives. They do need you around. I see it all the time when I sub. You can always pick out the ones who are lacking in the parenting department.”
Once again, she looks at me as though I’ve lost my mind. She was expecting me to disagree. She was expecting me to try and fix it. I know better. There will be plenty of time later on for offers of help with the ins and outs. For now, the seed has been planted. With any luck, it will grow and grow and grow. I just have to water it and care for it until it’s time for harvest.
“It seems pointless sometimes, doesn’t it?”
“Pointless? No, I don’t think so.”
Ann visibly softens. “I’m glad I have you in my life, Sadie. It’s nice to have someone who gets it,” she says and sometimes the harvest comes sooner than you think.
“If you want…I could bring over a ladder and check the wiring on the lights. I used to help my dad a lot as a kid.”
“Really?”
“He was an electrician,” I tell her and it’s only a partial lie. The best kind usually are. Little bit of fact. Little bit of fiction. My dad wasn’t an electrician. To hear my mother tell it, he hardly worked at all. But he did come over and hook us in to the neighbor’s grid once, when our electricity was cut. It was the least he could do, said my mother. He saved the day, and he asked me to be his apprentice. So the next time, he said, I would be able to do it on my own. I thought he was joking. I didn’t know him well enough to know, he wasn’t.
Ann’s eyes narrow. “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”
“It’s no trouble,” I tell her. “Probably just a loose bulb somewhere.”
She gazes out at the lane. I can see that she’s considering something deeply. I don’t think it’s the lights. “I don’t know…it seems like a lot to ask…”