The Life She Stole

by S W Vaughn

“Mother, will you please stop talking for one lousy minute,” he growls with concentrated effort. “I love you, but you’re making me nuts here.”

  The real miracle is that Willa actually shuts up.

  “Do you want some help?” I say tentatively.

  He shakes his head, grimacing as he grabs the bed rail. “I have to practice doing this myself,” he says through clenched teeth — not angry, but determined. “I refuse to stay in this bed one minute longer than I have to.”

  Though I’ve never been in a coma for five years, I completely understand that.

  Finally he’s sitting up fully, panting a little. He pauses for a minute, and then lowers the bed rail and eases his legs over the side, so he’s facing me.

  He opens his arms, and a tremulous smile lifts his lips. “Can I have a hug?” he says.

  It’s almost impossible to resist falling into his arms immediately. But he’s so frail, so weakened, that I’m afraid I’ll knock him back down. I take it easy, stepping up close and wrapping my own arms tenderly around his chest.

  His breath hitches as he enfolds me with surprising strength. “I promise I won’t break,” he murmurs. “Celine, just …”

  I take the hint and squeeze, pressing against his body. He’s still so firm, so solid and real and alive. A shiver runs down my spine, and I draw back just enough to kiss his dry cheek. “I forgave you five years ago, the minute you walked out,” I whisper.

  He stares at me. “Really?”

  “Really,” I say, and plant another kiss on his forehead. “I’ll see you again, soon.”

  His wondrous smile bolsters me as I turn and walk past Willa-zilla, who’s still glaring daggers at me. I step from the room and into the hallway, feeling lighter than I have in days. And I make it about ten steps down the corridor before I freeze in horror.

  Did that actually happen? Or did I just imagine it?

  Oh, God, I can’t remember.

  Did I really ignore Willa’s screaming demands and stay, and watch Brad not only defend me, but go through all that effort just to hug me? Or did I lock up when she started screaming and stand there imagining everything that came after, before I bolted from the room without another word?

  It feels like it really happened, that things actually went well despite Willa’s interruption, but I just can’t be sure. And I can’t bring myself to go back into that room to find out.

  My cheeks burns with shame, and I rush back down the corridors toward the elevators, shielding myself with a hand as I pass the nurse’s station. If Teryn is still there, I can’t face her. The elevator takes about a million years to arrive on the floor, and I stumble inside and push the button for the parking garage level, shoving myself into a corner as far from the two other passengers in the elevator as possible.

  Somehow I blunder to my car and get in. My eyes are already streaming when I shut the door behind me, and within seconds I’m weeping with my forehead pressed to the steering wheel and my hands over my face. I can’t deal with this. I don’t know how to deal with this.

  The next time I come to see Brad — which I’m determined to do, in spite of the disaster this has become — I’ll have to go through this all over again.

  I’m not sure how long it’s been when I finally calm down and trail off into hitching, uneven breaths. I rummage around in my console for a napkin to wipe my face, and then blow my nose and crumple the napkin into a cup holder. I’ll wait a few more minutes before I try to drive, since I’m still shaking.

  Just then, my phone chimes.

  I almost don’t want to look. But I pull the phone from my pocket and unlock the screen to find I have a new text. For some reason I’m not shocked to see the message from the mystery number, bold as brass at the end of the thread.

  How dare you speak to him? You don’t deserve him!

  Instinctively, I decide that it must be Willa sending the texts. But I think about it for a moment and realize that’s not necessarily true. It could be Willa. But it could also be literally any of Brad’s dozens of exes, from high school or college.

  The only thing I know for sure is that whoever it is, they’re watching me somehow. They’re watching me very closely.

  And they won’t stay back and watch forever.

  14

  It takes me longer than I want to calm down after the latest text. I don’t reply this time, because I can’t bear even one more cutting or frightening remark. Finally I get myself together, start the car and drive out of the parking garage, heading for the grocery store in my neighborhood. I just want to pick up a few essentials and go home. Maybe I’ll even take a nap before it’s time to get Alyssa from school.

  I’m zoned out on the drive to the store, and weighed down while I park and trudge inside to grab a cart. Once I get through the automatic doors and into the big, cool produce section, I shake myself and take a few deep breaths to shed the remaining stress. Nothing’s wrong with me. Not one thing. I’m just a happy suburban mom on a perfectly normal day, with a dead boyfriend who’s come back to life and an unknown crazy person who may or may not be threatening me.

  Everything is just fine.

  I head slowly into the rows of colorful produce, thinking about a nice salad. I’ll make spaghetti for dinner tonight, one of Alyssa’s favorites, with a salad and some garlic bread. But I won’t settle for a bag of pre-mixed salad. I’ll make it fresh, with two kinds of lettuce and lots of crunchy vegetables. Alyssa loves helping me make salad.

  I’ve got iceberg and romaine lettuce and a bag of carrots in my cart, and I’m picking through the loose green peppers when from the corner of my eye I notice someone pushing a cart toward me. They’re coming deliberately, like they mean to talk to me.

  Though I don’t make eye contact, I know who it is before she speaks.

  “Hi, Celine,” Hannah says as she stops in front of the cucumbers. “I’m so glad you shop here. I was wondering if this was a good store.”

  I almost tell her that I only shop here because it’s close to my house, and there’s another store a lot closer to hers. But I grit my teeth into a smile instead and look over at her. “It’s not bad,” I say. “They have good sales here, sometimes.”

  Hannah starts to say something, but then changes her mind. Probably something along the lines of not having to worry about things being on sale. Instead she says, “Did you get your real estate license fixed?”

  “No, not yet.” Even as I answer, I wonder why I’m encouraging this conversation. “It’s all a big bureaucracy, you know? Once something gets screwed up, it takes forever to fix.”

  Hannah nods in sympathy, as if someone who pays four hundred thousand dollars in cash for a house so they don’t have to bother with ‘mortgage stuff’ could understand the struggles of dealing with bureaucracy. “Do you handle your license online, like the DMV?” she says. “That’s probably the reason there’s a still problem. Everything is electronic these days, and it’s so easy for things to get botched up.”

  “Mm-hm.” I’m barely listening as I slip two green peppers in a plastic bag and wish she’d go away. I’ve got a pity party waiting for me at home, and she’s not invited. “I guess that’s the way it goes.”

  “Yes, it’s really insane,” she says, foiling my attempts to shake her as I move toward the fancy dressings, and she follows me like a lost puppy. “You wouldn’t believe how easy it is to manipulate electronic data, or to access other people’s information. I mean, take my app. I barely know anything about programming, but it can pull data from anyone’s Facebook page and use it, or even post on their page.”

  I stop, and my hands clench around the bar of the shopping cart. “What was that, about posting on people’s Facebook?”

  “My app can do that,” she says, looking at me strangely. “And I’m not good at programming or anything. All I did was watch a few online tutorials, and presto, I’m an app developer. Are you okay, Celine?”

  I’m not sure I am. I never tried to figure out how that post about
checking in at Juniper State Park got on my page. At the time, I was too terrified of the detectives to think straight. But now I’m wondering whether someone posted it deliberately. And the only reason I can think for anyone to do that is ridiculous, straight out of a movie.

  They’re trying to frame me for Rosalie’s murder.

  “I’m fine,” I say out loud, banishing the thought even as my mind tries to somehow connect it with the threatening texts. If I let myself start thinking crazy like that, I’ll never stop. “Listen, I’m still going to try and make it to your party.”

  I say that hoping Hannah will be satisfied and go elsewhere to continue her shopping, which she hasn’t even started yet, judging by her empty cart. But it only makes her more eager to talk. “It’s going to be fun,” she assures me. “I’m having it catered, and I’m thinking about hiring a deejay. Or a live band. Which do you think is better? Oh, and bring a bathing suit, because the pool will be open.”

  “That sounds great,” I mutter weakly, wondering if she actually expects me to answer the deejay-live band conundrum. “I’d go with the deejay,” I add, in case she does.

  “Really? Hmm, maybe you’re right. At least that way the music is guaranteed to be decent,” she says. “What kind of music do you like?”

  Okay. I really don’t want to be BFFs with this woman. “All kinds,” I say as dismissively as I can manage, angling my cart for an escape. “But you should use whatever kind of music you want. It’s your party.”

  See you later is on the tip of my tongue as I start away from her, but she drags her cart around and starts talking again. “I think your job is really interesting,” she says. “How do you become a real estate agent? Is it hard?”

  I’m not sure if she’s mocking me or trying to flatter me. Either way, this is not a conversation I want to have. “It’s not that hard,” I say. “If you really want to know, you can ask Maxine Hughes. She’s always happy to hear from people who want to be agents.”

  “Maybe I’ll do that,” she says, and I’m inwardly relieved. Generally, people ask about your career to be polite — and even if they say they want to do the same thing, they never follow through. “Well, I’d better run. The movers are coming soon with another load, and if I’m not there to direct them, it’ll be a disaster. See you later, Celine.”

  “Bye, Hannah.”

  At least I didn’t have to extricate myself from that. If Hannah’s really going to shop here often, I might consider looking for another grocery store to frequent.

  I grab the rest of what I need quickly, looking down aisles before I enter them to make sure I don’t bump into Hannah again, and then check out and head home. The visit with Brad this morning already seems like a distant memory that I don’t have to dwell on. Though I know I can’t dismiss him from my life again, I feel better convincing myself that there’s no need to deal with all the complications that surround him right this minute.

  After I get to the house and put the groceries away, I decide to take a nice, long bath instead of a nap. That’s something I haven’t done in quite a while. I head to my bedroom, strip and put on a soft robe, and I’m hunting through my closet for comfortable clothes when my phone rings from the bed where I tossed it.

  For some reason I think it’s Hannah. I escaped her, and she’s still bothering me. But the name on the screen is Maxine Hughes.

  “Hello?” My heart is already sinking as I answer the call. It’s probably more bad news. Maybe the technical issues with my real estate license are permanent. Maybe I’m fired. Maybe Sabrina ran off to Vegas with all the money, including my half.

  “Celine, I’m glad I caught you,” Maxine says. “Did you get the message from the commission?”

  Great. It’s about my license. “No, I didn’t,” I say. “What’s wrong now?”

  “Nothing, actually. They found the problem and fixed it, so you’re all set. Your license is valid.”

  I want to be happy about that. But I can’t quite get there. A one-day-resolution is fast for the real estate commission, but it’s still one day too late. “Okay. Thank you,” I say, wondering why they didn’t call me. They must have emailed. I haven’t checked my work email since yesterday morning. “Maxine, I was thinking about —”

  “You’ll be here tomorrow, won’t you?” Maxine says, interrupting me just before taking a few days off comes out of my mouth. “We had an inquiry from a new seller with a very high-end property, and I told them about your success with the Quintaine home. They want to sign on with you, and they’re highly motivated to sell.”

  This is Maxine’s backhanded way of apologizing for giving my commission to Sabrina. She’s trying to bulldoze me into gratitude. Even though I did want a few days off, I’ll take the client — but I’m going to be petty and not actually thank her for it. “All right. I’ll be there in the morning,” I say. “See you then.”

  I hang up before she can say anything further and toss the phone back on the bed. My tiny flash of defiance feels good for a minute, and when the guilt and self-recrimination for being rude hits me, I try to ignore it.

  My ignorance doesn’t last long, but it’s nice while it does.

  15

  Wednesday

  Alyssa has her first show-and-tell today at school. She wanted to take a spaghetti dinner in to share with the class, but I managed to convince her that it was a better idea to bring something non-edible. She decided on her pinecone collection from our many mini-vacations with Jill to the cabin, which she’s been gathering since she was two.

  Now she’s safely in class with her pinecones, and I’m pulling into the office, once again arriving a little after nine. It’s another small act of defiance, not coming in early, and I doubt Maxine will notice. But it makes me smile.

  Unfortunately, my private smile withers when I walk inside to Maxine emerging from her office, with Hannah Byers right behind her.

  I don’t get the chance to ask what she’s doing here. Hannah rushes over to me, grinning broadly, and says, “I asked Maxine about being a real estate agent, just like you said. And I’m going for it!”

  “Going for what?” I stammer, shooting a quick frown at Maxine.

  “Hannah’s going to join our agency,” Maxine says. “I’ve just helped her enroll in an online licensing course, and she’s going to start sitting in today, learning the ropes.”

  I blink and look around the office, as if this is some practical joke and I’ll find hidden cameras somewhere recording my reaction. But all I see is a new desktop computer on the formerly empty desk next to mine. None of the other agents are here, so if she’s supposed to be sitting in today …

  “I’m so excited that I’ll get to work with you,” Hannah says.

  Good God, what is it with this woman? I really don’t understand why she’s latched onto me so hard. First she has a daughter just like mine, and now she wants a job just like mine? This is getting a little ridiculous.

  “It’s a great opportunity,” Maxine says, looking pleased with herself. “Since you’re just getting started with new sellers, Hannah will be able to see the whole process from step one. She’ll be ready to jump in right away once she completes her license.”

  Yes, a great opportunity. For Hannah. Not so much for me, because if I’m supposed to babysit her while she takes the licensing course, I’ll have to be in the office more often. And coordinate my schedule more carefully. And spend more time with Hannah.

  None of these are things I want to do.

  “Why don’t you give her to Sabrina, like you did with my commission?” I say. “She doesn’t have a child to take care of, and she’s really good at kissing ass when there’s something in it for her.”

  Except I don’t actually say that. What I do is grin and bear it, like always.

  I make the appropriate congratulatory small talk and head to my desk, half hoping that Hannah changes her mind and leaves. But she follows me, sits down at the newly equipped desk, and stares at me while I start up my computer and
go through my briefcase.

  I decide that if I’m going to be working with her, I’d like a few more answers.

  “So, did you ever remember the teacher’s name for your daughter’s class?” I say casually. “I’m still trying to figure out if she’s in the same class as Alyssa.”

  Hannah sighs. “I’m really not good with that sort of thing,” she says.

  I can’t imagine not knowing who my child’s teacher is, but maybe it’s not that weird. I admit, I can be a little anal about things that involve my daughter. “You said her birthday is in October, right? What day?”

  “The twenty-first,” she says promptly.

  At least she pulled that one out fast, and it’s not the same as Alyssa’s. But it is the same numbers reversed, because Alyssa’s is the twelfth.

  I remember that last time she asked not to talk about her daughter, so I switch gears. “Didn’t you say that you went to Oslow State for a while?” I ask her. “I went there too, but I never graduated. I … got pregnant and dropped out.” I almost mention Brad and the accident, but I really don’t want to discuss that with her. I don’t even talk to my actual friends much about that, except Jill.

  Hannah brightens a bit. “We have so much in common. That’s exactly what happened to me,” she says. “We must’ve been there for the same years, since our daughters were born so close together. I don’t think I ever had a class with you, though.” She smiles. “I would’ve remembered.”

  “So we’re the same age, too,” I say. “Did you grow up in Wolfsbrook?”

  If she says yes, I’ll know she’s lying about that. She would’ve been in my graduating class, and I remember just about everyone I went to high school with.

  But she shakes her head. “I came here from Oslow,” she says vaguely.

  I notice that she doesn’t say that’s where she grew up.

  My suspicions about her are elevated, but I don’t feel all that confident interrogating people. In fact, my pulse is already starting to race. I drop the questions and instead start introducing her to the websites and programs she’ll be using, since she’s randomly decided to be a real estate agent. She seems to pay attention and take an interest. At least that’s something, if I’m going to be stuck with her.