“If it were you, it would be different,” I say.
“It wouldn’t be me,” Cyrus says, holding my gaze.
Outside the wind tears at the sky, threatening to rip it in half. The lights flicker off, then back on, then off again and the room stays black. Neither of us moves to get candles or a flashlight, but Cyrus’s hand finds my face in the darkness. He reaches out and wipes the tears that have fallen. “I can’t stand him, Evvy. It kills me to think about you with him. What he could have done to you.”
He’s the one to reach for me tonight. His lips, his tongue, his fingers on my neck, he’s been waiting for me all along. He pulls me to him hard, his hands sliding under my pajama top, the same hands that held me so long ago when I was just a girl. He graduated and I waited for him, stuck around because I knew he would come home and I’d be here waiting. I gave up the chance to go to college or travel or live somewhere else, and as he strips off my clothes just as he did in the secret cave of his childhood bedroom, I feel so happy I could sing, because I would give it all up again if it meant that he was mine.
37
Daisy
I wake to the dinging sound of an incoming text. Todd breathes softly beside me, lying on his stomach, an arm thrown across the pillow. My head aches from whatever I was drinking last night, and I know I’ll be fuzzy for the rest of the morning. I don’t care, though. Last night I felt like I stepped out of my own life and into another possible version.
I reach for the phone where I left it on the nightstand. The text is from Connor. My clothes are on the floor by the bed and I pull on a tee shirt and tiptoe into the bathroom to pee, grabbing the phone as I go. I close the door softly behind me, not wanting to wake Todd.
going away for a while. Prob wont have phone. wanted to say happy birthday. miss you.
I sit on the terrycloth bathmat and stare at the cryptic message. It’s not even eight. I fumble with the phone for a moment and dial Connor’s number. He picks up after the first ring, his phone likely still in his hands after sending the text.
“Hey.” His voice is soft and hoarse. For some reason I wonder if he’s been crying, though this doesn’t make any sense.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“I’m with my dad right now. We’re on the boat. Hang on.” There’s a shuffle and a long pause and then he comes back on. “Happy birthday.”
“Connor, where are you going? Why are you on the boat?”
“I’m going away for a bit.”
“What does that mean? Where are you going?” I ask in frustration.
There’s another silence before he answers. “My dad’s taking me to a place on the Cape. To get clean. Like rehab, I guess.”
“Oh.” I feel such a rush of emotions that I don’t know how to sort through them. Relief that his parents finally know and are doing something. Fear for what will happen to him next. Sadness for what he’ll have to endure over the next few weeks. “For how long?”
“I’m not sure. About a month, I think. I don’t really know.” I imagine him on one of the upholstered blue seats of the boat, staring out at the gray ocean churning under the giant weight of the ferry.
“Are you okay?”
“Not really. But I guess that’s why I’m going.” His voice is shaky, and I wish I could hold him in my arms and comfort him. From the other side of the bathroom door there’s a knock.
“Daisy? Are you okay?” Todd asks.
“I’m fine. Just on the phone. I’ll be off in a minute,” I say without opening the door. I hear Todd pad back to the bed.
“You’re with him.” Connor’s voice is flat.
I lower my voice, not wanting Todd to hear the conversation. “I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s cool. I’m kind of a mess right now. I get it.”
“I think it’s a good thing,” I say, wishing we weren’t having this conversation over the phone. I wipe away the tears that suddenly course down my cheeks. “You need some help with this.”
“Yeah.” Over the line I hear the low bleating of the foghorn. “I should go. We’re going to leave in a minute.”
“Okay.” I want to say something to him, something encouraging or meaningful. I know I’ll see him again, but it feels like an important moment, like after today nothing will ever be the same for him or between us. There’s no going back. I wish I had something to offer him, something he could hold on to in the coming days. But I’m empty-handed. “Good luck.” The words are so worthless I wish I could snatch them back.
“Yeah, thanks.”
“Connor,” I say, not ready for him to hang up.
“What?”
“It’s going to be okay. We’re all going to be all right.”
He lets out a hollow laugh. “Yeah, sure. Happy birthday, Daze.” The line goes dead.
I hold the phone in my hand, wishing the conversation hadn’t felt so much like a goodbye.
“Daisy?” Todd calls again. “Everything okay?”
“Fine. I’ll be right out.” I force myself up from the floor, flushing the toilet and catching sight of myself in the mirror. I wash my face and run my fingers through my hair, staring one last time at the phone, contemplating calling Connor back. Deciding there’s nothing more to say.
I open the door and emerge from the bathroom. Todd’s in bed, an extra pillow propped behind his head.
“Sorry about that.”
“Who was it?”
“Just a friend calling to wish me happy birthday.” I swallow the rest down. I see him waiting, wondering if I’m going to say more, but I can’t. Even if I wanted to explain, I’m not sure I could.
“Happy birthday. It snowed.” He pulls back the curtain and I peer out the window. There is only white. There must be close to a foot of snow. “I don’t see any reason to leave the house anytime soon.” Todd reaches for my hand. I hesitate, the conversation with Connor still so fresh, the defeat in his voice still ringing in my ears. Maybe I should have fought harder for him, but the boy I once knew isn’t coming back, and it’s time for both of us to grow up. I take Todd’s hand and climb back into the safe space of his bed.
38
Caroline
When I wake up the next morning, the island is bathed in white. Icicles drip from the trees as I drive to work, their glassy fingers dangling like Christmas ornaments. I drive slowly, navigating the unplowed streets, marveling at the untouched beauty of the morning despite the pallor of sadness that colors my mood.
The library is quiet, few people motivated enough to venture out on such a day. The children’s room is empty, families choosing to spend the day watching movies or building snowmen in the backyard. I try to busy myself with tasks, but my mind wanders to Connor and Jack. Moments from our life together flash through my mind like a slideshow. Connor and Daisy playing igloo in a plastic playhouse, lying flat on their bellies in the dark hollow cave, then coming inside to drink steaming mugs of hot chocolate; Connor and Jack coming off the boat after a hockey game, Connor hauling his massive duffel behind him, Jack smiling proudly after a day’s win. Connor as a toddler perched on Jack’s shoulders at the Fourth of July fireworks display, resting his sleepy cheek upon Jack’s head, holding a red, white, and blue pinwheel that sparkled in the midday sun.
While I’m shelving books, I linger in the section dedicated to addiction. I slide several titles from the shelf and manage to get them back into the office without running into anyone. I spend my lunch hour flipping through the books, learning about heroin and opioid addiction, the symptoms of withdrawal, the likelihood of relapse. After half an hour, my turkey sandwich sits untouched, and I feel sick to my stomach. I’d gone into the day hopeful that Connor will emerge from the treatment center like the young man I once knew. Yet the books make it clear that this may just be the first step in a long and possibly endless road. I’m tempted to re-shelve the books, but I can’t look away any longer. I check them out and then put them into my bag.
I don’t hear from Jack. After work I let Champ outside
and he bounds into the snow, full of energy after being cooped up all day. I’m standing on the back deck watching him, when Jack appears behind me. He pulls me into a tight embrace.
“Did you find a place for him?” I murmur into the cold fabric of his jacket.
“I did. It took a few hours and some favors, but I got him a bed at St. Theresa’s in Hyannis.” Jack’s voice is solid and reassuring, and it quickly calms me. Despite our months apart, it terrifies me to think of being away from him. I push the idea from my mind. I’m not ready to think about that yet. I need to focus on Connor.
“How was he when you left?”
“He was okay.” Jack lets out a breath, and I know he’s lying to me, but I’m grateful.
“He’ll be there for thirty days, if all goes well. There’s paperwork in the car with all of the information. No visitors for the first two weeks.” He releases me and I look into his face. He looks tired, but more than that. He looks defeated, something I’ve never seen in him before. “I’m so sorry, Carrie. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I’m just so sorry,” he says again.
“Shh. It will be okay.” I hold up my hand to quiet him. “We’ll get you a lawyer. Someone good. She was bringing drugs to the island, drugs that were killing people here. A jury will understand.” Even as I say it, I’m not sure it’s true. Would I understand? Jack murdered a woman with his own hands. The idea is so outlandish that I still haven’t wrapped my head around it. I cannot allow myself to fully grasp what he’s done.
Jack shakes his head. “No jury will understand.” He holds my hands in his, squeezes them tightly. He has large hands, capable and strong. I have always felt safe when he’s holding me. “I need you to realize that there’s no way out of this. I need you to understand that.” There is an urgency in his voice. I don’t understand why he needs me to believe in the hopelessness of it all. Even unreasonable hope is something to hold on to. I nod anyway. He brings his hands to my face and cups them around my cheeks. Often, I’ve wished Jack were more capable of showing affection, but now the tenderness of his gesture jars me. It’s an indication of how certain he is of the future, the finality of it. “I’ve always loved you,” he tells me. “I’m sorry if I haven’t always been good at showing it. I know you haven’t always been happy. I hope that you’ll have a chance to be happy again. You don’t need to stay here if you don’t want to.”
I shake my head. “We don’t need to talk about all that now. We don’t need to figure anything out. Not this very minute.”
Jack pulls me to him again and I sense the desperation in his body, in the strength of his grip. His hands clutch me tightly and maybe I should be afraid, these same hands that squeezed the air from Layla Dresser’s body, but I feel only a profound premonition of loss, though I can’t quite absorb it yet. It hangs in the air between us, suspended.
“I love you, Carrie. And I love Connor. Please always remember that.” He lifts my face to his and kisses me, a soft slow kiss that feels like an ending. When he lets me go, I’m enveloped by the cold. Jack calls to Champ and he comes bounding over, his tail wagging, happily oblivious.
“I’m going to take him for a walk before I go to the station.”
“I’ll come,” I offer.
Jack shakes his head. “I need a few minutes on my own. To clear my head. I’ll take him to the dog park. I’ll be back soon.”
“Are you sure you don’t want some company?” I’m starting to feel frantic at the idea of him leaving. There are only minutes remaining until our life is turned upside down.
“I just want to be by myself for a little while. When I get back, we’ll drive to the station together.” He turns and goes into the house, calling for Champ over his shoulder. There’s nothing to do but follow them inside and wait for the end to begin.
He’s gone over an hour before I start to worry. When he left, the sky was a watery gray, but it’s quickly darkening to night. I call Jack’s phone, but he doesn’t answer, and I wonder if he decided to drive straight to the station, wishing to spare me the pain. I pace the length of the kitchen until seven o’clock and then grab my coat and keys and head for the dog park.
It’s only a five-minute drive away, and I don’t find an accident along the way; Jack’s pickup truck flipped over, or an ambulance on the side of the road. When I turn into the dirt lot by the park, Jack’s truck is there, and I pull up beside him, leaving my headlights on. It’s fully dark now, winter dark. Somewhere in the distance I hear the dry incessant bark of a dog. No one’s in the car when I peer inside, not Jack or Champ. The wind lifts up snow and tosses it in the air, and tiny leftover flakes sting my face. In my rush I forgot a hat, and my hair whips around my head, sticking to my cheeks. It will be even colder in the open unprotected field of the dog park, but I don’t venture out of the lot. I get back in the car and lock it, though other than Jack, there’s no one else here. My fingers shake as I pull my phone from my pocket and dial Jack’s number again. No one answers, but on the dashboard of Jack’s truck, I see the blue glow of his cell phone as it lights up. I rest my head on the steering wheel and try to breathe.
I’ve just lifted my head when I see the dark shape. Shadowed by the trees, something glints in the blackness, and for a moment I think it might be Jack. I register the endless bark at the same moment I recognize Champ as he darts frantically in front of my car. In the yellow flood of headlights, I see the tension in his body as he spins in circles, jumping on the side of the car, letting out an endless raspy bark.
I open the door and Champ buries his face in my lap, whining and nuzzling into me, then barking again. He runs back to the thin dirt path that leads to the center of the dog park then runs back, nosing me with his snout, emitting a heartbreaking whine between barks. I get out of the car and stand at the end of the path, but I can’t bear to walk it, despite Champ’s pleas. Instead, I return to the car and call Cyrus. He answers on the second ring.
“It’s Caroline. I’m at the dog park in Osprey. I need you to come.” My voice cracks as I speak.
When I hang up the phone, I turn off the headlights and sit in the dark. I clench the steering wheel between my palms until my fingers ache. I bite my lower lip until I taste the tang of blood. Beside me, Champ’s barks have turned to a steady whine. Finally, there is the sound of the siren.
Evvy arrives with Cyrus. She gets in the front seat with me while Cyrus and the other police officers follow Champ into the dog park with flashlights. She doesn’t try to talk, only holds my hand. I expect it to take hours for them to find him in the night, but less than thirty minutes later they emerge. Cyrus approaches the car and his expression is grim.
“He’s dead, isn’t he?” I ask.
“I’m so sorry, Caroline,” he says. Beside me Evvy inhales sharply.
“How?” I ask.
“He shot himself. It would have been over in an instant. He didn’t suffer.”
I swallow down the rage I’m choking on. He didn’t suffer, Cyrus said. What about the pain that’s accumulated over the years, this job that broke him down bit by bit, the daily toll of seeing people on the worst day of their lives? What about the suffering Jack has caused, for Layla Dresser and the people who loved her, but also for me and Connor, the suffering that is only just beginning?
I wait for the weight of what Cyrus has told me to descend, a pile of bricks hovering just above my head, but it doesn’t fall, just hangs there suspended, swinging in the breeze. All I can think about is that I know he did it this way for me. He could have done it anywhere, but he did it out here, in an empty park at night, where I wouldn’t have to find him when I got home. There will be no stains on the carpet for me to stumble upon each day.
“Why?” Evvy whispers. I shake my head, unable to explain. I hear their words, but can’t react. I’ve gone numb, my whole body tingling with pins and needles. The truth will trickle out in the next hours and days. For the moment, I cannot bear to try to unravel this tragedy and figure out where it all went wrong. “You n
eed to call Connor.”
It is the name of our child that snaps the cord and brings the bricks down, pitching me forward into the grief. The sob escapes my throat like a bubble of air, followed by another and another. Evvy grips me tightly. I press my face into her shoulder and let her hold me as the tears finally come.
39
Evvy
Cyrus and I drive Caroline home and we both go into the house with her. She looks like she’s aged ten years. Her face is drawn, and her hair hangs limply around her face. She goes up to her bedroom while I put on water for tea.
I feel empty, drained by the events of the past few hours, by the way Caroline clutched at me as she sobbed. I stayed with her at the station where she gave a full report that Jack killed Layla Dresser. I am sick—with the knowledge of what Jack did, and how Ian almost took the blame for it. She spoke of Ian’s connection to the woman, not an affair as I’d suspected, but an accomplice in bringing drugs to Great Rock. I don’t know if I’m relieved that he’s not cheating on me or horrified at what he’s been doing. I haven’t yet wrapped my mind around it, the cold and calculated way that Jack let Ian take the blame. Yet there’s a part of me that suspects Jack did it for me as well, that he was offering me a chance at freedom that he knew I was unable to take on my own. More likely Jack let Ian take the fall because it was convenient, because he valued his own life, Caroline, and Connor more than me and my family, but it must say something that I feel no pleasure knowing that Ian will be released.
“Do you want to stay for a while?” I ask Cyrus. I want him to come home with me tonight, before Ian returns, but Gina is back and I can’t leave Caroline anyway, much as I might want to. Not tonight.
“You need to be with Caroline,” Cyrus says, and he’s right, of course. “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” He bends to kiss me, soft and gentle on the lips, and I know that Gina won’t know about that kiss.
Everybody Lies Page 24