“When will Ian get out?”
“Tomorrow morning. Though there will probably be other charges filed.” I should be happy. Ian is not a murderer. Only a batterer. And a drug dealer. “You don’t have to stay with him, Evvy.”
I give him a weak smile. “What about us?” If I knew Cyrus would take me back, I’d leave Ian in a breath.
Cyrus lets out a sigh. “I don’t know. I love you, Ev, but there’s just so much between us.”
He’s right. Even before Serena died, I swallowed him whole with my insatiable needs, my endless unhappiness. It rubbed off on everyone. But I’m different now, or at least I think I am. I don’t know if it’s age or medication or having a job I care about, but I feel stronger. Or maybe it has nothing to do with any of those things. Maybe it’s because Cyrus and I are no longer together. Maybe we weakened each other with our love and our grief, too consumed by it to see anything else, picking at each other with our teeth, tearing each other apart bit by bit.
“It’s okay,” I say, even though it’s not.
“It’s not going to get any better. With Ian.” The kettle starts to whistle and I go to turn off the burner.
“I can take care of myself,” I say.
“Can you?”
Something inside me snaps. “Fuck you, Cyrus. I’ve been taking care of myself since you left. You might not like the way I do it, but I’ll be just fine.”
Cyrus nods unhappily, unfazed by my outburst. “Sure, Ev.”
My hand shakes as I pour water into the cups. I’m furious with him, but I’m not sure why. “You left. You left me. I know I fell apart after Serena died, but I needed you, and you just walked out the door.” I feel the sadness inside me all over again, but this isn’t the depression that the pills keep at bay, this is a sadness so deep it will never be fixed. More than sadness though, I’m angry. He stands with his arms crossed over his chest, his eternal posture of self-defense. I shove him, and he sways slightly but doesn’t even drop his arms. “After sixteen years of marriage, you just left. You didn’t fight for me at all.”
“God, Evvy, she died. Our baby girl died. You wouldn’t even talk to me. You just shut down.” He blinks back tears.
The secret presses at my throat, the dull ache that is always there. I don’t know if I can go on living with it. “I took my eyes off the road,” I say, so softly he has to tip his head to hear.
“What?”
“She was having one of her tantrums. She wanted me to stop for chips. You know what she was like when she got going. She was screaming and crying and kicking at me, and I turned around and I yelled at her. I yelled at her, Cyrus. And then the car hit us.”
My legs buckle beneath me as if I’ve been kicked in the stomach, and I crouch on the floor, my body curled in on itself. Cyrus sits down beside me, his hand lightly on my back. I force myself to look at him. “It was my fault,” I say.
“No, it wasn’t.”
“Don’t you hear what I’m saying?” I wail. “I wasn’t watching the road. The last time I ever spoke to her I was yelling at her. It was my fault.”
I bury my face in the cloth of his coat and I cry; for everything we’ve lost—not just today, but all those years ago—for the child I loved imperfectly, whose absence looms so large that I can feel it in every corner of my body, a damp coldness in the center of my chest.
“It wasn’t your fault, Evvy.”
“Yes, it was!” I look at him, furious that he’s not understanding, after all this time, after all these years of carrying this alone. “It was my fault.”
“Then I forgive you,” he says, and pulls me back against him. I sob into his coat and he clutches me as I shudder in his arms, but he doesn’t let me go.
Ian is released the next morning. I drive to the jail to pick him up, parking the car and going inside this time. I wait on a hard, wooden bench and then he is there, wearing the same clothes he wore the day they brought him in. He looks different, though it’s only been a few days. His hair is unruly, his skin pasty. When he sees me, he gives me a tight smile. I force myself to hug him and he smells different too, like hospital soap and sweat.
“Let’s go home,” I say, and take his hand. In the car he’s quiet, and I’m glad for the prattle of the radio. He doesn’t ask why I haven’t been to visit, and while I don’t know what I’ll say, part of me wants to get the conversation out of the way. Instead I ask him if he wants anything special for dinner.
“I don’t care. I just want to take a shower and go to bed,” he says.
When we get home he does just that. I try calling Daisy to tell her what’s happened, but her phone goes straight to voicemail and she hasn’t responded to any of my texts. I keep myself busy preparing a dinner Ian will like, a pork loin and a nice bottle of wine. Over dinner I try to keep the conversation light, but it’s nearly impossible given the events of the last few days. Ian finishes the last few bites of his potatoes and takes another sip of wine. I’ve only had one glass but he must be on his third by now. He pushes his plate away.
“So, did you actually think I killed her?” he asks. His voice is quiet, as if he’s not sure he wants to hear my answer.
“Of course not. I knew you never would have done something like that.”
“So why didn’t you come?” He sounds like a little boy whose feelings have been hurt. I feel a wave of love for him and wish I could explain without making him feel worse. He looks better after his nap, the color back in his cheeks, more like himself.
“I’m sorry. I tried but I was scared.”
“Scared of what?”
“Scared to see you there.”
“I thought you were leaving me,” he says softly.
“Oh, honey.” I rise from my seat and go to sit in his lap. He buries his face in my chest. “I’m so sorry.” I can’t tell him I’ve wondered the same thing over the past few days.
“What have you been doing?” I ask after a moment.
He looks down at his empty plate, shamefaced. “I didn’t think it was a big deal. Once or twice a month, Layla would take the boat over. She’d buy a sandwich, take the carton into the bathroom and fill it up, then leave the takeout container under a seat. I’d pick it up and bring it to Scott.”
“But why? Why would you do that?” I ask. I think of Connor, wasted and hopeless, using drugs that Ian was supplying.
“We needed the money. Do you think Petunia’s is paying the bills? Paying your mortgage?” He waves his hand at the house, the food, the electricity and heat, all of which I’ve let him take care of. I realize how complacent I’ve let myself get since Serena died, barely opening my eyes enough to see what I’ve let happen. “It seemed like easy money.”
I nod, wanting to understand, even though I don’t. “Why were you fighting with her?” I ask. I don’t ask if he hit her—why he hit her—though this is what I’m wondering.
“She didn’t want to do it anymore. She said this was her last trip. She was going to move down to Florida.” Florida, a pink and green paradise made of plastic and concrete, a world away from Great Rock. I vaguely remember reading that this is where her mother lived, and I think about her, maybe for the first time, so excited that her daughter would be living nearby.
“Shh.” I rest my hand against his cheek, trying to soothe him. “It doesn’t matter now. Everyone knows you’re innocent.”
“They’re going to arrest me again.”
“But not for murder,” I say, wondering how long the sentence is for what Ian has done.
“Those two, always thinking they’re better than everyone else.” I can taste the bitterness in his voice and feel the shift in his mood, from remorse and self-pity to anger and resentment. “They pinned it on me because I was an easy target.”
“It was Jack. Cyrus had nothing to do with it.”
“Why are you defending him?” Ian’s grip around my upper arm tightens. “Why are you always on his side? Can’t you ever just be on my side?” His breath smells like wine, only
inches from my face.
“I am on your side. Of course I am.”
“You’re not though.” He sounds so hurt, and I know he’s right. I can never be only on his side, not if Cyrus is on the opposing one. “Was he here while I was gone? Were the two of you playing happy family while I was sitting in jail for something I didn’t do?” His face darkens in anger, and he teeters just on this side of in control. I should lie, tell him I haven’t seen Cyrus in weeks. That would be the smart thing to do, but I’m feeling reckless. I need to know what will happen, just how far he’s willing to go. I don’t need to tell him everything, just enough to test him.
“He came over to check on me. He was worried.” Ian’s face contorts into an ugly sneer.
“You slept with him, didn’t you?” The disgust is all over his face. Just moments ago, I loved him, and already it’s fading into fear and revulsion. I wonder if it’s ever been love or just relief at not being alone. Somehow that doesn’t seem so bad anymore. “You stupid slut.”
Ian gets up from the table abruptly, and I scramble not to fall onto the floor. His hands are clenched in fists by his sides. I know I should be scared, and I am, but I feel free. I can’t do this anymore. I won’t.
“You need to leave.” Try as I might, my voice still shakes.
“I’m not going anywhere, Evvy. Not until you tell me what the hell happened while I was gone.” I shake my head and start to back out of the room. Ian lunges at me, grabbing me by the arm. His fingers sink into the thin skin. Tomorrow there will be a purple-tinged bracelet of bruises around my bicep. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Something flares in me. For once the anger is stronger than the fear. “Let me go,” I yell at him, louder than I’ve ever dared. He flinches, but still doesn’t loosen his grasp.
Cyrus is right; Ian will never change. It is so little effort to take a life. You squeeze too tight, until there’s no more air. A click of metal into your mouth. You take your eyes from the road for a second. Poof. How much longer till Ian kills me? It won’t be tonight or tomorrow, but what about next month or next year?
“Let me go,” I say again, yanking away, and this time he doesn’t hold on.
“Calm down.” He can see the change in me and now he’s backpedalling. There’s nowhere for him to go.
“You need to leave this house right now. You need to pack a bag and go to a hotel and then find another place to live. Because this is over.” I tremble as I speak, but my voice is strong.
“Evvy, relax.” He tries to smile, but I can see the fear and fury lurking at the corners. “Let’s just both calm down.”
I shake my head. “You want to hit me, don’t you?”
“Stop it,” he hisses.
“You do. I know you do. But I’m not going to stay quiet about it anymore. If you hit me now, I will drive myself to the police station. I’ll show them the marks. I’ll tell them about every single time you’ve ever laid a hand on me. If you hit me now, I will testify against you, pull up all of our bills and the financial statements for Petunia’s.” Ian swallows but doesn’t speak. I’m not even sure if I’m bluffing, if this may be something I’m subpoenaed to do anyway, but I’m electric with adrenaline. I have never spoken to him like this. He’s only had a few drinks, not enough to dull his judgment completely, and I see him calculating; how many times he’s raised his hand to me, the other time the police already know about, what will happen if he dares to hit me now. He may have trouble controlling his temper, but he’s not an idiot either.
His fists unfurl and he shoves his hands into his pockets, suddenly the picture of calm. “I get it, you’re upset. I haven’t always treated you the way you deserve. But that’s over. I’m going to be better from now on. I promise.” He tries to smile, but I see the falseness in it, the way his mouth doesn’t open all the way.
I shake my head. “I’m done, Ian. I’m done.” He gets it then. It registers in his eyes, that this is actually the end. His face crumples and his eyes grow damp.
“I’m sorry, Evvy. I’m so sorry. Please don’t do this. I need you.” He takes a step forward and reaches for my hand. The forgiveness rises up and I know how easy it would be to take it all back. We could go upstairs and make up, wash the whole week away in the safety of our bed. But this black cloud would always be between us, its cold fingers just waiting to grab me when I least expect it.
“It’s over, Ian,” I say again, and his fury is back with such a force that I wonder if the sadness was just an act.
“Like hell it’s over,” Ian snaps and grabs me again, his fingers clenching at my neck. I feel my throat closing in, the muscles contracting, my windpipe shrinking. He doesn’t squeeze hard enough to completely cut off the flow of air, just enough to cause pain. Is this how Layla Dresser felt in the final moments before Jack snuffed out her life? I try to speak, and my voice comes out in a dry rasp.
“You could have killed her,” I whisper. “You didn’t, but you could have. You have it in you. And we both know it.” He releases me abruptly. I’ve touched something, some secret knowledge about who he is, who he could be, at the soft and tender center. “Get out.”
He backs away, his hands in front of him as if warding off an attack. “Okay, okay. I’ll go, for tonight. We can talk tomorrow.”
“Leave your key,” I order.
His face contracts as if I’ve slapped him, but after a moment he reaches into his pants pocket and fishes out his keychain, removing the house key. He lays it flat on the counter. Tonight I’ll remove the spare from where it rests under a beam on the front steps. Tomorrow I will pack his things and have him pick everything up while I’m at Caroline’s. He has no claim to this house. The mortgage is in my name and Cyrus’s. Ian writes me a check each month to cover his part, like a tenant. For a moment I think ahead to next month, the payment that I’ll have to make on my own. March is still a slow month for catering, but I’ll figure out a way to pay the bills alone. I have to, otherwise it will be me lying dead in the middle of the night—but instead of finding me on a beach, Daisy will find me on my own kitchen floor or in a tangle of bedsheets upstairs.
I stand with my back against the wall while Ian gathers his things. He gets a change of clothes from upstairs and I hold my phone in my hand, 911 already dialed, just waiting to press send in case his mood shifts again in his few minutes upstairs. He returns, shamefaced and subdued, carrying an overnight bag.
“I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? We can’t leave things like this.” There is a desperate note in his voice that I ignore.
“Please go.”
I lock the door behind him and watch his headlights until they reach the end of our street and then round the corner. I slip out into the cold black night and slide the spare key out of its hiding spot. It sits in my palm like a sliver of ice, and I hurry back inside and re-latch the door, sliding the deadbolt in place. I want to call Caroline to tell her what I’ve done, but it’s not fair to burden her with my own drama right now. Tomorrow I have to go with her to the treatment center on the Cape and sit with her while she tells Connor his father is dead. She doesn’t need my chaos on top of her own grief.
I call Cyrus instead. He answers on the second ring and I wonder if Gina is sitting beside him, both of them tucked in cozy on the couch before the glow of the wood stove.
“I kicked Ian out,” I say without any preamble.
“Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”
It’s the tenderness in his voice that brings forth the tears. I take a shaky breath and wipe them away with the palm of my hand. “I’m okay.”
“Do you want me to come over?”
Yes. More than anything. But I know that my dependence on Cyrus is part of the problem, that as much as I love him and want him back, I can’t make him or Ian the center of my life anymore. “I’m okay, but can you do me a favor? Can you send a patrol car to our street? Just to make sure he doesn’t come back later. I don’t think he will, but I won’t sleep otherwise.”
&n
bsp; “Yeah, sure. I’ll call the station right now. You’re sure you don’t want me to come over?” He lowers his voice, and I’m sure Gina’s nearby. I wish I could hate her, but I know living with her is probably a lot easier than living with me. Though that doesn’t mean Cyrus loves her.
“It’s okay. Just send a car.” I peer through the kitchen curtains to make sure Ian hasn’t returned, but the street is empty, only my car in the driveway.
“You did the right thing, Ev. You don’t need him.” I wish I believed this, but I haven’t lived alone for most of my life. It occurs to me that Caroline will be facing the same steep learning curve. “Call me if you need anything.”
When I hang up, I go into the living room and sit by the window that looks down the street. After only fifteen minutes, I see a black cruiser slow and pass my house, then park on the corner, just a few houses down. I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding and go into the kitchen to try calling Daisy one more time.
40
Daisy
I hang up the phone and lean against the brick exterior of the restaurant. Todd is inside, eating his rare steak, pommes frites, and fried Brussels sprouts. The city is still covered in a thick layer of white, though the restaurant is full and the street bustles with people. My head spins—from the wine and the news from my mother. For a moment I think I might be sick, and I close my eyes and force myself to take deep breaths.
“Are you okay?”
I’d turned my phone on for the first time all day. I forgot my charger at home and Todd’s didn’t fit. To conserve the battery, I left the phone off, not checking texts or scanning social media every few minutes as I usually do. I didn’t even miss it, too absorbed in being with Todd to want the rest of the world to intrude. Until I turned on my phone at dinner and saw the frantic calls and texts from my mother.
I open my eyes and Todd is there, his face furrowed in concern. I shiver in my thin sweater. “No. Not really.”
Everybody Lies Page 25