Chapter 4
4
NOW
Scott is in with the twins while Aimee goes into Noa’s room. They used to rotate, switch nights, but in the past few months, without either saying it out loud, it has become clear that Noa can’t go to sleep without Aimee.
Not won’t, but can’t.
Aimee begins by checking for nightmares in the closet, then spritzes lavender-scented water under the bed to get rid of monsters, and finishes by reciting a short prayer her mother used to say to her as a child.
If Aimee isn’t home, or is busy, Noa will simply refuse to turn off the light and go to sleep until she comes and performs these rituals. The psychologist they visited said it wasn’t unusual, but a sign of anxiety.
But what is their little girl anxious about?
Noa pulls the covers up to her chin, so just her little face sticks out, as Aimee finishes the prayer. “May the angel Michael be at your right, and the angel Gabriel be at your left.” Here she slides her hand under Noa’s pillow. “And in front of you the angel Uriel, and behind you the angel Raphael—” She stops short, pulling something hard from beneath the pillow.
“What’s this?” She examines the object. It’s a pen, black and heavy, not cheap, with the words Le Cannu written in gold. A heavy sensation settles on her heart. “Where is this from?”
“I found it.”
Aimee bites her lip. This isn’t the first time something of unknown provenance has shown up in Noa’s possession. “Honey, this is a really nice pen.” She turns it over in her hand. There’s no address or phone number. Whatever Le Cannu is, it’s fancy. “Where exactly did you find this?”
“At Lisa’s.” The words emerge as barely a whisper.
“Lisa’s, huh? You found it there?”
“She has so many pens.”
Aimee smiles and makes a show of examining the pen more closely. She weighs it in her hand. “It’s a cool pen, all right. But that doesn’t make it okay to take it. Remember how we talked about this? You know we’re going to have to give it back to her.”
Noa’s eyes fill with tears. “No, Mommy, don’t make me.” Noa rolls over and buries her head in the pillow.
Aimee rubs her daughter’s back. “Shhh. It’ll be fine. Lisa is very understanding.”
She hopes this is true. It’s just a pen, after all. But Lisa showed tonight how judgmental she can be. Kai seems like the easiest kid in the world. Last year, in fifth grade, he won the Community of Caring award. He probably never stole a pen in his life. So much of parenting was turning out to be luck.
Aimee slips the pen into her back pocket. “Don’t cry, honey. It’s going to be okay. People make mistakes, but when they do, they have to acknowledge them and make it right.” But Noa won’t turn around and look at her. Instead, she lets out a little growl. She’s embarrassed, Aimee thinks. She’s learned that pushing a topic of conversation when Noa needs to be alone usually leads to a meltdown.
Aimee stands up quietly, turns out the light, and leaves without a kiss or hug. Noa is so unlike her boys. Neither can stand it if Aimee is even a little annoyed with them. Neither can go to sleep without hugs and kisses. But Noa is stubborn.
As she walks to her sons’ room to kiss them goodnight, she knows it’s not the pen that’s bothering her, or even Lisa’s judgment. It’s that damn report. It’s the fear that something is wrong with Noa, that she’s wired in such a way that will make life hard. And Aimee doesn’t know if she is the right person to shepherd her through. There is Scott, of course, who is endlessly patient. But losing her mother at such a young age seared into Aimee’s soul the desire—no, the need —to be there for her kids.
After kissing both boys goodnight, Aimee heads downstairs. She ducks her head into the living room, where Scott holds up a finger. He’s on a call, probably with one of his investors in Hawaii. He has been working on an algorithm-based software that can automate insulin dosing for diabetics and has partners around the globe. His work week is scattershot throughout every day, including weekends—a few hours here, a few hours there.
Aimee steps out onto the back patio to grab a few dishes that have been left behind from dinner. She is gathering them up when the sound of raised voices startles her. She freezes, realizing that she can hear Gwen and Anton arguing. They are close, separated from her by a tall hedge of euonymus. She has always wanted to remove the shrubs, not just because they are prone to a white powdery mildew, but because as the owner of a landscaping business whose focus is native plants, she feels a little guilty about them. Who is she to persuade clients to switch out their non-native plants and trees for native ones if she can’t be bothered to do it herself? The plan is to replace them with American hollies—evergreen, with berries that will be eaten by more than eighteen species of birds. But the thought of ripping out the eight-foot shrubs is daunting. And tonight, Aimee is grateful for their cover.
Anton’s and Gwen’s voices are strident but their words unintelligible. It’s always embarrassing to Aimee to witness other couples fighting. Overhearing Anton and Gwen argue makes her realize how little she knows about what really goes on inside her friends’ marriage. Or any couple’s, for that matter. And it makes her grateful for what she has with Scott. They rarely argue and have never had a big blowout. He’s never yelled at her or called her names. Nothing has ever been thrown in the heat of anger. Aimee has never liked conflict, and she’s happy to be in a marriage free of one. Not that they don’t squabble or get on each other’s nerves, but nothing like what she is overhearing now. She wonders if Gwen and Anton are arguing about Anton’s behavior, how drunk he got this evening. Aimee recalls that cryptic comment: you deserve to know.
She starts to head back inside but stops at the door when Gwen’s voice, angry and shrill, cuts through the night air. Her words are as clear as the stars in the night sky.
“I’m not going to let you ruin my life, Anton.”
Aimee tiptoes back into her house, afraid to make any sound that might reveal her presence. Once inside, she shuts the door and locks it, as if slipping the bolt will keep the marital discord next door from seeping into her home. She stands there shaking. She has never heard Gwen speak like that. She could be sharp, sarcastic, but there was real rage in her voice just now.
Ruin her life? What could she have meant by that?
A part of her wants to reach out to Gwen, ask her if she is all right. Her hand hovers over her cell phone. But what could she text? She begins typing.
Everything all right?
She deletes it. It implies that something might be wrong. It would reveal that she witnessed their fight. It might embarrass Gwen. It’s really none of my business , Aimee thinks. Some couples fight, don’t they? And she doesn’t want to appear smug, as if she and Scott were perfect.
If Gwen wanted her to know something, or if she needed support, she would reach out.
Wouldn’t she?
Benji appears, rubbing his eyes. “Didn’t you hear me calling? I want a glass of water.”
“Oh, sweetie.” She gets a glass down and fills it. “Let’s get you back to bed.” She walks him upstairs, past Scott, who is still on his call. After she resettles Benji, she gets herself ready for sleep. Tomorrow she will talk to Gwen, feel her out, make it clear that her friend can tell her anything.
They are more than neighbors.
More than mommy-friends who happen to have kids at the same school.
They are real friends. Found family.
Aimee awakens to the gleeful chaos that is Saturday morning in her house.
From below she can hear the twins racing through the house and yelling, not out of distress, but because they are seven and probably hopped up on maple syrup and orange juice. She loves it. As an only, her own childhood was quiet. Even more so after her mother died. Her father quickly remarried, and had three boys with her stepmother, Deb, but Aimee was away at college by then.
In the kitchen, she pours a big mug of coffee and clears off some of the Lego Ninjago figurines on the island.
“You excited for your day of rest and relaxation?” she asks Scott. “Tim is expecting me at eleven. We’re installing a row of blueberry bushes over at that house in Glen Echo.”
Scott flashes a smile. “I have bad news.”
“No, do not tell me.” She shakes her head and puts down the mug. “I’m not listening—”
He holds up his hand. “I have to go in to work.”
“Scott, no.” Her perfectly planned-out weekend schedule blown to bits. “You told me you’d be available today to watch the kids.”
“Can you reschedule?”
“I can’t. Those bushes need to get into the ground today.”
“But you don’t have to be there for that, do you? Tim can do that, right?”
Technically, he’s right. Tim Romero, her number two, can oversee any installation. She trusts him implicitly. But Aimee likes to be there. Issues come up. It’s her name on the company and on the side of her truck—Stern Landscaping. “That’s not the point. We had an arrangement.”
“Lisa or Gwen can watch the kids, right?”
“All three?”
“I don’t need to be watched,” Noa says, running into the kitchen. “I can go see the kittens.”
“Kittens?” Scott frowns.
“I told you, a client of mine. Has cats?”
“Right, right.” He nods, but Aimee can tell it doesn’t ring any bells. He’s been so preoccupied with work recently that not much she’s said has gotten through. She reminds herself that his work is about helping people with diabetes live better lives. His own mother died from complications of the disease his senior year in high school, and the success of this software launch is personal. “Seeing the kittens sounds like a great plan to me.”
“Yay!” Noa jumps up and down, convinced she has won.
“Right, but…” But it’s not a plan , Aimee thinks. It’s her scrambling to find childcare, leaning on her friends, her clients, while Scott has not offered any solutions. “I don’t love this. Having to call up people and ask them to watch my kids. Rearrange my day.”
“But that’s what friends are for, right?” he asks.
Aimee narrows her eyes, but doesn’t respond.
“Look, I’ll reach out to Gwen,” he says. “Tell her it’s my fault. Would that make it better?”
“A little.” She watches him take out his phone and send a quick text.
“Done,” he says. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”
After breakfast, Aimee and Scott get the kids dressed and ready to head out. She’s halfway out the door when she pauses. “Did you hear back from Gwen? She knows we’re coming, right?”
Scott looks at his phone. “Actually, she didn’t respond.”
Aimee hesitates a moment. Gwen is one of those people who always texts back immediately. She could just pop in. Surprise! Gwen is a close enough friend that she will roll with it. If the situation were reversed, Aimee would happily take George and Rafi.
Still, as she heads down her walkway, she feels uncomfortable in a way she can’t quite articulate. When she notices a car parked outside Gwen’s, the feeling intensifies. She knows every car on this cul-de-sac, and this dark, late-model sedan does not belong here. Something is up. She walks up to Gwen’s front door and rings.
“I don’t want to stay with all the boys,” Noa says, appearing at her side. “It’s too loud. I hate it.” She puts her hands over her ears.
“You can listen to music. You can use Gwen’s iPad.”
“I don’t want the iPad. I want to be with the kittens. I want to feed them with the bottle.”
Aimee’s heart sinks; she feels like a terrible mother. The kind that works on Saturdays and tries to talk her kid into using a screen instead of doing something healthy like playing with animals. If only Scott hadn’t changed the plans this morning. The twins run around the side of the house and unlatch the gate, letting themselves into the backyard.
“Go with your brothers,” Aimee tell Noa, who glares at her in response, her lower lip trembling ever so slightly. For a millisecond, Aimee fears her daughter might collapse into one of her epic tantrums. But then Noa runs down the path, after her brothers. Aimee watches until she disappears into the backyard and then looks back at the street, where the sedan is parked. She counts four antennas—is it an unmarked police car?
She thinks of the fight she overheard last night.
The anger, the yelling— I’m not going to let you ruin my life.
She shakes the thought away as footsteps inside the house grow closer. This is Gwen and Anton. They’re lovely people. Flawed, yes, but fundamentally good. She’s been on vacation with them twice now—once in Vermont at Gwen’s parents’ place and over the summer at the Outer Banks. They’re not the type of people who get visits from the police.
The door opens. Gwen’s eyes are red-rimmed and moist, and she is holding a tissue to her nose.
“Honey, what is it?” Aimee asks. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Anton. He’s dead.”