I Know She Was There

Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

MONDAY, AUGUST 14

N earing twilight at eight in the evening, the temperature was still stifling but had cooled enough to head outside.

I’d have to steer clear of Woodmint Lane that evening. Another encounter with Jane Brockton could be downright dangerous. If it came to blows, I wasn’t sure I could beat her back. Even though she was about ten years older than I was, she was in fantastic shape. I, on the other hand, was sporting a saggy pouch of post-baby pudge around my middle.

As I made my way out of Highland Knolls, my body laboring in the oppressive humidity, I peered into the lives of my immediate neighbors. There was Mary, blinds open, watching a retro game show as she slugged back something in a clear rounded bottle that usually held the hard stuff: gin or vodka.

Beyond Mary, Dolf Green’s ranch was dark, as usual, except for his lighted office on the far left, the top of his bald head motionless in the eerie bluish glow of a computer screen. Across from him, the Washingtons’ dining-room light was on, but the room was empty. I walked on. I pushed the babyzen up the hill through the moist, tepid air, listening to Emmy’s happy babble.

“Exercise is vital,” I told her as we passed bilevels and ranches, exertion turning my tone breathy. She didn’t understand, but her melodious prattle told me she recognized my voice.

I thought of my own mother’s voice, which came to me often but never imparted the child-rearing advice I needed. The one weary message she usually sent— It wasn’t your fault— was tedious. But I did appreciate her tone, which was kinder than when she’d been alive.

During my childhood, the stress of single parenting often tried Mom’s patience. It wasn’t until I became a mother that I understood why she’d often tuck me into bed before the sun went down. Parenting was exhausting. I remembered her unending diligence: unplugging the television after discovering I hadn’t finished my homework; arguing at the dinner table over my feeble consumption of lima beans, broccoli, or brussels sprouts. I smiled, recalling how she’d had to get creative to get me to eat the vegetables when I was quite young.

“A half for you and a half for me,” she’d chirp, shoveling the hated morsels first into my mouth, and then into hers.

My smile faded. Nearly a year since the head-on car collision that had taken her life. It didn’t seem possible that so much time had passed. She’d been both mother and father since I was six, and she’d never remarried. We might have been happier if she had.

Must think of other things, pleasant things .

I exhaled, unable to dredge up anything positive. Except for Emmy. One shining example of a successful life. Wrangling her colic had been a major achievement. Things could only get better, especially if Tim and I could work out our differences. Become a proper family again. Muzzy was key to making that happen. If Tim knew my former friend and I had settled our differences, he might realize there was hope for our marriage too. I wasn’t as unpredictable as Tim had so often suggested. I paused, dabbing at the perspiration dribbling from scalp to forehead before pushing on.

As I neared Route 55, a meaty hound raced through the shadowy light cast from the lone streetlamp on the block. He pressed his nose against the chain-link fence and howled. I slowed, calculating the beast’s ability to leap the five feet it would take to clear the thing, even as a large dog of uncertain origin to my left growled and barked in response. Ironic that only tiny purebreds seemed to dot Deer Crossing’s expansive acreage, but massive mutts were penned into my immediate neighbors’ minuscule yards.

“Settle down,” I snapped at the dogs as I resumed my trek through the wet air, trying to ignore the clinging stickiness of 90 percent humidity on my skin. Taking a labored breath, lungs heavy as a soggy loaf of bread, legs sluggish, I moved even slower. Pushing the baby carriage felt more like shoving a pile of bricks through a tight doorway.

I paused at the edge of Route 55 to look both ways. The day had been sweltering, ringing Emmy and me in sweat no matter how many times I changed our garments. After we’d bought our ranch, Tim had been too cheap to install central air conditioning, overriding my complaints, explaining it was only unbearably hot in Upstate New York for two months a year. But now the stifling humidity of August was here. And he wasn’t. And the apartment he’d moved into had the central air I craved.

I veered left and rolled onto Pine Hill Road, the entrance opposite Woodmint Lane. If I stayed within the web of intersecting streets on the west side of the development, I could steer clear of Jane’s house as I made my way to Muzzy Owen on Primrose Way. If only Muzzy was relaxing on her front porch. I’d wave as I passed by. Perhaps she’d return the gesture. Maybe she’d even invite us up for a visit. After all, it was past her children’s bedtime. They’d all be tucked into their beds for the night. And Muzzy loved cuddling Emmy.

Pine Hill Road was flat and winding. Perfect for a leisurely stroll. If I was lucky, I’d catch a glimpse of Matt on the corner of Pine Hill and Lakeside, just before turning onto Primrose. A picture of him came to mind: fair-haired and tall, his toned body enhanced by a faded red polo shirt and khaki shorts, like the last time I saw him doing lawn chores. I was always struck by how much he resembled the actor Matthew McConaughey.

I thought again about how utterly enchanted I’d been watching him dance with...

Melanie.

The name that had come to me the first time I’d glimpsed her, watching her float through the air, her arms lifting like gossamer wings. A tune—a waltz—filtered through my mind; accompanying them as they’d shifted seamlessly left, then right. He twirled her around and around, setting her dark hair into motion; her slim body, in tank top and leggings, revolved like a ballet dancer on pointe.

A return to their place the following night after the eleven o’clock news revealed a completely dark house and a mailbox devoid of personal information. I’d shuffled through half a dozen flyers addressed to Occupant, discovering nothing new about them. I wondered if they paid all their bills online like most of us millennials do nowadays.

I hadn’t seen the couple again for a week, when a mechanical whir up ahead made me step quicker through the twilight of a hot August evening. Soon, I was directly in front of Matt’s house, the homeowner himself in the front yard in the day’s dying light. Approaching the hedge he stood beside, I again thought he was probably in his mid- to late thirties. His sandy hair nearly reached the tattered collar of his T-shirt, and a well-defined bicep extended over the privet hedge, his hand clutching the electric clipper like a cavalry sword. He slashed horizontally in sharp, quick motions, like a fencer trying to finesse the offending shrub into submission. His striking light eyes, even in the waning light, caused me to stare. I smiled as I passed, but he was focused on his task. It made me feel dismissed. He was too busy to be friendly.

A window had opened in the top left dormer of the custom Cape Cod behind him. A flash of dark hair through the glass, and a rich, sensual female voice cut through the evening air. “When you’re finished there, wipe down the windows in the shed.”

He grunted, but with acknowledgment or displeasure, I couldn’t tell. I recalled how little success I’d had with Tim whenever I nagged or demanded. He’d often grunted at me.

On this particular night, I stared at the custom Cape, recalling Melanie in the foyer with her arms slung around another man a few weeks earlier. Anger shot upward from my suddenly tight chest until it clouded my vision, fleetingly blotting out the front porch. I blinked, reminding myself that Melanie’s choices were not my business. But poor Matt! Just like Rod Brockton, he was being played.

I took a few deep breaths, counseling myself to calm down. I looked ahead at the small, too-perfect-to-be-natural pond with a large, garishly lit center fountain spewing water heavenward. I shivered; I hated ponds. Especially that one. I let my gaze wander to the right—the Owen family home at 12 Primrose Way, the first house after the pond. Tim had forbidden me to have anything to do with them after what he’d called the incident . Yet Tim wasn’t around anymore. I could go where I pleased. I could go to Muzzy’s, climb her porch steps, and knock on her door. But I wouldn’t.

I swallowed. Would I ever have the courage to confront Muzzy and restore our friendship? It was a shame, it really was. Muzzy and I were just becoming close when everything happened. When I began my field trips to Deer Crossing last March—and that’s how I’d thought of them: fun outings rife with educational moments—I’d study the families on each block. The Owen family was the first to capture my attention. A research project of sorts. Each time I’d pass by their house, the dazzle of children perpetually running and squealing within their picketed perimeter enthralled me. Tiny mittened hands erected feeble snow creatures out of the late-winter slush stubbornly clinging to the warming earth; delighted squeals emanated from what appeared to be animated winter wear, jumping on the trampoline, white puffs projecting off its bouncing surface inside the netted space. A real-life snow globe. And Muzzy, bless her, always in the middle of her four-kid tribe, no matter the temperature outdoors. Her gloved hands distributing cookies or trail-mix packets.

When the thermometer climbed to the midsixties in early April, she helped the children set up a lemonade stand at the end of their driveway. I purchased their watery concoction, pressing a Dixie cup of lemon-yellow fluid against my lips and chatting with Muzzy, discovering her real name was Helene. Yet her kids’ nickname suited both her generous proportions and capable demeanor: soft but as substantial as a weighted blanket.

Soon I was strolling past her house every afternoon. It was only a matter of weeks until she invited me into the yard. Accepting her bite-sized cheesecake tarts and scooting after toddling eighteen-month-old Brandon, trying to look as though I enjoyed pressing his squirming body and sour, sweat-soaked scalp close. Pretending for Muzzy, who adored cuddling Emmy. She’d reach for my wailing infant as soon as I clicked her front gate behind me.

“I do so love a baby,” she’d exclaim every time we came over, regardless of Emmy’s screeching. “I want another one.”

“Brandon’s still a baby,” I said during the first visit, my eyes growing wide as Emmy settled and quieted in Muzzy’s expert embrace.

“Are you kidding?” She laughed. “Brandon’s big and bad already. Mimicking the monsters.” She angled her head to indicate three-year-old Amber, five-year-old Alexander, and Christopher, nearly seven, intent upon chasing his siblings around the swing set. Her voice held such fondness I wondered whether Muzzy’s desire for another child was altruistic or addled. Subsequent visits ensured she was neither. She simply loved children. Especially babies. Yet, she’d relayed with a frown, her husband, Johnny, had decided for them both that four children was enough.

I shared my cell phone number with Muzzy, but she never called me. When I’d stop by, she’d always lament the fact she hadn’t a spare moment to phone, but she invariably invited me into her yard.

“I keep the little buggers outside as much as possible,” she confided one afternoon as she shepherded Alex and Christopher off the school bus and through her front gate, holding it wide for me to stroll Emmy through. “In the yard, I can keep my eye on them. Inside, they hide in closets and under furniture.” She laughed uproariously as though she’d made a hilarious joke. “I swear, they do it just to drive me crazy. They gang up.”

I marveled at Muzzy’s demeanor. No matter what she claimed, she never seemed outnumbered or overwhelmed. One afternoon, as we sat on the picnic bench bouncing the babies on our knees, I asked Muzzy if I could use her bathroom. I didn’t have to go, but I could no longer contain my curiosity about her house. What was it like inside? I’d often pictured toys scattered around the floors, half-empty juice boxes gracing the dining table, and children’s clothes strewn across the living-room sofa.

What greeted me when I stepped inside made my jaw drop. Muzzy’s rooms had the continuity, decor, and forced neatness of the featured houses in Better Homes and Gardens spreads. Coats hung from largest to smallest on pegs in the mudroom. Beneath them, shoes were lined up—also by size—in copper trays.

I took a few steps forward, hovering near the guest bathroom, my gaze taking in the kitchen in front of me and a great room beyond. The granite countertops looked like polished coal. I reached forward and pulled open the nearest drawer. Flatware gleamed within the confines of a built-in compartment. Every utensil was perfectly aligned. I closed the drawer, my fingers itching to open another drawer. To open all of them. Taking a resolute breath, I stepped back, dropping my hands to my sides.

The smell of bleach crept into my nose as I gazed at glistening white cabinetry and stainless-steel appliances, searching for fingerprints. There were none, not even on the lower cabinets, the fridge, or around the dishwasher handle. How was that possible with all those kids? Maybe that was why Muzzy kept them perpetually outside. I looked at the perfectly plumped pillows on the oversized sofa in the great room, my eyes searching for stray stuffed animals or a dropped toy. To no avail. The space was showroom perfect.

Seeing my dazed expression when I rejoined her at the picnic table, Muzzy didn’t wait for me to speak.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said, a red hue suffusing her face. “I like to keep things tidy. I really have no choice. With Johnny gone so much, it’s just me holding down the fort, and I can’t let the little beasts get ahead of me.” She grinned. “I do have Edith, who comes in for deep cleaning twice a week.”

“Of course.” I nodded, recalling Muzzy telling me her husband was an airline pilot. She’d have plenty of money to hire cleaning help. But even so...

“I can’t help it.” She looked away from me, as though she couldn’t quite meet my eyes. “I don’t want Johnny to come home to chaos... and I like things orderly.”

“Don’t apologize,” I said quickly, thinking of my house’s messy, disorganized rooms. “I just don’t know how you manage it.”

“They’re all in bed by seven thirty. Gives me three hours to clean. I flip on The Bachelor or some other inane show and go to town with Clorox.” She looked at me then. “And when I’m done, I’ll go just as hard with an entire pint of Ben and Jerry’s. Doesn’t matter what flavor, I love them all. If only I could train myself to drop that last little routine, I’d be twenty pounds lighter.” She sighed. “Guess we all have our vices.”

“I suppose so.”

She tilted her head, her eyes scanning the length of me.

“What’s yours?”

“What?” I felt my own face redden.

“What’s your guilty pleasure?”

I pressed my lips together. Spying on people like you . Couldn’t say that.

“Don’t tell me you don’t have one?”

“I do, but it’s...” I let my voice trail off as my mind searched for appropriate possibilities.

“Look, you don’t have to share if you’re not comfortable.” Muzzy shifted Brandon from one knee to the other. “I got Emmy to sleep while you were inside. She looks darling in her carriage?—”

“No, I want to share. It’s embarrassing, is all. So few people do it these days.”

Muzzy stilled the toddler on her lap.

“I’m terribly addicted to cigarettes. Foolish, I know. The health hazards...” I paused when Muzzy’s features scrunched into a confused expression. “What’s wrong?”

“Both my parents smoked. You could smell them approaching five minutes before they arrived, but you don’t carry even the slightest hint of cigarette odor.” Her expression shifted slightly, looking guarded. Her narrowed eyes told me more than her words.

“That’s the most embarrassing part,” I jumped in, my mind working overtime to compensate for my blunder. “It got so bad, I switched to vaping.” I hung my head, a blush spread from my chest to neck, a tell that I was lying, but Muzzy didn’t know that. Looking at her through the fringe of my lashes, I glimpsed her rounded eyes and slightly parted lips. “Honestly, how can I cling to such a bad habit? I mean, I only vape outdoors, away from Emmy, but still.” Muzzy’s eyes softened.

My heartfelt revelation had worked. Our friendship notched up and clicked into place.

Fortunately, Muzzy had no desire to visit me at my house, which I’d described vaguely as being on the outskirts of Deer Crossing. She was happy to spend free time with me in her yard, and eventually, we set up a specific time for playdates: 3:00 p.m. on Mondays and Wednesdays. It was a perfect arrangement.

Until the past reared up and ruined everything.

The unfairness of it filled me with sudden, overwhelming fury. It radiated painfully through my chest, like heartburn or a muscle tear. My head shook back and forth in tiny little movements, my limbic system trying to cast off memories. I wouldn’t—couldn’t—think of that day. What was done was done. Suddenly fatigued, I felt like an old woman. The effort I had to expend to get air into my lungs was enormous.

The rumble of a car engine in the distance pierced the evening, getting closer, but I couldn’t stop looking at the custom Cape in front of me, a multitude of images swirling in my brain: Matt’s handsome face hovering over the metal hedge clippers; Melanie’s shadow in the upstairs window, her sultry voice calling out; Melanie embracing a dark-haired man in the doorway of her home.

The thud of a car door closing pulled me away from my preoccupation with the couple at 21 Pine Hill Road. I glanced over my shoulder to see a dark sedan parked halfway between the pond and Muzzy’s house, but it was too dim to see anything else. Beyond the car, Muzzy’s living-room light popped on.

I wheeled Emmy’s carriage around until I was facing away from Matt and Melanie’s and began walking toward the Owen house. Unease niggled at the back of my mind. I blinked at the shadows swooping around me, darkened silhouettes popping into my peripheral vision but vaporizing when I snapped my head in their direction for a better look. Sweat broke out along my hairline and on my upper lip as I approached the car. A black Impala, just like Tim’s. I studied the dented driver’s-side corner of the back bumper, which I’d dinged in the supermarket lot a few months back. Of course it was still there. Tim was too cheap to fix it.

Why would my husband be here? Recalling how he and Muzzy had connected after the incident, I stared at the car as if my intense gaze could pry an answer from it; I reached into my pocket and pulled out the mini flashlight I always carried when I walked Emmy after dark. I flicked it on, directed the powerful beam inside. As usual, Tim’s neatness prevailed. Not so much as a speck of dust marred its Simonized vinyl surfaces. The only other person I’d ever known to take such precise care of belongings was... Muzzy .

I looked at her house, cozy and inviting with the glowing light diffused in the veiled windows. Was Tim inside right now? Surely, he wouldn’t have been attracted to Muzzy in the aftermath of the incident, discovered kinship in mutual obsessive cleaning habits and their shared disdain for me. It was ridiculous.

But why is he here? I recalled how often her husband, Johnny, was away, and my heart twisted in my chest, making breathing difficult. It was well after 7:30 p.m., the time Muzzy put her kids to bed. She had hours alone to fill. Something told me if the two of them were holed up in her house, they weren’t cleaning. I glanced up the street, hoping to see Tim’s familiar form loping through the shadows—from the other direction. The area was quiet, empty. I looked back at Muzzy’s. Her yard had an air of disuse I couldn’t put my finger on, but I sensed my former friend wasn’t spending much time outdoors anymore. Was she hiding from me? I angled my head, ears alert for sound, and squinted at the pond, searching for any movement in the shadows. The patter of the distant fountain mocked me.

I stumbled backward, pulling the carriage with me. What was going on in this neighborhood? Jane cheating on her older husband was bad enough, but the others... perfect Melanie stepping out on Matt, and Tim... with Muzzy? No, it just wasn’t possible.

I had to get out of Deer Crossing. I turned Emmy’s carriage around and rushed across Primrose, but my hammering heart and the thick, sludgy air made proper breathing impossible. Halting again in front of Matt and Melanie’s place, I gulped like a doomed fish caught on a line. The lack of oxygen made me dizzy, so I sat down on the curb beside the carriage, concentrating on breathing instead of the image of the neighborhood lovers hugging, kissing, dancing. I pressed my palms tightly against my temples to block out my building rage, focusing on the vital task of getting air into my lungs. How long I sat there, I didn’t know.

When I eventually tilted my chin up to elongate my neck and unblock my passageways, I was once again standing, facing the house. Surprised, I scanned the facade of 21 Pine Hill, wondering when I’d risen, and how long I’d been standing there.

That’s when I saw her.

The ghostly lines of a woman materializing in the upstairs bedroom window, pressing her forehead up against the pane with such force I feared it would crack. My body jumped, as though given a jolt from a live wire. Her absurdly open eyes were dark and searching as if scanning the street for something she desperately needed to find. When they locked onto me, her mouth popped open into what could have been a call, or even a scream, but I couldn’t hear anything through the closed window. The only sound filling my ears was the pounding of my own heart, battering my ribs and attempting to beat its way out of my chest.

It was then that I noticed her hands, wrapped like a scarf around her own neck, a neon-orange thumbnail—its strangely festive hue at odds with her expression—visible just below her chin, as she beseeched me with an unflinching stare. What does she need from me? The hands slid away from her neck as a gush of dark liquid covered the light column of skin.

I gasped. Blood . I stood frozen, watching her neck turn a different hue, thinking absurdly of a child’s crayon coloring the white space between black lines. But this was no children’s activity. I looked at the empty driveway, my heart sliding into my stomach. It didn’t appear that anyone else was there.

My legs moved as if of their own accord. And then I was running toward the house, pulling the babyzen behind me and hoping I didn’t trip and lose control of the carriage, toppling Emmy. But I couldn’t slow down. Melanie needed my help. I looked frantically around the yard, seeing a blur of grass and trees that became nothing but obstacles blocking a clear path to the front door.

Leaving Emmy on the brick path in front of the porch, I stumbled up the steps and pounded on the door.

“Jesus, Caroline, now’s not the time for manners,” I muttered, turning the knob, which gave way surprisingly easily, shooting me off balance. I nearly fell into a heap on the foyer floor. Instinctively, I regained my balance and looked around the gray murk, my gaze connecting with a wooden staircase a few yards in front of me. An overwhelming smell of metal and mugginess assaulted my nose. Sticky fingers clawed at my chest and throat as I ran toward the stairs.

You’ve killed him, screamed a voice. My mother’s. I halted abruptly, and looked up the staircase, even though I knew I wouldn’t see her there.

How could you? Another voice: my husband’s. That was a new one.

I snapped my head from right to left, seeing nothing but shadows in the empty foyer. “Tim? Are you here?”

How could you ? he repeated, his voice urgent. Accusing.

“This woman, she needs me,” I screamed into the dusky air. “I saw her fall into the window, I saw the blood. I must get to her... I must...” I pushed my legs toward the staircase, as much to escape the voices as to help her, but a painful explosion in the back of my head stopped me where I stood. My mother’s voice again, behind me. You shouldn’t be here.

My knees gave way, and I was falling, tumbling into the vast, endless reaches of darkness.