Chapter 10
CHAPTER 10
THURSDAY, AUGUST 24
C oming back from the supermarket during a deluge, I drove along Main Street into the bustling business section of the village, careful to avoid pedestrians dodging across streets in vain efforts to stay dry. Slowing at a light, I noticed a young woman with wet, limp hair entering Catherine’s Hair Designs just as an old lady exited Budget Beverages next door. I squinted, realizing it was Mary making her way heavily through the door, hugging a cardboard box. Instinct made me grip the steering wheel and look away, but guilt got the better of me. Mary was old, and it was pouring rain. I pressed the button on the driver’s-side door to lower my car window and realized with a start the window was open. They were all still open. Emmy was probably drenched. I’d get her right home, but I should probably bring Mary to her house too.
“Mary!”
She heaved her load upward, muttering something as she attempted to get a better grip on the box. I tried again: “Mary?”
This time she heard me. She jerked her head up, looked around. When her gaze landed on my face, the corners of her lips rose, revealing a gnarly-toothed smile. “Hello, neighbor.”
“Get in my car. You’re getting soaked.”
“I’m just over in the lot...”
“I’ll drive you over.”
Nodding, she hurried to the back seat driver’s-side door and fumbled for the handle while balancing her box.
I leaned across the front passenger seat and opened that door from the inside. “Come around.” As she circled my hood like a vague star in a hazy gray orbit, I wondered if she’d started drinking earlier than usual.
“You’re a real lifesaver, a true gem, you know that?” she said, her words melding into a slurry stew of adjectives and nouns that answered my unspoken question about morning drinking. I thought about her strong coffee . She landed with a thud in the front passenger seat and heaved the large box onto her lap but couldn’t get the door shut.
The top flaps of the box were missing, revealing half a dozen alcohol bottles of assorted shapes, colors, and sizes. I grabbed the top edge nearest me and pulled the box away from her door.
“Hey, watcha doing? You’re gonna break?—”
“I’m not going to break anything,” I assured her. “Close the door, Mary.”
She nodded, reached for the inside handle. After she awkwardly pulled the door shut, I toyed with the idea of instructing her to buckle her seat belt but quickly gave up on the idea. The box took up too much room on her lap.
“Look, Mary, it’s so awful outside, I think I should just drive you home. We’ll come back to the lot and pick up your car later. What do you think?”
“I think tha’ sounds like a...”
“Good idea?”
“It’s really wet in here,” she said. “Is your car leaking?”
“Maybe.” I pressed the buttons on my door to close all the car windows.
I drove down Main, squinting through the rain pelting my windshield and trying to ignore the annoying dinging sound alerting us to Mary’s unbuckled seat belt. I risked a quick glance at her. She looked straight ahead, her gaze on the road in front of us as though she were the one driving. “Bill used to take me around,” she said. “He took me shopping.”
“That was nice of him.” I clicked my wipers to a higher setting and glanced at her.
“He was nice.” She paused, reaching up to rub the chapped slash of red under her nose that passed for lips. “Except when he wasn’t.”
I looked back at the lined pavement spread ahead of us and rolled my eyes. Things were getting bad for Mary.
“That’s why I killed him.”
My whole body jerked, my toe tapping against the brake, shooting both of us forward. Fortunately, my seat belt held me tight, and the box on her lap prevented Mary’s head from hitting the dashboard.
“Watch it, sister,” she warned, looking at me sideways.
“What do you mean you killed him ?” I gripped the steering wheel tighter to keep the car centered in my lane. After checking that there were no other cars around, I looked once more at her.
“He left me. Said I drank too much.” Mary looked indignant, her face infused with a rosy hue. “Can you believe it? Me, drink too much? Just because I like to...”
Yes, she most certainly drank too much. I took a breath, smelling the effervescence of booze and cigarettes, suspecting Mary’s sudden confession reflected not facts but imaginings fermented from the booze.
“So, you... what? Pushed him down the stairs? Poisoned him?” I envisioned Mary tripping an elderly man already unsteady on his feet, visualized her mixing something white and powdery into his tea.
“I showed up at Bill’s apartment with his hunting knife in my hand. He’d forgotten to take it, you see, and I thought I’d give him a bit of a scare. I raised the knife right after I shoved my way in. Poor Bill. He had a heart...”
The metronomic sweep of the wipers on the windshield punctuated her statement.
“God, Mary.” A shiver ran through me. Her words were too clear now, the details so real. I stared at the road, intent on keeping us on it, my eyes away from the neighbor I’d apparently never really known. “He had a heart attack?”
“Mmmm. I would have called for an ambulance if I hadn’t been so angry.”
“So you did nothing?” A flash of little Brandon’s still form in the pond seared my brain. “You watched him die?” I side-eyed her.
She shook her head. “Of course not. I wasn’t sticking around to witness that. Too painful. I left.” She sighed dramatically. “But you know I still miss him?”
I looked back at the road, not knowing what to say. Everyone had secrets. I never spoke about how I’d passively watched my friend’s baby nearly drown. And there was Jane and the affair she was hiding from her husband. A sin Muzzy and Tim might also be guilty of. I swallowed, thinking of Melanie with her arms around a man who probably wasn’t her husband. Had Matt made her pay for her transgression with her life? It couldn’t be...
“I knew you’d understand,” Mary said, interrupting my musing. “Being alone is the hardest part of life, isn’t it?” I turned the car into our development, not trusting my voice.
“Yes, Mary,” I eventually said, pressing my foot on the accelerator. I had to get the drunken nutjob out of my car and away from my baby. I took the corner of our street too quickly, angling both of us sharply to the left. Mary’s arm collided with my right elbow.
“Jesus, Caroline,” she slurred. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re a terrible driver.”
* * *
After dropping Mary home, I fed and changed Emmy and settled her into the crib, shaking my head at the story my neighbor had shared.
Can’t be true.
Besides being a heavy drinker, Mary might have some form of dementia. God only knew what visions plagued the plaque-encrusted brain of an octogenarian. Not a generous thought, but the truth wasn’t always kind and understanding. I’d faced a lot of callous truths myself. Empathy had seldom prevailed when I’d asked my mother to tell me about my dead dad. Where were they married? Were they happy together? Did they love their child... love me? She usually reminded me that badgering people was not polite. Every now and then she’d smile tightly and nod or shake an answer. Eventually, I decided that the mere mention of the man we’d loved and lost was too painful for her to talk about.
Think about pleasant things.
Easier said than done , I thought as I flipped on the television and went around the channels. None of the daytime talkies appealed. The hosts jabbered on about upcoming fall fashions, staycations, parenting rebellious teens. I headed for the kitchen and found an unopened bottle of merlot in the cabinet below the sink, mixed in with cleaning supplies. The bottle had been too tall to fit in my other cabinets. Reaching into the utensil drawer, I snatched the corkscrew. I’d have just a glass or two. Unlike Mary, I knew when to quit. I brought the bottle and a wineglass into the living room and settled onto the couch. A glass of alcohol made me think clearly. Maybe it temporarily swelled my nerve cells, shortening the gap between them so messages could flow more quickly across the synapses. That didn’t seem right, but I didn’t care.
A sharp rap on the front door startled me. I stood gingerly. Why am I dizzy? Making my way to the source of the knocking, I had trouble twisting the doorknob. Curious . After eventually getting the door open, I paused and stared. Tasha Turner graced the stoop. Looking professional in a navy suit, she smiled at me.
“Hello, Caroline. You look surprised to see me.”
“Well, I... what time is it?”
Her brows lowered over her eyes. I’d confused her. “It’s four, of course.”
“Oh, silly me. The day’s just flown.” How long have I been drinking? “Please come in.”
She laughed. “You don’t know how often I lose track of time. In my job I’m always running around, trying to get it all done.”
She was being kind, of course. Giving me an out. I led her through the living room, certain she’d notice the half-empty bottle of merlot and burgundy-stained wineglass on the end table. I could almost hear the calculations clicking in her mind, the judgments being formed as I did with Mary.
“How have you been?” she asked, pulling out her usual chair from its place tucked under my tiny kitchen table.
“Oh, well, you know.” I sighed. “New day, same old shit.”
She frowned ever so slightly, making me feel crass. “If life was always exciting, we’d become bored and look for drama just to fill the time.”
I looked at her, a vision of Muzzy filling her boring evenings by screwing my husband. “You think so?”
She lifted one shoulder in a semi shrug. “It’s human nature.”
“Yeah, I guess.” I hadn’t ever thought of life in those terms. I’d been too busy dodging the fears and worries my mind manufactured. “Maybe that’s what I’m doing: creating all my problems in my head. Anticipating the worst so I’m not surprised when it happens.” I crossed the kitchen in three steps and reached for the dish-cabinet knob as I looked over my shoulder at her. “You want coffee?”
“I prefer tea.”
Of course she did. She never drank coffee. I knew that.
“That’s right. You like ginger turmeric, right?”
She nodded. “With lemon, please. And you may be right about the problems circulating in your mind, but you’ve had so much to deal with?—”
“Well, we both know I’m not the first woman whose husband left her.” I dragged out two teacups and set them on the counter, my movements jerky.
“Yeah, but I’m thinking about all the things you’ve told me, beginning with Everett...”
This again? Tasha seemed as obsessed with my father as she’d once claimed she was with his unique name. “People die every day.” I pivoted toward the fridge handle, a tremor running through me as I glanced at her.
“Hmm, I suppose you’re right.” She tilted her head in that superior way Jane Brockton had when we’d first met. I wondered if, like Jane, Tasha thought herself—her life—just a bit worthier than mine. I wouldn’t blame her if she did. I weaved on my feet, placing a hand against the fridge to steady myself. I paused for a beat, breathing deeply before continuing the task of tea making.
I filled the kettle with warm water, set it on a burner, and turned the stovetop knob to high, then glanced at her, knowing why I didn’t like telling people about my father’s accident. They always wanted to ask questions, not understanding how painful it was for me to think about. I pressed my lips together. Was she trying to create a little drama at my expense? Was she one of those people obsessed with death, and the ways people died? Tasha met my gaze, no hint of malice in hers. Only a look of regret, as though it pained her to mention my father.
“What’s done is done. No way to go back.” I reached into the cabinet and rooted around the bottom shelf for the tea bags.
“Do you really feel that way?”
“Of course.” I looked at her. Tasha wasn’t afraid to make eye contact. And she never shied away from what I revealed to her. I looked at the tea bags in my hands, removed the paper wrappers, and set about slicing the lemon I’d snatched off my kitchen windowsill. I should be thankful for her attention.
“What if you do remember what happened in the boat that day, but your mind is blocking it out like?—”
The teakettle’s harsh shriek drowned out the rest of her sentence. Even though I was expecting it, the noise startled me. I set the teacups on the table and crossed to the stove, grabbing the teakettle handle. Heat infused my skin as I walked back to Tasha, so warm I worried I might drop the damn thing. I switched hands and poured water in our cups, concentrating on keeping my extended arm steady. “I recall being in the boat, but I don’t remember capsizing. One minute we were sitting together, and the next minute we weren’t.”
Tasha reached for her steaming cup. Her nails were sparkly lavender today. “That must have been horrible. Did you know how to swim?”
“I’m not sure. I think so.” I paused, the steaming kettle still in my hand. So close to her beautiful face. My arm quivered. “I have this sense that my dad taught me, but still... when I think of that day, I feel so tense. My body tightens up, preparing me for danger.”
Tasha lifted her cup and blew on the surface, her eyes never leaving mine. “It would be dangerous if?—”
That’s when Emmy’s wail drowned out the rest of her words. “Excuse me, that’s my girl,” I said, crossing back to the stove and replacing the teakettle on the cooling burner. I pivoted and hurried through the kitchen, approaching the table where Tasha sat. She stood swiftly, blocking my way.
“Hold up.”
“But she’s crying.”
“You know, doctors now say it’s healthy to let a baby cry for a bit. Teaches them to self-soothe.”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that. She’s just a baby, and I’d be remiss...” I tried to walk around her, but she bent forward, invading my personal space.
“Think about this, Caroline: by running to Emmy’s rescue at the first sign of distress, you may be doing more harm than good.” Her voice was firm. “Robbing her of her problems.”
“Robbing her of... she’s a baby , for God’s sake.” I pushed forward, nudging her. “She needs me.”
“And you’re a good mother,” she said, leaning close.
“Yes, I am.”
“Then let her cry.”
I leaned back, silently cursing Tasha and annoyed once again with Tim. If he’d only allowed us to buy a bigger house, with normal-sized rooms. I’d not be caught in the narrow space between the kitchen table and the wall with my misguided friend using her body as a barrier between me and my crying child. “I’m asking you to step aside, Tasha. I need to tend to Emmy.”
“I can’t stay all afternoon, remember,” she called after me as I rushed down the hall to Emmy’s room. I didn’t bother to answer. I should have guessed she was still cross with me for losing track of time when she last visited.
By the time I reached Emmy, she’d worked herself into a fit, her legs pressed upward against her belly and her face a disturbing shade between purple and red. Realizing it would take a long time to settle her, I reached into the crib. Her little body stiffened and thrashed against my hands.
I rocked Emmy for endless minutes, eventually calming her enough to change her diaper, strap on the baby carrier, and tuck her fidgeting body in. When I padded back to the kitchen to prepare a bottle, Tasha was no longer there. I felt a ripple of disappointment mix with my resentment. Although Tasha’s friendship was important to me, making me choose between lavishing my attention on a self-sufficient woman with children of her own and a helpless infant...
I paused, resting a hand on the refrigerator door. My mother had few friends. Perhaps she’d had to make the same tough choices. Or maybe she just hadn’t had the opportunity to bond with other women. She’d worked full-time at Dr. Gleason’s office since graduating from nursing school. Between her responsibilities at the office and her single-parenting duties, she’d had little time for socializing.
I opened the fridge door and peered inside, searching for the baby formula on the top shelf. When it came down to a competition between friends and family, there was no choice to be made. Emmy had to come first. I may not have made the best parenting decisions when I was in the grip of postpartum depression. Tim had to step up then. Tend to our child while I battled my way back to stability. But Tim wasn’t here now. It was just Emmy and me. Like my own mom, I had to be both mother and father to our child.