Three
THREE
JULIA
The problem with having your husband walk out on you isn’t that you find yourself missing him the day after, but that you realize just how much you don’t know how to do. Bills. Driving a car. Maintaining the house. Julia hates Marshall for walking out on her—on them—but right now, the only person Julia hates more than anyone else is Julia.
Here she is, at eleven o’clock on a beautiful San Franciscan morning, her two-and-a-half-year-old daughter playing next to her, and she can’t even decide what to make for lunch. Because for the last ten years of her life, lunch was dictated by Marshall.
I want a tuna melt, babe , he’d say, and she’d prepare a tuna melt.
How about a meatball sub? And she’d get right to making it, with meatballs from scratch.
And on the days when he had to go on business trips, she’d just make his favorites because the truth is, Julia doesn’t know what her favorites are anymore. Her favorites are whatever Marshall loved. Over the years, she’s learned to love what Marshall loves because seeing him smile and tell her, This is delicious, babe , gave her so many endorphins that she decided she loved it too. Isn’t that what being married means? Loving what the other person loves?
But last night, after ten married years and fourteen altogether as a couple, Marshall told her unceremoniously that he’d “made it” and was finally leaving her “sorry ass.” Honestly , Julia thinks as she helps Emma push a particularly stubborn piece of Lego into place, there is nothing sorry about my ass . She keeps her ass in very good shape, damn it. And it’s this ridiculous thought that smacks into her with sudden ruthlessness and triggers hot tears rushing into her eyes. Who the hell cares about her ass right now? Although , a small voice pipes up as she stifles her sobs, it really is a very good one .
She checks her phone for the millionth time, but there are no calls, no messages. Julia has been waiting for the phone to ring for so long, checking it every few minutes to make sure that it’s still working, still has both Wi-Fi and cellular connection, that when the doorbell rings, she jumps and grabs her phone.
Emma looks up from the elaborate Lego palace she’s building. “Mommy, door is ringing.”
“Huh?” It takes a second for Julia to recognize the jangle as the doorbell and not her phone, and once she does, hope and dread bloom in equal measure, fighting for space in her tightening chest. She’s suddenly finding it challenging to breathe. She stands, forcing herself to take a deep inhale, pushing her constricting rib cage out. I can breathe. I’m okay. Everything will be okay.
Maybe life might even be better without Marshall?
Nope, that’s impossible. He took care of them. He took care of everything.
By the time she reaches the door, she still has no idea what she’s going to say, but it doesn’t matter. People seem to know that Julia doesn’t have much to say. They either talk over her or ignore her entirely. She’s used to it. Anyway, it’s probably just Linda from next door pretending to drop by with cookies, wanting to know what the shouting last night was all about. Julia has to walk around the huge trash bags lined up behind the front door. She’ll have to take care of them at some point.
But when she opens the door, what she finds is very much not Linda. Two officers stand before her—a Black woman and an Asian man, both of them wearing very strange expressions. They’re sort of smiling, but the smiles are heavy and apologetic. Julia’s stomach knots painfully; those aren’t the kinds of smiles you give when you have good news to share. They’re the kinds of smiles that know they’re about to ruin someone’s life. For a fleeting moment, Julia is tempted to slam the door in their faces and lock the dead bolt. But of course, she does no such thing. Julia is nothing if not agreeable and compliant. Julia is nothing if not helpful and pliant. Julia is nothing , Marshall’s voice whispers in her head. Marshall’s voice in Julia’s head is so much meaner than the real version.
“Morning, ma’am,” the Asian officer says. “I’m Officer Ha and this is my partner, Officer Gray. Are you Julia Chen?”
Somehow, she manages to nod.
“Is it okay if we come in?” Officer Gray says.
No , she wants to shout. Nothing good is incoming from them, that much is clear. But her head nods again, bypassing her brain.
“Oh,” Officer Ha says as they walk inside and notice the trash bags. “Did a bit of spring cleaning?”
Julia’s stomach twists so violently that she almost gags. She can see Marshall’s PlayStation peeking out of the bag nearest to them. Practically brand-new. Spring cleaning. More like gathering all his things because she knows he’s not coming back.
“Something like that,” she mumbles. Quickly, she turns and almost knocks Emma over. She hasn’t even realized that Emma has attached herself to Julia’s right leg, clinging like a little koala. “Sorry, baby.” She bends down and scoops Emma up. Julia’s always surprised by how heavy her little girl has become. How tall and solid and full of possibilities. “It’s okay,” she whispers to Emma as she leads the officers into the living room. “It’s okay,” she repeats, more for her own sake than Emma’s, really.
Officer Gray smiles. “Hi, sweetheart. What’s your name?”
Julia doesn’t bother waiting for a response before answering on her daughter’s behalf. “It’s Emma.” Emma never talks to strangers. She barely even talks to their neighbors, and they’ve known the people living on this street for as long as she’s been alive. It’s one of the many things Marshall hated. Well, maybe “hate” is a strong word. Or maybe not, since he hadn’t even looked back at his daughter when he walked out last night.
“What a pretty name. It suits you,” Officer Gray says. “How old are you?”
Most kids, as Julia has been told over and over by various people, would only be too happy to announce to everyone they come across how old they are. But not Emma. Emma buries her face in Julia’s shoulder and refuses to look at the officers, who in turn give awkward smiles to Julia. Marshall’s words echo in Julia’s head: It’s fucking embarrassing, the way she behaves. Why can’t she be a normal kid?
Julia swallows and gestures at the officers to sit down on the couch. Their couch is much nicer than it has any right to be, its base made of solid wood, the seats covered with real leather. It’s one of Marshall’s picks, of course. He always goes for the most expensive options, charging everything to his credit cards and assuring her that money will be coming in, so why not invest in their future comfort? He loves this word, “invest,” uses it for every frivolous purchase he makes.
She herself sinks onto an armchair next to the sofa and shifts Emma from her hip to her lap. Belatedly, Julia realizes that she should offer the officers a drink, some water at least. But Emma is heavy on her lap, and she doesn’t want these officers to stay any longer than they have to. She hardly slept at all last night; how could she, after everything that happened? And she’s tired now, so tired.
As though sensing her eagerness to get this done and over with, Officer Ha clears his throat and leans forward a little. “Is your husband Marshall Chen?”
“Is there a playroom we can play in?” Officer Gray cuts in, smiling at Emma, who’s peeking at her.
At the thought of being separated from Julia, Emma closes up, smushing her little face into Julia’s chest and shaking her head fiercely. Julia holds her tight. “It’s okay, she can stay.”
“Are you sure? We’re here with ah, sensitive information.”
Julia nods and clasps her hands tightly behind Emma’s back to keep them from trembling. She inhales the scent of Emma’s hair, that sweet smell of clean childish sweat and warm sugar. Her breath goes in shaky, rattling all the way to her lungs, and she has to hold back a sob. Here it comes.
Both officers nod, clearly disapproving of her choice. That’s okay, Julia’s used to disapproval. And just because Officer Gray thinks Emma is cute or whatever doesn’t mean she knows Emma. Nobody knows Emma. They use words like “painfully shy” and “very quiet.” Julia can’t imagine leaving Emma alone in a room with anyone else. She would freak the hell out and then Officer Gray would probably panic and think something’s wrong with her child. She’s so sick of people thinking there’s something wrong with Emma.
“Okay, well.” Officer Ha clears his throat again. “Ah, we’re sorry to inform you that this morning, your husband was found dead at a teahouse in Chinatown.”
The words are so foreign to Julia that her brain fails to compute what he’s saying. And when it does start digesting the information, it latches on to the strangest part of the sentence. “A teahouse?”
Officer Ha nods. “Yes.” He consults his notepad. “Vera Wang’s World-Famous Teahouse.”
“Why would a dress designer have a teahouse?” Then again, Eva Longoria owns a bunch of restaurants, so maybe that was a stupid question to ask.
Officer Gray shakes her head. “No, it’s owned by someone named Vera Wong , actually.”
And something about the way she says it reaches deep into the dark coils of Julia’s brain and tickles it. Julia does the worst thing she can possibly do in this moment. She laughs. It lasts less than a second, but she sees the officers’ eyes sharpening in that instant, and she wants to slap herself. God knows, Marshall wanted to on many occasions, and can anyone blame him? This is just the stupid crap that Julia does that he has to put up with every day. Had to put up with. Because he’s dead now, isn’t he? He doesn’t have to put up with her anymore. She almost laughs again but manages to wrestle the traitorous sensation down.
“I don’t understand,” she manages to croak.
Officer Gray’s expression is still cold and mistrusting. “He was found by the owner of the teahouse, Ms.Vera Wong, at around five a.m. this morning. It seems he had broken into her teahouse sometime in the night before dying.”
It’s a struggle to make sense of the words. “How did—uh, what caused the death?”
“We’re still waiting for the autopsy results, but he had a bag of MDMA in his bag, so it might have been an overdose,” Officer Ha says.
“MDMA?” Is he even still speaking English?
“You might know it as ecstasy, or Molly, or E?”
Julia’s brain refuses to process the words.
“Do you know if your husband regularly used MDMA?” Officer Ha says. But from his tone of voice, it’s clear that what he means is: How can you not know that your husband regularly used MDMA?
“There were also some wounds on his body,” Officer Gray says. “A bruise on his cheek and scratches on the other. Would you happen to know anything about that?”
She shakes her head numbly, and her head throbs with the movement. Unbidden, she gets a flash of Marshall shoving her away as he leaves and the back of her head cracking against the wall. She bites her lip, forcing herself to focus in this moment. Do not show them that she’s hurting. Do not show them that he wounded her.
Do they believe her? Julia can’t tell. Does it matter if they believe her? He’s dead. Marshall is dead.
As though the thought seeps into Emma’s head through osmosis, the toddler starts fussing in Julia’s lap, her little chubby hands pawing at Julia’s breasts. “Boop,” she demands.
Julia’s cheeks burn and she finds it hard to meet the officers’ eyes; then she berates herself. How stupid to be concerned about them judging her for having a two-year-old who still nurses. Who the hell cares about breastfeeding when she’s just been told that her husband of ten years just died? And yet, here she is, clasping Emma’s arms firmly but gently and pulling them away from her chest. “Later,” she says softly, even though she knows this is futile.
As expected, Emma gets louder. “Boop!” she demands. “Boop!” Julia’s embarrassment sharpens into shame. It’s bad enough that Emma still demands the breast, but can’t she at least say it in a complete sentence? She’s able to; when it’s just the two of them, Emma speaks in long, adult sentences. “Can I have milk, please, Mommy?” “Mommy, look at the ladybug, why does it have black spots?” “I love the swings, push me higher, Mommy!” Well-formed sentences that disappear the moment they have company. Then, of course, as usual, Julia feels ashamed that she feels ashamed of her own child. What a terrible mother she is. And what a terrible wife. Look at her, judging her toddler’s speech when her husband literally just died.
“Boop!” It’s a full-on shout now, right next to Julia’s ear, shatteringly loud. Julia jerks physically and the suddenness of the movement shocks Emma. For a second, she blinks up at Julia, wide-eyed; then the corners of her mouth screw down.
“Sorry, sweetie—”
Too late. Emma’s mouth opens wide and she emits a piercing wail. The only time Emma isn’t quiet or shy is when she cries.
Both officers look like they want nothing more than to run out of the house.
“Sorry, this really isn’t a good time,” Julia says, which is a strange thing to say, isn’t it? It’s not the thing to say to officers who are trying to talk to you about your spouse’s demise. Is it? Who knows what the proper thing to say is? Julia is sure she looks guilty. She feels guilty, asking herself what an innocent person would say, as though she isn’t innocent. But then again, she isn’t. She has so much to hide, and part of her is grateful that Emma is shrieking because it gives her an excuse to kick these officers out. She stands, grunting under Emma’s weight.
“All right, if you do think of something, give us a call.” Officer Gray has to shout to make herself heard over the din. She takes out a business card and places it on the coffee table before she and her partner stand and stride toward the door. Julia notices the striding, so confident, with a definite destination in mind. She can’t remember when the last time was that she’d walked with such sureness. Nowadays, she walks with her shoulders rounded, her head perpetually bent to the ground, eyes glued to the top of Emma’s head.
At the door, Officer Gray pauses and turns to face Julia. Their eyes meet, and Julia almost sobs because there is so much pity in Officer Gray’s eyes. But then Officer Gray’s gaze slides down to the trash bags, and Julia goes cold as she watches the officer’s expression harden. There is no way that she doesn’t spot the PlayStation this time, along with the silk ties. She must know these are bags filled with Marshall’s things, lined up by the door as though Julia had foreseen his death. Officer Gray says something, but Julia can’t hear her above Emma’s wails. Then she shouts, “We’ll be in touch.”
Julia doesn’t wait for them to turn and walk away before shutting the door and hurrying over to the sofa, where she nurses Emma. She doesn’t even realize she’s crying until a tear plops on Emma’s cheek, and after that there’s no use trying to stop the sobs from shuddering through her body.