After #3
“I’m just saying, Mom…things happen.” Her voice was soft. “People have affairs. Even good people. I’m not saying that Dad is a bad—”
“Elizabeth, this is ridic—”
“Mom.” Her eyes were filled with…love? Looking at her daughter, Gretchen felt something welling up inside her. A sadness so overwhelming she was sure it would destroy her. Elizabeth needed to stop this right now.
“Elizabeth, I really don’t understand why—”
“Because it’s obvious?” Now that was the Elizabeth that Gretchen was used to—sarcastic.
“I’m sorry, but do you have actual proof of something that I am unaware of? I mean aside from your utterly biased, self-serving assumptions.”
Expressions moved across Elizabeth’s face, first a kind of anger, then heartbreak. Pure heartbreak. It was awful. “Mom, come on.”
“Elizabeth, your father has supported you financially throughout this entire—”
“Money? You want to make this about money?” Elizabeth blinked quickly. “I was trying to take your side here.”
Her “side”? There were sides? Gretchen went to the refrigerator in search of syrup.
“I’m just saying your father has worked really hard. He deserves our loyalty. He deserves it because we love him.” Gretchen was aware her words sounded hollow. But trying to wrap her mind around what love even meant anymore was like trying to grab a cloud.
“I think you mean willful blindness, not loyalty.” Elizabeth was glaring at Gretchen now, but it was better than the heartbreak. Anything was. “Things happen, Mom. Affairs. Accidents. People argue. One thing leads to another.”
Strike back. What alternative was there? In fact, it felt like Gretchen’s life might depend on it. She stepped closer to her daughter and drove a finger into the island.
“Elizabeth, your father has done nothing wrong. Not a single thing. If you are going to be here, in my home, you need to respect that. Otherwise, you can go back to that cult of yours and stay there.”
Elizabeth flinched, then blinked quickly—like she’d been slapped.
“Pancakes, yes!” Becks exclaimed from the doorway. Thank God. His hair was sticking up, and he was rubbing at his puffy eyes like a little boy. “I thought I smelled them from upstairs.”
He took the stool next to Elizabeth. “What are you still doing here?” she asked. “I thought you were going back to school.”
“Yeah, well…” He shrugged. “I actually don’t even remember coming home.”
“You don’t remember?” Elizabeth sounded concerned.
Becks’s last “episode” (when he was eleven) had involved him disappearing for hours—and not being able to account for his time afterward. If it hadn’t been for how drunk he’d been the night before, Gretchen would have been alarmed.
Becks reached for his sister’s cup of coffee, took a noisy sip, then grimaced. “Fuck, black? Ever hear of almond milk, fucking psycho?”
“Becks,” Elizabeth pressed. “Seriously, what are you still doing here?”
He scratched his head. “I went to hang out with Luke to, I don’t know, blow off some steam or whatever before going back to school.
Anyway, we had some vodka Red Bulls, and then some more.
And then I lost count.” He shrugged again.
“Anyway, I want to be here. With all of you.” He looked at Gretchen.
“I need to be. Classes just started yesterday, and I can email my professors and keep up on my work, talk to Coach. I’ll stay on top of everything.
I promise. We don’t even have to tell Dad if it will worry him or whatever.
” He hesitated. “Please, Mom. I can’t be up there all alone. ”
And what could Gretchen possibly say to that? Also, with Becks at home, she could keep an eye on what kind of toll the stress was taking on him. That was a worry all its own.
“As long as you really do stay on top of things,” Gretchen said, pulling the first set of pancakes off the pan and stacking them on a plate. “But I really don’t think you should drink like that ever, Becks. You weren’t making any sense.”
“You talked to me?” Becks asked. “I don’t remember that at all.”
“We spoke briefly. I helped you get to bed, that’s all.”
“What did I say?” He seemed nervous. Maybe he had been on something.
“Nothing, really. You just kept apologizing.” Gretchen set the plate on the counter. “You should eat something, Becks. You’ll feel better.”
Becks speared a fork through the top three pancakes and transferred them to his plate. He smiled lopsidedly. “You got some Tylenol floating around somewhere?”
Gretchen smiled despite herself. A hungover twenty-year-old son on the dean’s list for computer science at Dartmouth was a problem she could deal with, the kind she could have even told the ladies at tennis about. She felt a sharp pang of nostalgia for her old life.
“There might be some in the powder room,” Gretchen said. “Let me go check.”
It turned out there was nothing in the powder room medicine cabinet except fancy hand lotions and expensive soaps.
Gretchen checked the narrow powder room closet behind her: nothing of much use in there, either.
She did have Tylenol in one of her purses, or certainly upstairs.
She was closing the closet door when a small duffel at the bottom caught her eye.
It was one of Richard’s Goldman bags. They had dozens at this point—the company gave them out at the annual firm outing—but what was it doing in the bathroom? Gretchen crouched down, unzipped it.
What on earth—cans of spray paint? That made no sense.
The panic was rising in her chest, coming on even faster than when she blacked out during Oppy’s performance.
Then her mind settled on an obvious explanation.
The wallpaper guys must have left the paint, and Lita had used one of the bags to tuck it away.
Lita did that kind of thing all the time in an effort to be helpful.
Usually, it was. It still was. Gretchen calmly zipped the bag, returned it to the closet, and shut the door.
—
Not every little thing was an explosive secret, Gretchen repeated to herself as she returned to the kitchen, Tylenol from the upstairs bathroom in her hand. Becks and Elizabeth were staring down at his phone, their brows both furrowed.
“What’s going on, you two?” Gretchen asked.
“ ‘We need to meet again,’ ” Becks said, his eyes still on his phone.
“Meet about what?” Gretchen asked.
Becks looked up at her and gestured to the phone. “That’s what the text says. Who is it?”
She laughed. “Well, how on earth would I know who’s texting you?”
“It’s your phone, Mom,” Elizabeth said. “It’s from a blocked number.”
Oh my God. It was her phone Becks was holding. She’d left it there on the island without even thinking. Act normal.
“Mom…hello…who is that?” Elizabeth prodded.
“I have no idea.” Gretchen laughed and, to her credit, quite believably. “A wrong number obviously. It’s a blocked call. Or maybe some kind of prank.”
She held out a hand and when Becks passed her the phone, she dropped it into her purse on the far end of the island.
“Now, can I get you some fruit, Elizabeth? I also have some…Croissants aren’t vegan, either, are they?
I really didn’t prepare properly. I should always have things in the house you can eat.
” She grabbed her purse. “I’ll just run down to Vanessa’s and pick up some vegan muffins. They have so many options these days.”
“Stop obsessing about the stupid food, Mom.” Elizabeth eyed Gretchen suspiciously.
Nothing was lost on these children, nothing!
Gretchen saw the moment Elizabeth willed herself to leave it, and that kindness might have been worse than anything else.
Much worse. “I just mean—we’re okay, Mom.
Really. You don’t have to do everything. ”
The sound of the front door opening echoed through the apartment. And a second later Cassandra called out, “Hello! Where is everyone?”
The meeting with Scotty—he and Mikey Pearce would be there any minute. Gretchen had gotten so distracted she’d nearly forgotten all about it.
“We’re in the kitchen!” Gretchen called back.
“What are you doing here?” Elizabeth asked when Cassandra finally appeared.
“And hello to you, Elizabeth. So delighted to see that you’re still here.”
Elizabeth made a guttural noise. “Yes, Queen Cassandra. You know you’re not actually the only person who cares about this situation.”
“Oh, fuck off, Elizabeth,” Cassandra snapped back. “Why don’t you go back to the mud people?”
“Can you both shut up?” Becks grumbled. “I already have a headache.”
At least their focus was on one another now, and not her texts. She went to check the time on her nonexistent watch, then glanced at the oven clock. “I need to run up and get changed,” she said casually.
“What’s wrong with what you’re wearing?” Becks asked, motioning to Gretchen’s Lululemon yoga pants and zip-up sweatshirt.
“Meeting with Dad’s lawyers warrants something more than athleisure. I’ll be right back. Can the three of you clean up from breakfast?”
Cassandra held up her hands. “Wait, I didn’t even eat any—”
“Cassandra, please!” Gretchen barked, then smiled.
It wasn’t just Elizabeth who was gawking at her now—all three children were staring at her.
“I’m just asking for a little help so that I can take a minute and focus on gathering myself for this meeting about a murder case against your father.
Is that too much to expect from my own children? ”
“No, Mom,” Cassandra said, chastened. “Of course not.”
—
Gretchen dug her phone out of her purse.
Did they want more money? She would gladly pay if they’d really go away.
But would they? This was why she should never have gotten involved with people like this.
Where would it end? How would she come up with more cash?
She didn’t want to sell more jewelry. The watch—she felt a fresh pop of anger.
This was all Richard’s fault. Whatever regrettable choices Gretchen had made, he was the one who’d invited all this drama into their lives.