Chapter Eighteen
In the bedroom she shares with her sister Caroline, Mary Beth crouches in front of the angled bench built beneath the three turret windows. Tugging on the middle section of molding, she removes a section of wood to reveal a hidden compartment.
She’s pretty sure her parents don’t know it exists. Nor do the twins, Eve and Joanna, nearly six years older than Mary Beth, who moved out and married equally dull guys named Jim.
Only Caroline knows about the secret panel because she’s the one who found it when they were little girls, arguing about something.
Caroline was probably threatening to tattle on her to their parents about something they wouldn’t approve of—which describes many things Mary Beth did back then and nearly everything she does now.
That day, Mary Beth got mad and gave her a shove. Caroline stumbled into the window seat, and her foot hit the molding.
At first, they assumed they’d damaged the wall, and that meant their father was certain to punish them.
Mary Beth was usually on the receiving end of his belt lashings—rarely the older girls or Caroline, and only when he held them responsible for some costly repair.
The house was old, and everything in it was worn.
But if they needed a plumber, their father assumed it was because someone had flushed something that shouldn’t be flushed; if the refrigerator went on the fritz, he blamed whomever he suspected of browsing too long with the door open.
This time, though, there would be no punishment. The wall wasn’t damaged; it had a concealed panel to a secret cupboard.
Mary Beth and Caroline promised each other they’d never tell a soul about it.
Over the years, it was the perfect place to stash Christmas gifts, candy, flashlights so they could read in bed at night—innocent stuff. Later, Mary Beth hid her diary, her eye makeup and short skirts, and her Daisy disposable razor because she wasn’t allowed to shave her legs.
Back in March, she hid the extra pregnancy test she bought after the first one was negative—only because she tested too early, and not because she wasn’t pregnant.
She’s pregnant, all right. Her waistbands are getting snug, and she’s in a perpetual state of nausea.
Nausea, guilt, and terror.
Nobody knows. Certainly not her family. Not her friends. Not the potential father.
There are only two. It’s not like she’s a slut. But why would she tell them? One is a jerk; the other has a girlfriend. She doesn’t love them; they don’t love her.
Most of the time, she’s pretty sure no one does, with the exception of Caroline, because she loves everyone, and everyone loves her.
The baby, though . . . the baby will love Mary Beth. She’s going to be the best mom ever, because her parents have set a great example of what not to do.
She reaches into the hidden compartment and takes out the doll she’s stashed there. It’s an American Girl, once her most prized possession. Now it serves as a hiding spot for something far more valuable.
She twists off the head. Then she reaches into her pocket, fishes out the quarter she found on the sidewalk by a parking meter, and adds it to the stash of cash and coins inside the doll. Every little bit helps, but it isn’t nearly enough.
Not for going to Syracuse University, which became her goal after visiting last year for a gymnastics tournament, even with an academic scholarship her guidance counselor assured her was possible if she kept her grades up.
Her grades have slipped this quarter, but it doesn’t matter. Even college doesn’t matter. Her savings are now meant for something far more important.
She’s starting a nanny job as soon as school gets out, working for rich summer people. The pay will get her to her goal, but that money won’t start coming in for another six weeks.
She reattaches the doll’s head, returns the doll to the cubby, and goes over to the mirror.
From the front, she looks like her normal self.
But when she turns sideways, she can see that her boobs are getting huge and her stomach is protruding in her jeans.
She tries untucking the T-shirt. Now she just looks fat all over.
Time is running out.
She thinks of the Baxters.
Four years ago, when Mary Beth turned thirteen, they were her first babysitting customers.
The twins, Erica and Erin, were seven, and adorably so, with missing baby teeth, pigtails, and matching nightgowns.
Now they’re in that awkward stage, physically and socially.
If they pay attention to Mary Beth at all, it’s to complain about their designated bedtime or the insufficient snacks their parents provided.
The effervescent and beautiful Mrs. Baxter doesn’t work, but unlike Mary Beth’s own mother, she’d never call herself a housewife, and neither would anyone else.
She has a dressing room full of gorgeous clothes and a busy schedule that doesn’t always involve her husband.
She has a huge group of friends and often hires Mary Beth to watch the girls during the day while she golfs or goes to lunch, the gym, or the mall.
Mary Beth always imagined herself as the exact same kind of wife and mom when she grew up, but with a loving, fun, and much cuter husband.
Mr. Baxter is an attorney—boring, stern and silent.
Mary Beth used to try to make conversation with him whenever he drove her home, but she’s long since given up.
He always seems to be brooding, and last week, she had to remind him to pay her.
When he did, it was short by five dollars, which she didn’t realize until she was home.
She thought of calling Mrs. Baxter about it, but that would be awkward. Especially now. The woman has lost her sparkle, like soda that’s gone flat. Mary Beth has no idea what’s troubling her lately, but she doesn’t want to know. That would only make things harder.
Things as in this thing. The thing she’s going to do to the Baxters on this balmy Saturday night in May.
Well, not as much to them as for herself, and the baby, and the new life they’re going to have together.
This is the only way. They say money doesn’t buy happiness, but it can buy freedom, and for her, freedom would be happiness.
She waits until her parents are in bed and Caroline is asleep. It’s far from the first time she’s stolen out of the house at this hour. It’s what got her into this situation in the first place—sneaking around with boys her parents would never allow her to date.
Tonight, she’s dressed all in black, carrying a flashlight and the pillowcase she stripped from her bed.
The Baxters used to live a few houses away on Fourth Street. Last year, they moved to Pine Ridge, a private development, where huge homes are set back from the road and away from each other.
Tonight, their house is dark. They’re away, visiting Mr. Baxter’s mother in Boston for Mother’s Day weekend. Mrs. Baxter mentioned the trip Wednesday night, with an eye roll that implied she wasn’t looking forward to it.
“I’m a mother too,” she told Mary Beth as she strapped on a pair of red leather heels that matched her red dress. “Every year, we have to make sure my mother-in-law has a special day, and it’s never about me, or what I want.”
“What do you want?”
Mrs. Baxter hesitated, wearing a sad smile. “You know, I’m not sure. But not sitting in traffic would be nice for a change.”
After she and Mr. Baxter drove away, Mary Beth left the girls watching Sister, Sister in the finished part of the basement and slipped into the shadowy concrete cavern beyond.
It houses the furnace and storage tubs that haven’t been touched since the move.
There’s a door leading out to the side yard, but the family never seems to use it.
Mary Beth unlocked it.
Three nights later, she reaches for the knob.
It’s still unlocked, as she anticipated. She opens the door, turns on the flashlight, and descends the steps to the basement.
In the rec room, she feels a twinge of remorse as she disconnects the girls’ PlayStation and shoves the console into a pillowcase. Their parents will buy them a new one. New games too. She helps herself to a stack, then makes her way upstairs.
In the kitchen, she opens the drawer where the Baxters keep a wad of cash they use for pizza deliveries, the girls’ allowances, and of course, to pay Mary Beth for babysitting. She reminds herself of the time Mr. Baxter shorted her as she tucks it into her sack.
But he only owes her five dollars, not . . . Is this hundreds?
Maybe. She doesn’t stop to count it.
Her heart races as she creeps upstairs and opens the door to Mrs. Baxter’s dressing room. How many times has she perched on the cushioned bench here while Mrs. Baxter tries on various outfits and accessories, asking her opinion?
She has lots of costume jewelry in a custom-built armoire but keeps the good stuff in a velvet-lined drawer, including the diamond engagement ring she stopped wearing years ago, saying it’s too flashy.
Mary Beth takes it, some pearls, gemstone earrings, and a tennis bracelet. She’s reaching for a sapphire pendant when she hears something behind her.
It’s a small sound—a gasp.
She whirls and sees a woman in the doorway. It takes her a moment to realize that it’s Mrs. Baxter, because she’s not wearing makeup, her hair is hanging flat and loose, and she’s in pink pajamas instead of the lacy lingerie Mary Beth always imagined she’d wear.
But Mrs. Baxter recognizes her. Mary Beth sees her register shock and dismay before she opens her mouth and shouts for her husband.
Later—much later, at the police station—Mary Beth sits in the holding cell, in tears and trying not to vomit yet again. She’d done so in the squad car and again as she was being processed, handcuffed and helpless to even wipe her mouth.
Now the cuffs are off, and she clenches her hands as she listens to the Baxters down the corridor, telling Chief Kennedy they were supposed to be in Boston. Mr. Baxter’s mother came to visit them instead, and she’s back at the house with the twins, who slept through everything.
No, they say, Mary Beth has never given them reason not to trust her.
No, she’s never done anything like this.
No, she doesn’t have a drug problem, as far as they know.
Yes, of course they want to press charges.
Then Mary Beth hears other voices—her parents.
Her father, raging. “Where is she? Where’s my daughter? You’d better have her locked up, because if I get my hands on her, she’s going to wish she was behind bars, or worse!”
Her mother, carrying on as if someone has died.
Hearing her plaintive sobs, and her father’s sharp admonishment to his wife, Mary Beth stops crying.
Not because her father ordered her to pull herself together, but because she isn’t weak. Not like her mother. She’ll never be the kind of woman who obeys a man and doesn’t stand up for herself, or for her children.
She wraps her arms around her stomach.
She doesn’t regret the pregnancy, or what she’s done to provide for her child’s future—even tonight, at the Baxters’. They have plenty of money. They could have replaced everything.
She only regrets getting caught. Charges aside, her parents are going to make her life miserable every moment she has to spend with them before she can make her escape.
After that, we’ll be home free, she tells the baby, as footsteps and voices approach her cell.
They just have to get through this miserable Saturday night, and then—
Wait, no. It must be long after midnight. Sunday morning.
Happy Mother’s Day to me.