Chapter Nineteen Tessa
Chapter Nineteen
Tessa
I’m used to the feeling of being watched, the lightheadedness of it, the out-of-body experience.
I’m used to the way it makes you react and perform simultaneously, the way it forces you to be too aware of your skin, your bones, your breath.
This isn’t being watched. It’s something more intrusive, something I don’t understand.
Regina has my couch. She has my coffee table, my end tables to match.
Even the candle on the windowsill is the same brand and scent I have in each of our bathrooms. The copper pans.
The Japanese knives. My belongings read differently in her space, more bougie minimalist than maternal chic, a pared-down version of my life.
I stumble to the couch—my couch—and try to breathe.
Has she been inside my house? Did the cleaning service send her?
Or she worked for our contractor? Bartended at one of the parties we hosted before Covid?
Is that how she met Dan, at my home? Was she obsessed with me, as some weird way of being closer to her lover across the canal?
Barb fusses with a deck of tarot cards, her face contorted with worry. Worry, not fear. Something about this apartment unsettles her. Only it doesn’t terrify her the way it does me.
I try to quell the dizziness. My ankles are throbbing. The baby hiccups, sending jolts through my stomach that alarm me each time. Regina can’t follow me anymore. Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel safe.
Barb notices my measured breathing. “You okay?”
“Just low blood pressure.” I elevate my throbbing ankles.
As Barb walks by, she rubs my shoulder, her fingers warm against my bare skin.
“Take your time,” she says before disappearing into the bedroom.
I try to relax, only each time my breath settles and the couch grows comfortable, I remember it’s my couch, my coffee table, my vase.
The cycle starts anew. Why was she copying my life?
Shouldn’t she be coveting Claire’s? The same thought loops, growing more menacing each time: Why me? Why me? Why me? And then, Why Jasper?
I need to get out of this apartment. I feel it as profoundly as I’ve felt everything else about her. Regina’s a threat to me. Even in death. Especially in death, where I can’t confront her, can’t caution her to leave me and my family alone.
I find my phone and text Marisol to tell her I’ll be home early.
Pins and needles shoot through my calves as I head toward the bedroom to tell Barb I’m leaving.
At least the bedroom looks entirely foreign.
The headboard and dresser, although clearly expensive, are farmhouse chic rather than modern like mine.
Barb sits on the bed, an iPad resting in her lap.
“It was on her dresser,” Barb says distantly. “The police didn’t even take it.” And I can hear what she’s really saying, how little they investigated, their utter disregard for her daughter’s death.
I’m still on edge, but here, in this bedroom that’s nothing like my bedroom, the urge to leave lessens. I sit on the bed beside her and reach for the iPad, pressing the power button on the top. It’s dead.
“Did you find a charger?” I ask.
She shakes her head no. I check the surface tops first, which are clutter- and dust-free, then the bedside table.
When I see a vibrator, I shield the drawer from Barb.
The charger isn’t in there, so I begin the indignant process of squatting until I’m low enough to see beneath the bed.
Sure enough, an Apple cord is plugged into the outlet below her headboard.
I further disgrace myself by flopping onto my side so I can wiggle toward the bed to reach beneath it.
“Tessa, my god.” Barb breaks free of her trance and reaches a hand to help me up. She guides me to the bed, where I catch my breath while she plugs the cord into the tablet.
The screen remains black. She taps it. Nothing happens. Frantically, she starts prodding it. “Is it broken?”
The screen lights up, and we both startle.
I don’t like that it’s on, that we can bring Regina back to life that easily.
I swipe up, surprised to see that it doesn’t have a password set on it, then quickly understand why.
There’s no social media on the tablet. No Documents icon.
The iMessages and FaceTime are turned off.
The mail isn’t linked to an account. Just apps for streaming devices. She used it as a TV, nothing more.
“Anything?” Barb asks.
I shake my head no. This gives me an idea.
I go to Settings, not sure it will work.
I scroll until I see three green icons in a row.
Phone, messages, and FaceTime. iMessages and FaceTime go through your Apple ID, something Regina would need to have linked to be able to download the streaming apps.
I push the iMessage button over to activate it. FaceTime too.
“Anything?” Barb asks.
“Not sure yet.” I close the settings and wait.
“Tessa, what are you looking—”
Suddenly, texts materialize across the screen, four in total, all new messages. Regina must have deleted messages after she read them, something I’ve never seen anyone do. If that doesn’t scream sketchiness, I don’t know what does.
There’s one message from a 310 area code; another, 626.
LA County. The other two area codes I don’t recognize.
The first text reads, Hi! It was nice to meet you last week.
I’d love to talk more about your project .
The second text is colder, Not interested.
Pls leave me alone. It’s the third text that gets my attention: Hey!
Running late. So sorry! See you at the Brig in ten.
The Brig. This must be the woman she went to meet.
We should hand this over to the police. It may be useful to their investigation. Except the iPad was on her dresser. They didn’t take it. They won’t want it now. There is no investigation except ours, the mothers’.
Before I can second-guess myself, I punch the telephone number into my phone to call the woman from the Brig and put it on speaker, motioning to Barb to stay quiet. I’ll do the talking. It rings three times, and as I’m debating what to say in a message, the woman picks up.
“Hello?”
“Hi, I’m sorry to bother you like this. I’m a friend of Regina’s,” I cautiously begin.
Before I can say anything else, she interrupts, “I told Reggie never to contact me again. Or maybe she was too drunk to remember. I’ll make myself clear now. Leave me alone. I’m not interested in Reggie’s offer, from her or from you.”
With that, she hangs up. I call her back, but it goes straight to voicemail. I try her again, to the same result.
“Call her again,” Barb insists.
“It won’t work. She’s blocked me.”
“She’s wrong. There’s no way Regina was drunk.” She incants drunk like it’s a spell, a curse this woman has cast over her daughter. “She must have tricked Regina into drinking.”
Even I can hear how unlikely this sounds. Although I was reluctant to believe it before, I know it’s true now. Regina was drunk the night she died. That doesn’t mean she wasn’t murdered, but it’s a fact Barb can’t continue to deny.
“There’s something I didn’t tell you, from when I talked to the bartender at the Brig.
” I hesitate. Is there really any purpose in telling her that Regina was drunk?
How would it change her murder? Barb deserves to know, though.
Even if she hates me for being the messenger, she needs to confront the truth about her daughter’s death.
“She said that Regina ordered a tequila. That she kept ordering. I’m sorry I left that part out before.
I didn’t want to be the one . . . it doesn’t change anything. ”
Barb peers over at me, bruised. Betrayed. She shifts away as she scrolls up to the newest message from the 626 number. Hey! It’s April. I finally have an LA number. No going back now!!! Speaking of, got a call back. So Stoked. Need to resched tho. Hope that’s okay. Still totally interested!
Barb narrates as she types. “‘Hi April. Congratulations on your big break. I’d still love to meet up. Does tomorrow work for you? Hope to see you soon. Best. Regina.’ Sent.”
It’s not a text anyone under sixty would write, but I don’t correct her. Besides, she already pressed Send.
Waiting for April to respond is anticlimactic. Plus, the room’s still charged with the secret I kept from Barb, the betrayal she feels in response.
“Barb, I’m really sorry. I should have told you what the bartender said.”
We both jump as the iPad pings in Barb’s lap.
Tomorrow works! Same place, same time?
“How’re we supposed to know where to meet her?”
I reach for the iPad and type, Can we say 10? I’ve got a tight day tomorrow.
We stare at the tablet, hoping she’ll take the bait. The tension between us persists, the story I withheld, the reason why.
“I didn’t want to be the one to tell you. I know how that feels. My mom was an alcoholic. I thought she was sober, then she died in a car—” My voice cracks, and I’m unable to finish the confession. After all these years, that wound can still be opened. It hasn’t healed completely.
10 AM at the Ferris wheel it is:), April writes back.
The expression on Barb’s face remains surprisingly disappointed. “There’ve got to be Ferris wheels all over LA.”
“She means the pier. In Santa Monica.”
“You’re sure?”
“There’s another Ferris wheel in Newport Beach, but the only one someone local would call the Ferris wheel is the one in Santa Monica. Barb, I’m really sorry.”