Chapter 6
MARTA
On her way home from the Murder Mamas soiree, Marta gave up on her boots.
Her ankles were shaky, her blisters were raw, and the balls of her feet were going numb.
The pavement was blissfully cold beneath her feet, her threadbare socks providing only the thinnest layer of protection, and she winced when she stepped on a pebble.
Despite the discomfort, the sensation of walking nearly barefoot was oddly liberating.
Marta thought that the last time she did this, she must have been twenty-one, buzzed on hard lemonade or cheap tequila, on her way home from a party with Derrick.
Back when he still cared about spending time with her.
The most recent time Derrick had stayed out all night was this past spring, after his coed softball league championship game.
His team, the Teacher’s Pets, had won the title and went out to the pub to celebrate.
Marta panicked when she woke up in the middle of the night, alone in bed.
But the worry quickly turned to anger when she checked her messages.
There was only Phone dying. Home tmrw. She picked up the hardcover book from beside the bed and threw it across the room, denting the drywall.
The day after the softball game, Derrick shambled into the house in the early afternoon, reeking of stale beer and cigarettes (which he claimed he didn’t smoke, although Marta kept finding lighters in his pockets when she did the laundry).
He told her he’d stayed on his friend Zeke’s couch, and she did not press him on it.
She did spend at least an hour studying the photo that one of his teammates posted to Instagram and wondering whether Derrick and the cute brunette with braids were standing too close together.
Marta gasped as she stepped on something sharp; car-window confetti sprinkled the sidewalk underfoot.
She’d been so wrapped up in her own drunken thoughts that she hadn’t noticed the pebbles of glass until it was too late.
Gingerly, she picked her way through the mess.
She knew she should put the boots back on, but she just couldn’t bring herself to do it.
They had been a Christmas present from Derrick a few years ago.
Even though he knew she hated wearing heels, he bought them for her because he thought they’d make her look more sophisticated.
On impulse, as she passed a public trash can, she shoved the boots inside.
She let out a laugh, an unstable one, the kind that quickly turns to tears.
Marta knew she must look like a total disaster—barefoot with mascara trails down her cheeks—but so what?
The only person who got embarrassed when she was drunk and emotional was Derrick.
As Marta approached the house that she and Derrick had shared for the past five years, she tried to take a deep breath, but there was a band of fear around her chest and she couldn’t seem to draw in enough air.
Marta shakily unlocked the front door, wishing she’d left the lights on, then stepped inside and felt the dark pressing in on her from all sides.
She was alone, just like she knew she would be.
On Sunday afternoon, after speaking with Imogen, Marta officially reported her husband missing.
It was a surreal experience, like she was starring in a police procedural but no one had given her the script.
The smell of industrial cleaner in the interview room where she gave her statement threatened to overwhelm her, and the entire time she was speaking to the officers, she felt like she was floating outside her body, watching the scene from above.
When she got home from the police station, Marta walked directly into the kitchen without taking her shoes off.
That had always bothered Derrick; he’d complain about finding bits of dirt or grass on the floor, but wouldn’t actually pick up a broom to do something about it.
She plopped herself down at the kitchen table and zoned out, staring at the clock on the wall.
She watched the minute hand tick forty-seven times before her phone buzzed—a text from her boss with next week’s shift schedule for the bookstore—pulling her out of her daze.
She stood and shook the feeling back into her left foot.
Pacing the kitchen, Marta tried to figure out what she was supposed to be doing right now.
If she made pasta, would that create some kind of psychosomatic link with this feeling of dread that would rear its ugly head any time she tried to eat spaghetti?
She decided to risk it, even though there was something almost too joyful about a bowl of noodles.
While waiting for the water to boil, she called Imogen, something she frequently did while cooking (she even knew Imogen’s number by heart—an honour that did not extend to her own husband).
But Marta had never felt this nervous fluttering in her throat while waiting for her friend to answer, and she ended up half hoping for voice mail. Imogen picked up at the last minute.
“I did it. I went in and filed the report.” Marta added a tablespoon of salt to the pasta water, wondering if this was what it was going to be like from now on. Dinner for one. There are worse things in life.
“Right. I mean good, that’s good.” Imogen was quiet for a moment, then asked, “Did they say what the next steps will be? Are they going to look for him?”
“Not yet, apparently. It’s not like when a child goes missing.
They took all the information, but I could tell they thought that I was overreacting, especially when I told them about the other times he’s pulled something like this.
But it feels different this time—how could I forgive myself if something’s actually wrong and I didn’t take it seriously?
” Marta had caught the look that passed between the officers when she described the situation, that slight dismissive flick of their eyes.
And when she told them, in response to a question about anything else happening that was out of the ordinary, that Derrick had recently made a substantial withdrawal from their joint bank account, one of the officers actually put down his pen.
In real time, she could see their interest wane, and she could tell what they were thinking: that she was naive, that he’d taken off of his own free will, that she was wasting their time.
On her way out, the younger officer condescended to her with an insulting anecdote about his parents’ divorce.
Did he think she was his parents’ age? He looked like he was only ten years younger than her, if that.
“I know, babe, I know,” said Imogen. “You did the right thing. Listen, anything you need, I’m here for you, okay? We’ll get through this.”
The pasta was now finished cooking—al dente, the way she liked it.
If Derrick were with her, she’d have cooked it to a near mush to accommodate his childlike preferences.
She prepared herself a large bowl drowned in homemade tomato sauce and piled high with Parmesan cheese, then added some fresh basil from a pot in her window, the aromatics of the fresh herbs lingering on her fingertips.
She even opened the vintage bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pape that she and Derrick had set aside for a special occasion. There was no point in saving it now.
The next morning, Marta had a crashing hangover from drinking the entire bottle of wine.
Unfortunately, there was no way she’d be able to sleep it off; she woke with anxiety gerbils running circuits through her chest and brain.
She decided to put her nervous energy to good use by deep cleaning the house.
On her hands and knees in the kitchen, Marta wiped down the baseboards (which were somehow dusty and sticky at the same time), then Magic Erased the scuffs from the walls, then scrubbed and disinfected all the surfaces.
She took outsized pleasure in scraping bits of char from the stovetop burners with her fingernails.
Finally, sweaty, dirty, and exhausted, she poured herself a glass of orange juice and went to sit in the backyard.
Marta had wanted a bursting garden since the moment she and Derrick moved in, but he kept putting her off because he liked using the space—which was covered with broken flagstones shot through with weeds—as a drinking spot with his buddies.
Last time she hosted book club, Marta had tried to make the place more inviting by stringing coloured lanterns, but Celeste ruined it by making a snarky comment about how Marta’s yard brought back fond memories of being twenty-two and attending BYOB house parties.
Which meant, of course, that she thought it was tacky and immature.
And as soon as Celeste said it, that was all Marta could see, and she hated her for being right.
As she drank her orange juice, Marta allowed herself to sulk about how much she wished that Celeste had never come into Imogen’s life.
She felt guilty for thinking it, but it was true.
When Marta and Derrick had moved back to town, she was so excited to reconnect with her childhood best friend.
She was awed by the professional success Imogen had achieved with the Inherit the Future Fund, and grateful that Imogen still wanted her around.
She knew she shouldn’t begrudge the fact that Imogen had made new friends, but it was hard to find her footing with them.
Celeste, in particular, was difficult company.
Everything with Celeste was always fabulous and ah-mazing and perfection, a glossy sheen shellacked over everything she said.
Even after over three years of book club together, Marta felt as if she didn’t know who Celeste really was.
And she certainly wasn’t expecting Celeste to appear in her backyard that afternoon.
The sky was that perfect fall blue, crisp with possibility.
Marta turned her face up to the sun as she slipped her headphones on to listen to an old episode of Filthy Funds.
She was so zoned-out that she didn’t see the back gate open; it wasn’t until Celeste was in the middle of the yard that she caught the movement out of the corner of her eye.
Marta’s heart skittered in fright and she ripped the headphones from her ears.
The first thing she noticed was a giant bouquet of dahlias wrapped in brown paper and twine.
But the fact that Celeste would go out of her way to bring her flowers did not make her feel loved or supported.
Rather, it seemed to Marta as though Celeste was trying to prove something to herself, like she was the kind of person who was a good friend.
Marta was also bothered that Celeste had shown up without any notice, as if they were the kind of friends who popped by unannounced for a chat and a cup of tea.
That had literally never happened in the entire history of their relationship.
Marta didn’t think they’d ever even seen each other outside Imogen’s company.
Celeste was standing in the yard like she owned it, holding not only the bundle of flowers but an assortment of other farmers’ market items in a wicker basket.
“Marta! Sorry, did I scare you?” She didn’t wait for a reply.
“Oh my god, what a worker-chic look, totally fab. I love the battered overalls, they’re so you.
” Marta looked down at her cleaning outfit; she knew she looked like shit.
“I wanted to drop off a few things to say that I’m thinking about you.
I’m sure Derrick will be home soon and everything will be fine, but until then, you could use some treats.
Here, all of this is for you . . .” Celeste placed the flowers and the basket onto the wonky picnic table and made a ta-da flourish with her hands.
Marta wondered what had possessed Celeste to think she needed Triple X ghost-pepper hot sauce, lavender basil gluten-free crackers, and pickled quail’s eggs.
Why didn’t she just make a casserole like a normal person?
Marta tried to feel grateful but fell far short.
Celeste extended a slender hand and lightly clasped Marta’s upper arm.
“I’m sorry this is happening to you. I genuinely hope that .
. . everything will be okay.” For a moment, Marta was touched, but then Celeste ruined it by continuing, “I remember when I was having a hard time—you know, when Harry died—my kitchen was overflowing with things people brought me, and it was so comforting. I know you don’t have that many friends, so I figured that this kind of thing would go a long way. ”
Marta twitched her arm away from Celeste’s touch. “Yes, these treats will go a long way to filling the friendless void in my life.”
Her sarcasm was lost on Celeste, who nodded earnestly. “I hope you like them. I’m pretty sure you will. I’ve seen the way you get after a charcuterie board—my god, I wish I had your appetite. I wasn’t too worried about you being a picky eater.”
In that moment, Marta decided she would rather go hungry than consume a single thing that Celeste had gifted her. “Thanks so much for stopping by and bringing all this stuff. I’d invite you in, but”—she waved her hand vaguely—“it’s not a good time.”
“No worries! Oh my god, not at all. I should get going.” But Celeste didn’t make any moves to leave.
Marta knew what would be coming next: a request to use her washroom.
Celeste had the smallest bladder of the group and notoriously never left a location without one for the road.
Well, not today. “Sorry, Cee. I’ve got to run inside.
” Marta started walking backwards. “I left my cell charging and I’m worried the police might have called with an update.
Talktoyousoonbye.” She rattled off the last bit as she stepped into the kitchen and slid the glass door shut behind her, clicking the latch to lock it.
She retreated to the study, collapsed into Derrick’s favourite chair, and listened to Filthy Funds until her hands stopped shaking.