Chapter 4
I was glad that Benjamin was at the pool when I got home, not that I thought of this new apartment as “home” yet. I needed time alone to recover from feeling threatened and shamed, and also to think. Was it my fault? What did I miss?
Suicide is multicausal. There are “distal and proximal risk factors.” Fancy words. I was proud when I’d first learned how to use them in grad school.
The blinds were down, and when I walked in, I was struck by a wave of damp, dark heat.
Only May, but we’d already had a string of eighty-degree days.
I could open the blinds to the blazing summer sun.
I could leave them down, but even with several lamps turned on, the low popcorn-ceilinged room was abysmally dim.
I raised the blinds halfway, checking the street for any sign that Jack Mayfield had followed me home.
The distance from our neighborhood near the railroad tracks and his stunning Sheridan Road faux-Tudor mansion was only a half mile.
Everything was close here, which was nice if you were walking around, grabbing a bagel, or hitting the secondhand boutiques before seeing a movie at the quaint second-run theater.
And not at all nice when a neighbor wanted to remind you that you tragically failed his family.
I pulled the cord hard, blinds catching on the corner where a few of them were dented.
Did Jack Mayfield know that Robert would be keeping a close eye on me?
Did he know that Robert and I had dated for nearly a year?
By the end, Robert’s overprotectiveness had left me feeling stifled, but if he insisted on adding my new address to his patrol route now, I’d try not to think of it as stalking.
When the coast seemed clear, I gave the cords a final yank, working them up another six inches. Then I opened the room’s only sash window. Even with my face up against the screen, I felt no hint of a breeze.
Our biggest standing fan was in Benjamin’s new bedroom, but I didn’t want to enter uninvited. I’d learned my lesson a week ago, and anyway, it was too easy to set him off.
Correction. It was too easy to think I might set him off, but that might have been projection on my part, as someone who had grown up without the privacy I craved.
I had a habit of reading too much into things that may have been random.
The day before, it had been a school notebook.
On the back cover, he’d written a quote in all caps, decorated with a border of spiky triangles: “A harmless man is not a good man. A good man is a very, very dangerous man who has that under voluntary control.”
I’d googled it, thinking it might be a lyric by some chestthumping singer. It was a quote by a bestselling author and psychologist. A good man is a very, very dangerous man. I wanted to send him an email, scolding him for trying to rack up more followers with that toxic masculinity garbage.
Part of me wished I had a male partner who could be there for Benjamin when he needed to talk about guy stuff, so he wouldn’t turn to loudmouth authors and podcasters. And part of me was glad I didn’t. Better to have no husband or boyfriend than the wrong one.
You don’t really like guys, do you? Benjamin asked me once, when he was twelve.
Men? Yes, of course I do.
Other single moms go on dates.
You think I should?
I tried. To find someone for me, someone for him.
But it was especially hard when you went on every date worrying if the man would be a good enough role model for your son.
I already regretted things he’d seen. Bad behaviors, normalized—including my own, when I’d failed to draw clear lines for fear of bruising a man’s ego.
I wished I could erase the times I’d let Robert talk his way into our house, even on nights I’d already said I wanted a quiet evening alone.
Or the first time I let Robert stay the night, even though my heart told me it was too early in our relationship for a sleepover, simply because Robert was too tipsy to drive and wouldn’t call an Uber.
Or the times we argued, and I made peace and shut things down quickly, capitulating, because I was embarrassed our disagreement would be overheard by an impressionable teenager.
I should have demonstrated that it was okay to take a stand.
Okay, also, to disagree, even argue, respectfully and without shame.
I couldn’t be the only parent with a scale in my head: on one side, good memories and smart choices. On the other, mistakes and moments I didn’t want to think about, now or ever.
A thick strand of hair had fallen in front of my eyes.
I blew it away, wrinkling my nose at my own hot breath.
On the next exhalation, I blew out more slowly, trying to ground myself as I contemplated the clutter of boxes occupying half of our small living room.
I chose the easy ones first: kitchen glassware and extra towels, no complicated sorting.
By the fifth box, momentum was building.
I was about to reassemble a computer table I’d taken apart when the phone rang.
It was Duplass.
“Isabella Scarlatti was found in Wadsworth, near the Wisconsin border. She died from some sort of drug, a day before Sidney.”
Duplass paused, like she was waiting for my reply, but I couldn’t form a reaction. Izzy? Dead? Wisconsin border?
I parroted her last phrase back to her. “Before Sidney?”
“Her parents were out of town on Saturday and her older sister didn’t raise any alarms, so she wasn’t officially reported missing until Sunday night. It’s our second suicide, Abby.”
“No,” I said, insensibly.
“Izzy left a note that hinted at a suicide pact.”
“But Izzy and Sidney weren’t even close friends anymore. They had a falling-out.”
“So, you do have information you haven’t shared.”
Duplass seemed to be suggesting I was hiding something, intentionally. Even a hint of an accusation sent my blood pressure rising.
“Did I miss a checkbox I should have ticked? Normal teen drama?”
“You didn’t mention it to her father.”
“Breaking off a friendship is common. They were kids.”
“It might be important, a girl getting cut off from her friend. It might lead her to do something she wouldn’t normally do. So much for your theory.”
“It wasn’t a theory.”
“Your doubts, then. It looks like these girls had a plan.”
In the mirrored closet door, I saw my reflection. Mussed hair in a ponytail. College T-shirt, damp with sweat. I still looked and felt like a student, not an experienced counselor by any means.
Duplass said, “Don’t come to school tomorrow. Let’s call it a soft suspension. You’ll get your final paycheck. We’ll call when we hear more.”
“Yes, keep me in the loop, please,” I said. “Dean Duplass—”
But she’d hung up.