Eileen sat back and stared at the blank screen embedded into the back of the headrest in front of her. Maybe this was all she would do for the whole flight—stare in a stupor of disbelief for two hours. Completely surrounded as she was, she couldn’t risk pulling Dave’s note out of the envelope and reading it. She couldn’t trust or predict what her reaction might be. Already an exposed wire of raw emotions, the last thing she needed was to start sobbing uncontrollably while trapped dead center of an airplane hurtling through the skies at forty thousand feet.
“Eileen?” Chris called her name gently from the aisle.
She looked at him, expecting to get her bag claim ticket from him.
“Eileen Greyden?” he clarified.
She nodded her head stupidly.
Chris smiled. “I need you to gather your things and come with me,” he explained.
Her shoulders sagged—what now? “Is something wrong?” she asked.
“No, not at all.” He glanced at her seatmate, who was clearly trying to hide his extreme annoyance at having to, yet again, reshuffle himself and his things so Eileen could, yet again, get past him. “There’s just been a last-minute alteration to your flight itinerary.”
Eileen blinked, still not understanding exactly what that meant, but she felt fairly positive she was getting bumped off the flight. Never one to question authority, she pulled her tote from under the seat and unfastened her seat belt.
Does it even matter? she wondered as she slid back across the seat. She kept her eyes down to avoid the angry expressions of her now ex-seatmate, waiting in the aisle with his open laptop in hand.
“Should I just stand here?” the man asked Chris, not bothering to hide his annoyance. “Is someone else coming?”
“No,” Chris said, politely ignoring the man’s rude tone. “Sorry for the inconvenience. Please go ahead and take your seat.”
“Again,” the man said, relishing the savor of the last word.
Chris smiled and nodded, then ushered Eileen back toward the front of the plane.
“Is something wrong?” she asked him as they navigated the aisle.
“No, not at all. You’ve just had a seat change,” he explained as they passed the curtain dividing the economy section from first class.
“A seat change?” she asked.
“The gate agent just came down. Your seat has been upgraded,” he said.
“Upgraded?” Eileen asked, still confused. “Not bumped and reassigned…like on a later flight?”
Chris smiled and shook his head, then pointed to the large cocoon-looking seat contraption next to the window behind her. “No, not bumped…upgraded to first,” he whispered. “Your new seat is 3D, Ms. Greyden.”
Eileen turned and stared for a second, looked back at Chris like maybe this was a joke, and then finally slid, dumbfounded, into the large seat.
“I’ve taken the liberty of placing your suitcase above your seat,” he explained with his hand on the bin over her head.
Eileen scanned the rest of first class and its passengers, then waved Chris closer. “I can’t afford this,” she admitted in a whisper.
Chris crouched down beside her individual first-class pod. “You don’t have to. Someone else called in the reservation change.” He pulled a folded note from his blazer pocket and read aloud. “A Mr. Simon Reamer?” Chris raised his eyebrows. “That’s who called the airline and upgraded your seat. Ring any bells?”
Understanding washed over her. Eileen sat back in the spacious seat and nodded.
Satisfied that she was settled, Chris nodded once and stood back up. “Now, we still have a few minutes before we close the doors and prepare for takeoff. Can I bring you a preflight cocktail?”
Eileen shifted her gaze from her chipped toenails peeking out from her comfy sandals—if she’d known she’d end up in first class, she would have worn different shoes—up to Chris’s friendly face. “The drinks are complementary?”
“One of the perks.”
“I’ll have a Scotch, please. Straight.”
“Coming right up.”
Eileen managed to lift the corners of her mouth enough to approximate a smile.
Once he left to pour her drink, she pulled her bag onto her lap and reopened the envelope. Careful to not look at any of the pictures, the images already seared permanently into her memory, she found Dave’s ragged edged note and took it out.
“Your drink, Ms. Greyden,” Chris said, placing the tumbler on the small table next to her seat.
“Thank you,” she whispered leaning toward him.
After he walked away, Eileen took a sip from her glass, felt her throat burn, and sat back. Her single pod angled toward the window, which gave her a bit of privacy. She unfolded Dave’s note on her lap.
Eric,
As you can see, I know what has been going on between you and Lauren. I have no idea for how long, but as I think back, I realize there have been plenty of clues and red flags I’ve obviously ignored. I suspect it’s been years.
I love my wife. I can’t imagine living my life without her. I am giving you this envelope, with only a fraction of the evidence I have, as a warning—stay away from her. Stay away from her or the next envelope I deliver will be to Eileen. So unless you’re ready to end your marriage, break up your home, have your kids find out what you’ve done, stay the fuck out of my house and my bed.
I don’t think your wife would be as willing to try to forget as I am.
Dave
As soon as she finished reading Dave’s threat, the neural wash of memories rushed up against the floodgates of her consciousness.
Fourth of July. She had stood at her kitchen sink—rinsing vegetables. Their house had buzzed with neighbors and friends. Kids tore through the house, upstairs, out the backdoor. The doorbell continued to ring as more and more people arrived, eventually getting directed to the kitchen or out the backdoor to the cooler filled with beer. The grill, manned by Eric’s brother, pumped out the smoky promise of perfectly grilled gourmet burgers, sizzling bratwursts, and hot dogs for the kids.
Eileen had yet to escape the kitchen and join the chaos. Refilling chip bowls, laying out the vegetable tray, monitoring the last pie in the oven so it didn’t cook too long and burn. Their wide kitchen windows overlooked the backyard and were pushed open to help with airflow. Outside, many of the guests were standing and drinking; others were seated around the patio table, talking, laughing. Cameron had managed to wrangle the music flowing through the outdoor speakers onto a country music channel; only Paige seemed to notice and complain.
Eric and Lauren sat in chairs next to each other around the outdoor table, crammed closer than usual to fit more people. When she first noticed them, Eileen had only wondered if Lauren might prefer a glass of wine. She was about to open a bottle for herself and anyone else that didn’t want beer. But then what happened? Eileen got busy again, she supposed. She did manage to open the wine but never made it over to the table to offer Lauren any.
Someone handed her a paper plate with a burger. “You’re working too hard, Eileen,” Cara from down the street said with a smile. “Go sit down and enjoy your party.”
Eileen shrugged. “I enjoy it,” she said, but managed to slow down playing hostess long enough to doctor her burger with ketchup and add a handful of rippled, greasy potato chips to the side of her plate. She stood at the kitchen counter with Cara and took a bite.
The sun had moved, casting her east-facing backyard into the relief of the shade.
Eric and Lauren hadn’t moved.
That was all she had thought at the time. The natural flow of the party had shifted. People had finished eating, some had picked new cold cans of beer from the cooler, some stood in the far reaches of her yard smoking cigarettes, others had abandoned their crowded collection of chairs around the table to go play cornhole on the side of
the house.
Eric and Lauren had been sitting together under the shade of the patio umbrella hours ago. And they were still there.
…but as I think back, I realize there have been plenty of clues and red flags I’ve obviously ignored. I suspect it’s been years.
That was it, and Dave was right. Eric and Lauren sitting together, pushed close by necessity but remaining there by choice, taking advantage of the obvious excuse to be so near to each other. They enjoyed the physical proximity to one another, neither one wanting to jeopardize their spot.
Once they were at cruise altitude and the captain’s pleasant and competent voice let them know it was “now safe to move about the cabin,” and she heard the auditory cue, ding, of the seat belt sign going dark, Eileen folded Dave’s note and put it away.
Red flags. Even though Eileen had never allowed what she noticed that day to take full shape, had never entertained a real suspicion, it all now seemed so painfully obvious. The other flags: the office Christmas party, late nights, Eric texting on their driveway, so many times she thought something was… What? A little off? Memories that now rushed in to crush her with her own, now obvious, stupidity.
How could she be so oblivious? So blind?
“You love him too much,” Clare once said.
Eileen’s throat and face tightened again with the threat of tears. She forced herself to take a breath, big and deep, just like she’d coached the kids when they had been little and wrecked their bikes or cut their fingers. Take deep breaths. Try to think about something else.
But there were no safe thoughts, so Eileen shut them all down. Emotional vulnerability. Yes, that is happening right now.
She only wished she could call their fucking brain-dead therapist, Rachel, and self-report this moment of control. See, see how I am not reacting with my emotions first. See how I am capable of calming myself first—big, deep breaths, counting slowly down. Look how I am reaching for this flight attendant call button. Ding.
Within seconds, a smiling middle-aged flight attendant with a bright blond bob cut arrived next to her seat. She reached down, deactivated the call light, and asked, “Yes, Ms. Greyden?”
Eileen smiled back at the woman, then glanced around the cabin before settling her gaze on the space between the woman’s light brown eyes. “Could I please have a glass of cabernet?” she whispered.
“Of course.” The flight attendant nodded. “I’ll be right back.”
I’m calmly ordering a glass of wine, Rachel, instead of standing up in my seat, mouth wide, screaming at the top of my lungs as I run wild up and down and up and down the aisles, arms waving over my head. Yes, Rachel, you late-twenties know-it-all who’s never been married or had children but still feels qualified to counsel those of us that end up blindsided—BLINDSIDED—by photos of our husband fucking Lauren Andrews.
Speaking of that, would you like to see those pictures? It’s only a fraction of the evidence Dave has, but you get the idea. So, and this is just a suggestion, and I realize I don’t have a master’s degree from our local state college, but maybe next session we could discuss these photos with Eric, spend a bit more time digging below his excellent example of emotional stability, because I can’t help feeling like these photos suggest, I’m only suggesting, perhaps some culpability?
But just think about that, Rachel, because maybe I’m wrong. I have been feeling quite emotionally vulnerable.
The bob-cut flight attendant returned with the bottle. “Your wine, Ms. Greyden,” she said as she placed a short-stemmed glass on the table and then expertly held the bottle between both her hands. Eileen watched as the woman filled the empty glass with the deep burgundy-colored wine, careful to wipe the mouth of the bottle with a white linen as she exited the pour.
“Thank you,” Eileen said, as the flight attendant finished and stood straight.
Eileen picked up her glass and took a drink. She was unaccustomed to having people wait on her, do things for her. It was unfortunate that this normally wonderful surprise of a circumstance was completely overshadowed by so many horrific realities battling for space and attention in her mind.
She considered sending a series of text messages to Rachel with cell phone snaps of the photos. We need to cancel our appointment next week. Also, you’re fired. She imagined the stunned surprise on Rachel’s face; it brought her the smallest sense of smug relief.
It wouldn’t last.
Her sister was dead.
Her husband was sleeping with Lauren.
She wanted to rage. To scream, howl, to hit something hard and repeatedly—like Eric’s face. She finished her glass of wine in one long swallow from behind the half privacy screen of her pod and stared out the oval window at the bright expanse of clear blue sky beyond.
Maybe their plane would crash.
The image of her three children immediately floated up, sobbing, standing at her funeral. Eric holding Lauren’s hand next to her grave. “I swear,” Lauren pledged. “I will be a good mother to—”
Don’t be stupid, Eileen. Of course you don’t want the plane to crash.
She leaned forward and pulled Clare’s book from her bag. She couldn’t even fathom having the ability to focus her attention long enough to read right now; she just wanted to sit with something her sister had created in her lap. Hold on to it. Stare at the blur of words filling page after page, words that had come from Clare’s mind.
They had grown apart, but Eileen loved her sister. She couldn’t imagine Clare really gone from the world.
It didn’t seem real, or possible.
Eileen ran her hand over the cover, feeling the raised gold letters, Clare Collins, A Perfect Life, beneath her palm. She opened the cover, felt the new spine release some stiffness, and flipped past the title page to the dedication.
For the love of my life.
Finally, our painful truth.
Eileen stared at those words. She read them several times, tried to shape them into an understanding that fit with Clare as Eileen knew her. She placed her hand over the dedication and stared out the window; two thoughts struck her.
Clare had always dedicated her books to her readers.
Clare would never call Simon the love of her life.
It was true, it had been several years since Eileen had purchased one of Clare’s books; she supposed something may have changed for her sister in that time. Maybe she had grown to love Simon.
“More wine, Ms. Greyden?”
“Yes, please.”
Chapter 7
Clare
Two years before her death
Like some weird, obsessive stalker, Clare kept refreshing her Sara Smith Facebook page every ten to twenty minutes, checking to see if Kaylee had accepted her. After an hour with no response, Clare got up from her chair and paced her study, from her desk at one end to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on the other. She twisted Adam’s engagement ring round and round her finger. On her third lap, her eyes fell on the bottom three shelves of her bookcase. Her journals, every one of them she had ever filled since she was eleven years old. The one constant thing that had followed her from her childhood in Casper to New York and then back across to the other side of the country. Her documentation of life as she had lived it—she’d kept every one.
Her eyes found the first one, crammed tight between the whitewashed wood of the shelf and the hundred other journals she had filled with ink over the years. She knelt in front of the shelf, her finger working to dislodge the thin spine from the tight space until the slim volume came loose in her hand. With her legs crossed beneath her, Clare held the now limp and faded book closed in her lap. A kaleidoscopic swirl of rainbow colors overlaid with a translucent, shiny foil that had lifted and peeled away from the edges of the cover over the past three decades—My Diary was centered in a large silver script.
It had been a birthday gift from
Adam. Clare held the book between her palms and closed her eyes.
“Tell me a story, Clare.”
Her eyes flew open, the sound of Adam’s voice still clear in her mind, but also, it was as if she had heard it in the room. His sound, his exact pitch and tone, the lifetime she’d lived with that voice—the eternity it had been since she’d heard it.
“Adam?” she whispered into the room. Only the sound of her own heart rushing in her ears answered her. Twenty years. In a few months, it would be twenty years since that night. The thumb of her left hand pressed against his ring on her finger.
She opened the journal and stared down into her eleven-year-old handwriting. Looking at the loopy and irregular, slightly wild cursive that had improved only a little in the last twenty-seven years, Clare read the first line she’d ever put down into the world.
Mama said Daddy isn’t coming home.
Clare took a breath and held it. She remembered that day, standing next to Eileen, their mother still in her cop uniform just home from her shift. “Your father is back in the hospital… They don’t think he’ll be coming home this time.”
She remembered her mother unfastening her duty belt, placing it on the table, removing the gun from the holster, checking the safety, and walking it back to the bedroom, where she kept her gun safe behind the folding closet door. It wasn’t her mother’s words that had made Clare’s heart stop in her chest that day; it was the resignation of her tone. As if their father were already dead.
Clare had left her little sister standing there, sobbing and hiccupping alone over the back of their polyester couch, and wandered two doors down to Adam and Kaylee’s house. Adam was in the front yard, digging a hole with a stick in one of the many dirt patches where their lawn stubbornly refused to fill in. He looked up, his eyes on hers, the second he heard her tread-worn sneakers on the cracked concrete walk.
“What’s wrong?” he asked when he noticed her tears. Standing up, he dropped his stick.
Later, in the tree house Adam and Kaylee’s father had built for Christmas four years ago, Adam had given her his birthday present two days early, hoping it would help cheer her up and take her mind off her father dying in the hospital two miles away.
Her Perfect Life Page 5
