by Amanda Lamb
My encounter with Maria would have to wait. I threw a ten-dollar bill on the table for the quesadilla that I would not get the chance to eat and grabbed my purse. As I turned toward the door, I glanced back for a moment and noticed the line at the counter was almost gone. The lunch rush was finally dying down. I watched as Maria walked to the end of the counter and stacked the waiters’ paid tickets in a basket. As she stepped out from the behind the counter, I could see her for the first time from head to toe.
Maria Lopez was pregnant. Very pregnant.
4
Seeking Balance
When Adam was alive, he made it possible for me to balance work and home life because he was an equal participant in the child rearing. What he sometimes lacked in domestic abilities, he more than made up for in the father department. There was never a time when he said something wasn’t his job or responsibility. He didn’t always do things the way I did them, but that was okay. Often, with a little hindsight, I realized his way was better.
As a single parent, my son needed me to at least attempt something that passed for balance, but I was having trouble focusing on the task at hand. As I pulled onto the highway from the on-ramp, I kept seeing the image of a pregnant Maria Lopez in my head. Was it Tanner’s baby? Did Suzanne know she was pregnant? I was so deep in thought that I barely missed being sideswiped by a tractor trailer careening into my lane without his turn signal. It jolted me back to reality. I jerked the wheel sharply to the left to avoid a collision. Luckily, the next lane over was clear as I swerved into it, both hands firmly gripping the steering wheel. I slowed down and caught my breath. My children had already lost one parent. They didn’t need to lose the other one.
By the time I stopped by the house, found the gym clothes in the clean laundry basket at the foot of my bed, and got to school, I had regained my composure. Maria Lopez was filed in the back of my brain for another day while I vowed to concentrate on my anxious little boy.
When I got to the school office, Blake was sitting on the well-worn blue sofa in the lobby, nervously twitching his nose. It was an involuntary movement I was sure he wasn’t even aware of. It had started shortly after Adam passed away. It was not noticeable unless you knew Blake and were watching him closely. But it was the kind of thing a mother noticed, a brief, almost undetectable departure from normality. I dropped the plastic grocery bag carrying the clothes, onto the couch and took Blake’s sandy-haired little head and pulled it into my stomach. He buried his head in me and wrapped his arms tightly around my waist. This was not about gym clothes.
“Hey, buddy, why don’t we skip the rest of the day together, play hooky. We can go do something special, just you and me. No work, no school. Maybe get some pizza and see that movie you’ve been wanting to see. The one your sister refuses to see so we can never go,” I whispered, to the top of my son’s head, which was still buried in my abdomen, but I knew he could hear me because I felt him nod.
I heard a muffled “okay” from my stomach. I unwound his little arms and held onto his tiny balled up hands, bringing him to his feet. He was small for his age, smaller than his sister, even though they were twins. This was sometimes embarrassing for him when people asked who was older. I could see now that his eyes were red from crying.
“June.” I turned to the school secretary. “I think Blake is a little under the weather. I’m going to take him out for the rest of the day. Can you let his teachers know?”
June was an older, affable woman with a round face framed by a sprig of black and gray curls. She always wore her glasses attached to a colorful, frayed woven lariat around her neck, something I was sure a student must have made for her.
“I sure will, Maddie. You take care, Blake. Hope you feel better.” She glanced over my shoulder to my son who nodded bashfully at her kindness. “I will sign him out.” She waved, already reaching for the spiral-bound sign-out notebook, with a pen in her hand.
The truth was that June, and everyone else at Porter’s Elementary School, knew what Blake and Miranda had been through. As a result, we got extra compassion points from the school staff when Blake had his little breakdowns.
While I had tried to shield them from their father’s illness as much as I could, it was impossible for them not to be a part of it, given that I chose to do hospice care at home. It was important for Adam to spend his last days in his own home, surrounded by the people he loved and not in a hospital. It was also important for me to be his primary caretaker, and not a nurse he didn’t know. But the downside was that the children were at a tender age and were exposed to the grim realities of dying. At the same time, they were also exposed to an army of friends and relatives who helped their dad leave the world with grace and dignity. I firmly believed that the positive life lessons my kids learned throughout the experience far outweighed the bad.
Blake was my sensitive child. Miranda was as tough as nails. Nothing appeared to disturb her, on the surface. But I knew better. Since her father’s death, she was quick to anger, quick to argue, and never initiated a hug or an I love you. I suspected beneath her tough exterior was an insecure little girl who needed her mother now just as much as Blake did. She just didn’t know how to show it. She was trying to put on a brave face, but I wanted her to know that it was okay not to be strong sometimes.
My two children could not be more different, and if I hadn’t seen them born several minutes apart, I would not have believed they shared a womb, let alone the same DNA.
“Mom, thanks for picking me up,” Blake said, with a piece of gooey cheese from the piping-hot pizza dangling from his chin. “I know you were working. I’m sorry to make you leave work. I hope you don’t get in trouble with your boss.”
Blake had an unusual level of empathy for a child his age. But it was also this sensitivity that made him sad about so many things, things he could not control—an older lady struggling to navigate stairs at the mall, a bald girl in an advertisement for a children’s cancer foundation, his father’s labored breathing shortly before his death.
“You know what, I am not the least bit worried about getting in trouble at work. You and your sister are number one.” Before Adam’s death I had been so wrapped up in work that I didn’t always prioritize my children the way that I should have. Everything was different now, and so was I.
“Thanks, Mom.” Blake flashed a gap-toothed smile and took a big swig of his guilty pleasure, a large Coke, something I allowed only on special occasions. Lately, I had relaxed the rules so much that special occasions were becoming a daily occurrence.
I put my hand over Blake’s and closed my eyes for a moment. I expected to see Adam’s smiling face, praising me for my newfound dedication to being present and engaged with my children. But instead all I saw was a pregnant Maria Lopez looking at me from across the restaurant. In my daydream, she was baiting me, challenging me to uncover the truth.
I opened my eyes and looked at Blake, who was practically jumping out of his seat he was so wired by his multiple refills of Coke. He hadn’t even noticed my mental departure. I wondered where Superwoman was supposed to get her energy from.
O
I hadn’t run much since the race. After watching what happened to Suzanne, I wasn’t inspired to get out there. I was still going to classes at the gym and doing yoga at home, but none of this gave me the same euphoric high that running did. Running was my sanity, my peace, my church when nothing else could heal me.
My sneakers lay in a pile of shoes by the front door. I noticed them as I passed the pile, their blue shiny material and pink swooshes peeking out, begging me to slip them on and get back on the road. Sometimes I thought about them being in the middle of the pile, squished in between one of Miranda’s sandals with a broken strap and an old flip-flop of Blake’s, and I would have a mini panic attack and feel the need to rescue them. Yet every time I even thought about putting them on, I pictured Suzanne in slow motion hitting the pavement with every part of her body.
Even though it had onl
y been a few days since we had coffee, I felt a rush of guilt for not calling and checking up on her. To be fair, she had not called me either. The more hours that passed without any contact with her, the freer I felt from the whole crazy situation. The part of me that wanted to help her was overcome by the part of me that was afraid of getting too involved. Yet I couldn’t stop thinking about my mother, about how things might have been different for us if she had been able to reach out to someone. Of course, I was only a small child when she was killed, barely a witness. There was nothing I could have done to help her. Maybe now was my second chance.
It was springtime, and the weather was close to perfect. The sky was Carolina blue. There was a light balmy breeze and a lush canopy of green everywhere you looked. It was like everything grew overnight, sprouted from winter’s bare tree limbs and brown grass into this magical display. It was the kind of day that begged you to come outside and play. Having grown up in New Jersey, where one gray day turned into another for several months every year, I appreciated the mild southern climate with its opulent display of spring.
The kids were at school, and I only had a few hours before I was scheduled to shoot a story. I decided, for my sanity, I needed to take a run. Just like that, all the reasons I had for not running melted away. I sat on the cool hardwood floor in my hallway and slipped on my right shoe. It felt comfortable and familiar. Just as I was pulling on the left shoe, my phone rang.
“Maddie, I haven’t heard from you in a couple of days,” Suzanne whispered. “I was worried. You haven’t given up on helping me, have you? I’m in the grocery store near your house and I thought maybe we could grab a cup of coffee.”
My mind raced. How did she know where I lived? Had I told her? I must have. But I didn’t remember telling her. I was protective of my family’s privacy and safety. I was silent as I chewed on this bit.
“Actually, I am just getting ready to go for a run. I do want to talk to you though, Suzanne. I have some new information to share with you. But I feel like I really need some more information from you about your husband and your situation before we move forward.” There, I said it, the thing I needed to say to her the most. I was proud of myself for standing up for what I needed. Kojak would be proud, too.
“Wow, that’s so crazy. I just happen to be in my running clothes, too. I was going to go later, after shopping. Why don’t I just join you and then we can chat while we run?”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea? I mean, it’s only been a few days since you left the hospital. Are you sure you’re fully healed?” I had flash of all the blood on the pavement coming from her knees, her elbows, her head, matted in her hair. It seemed too soon for her to be exercising again, let alone running.
“You know, I feel great. Not sure if it’s the painkillers or what. But other than a few bumps and bruises, I’m good to go. Give me your address and I’ll meet you.”
I panicked. I wasn’t about to give Suzanne my address. What if she really was in danger and she came to my home and her husband followed her? I couldn’t risk that. Innocent people were killed all the time getting in the middle of domestic violence situations.
“I’m already in the car, heading to the park around the corner,” I lied. “There’s a greenway there, a couple miles long, very scenic. I’ll text you the address when I park.”
“Perfect. I’ll see you there.”
As soon as I hung up, I regretted my decision to share my peaceful running time with Suzanne. I did my best brainstorming when I ran solo. At the same time, I needed to get to the bottom of what was really going on with her. Maybe running with Suzanne wasn’t such a bad idea. Exercise was a type of truth serum, all that blood rushing to your brain. It was hard to lie when your heart was racing and you had sweat running down your back.
O
Suzanne looked completely different in her running clothes than she had on the day of the race. Granted, my first introduction to her was when she was writhing in pain on the ground, covered in blood. Today she looked like a model from one of the posters on the stalls in the bathroom at the gym that encouraged you to Do it all and Be Fierce. She wore a snug bright yellow sleeveless spandex tank top, tight black running shorts, and a black Nike baseball hat. Her hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail protruding through the hole in the back of the cap. She had on a running belt with two small bottles of water attached, and bright pink sneakers. I was amazed that she was dressed head-to-toe in running gear to go grocery shopping. Sometimes I slept in my running clothes, clean ones of course, thinking it would increase my chances of getting up and doing it. Clearly Suzanne meant business when she grocery shopped in her running clothes.
With the exception of some small white bandages on her shoulders, elbows, and knees, you wouldn’t know that she had recently taken a serious fall.
“It’s so good to be running again, you have no idea.” Suzanne walked over to my car from where I assumed she had parked, about three spaces away. I couldn’t tell which of the cars she came from. I wondered if she had abandoned an entire cart of items in the store to meet me. Again this woman seemed desperate for companionship, my companionship in particular.
Suzanne leaned in to give me a side hug, something I wasn’t sure I wanted to accept given the unusual nature of our relationship. I succumbed, awkwardly, acknowledging her gesture by lightly wrapping my left arm around her waist for a split second. I knew she needed a friend, but I just wasn’t sure I wanted to be that friend.
“I was so bored and frustrated. As soon as the doctor cleared me to run, I practically raced out the door so I could get home and put my sneakers on. Luckily I didn’t have any broken ribs. Honestly I don’t know how people cope without exercise. I would have to be on some serious medication without it.” Suzanne gave a light chuckle, as if her fall was just a little bump in the road and not a possible attempted murder.
“I hear you.” I tried to assess where she was coming from. Despite her cavalier talk, she seemed nervous. She was tightening her ponytail holder every few seconds while we stretched on the wooden rail of a fence at the edge of the park, wrapping and twisting the band around several more times, and then pulling on her hair to make sure it was secure. She wore no jewelry except for a simple brushed platinum and diamond band on her wedding ring finger. It was impossible to miss—thick band with specks of diamonds in a crisscross pattern across the surface. She noticed me looking at it.
“Is that your wedding ring?”
“Yes. We had them designed to look exactly alike. His is bigger and thicker of course, more manly, but it also has small diamond crisscrosses in it. We saw something similar on a billboard in the Miami airport just after we got engaged and decided to work with a jeweler to create them. They cost a small fortune. Very romantic at the time. Not so much now. But I’m still wearing it. Don’t want to set him off.”
I soaked up this information. Tanner was a man who wore a specially handcrafted matching wedding ring along with his wife. How did he go from this to possibly being a killer?
“He never takes his off, not even to sleep, except for surgery, of course. And even then, he’s got a little crystal dish by the sink at his surgery suite in his office where he places the ring and then puts it right back on afterwards. At least that’s what his nurse, Julie, told me. Sweet gesture for such a creep, don’t you think? He’s super-paranoid about someone taking, it for some reason. Says it’s the symbol of our union for life, no matter what.”
I didn’t know what to think. The more Suzanne revealed to me about this man, the more confused I became. Cherishing his wedding ring didn’t sound like something a man who was cheating on his wife would do. Yet I had covered enough domestic violence murders to know that people often did things to make themselves look like devoted spouses when they were just the opposite. Plus, people weren’t black and white. They were gray. It was possible for him to have an affair and still want to control his wife.
After a quick stretch, Suzanne and I started down the p
aved greenway and headed toward the lake at the center of the park that had a nice running trail around it. We passed a dog walker and a cyclist, but otherwise the path was deserted. Turtles sunned themselves on exposed rocks in the brackish lake which was badly in need of a good rain to fill it. Herons perched in muddy bogs like sentinels keeping watch over the peaceful spot. It was a hidden gem in the middle of bustling suburbia.
“You don’t run here by yourself, do you?” Suzanne sounded spooked as she surveyed the desolate path. “It’s a little isolated for my taste, though very pretty, very serene. I guess it’s okay as long as you’re with someone.”
I was a cautious runner, always choosing public spaces when I was alone. Frankly, I didn’t want a lesson in running safety from Suzanne. I wanted to get down to business, to blurt out the questions that I had been storing since the moment I met her. She was acting like we were two longtime girlfriends getting together for a workout, but the truth was I barely knew her. I couldn’t figure out why she felt this intimate connection with me. The only thing I could imagine was that because we shared a traumatic moment together, it bonded together us in a weird way.
“Have you ever known someone who was the victim of domestic violence? I don’t mean in a story you’ve covered, but actually known someone personally, like a friend or a relative?”
It felt like we were reversing roles, that she was the reporter interviewing me. I could feel tears stinging my eyes. I blinked hard to keep them from spilling down my face. I was not ready to share my anger and grief over losing my mother, with a stranger. It always amazed me how quickly I could summon the pain by just thinking about her. I remembered more about how my mother made me feel than about what we did together. Thoughts of her evoked a deeply warm feeling sprinkled with slivers of memories—like standing in my crib after a nap, seeing her arms outstretched coming toward me. I could feel her hands, with her long, thin fingers braiding my hair. I could see her kneeling to gently fasten the big white buttons on my blue wool coat.
