Convince Me

by Nina Sadowsky

  What did Justin name the boat he bought? My steps lag and I fall behind Will, who charges ahead of me on the dock with long, determined strides.

  What do you do when everything you thought you knew is a lie? I can hear my heart beat loudly in my ears as I’m flooded with shame. You should have known, a voice inside my head screams. You did know, you foolish bitch.

  shame [ˈshām]

  noun, 1. a disgrace; 2. embarrassment; 3. stigma

  This is now the word that consumes me. I close my eyes as the last layer of protective shock evaporates, leaving me vulnerable to hard truth. My entire marriage was a lie. But if Justin was using me, had targeted me for some reason, I don’t have a clue as to why.

  I shudder as I remember writhing under him in abandonment; how, desperate to excite him, I donned lingerie that perverted my body, shoes that cost me my balance, how I pushed my own comfort levels aside in order to seem desirable and exciting. I realize with a sudden overwhelming rush that everything I did with Justin was part of my futile attempt to be enough, that a sense of inadequacy drove all my choices, along with willful blindness.

  With the ugly realization that my relationship with Justin was grounded in my insecurity comes another, equally harsh one: He was very sophisticated about manipulating that aspect of me.

  I open my eyes. I’m still here in the marina, which comes as a bit of a surprise. I feel cold despite the sun. I wrap my arms around myself, as if reassuring a scared child. I am a scared child.

  Will stands a ways down the dock, waving at me. I force my feet to move.

  When I’m finally abreast of him, I see what he’s standing by.

  It’s a motorboat. Shiny and white with sleek lines and a smart-looking cabin.

  Annie O’ My Heart is emblazoned on the prow in royal blue paint.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  WILL

  That instinct to protect Annie kicks in again. She’s been a mess today, barely holding it together (not that I blame her). But when she sees Justin’s pet name for her on the motorboat, her steps falter and she goes pale. I ease her down into a sitting position in a patch of shade, and she waves me away, burying her head between her knees.

  I examine the boat. It’s beautiful, white and sleek. Sun glints off the water, casting a dappled shadow against the side of the boat. The cabin door is secured by a padlock with a numbered keypad.

  “Wait here,” I order Annie. She doesn’t lift her head, but flutters one hand in acquiescence. I stride back to my car and open the trunk. Pull a bolt cutter from my toolbox.

  With one mighty snap the lock is open, hanging limp and useless. I lift it off the door and push my way inside. I try to fight the ominous feeling that consumes me, but it’s as dark as night in the cramped cabin.

  I realize I’ve left my sunglasses on, and whip them away from my face with a nervous laugh at my own expense. My eyes blink to adjust to the dim light. I pull on the shade covering one of the windows and it snaps open, flooding the space with light.

  As I take in the pristine, neatly organized space, I realize I’m holding my breath and exhale.

  What did I think I was going to find in here?

  Racing over to the marina to inspect the boat had seemed like the right idea. But now that I’m here, what am I looking for?

  First things first. My throat is parched and I’m sure Annie could use some water. I pull open the mini-fridge with an aggressive, proprietary tug. It’s a company boat, after all.

  A small fleet of bottled waters and a six-pack of premium beer are nestled inside. Nothing’s chilled, but the vacuum seal has kept the contents cool enough. I grab water for Annie and a beer for myself. Looking for a bottle opener, I open a few drawers to find biodegradable TP, a bottle of tequila, and a stack of magazines before hitting pay dirt.

  I crack open my beer and take a long swallow. Head outside to hand the water to Annie.

  “Thanks,” she says. Her color is closer to normal, but something’s shifted in her eyes; their light’s been dimmed. I fervently wish Justin was alive just so I could kick him in the balls.

  Annie drains most of the water in one long pull, her head tilted back, the muscles of her throat working as she swallows. She comes up for air. Sighs. Splashes the remaining water on her wrists.

  “Anything else of interest in there?” Annie asks.

  “Not so far,” I answer. “I decided on libations before investigations.”

  “You could put that on a T-shirt.”

  I smile, relieved to see her spirit rising, and offer her a hand. She takes it and I pull her to standing. This time we go into the cabin together.

  It’s tidy and spare. Everything in its place. The tequila is Justin’s favorite brand, but other than that the place is characterless and sterile. Even the magazines are a bland assortment: Men’s Health, a high gloss motorboat and yachting magazine, Golf Digest. None of them are magazines that I knew Justin to read.

  The curled mailing label on one of the covers catches my eye:

  Thomas Justin Childress

  47 Windjammer, Unit C

  Marina del Rey, CA 90292

  I quickly page through the other magazines. They all bear the same name and address. My stomach drops.

  Thomas. Justin’s brother’s name. Using his dead brother’s name as an alias is perverse. If he even had a brother.

  “Annie,” I say, handing her one of the magazines. “What do you think? The name’s too close to be a coincidence, right?”

  She is silent for a moment. “Look at that address. It seems like the boat might just be the beginning of the surprises Justin left for us,” Annie says slowly.

  Thomas Justin Childress. There’s something about the name that bothers me besides the obvious use of Justin’s brother’s first name as his own.

  And then the answer comes to me. T. J. Childress. Of course I know that name. Justin had complained bitterly to me about his old friend T.J., saying they’d been paired up in B school at Columbia in an entrepreneurship class and together developed what proved to be a prize-winning proposal. The relationship imploded when T.J. betrayed Justin, claiming their idea as his own and creating “trouble” for Justin at the university.

  He’d never wanted to say more than that, or explain exactly what the trouble had been. The story had slipped out just a few times right after Justin showed up back in Los Angeles, usually when he’d been drinking and had turned a little maudlin. His betrayal at the hand of someone he’d deeply trusted was part of why he’d come to find me, he’d explained; he knew I’d never betrayed him and I never would.

  Then his mood would suddenly flip and he’d clap an arm around my shoulders, order another round, smile at a pretty girl. I’d feel pleased and gratified, honored to have won his trust, determined to never let him down. I never thought about T. J. Childress again afterward.

  I’d better start thinking about him now.

  The address on the mailing labels is only a few minutes from the marina. Annie and I don’t need to talk about it. We walk in silence back to my car and get in. I start to drive.

  For my part, I’m afraid to speak, to unleash the questions raised by “Thomas Justin Childress.” If there was never really a T.J. in business school, why would Justin make him up? What did he think he could get out of a fake story about a fake betrayal?

  My loyalty, I realize with a start. Of course. Justin knew all about my mother’s revelation to me about my younger brother. He knew how tormented I was by betrayal. Could he have made up the whole thing to create a bond between us?

  Maybe. In any event, it had worked.

  I feel a little sick and suspect I look as green as Annie did earlier. I take a couple of big deep breaths as we turn the corner onto Windjammer.

  Number 47 is easy enough to find. It’s nothing fancy. Six aging unit
s in need of paint on a block where most of the other apartment buildings have been given a makeover.

  The on-site manager is also easy to find, a plump, tough woman named Fernanda who looks like she charges for smiles. Fernanda has absolutely no interest in letting two complete strangers into a tenant’s apartment. Her heavy eyebrows draw together as she shoos us away with an impatient snort for wasting her time.

  “Now what?” Annie asks, chewing on the side of her thumb as we walk back to my car.

  “Go back. Try to engage her in conversation.”

  Annie looks at me skeptically. “You met her, right?”

  “Women can always find something to talk about. If it was a guy, I’d distract him and you’d do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Break in.” A thrill courses through me as I say the words. I’m committed to a stony path now, one laid by a liar. I’m ready to break the law in order to follow it.

  “Will, no. Maybe we should just call the police?” Annie wraps her arms around her body.

  “And say what? We discovered Justin had an apartment? That’s hardly a matter for the police.”

  “What about calling a locksmith?”

  “Any locksmith will have the same problem Lady Charmalade over there has. Neither one of us has any connection to T. J. Childress.”

  Annie still looks unsure.

  “Look, talk about what shitheads men are, that’s always a popular topic with the ladies. I’ll have a quick look around and be out in a red-hot minute.”

  Despite her obvious distress, a half smile quirks her lips. “The ladies?”

  “I’m pretty sure I can get on top of the garbage bins on the side of the building and get in through a window. Come on, we’ve come this far.”

  “We’ve come this far,” Annie gamely parrots, though her expression is still pinched with worry.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be quick.”

  She heads back to Fernanda and I stay where I am until I hear the rise and fall of women’s voices, a surprisingly delicate giggle from Fernanda. I glide through the alley and around to the side of the building where I’d spotted the trash cans.

  Up I go, on top of a blue recycling bin. The lock on the window is a joke. This is almost too easy. I haul up the sash and it screeches noisily. I freeze, heart thudding, and hold my breath, prepared to leap down if I hear a shout.

  Annie’s laugh floats over to me, a little louder and shriller than normal, but only in a way that someone who knew her would recognize. The flow of conversation continues. Good girl.

  I hop inside Unit C.

  The studio apartment is sparsely furnished, to put it mildly. A folding chair and a camping cot flank a blocky wood coffee table. A Styrofoam cooler sits on top. I flick it open. Beer bottles sit in several inches of water.

  A galley kitchen runs the length of one wall. I notice the refrigerator shelving and drawers stacked and leaning against the oven.

  I somehow know what I’ll see when I open up the refrigerator door even before my hand connects with the handle. But even so I’m not prepared.

  When the door swings open, Hayley Hayter’s dead blue face stares at me, one eye wide open, the other smashed to bits.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CAROL

  I’ve always liked weddings. They’re so infused with possibility and hope, promise and happy prospects.

  Before the realities of life set in to warp and shatter our expectations.

  My wedding to Mike was a small affair. I had no father or mother to walk me down the aisle, so we opted for a city hall ceremony followed by a luncheon in the private dining room of a nearby steakhouse. Mike’s parents covered most of the costs, which made me shy about voicing my opinions. I felt so grateful for Mike, for his sister, who I asked to stand as my maid of honor, and for his parents, who welcomed me so warmly that I accepted their every decision.

  I bought my dress off the sale rack at Saks. It wasn’t a wedding gown, just a simple cocktail-length white sheath dress with filmy sleeves and a little capelet. My aunt and uncle came to the ceremony with their three little boys, but didn’t stay for the lunch, which was probably just as well. We had fourteen at the meal in all, me and Mike, his nuclear family, his mom’s best friend and her husband, and a handful of our friends.

  We drank champagne toasts and ate rare steaks with baked potatoes and creamed spinach. Our wedding cake was a cannoli tower from a beloved Italian bakery in Greenwich Village. The day was simple and perfect and everything I could have asked for. We took a taxi back to our new apartment just as the first dark fingers of dusk descended. Mike put his arm around me and I rested my head on his shoulder. I’d never felt so safe and happy in my entire life.

  Justin’s wedding to Annie was, of course, an entirely different kind of event. There was a signature cocktail, made with champagne, elderberry liqueur, and fresh raspberries. Passed appetizers included miniature beef Wellingtons, crab cakes, and fried shrimp sliders. The dinner menu featured a wild greens salad with goat cheese crisps, pasta with morel mushrooms and fresh oregano, yuzu poached sea bass, pressed crispy chicken, and beef tenderloin, with sides of wild rice, grilled asparagus, and sliced potatoes layered in casserole with cheese and pancetta.

  There was dancing and live music and those funny little performers Justin hired to circulate among the many guests. I couldn’t believe that Justin and Annie even knew that many people, much less felt sufficiently close to all of them to invite them to a wedding.

  It was all a bit over the top for my taste, but Justin was paying for the thing, so I let him do what he wanted. Besides, it gave me a certain amount of prideful pleasure, I admit. My boy was a success in the world; if he wanted to splash out on a lavish wedding, who was I to interfere?

  I co-hosted an out-of-towners’ dinner the night before the big day with Annie’s mother and stepfather, and insisted on paying for the wedding flowers after I learned Annie’s folks were paying for the hand-lettered invitations and their mailing costs. Other than that, it was Justin’s show.

  It struck me then, and does again now, just how similar Annie and I were in that regard. Passive about our own weddings, happy to be led, a direct contrast to the popular notion of the controlling bridezilla who obsesses over every detail. Maybe I can talk to Annie about this; maybe it’ll be a way in.

  Their wedding was magical, of course. The food delicious, the service excellent, the band amazingly tight. I fucked the drummer during his break, in a shadowy corner of the hotel’s garden, hoisting my dress and ripping my pantyhose to give him access. He was sweaty and muscled and banged me like I was one of his drums. It was naughty and exhilarating and over in a matter of minutes.

  I left my shredded hose in a flowerbed and rejoined the festivities as the band kicked into a rendition of “Tell Me Something Good,” by Rufus and Chaka Khan.

  There was a surprise performance by a pair of belly dancers. The wedding cake was a many-tiered construction from L.A.’s most decadent bakery, a different flavor for every layer, luxuriously coated in figured white fondant and festooned with fresh flowers. There was a gift bag for each guest containing an assortment of “Annie & Justin” branded swag: shot glasses, luggage tags, aromatherapy candles, T-shirts.

  My eyes search out three of the branded candles that I’ve arranged around a photograph from the kids’ wedding day. Justin and Annie, with me in the middle, posed against a wall of flowering vines. Justin looks sharp and charming in his black suit, snow-white shirt, and pearl-gray tie. Annie’s smile looks a little forced, but that could be me reading into things. Her custom dress is a little ridiculous; maybe that’s why.

  I examine my own image. I wore metallic gray silk; the sheen of the fabric caught the light alluringly. I’d had my hair and makeup done professionally, a gift from Justin who’d set me up with a “glam squad” for the weekend. I look pre
tty, younger than my years, even applying a critical eye. I’ve always been careful to maintain myself well.

  A sigh escapes me as I remember the toast Justin made. He greeted the crowd, warmly addressed Annie, and thanked Will for all of his best-man duties. Then he delivered a love letter to me in which he gracefully addressed Mike’s tragic death, our close bond, my many sacrifices on his behalf. He displayed gratitude, grace, compassion, and a loving heart. He ended with a lifted glass and a salute to Mike himself, saying he knew his dad would be proud of how I’d raised his son. My heart just about burst with pride.

  Thinking about it now makes my eyes fill with tears.

  When the intercom buzzer rings, I startle. I’m not expecting anyone; I have no one left to expect. I press the button to speak to the concierge in the lobby.

  “You have visitors, Mrs. Childs,” announces Sheryl from the front desk.

  “Yes?” I inquire. “Who is it?”

  Sheryl’s voice drops to a low whisper. “It’s a couple of police detectives,” she replies. “Should I send them up?”

  My head fills with a bright white light.

  “Mrs. Childs? Are you still there?” Sheryl’s voice crackles through the intercom.

  “Sure. Of course. Send them up,” I say, before releasing the button.

  I take a quick glance around, and do a little straightening: organizing a pile of newspapers, carrying a mug from the coffee table in the living room into the kitchen.

  When the doorbell rings, I take a look at myself in the hall mirror before answering. My hair falls in soft waves, my lightweight turtleneck hides the worst of my crepey neck. I look wan and tired, like a woman who recently buried her son. I apply a slick of russet lipstick in an attempt to give my face some color.

  I wonder if they have new information on what happened to Justin and my heart quickens, uncertainty and ambiguity being much more difficult mindsets to dwell in than hard facts, no matter how painful those facts may be.