Most of the nurses understood what he was saying. The staff was friendly and attentive. But as she sat at his bedside, Sheila thought of how the nurses and orderlies might have been fawning over him right now if he’d merely hurt his leg or something. The gorgeous face that had always gotten him so much attention and admiration was unrecognizable now. His specialness was gone.
The private room was jammed with flowers, get-well cards, and balloons. He had a steady stream of friends coming to visit, a lot of them from work. But for Hannah, Steve, and Gabe, the visits were sort of an obligation. Their father had become a source of embarrassment. His infidelities were the focus of so many news stories. After all, two of Cassandra’s murder victims had had sex with Dylan within a day of each other. And Cassandra had killed the mother of his illegitimate child. Online, he was being compared to Anthony Weiner and John Wayne Bobbitt. He’d become a punch line.
“How are the kids?” he asked through the wiring for his jaw.
Sheila started. “Oh, I thought you were sleeping.”
“Yeah, I was sort of dozing,” he muttered. “Yours right ah our eyes.”
Sheila squinted at him. “I’m sorry . . . what?”
“Yours right ah our eyes!” he said louder, a bit impatient.
“Oh, I’m a sight for sore eyes,” she said, nodding. “Thanks, honey. Um, the kids are fine. I think things are calming down a little at school. They’re no longer feeling like the center of attention. But then, Eden started back today. So maybe we’re back to square one. I’ll get all the scoop when they get home.”
She’d taken Eden back into the house on Sunday night, although the lawyer was still sorting everything out. The kids did their best not to treat her like Lizzie Borden. Steve was the most forgiving of all of them, of course.
Cassandra had been cremated yesterday. Eden had asked Sheila to drive her down to a little wooden dock by some floating homes on Lake Union, near Eastlake. The girl had scattered the ashes of her “other mother” there. Eden had told Sheila that, when the police let her read Cassandra’s journal, she’d learned that her substitute mother had a special affection for that spot. Sheila wondered what had happened there, but she didn’t ask. She’d stayed in the car while Eden scattered the ashes. She was a bit surprised that Eden, on the way back to the car, unceremoniously deposited the funeral urn in a dumpster. It was as if she didn’t want a thing to do with her other mother anymore.
But the girl wasn’t completely rid of her. Sheila had been surprised to learn that Cassandra’s estate was worth close to eight hundred thousand dollars, and Eden was the sole beneficiary. The lawyer would be settling all of it in a month or two.
The police still hadn’t found Brodie’s body. Arthur Merrens had given them a full account of how Brodie had tried to murder him. He was out of the hospital now, and Sheila had gotten his number from Hilltop Auto Repair. She talked with him on the phone for twenty minutes. She thanked him for returning her gloves—and apologized for all the trouble he’d gone through returning them. She planned to make a lasagna dinner and bring it over to his and his partner’s place tomorrow.
The police hadn’t been able to find any more of Cassandra’s journals.
Sheila had asked one of the detectives if there had been anything in Cassandra’s journal about sending one of her children a text or a newspaper article. They told her no. So she still didn’t know for certain who had contacted Steve about Molly. Maybe it had been Brodie. Maybe they’d never know.
Nobody asked Sheila about the private detective Cassandra had once hired to dig up dirt about Molly. It looked as if Dylan’s affair with her sister would remain a secret.
Some in-depth online articles had mentioned Molly’s suicide, but they didn’t go into it much. Sheila was glad she’d told Hannah and Gabe about her. Considering everything they’d been forced to process that Sunday, the revelation wasn’t too traumatic. Earlier this week, Steve had printed up the newspaper photo of Molly and given it to her. Sheila thought about framing it and putting it on display with the other family photos in the den.
It also reminded her of another photograph.
Last night, around bedtime, Sheila had knocked on Eden’s bedroom door. She presented her with the photo of Dylan and Antonia. “This is from that collection of pictures your mother had,” she explained. “I’m sorry I didn’t give it to you earlier. I set it aside and totally forgot about it. Anyway, I thought you might want to frame it, or something . . .”
Sitting on her bed, Eden studied the photo and shook her head. “I’m not framing this,” she said. “It’s a good picture of them. But I’m not putting it on display.”
“Why not?” Sheila asked.
“Because it might hurt you,” Eden replied. “And I’ve already done enough to hurt you.”
Sheila leaned down and kissed her stepdaughter on the forehead.
Of the kids, Eden seemed the most wounded, but also the most forgiving toward their father. Gabe had said a couple of days ago that he didn’t want his dad coming to any of his football games, although Sheila thought he would change his mind by the time Dylan got out of the hospital. Hannah considered her father a total embarrassment and seemed one step away from applying for witness protection relocation or something along those lines. But she was still as popular as ever at school. Things hadn’t changed much for Steve. But yesterday, a girl he had a longtime crush on—Barbie Something—approached him in the cafeteria and asked to interview him for the school newspaper. So he was pretty pumped about that.
Sheila told Dylan about it at his hospital bedside. She talked about how she’d have to put off restoring the garden until next spring. And she told him that the kids adored their new German shepherd, True, but the dog’s obvious favorite was her. She rarely left her side, especially when no one else was around.
It took Dylan two tries before Sheila finally understood the meaning of his response: “Maybe she senses that you’re a little lonely.”
“But I’m really not that lonely, Dylan,” she told him. “You don’t have to worry about me or the kids. I think we’re all going to be okay.”
He didn’t say anything. He just closed his eyes.
Sheila got to her feet. “I’ll be by tomorrow afternoon.”
He nodded painfully. “Thanks for coming.”
As she walked down the hospital corridor, Sheila wondered if he’d ever get his handsome looks back. Either way, he’d be out of circulation for a while. But then, even with a face full of scars, he’d probably go back to his roving ways.
She would divorce him, but not until after the kids had gone off to college.
If she left him any sooner than that, Eden would probably end up with him, and the girl needed a good mother for a while.
In the meantime, she was no longer so averse to couples counseling. In the past, she’d been afraid a therapist might somehow make her realize that she’d killed her sister. But in her heart, Sheila knew she couldn’t have. She’d also been worried a therapist might provide the kind of clarity that made leaving Dylan something she’d have to do.
But she wasn’t afraid anymore.
Of the two of them, Dylan was the one who should be worried what he’d learn about himself in therapy.
Sheila stopped by the hospital gift shop, where she found a pretty frame for Molly’s picture. Yes, she would put it in the family room, so she would never forget her sister.
And neither would Dylan.
*
“Did your wife leave?”
Dylan opened his eyes to see the nurse—a friendly, plump, fifty-something black woman named Loretta. She carried a slightly ratty-looking stuffed-animal monkey. Tied to its hand were a small card and a ribbon attached to a pink helium balloon with GET WELL in silver and blue letters. Loretta set the monkey on his bedside table.
“You just missed her.” Dylan strained to be understood through the metal braces. “What’s that?”
“Your daughter dropped this off a couple of minut
es ago,” Loretta explained.
“My daughters are both in school right now.”
“Well, this girl was a very pretty blonde, about eighteen—a sweet thing,” the nurse said. “She looked like you—like your pictures on the news. Anyway, she said she was your daughter.” The nurse untied the small card and handed it to him. “This monkey’s awfully cute, but he looks like he’s been around for a long, long while.”
With his good hand, Dylan brought the card close to his face and squinted at it. The message was in a girlish script:
“I don’t know what this is about,” Dylan said.
The nurse took the card from him and set it on the table. “Well, maybe it’s one of those private jokes, something you shared with her a long time ago.”
She headed out of the room. “Sleep on it,” she called. “Maybe you’ll figure it out. It’ll come back to you . . .”
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The Betrayed Wife Page 40
