More giggling. “You really are clueless. Bob moved out of the house last month. He’s renting a place two blocks from the office. I’ve been a frequent visitor. It’s over, Michael.”
I hear Dad almost whisper, “Do you love him?”
Mom whips around. She’s enjoying this. She takes her time responding. “Well, I love having his big, fat cock in my mouth during his lunch breaks. And I love that he’s more interested in fucking me at night than prepping for court. And I love that I feel alive when I’m with him, instead of feeling like I’m married to a fucking corpse.”
Mom walks to the front door, my dad unmoving. She stops and turns to deliver the final blow. “Oh, and Michael. You’re going to have to replenish Maeve’s college fund. I’ve been dipping into it the last few months when you’ve been stingy with my spending money. I withdrew the last three thousand dollars this morning. Bob and I are going to Mexico next week.”
In a flash, Dad darts into their bedroom. I hear the front door open and the screen door slam behind Mom. My dad reappears in my line of vision. He’s running after her. I see his handgun in his right hand. The one he always keeps in his bedside table for protection against all the burglars roaming the mean streets of Carmel, Indiana. I need to stop him. I need to scream and warm Mom. But I do neither. I’m frozen. Still reeling from Mom’s confessions. I hear the screen door slam again. Then a loud explosion. Then another. Then silence. I remain frozen.
Chapter 22
I travelled back to Chicago on autopilot. I completed the outward motions of hailing a cab from the Marriott, changing my flight departure to noon, walking to the designated gate, sitting next to an elderly gentleman in seat 13D and pretending to sleep to avoid continuing the already too lengthy conversation about the hassle of getting a CPAP machine through security (“Don’t they know it’s a medically necessary device! The difference between life and death, really!”), and hailing a Lyft from Midway home. But inside I felt frozen.
When I finally open the door of our townhome, I sit my purse down on the top stair leading from the front door to the living room like always. It’s how the boys know that I’m home when they are out with Patrick. If they walk in and see my purse on the top step, they immediately start calling my name.
My gaze drifts to the family pictures decorating our walls. Patrick with his arm around me sitting on the arm rest of our love seat while I cradle a six-week-old Declan. The picture was taken in this very living room. Declan was outfitted in blue-and-white striped overalls with a tiny white onesie underneath. I remember I had to bunch up the excess fabric in the back as I held him so the outfit looked more fitted. Declan was born at six pounds three ounces and didn’t fit into any of the one-to-three month clothes I had pre-purchased. Yet, I was determined he was going to wear those adorable overalls for his first pictures, sizing be damned. The photographer placated me for a few shots, but then suggested we take the rest of the pictures with Declan just in his diaper. They were perfect.
I remember how nervous and excited Patrick and I were during those newborn months. Being an only child, I had no clue what I was doing. Patrick had a bit more common sense when it came to babies, having learned some things from his siblings. I smile in spite of myself as I remember our early morning walks to Starbucks with Declan in his stroller. The only people in the coffee shop before seven on a Saturday morning were other parents with small children. And of course, all the late night diaper changes and feedings. Patrick was a trooper. Even though he didn’t have the generous law firm maternity leave I had, he still got up and changed Declan two or three times a night before handing him back to me to nurse. He was basically running entirely on caffeine in those days.
I next look at the most recent family photo hanging above our dining room table. This time of our family of four at the Chicago Botanical Gardens. The same place we were married. We had spread out a blanket near the lake there. Declan was engrossed with his green stuffed teddy bear, Orso Verde, he brought along as an “entertainer.” Seamus, around five months old at the time, was propped up between my legs blowing strawberries. And Patrick and I were looking into each other’s eyes. Those eyes aren’t full of the same youthful excitement they were in Declan’s baby pictures, but they twinkle in shared amusement at the insanity of attempting a professional portrait session with a preschooler and an infant. That’s when the reality of my situation hits me. There will be no more family photo shoots. I will no longer have a partner to share a knowing look with during the chaos. Hell, I’m not even sure I’ll be the one who gets this house. A crushing weight lands squarely on my shoulders and my legs buckle. I lunge the couple of steps to the couch, curl up in a ball and cover myself with the green plaid blanket that resides on the back for just such an occasion. A present from Mary a few Christmases ago. She said she wanted to give me something warm to snuggle up with on the nights Patrick was away. I wonder if she foresaw the demise of our marriage as well. I feel a stabbing pain in my thigh and I reach into the pocket of my leggings to extricate my phone. I switch it to silent and let sleep overtake me.
I’m startled awake by a loud banging at my front door. It’s completely dark in the house and I have no clue what time it is. Given my state of exhaustion I would guess the middle of the night. I spot my phone on the reclaimed wood coffee table next to the couch. The clock says five past seven. I guess that makes sense given my plane landed at Midway around three-thirty. My phone shows four missed calls and three texts from Patrick. I turn the phone off with the messages unread. All the while the loud knocking continues at the door. I start to stand up to answer it when I hear the all too familiar tone of my former best friend:
“Maeve, I know you’re in there. Answer the door, please.”
I sit right back down. Zara must be out of her goddamn mind to think I’d let her in.
A few more seconds go by and the knocking resumes in earnest.
“Maeve, you know I’m not leaving. You can either answer the door or have this conversation within earshot of all your neighbors.”
Shit! I don’t need the whole block privy to my humiliation. Especially the cookie cutter family next door. Husband is a successful investment banker (which he reminds me of every time we meet), wife is an adorable blonde spin instructor (her ass is a thing of beauty I’ll admit), and baby Charlotte is a pudgy cherub.
I quickly scamper over to the front door and say loud enough for Zara to hear, but hopefully no one else, “Zara, I don’t want to talk to you right now. Or ever, actually. Please leave. You owe me that much.”
Another pause. Zara responds, but quieter this time. I actually have to press my ear against the door to catch it all.
“Maeve, I know why you’re mad. Patrick called me. He told me everything. Including what Ethan said about me. It wasn’t true.”
I don’t believe her. She feels guilty and is about to engage in some revisionist history.
“So, let me get this straight. Ethan invented entire conversations where you two placed bets on how long it would take for me to figure out my husband’s sexual orientation? Just pulled that nugget out of thin air?”
Zara sighs. “Okay, it happened, but it wasn’t like that.”
I punch the door in response. My knuckles scream in protest.
“It’s just Patrick is always so well dressed and well groomed and well behaved, that Ethan and I would sometimes say we couldn’t believe he was straight. Or even that I thought Ethan was more Patrick’s type.”
Oof! That went straight to the heart.
Zara realizes she’s stumbled and tries to regain her footing. “But listen, it was in jest. I never actually believed Patrick would cheat on you. With any gender. I swear. Believe me, if I got even the slightest cheater vibe, I would have told you. I’ve always been straight with you. You know that.”
My heart unclenches. Zara is telling the truth. She’s been my best friend for over twenty years and in that time she’s always had my back. She was the first person I told about my
parents during a midnight talkathon fueled by a good amount of pot, and she never breathed a word of it to any of the other girls in our dorm. She would take my secret to the grave if I asked, which I did. I unlock the deadbolt and open the door. Zara is standing on my stoop with a bottle of wine in one hand and a box of Lou Malnati’s pizza in the other. My stomach suddenly remembers that it’s been empty for over twenty-four hours and comes to life with a roar. I relieve Zara of her peace offering, place them on the first stair, and rush into her open arms.
Chapter 23
Zara follows me into the living room where I immediately sit down cross-legged on the hardwood floor and house a good three quarters of the pizza straight from the box in less than five minutes. I then wash it down with a glass or two of a fine California cabernet, chugging straight from the bottle. After I’m satiated and slightly intoxicated, I have the nerve to ask the question that’s been eating me since Zara arrived.
“Have you talked to Ethan?”
Zara squeezes her eyes closed before admitting, “Yes, briefly.”
“Are you serious?” I bellow. “How could you?”
Zara grabs my arms to stop me from standing and storming upstairs. “I know. I know. He’s a total shit. But I had to let him have it. I mean, working with you in the office everyday while he’s shagging your husband on the side. That’s pretty awful shit to do to a friend. But telling Patrick about your parents? That’s what put me over the edge.”
“I know!” I yell in agreement, nearly knocking over the bottle of wine with my wild gesticulations. “That was the nail in the coffin for me too. I keep thinking back to that night. It was the tenth anniversary of their deaths. Ethan and I were third years at the time. We were both working late on a doc review project for a pharmaceutical company. Ironically, we were reviewing documents to determine the sufficiency of a parent company’s oversight of local pharmacies who were caught filling thousands of phony opioid prescriptions. He came by my office for a break. He barged in without knocking, as usual, and found me crouched between my desk and the wall in the midst of a full-scale panic attack. He helped me calm down and then took me out for a drink at Rivers. After a couple of vodka and Sprites, I spilled my guts. The next morning, after I had recovered sufficiently from my hangover, I went straight to his office and made him swear to secrecy. So much for that. That man would sell his grandmother’s soul to the devil for a good screw.”
Zara guffaws briefly before turning serious again. “He really is sorry, Maeve. For everything. He started crying a bit over the phone. He said that he was always jealous of your and Patrick’s relationship and he wanted that for himself. I think he’s been really lonely these last few years.”
“He can join the club,” I snap. “Patrick and I may have looked like the perfect couple on our few nights out, but appearances can be deceiving, you know.”
Zara nods her head thoughtfully. “You’re right.” A minute or two passes before she adds, “I guess I just thought if you knew where he was coming from, however flawed his reasoning might be, it would help you hate him a bit less.”
A wave of exhaustion hits me with Zara’s words, and I lie down on the hardwood and stare up at the recessed LED lights Patrick researched obsessively before purchasing. Apparently, there are a lot of options in the eco friendly lighting market. Zara scoots her little legging-clad booty over and lies down next to me. She rests her head on my shoulder.
“I don’t think I have any more hate left in me. It’s too exhausting. And I wasn’t blameless here. I told Patrick my mom died of cancer and my father of a broken heart soon after. That’s way more than stretching the truth. I turned my Breaking Bad family into Where the Red Fern Grows.”
We laugh and then lie quietly for a bit longer.
“When do you have to pick up the munchkins from their grandparents’ house?”
The question whips me back to reality. “I asked Mary to take them to daycare in the morning. I’ll pick them up after work. Ethan and I are scheduled to visit Tammy for trial prep. Should be an interesting meeting.”
Zara giggles. “Oh, how I wish I could be a fly on the wall during that meeting. You two are going to make the killer mommy feel uncomfortable.”
I smile before chiding, “Hey now. My client is innocent until proven guilty. And I for one think she’ll be acquitted.”
I find myself musing about the pros and cons of the case. Pro: the prosecution’s case rests on this ridiculous blanket strangulation theory, which our expert should be able to debunk. Con: the adoption papers which may still be in Simon Harr’s garbage waiting to be discovered. It seems wrong to just sit on this information. And what if there is something else the police overlooked in there that is helpful to Tammy’s case? A jolt of adrenaline courses through my veins. I sit up so quickly my vision goes black and I have to brace myself to allow my blood pressure to normalize.
“Are you okay?” Zara asks, sitting up as well.
“Yeah, I’m fine. I just got a crazy idea. You want to let ourselves into a drug dealer’s old apartment and do some digging?”
“Wouldn’t that be a felony?” Zara asks incredulously.
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. The apartment has been abandoned.” I think. “Who’s going to complain?” Except maybe neighbors. “We’ll just let ourselves in, see what we can see, and let ourselves back out. No one will be the wiser.” Let’s pray.
“Isn’t it an active crime scene?”
“Oh, the police finished processing the scene ages ago. It’s just an abandoned apartment at this point.” Again, I should add, I think.
“What are you even hoping to find?”
I answer honestly. “I don’t know. But ever since I talked to Simon, I’ve had the feeling that there might be something else there. Something that helps Tammy.”
“Are you actually serious about this?” Zara is looking at me as if I’ve gone completely mental.
“Yes, I am,” I say adamantly. “I’m sick of being the person things are done to. I’m ready to be the hero of my own narrative.” After a quizzical look from Zara, I add sheepishly, “I may have read that on a T-shirt.”
Chapter 24
The Lyft drops us off on the corner of Central and Marsh Avenues after ten-thirty p.m. As we start to open the door, the Lyft driver, a nice young woman named Charlene, stops us.
“How do you two expect to get back home?”
Silence. The plan up until this point consisted entirely of grabbing flashlights, gloves, throwing on jackets and calling a Lyft. I can feel Zara’s eyes boring into the side of my head.
I stumble, “I guess we just thought we’d call for another Lyft?”
Charlene shakes her head. “This isn’t the type of neighborhood Lyfts or cabs will respond to. It’s a bit shady as you can see.”
Yes, I guess neighborhoods where drug dealers live might not be entirely safe. Looking across at the townhome block where Simon resided, I see several boarded-up windows and graffiti-tagged bricks.
“Look, here’s my card. When you two finish up with whatever it is you are doing here, why don’t you give me a call. I’ll come back around and get you. You can wait for me at the 7-Eleven up the block.”
After many thank yous have been said, we get out of the blue Toyota Prius and exchange nervous glances. The street is dark and empty, but I can hear music coming from inside one of the houses down Marsh. We cross over to the townhouse complex. All the units on Central look abandoned and boarded up. I was counting on this. That means no neighbors to call the cops on intruders.
The front door of Simon’s unit is locked and still has the yellow crime scene tape across it. I start to look at the windows to see if any are ajar when Zara pushes past me. She pulls a Target gift card from her wallet and slides it between the door and the frame. After a minute or two of adjusting it, Zara’s able to use the card to push back the bolt and the door swings open. Zara then quietly removes some of the yellow tape and we step inside.
The s
mell of rotting food and bodily waste is oppressive, but I’m still too curious not to ask. “Ummm, did you forget to tell me you were a jewel thief back in Springfield, Maryland?”
Zara shakes her head. “Nothing like that. But as a preteen, I had dreams of working for the CIA. I was all into spy gear. I must have watched La Femme Nikita twenty times. Anyway, I begged my parents to buy me some spy books, and one of the tricks I learned was how to pick a lock.”
“Unfortunately, not a very useful skill for a legal recruiting director,” I note.
“Oh, you’d be surprised. During a holiday party I was tipped off that one of our highest earning partners had taken one of our new associates back to his office and locked the door. I had that door open in seconds and was able to put a stop to the situation before any clothes were removed.”
“Are you serious!” I say, completely shocked.
“Yes, I’m serious,” Zara responds with a satisfied smirk. “And I had all the locks removed from the office doors the very next day. The only people who can have locks on their doors now are those that are pumping, and the locks are removed when they are finished nursing.”
“Go you, ya badass.” And we fist bump.
Then our attention returns to the task at hand. We get out the flashlights I was able to find in our kitchen junk drawer. I remember needing them about a year ago when a snowstorm knocked out the electricity on our block overnight. Declan and I enjoyed PB&Js over flashlight. Seamus was still too young for solid foods. Then we all slept in my bed to keep warm. I smile thinking of their snuggles.
Shining the weak light around the living room, I can see little has been moved since the police photographed the place. Now there is just a thick layer of dust over everything. And some stray excrement. I silently pray it is rat and not human. And then find myself asking, is that actually better?
Darkness Drops Again Page 14
