by A B Whelan
“Funny.” He peeks at his phone and then puts it inside his jacket pocket.
I search for the door key in my handbag. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
He relieves me of half my groceries, which isn’t much—a few boxes of frozen dinners, a bag of coffee beans, low-fat milk, a lemon pound cake, a few apples, and two pomegranates that are supposed to prevent cancer or some shit but will probably end up rotting away in my refrigerator. And to maintain the illusion of my will to eat healthily, I also bought a few bags of ready-to-eat salad mixes.
“Skyler is missing again,” Peter says. “She was supposed to meet me tonight at the café, but she never showed.”
“I saw her earlier. Did you try her place?”
“I did. I called her, too, and left messages.” He turns and rubs his hand against his forehead. “I should have never gotten mixed up in her crazy life.”
For the first time, I see some humanity in Peter, a kind and caring part he usually masks with his annoying overconfidence and an I-got-my-life-under-control attitude.
“I hope she isn’t getting loaded tonight. I’m supposed to take her to the police station in the morning.”
“Yeah. She told me.”
“So, you met her?”
“No. She called after you left her house.”
I take a deep breath of the crisp evening air. It’s not cold, but the scattered rain makes me yearn for my comfy couch and a glass of wine. I picture Peter on the couch next to me. He’s right. It’s pathetic to drink alone on a Friday night. “Do you want to come in?”
He looks to the side, as if someone standing there would give him consent. When he looks back at me, his face looks different, cringing, maybe even a few shades redder.
“Um…I’ll take the bags inside, but then I should bounce. I got a…you know, I’m meeting someone.” There is a nervous smile on his lips. My skin burns. I’m not sure what I feel. It can’t be jealousy, because Peter never managed to make my dating radar. All these years, he couldn’t arouse any interest toward him out of me, and now he’s managed to turn me into a pity party.
I rip the bags from his hands like a melodramatic teen and kick the door open. “Don’t bother. I got this. I’ll let you know how it goes tomorrow.” I glare at him, turn, then slam the door behind me.
Olivia
Tuesday
When you keep lying to everybody, even to yourself, the lies become part of you, like a tumor or cancer that spreads and grows inside of you, making you sick.
Ashley trusts me because she doesn’t know what a rotten liar I am. My innocent lies don’t hurt her; they only paint a socially acceptable image of me, I assure myself. But if I told her the truth about who I really am and where I really come from, then my carefully crafted image would shatter. As Richard’s wife, people have certain expectations of me, and I’m doing my best to not to disappoint them. It’s a win-win situation. Nobody is supposed to get hurt, but by not sharing my suspicion about the tablet sketch that looks like my husband, I feel like I’m betraying Ashley more than our friendship could endure. Nevertheless, I can’t bring myself to say the words.
Richard is a socially awkward man who keeps a journal of sadistic pictures hidden at home, but he is still my husband—the man who has been supporting me financially for over a decade. I want the truth to surface and want justice for Skyler, but I’m scared to lose the life I know. At least that’s what I keep telling myself. When I only had my suspicions, it seemed acceptable to refrain from starting a string of gossip that could have irreversible effects on Richard’s life and my life. However, after what I’ve found out today, I see the world and my husband in a whole different light.
On my way home from Skyler’s place, my head starts spinning and my eyes become blurry, forcing me to pull over on the side of Los Feliz Road. As a tightness in my chest accelerates my breathing, I lean forward onto the steering wheel, grasping it hard enough for my hands to go numb. I try to wrap my mind around the possibility that my husband is a serial rapist and murderer, but the thought is too unrealistic for my brain to process. The disgusting pornographic journal, Skyler’s description of her kidnapper, and her purse in Richard’s car points in one direction I can’t bring myself to go.
As I try to get a grip on myself, a police car pulls up next to me, deepening my anxiety. What freedom? I can’t even freak out at the side of the road in this fucking country without someone ordering me to take my problems someplace else.
I get back on the road, but as my destination draws near, the prospect of facing Richard makes me feel sick. I want…no…I need to ask Richard about the journal and the purse, but I fear his answer. I’m scared because if he lies, then our marriage will never be the same.
Richard always gets upset if there’s a glitch in his perfect system. I’m late for dinner, and I brace myself for the yelling as I enter through the front door. The house is cold and silent, like an eerie cemetery at night, and as I walk down the long hallway to his private room, chills race up my spine. I catch my breath at the top step, and then I glide down on the spiral staircase like a weightless ghost. I put my ear against the massive timber door. Tchaikovsky’s “Dance of the Swans” penetrates through the cracks. I push the door open and find Richard lying on his leather recliner and wearing a dark suit. His tie is undone and draped over his chest like a pet snake. I watch him for a long time. I’ve never understood how people could sleep on their backs with legs and arms apart like a dead body in a coffin. It would be easy to thrust a knife into his heart or put a pillow over his face. For a serial killer, he surely doesn’t seem to be unhinged.
When I was twenty-two years old, I drove my boyfriend’s car home from a party as a designated driver. While I was sober and alert, he distracted me with his alcohol-fueled comedy show next to me. Coming up on a hill by the lake I used to swim in every summer, a young deer crossed the dark road in front of us, following the footsteps of its mother. I hit the brakes, but it was too late. I crashed into the fawn. Down on my knees on the muddy ground, I watched the life leaving the fawn’s eyes. It was an accident, but nonetheless, I had taken a life. If Richard has killed, how can he be so infuriatingly tranquil?
I pick up the controller from the armrest, turn off the music, and step back to give space for Richard to jump with alarm.
“You should be in bed, Olivia,” he says evenly, his body unmoving and eyes remaining closed, as if against all odds, he has been expecting me.
“I need to talk to you, Richard.” I keep my distance. There is something sinisterly calm about him that makes my skin crawl.
“Can’t it wait till morning?”
“No, it can’t,” I say with certainty. “I can’t do this anymore, Richard. I just can’t.” I blurt it out with one breath, releasing the parasite that’s been lodged in my brain for way too long.
Using the remote, he motors himself into sitting position. “Can’t do what, exactly, Olivia?”
“Do you love me, Richard?” I ask, not even attempting to explain what’s wrong with my “perfect life” to him.
“I do,” he says without batting an eye. At least raise your eyebrows, dammit!
“Then let’s sell everything and leave this place,” I say with passion, a desperate attempt to save whatever we have left from our marriage. “We could start a new life somewhere, buy a farm, raise pigs, ducks, chickens. Just you and me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Olivia. Our life is here.”
“No. Your life is here. I’m asking you to have a life together with me. Away from all this.” I motion all around the room.
“You’re part of my life.” He folds his fingers over his lap, talking to me like I’m nothing more than a rebellious child who needs to calm down. My legs start shaking, and I touch my thighs to steady them.
“No, I’m not,” I admit, crestfallen from the fact that he doesn’t see our life the same way I do. “You’re keeping secrets from me. We aren’t what we used to be.”
He
stands up and comes face-to-face with me. I must have touched a nerve. “Everybody has secrets.” He tilts his head, and finally there it is, the raised eyebrows. “Even you.”
I’m not sure what he’s implying but I think of those moments when I felt watched and followed. For a split second, I ponder the increasing desperation I felt when I entered Richard’s secret room in the basement for the first time. Once my fear of retribution and my respect for my husband’s privacy diminished, the path to his private room became nothing more than a simple door and a few steps that day.
I summon that same feeling of liberty and bravery now. “I found your journal tucked in this chair,” I blurt out, pointing at the recliner.
“I know,” he admits without a hint of astonishment. “I was wondering when you would bring it up.”
I think that maybe this time—this one time—I have the upper hand, but he’s already one step ahead of me.
“So, you’re not denying it?” My voice comes out weak, a powerless yelp.
“Why would I deny it? It’s not mine. I confiscated it from a young man at the shelter. He has trouble containing his urges. I offered him my help.”
My face flares up, and I swallow hard, standing in the dim room like an idiot.
“I…I thought…” I begin but am unable to finish. I should have never let my previous experiences with despicable men cloud my judgment of Richard. There are still good men in this world, and my husband—as odd as he is—is one of them.
“Don’t worry about it.” He takes a bottle of San Pellegrino from the table and unscrews the top. The sizzling sound of the bubbles popping sets my nerves further on edge. “Actually, I’m glad you brought it up. I can’t have you thinking that I keep secrets from you.”
His kindness is killing me softly.
My feelings are at a tug-of-war. There are more unanswered questions about Skyler’s purse in Richard’s car and about the sketch Ashley has drawn of the kidnapper. On the other hand, I can’t believe my husband has anything do with rape and murder.
“I don’t know what got into me, spying on you and questioning you like that. I’m sorry, Richard.”
He pulls me against him and plants a kiss on the top of my head. “I thought I had your trust. It’s quite disheartening to realize that you feel the need to spy on me.”
“I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” My heart trembles in my chest.
“It’s all right this time, but don’t let it happen again.”
“It won’t.” I pull away from his chest and shake my head. “My head was all messed up from this story Ashley told me about her patient. I was so alone. The door was open. I just wanted to be close to you. I don’t even know what I was thinking. Then I saw those pictures in that journal, and I don’t know…I lost touch with reality, I guess.”
“What patient are you talking about?”
“A young girl who had been kidnapped. Skyler.” I watch Richard’s face intently.
“You think that the man who drew in that journal has anything to do with this?” He is holding me in his arms as we both lie on the recliner. I haven’t felt this close to my husband in ages. Like a hypnotized cobra, I answer all his questions to please him, to keep him close to me. I’ve been a rabid dog for so long, yearning for love and attention, for someone to touch me, and finally I have something to offer to Richard to earn his attention.
“I don’t know,” I say, tracing over his knuckles with my fingers.
“What’s her last name?”
“O’Neill.”
“Skyler, of course. I remember her. She spent a few nights at the shelter earlier this year. A blonde, right? Pretty girl. Troubled. Problems with parents, if I remember right. You said she was kidnapped?”
The puzzle pieces are falling into place. I feel relieved. If she was at the shelter for help, she could have left her purse there. She could have met her kidnapper there too.
“Yes, and raped, but she escaped her captor. Do you think the guy who drew those pictures in the journal could have anything to do with her kidnapping?”
Another kiss to the top of my head. I picture Richard’s mind sparking with ideas of how to help this girl. As sad as it is for me to realize, in the absence of our time spent together, our only common ground has become a story of an abused girl.
“Did she give a description of the man?”
“No, not to the police. But she drew a picture of him. He kind of looks like you.” I laugh because for the first time since Skyler entered my life, I consider my vile thoughts of Richard absurd. My husband is a good man, and I should be ashamed of myself for thinking otherwise. Nothing is more dangerous than an untapped, bored mind.
Richard doesn’t respond to that, but I sense his body flex underneath me.
“Ashley will take her to the police station tomorrow to make a statement. Maybe you could join them and tell the police about that sick man.”
After an impolitely long silence, he says, “I can do that. Maybe I’ll be able to dig up a picture of him somewhere in the office. Where did you say Skyler lives now? I should reach out to her, see if she needs help.”
“I don’t have the address, but she lives with a guy in a small house somewhere near South Park. I can get the address from Ashley.”
“Don’t worry about it now. We can get it tomorrow. What time are we going to the police station?”
“In the morning. Ashley will call.”
He taps my thigh. “All right. Let me go back to the office, then, and dig up whatever I can on Skyler and see if I can find an address for the guy I took the journal from.”
I roll out of my comfortable position and set myself sturdily on my feet to allow Richard to stand.
This new development regarding Skyler will make Ashley happy, and I owe her that much and more.
As I’m standing on the front porch, Richard kisses me good-bye, and then he drives off with my car since it’s conveniently parked in front of the house. When the darkness of night swallows the car, I fish out the pack of smokes from my purse that I picked up at the gas station earlier and light one up. An owl hoots in the distance. It’s a full moon tonight. I gaze at the bright orb until I finish my cigarette. I take the glowing stub inside, press it into the stream of running water, and hide it under the cucumber peels in the kitchen trash bin.
After brushing my teeth and setting a box of mints on my nightstand, I lay on my back, flipping my cell phone around in my hands and staring at the bedroom ceiling. At least a dozen times I dial Ashley’s number, but I can’t bring myself to hit the call button.
By the time I hear the door squeak open downstairs, it’s two o’clock in the morning. I wait for Richard to enter the bedroom, bracing myself for another confrontation. I wait and wait in the dark, the hammering of my heart keeping me on edge, my ears scanning for sounds.
The house remains silent.
I creep to the door and listen.
Nothing.
Assuming that I’ve only imagined the door opening, I go back to bed, where I’m left wondering all night how long it should take for Richard to find a stupid file in his office.
Ashley
Wednesday
At nine o’clock in the morning, I knock on the door of Skyler’s house, but no one answers. The blinds are drawn, and it’s dark inside. I pull out my cell from my blazer pocket and call her. After a long sequence of ringing tones, the call goes to voice mail. Without leaving a message, I redial two more times, only to be disappointed with the same futile result. Scouting the neighborhood for watching eyes, I roll up my sleeves and tuck my blouse tighter into my pants and scale the rotting wood fence at the side of the house.
The first window I encounter isn’t obscured with curtain or blinds, and I’m able to peek inside a messy, poorly furnished bedroom. I try to pull open the window, but it’s locked, so I move on toward the backyard. Piles of junk and bagged trash take up most of the patio that opens to a kidney-bean-shaped baked lawn with a faded
plastic kiddy slide placed in the middle of it—a telltale sign of a family once living here.
Squirrels scatter from the bags of decaying trash, startling me. I don’t do well with spiders, roaches, or rodents, and I’m getting tired of playing hide-and-seek with Skyler, so I nearly give up on this foolish amateur detective work. But, by some miracle, I find the will somewhere deep inside of me to keep going. I use a stick to poke around the garbage to scare away any brave rodent that won’t give up its kingdom. When my path on the patio is cleared, I make my way to the door, walking on a carpet of dead leaves. I push the sliding door, and it barely budges. Using all my might to force the heavy, stuck metal frame to slide further, I open the door just enough for me to squeeze through and enter the living room.
I know I’m in the right house because I remember this foul smell well.
“Skyler!” I call out in a faint voice, my heart pumping so fast that I feel as though I just hiked a mountain.
I check every room and hole in this tiny house but find all of them vacant.
“Damn it, Skyler!” I blurt out and kick over a can of Coca-Cola on the floor. It turns over with a hiss, and some dark liquid spills over the carpet. The sad thing is that nobody will even notice.
I go back to my car and call Olivia to ask her to cancel the meeting with her husband. I tell her that I’ll be looking for Skyler today, and if I find her, I’ll call back to let her husband know. She offers to help search the city together, but I’m too irritated to have company, so I politely decline.
Once I give up on waiting for Skyler in front of her house and on searching junkie hangouts, I drive to the nearest police station in the art district, where I’ve been sitting in my car for some time, staring at the digital sketch of Skyler’s alleged kidnapper. I could go inside the police station and submit a statement, but there are things holding me back. One, it’s not my crime to report, and if I violate doctor-patient confidentiality, I could lose my license. Two, somewhere between 7-Eleven and the back lot of Lowes, I did a serious bump of some high-quality blow that I’ve been carrying around all day and that was starting to burn a hole in my pocket. It was a stupid idea to get high before talking to cops.
