As Sick as Our Secrets

by A B Whelan

  “Exactly!” I snap my fingers. “We could have a guilt-free eating frenzy whenever we liked.”

  She smiles, pushing the salad bowl to the edge of the table. “Honestly, I don’t know how people live on this shit.”

  “I guess you can get used to anything you set your mind to.”

  “I’m supposed to have a shake for breakfast, a salad for lunch, and tasteless chicken for dinner?” She pinches her belly fat and shakes it hard. “I don’t think this diet’s working.”

  “You know how it is. At twenty, you can eat a whole chocolate cake and it won’t show. At thirty, you eat a slice and it shows on your hips the next day. At forty, by looking at a piece of cake you gain two pounds. I heard that at fifty, it’s enough to only think about a slice of cake and you’ll gain weight.”

  She laughs sincerely. Good. I need her to like me, to be my ally. Richard will be back from his lunch meeting in forty-two minutes, putting an end to my spy game.

  “You’re the boss’s wife, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I offer her a small box of orange juice I found in the cabinet and dig up a miniature bottle of champagne from my endless-pit purse. “Mimosa?”

  With a half-suspicious and half-excited smile, she measures me up like a bullied high school girl with trust issues.

  “I won’t tell if you don’t.” I pop the bottle and pour half of it into a plastic cup for myself and top it off with orange juice. I drain the cup in one breath. “Not bad,” I say, nodding my head.

  She pushes herself to her feet, a conflicted look remaining on her face, but she’s warming up to me. She can’t fight the inevitable gravitational pull toward sisterhood, the temptation of girl power.

  “I think you’ll fit right in with us,” she says, dropping her half-eaten lunch on top of my coffee cup in the trash bin. “I got a secret stash of M&M’s. If we do this, let’s go big.”

  “It will be our little secret,” I whisper, handing her the bubbling midday cocktail. It’s like we are creating a bond and sealing it with an unbreakable promise. I almost feel bad that I’m only doing this to gain her trust. It pains me to admit to myself that my heart is as cold as ice.

  As we clean up after ourselves, I tell her how fascinating I find the old-school way of record keeping that she manages. She doesn’t want to take credit for the system because, apparently, it’s Richard who lacks trust in computers and orders the records to be kept on paper.

  I’d prefer to type the names of the dead girls into a search program and get answers in seconds. I feel a little cheated.

  Cynthia invites me to her workplace without me having to wheedle my way in. We take the stairs to the basement, munching on M&M’s she’s sharing with me from the bag she keeps in the pocket of her oversized knit sweater.

  The archive room houses four twenty-foot-long metal storage cabinets, each with six rows of shelves. Without Cynthia’s help, I would spend days down here without finding what I’m looking for.

  “I’d like to look at a few files, if that’s okay with you,” I say casually, chewing on a mouthful of chocolate-coated peanuts, as if my request is nothing out of ordinary and definitely not of importance.

  “You work here, right? You can do whatever you want, sweetie.” She pushes aside a towering pile of files on her desk that seems to topple over at the slightest movement and props herself up on the desk. “What are we looking for?”

  It might not be the best idea to involve this faithful employee into my unsanctioned investigation, but my time is limited, and I’m desperate for answers.

  Richard already shared Skyler’s file with me this morning—it was nothing more than a few sheets of general information I already knew—so I give the name of the second victim, Alice Somono, to my new best friend.

  “What year did she visit us?”

  I glance at the archived text from Ashley and tell Cynthia that I only have the year she died, so sometime prior to that, I’d assume. She tells me that without a year to go on, it may take a while to find her, making me wonder why the foundation uses such an obsolete filing system.

  Cynthia is proud of her work, and as she climbs a ladder and pulls out the first box, she explains to me how the system works.

  Once I get the hang of it, I go on a hunt for the third victim’s file: Sarah Moore.

  There are so many files archived yearly in this room, organized by last names, that when Richard’s caller ID pops up on my phone, we’ve only succeeded in finding one of the victims, Lizzy Jamison.

  Her file is similar to Skyler’s—a few pages of basic information I could have found from her dentist or school records. Yet what piques my curiosity is that her name showed up at all.

  I don’t answer Richard’s call because I’m not ready to leave yet.

  I yank out the next box: 2012, family names starting with W. There she is: Harriet Wilding.

  Though I’m not finding anything interesting about her either, my chest tightens.

  For the second time, Richard’s call reverberates through the office.

  Cynthia brings me another file: Stella Barrow. “Aren’t you gonna answer that?”

  I rush down the ladder so fast that I slip. Ignoring a throbbing pain in my ankle, I take the file from her hand. “I’ll call him back in a little bit.”

  Stella’s file only contains a face sheet with a picture on it. A young, beautiful girl, pale face, long, straight chestnut hair half-covered by a black hoodie, a girl I could imagine sitting by the lake writing poetry in a small town. I close my eyes, and images of Richard tying her up to a bedpost dart through my mind.

  I need to sit down. The excessive amount of processed sugar is hitting my blood stream at last, and my head is buzzing.

  “Who are these girls?” Cynthia asks.

  “My friend used to treat them, and she asked me if…” I begin saying, but I can’t finish because the door opens, and Richard materializes in front of us.

  “I’ve been looking all over for you,” he says, his piercing eyes staring at me beneath his beetling brow. “What are you doing here?”

  “How did you know I was here?” I walk to the front of the desk to conceal the dead girls’ files stacked on it.

  “It’s a busy office. People saw you coming down to the basement.”

  “Of course.” I make a silly gesture with my hand. He can’t notice that I’m boiling inside. “You know Cynthia, right?”

  He responds with an extended blink to my silly question.

  “I wanted to return Skyler’s file, and we started talking. I was offering my help to her in case she wanted to digitize these old files.” I catch Cynthia’s puzzled expression, but she doesn’t say a word. The power of sisterhood is strong.

  Richard’s face tightens into a stern look. “I like our filing system as it is.”

  I put my hands up in defeat. “I don’t mean to turn the office upside down on my first day.” I chuckle, like a silly goose. Playing dumb gets people to underestimate you.

  “Go on, then. Return the file. I need you upstairs.” He’s trying to catch me in a lie, but what he doesn’t know is that growing up with an abusive father, I’ve learned the importance of covering my back, to always plan for every possibility. I pull out Skyler’s file from my purse and hand it to Cynthia. I thank her for her time and follow Richard back to the first floor.

  “Did you eat lunch?” Richard asks, holding the door open wide for me.

  “Not yet,” I say. “I was about to go out to grab something.” I get a whiff of cigarette smoke on his jacket as I pass him.

  “I’ll take you out.”

  I can’t look him in the eye. I smile at a passing office clerk instead. “Don’t worry about it. I need to find my way around here anyway. Besides, you already had lunch.”

  He pulls me to his chest and loops an arm around my back. I put my hands against his chest and part us. “Don’t.” I quickly sweep my eyes around the hallway, my face heating up. “Here, I’m an employee and not your wife.”


  He kisses the tip of his finger and presses it against my forehead.

  My jaws clench.

  “All right, Mrs. Campbell. I’ll be in my office if you need me.”

  I wave him away and start down the long corridor toward my office. My breathing, which I’ve been trying to keep even, breaks free and I hyperventilate.

  One foot in front of the other, I’m moving, but the walls are closing in on me. I stagger into the restroom and lean over the sink. I splash my face with water, but it fails to cool the overheated skin on my neck and face. My racing heart is to blame.

  I pull out my cell phone and text Ashley: I have information about the girls. Where can we meet for lunch?

  The door opens next to me, and two female clerks walk inside the restroom. I rip a handful of paper towels from the dispenser, nod to them with a forced smile, and wipe my face dry.

  Steve, the senior manager, my boss, is sitting at his desk in the office we share. He waves me over to him. From one look at the excessive number of spreadsheets in front of him, I remember that we are supposed to go over our donation-receiving system this afternoon, but I know I won’t be able to focus.

  I peek at my phone; no message from Ashley. Her cell phone is an extended limb for her, and I’m used to receiving a response from her almost immediately. Beads of perspiration start to roll down my spine.

  “Just give me an hour. I haven’t had lunch yet, but then we can get right to it,” I tell Steve with a thumbs-up.

  He won’t complain. I’m the owner’s wife.

  I sit down on a bench in front of the office building and lay my phone on my lap, staring at it until my eyes go blurry.

  No response from Ashley.

  She was supposed to wait for my text and then meet me to share information. Something or someone is keeping her from contacting me.

  My knees begin to shake, and adrenaline spreads through my limbs.

  I can’t sit still any longer.

  I go to my car in the parking garage and drive to Ashley’s office, calling her five times before I get there. The door is locked. The lights are off.

  I’m able to call her a dozen more times before I reach her apartment in the midday traffic. I can’t find parking near or far, but I spot her car and I pull behind it, semiblocking the way out for other cars.

  I scribble down my phone number on a piece of paper and put it on the dashboard, where it can be read nice and clear through the windshield.

  Having no patience for the elevator, I take the stairs by twos.

  The entire floor is vacant except for the building manager, who is banging on Ashley’s door with his fist. “This is your last warning, Ms. Hayes. Open up or I’m coming in.”

  “What’s going on?” I ask. My voice is weak, laced with panic.

  “Who’s asking?”

  “I’m her friend.”

  “Good. Do you hear this?” He cocks his head toward the door and points a finger at it. “People are harassing me all morning, asking me to do something about this awful music.”

  It’s punk rock, Limp Bizkit or something similar. I can clearly hear it, but I don’t think it’s loud enough to warrant complaints from the neighbors.

  “Let me in and I’ll handle it,” I offer, but what I receive is a suspicious look and a snort. We are both immigrants with thick accents, but that usually doesn’t mean an advantage for me.

  “I don’t know you. I can’t let some stranger waltz into a tenant’s home.”

  I roll my eyes. “Oh, come on. You were about to go inside yourself. Open the damned door.”

  I step forward and rip the keychain from his hand. “Which key is it?” He freezes like a man not used to a woman taking charge. “The key?” I snap at him.

  He fumbles with the key ring and hands me the right key.

  I unlock the door, hand him the keychain back, and wave him away, but he doesn’t move. “I said, I’ll handle it,” I say calmly and shut the door behind me.

  The first thing I register upon entering the apartment is a foul smell I can’t identify. It’s sour and sweet at the same time, nauseating.

  I go into the kitchen. It’s immaculate, so the origin of the smell must be someplace else.

  In the living room, I walk over scattered laundry on the floor to the Bluetooth speaker and turn off the blaring music. My ears begin ringing in the sudden silence.

  “Ashley?” I call out but receive no answer.

  I try the only room left in the apartment, the bedroom. She is lying in a pool of her own vomit, dressed only in underwear. I leap onto the bed and turn her to her side. I put my fingertips on her neck, looking for a pulse. It’s there but weak and beating fast.

  “Ashley,” I call out. “Ashley, wake up.”

  Her eyes remain closed.

  The smell is the strongest in this room. There is no blood on the bed or on her lingerie, no signs of struggle or foul play, though the room is a mess.

  I lift a tall glass from the nightstand, half-full of a peach-colored liquid. I sniff it. Some sort of an orange and cranberry blend. My eyes land on an empty bottle of vodka lying on the carpet, a small pool of liquid around it.

  I go to the bathroom to wet a towel for her face, but what I find on the shelf above her sink stops me in my tracks. Lines of white powder, a razor blade, an empty small bag with white residue inside.

  I sit down on the edge of the bathtub, my face buried in my hands. I have seen plenty of girls poisoning their bodies and minds with drugs; hell, I grew up with them. Underprivileged girls, girls without a solid father figure or a caring mother. Girls without a proper education or profession, with nothing to offer except cheap sex. Ashley is not one of those girls. She has a wealthy family. She has people who care about her. She is loved. Then why?

  My despair morphs into anger, and I brush the remaining cocaine into my hand and wash it down the sink. I drop the bag into the trash bin next to the toilet, where cigarette butts float around like driftwood.

  I soak a hand towel in water and go back to the bedroom. I roll Ashley to the edge of the bed, clean off her face, then rinse the towel. I roll it up and place it over her forehead. I pull out the sheet from beneath her, the vomit wrapped inside, and take it to the bathtub.

  I ransack the kitchen cabinets for tea but find none. Nothing to make a hearty soup either, but I do find a bundle of mint leaves and an old, hard lemon, so I start making tea with that. My mother used to make ice-cold mint tea for us on summer days, but if I remember it right, it also calms the stomach.

  It’s been half an hour and Ashley still hasn’t moved. I sit beside her on the bed and gently slap her face a few times. She twists her head; her eyelids quiver partially open. It takes some time to shake her into consciousness. It’s that or call an ambulance.

  As she slowly comes to her senses, she crawls away from me as though seeing a ghost or an intruder. But as reality fully dawns on her, her face smooths out and her guard goes down. Suddenly conscious of her appearance, she pulls the blanket over her chest. “What are you doing here, Olivia?”

  “I could ask you the same thing. Weren’t we supposed to meet for lunch today?” I hand her the tea that by now is only lukewarm. “Here, drink. It’ll make you feel better.”

  She doesn’t take the mug from me; instead she covers her face with her right hand. “I’m sorry. I fucked it up.”

  “How long have you been using?” I ask, setting the tea on the nightstand.

  “I don’t…I mean, I’m not a drug addict or anything.”

  “How long?” My voice is firm enough to stop her babbling.

  “I don’t know. A few years.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Ashley.” Her eyes pop wide open with surprise. I don’t cuss. I try to behave classy, the way Richard and his mother expect me to behave, but after all that’s happened, I say fuck it. “Why?”

  Her face breaks out in shade of bright red, and she stands up, dragging the blanket along. “I don’t know why. I do it sometime
s to take the edge off.”

  “Take the edge off by going on a fucking run or hiking in a peaceful forest.”

  “I’m not a user. Didn’t you hear me?”

  “Don’t bullshit me, Ashley. I grew up with this shit.”

  “Whoa. You have a seriously foul mouth.”

  I take the mug from the nightstand and push it into her hands. “Here. Take it. It’ll make you feel better.”

  She sniffs it and makes a face. “What is it?”

  “Mint tea.”

  She sips it. “It’s actually not that bad.”

  I watch her drink, and a deep sadness overwhelms me. She notices my lethargy, I know, because there is a moment we lock eyes, and she surrenders.

  “I’m sorry,” she sighs. “I know you’re disappointed in me, but you have no idea how difficult things can be.”

  I scoff. If she is looking for sympathy, then she doesn’t know me well.

  “And turning your brain into mush solves the problems?”

  I watch her put on a white, stretched-out T-shirt and track pants. She puts her hair up into a tight bun on the top of her head. At last, she sits down on the carpet by the bed, legs crossed, hunched over.

  “I know you don’t approve, and that’s why I never told you about this. It’s easy for you to judge, Olivia. Your life is in order, so perfect and liberating. It’s hard to put yourself in other people’s shoes.”

  I don’t think she could have said anything further from the truth. I march to the kitchen with heavy, stomping steps, take my coat from the barstool, and slip it on. I thought we were a team, doing something important, something meaningful. I came here to share my information, hell, to possibly implicate my husband in serious crimes. I was going to risk it all, but I’m not going to play to her good conscience. I can’t be around drugs. Not now, not when I’m speeding toward the abyss myself and can barely find a rope to hold onto.

  She runs after me and catches me in the foyer. “You won’t say anything? You’re just going to leave?” she screams, pulling on the back of my coat.

  I spin around and rip it from her hand.

  “You Americans only look for sympathy, not honesty. You want me to understand your pain and accept the way you deal with it. Well, I won’t tell you what you’re doing is okay because I’d be lying. And I’m your friend. I won’t lie to you.”