by A B Whelan
“Do it again!” Peter snaps at me.
“Do what?”
“Scratch your nose while pointing the flashlight at the chandelier.”
I do as he says, and at once I notice the reason for his excitement. There is a key ring with a single key hanging among the crystal teardrops on the chandelier, undetectable to the casual observer. Peter gives me a boost to remove the key without having to step on any furniture in the room.
I roll the key around in my hand. “What do you think this key opens?”
Peter takes the key from my hand and examines it in the stream of light. “It’s too small for a door or safety vault. It may open a little jewelry box or a drawer.” He looks up at me, illumination sparkling brightly in his eyes. “Let’s try the desk.”
And there it is. A single long drawer underneath the desktop. The key slides right into the lock like a puzzle piece.
I pull it open and discover a portable DVD player and a stack of five DVDs neatly arranged inside the velvet-lined drawer.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” I blurt out, holding one of the DVDs with a blank white cover in my shaking hands. “What are we gonna do now?”
“You do realize that if these are recordings of any kind of wrongdoing or lawbreaking, they will never be admissible in court if we take them.”
“What do you mean?”
“We broke into this house and obtained the evidence illegally.” Peter gives me a look of stunned disbelief.
“Right. I knew that.” I take a second to catch my thoughts. “We should still watch a few. Once we know what we’re dealing with, I’ll tell Olivia, and she can come back here and take it to the police. She lives here and can say she found it while dusting her husband’s study.”
“All right,” Peter agrees after a long and nerve-wracking deliberation. He tries to appear confident and in control, but I know he’s as nervous as I am. His nail-biting gives him away.
I reach for the DVD player but Peter grasps my lower arm to stop me. “Wait! Let me take a picture of this arrangement. We need to put back everything the way we found it. Look around the room, this guy reeks of OCD.”
After Peter takes pictures from four different angles, I lift out the DVD player and turn it on. There is a disk inside, and we agree on watching it first. I plug the player into the outlet behind the desk and press play.
The screen comes alive with a bright light, showing a bedroom with peach walls and posted bed. As our eyes fix on the screen, time seems to stop for me. The graphic adult content of the private movie sends me through a range of emotions, from surprise to shock, from disgust to hatred. I can’t help but feel ashamed and forever stained. The amateur home movie seems to be recorded from a hidden camera and is nothing I expected.
With a sudden surge of anger, I snap down the cover on the DVD player and push it away from me.
Peter and I exchange a long and silent glance. His face is as pale as a white sheet.
“How are we going to tell Olivia about this?” I ask with difficulty; my throat is tight from the shock.
“She has the right to know,” Peter says quietly.
I can’t move; astonishment has frozen me.
Peter nudges me. “Come on, let’s put everything back. We need to get out of here.”
With rushed movements, he returns all the removed items to the drawer, locks it, and gives me the key to hang back on the chandelier.
We practically run back to my car parked on the street, two blocks south from Olivia’s home. I want to get out of this place so badly, but once seated, I can’t muster the energy to start the engine. Peter seems lost in his thoughts as he sits next to me with slumped shoulders and fingers braided on his lap. His brain must be running in a million different directions with thoughts like mine.
As the raging emotions converge, I bang my fist onto the dashboard. “Sick fuck!” I scream against the windshield fogged up from our breaths. “I’m gonna kill the fucking bastard!”
Olivia
FRIDAY
A set of matching Louis Vuitton traveling bags sits on the back seat of Richard’s metallic beige Porsche Cayenne that he acquired last year, adding to his exotic car collection. In the trunk, bottles of beer and premixed cocktail drinks cling to ice in the cooler, which is tucked between blankets and bags of snacks, reminding me that we are on a road trip to the mountains.
My phone lies screen-down on my thigh, underneath my cupped hand. I don’t expect any calls or texts from Ashley, but as if my phone was my only connection to the outside world, my lifeline, I can’t seem to let it go.
Before Richard drove me home to pack for the weekend, I called Ashley from the office restroom to give her the address to the cabin my husband rented. The thought of having my friend know where to send the police to look for me, or my body, if I don’t show up by Monday gives me a sense of reassurance.
When we talked, Ashley still sounded delirious and incoherent from her drug hangover, yet she managed to spell out the dangers of my decision to go along with Richard’s plan. I understood her point. I agreed with her reasoning, but I still had to go. After all the revelations and suspicions, I needed to see how far Richard would go to hide his secrets.
While I debated going away with my husband, an idea came to me. Leaving a vacant house behind presented a unique opportunity to obtain the much-desired evidence on Richard’s crimes that Ashley so desperately needed to believe my story.
I peek at the time on my watch: 8:42 p.m. Two more hours till Ashley breaks into my home.
My stomach contracts at the exciting but worrisome prospect.
Due to the unusually busy Friday traffic, we’ve been driving for over two and a half hours but have not reached our destination. It’s an awful long time to spend with someone in a car who doesn’t acknowledge you.
“We’ll stop at Mother’s to say hello,” Richard announces, turning the volume lower on Johann Sebastian Bach’s Orchestral Suite No. 3, a soothing melody I prefer over the other progressive classical music Richard listens to at home or in the car.
“It’s late. We shouldn’t disturb her,” I say, because the last face I need to see tonight is my mother-in-law’s.
Richard sucks in a deep breath. “I know it’s late, and I’m not keen on driving to the campsite in pitch dark, but I mentioned it to her on the phone that we’re driving up here, and she wants to see us.”
“Can’t we stop by her house on the way back home?”
“We will. She invited us for lunch on Sunday.” He puts his hand on my thigh. “You must understand, Olivia, that I can’t drive by her house without stopping. It doesn’t feel right.” He looks at me with a cold face. “It’ll be quick, I promise.”
As much as I’m annoyed at the prospect of seeing Grace, I feel somewhat relieved. The reason for this sudden road trip isn’t about Richard’s plan to get rid of me but to take me to see his mother. Maybe I won’t be buried in an unmarked grave tonight after all.
Like a devoted, good son, my husband makes this trip to his lonely mother every other weekend, but I haven’t been up here in months. I grew tired years ago of being the third wheel in their awkwardly close relationship. I had enough of watching TV or reading a book alone in the garden while Richard and his mother laughed about the good old days and childhood memories and talked about people I didn’t know.
Releasing the two top buttons of my blouse to allow the warm breeze from the vent to touch my neck, I ask, “Was she upset when she found out that I’m coming with you?”
“Don’t start this again, Olivia. She’s always glad to see you.”
I scoot closer to my door. “I’m sure she is. Why don’t we just take her camping with us?”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Richard snaps, turning the music off with a rushed, violent movement. “She lives alone and she’s lonely. I’m her only son. She likes to spend time with me. What’s wrong with that? What am I supposed to do? Turn my back on her because my wife wants me only for herself?”
“Stop right there!” He puts his hand up. “We are almost there, so please don’t piss me off. She reads me like a book, and I don’t want her to think that things are not good with us.”
“Oh, no. We don’t want to upset your mother.”
“What’s wrong with you tonight? I thought you liked my mother.”
I scoff, shaking my head, not believing Richard is that ignorant. “You’re right. Let’s not get into it. You couldn’t understand my point of view if you tried. Let’s just put on our masks, spread our smiles, and go see your mother.”
He doesn’t respond, but as he stares ahead of him with narrowed eyes and a blank expression, I can tell he is riling himself up for a bigger argument. In his head, he is cataloging new key points to convince me he is right, but for now, he keeps the cork on tight—as long as his suppressed anger meets my silence.
He is still riled up when we turn into Grace’s driveway, but as soon as he steps out of the car, a feigned smile replaces his frown. On the way to the house he grabs my hand, and I can feel him shaking through my fingers.
“Whose car is that?” I ask, pointing to a battered Honda Civic parked by the side of the garage. Richard’s eyes must be blurred with blinding anger for not noticing it first. Usually nothing escapes his attention, especially when it comes to his mother.
He stops and lets go of my hand.
The front yard is bright from the light spilling through every window of the house. As I watch Richard inspecting the mysterious vehicle, I spot two shadows crossing in an elongated pool of light in front of me.
“There is someone in the house with your mother,” I say.
“She didn’t mention anything to me about having people over,” he says, looking at the house.
A round of yelling permeates the silence, angry, blurred words that are hard to make out.
Heavy footfalls, like that of two people running, pound on the stairs.
“You need to leave right now!” a woman shouts. “He’ll be here any minute.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” a different female voice yells back. “It’s time for him to hear the truth.”
“I won’t let you!”
Behind the curtain in the living room, two figures are outlined close to each other.
“You have no power over me anymore!”
A dull crash. A scream.
Richard makes it to the front patio with a few giant leaps and starts pounding on the door. “Mother! Open the door!”
Silence.
I notice the curtain move.
“Mother, are you all right? Open the door or I’ll break it down.”
Richard pulls and pushes on the door handle with one hand while banging on the door with his other fist.
The door opens, and a brunette woman with a pale face and long hair, wearing loose pants and a tank top over her frail figure, emerges from the house. Upon seeing Richard, she puts both hands over her mouth and starts crying.
“Oh, my gosh. Look at you,” she says in a shaky voice. “You look like your father.”
Despite her age, Grace burst through the door with the force of an amazon and pulls the woman back by her shoulder. “Don’t you dare!” she roars, lurching at the woman.
“Mother, what’s going on here?” Richard says, unmoving, paralyzed.
“Nothing, honey. Go drive to the mountain, and I’ll see you Sunday, all right?”
Richard doesn’t obey, as he steps forward, eyes focused with suspicion. “Why are you arguing with this woman?”
The woman jerks herself out of Grace’s hold. “He deserves to know. You’ve been lying to him long enough.”
Grace leaps between Richard and the woman, fast and agile, as if her life depends on her next move.
“Get back in the car, Richard, and go. I’ll call you later.” She spins around to face the woman, puts both her hands on her shoulders, and starts pushing her back inside the house. The woman trips, loses her balance, and then ducks under Grace’s arms.
“Look at me, Richard. Do you recognize me?”
Richard shakes his head slightly, his chest heaving and collapsing with rapid breathing.
Grace pushes the woman so hard she falls back onto the ground. “I won’t let you do this now, after all these years. You don’t have the right.”
“Mother!” yells Richard, and rushes to the aid of the woman. “What’s gotten into you?”
Grace eyes well up with tears. She pulls on Richard’s arm as she collapses to her knees.
“She came here to ruin everything. Don’t let her,” she weeps, her fingers tearing into the fabric of Richard’s jacket.
I’m standing by our car, shocked by the behavior of these two women, especially by the madness that seems to possess my ever-composed mother-in-law.
“Will someone please tell me what’s going on?” Richard ask calmly, seating both woman on the stone stairs leading to the house.
The woman has no intention of sitting beside Grace, and she heaves herself to her feet and bear-hugs my husband. “I’m your mother, Richard. You’re my son.”
His eyes fixed on me, Richard grasps the woman’s wrists and pries her hands off him. I hear every beat of my heart inside my rib cage. “Richard?” I breathe his name.
His face loses color; his lips tremble.
“How could you?” screams Grace, banging her fists on the woman’s back.
Richard pushes her away with force, protecting the woman, but then grabs Grace. “Why did you tell me my mother was dead?”
What? Grace is not Richard’s real mother, and he knew that all along? Their nauseatingly close relationship feels even sicker now. I become lightheaded and lean against the car for support.
“She’s dead to me, dead to both of us. All she wanted was the money. Richard, honey, don’t let her destroy everything we’ve built,” Grace pleads.
A dark shadow descends upon Richard’s face. “What’s going on here? You told me my mother was dead, that she died of malaria somewhere in Africa.”
“It was a lie, Richard,” the woman shrieks. “I made many mistakes in my life, but you weren’t one of them. I always wanted you back, but she wouldn’t let me see you.” She points at Grace and the battle ensues again. It takes Richard almost a full minute to break them apart.
“If you two don’t stop, I’ll get back into my car and never come back,” Richard warns.
Grace lets out a long, troubled breath. “Now look what you’ve done. You’ve ruined everything,” she whispers to the woman. Then she turns to Richard. “Yes, I lied to you. I wanted to protect you. I didn’t want you to know that your mother was knocked up on the beach by a random guy when she was fifteen, and when the guy disappeared, she wanted to kill herself. She drank, smoked, and did only God knows what while pregnant with you.”
“Oh, you love bringing that up, don’t you?” the woman sneers. “It was forty years ago. Stop bringing up the past.”
“The passing of time won’t erase the things you’ve done to your unborn child, Lisa,” Grace says calmly, then raises her eyes to Richard. “Our parents were strict Catholics. They sent Lisa to me to get her out of town, away from all the scrutinizing and judgmental eyes. I was living in Carlsbad at the time, working as an intern at a law office, studying for the bar exam. Lisa was in a bad shape. I couldn’t handle her myself, not with everything going on in my life. I had her admitted to a special facility. She was in good hands there, got cleaned up, and gave birth to you, but she couldn’t even look at you.”
“That’s a lie!” Lisa interrupts, her voice quivering with rage.
Grace closes her eyes. “I won’t argue with you anymore, Lisa,” she says, defeated, then turns to her son. “Let’s go inside, Richard. It seems all cards are now on the table. I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”
We settle down in the living room, where Grace starts her story.
After Richard was born, Grace made a deal with her
younger sister to take care of her unwanted child. She’d put her name on the birth certificate as the mother, and Lisa went to England to a boarding school to finish her studies.
For the next three years, Grace didn’t hear from Lisa. She never asked about the child. The parents transferred money to Lisa every month and flew to London to spend summers together, but Lisa never returned to see her sister or the boy.
Grace had become an attorney at the law office she interned at and raised the boy alone. She bought a house with a big backyard for her son in Escondido to keep her private life separate from her work.
She never married. Only one time, when Richard was still young, a boyfriend moved in with them. Their relationship was violent, a constant clash of two strong-minded people, and lasted only a couple of years. When Grace found out that the man had been abusing young Richard when she wasn’t around, she kicked him out.
She never brought another man home.
When Richard was ten years old, regular letters and birthday cards from Lisa started to arrive.
Grace burned them all.
Two years later, Lisa showed up at Grace’s office, asking to see her son. She had no intention of taking him back, as her lifestyle wasn’t suited for a child, but she was dying to see how much the boy had grown. At the time, she was part of a mission helping kids learn English in Romania, a job where she couldn’t bring a family.
A fat check from Grace was enough to change her mind about interfering in Richard’s life.
For years, letters came from Africa, Asia, and the Middle East. Lisa was writing about her life as a missionary to Richard.
All the letters landed in the fireplace.
Grace never made a secret about her not being Richard’s birth mother. She told the boy that his mother was a free-spirited woman who was too young to raise a child.
Not until Richard was a teenager did he become interested in meeting his real mother. Yet whenever he asked to meet her, Grace always came up with a story about why they couldn’t visit Lisa.
When Richard’s persistence became stronger, his stubbornness unyielding, and he started threatening to leave the house to find his mother on his own, Grace told him that his mother had died years ago of malaria in some isolated African village.
