As Sick as Our Secrets

by A B Whelan

  After that day, there was no mention of Lisa in the Campbell house.

  *****

  The clock is chiming midnight when, at last, Richard touches the food in front of him on the table. He takes a small bite of the sandwich and a sip of the tea I made him, then pushes his tray away.

  “All these years, you’ve let me believe that my mother didn’t love me, that she didn’t care for me,” he says with a heavy pain and sadness that makes my heart ache for him. Nothing is worse than believing that your own parents don’t love you and want nothing to do with you. It’s one of the most damaging and wretched things that can happen to a child.

  “I gave up everything to provide you with a happy childhood. I did it for you, Richard.”

  Lisa puts her hand on Richard’s hand. “I’m so sorry that I didn’t see how selfish I was.”

  He pulls his hand away and leans back in his chair.

  “I need time to think.” He stands from the chair. “Let’s go, Olivia.”

  “Where are we going?” I ask, at once aware that Ashley must be in my house right now, snooping around for evidence.

  “Home. I don’t feel like camping anymore.”

  At this late-night hour, we’ll be home in less than ninety minutes. How will I be able to text Ashley to get the hell out of our house without Richard noticing?

  Ashley

  FRIDAY

  Coming back the second time to Olivia’s home under the veil of night is creepier. I’m more aware of my surroundings than I was the first time. I notice every squeak of the floorboards underneath my feet, every fly that zooms by us in the hallway, the whipping and whooshing of the crowns of the trees outside, and the gentle whistling of the wind. Although the scent of wet earth and rain still clings to my nostrils, my nose picks up more than the smell of disinfectant in the house. I can clearly pick out the fragrance of fresh lilies in the air and the weak aroma of spiced cooked meat, a telltale sign of someone cooking in the kitchen earlier.

  As I make my way back to Richard Campbell’s secret room with a more confident stride, I wonder how life must be in this elegant mansion. But as hard as I try to imagine it, I can’t picture Olivia cooking by the stove with an apron tied around her waist. I can’t see her touching up her perfect makeup in the antique mirror in the foyer. After I show her the video, she won’t be able to picture herself in this house anymore either. Do I have the right to take this all away from my friend?

  Peter, despite his resistance, is here with me, and he pops open the lock on the door to Richard’s room in a quarter of the time it took before.

  “Hurry up!” he urges me, holding the door wide open. “I’ll keep a lookout.”

  “I need you to give me a boost,” I say.

  “Yeah, that’s right. I’m coming.”

  In our hurry, we accidentally left our flashlights in my car, and we must rely on the wall to guide us down the spiral staircase. Once concealed by the room, I turn on a flashlight app on my cell phone.

  As much as I don’t want to watch Olivia’s abuse again, I record the first five minutes of the obscene movie with my phone. Olivia needs to see this to believe it.

  Once we put every item back the way we found it, I feel an overwhelming sadness descend upon me.

  “Are you okay?” Peter asks.

  “You should have seen how strong Olivia was when she told me about her past,” I say, summoning our earlier conversation in my apartment. “I’m afraid this will break her, though.”

  Peter wraps me in his arms. “You don’t know that.”

  I feel like crying, but I hold back my tears.

  “I don’t think I can continue my practice, Peter. I never thought I was the right person for the job, and in light of recent events, I know I’m not the person for the job.”

  He runs his hand over the back of my head. “Don’t say that. Every beginning is difficult, and you have had it tougher than most. Life is anything but easy. I know you. You’ll come back from this.”

  I lean away from him and wipe my face with my shirt. “You misunderstood me. I don’t want to give up my practice because it’s too tough. I can’t do it because I’m supposed to dissect the human psyche and understand and recognize certain human behaviors, but I don’t think I can be unbiased with people. I get too involved emotionally.”

  He zips us his hoodie. “You were off to a tough start. Give yourself a break.”

  I slip my phone into my pocket. “Nothing a hot bath won’t solve, right?” I scoff. “Let’s get out of here!”

  Peter finds it difficult to lock the door again with the tools I gave him. As fatigue slowly creeps in, we both seem to slow down a bit, become more vulnerable to failure. As I suppress a yawn, I lean against the wall next to Peter, watching the midnight dance of two oak trees against the moonlit dark, rainy sky. Suddenly, two beams of headlights cut through the trunk of the trees and penetrate the windows, illuminating the hallway around us.

  “Someone’s here,” I say, pulling Peter to the ground by his arm.

  He drops his tools, and the clang that echoes through the long hallway could wake the dead.

  “I’m not finished yet,” he says, lying on his stomach.

  “Leave it!” I order. “We need to go.”

  He reaches his arm out to pick up the tools and then follows me as I crawl on the cold, immaculate tile floor toward the kitchen. I look back at the cloud of brightness, and the sweat trail my stomach is leaving catches my eyes. There is nothing I can do about it now, so I keep pushing forward.

  We barely make it behind a kitchen wall when I hear voices. Two people are arguing, a man and a woman.

  “There is no way out of the house through the kitchen,” Peter whispers in the darkness.

  I point at a swinging door.

  Peter puts his hand on the aged timber hanging on ancient-looking bolts but doesn’t push it. “What if it squeaks?”

  “Fuck!” I mouth.

  Footsteps are nearing us. Someone is approaching the kitchen.

  I’m on the verge of having a heart attack. If not my wheezing, then Peter’s panting will give us away.

  Peter presses himself hard against the wall, and I drop to my stomach.

  The kitchen light turns on.

  I can’t breathe.

  The squish of the soles of shoes tells me that someone is walking to the refrigerator. I crawl to the other side of the kitchen island. Peter is five feet away from the man who is searching through the contents of the refrigerator.

  I try to push myself underneath the kitchen island, but my tummy’s muffin top won’t fit. Chinese takeout was a bad, bad choice. If I survive this night, I’ll give up gluten, I promise.

  With my hands covering my mouth, I listen to some liquid being poured into a cup. A frustrated kick against the cabinet makes me shudder with horror.

  “Are you coming upstairs?” I recognize Olivia’s voice drifting in from the distance.

  Another kick slams into the cabinet. I see Peter lifting his arm, the lock-pick tool tight in his grasp.

  I look around me for something I could use as a weapon. A wooden knife holder stands near the stove. If I’m fast enough, I could pull out a knife before the man could get to me.

  I press my face against the floor, and from underneath the island, I watch a pair of hiking boots walk across the tile floor. The light goes off. The footsteps fade away.

  I let out the breath I’ve been holding and hoist myself back to my feet.

  “What the fuck are they doing back home?” Peter whispers, anger flashing in his eyes.

  I shrug, feeling stupid and betrayed.

  “Do you think they left the front door open?”

  “Olivia told me that they never lock it.”

  Peter starts toward the hallway. I stop him. Closing my eyes, I attempt to sharpen my hearing.

  “I can hear them both upstairs. Let’s go.”

  We know that the front door opens silently, so Peter doesn’t hesitate to open it.<
br />
  We stay off the beaten path and run to the gate between the trees and shrubs. Despite the damp cold, I feel hot and sweaty.

  Peter scales the fence first. Before I reach for his outstretched arm, I look back at the house and spot a man standing in the window, looking straight at me—or at least that’s how it seems.

  Ashley

  SATURDAY

  In my dark room, I lie on my back and watch the video I recorded with my phone in Richard Campbell’s secret room for the tenth time. As much as the images repulse me and turn my insides upside down, I can’t seem to stop pressing replay.

  I sit up and prop a pillow behind my back, feeling every little muscle in my sore body. The events of this past week keep me in a constant state of tiredness and exhaustion, yet sleep evades me. My racing mind needs something to put it at ease, but Olivia ransacked my apartment yesterday, looking for my rainy-day stash, and she flushed everything down the toilet.

  I haven’t had time to restock.

  My mouth is dry, and my throat itches. I’ve been trying to ignore the signs of the craving, but it’s getting harder as the hours drag on into the dawn.

  I swing my legs off the bed and creep to the kitchen for a glass of water, trying hard not to wake Peter, who is sleeping on the sofa in the living room. He looks uncomfortable, with a bare leg hanging off the side and his head propped too high on the armrest, yet he’s snoozing peacefully.

  I stop next to him. My eyes run along the silver bridge the moon casts over his face and fluffy chest. Old memories flood my mind. I smile.

  I’m inclined to lift the blanket scarcely covering him, but I quickly talk myself out of it. I shouldn’t start something with him again that I won’t be able to finish because I’m in need of company now.

  My unexpected selflessness touches me deeply. I press my fingers against my forehead to check for a fever. I must be delirious to be thinking this way.

  In the kitchen, I fill a glass with filtered water from the refrigerator dispenser. As I sip it slowly, leaning against the wall, the memory of a rolled-up joint in a Ziploc bag in the freezer comes to me. Hoping that Olivia missed it, I open the door. A pang of guilt keeps me staring at the frosty bag for a while, and I try to talk myself into doing the right thing. If I were as strong as Olivia, then I would throw the bag in the trash, but I’m not. I grasp my loot as though it’s a hidden treasure and rush back to my room.

  I open my bedroom window, sit on the windowsill, and light my joint. The chilly winter air brushes against my skin and makes me shiver, but I don’t feel like getting down to find a sweater. I try to blow rings with the smoke, but I’ve never been good at it, and I’m not good at it now.

  A siren blares in the near distance, and I see a firetruck pass by two blocks south, followed by an ambulance.

  Three lit windows in the apartment building across the street attract my eyes. A maroon drape is drawn in at one of the windows. A TV screen is blaring in the second one, two stories down on the left. A skinny, half-naked dude is nuking a midnight snack in the microwave in the third window. It seems I’m not the only night owl.

  As I take a deep drag, I wonder how many people in this big city have a secret life, how many exemplar fathers are browsing illegal websites while their wives asleep, how many children dream about torturing pets, how many teenagers are planning their getaways.

  I’m not cut out for this city. I always wanted a simple life. To have a cute house in the countryside, ride horses every morning, and paint my farmland glowing in a sunset.

  Olivia must have dreams too. If I show her the video, her dreams will turn into nightmares, and her entire life will collapse. Do I have the right to unveil the truth? Yes, I do. As her friend, I’m obliged to put an end to her abuse.

  I put out the doobie on the window frame and bury the butt in the dry dirt of the only plant in my apartment, dead for months from lack of light and water.

  I set the alarm on my phone for eight o’clock—a reasonable time to wake Olivia on a Saturday morning—when I will text her, asking her to meet me.

  Not knowing how to rush time, I climb underneath the covers of my bed for warmth.

  When the alarm wakes me, I find Peter leaning against the wall in my bedroom in his boxer shorts and T-shirt, holding a mug in his hand. The aroma of coffee lingers all around me.

  “Can I have a cup?” I ask, stopping the alarm.

  Peter nods and walks away.

  I had already written the text message to Olivia last night—edited a few times—so I only need to hit send.

  Last night went as planned. We need to talk ASAP.

  I finish my second cup of coffee before Olivia texts me back.

  I can’t today. Sorry. Something happened last night. I need to stay with my husband today.

  Surprise punches me in the chest from her unexpected response. I show the phone to Peter.

  “What do you make of this?”

  “Well, it’s pretty obvious something happened to them last night, because they came home early and were arguing,” Peter says, drying his wet hair with a towel.

  “Do you think she’s in danger?”

  “How should I know? Call her.”

  I roll the phone around in my hand, debating what would be the best approach, and then text her again.

  Are u alone?

  The answer comes immediately.

  Yes. Richard is out for a run. What’s up?

  I e-mail her the video and then text her to check her mailbox.

  When she doesn’t call or text back, I become nervous. What if what we saw was part of a game Olivia and her husband have been playing, and all I did was invade their privacy?

  I start pacing back and forth in my bedroom. My veins flare up underneath my skin, and I scratch at my arm until it hurts.

  Peter pulls my hand away. “Stop it! Just call her. See what’s up.”

  I ring her three times. Each call goes to voice mail.

  I take a bite of the croissant Peter brought back from a nearby bakery, but it goes down hard and painful. The suspense has tensed me up.

  “I’m gonna drive over there to see what’s going on,” I tell Peter as I pull on a pair of jeans. “Maybe she confronted Richard and he did something to her.”

  Peter massages his face for a second. “All right. I’m coming with you.”

  I throw water on my face at the sink and brush my teeth. I tuck my hair underneath a baseball cap, grab my purse, and head to the door.

  Out in the hallway of my apartment floor, I almost trip over Olivia, who is sitting on the floor with her back pressed against the wall next to my door. “Shit!” The word slips out before I realize it’s her. I crouch down beside her, trying to get a grip on my hammering heart.

  “What are you doing sitting on the floor here?” I say, lifting her up by her elbow.

  She looks up at me with her red, swollen eyes. “Do you have some stuff left?”

  “Come inside first. We need to talk.”

  She follows me into the apartment, but the sight of Peter stops her in the foyer. “I shouldn’t have come…I better go.”

  Holding her back by the arm, I say, “He knows. He was with me last night…at your house.”

  She drops her gaze to the ground. Her face flushes hot pink.

  “You saw the video?” she stutters to Peter.

  He nods with his lips pursed tight, turns around, and walks back to the kitchen, where he pulls out a bottle of tequila and pours a shot for each of us.

  Olivia drinks hers in one gulp and asks for another.

  We sit down on the barstools at the breakfast nook, facing Peter, who is refilling our glasses.

  “I take it you had no idea what your husband was doing to you?”

  She shakes her head.

  “You looked drugged. You never noticed anything. I mean, I feel pretty bad the morning after a tough night out. You must have felt like shit after a night like that.”

  She scoffs. “All this time I thought som
ething was wrong with me. Once or twice a week I’d wake up with a major headache, my body aching, feeling as if a train had run me over. Our housekeeper kept wanting me to see a doctor. She thought I was depressed or might have a brain tumor or something. You know, I thought that too.”

  “What did Richard have to say about it?”

  “He said I didn’t need a doctor. I only needed a hot bath and more rest.”

  Olivia breaks into a full-hearted laugh. If I didn’t know her better, I’d think she’d lost her mind.

  “Get her a glass of water, please,” I tell Peter.

  She wipes her eyes with her hands and looks at me.

  “You know, Ash, I’ve met many disgusting and despicable men in my life, but Richard takes the cake. What a fool I’ve been!”

  “Don’t blame yourself. What he’s done to you isn’t your fault.”

  “No, it is my fault. You know why? Because I’ve been so unhappy and sick in that house and I didn’t do a damn thing about it. You know why? Because for the first time in my life I didn’t have to worry about money.”

  I put my hand on her back. I know I should say something to comfort her—I’m a freaking shrink for Christ’s sake—but I can’t think of anything worth saying.

  She pushes her shot glass toward Peter. He looks to me for approval, I nod, and then he tops it up again.

  “Cheers to the unluckiest girl in this wretched world,” she says, lifting her glass.

  I don’t accept her toast. “Don’t say that. Shit happens to everybody.”

  She chuckles. “Shit happens.” She gulps down her drink and smashes the glass onto the countertop. “I always believed that nobody born on this earth is perfect. The balance of nature must be kept. Nobody can have it all.” She stands up and staggers backward but finds her footing before I reach her. “Look at me. I got the looks. I have the smarts too. I had a mother who loved me. I was always surrounded by loyal friends, but I was always unlucky in love.” She starts scratching at her face and pulling on her hair. “I’d trade my face or body for happiness. I’d give an arm for it.” She grabs her wrist and starts jerking on it.