Survivor's Guilt and Other Stories

by Greg Herren

  She bit her lower lip, thinking, and here we go.

  Sure enough, she heard the sharp intake of breath, followed by the exact same words in the injured tone Emily had been hearing as long as she could remember, that she sometimes heard in her sleep, “That’s right, Emily, I’m a bad mother because I worry about my child. Why, I’m just about the worst mother who ever lived. Everything is my fault, isn’t it? How have you managed to put up with me all of these years?”

  Emily pressed her index fingers to her temples as the headache started.

  “Just like it was my fault you were fat,” her mother was saying. It was the same old song, the same old lyrics, the same old harmony. Over and over on an endless loop, her entire life—it was even one of her earliest memories. Mom’s Greatest Hits, featuring the chart-topping “Everything’s My Fault Because I’m Such a Bad Mother.”

  She stopped listening, tuning out the voice in her ear like she always did. She took some deep breaths and watched a squirrel run along the side fence through the kitchen window. It was late afternoon and starting to get dark out. The crepe myrtles on the other side of the fence were swaying in the wind. A thunderstorm was on its way—there were already tornado watches on the north shore and the west bank.

  Yet on and on her mother’s voice droned in her ear.

  Don’t engage her again, just wait till she stops talking, Emily told herself, otherwise she’ll just keep going. And maybe, just maybe, someday I’ll learn not to set her off.

  Her sister Teresa no longer spoke to their mother—and on the rare occasions she spoke to Emily, urged her to cut her off, too.

  And, really, would that be such a bad thing?

  She seized the chance to take back control of the conversation when her mother paused for breath. “Mom, you’re being unfair and you know it,” she said, sitting down at the kitchen table, drumming her fingertips on the table top. “You haven’t even met Joe yet.” Nor are you likely to anytime in the near future if this is how you’re going to be, she added to herself. And Joe’s definitely a keeper—I’m not going to let her fuck this up for me. Not this time. This time is going to work, and it’s not going to be like last time.

  “I just worry about you. I mean, I don’t want you to make the same mistakes—”

  Emily cut her off before she could get going again. “Really, Mom, I’m okay. Joe’s really good to me, he’s a good guy—he really is, Mom.”

  “But what do you really know about this guy?” Her mother persisted, like she always did. Once she sank her teeth into something, she was worse than a dog with a fresh steak bone. “You met him what? Three months ago? And already you’re living with him? That’s just a recipe for disaster.” The unspoken word again hung in the silence.

  “Oh, look at the time!” Emily said, forcing enthusiasm into her voice. “Okay, Mom, I have to go. I’ll call you in a few days. Love you.” She clicked the phone off without waiting for a response. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, leaning against the counter and putting the phone down. She means well, Emily told herself, like she had so many times before.

  I don’t know why she can’t just be happy for me, Emily thought, rubbing her temples and willing the slight headache to go away. She always expects the worst, always. But being married to Dad as long as she was would make anyone like that, I guess.

  She pushed thoughts of her father out of her mind before they stirred up any memories, and poured herself another cup of coffee. The house was silent other than the rustling of the wind. The silence was kind of nice. She liked quiet, had forgotten how peaceful silence could be. She sat down at the table and looked out the window. A squirrel sat up on his back legs on the top of the fence and stared at her, whiskers twitching.

  Moving in with Joe was the right thing, she reminded herself, and Mom is wrong about him. And she didn’t drive me to Twinkies this time.

  That made her smile.

  Her cell phone pinged, and a few seconds later so did her laptop.

  It’s probably spam, she told herself, taking another sip of her coffee and glaring at the offending electronics. The only emails she ever got were work-related. She’d taken a few days off to finish unpacking and get settled. Joe was on a sales trip through northern Louisiana and wouldn’t be back home until late tonight—he wanted her to have a few days in the house by herself, “to get used to it, so it’ll start feeling like home to you.” And it’s working, she thought, it’s such a lovely house. She looked back out the window. The squirrel was gone, but a couple of birds were there now.

  Her eyes came back to where her laptop and her phone sat on the table.

  She reached for her laptop and opened it.

  You really need to stop being so anal about email, she reminded herself with a little shake of her head as she touched the space bar, waking the computer up. Hi, my name is Emily Hudson and I have a problem. I am obsessive compulsive about email. She always tried to keep her in-box empty.

  She rolled her eyes at herself as her email program opened. She frowned—the sender was clearly a spambot; the return address was a Yahoo account, but all numbers. She moved the cursor to the Delete box but read the subject line, and she froze.

  Joey Valletta isn’t who you think he is.

  She bit her lip. What the hell? She put her fingertip back down on the touch pad, ready to click and delete it—but hesitated again.

  You’re being silly. Go ahead and open it, read the email. It’s nothing—someone just trying to cause trouble, like an ex-girlfriend or something.

  Joey had warned her about an ex who might be a problem. She hadn’t taken the breakup well and he’d finally had to get a restraining order against her—but that was back when he lived in Baton Rouge. He’d been living in this house in New Orleans for almost six months now. When he’d told her about the restraining order, she’d wondered if that was why he’d left Baton Rouge, but hadn’t asked.

  You should go ahead and read it, if it is from her—Joey should know. Maybe I’ll need to get a restraining order, too. But how—how did she get my email address?

  Goose bumps rose on her arms and she shivered. She glanced back out the window.

  You’re being silly, no one can see in—the fence is too high. If you can’t see their windows they can’t see yours.

  It was going to take getting used to not having any curtains or blinds on the kitchen windows. The glass was tinted, so the UV rays were blocked, Joey had said. “That way the kitchen can have lots of natural light but not get overheated by the sun.” The back wall was all glass, looking out onto the wooden deck where the hot tub was.

  She bit her lower lip and stared back at the computer screen.

  I should just save it for Joey, let him deal with it. If it’s her—better to let him deal with it, right? It’s probably really ugly and all it’s going to do is upset you.

  Conflict had always made her sick to her stomach.

  When her parents would fight when she was a little girl, she got physically ill every time. When other kids at school had teased her or mocked her, she got away from them as quickly as she could—especially after what happened to her father.

  She pushed her chair back and stood up. She took a deep breath and closed her laptop. I can do this, she told herself as she walked back into the living room. Moving boxes were stacked around the furniture. She picked up a box cutter and sliced the tape open on a box labeled books. She smiled as she looked down at the yellow spines staring back up at her. Her Nancy Drew collection was the only thing she had left from her childhood, and those yellow spines were like old friends. She placed The Secret of the Old Clock on the top shelf of the bookcase. Joey had bought several bookcases for the living room, clearing a space for them before she’d moved in. He was thoughtful that way—he’d bought an armoire for his clothes so she could have the entire closet, bought a bigger dresser and left three drawers for her, and condensed his things in the bathroom down to a small section of the counter. This type of consideration, thi
s kindness without having to think about it, was one of the reasons she’d fallen so deeply in love with him so quickly. Like her mother, her best friend Allison thought they were moving too fast—you haven’t even known him six months—but she dismissed Allison’s concerns as plain old jealousy. Allison had been dating her guy for three years, after all, and was still waiting for a wedding ring—a ring Emily was sure wasn’t going to be coming along any time soon.

  If ever.

  She started carefully setting the books on the shelves in order, one at a time, looking at the cover before lining it up with the others on the top shelf. The yellow spines, lined up perfectly, had always meant home to her.

  In the kitchen, she heard her phone and computer ping again.

  She rolled her eyes and focused on the job at hand—but only managed to get volumes 20–25 on the shelf before giving in to her compulsion. She walked back into the kitchen, picked up her phone, and saw there was a new email in her in-box—from the same series of numbers.

  Enough, even if it is the psycho girlfriend, enough is enough.

  She was about to click on the new one so she could delete it when she read the subject line.

  Joey Valletta killed my sister.

  She dropped the phone. It bounced off the counter and hit the floor.

  She picked it up with shaking hands and opened her laptop.

  She sat down at the table. The wind was blowing even stronger and it was really getting dark outside. Her heart was beating so loud she could hear it in her ears, could feel the skin on her face getting warmer.

  She clicked on the second email—the one with the horrible subject line.

  Look I don’t have anything against you I don’t even know you but I think you should know you’re living with a killer Joey Valletta killed my sister but he went by Joey Valenzuela then. You can do a Google search for Joey Valenzuela Tracy Goodwin and see what comes up. I thought you should know it’s my Christian duty to tell. You need to know.

  She felt numbness spreading through her mind, the corners of her vision going gray as she stared at the ugly words on her computer screen. She swallowed. No, that can’t be true. She’s crazy, whoever this woman is, she’s crazy. Delete it and forget about it.

  Yet somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to do it—or to open the original email.

  Her mind was racing. She wanted a Twinkie, a candy bar, something sweet, anything really. But there wasn’t anything like that in the house.

  There’s a mom-and-pop grocery on the corner.

  “No,” she said out loud, squaring her shoulders and taking a deep breath. “I don’t need sugar or chocolate or anything. I’m a strong woman and I can handle this without sweets. I don’t need sweets.” She nodded. Feeling better, she opened her web browser and typed the names in. She frowned at the screen. Go ahead, click the Search button. Do it, prove this bitch wrong.

  Her cell phone rang and she jumped with a slight cry. She swallowed and laughed at herself—oh, yes, Emily, you’re really handling this well. She shook her head and picked up the phone. Joey’s face smiled up at her from the screen. She moved the tip of her index finger along the Answer bar and said, “Hello, baby.”

  “How’s the unpacking going?” he asked.

  The sound of his voice was so reassuring that she cursed herself for being such a fool. It was a crank email, that’s all—and she’d been stupid for letting it get under her skin that way.

  Joey wasn’t a killer, he was the sweetest man on earth—and she was damned lucky to have him.

  “I’m almost done and making myself completely at home.” She laughed. “I warned you I was going to take over your house. How’s the trip going?”

  “Good.” She could almost see him beaming. “I’ve picked up a couple of new clients, and the new drug—everyone’s interested.” Joey worked as a sales rep for a drug company, which took him out of town fairly regularly. That was how they’d met, actually—he’d come to the clinic where she worked. She hadn’t been in a place emotionally where she wanted to date anyone—all she wanted to do was go to work and go home. She’d had enough of that—and now that she’d lost the weight and had gotten back control of her weight—and her life—again, the last thing she needed was to get involved with some other man. But Joey began wearing her down—and now, a little over three months after she’d agreed to go out with him the first time, she was moving into his house on Constance Street. “Anyway, I had a bit of a break and wanted to check in with you.”

  “I’m just missing you,” she replied, “and wishing you were coming home sooner.”

  He made a kissing noise. “I’ll be home later this evening,” he said. “But I really do wish I was there already with you. I love you, Emily.”

  “I love you, too,” she said, but he’d hung up before she finished saying it.

  She put her phone down and smiled at it. I never thought I’d fall in love again, she thought, sitting down at the table. The last of the afternoon light was fading. But this? This is almost too perfect. A beautiful house, a great guy—who would have ever thought I’d end up like this? Especially after—

  She closed her eyes and chewed her lower lip, forcing that thought behind a door in her mind. Once the door was shut and sensibly locked, she opened her eyes with a smile.

  The names she’d typed into the search engine stared back at her on the laptop’s screen.

  Joey Valenzuela Tracy Goodwin

  Don’t do it, she told herself. Whoever’s emailing you is just trying to cause trouble. Just walk away, don’t look this up. You deserve to be happy, remember? You deserve this.

  A voice that sounded remarkably similar to her mother’s answered.

  Sure, just turn a blind eye, don’t wonder, don’t find out anything about him you don’t want to know. Just like the last time, right? Isn’t that how you do things, Emily? Turn a blind eye to what’s right in front of your face? And then you have no one to blame but yourself when it all goes south. Isn’t that right? How much trouble would you have been saved if you’d just—

  “Shut up,” she whispered, her lower lip quivering just a little bit.

  Her stomach growled.

  She got up and walked away from the computer. She poured herself another cup of coffee and drank it. The caffeine always helped with the hunger pains, even though her mind was racing through images of cheesecake slices and chocolate bars, donuts and Twinkies and cupcakes.

  Walking away from it won’t make it go away, the voice taunted. Your mother’s right, you deserve what you get.

  “Fuck you, Mother,” she said out loud, and resolutely sat down at the kitchen table again.

  She clicked on the Search button, not caring if she would regret it.

  The first link was to an article in the Shreveport Times. The headline simply read “Boyfriend Wanted for Questioning in Murder of Bossier City Woman.”

  Her heart climbed up into her throat, but she couldn’t stop now. Pandora’s box was open. She clicked on the link.

  Police are looking to talk to the boyfriend of murder victim Tracy Goodwin. Goodwin’s body was found in a country ditch, heavily mutilated, yesterday afternoon by some hikers.

  Goodwin, 27, was reported missing by her sister, Melanie Mathews, just hours before the hikers made their grisly discovery in the countryside. Goodwin was last seen by her sister when the two women had lunch together two days earlier.

  Goodwin was involved with Joey Valenzuela, a drug company rep from Houston…

  Emily got up and somehow walked through the house to the front door. She opened it and sat down in the swing on the front porch. She clutched her hands together in her lap and started swinging back and forth. The neighborhood was still and the streetlights were coming on. A car drove by but she didn’t look up.

  It isn’t him, she told herself, over and over again. Sure, the name is similar, and the job is the same, but he would have had to change his name and that’s not so easy to do, why would he do that, it’s the ex-
girlfriend, he said she was crazy, you don’t get restraining orders against sane people, so that must be it, she’s just trying to cause trouble, and the name similarity, that’s what gave her the idea to pull this bullshit.

  She took a couple of deep breaths and stood up. “You aren’t going to cause trouble for us, bitch,” she whispered under her breath. “I won’t let you have that kind of power over us.”

  The wind was picking up a little, and the air was heavy with moisture. There was definitely a storm on the way.

  She went back inside. She sat down at the table, and with a steady finger she scrolled the page down till she saw the pictures that ran with the article.

  Tracy Goodwin had been a pretty girl. The photograph looked like it had been taken at one of those places in a mall, where someone would do your hair and makeup, put you in a sexy outfit and try to make you look glamorous. She had blond hair and a pert nose, full lips and a heart-shaped face ending in a pointy chin.

  Emily swallowed. Joey Valenzuela was definitely the man she knew as Joey Valletta. That was his smile, his hair, the carefree look he always had on his handsome face.

  Her hand shook as she clicked on the mouse to close the window.

  He’d lied to her.

  What else has he lied to me about?

  “Just like before,” she whispered without thinking, and her stomach clenched. She managed to make it to the kitchen sink before the hot coffee came spewing out of her. She stood there, bent over the sink, until her stomach stopped heaving. She turned on the water and washed her face, rinsed out her mouth.