In Sandy’s driveway she plays back their faces, not from today but from last spring, when no one cared, when the faces all seemed to turn away from her. Remember that! she commands herself, and jumps out of the car.
She knocks on the front door, realizes only when it opens that her car is still running in the driveway.
“Hey, girl!” Sandy steps back with Emily on her hip to allow Katie in. In the background Sandy’s two sons, dressed up as cowboys, chase their way into the kitchen, waving toy bows and arrows.
“I killed you!” the bigger one says.
“You didn’t, I ducked!” says his little brother.
“We have a visitor,” Sandy says brightly, and the smaller one, slipping in red plastic cowboy boots, throws an uninterested wave over his shoulder before he disappears around the corner after his brother. “Good God,” Sandy says, smiling after them. “Well, get in here and make yourself at home.”
Katie steps over the scattered toys on the floor, threads her way to the couch. She pushes a Tupperware container filled with cookies off to the side, sits.
“You are exactly on time. I just made coffee.” Sandy plops the baby on the couch next to Katie, heads to the kitchen. “Two sugars and extra light, right?”
Katie nods, turns to Emily, who stares back at her, a pacifier working up and down in her mouth.
“Hi,” Katie says in a shaky voice, and the baby’s forehead wrinkles up.
“Court already done for the day?” Sandy calls from the kitchen.
Before Katie can answer, there is a cry from one boy, protests from the other.
“We do not stick arrows in our brother’s ear,” Sandy says in the kitchen.
Emily stirs on the couch, tired of Katie already; she slaps her legs with her fists, makes a long squeal that grates against Katie’s nerves.
In the kitchen Sandy quiets the boys (both crying now, with fresh accusations about other places they’ve been poked), and Emily sits gurgling and laughing quietly to herself.
Sandy emerges with two mugs, her eyes moving from Katie to Emily and back again. The boys trail behind, shoving each other.
“She likes you, Katie,” Sandy says, winking, and hands her a mug. She sits cross-legged on the floor in front of the couch, and blows into her mug. “So fill me in. What’s going on?”
Katie shakes her head, one hand coming up like a shield; a bad idea coming here, the mess of toys all over the place, the boys’ pushing back and forth, the gold sheriff’s badge on one boy’s vest too shiny as Emily makes squeaky, scraping noises right next to her. Katie looks at the door: can she just get up now and run? And if so, where will she go?
“Okay,” Sandy says in an even voice. “Hold on.”
She scoops up Emily, tells Katie she’ll be right back. The boys are hustled into their room with threats to play nice and to keep an eye on their sister, and then Sandy is back, her beautiful face full of worry. She sits on the couch next to Katie, takes the mug that Katie has been holding automatically, puts it on the floor next to her own.
“Just talk,” she says, touching Katie’s arm. “Go.”
For a couple of minutes, Katie doesn’t edit herself, she doesn’t try to soften what she’s saying or worry about Sandy’s reaction; the words come spilling out, the relief almost intoxicating, even if what she’s saying can’t make much sense to Sandy—the feeling of falling down, and the things her family has been saying to her, and Jerry lying on the courtroom floor, killing Nick, saving Nick, and the baby she couldn’t give him, and Dottie’s smile, and Nick, Nick is dead, really dead, he’s never coming back, and what else could she do to keep him, what does she do now? The words overlap, crisscrossing over each other and looping back—“I almost fell, I wanted to fall,” she says—and she keeps plowing on, scratching at her forehead, until Sandy reaches up and takes Katie’s hand in her own.
“Slow down, okay?” Sandy says.
She squeezes once, smiles, and this brings Katie back into herself.
“Oh, God, I’m sorry, I didn’t want to do this, I didn’t,” Katie says, taking her hand away. “I should just shut up, but really, it’s okay. I’m fine, actually.” She clears her throat, tries to laugh at herself. “So—so what’s been up around here?”
She’s ready for a flood of information—Mr. Peterson, hopped up on painkillers and wandering around the neighborhood, the accountant next door, mostly likely having an affair while his wife is on a Fulbright in Ecuador—but Sandy only looks at her with a hurt expression, drops her gaze to her lap.
“I wish you wouldn’t always do that,” Sandy says quietly.
“What?”
“I don’t know,” Sandy says. “Change the subject, I guess.”
Katie sits back on the couch to get a better look at Sandy: gorgeous, even with this injured expression on her face. There are strands of blond hair poking out of her ponytail, and Sandy pushes them back over her ear, a small, elegant gesture that instantly makes Katie feel unwieldy and foolish.
“I guess you don’t trust me in some ways,” Sandy says softly, “but I wish you would.”
“It’s not trust,” Katie begins, a little defensively. “It’s just . . . well, all we do is talk about the neighbors anyway, and it’s fun sometimes—it used to be fun—but then you were suddenly gone, and we didn’t even have that.”
Sandy takes this in slowly, eyes downcast. “Okay,” she says, nodding. She sits back so that they are shoulder to shoulder on the couch, both facing the window.
A crow swoops across the gray expanse of sky outside the window, lands on a telephone wire by the street. Its mouth opens, cawing, unheard in the living room. The boys’ laughter cuts into the silence, and Katie listens to toys being plunked into the walls of their bedroom, an excited screech from Emily. Sandy ignores it all, still thoughtful; she picks at the cuticle of her index finger, rubs it with her thumb.
“Katie, please don’t take this the wrong way,” she says, “because I don’t want it to come out as an accusation. Not now, with everything going on. I know you’re upset, and I can see you need to talk, but I don’t—” Sandy sits up to face Katie, folds a leg underneath her. “I’m just going to say it. Yes?”
Katie nods, trying to brace herself for more.
“You know me, I love to gab about anything, I think it’s fun and it passes the time. But, well with you it seems like that’s all we talked about. You know, these people,” she says, motioning toward the window.
“I know.”
Sandy puts her hand on Katie’s knee, an apology. “No, I mean, it seems like that’s all you wanted to talk about.”
Katie starts to protest, but Sandy’s earnest look stops her.
“It’s like, I know you film people, you watch them for a living,” Sandy says, “and I think it’s such a cool job to have. And when we first started having coffee and everything, I thought that’s what you were doing. You know, just watching people, trying to get a handle on them.”
“It’s my job,” Katie says. “To see things and understand—”
“I know, I know it is. And I’m not going to lie, I loved it at first.” Sandy sits back, her eyes on the window again. “But after a while I just sort of took my cue from you. I talked about the neighbors, and when I tried to change the subject a little or ask you something personal about yourself and you didn’t budge, I just went along. I mean, I did like laughing with you and hearing about how people say things about themselves just by walking a certain way, or looking at the ground or something like that, but—” Sandy shakes her head.
Katie’s pulse is thudding inside her ears now, Dana’s words filtering through the noise: You’re always looking everywhere, you’re always looking to other people for answers . . .
Katie sits up, folds her own leg underneath her so she can see Sandy, who won’t look at her. “Keep going,” she says.
Sandy nods, swallows. “Well, I always just thought you didn’t trust me with the big stuff. Here you are, with the important jo
b and taking care of someone like Jerry, and I’m just this housewife who’s pregnant half the time.”
“You have everything, Sandy.”
Sandy finally turns to her. “Do I?” she says, and her arms come up to her sides, collecting everything in the house into them. “I mean, you know I love the kids, I wouldn’t change that for anything. And Rick, he’s so busy with his patients, but he’s great. But this life, my life here,” she says, shaking her head. “Sometimes it isn’t enough, and I just—well, at least for you and me, for our friendship, I just thought you figured I didn’t have anything else to offer, you know what I mean? And when you and Nick separated, I thought you had other people, you know, maybe smarter friends, who could help you with that. I chickened out, and I backed away, but I was wrong. I’m sorry.”
Sandy reaches for a tissue on the end table beside her.
“I shouldn’t have ignored you like that,” she says, dabbing her eyes, “and when you came over last week, I just wanted to make you happy. You know, gab again about the neighbors because I knew how much you liked to do that before. Because I knew, or I thought I knew, that you didn’t have any faith in me to discuss the trial, or what you were going through. That you didn’t really respect me.”
Katie stares at Sandy, hears Dana’s words again: You share only a fraction of what you’re feeling. Can’t you see how that might make people react?
“Jesus,” Katie says, standing up.
“No, please don’t go, I’m not trying to accuse you—”
“I think,” Katie says, “I think I’m not sure what to do with myself right now.”
Sandy hops up, grabs her by both arms. “Okay, wait. Wait a second.”
Somewhere in the back of Katie’s mind, things are still working, and she can hear Sandy sprinting up the hallway, a car driving by, and she can see colors, too, the blue jay arcing across the sky outside, the bright green leaves of the ficus tree in the living room that almost touches the ceiling, but nothing is actually getting in all the way.
Sandy comes back, hands Katie a pill with a V-shaped cutout in the center. “Valium,” she says, and hands Katie a Baggie with another pill inside it. “It really helped me during a crazy time. I only have two left, but they’re yours.”
Katie pops it into her mouth, takes the mug from Sandy and washes it down with lukewarm coffee.
“C’mon, come and lie down for a minute.”
One clear thought only, suddenly critical. “My car is running. Out in the driveway.”
“That’s okay,” Sandy says, “I’ll get it.”
Katie allows Sandy to lead her away, past the laughing children and whipping toys, past the master bedroom where Sandy, who used to have it all, sleeps with her husband, Rick the cardiologist.
Katie stretches in the dark, yawns. Her head is a little clearer now, or maybe “muted” is a better word; it’s all in there waiting for her, but for now at least it’s churning at a slower rate.
Somewhere in the house, she can hear a man’s deep voice, and it instantly evokes Nick, how she felt lying in bed in the morning, listening to him getting ready for work: stepping on that creaky bottom stair on the way to make coffee, the scratchy noise of a knife buttering toast, the splash of the shower turning on—the small sounds of life that reminded her she wasn’t alone anymore.
The Baggie is on the nightstand next to her. She gets up on one elbow, pulls out the pill, and swallows it dry. The pill skids down her throat, and she works up some saliva in her mouth, swallows. She swallows two more times, then moves the curtain above the bed to the side: only the black night, waiting.
They don’t see her at first, standing there in the kitchen doorway and looking in. Rick holds Emily between his legs at the counter, making goofy faces at her, and Sandy kneels down by the table with her younger son and wipes a tear from his cheek.
“Did he hurt your feelings?” she asks the little boy, and he nods, fresh tears falling.
The older son sits in a chair beside them, holding his face up with his hand and kicking his legs, pretending to be bored. Rick sees her first.
“Hey, there she is.”
Everyone turns, and Sandy smiles and ruffles her son’s hair. “Be right back,” she says, and rises. She points her finger at the son sitting at the table, who buries his head in his arms and angrily kicks the table leg.
“Watch it,” Rick warns him.
“Did you sleep?” Sandy asks Katie, touching her arm.
“Yeah.”
“Good,” Sandy says, and turns toward her sons, who take turns poking at each other and then reeling away.
“Boys!” Rick yells, turning from Emily, who starts up a wail.
Sandy turns to Katie. “Valium,” she whispers with a secret smile.
Sandy has respected Katie’s refusal to talk anymore, to hide somewhere in her huge house for some privacy. They stand at the front door, Sandy holding Katie by the arm.
“It’s not because I didn’t trust you,” Katie says. “I do, and I respect you, too.”
“I know that now. But I meant what I said,” Sandy says, squeezing. “When you’re ready, you call here, day or night. Or just stop by.”
“I’m sorry about the neighbor thing. I didn’t realize—”
“It’s over now,” Sandy says. “Really.”
“I don’t know how to thank you.”
“You don’t have to, you’re my friend,” Sandy says, and Katie thinks instantly of Jill the other day—how Jill’s face had clouded over when Katie changed the subject to Amy, instead of talking about herself or the trial. How Katie had interpreted that look as Jill missing Amy, wishing she were with Amy instead of with her.
“Okay, I won’t thank you,” Katie says.
“Good. And I’m not going to screw things up again, I promise.”
“You didn’t. It was me.”
“Then we’re both to blame,” she says.
“Okay.”
“You sure you don’t want to stay for dinner?”
“Thank you, no,” Katie says. “I think tonight is the perfect night to bury myself in work.” As soon as it comes out, she feels guilty, but Sandy just laughs.
“Lucky girl,” she says.
“I’ll tell Jack you all said hi.”
“Give him a big fat kiss for me, will you?”
“Sure.”
They move into each other’s arms at the same time, and Sandy’s voice, close to her ear, is full of mischief. “Screw the neighbors. The next time you come by, we’ll talk about the war or some other depressing, worldly subject.”
“Right,” Katie says, and smiles into her friend’s hair.
The big envelope from Oceanside Realty is full of tiny bite marks, wet at the edges. Katie sits down on the floor beside Jack’s food bowl, pushes the dog away, and tears it open. Inside, a brief note paper-clipped to the photo. Hope this helps, and good luck in your search. Paul Minsky did not bother to attach a card.
The cottage isn’t what Katie expected. It’s not a cottage at all, actually, but a two-story white brick house with an expansive lawn, right on the beach. The front of the house is filled with windows topped by red-bricked arches, and two huge dark wooden doors that open up to a circular driveway. On the other side of the house, there’s a screened-in porch and, on the lush green lawn, a short picket fence surrounding a white gazebo. Beyond the fence, a long dock and the swelling ocean.
The second Valium has kicked in, which makes the pain of looking at this beautiful home—this beautiful home that Nick wanted to escape to—a little fuzzy. Her mind drifts to the days after he moved out. Going to the Warwick Center. Nick not there. Veronica telling her he took some vacation time. Not brooding inside his new apartment, missing her, but traveling to North Carolina. All of Veronica’s attention on the phone, willing it to ring.
“This,” Katie tells Jack, pointing, “is not a cottage.”
Jack worms closer, sniffs the paper and then Katie’s face as she yawns again.
“I’ve got work to do,” she says, already falling asleep as she stares at the house, at the ocean and the dishwater-gray whitecaps that rise up behind it.
2
She tiptoed into Jerry’s room to prop the box of chocolates on his dresser, but he was already awake and sitting on the bed, holding the framed photo of them in Mystic.
—Happy Valentine’s, Jer. I have a surprise.
He wouldn’t look at her. She walked over, handed him the box of chocolates, but he pushed it away.
—You don’t want your candy?
Jerry pointed to the photo.—You, Nick, me, he said. His finger poised over his own face.
—What’s wrong, buddy?
In the empty bedroom next door, they could hear Nick whistling happily, the pull and zip of a measuring tape. Jerry let the picture fall onto the bed, cradled his body inside his arms.
—Us, he said.
—Yes, Katie said.—We had so much fun that day, remember?
—Our house, he said, his eyes skipping to the wall. On the other side, Nick’s happy tune whistled on as he measured spaces for a crib, a changing table, and a dresser.
—It will always be your house, she said.—Your home.
Jerry picked up the frame again, his finger pointing to the empty chair in the photo. He tapped it gently.—Him, too.
At first they thought they would wait until she was pregnant to tell Jerry, but Patricia had suggested telling him sooner to give him time to absorb the news. Time to deal with questions and fears that should be addressed before Katie’s stomach began to grow.
—It’ll get awful busy around here when a baby comes, huh? Katie asked now.
Jerry nodded again, eyes filling with tears.
—We meant what we said, Jerry. We’re really going to need your help more than ever.
He looked at her through wet eyelashes.—Sure?
Lies of the Heart Page 29
