Not That I Could Tell: A Novel

by Jessica Strawser

  Sure, they butted heads. Once they got into school, they had phases of closeness punctuated by periods of eye rolling. Such spats might last a day or a year, but they became obsolete when that quiet support was needed. When Izzy was blacklisted by the in-crowd, or landed in the emergency room thanks to those awful roller blades, or left the back door ajar and their cat wandered off and never came home.

  By the time Penny joined her at college, they’d hit what Izzy had assumed to be their now permanent phase in which Penny was her best friend by default—even during the years Josh had been her best friend by choice. And then Josh had chosen Penny.

  Penny was a pain in the bum.

  “Stop moping around like you’ve lost your best friend,” her mother used to say on the girls’ off days. But in this case, Izzy had been moping like she’d lost her best friend because she had.

  Actually, she’d lost two.

  And one of them, she had to admit, she wasn’t going to get back—ever. Her relationship with Josh could be distant or it could be jovial, but it could never exist outside of Penny. She didn’t know what that might eventually look like, but she wasn’t going to figure it out if she carried on the way she had been.

  Penny was a different story. What they’d had was still retrievable, or at least there was still a chance that it was retrievable, and Izzy had to try. Because another of the very few things she knew for sure was that if something were to happen to her tomorrow, if she were to vanish the way Kristin had, she didn’t want her sister to be left saying, “Sorry, I don’t know what’s been going on with her these days.” Things had been happening with her lately—remotely interesting things, for a change. But here she was living a life where not one person was a close enough confidante to know all the sordid details of her Second Date Update call and the visit later that night and the detective later that week and everything in between.

  She’d been so focused on how badly she missed Josh that she hadn’t even let herself consider how much she missed Penny.

  She’d been wrong that she didn’t have any option but to resign herself to the way things were, to get used to this new normal. She could do something to change it. At least, she hoped she could. She had, after all, been the one who’d destroyed it.

  She was buzzing, thinking of Penny now, as if the molecules of her resolve were rearranging themselves in a new, more solid order. She didn’t know what to do to make things right, but she knew that she wanted to try, and that was something.

  No. It was everything.

  But it wasn’t going to resolve itself overnight. She swung her legs over the side of the bed. She would pad down and make a cup of chamomile tea, and she would mull this over for exactly the amount of time it took to drink it, and then she would go to sleep. She had only hours until she had to beat the Freshly Squeezed crew to the studio.

  That’s another thing, she thought as she made her way to the kitchen, not bothering to turn on the lights, not wanting to send any more “awake” signals to her brain than it already had. She ought to get a new job. One with a schedule that allowed her to share her waking off-hours with people other than ob-gyns and stay-at-home moms and police detectives. And one with less conflict and crisis in her in-box. And fewer opportunities for public humiliation, for herself or anyone else on the line. Really, what had she been doing with her life?

  The moonlight was bright enough that the quartet of rectangles projected onto the floor through the over-sink window illuminated the kitchen. She took a mug from the cupboard, turned on the tap, and peered out into the night. A few lone clouds were passing, white and fast, across the sky, as if lit from within. The silvery garden looked almost magical. She should refill the bird feeder in the morning, though just this week she’d seen great flocks in formation, migrating south. Soon it would be time to haul in the furniture. But that was okay. She was already looking forward to spring.

  Turning off the tap, she squinted at the gate, frowning. It was open, just a little. Odd. She always left it locked, rarely entered or left the backyard from the side. She glanced at the wall, where the ornate fairy garden key hung on a hook.

  She must have overlooked securing it last time, probably when she’d hauled out the leaves. Or maybe a squirrel had landed just the right way on the interior latch. Either way, it would nag at her now to leave it that way. If the wind kicked up, the gate would bang open like it used to and drive her mad. She was hardly going to get any sleep as it was.

  Sighing, she slid the mug into the microwave and set the timed cook to warm the water for her tea. Her garden clogs were by the back door, and she pulled her coat on over her nightshirt. Palming the key, she opened the door and stepped out.

  She was halfway down the walk before she saw him, keeping to the shadows by the fence, slinking back from her and yet closer still to the house. A gasp caught in her throat as she stopped midstep, her hand flying to her chest.

  There was no mistaking Paul’s face in the moonlight—clean shaven and white. He looked as alarmed as she was. Caught. Their eyes met.

  Something in her mind took flight, as if watching the scene unfold from above. The moon was a crescent poised above the tree line, a stoic fraction of its former self. What an odd sensation, to be stalling for time when there was none to waste, to be actively deciding whether to scream, to be gauging the threat of an intruder who was known.

  “What are you doing here?” Izzy was breathing hard.

  He took a step back, startled, as if the fact that she’d spoken had made the encounter real, and something clanked to the stone patio pavers at his feet.

  Izzy’s eyes followed the noise; the moon found the object for her. It shone. A faint beep from the microwave came from inside the house.

  It was an oversized key.

  And suddenly, she knew exactly how her gate had come to be open.

  39

  When you finally confront the fact that you have no choice but to leave, you will contemplate how best to fit your life into your car. You know that all you really need is your children—they are your life, even more so now than ever before. And yet, you want them to have what will make them happy, what will make them whole. It will not be easy on them, you know. How can they understand the reasons when you don’t comprehend how you got to this point yourself?

  Feeling sentimental, you will take something of your own mother. You haven’t thought of her enough these years. Being forced to live in survival mode does that—it consumes you. It makes you a shitty daughter, sister, friend.

  You’ll need just enough familiarity to help the kids not feel completely displaced: favorite pajamas, blankets, a few toys. And then there’s your daughter’s I Can Do It! nothing more than a scrap of cardboard, but one she has cherished, one that has made her brave. At times you’ve wished for such a talisman yourself.

  “It’s for babies!” She’ll lash out, surprising you. Then comes the root of it: “Stephie and Andrea say it’s for babies.” Her friends at school. She won’t even have these friends come tomorrow, won’t likely see them ever again, but how can you tell her that?

  You’ll pack it anyway, in your own bag. She will see it just as you’re zipping it closed. She will hurl it in frustration through the open doorway of her room. “I don’t want it!” she’ll scream. She is four, but she might as well be fourteen. You have no choice. You have to go. The designated point of no return has arrived.

  By the time you cross state lines, she’ll be crying for it again. “We have to go back,” she’ll sob. “We have to go back for it.”

  But you’ll keep your hands on the wheel of this unfamiliar preowned van you’ve paid cash for to replace your own—a switch made with surprising ease. Far from any town, the promise of silence comes at a bargain price. Your eyes will not waver from the road ahead. Because you can’t go back. And this is what you have sacrificed: a tattered piece of your daughter’s childhood for survival. You already know your search for a replacement will be futile, but it doesn’t matter. Y
ou can’t do it over, you can’t turn the car around, you can only move on. If you go back, he will kill you.

  40

  There’s no shortage of safety gear on the market, but you’ll find that the two things most likely to save your life are free: common sense (or at least the good sense to remain calm and trust your instincts), and the buddy system.

  —Introduction to the final chapter in the Outdoor Preparedness guide gifted to Izzy by her father, flagged by her mother with a sticky note bearing a single exclamation point

  Izzy stared at the metal shape at Paul’s feet, identical to the one clenched in her palm, as comprehension wrestled with confusion. So the other one had gone missing the afternoon Paul helped her install the lock. She’d convinced herself it had never existed at all.

  Or, rather, she’d let him convince her.

  An icy fear gripped her, but she pushed it aside. She was on her own. She couldn’t afford to be afraid.

  “Where did you get that?” she snapped.

  “I found it—” He was stammering lies before she even had the question out. The truth was obvious: He had pocketed it, back then.

  Even then.

  But why?

  Her mind conjured the beginning of his Second Date Update call—the part that had struck her as odd for exactly one instant before she’d gotten caught up in the rest.

  I saw her leaving for work and I thought … what the hell, why not call.

  She left for work so very early. This time of year, that hour was more night than morning.

  “I’m returning it,” he said lamely. He stooped to pick up the key, and she pocketed her own, expecting him to hold it out toward her—but he didn’t.

  She took a small step back toward the kitchen, then another.

  If she turned and ran, could she beat him to the door?

  But what if this was some kind of misunderstanding? There she’d be, fleeing in panic from a harmless neighbor, exposing herself as silly, helpless, hopeless. He did keep odd hours. He was on call at a hospital, after all. Briefly and ridiculously, she wondered how many people met their demise out of politeness.

  “What are you doing here?” she repeated. Her voice shook.

  And then, to her horror, he seemed to come to. To assess the situation, to regain control. His whole demeanor of slinking away, of fading in, changed as if he’d flipped a switch, and instead he took a step toward her, then another.

  “I was out for a walk,” he said, his voice low. “I guess I got to thinking.”

  She swallowed hard, waiting for him to elaborate. He didn’t. “About?”

  “This and that. A bit about how you changed your mind after agreeing to our date. A bit about how you lied, about your dad being sick.” He advanced another step; she continued her slow retreat. “A bit about how Detective Bryant was kissing your hand out front this afternoon.”

  So he had overheard her in the store. But he had the wrong idea about the detective.

  Had he been watching her—again? Or had he just happened to see—again?

  And why should any of it matter? What business was it of his?

  “That doesn’t answer my question,” she said as firmly as she could. He took another step toward her, and as she retreated reflexively, her ankle turned on the paver behind her. She wobbled, then caught her balance, and he didn’t bother to hide his smirk.

  “I don’t really know. I just … ended up here.” He was so clearly in the wrong—nothing about this was right, none of it was okay—and yet he didn’t move to apologize, didn’t move to leave.

  “If you wanted to talk, Paul, you could have rung the doorbell.”

  He closed the gap between them, and his eyes were dark. “I don’t want to talk.”

  A final step back and she made contact with the cold siding of the house, jagged against her spine through the too-thin barrier of her coat and nightshirt. She glanced to her left. The back door was several strides away. She had not retreated wisely.

  “Then what do you want?” It was impossible to keep the terror from her voice now. He hesitated, his eyes unchanging, and she could see that he had no plan, and then, just as quickly, that he didn’t seem to mind—that acting on passion rather than logic was not a new side to him, but a second skin.

  He laughed mirthlessly. “I will never understand women. My mother never recognized that she could have done so much better than my father. Kristin never recognized that she couldn’t have hoped for better than me. What’s the happy medium? Does it exist? Because I thought you were different, but now I see that you’re just the same.”

  Izzy glanced sidelong at the door again. There was no graceful escape from this wall she’d been backed into, but she had to try. “I am sorry. But we’ll talk about this in the morning, when you aren’t so upset. Good night, Paul.”

  She whipped around and made for the handle as quickly as she could without downright lunging. She supposed a small corner of her mind was still keeping up the appearance of civility. She reached out, visualizing how she would yank it open and then slam the door shut before he could push his way in after her. But she didn’t get that far. Hands grabbed her shoulders roughly from behind and slid expertly down her arms until Paul had her at the joints, his fingers closing easily and completely around her thin elbows.

  “You are sorry?” He yanked her against him, and she cringed at the firmness of his chest against her back. Had he always been so much larger than her, so much stronger? “Why do you all seem to think you can let me in, lead me on, and then be rid of me so easily?”

  “Let me go!” she cried. She screamed it out again, and his hand clamped over her mouth from behind as his other arm tightened around her waist. His fingers were firm against her mouth and nostrils. Her chest constricted as she struggled to breathe.

  “You can go when I say you can go,” he snarled into her ear. “But I have to tell you, I’m tired of being left.”

  41

  People often don’t see their new dog’s true personality until weeks after adoption. If your dog had a relationship with a previous owner—especially a neglectful one—you may find him to be the product of mixed signals and unrealistic expectations. The best way to build trust is by demonstrating patience.

  —“Your Rescue Dog in His New Home” tip sheet, posted on the Tiffins’ refrigerator

  “Clara. You did what?”

  She shot Benny a look. The kids hadn’t been asleep long enough not to be startled by raised voices. She’d waited until they were snug in bed to fill him in, so he could get the full story out of their earshot.

  “Benny. This is good news. Thomas can go back to school.”

  “I think we could’ve found a way to achieve that without another visit to the police station.”

  She dried the last of the dinner pans and maneuvered it into the overfilled mess of a drawer beneath the oven. “It was no big deal. Detective Bryant said he was making more rounds this week anyway, before shelving the case.” She forced the drawer shut with her foot. “He said I was doing him a favor.”

  “All it takes is one person to see you coming or going from the station, and we’ll be getting it from all sides again!” He shook out a new kitchen trash bag with an angry snap and slammed the lid onto the can. “Your priorities are out of whack.”

  “My only priority was to get my son back at school where he belongs, to get a sense of normalcy back to our lives. What is out of whack about that?”

  “Do you honestly expect me to believe this didn’t have anything to do with Paul declaring his affection for Izzy on the radio? You weren’t grasping for an excuse to get back in there and guilt the detectives into giving you a status report? What do you take me for?”

  She glared at him.

  “Tell me you didn’t stick around long enough to ask a few extra questions after he told you they were about to stop investigating.”

  When she didn’t answer, he raised his hands to an imaginary audience in the adjoining living room. “That’
s not fair,” she protested. “I was there anyway—anyone would have asked. It doesn’t mean that’s why I went.”

  “Clara, Kristin isn’t Liv. I don’t think it’s healthy, the way the two seem to have become entwined for you. This man is not perfect, but he’s a doctor, by all accounts a good one. He’s been a father to those kids when they might have grown up without one. I can’t see what he’d have in common with Liv’s psycho ex-boyfriend—and thank God for that. I understand why the whole thing worries you, I do. But you have to stop assuming the worst, just because of what we went through before. I am imploring you to stop bringing this other family’s problems into our own.”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it.

  “I understand that this is a sensitive issue for you, which is why I’ve tried not to be so blunt about it. It’s sensitive for me too. I was there, remember? But getting pulled into things inadvertently is one thing. Marching down to the police station and playing Nancy Drew is another. Not healthy. Not good for you, not good for me, not good for us.”

  She stepped back, startled, as tears filled her eyes. “Benny, it had nothing to do with us. Don’t talk like that.”

  “You’re making it about us. Whatever I have to say to get through to you, I’ll say!” She saw then—really saw—how serious he was. A wave of sudden sadness stopped her where she stood, and the breath went out of her lungs, leaving her empty.

  “Okay,” she said desperately. “Okay. I’m sorry, Benny. I’m sorry.”

  “Promise me that will be the last time you ever check in with that detective. For any reason.”

  “I promise.” She meant it. There were no reasons left, anyway. That was it. “I’ll stay out of it.”

  “And stop panicking poor Izzy.”

  Clara took a deep breath. It was a promise that went against everything she’d come to stand for. It was a promise that could mean endangering her friend.