Lullaby and Goodnight

by Staub, Wendy Corsi

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “Placenta,” Rita pronounces, the moment Peyton opens her purse to reveal the heinous object.

  “Placenta?” Her hands still trembling even now, hours later, Peyton drops the purse back on the coffee table and backs away with a shudder. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. I’ve seen enough of it in my time, that’s for sure.”

  “Oh my God. Oh my God! Rita . . .”

  Help me.

  Peyton doesn’t say it, but the plea is clear.

  Sidestepping the garish stuffed elephant in the middle of the living room, Rita goes to her, placing a steadying arm around her shoulders. “Sit down.”

  “But—”

  “Sit.”

  Peyton sits.

  “You need to take some deep breaths. Try to relax.” Rita sinks onto the couch beside her, keeping an arm on her shoulders as she shakily inhales, then exhales.

  “Thanks for coming over, Rita. I probably shouldn’t have called you, but I just . . . I guess I freaked out when I saw it.”

  “Who wouldn’t? My God, Peyton, what on earth is that thing doing in your purse?”

  “I have no idea!” Her voice is shrill, almost accusatory. “I didn’t put it there, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  “Of course I wasn’t wondering that. I just meant . . .” She shrugs. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “I know. I keep thinking somebody must have done it as . . . I don’t know, as a joke?”

  “A joke? Well, it sucks. The one about the chicken crossing the road is a lot funnier.”

  Peyton fails to crack a smile at the halfhearted attempt at levity.

  “Pssst . . . ever hear that story about the elephant in the room that nobody would mention?” Rita nudges her and points at the oversized stuffed animal. “Please tell me you see that.”

  “Tom brought it over tonight,” is the dull reply. “For the baby.”

  No longer in the mood to make light of things, Rita asks, “So where is Mr. Wonderful now?”

  “He went to buy milk.”

  “He went to buy milk?” Rita shakes her head, about to ask what kind of man leaves a woman in need to go on a silly errand at this hour of the night.

  “My stomach has been upset ever since . . .” She indicates the purse with a cringe. “Tom thought some milk might settle it down, but I’m all out of it, so he went to get it.”

  “He left you alone when you’re so upset you can barely speak?” Rita asks dubiously.

  “It was my idea, actually. And I knew you’d be here any second. I told him it was fine, go ahead.”

  “Yeah? And what aren’t you telling me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Something’s up. With Tom. Tell me.”

  Peyton no longer even bothers to feign confusion. “I guess I just wanted to get him out of here for a few minutes so I could talk to you in private.”

  “About . . . ?”

  “About . . . what if he’s the one who put that . . . placenta,” she says with difficulty, “in my bag?”

  “Why would he—and where would he get—”

  “He works in a bio lab.”

  Rita clamps her jaw shut. “I knew that. I forgot. Oh, Christ.”

  “I’m afraid. I don’t know why he would do it, but . . . what if he did?”

  “Maybe he didn’t. Think about it. Who else would have had access to your bag?”

  “Anybody would have, I guess. I don’t think I even opened it all day. I had my keys in my jacket pocket at work—I remember, because they kept jangling and I kept thinking I needed to put them into my bag, but I never did.” She’s thinking aloud, her brown eyes gazing off into the distance, her brow furrowed as she backtracks through her day. “And I didn’t need my wallet to buy lunch because we had a meeting and they brought sandwiches in.”

  “So the last time you opened your purse was . . . ?”

  “I guess yesterday.”

  “Has Tom been around?”

  “He spent the night.”

  “Last night?”

  “And the night before.”

  Rita takes a moment to absorb the news. Then, shaking her head, she murmurs, “I told myself I was never going to tell you about this.”

  “About what?”

  This is going to kill her, Rita tells herself. She squirms, looks up at Peyton. “I shouldn’t even say it. Because it probably has nothing to do with—”

  “Rita, for God’s sake, tell me what you’re talking about.”

  “Do you remember the night you invited me here for coffee, to meet Tom?”

  “Yes.” Peyton’s eyes are wide with trepidation.

  “Remember how I promised you I wouldn’t say anything else negative about him? Because I knew you really wanted me to like him, and—”

  “I remember. What happened?”

  “There’s something I should have told you.” Rita takes a deep breath. “You asked me to go into the bedroom when he was working on that shelf, to ask him how he took his coffee. Remember?”

  Peyton shrugs noncommittally. “Not really, no. What hap—”

  “When I went into the bedroom, I found him going through the top drawer on your bureau.”

  “Oh my God.” Peyton clasps a hand over her mouth. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because I promised. And because he claimed he was looking for a pencil to make a mark on the wall where the shelf was supposed to go. At the time, I told myself it was a plausible explanation—”

  “A pencil? In a dresser? That’s plausible?” Peyton’s voice rises more shrilly with every word.

  “All right, I was reaching. I kept telling myself that I was just looking for reasons to be suspicious of him. But maybe I should have been more suspicious all along.”

  “Maybe we both should have,” Peyton tells her. “Now what do I do? He’s coming back here.”

  “Don’t let him in.”

  “He has the keys.” After a pause, she admits, “His own set.”

  “You need to change the locks again,” Rita tells her.

  “I know . . . but what am I going to do about him tonight?”

  “Tell him to go. You can’t stay here alone with him, Peyton.”

  “He won’t want to leave. He knows how upset I am.”

  “Well, tell him you don’t need him. Tell him I’m here to take care of you now.”

  “He’ll want to stay too.”

  Rita gives her a level look. “Who’s in charge here? This is your house. You decide who stays and who goes. Be straight with him.”

  Peyton doesn’t reply immediately.

  But as the words sink in, Rita sees a familiar gleam return to her eyes.

  “You’re right,” she says, fists clenched, head held high. “I’m in charge. And he’s going.”

  “How many nights?” asks the night manager behind the desk, obviously bored with the answer before it even arrives; bored with the job, people, life in general.

  “I don’t know . . . two?”

  He looks up at Anne Marie without moving a muscle. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

  “I’m telling you two. Maybe three.”

  “Sunday night, the rate goes up to three hundred forty-nine a night.”

  “I thought the rates went down after weekends.”

  “Not out here. We’re right next to a corporate park. We get business travelers in during the week. Rate goes up.”

  “Fine. Rate goes up. If I need to stay.” Anne Marie fervently hopes that by Sunday, it will all be over.

  Dripping ennui, the night clerk hands her the card key and points the way to the elevator.

  He doesn’t offer a bellhop to help her with her bag. Maybe because there are no bellhops at this suburban hotel; maybe because she only has one bag and it’s on wheels; maybe because he doesn’t give a damn how she gets up to her room.

  She seethes all the way to the elevator, tempted to go back and tell the clerk what she thinks
of him.

  But she doesn’t dare. Displaced rage is dangerous, particularly when one is as tightly wound as she is tonight.

  She pulls her bag into the elevator and contents herself with shooting one last dark look in the direction of the desk before the doors slide closed.

  You should have just stayed home, or at least in Manhattan, instead of coming all the way out here tonight, she scolds herself. But it’s too late now, and anyway, she was anxious to get to her destination. She figured she’ll be so nervous by the time tomorrow morning rolls around that driving wouldn’t be a good idea.

  The room is a guidebook example of three-star mediocrity. Two double beds with ugly quilted turquoise spreads, chair, desk, and television. There’s an iron in the closet and a plastic ice bucket on the desk; the shampoo and lotion in the bathroom are in packets, not bottles.

  What am I doing here? Anne Marie wonders as she gazes about, suddenly more homesick than she’s ever been in her life.

  Homesick, oddly enough, not for Bedford and Jarrett and the boys . . .

  But homesick, most of all, for her grandmother.

  If Grace DeMario had been alive ten years ago, none of this ever would have happened.

  She would have been there—always, always there—with her watchful eye and her many rules and her uncanny ability to sense trouble before trouble ever got close enough to strike.

  But Grace wasn’t there.

  The life Anne Marie had somehow managed to build without her help, without anyone’s help, was shattered by pure evil.

  Despite Rita’s advice, Peyton can’t bring herself to keep the chain on the door when she hears Tom unlocking it on the other side.

  She hurriedly slides the brass knob from its grooved track and as the door swings open, does her best not to look as though she’s terrified . . . of him.

  Startled to see her waiting in the doorway, he immediately asks, “What happened? Are you okay?”

  “Nothing happened, other than . . . that.” She points at the purse, still on the coffee table behind her. “I’m just upset.”

  “This will help.” He holds up the white plastic shopping bag in his hand. “I got the milk, and some saltines, too.”

  “Thank you.” She reaches for the bag, knowing he’s waiting for her to step aside and let him in.

  “You go lie down and I’ll bring you the milk.” Still holding the bag, he makes a move to come in, awkwardly blocked by her position in the doorway.

  “No, actually, I’ll just take this”—she grabs the bag from him—“and I’ll see you . . . tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” he echoes, shocked. “You’re not staying here alone tonight.”

  No, she’s not. Rita will stay with her. She’s in the bedroom even now, waiting silently, listening, just in case something happens.

  “I’ll be fine,” Peyton tells Tom. “I’m just exhausted, and I really . . . I want to be alone tonight. Okay?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  She studies the concern on his face, wondering if it might somehow be genuine after all, or a practiced mask.

  “Really, Tom, I just want to go to sleep.”

  “I can stay on the couch and stand guard. Just in case—”

  “Nothing’s going to happen. It was a creepy prank. And I promise I’ll call you if I need you. You can be here in two minutes.” It’s all she can do to keep her voice steady as she echoes the phrase that was once so reassuring to her.

  Now it feels ominous.

  He just looks at her, as though trying to come up with a convincing argument for his cause.

  Then, as though he’s realized that nothing he says is going to change her mind, he leans forward and kisses her forehead.

  “Okay. If that’s what you want. But I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Right. Tomorrow.”

  She twists her clenched jaw into a smile and watches him turn and walk away.

  Then she closes the door behind him, locks the bolts, and replaces the chain.

  As an afterthought, she turns to the heavy desk, eyeing it as a potential barricade.

  “Wait, I’ll help you,” Rita says, reappearing in the room and instantly reading her mind. “Let me just put this down.”

  This, Peyton sees, is a meat cleaver her friend must have found in the kitchen drawer.

  Noting her startled glance at the would-be weapon, Rita says simply, “I was afraid of him. I didn’t know what he might try.”

  “I didn’t either.”

  “Look, I’m thinking I should probably call J.D. or one of my boys to come stay here tonight with us.”

  “Oh, Rita, don’t do that. I’m sure we’ll be fine. He’s not going to try anything.” There’s still a part of her that can’t quite accept that Tom, her Tom, is capable of hurting her. “Did you tell J.D. what was going on when you called him?”

  “Are you kidding? He would have been over here in a heartbeat.”

  Or in two minutes, Peyton thinks grimly.

  “I just told him you were having some light contractions and I didn’t think it was a good idea to leave you here alone.”

  “Was he upset?”

  “Trust me, he’s used to my being gone all night. It goes with the territory in my business. And sometimes he takes off for a day or two himself.”

  “He does? Where does he go?” she feels obliged to ask, wondering where Tom is now. Is he still standing outside? Or is he walking home? Did he believe her when she told him she wanted to be alone?

  “Oh, we have a cottage out on Long Island,” Rita is saying. “We got it before the boys were born. I’ll take you out there sometime. You’d love it.”

  Peyton nods, knowing Rita is trying to distract her from her fear.

  As if she realizes it isn’t working, she says, “Listen, Peyton, I can call J.D. to come here if that will make you feel safer.”

  “No, I think we’re okay for tonight. I just feel bad making you stay here and lie to J.D.”

  “Not a big deal. And hey, I’m not complaining. This way, I won’t have to listen to him snore.”

  At last, Peyton manages a smile, grateful for her friend’s presence. “You might have to listen to me snore instead. As far as I know I never did before I was pregnant, but Tom said—”

  She catches herself.

  The expression in Rita’s eyes tells her that they’re thinking the same thing.

  Don’t believe anything Tom says.

  Aloud, she merely commands, “Step aside, sugar pie, so I can move this desk.”

  “But . . . it’s heavy.”

  “Good.”

  Rita gives it a mighty shove, sliding it securely in front of the door.

  “There,” she says, brushing off her hands. “Safe. For tonight.”

  “I’ll call a locksmith first thing in the morning,” is Peyton’s glum reply.

  Most of the photos laid out on the quilted turquoise bedspread are grainy, snapped from a distance and blown up, with branches and leaves visible around the perimeters of most. They were snapped in a schoolyard, the focal point a big wooden jungle gym with swings, ladders, slides, monkey bars. In the background is a painted sign whose letters are blurred, but that is inconsequential when one knows what they read.

  Edgewood Elementary.

  The girl with the hauntingly familiar features is in action in all but one of the pictures: climbing, sliding, swinging, her limbs and even her blond pigtails captured as they sail about in midair.

  But in one snapshot, she is simply standing, looking straight ahead, almost as though she senses the camera.

  “Did she notice that you were taking this?” Anne Marie asked the private investigator the first time she saw it, feeling sick at the possibility that the girl might have realized she was being watched.

  “No way. I was in the woods, too far away for anyone to realize I was there.”

  That’s probably true, judging from the few photos that weren’t blown up, in which she and the othe
r children are mere specks on the horizon.

  Regardless, the magnified photo in which she appears to be staring into the lens makes Anne Marie increasingly uneasy every time she sees it.

  She has seen it often these past few months, surreptitiously removing it from its plain manila envelope every waking hour; seeing it even in her sleep, in her dreams, in her nightmares.

  She’s seen it so often that this child’s face has irrevocably morphed with the one she remembers, the one she has carried in her mind’s eye all these years.

  Now, trying to dissect the features she knows so well, she has no idea where one face ends and the other begins, no way of distinguishing past from present.

  Yet it always comes down to the fact that this girl is still alive.

  Although sometimes, even now, Anne Marie almost believes the impossible: that her predecessor might be, too.

  “You can’t do this, Mary,” Javier Nueves pleads, pacing the length of the small living room and back again. “You promised me that you wouldn’t do this. That Father Roberto was the only person you would tell.”

  “That was before I knew—” She catches herself, unable to say it, even now, a month after the shocking loss. “That was when I thought I would be able to tell him.”

  “Ay, por amor de Dios, Mary! You aren’t thinking what can happen.”

  “Yes, I am.” Again, she wipes her streaming eyes with a soggy tissue using one trembling hand, holding her swaddled infant against her breast with the other. “I know exactly what can happen.”

  Javier stops in front of the sagging couch where she sits, lashing out at her as he never before has done. “You know what can happen? And you’re willing to do this anyway? Usted esta loco!”

  Loco.

  An apt description, perhaps, one that has crossed her own mind these past few weeks.

  She can’t argue with Javier. Perhaps insanity is the only explanation for what they—what she—agreed to do.

  She went out of her mind with grief every time she lost another baby; was crazed with anguish when the promised adoption fell through. Why else would she have accepted Rose’s offer, and the burden of guilt that now goes with it?