Vomiting To Be Thin: An Epidemic
The words struck something in Marcy, and she lowered the glass to the coffee table to glance at the article. There were photos of thin, beautiful women and colored boxes with their stories. The article was about bulimia and young women who wanted so badly to be thin that they were willing to make themselves vomit regularly in order to control their intake of calories.
Reading the words, Marcy thought of Phoebe. The women in the article sounded so much like her sister that it scared her. Marcy eased onto the edge of the couch, horrified by her sudden realization. She had always known what bulimia was, of course, but it had never occurred to her that her sister would do such a thing. Even considering how overweight Marcy had always been and how badly she had wanted to lose weight, she had never been able to fathom anyone actually controlling her weight this way.
Marcy slowly closed the magazine, staring without seeing as she went over in her mind how many clues she had seen of this condition with Phoebe: the fact that she was always thin, despite how much she ate, the fact that she had terrible teeth, unlike Marcy's healthy ones and had had to have them all veneered a few years back. And to actually catch Phoebe throwing up after a big meal...
Marcy got up off the couch, grabbed the dirty glass, and dropped the magazine into the rack as she passed it on her way to the kitchen. Obviously she needed to talk to Phoebe about this, but she knew she'd have to be careful how she handled it.
In the kitchen, she put the glass in the sink and then went back into the family room where the computer sat on a desk in a corner on the far side of the room. She already had all her bank statements and the checkbook register out. She slipped into the chair and clicked the mouse, leading her into the accounting program she used. When Phoebe came to pack, she decided, she'd feel her out. She doubted her sister would admit easily to such a disease, but if it was true, Marcy would do whatever she needed to do to help Phoebe get better. After all, no matter what, they were still sisters and they still loved each other, right?
In forty-five minutes, Marcy was on her feet, pacing the family room. She was hoping she was mistaken, but she knew she wasn't. Within minutes of beginning to balance her household checking account and review her money market and savings accounts, she realized money was missing. A chunk of it. The accounts were a mess. Money had been moved around, back and forth between accounts, making it harder to do the math, but there was definitely money missing. To the tune of at least ten thousand dollars.
How could that have happened? Could Jake really have spent that much above and beyond their household expenses in the months she had been in the hospital?
She found it unlikely. If he had spent savings, he would have told her. Especially since it looked like some of the kids' college funds had been dipped into, as well. Only her own investment account with a stock brokerage company, where she kept her inheritance, appeared not to have been disturbed. It was the only account that didn't have Jake's name on it.
The first logical conclusion was that her husband had taken the money for some reason or another, but she didn't think that was true. Obviously she would have to talk to him, but she had a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach that he wasn't going to know what she was talking about. She knew he hadn't removed it. The money had been transferred too haphazardly, in odd increments; it just wasn't like him to do anything that way, especially when dealing with finances.
She thought of the bank card she had confiscated from Phoebe not too long ago. With that card, the bank account numbers, and a couple of passwords, Phoebe would have had access to all the accounts Marcy and Jake shared.
Marcy felt as if she was going to be sick. She always used easy, stupid passwords like her first pet's name, her mother's maiden name—all things Phoebe would have known.
Could her sister really have been stealing from her?
There was a sound at the front door, a key turning the lock, and Phoebe appeared in the doorway, as if on cue, with an armful of cardboard boxes. "Marcy!" she hollered. "You here? I could use a little help."
Marcy heard boxes hit the floor. She felt as if her stomach was in her throat. Her first impulse was to confront Phoebe and just ask her if she knew anything about the missing money.
But Marcy knew Phoebe. If she did know anything about it, she wouldn't say so. She certainly would never come out and admit to any wrongdoing. It just wasn't in her, never had been. Marcy remembered a time when she had been ten or eleven. It had been summer, and a neighbor had been keeping an eye on them while their parents were at work. Their mother had made a cake and left it on the counter, instructing her daughters not to eat any.
The sisters hadn't set out to eat the cake. First they just admired it. Then, the temptation too great. They had intended to just have a taste of the frosting. One lick off their fingertips. But it had been so good that they had kept returning for snitches of the cake. By the time their mother arrived home from work, the confection was half eaten. Their mother had made it to take to a sick friend, and she was furious. Marcy had crumbled almost immediately, confessing her sin and offering to make another cake and pay for the ingredients out of her own allowance. But Phoebe had made no such confession, not even when their mother asked her if she had eaten the cake, too. She had lied, saying no with the sweetest, most innocent, look on her face. Later, Marcy had asked Phoebe why she had let her take the fall alone for eating the cake. Phoebe's reply had been simple. Marcy was already being punished; there was no need for both of them to get into trouble. She had been completely without remorse. The memory was silly, insignificant, but for some reason it had stayed with Marcy all these years.
Marcy watched her sister in the foyer, trying to gather the boxes she'd dropped. She'd get no confession out of Phoebe. If Marcy wanted to confront her sister, she would have to have her facts straight first. She would have to talk to Jake and then to the bank. As she walked around the couch, toward the foyer, she decided she would say nothing yet, not even if Phoebe noticed she was balancing her accounts. She'd let Phoebe pack her stuff and move out. If Phoebe had stolen the money, it would be easier to do what had to be done with her sister out of the house anyway.
Marcy picked up a cardboard box that had slid across the tile floor and come to rest on the edge of the family room carpet. "You want me to take this upstairs to your bedroom?"
Phoebe dropped her purse from her shoulder on the small table in the foyer where she'd already set a bottle of wine. "Nah. Leave it. I'm going to leave a lot of my stuff in your basement for now, but I'll have to get a few things from down there. That looks sturdy enough to hold some kitchen stuff."
"You want me to take it downstairs? If you tell me what you need from the boxes in the basement, I might be able to get it for you."
"No!" Phoebe snapped. Then she gave a little laugh. "Everything's a mess down there, and I know that makes you crazy. I can do it. I know what I'm looking for. I don't really need any help, except maybe to get this stuff in my car."
Marcy lowered the box to the floor, studying her sister's face. She looked pale, despite her summer tan, and very thin. Thinner than she had been when Marcy was released from the hospital. Looking at her now, she could see that it was very possible Phoebe was bulimic, and she wondered how she could have missed it.
Bulimic and a thief? Marcy wanted to tell herself that Phoebe had been so clever to hide both from her, but the truth was, Marcy knew she was at least partially to blame. She'd spent so much of her life thinking about herself, stressing over her own life, that she might not have noticed if Phoebe had sprouted wings.
"You eat?" Marcy asked Phoebe. "I was just getting ready to put a frozen dinner in the microwave."
"I'm stuffed from a late lunch." Phoebe pressed her hand to her flat belly. "But I brought wine." She lifted the bottle and set it on the table again. "I thought we could celebrate my getting the job."
Marcy didn't really feel like celebrating at this moment, but she didn't want her sister to s
uspect anything was wrong. "Okay, great," she managed, grabbing the bottle of Chardonnay. It was expensive. Far too expensive for a woman out of work living with her sister... unless maybe she was helping herself to her sister's bank accounts.
"Just let me fill up these first couple of boxes, and I'll join you." Phoebe grabbed two boxes and passed Marcy in the foyer. She opened the door under the staircase that led to the basement and stepped down, pulling the door behind her. "I won't be long."
In the kitchen, Marcy chose a light meal from the freezer and popped it in the microwave. She wasn't really hungry, but she would try to eat anyway because she knew she needed to.
Realizing that she had left all of her bank statements out on the desk in the family room, she went in and gathered the papers and stuffed them in a small plastic file box. She exited the money management program on the computer and pushed the file box under the desk. She could hear noises directly below as Phoebe banged around in the basement. What on earth was she doing in that end of the basement? She must have stuff everywhere, which was typical. It would never have occurred to Phoebe that her sister might want to use her own basement for storage.
Marcy returned to the kitchen, chastising herself for being so mean. What if she was wrong about Phoebe? What if she was just jumping to conclusions?
Marcy didn't know what to think. Phoebe seemed happy tonight. Excited about moving.
She opened the door of the microwave that she had heard beep from the other room and peeled the plastic back off her dinner. She stirred it with her fork and punched the buttons to start the microwave again. She leaned against the counter, arms crossed over her chest.
Was it silly to think that Phoebe could have believed she could get away with stealing that much money from her? Even if she thought Marcy was going to die, didn't she realize that eventually Jake would have seen there was money missing from the accounts? Even if she thought Jake wouldn't catch on, wouldn't she have moved out, maybe even tried to rim, when Marcy miraculously awoke from the coma?
It just didn't make sense to steal that much money and then hang around. Maybe Phoebe hadn't really meant to steal it. Maybe she saw it as borrowing the money and had intended to pay it back just as soon as she got on her feet again.
The microwave beeped again.
Marcy walked into the foyer and opened the basement door. Cool, damp air hit her in the face. She heard noise, then nothing. "You sure you don't want any help?" she called down.
"Be right up," Phoebe hollered cheerfully.
Marcy closed the door again and returned to the kitchen to check her dinner.
* * *
The Bloodsucker stood in Marcy's backyard in the cover of some bushes, watching her through the kitchen window as she put her dinner in the microwave. He almost felt sorry for her, alone in the house, eating a frozen meal. He hated eating alone. Of course, he didn't hate it as much as he had hated eating with Granny.
He wondered what Marcy would do if he walked up to the house, rang the doorbell, and offered to join her so she wouldn't have to eat alone. They could sit at the table and eat and laugh. He could tell her how his day went at work, and she could tell him all about the new restaurant she was opening. Of course, she hadn't mentioned it to him directly, but he knew about it anyway. Small towns were like that. Everyone knew everyone's business. It was why Granny had insisted they always keep to themselves, why he had never had any friends growing up.
The Bloodsucker studied the back yard for a moment, trying to figure out how he could get closer. He wanted to see Marcy better. Wanted to watch her as she ate, lifting her fork to those lovely lips the plastic surgeon had created.
He had been closer to her earlier, when she'd been in the family room, so close that he could have reached out and touched her, felt her pulse, her blood rushing through her veins, had it not been for the glass doors. But then a neighbor had stepped out on his patio to start his grill, and the Bloodsucker had been forced to retreat to the bushes along the woods line. By the time he got situated, Marcy had closed the curtains on the French doors and he couldn't see her anymore.
He was disappointed, and yet he realized it was probably a good thing. Being so close to her again had made him want to reach through that glass and take her, and he knew that was stupid. And the Bloodsucker wasn't stupid, no matter what Granny said. Snatching a woman from her home or from her car would be too risky because it was too easy to accidentally leave evidence. He wasn't stupid; he watched CSI on TV like everyone else. Even wearing gloves and a hat, he knew that he could leave something behind in a house or in a car. Fibers from his clothes could be traced, even DNA tested if he left behind a hair with the follicle still attached. No, no matter how badly he wanted Marcy, he knew he shouldn't take her from her home.
Hiding in the bushes, the Bloodsucker had been just about ready to return to his car when he had gotten lucky. Marcy had appeared in the kitchen to make her lonely dinner.
He could see her now, leaning against the kitchen cabinet in her shorts and T-shirt, her blond hair tousled from her shower after she ran. He loved to watch her run. He loved to think about her blood coursing through her veins, pumped by her heart. Marcy was strong. She was powerful. How else would she have survived all that had happened to her?
He had to have that strength. He just knew it was meant for him.
The Bloodsucker stepped out of the lilac bushes. Despite the dangers, he couldn't help himself. He had to get closer.
Chapter 11
The microwave beeped, jolting Marcy out of her daze, and she slid the hot plastic tray onto a plate, grabbed a fork and a napkin, and carried them to the kitchen table. Behind her, she heard Phoebe coming through the basement door.
"It's amazing how much stuff a person accumulates, isn't it?" she called from the foyer.
Marcy set her dinner and the napkins on the table and went back for wine glasses, the bottle of wine, and a corkscrew. She could hear her sister lowering the boxes to the floor and stacking them.
"I want you to come over to my place for dinner just as soon as I get settled in," Phoebe continued. "I know it's going to get lonely for you here with Jake gone."
It was on the tip of Marcy's tongue to tell her sister that she was going to ask Jake to move back in, but she resisted. Considering her suspicions, she didn't exactly feel as if she wanted to confide in Phoebe right now.
"Wouldn't that be fun?" Phoebe appeared in the kitchen doorway. "Dinner at my place for a change."
"Um, yes. Sure, that would be great." Marcy set the glasses down and handed her sister the bottle and corkscrew. "You do the honors. My dinner's getting cold."
Phoebe glanced over Marcy's shoulder as Marcy slid into the kitchen chair. "Doesn't look too appetizing. Want to go sit in the living room, enjoy our wine?"
"Here's fine. Actually, it's pretty good, and I feel like I need the portion control." Marcy took a bite of chicken. All these years she had thought herself weak because she had been unable to control what and how much she ate. Because she had seen herself as some kind of pig compared to Phoebe. Thinking now that her sister might have been making herself vomit all these years made her sad. Sad for Phoebe. Sad for herself and all the time she wasted worrying about such things.
The cork popped, and Phoebe poured the wine into the glasses.
"Easy there." Marcy watched her sister fill her glass to the rim. "What are you trying to do, get me drunk?"
Phoebe lifted her glass in toast. "Maybe not drunk, but a little silly wouldn't do you any harm." She tipped her glass to touch Marcy's. "Cheers."
"To your new job," Marcy said, trying to sound enthusiastic.
"To my new life."
As Marcy raised her glass to her lips, movement at the window caught her eye. Was it her imagination or had she just seen a man looking in her window? She froze. "Phebes?"
"Good, isn't it?"
"Phoebe, listen to me." Marcy tipped her glass to her lips, but didn't drink. "Don't make it obvious, but I want
you to glance at the kitchen window. I think there's someone there."
"Well, what the hell are they doing at the window?" Phoebe strode right toward it. "He shouldn't be standing outside. Tell him to come in and join the party!"
"Phoebe, don't!" Marcy dropped her glass on the table, spilling wine, and darted across the kitchen. As Phoebe reached the window, Marcy grabbed the string on the blind and gave it a tug. She released it, and the miniblinds fell over the glass.
Phoebe planted her hand on her hip, annoyed. "I didn't see anyone."
Marcy could feel her heart pounding in her chest. Was she just being paranoid again? A man outside her window? The other night she had thought someone was on the porch. How ridiculous was that?
No. Marcy set her jaw. She didn't care how ridiculous it sounded, she knew what she saw, and it was a man outside her window. "Make sure the windows are all closed and locked," she said, running across the kitchen.
"Marcy! What are you doing?"
Marcy grabbed the phone off the counter as she raced for the front door. She turned the deadbolt as she punched in 911.
"911," a woman's voice said. "What is your emergency, please?"
"This is Marcy Edmond at 223 Seahorse Drive in Albany Beach—"
"Marcy!" Phoebe cried, trying to grab the phone from her. "What are you doing?"
"I think there's a man outside my house, looking in my windows," Marcy said into the phone, turning her back to her sister.
"All right, ma'am, we'll send out a patrol car. Are your doors locked?"
She'll Never Tell Page 20
