Where We Went Wrong

by Andi Holloway

  This is about you telling Marjorie’s version of events, which, to this point, doesn’t involve knowingly misrepresenting facts. Perhaps it’s not too late. If I stop digging right now and shift my focus to things such as legal releases and disclaimers while there’s only lingering suspicion, we won’t have known anything.

  You can still be innocent, Bert, which is what you really want: the illusion of blamelessness. It’s all you’ve ever wanted, and I’ve decided to allow it to you this once.

  I come to apologize, to deliver an excuse for my lack of enthusiasm because we have one week to turn everything around and you need to stay motivated. You need this writer’s high, only in the matter of minutes, sometime between our awkward embrace and now, you’ve hit a precipitous low.

  Did the phone ring, and I didn’t hear it?

  Has Vern reached out with further evidence against you?

  Are you finally seeing the bigger picture?

  I find you at the eat-in kitchen table with your hands flat in front of you, an envelope and butter knife between them. Maybe this has nothing to do with Vern or the investigation or with me, at least not directly. Maybe the shut-off notices are finally coming in. Maybe the publishers have changed their mind and are writing to tell you as much. Maybe there’s legal action pending, and breach of contract isn’t off the table after all. Maybe I don’t want to know what this is, but the days of ignoring things are long past, and whether I want to or not, I have to ask, “What’s the matter?”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  “SHE’S PREGNANT.”

  I’d remind you of your vasectomy and the near-impossibility you’ve impregnated anyone, but you wouldn’t be telling me this if it had anything to do with you, so I suppose I know to whom you’re referring.

  You slide a folded ultrasound picture across the table. The name on the printout is Ansley Davis, but we know better. It’s dated three days ago, and this is the second-worse news in months.

  Desperate for a silver lining I say, “Maybe it isn’t Matthew’s.”

  You roll your eyes. “Of course it’s his.”

  And of course, you’re right, because several things that hadn’t previously done so fit now: Hannah vomiting at the altar; her overwhelming grief; the photographs of Matthew covering her bedroom walls; his anger, which might well have been their final interaction; Hannah insisting on financial stability and Matthew refusing to let that be at the expense of their child. The past repeating itself in the moment Matthew decides he’d rather kill you than suffer the consequences of another of your books.

  Maybe Hannah’s baby was the news of Matthew’s life. His chance at being the father you never were. A baby is life-changing, and no one needed transformation more than he did.

  I’m sick that the opportunity has been taken from him.

  “What’re we going to do?” I ask.

  “What can we do?”

  I don’t know, not really, but I think what Claire, the best parent among us, would have done. This feels like a second chance. In the midst of so much death, I find myself quickly coming around to the idea of new life.

  “Maybe we offer Hannah to stay with us. We can help her with the baby. Start over.”

  “A baby? Here?” You scoff. “With us? Harper, there is no starting over. We were terrible parents. Hannah and her baby would be better off in the streets.”

  You’re not exactly wrong. You were a terrible parent, but that you consider me one as well stings.

  “We learned from our mistakes.”

  “Did we?” you ask. “And how receptive do you think Hannah will be to either of us when she finds out we’ve colluded with Marjorie? That I’m considering publicly destroying the man she identifies as her father?”

  “Considering?” I ask.

  “You can’t have thought this was an easy decision. I’m not fully committing one way or another. Not yet. The man is dead. He can’t even defend himself.”

  It’s not like you to worry about this sort of thing, but a relieved breath rushes out of me, freeing me from the internal pressure I’ve felt since finding out the truth about Gregory King. I hadn’t expected this, but the opportunity presents itself for me to admit my doubts about Marjorie—to shift the onus away from me, in the event things go poorly. You won’t be able to hold me accountable for your career’s perhaps-inevitable freefall. The responsibility of dishonesty lies solely with you. I admit to calling in favors, bypassing the Freedom of Information Act in an attempt at corroborating Marjorie’s story, which has inconsistencies, at the very least, and is a complete fabrication at worst.

  I tell you about Gregory Phillip King and the rumored affair. I warn you that perhaps I was wrong in asking you to write Marjorie’s story after all. I tell you there’s time to back out.

  “I can’t believe this,” you say. “You really are a piece of work.”

  “Why? Because I want your story to be the truth?”

  “Because you risk this entire fucking deal to prove it wasn’t! I can’t win with you. First, I have to write the book. You tell me Marjorie’s is the only account that makes sense. Now, you’re calling her a liar, telling me all the work I’ve done—good work for a change!—is for nothing? Are you trying to destroy me?”

  “I’m helping you!”

  “Helping?” Your ensuing chuckle borders on maniacal. “How is ruining my book in any way helpful?” You slap your hand on the table and pull the ultrasound picture back in a single swipe. “I’m not grandfather material.” You weren’t father material either, but that’s nature.

  “I’m an author, and whatever you think you know, I don’t want to hear any more about it. Any talk about Marjorie is done, you understand me? The publishers love—I mean love—this manuscript you’re determined to wreck. It’s like you want me to fail, like because you don’t write anymore, I shouldn’t either.”

  This wouldn’t be the first time you’ve accused me of being jealous, but it might be the first time you were wrong. You’re also wrong about me writing. I am, and you’ll see soon enough which of us is the more talented.

  “I’m not trying to ruin anything, Bert, and I understand why you need Marjorie’s side of things,” particularly considering the first draft of your manuscript, “but we’re talking about a newborn child.”

  “I’m well aware what we’re talking about.”

  “All I’m saying is maybe Matthew’s baby can help put some of what’s happened behind us.”

  “Or be the exact thing to restart this disastrous cycle. I’m finishing the book, the one you insisted I write. I’ll do my best to negotiate with those helping me write it, but contracts and half-truths aside, what do you think happens when this story hits the bestseller lists? When Hannah Harman becomes a household name again? When my son, who has been wrongly accused his whole life of murdering this girl—who has, himself, been murdered—turns out to have fathered her child? We’re going to take them in, Hannah and the baby? And what, go on Dr. Phil? How do you see this playing out? This child won’t stand a chance at normalcy. There will be first and fifth and tenth anniversary specials. Memorials. True-crime spinoffs. This will be Matthew’s childhood all over again, and when his son or daughter is old enough to understand what Hannah’s family did and what ours has done, how does he or she live with that? This isn’t redemption. This is punishment, and if Hannah has this baby, she is sentencing her child to life. I won’t be part of this, and neither should you be. We’re bad people, all of us, and we’ve done terrible things.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  YOU’RE NOT WRONG. MAYBE I am delusional believing that things can work. Maybe ours is a past doomed to be repeated, yet I refuse to believe we’re that damaging or that, if we are, it’s too late to change.

  You’re about to become a grandfather, and grandfathers are loving, selfless, generous, and dignified. There will be an adjustment period, but even if I didn’t know her real name then, Hannah and I were once close. We can be again. You and I can put any m
istakes we made with Matthew to good use to prevent this baby from growing up with the same terrible decisions.

  Then it dawns on me. What if Hannah decides not to go through with the pregnancy? No one could rightfully blame her for feeling overwhelmed, and you, calling this child “punishment.” I can’t have that kind of talk around Hannah, whom I plan on congratulating first and questioning about Marjorie’s version of events later. Hannah’s more to us than a news story now. She’s family, and even if you won’t, I plan on treating her as such. It’s the least I can do.

  I enter the parking garage of the hospital where she’s being held, take a ticket from the machine, and make sweeping loops past the scores of cars that say as much about the lack of inner-city parking as they do about the state of our local mental health. I finally find a spot on the fourth floor and navigate my way through a maze of hallways to the main entrance, where I’m greeted—and I use the term loosely—by a clerk in late-middle age, who wears a severe expression and tightly wound hair.

  “May I help you?” She glances between me and her computer monitor, uninterested and perhaps even inconvenienced by my presence.

  I smile. “Yes, hello. I’m here to see a patient. Ansley Davis, please.”

  The woman types something into the computer and calls over a second employee, who makes the first appear casual and pleasant by comparison. The second woman rolls her eyes at the first’s request for clarification over what I can only ascertain is restricted patient status—not uncommon for patients who might be upset by visitation. There’s talk of confidentiality and of “special circumstances.” Security is mentioned more than once, and a stereotype emerges of the sort of people employed here: no- nonsense women who don’t bend the rules. Presumably, they know I’m listening—my startled expression probably gave it away—so they speak more quietly, stepping away from the desk and out of earshot.

  I’m not a problem, I swear. I’ve learned a thing or two since the scene at the hotel. I won’t stand out.

  I stare at a Pollack-style splatter painting, which feels confused and chaotic; ironically agitating, with its primary-color palette contrasting the stark white walls. I breathe deeply, because this is a minor setback. Regardless of how adherent these women are, rules are made to be broken.

  After a lengthy discussion, they return. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you,” says the first.

  Don’t argue. Don’t argue. Don’t argue. “Of course, you can,” I say. “I’m family.” By marriage, but I don’t make the distinction any more now than I ever did with Matthew as my son rather than stepson. I’m not any old visitor, and this isn’t any old visit. I keep up the smile, careful not to clench my teeth. “I only want to congratulate her. I’m going to be a grandmother.”

  It’s shocking, really, to consider myself as such, particularly when I, too, am of child-bearing age, but there’s little I can’t get used to. These women, who have likely shared this news themselves, possibly several times before, seem unimpressed.

  “I’m sorry. No,” says the second, conveying a unified front.

  I tense. Who the hell doesn’t make exceptions for a baby? My genuine smile fades, and I suppose the fake version appears deranged, though I doubt I’m the first here to look this way. This place specializes in madness.

  “Five minutes,” I say, and it doesn’t sound like I’m asking.

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” says the first with a self-satisfied grin. She apparently enjoys imposing rules.

  Controlling people.

  I hate being controlled, but I’m helpless in this instance.

  Neither woman asks me to leave, but I’m clearly unwelcome. A dozen possible reactions come to mind, none of which are appropriate. All of which might cause more trouble than I should be looking to cause right now when I vowed to maintain a low profile. If I react, I will be remembered, if not hauled out of here by different but equally intimidating local police.

  I thank the women for their assistance, or lack thereof, and consider a backup plan.

  I need a better look inside. To find a friendly orderly or perhaps someone delivering meal trays who might agree to a bribe. To come up with a compelling story of having wandered too far outside of a visitation area only to find myself locked out. To break in to see Hannah if that’s what it takes, because in my experience, it’s easier to get forgiveness than permission.

  I head toward a central waiting area and take a seat on a cushioned bench. The fabric scratches the backs of my thighs as I pretend to check my cell phone, looking around at the bank of elevators, the restricted signs, the sign-in desks, and some kind of day room.

  A guard rounds the corner. I fear the front desk staff has raised the alarm, but my concern is unfounded. He smiles, nods, and looks over his shoulder as a mechanical door swings open behind him, my view obscured by a partial wall and several large potted ferns.

  Alternating male and female voices speak in hushed conversation, and God help me, one of them sounds familiar.

  I can’t believe this shit luck that would put me here now, with him. I keep my head down, shrinking toward the shrub in the corner and ultimately kneeling behind it. If anyone’s watching this—and I’m sure there are cameras everywhere—they’re either waiting to see what I’ll do next or laughing their asses off.

  The cold tile bites into my knees as I get on all fours and peer around the back of the waiting room sofa for the pair to come into view. At this point, security likely sees me as a potential patient. I don’t care. It’s not them I’m hiding from. A pair of well-worn shoes appears, the leather in need of polish. Dark wool socks that may be one brown and one black. A cheap suit. A round gut. Vern, in the last, worst place I expect him to be, talking to someone I need to see but can’t get access to. Depending on what Hannah’s said, him confronting her here might well be a game-changer.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  GAPS THAT I STILL CANNOT account for remain in the timeline of the night Matthew died. Moments are missing, including the one during which Hannah may have taken the photograph that I pray no one else has seen. What Hannah has told Vern is anyone’s guess, but most women talk under pressure, particularly if threatened with losing a child to the Social Services system while they, themselves, serve prison time.

  I don’t put anything past Vern, least of all his terrifying an already fragile, institutionalized young woman for the sake of closing his case.

  There are things I need to talk to Hannah about, and I want to be supportive—to extend an offer of help, in the hopes of convincing her we’re not as awful as you make us out to be—but none of that is important enough in this moment to risk tipping Vern off to my presence. Particularly not when all he needs to do is talk to either of the receptionists who might relay to him their run-in with a nervous “grandmother-to-be” seeking to congratulate the girl he just interviewed.

  Why am I so stupid?

  News of the pregnancy coming from me isn’t covered under any privacy act. Even if Hannah didn’t admit to the baby, I’d have opened the line of questioning along with my big mouth.

  Maybe I’ll get lucky for a change and the women will be off-duty, replaced with others who have no idea I exist. Maybe I’m being overly optimistic, and Vern will see me on-camera, crouching behind the ficus, and wonder just what it is I’m up to. My luck, or general lack thereof, dictates the latter.

  All I can do is run, and I’ve reached the parking garage stairwell when my cell phone rings. It’s Deon, and I hit ignore. I can’t talk to him right now, nor can I take any more bad news, which is all I seem to be getting lately. The phone rings again and, again, I ignore him. By the third call, I answer. He won’t stop if I don’t pick up, and neither of us needs that on their cell phone records right now.

  “What do you want?” I’m breathless, drenched in sweat. No air moves through this structure, and with Vern nearby, I can’t help being nervous. He’s watching, attempting to make a case against us, and though he won’t act without reaso
n, me being here gives him that. It connects me to “Ansley,” to whom I swore I wasn’t connected. It proves I’m a liar, and for that I only have myself to blame.

  I keep my head down in an attempt at evading surveillance, but the place is too heavily monitored. Two cameras are mounted on either support beam, and these are only the ones I notice. I’m sure there are more. This garage is, after all, attached to a mental health facility.

  “Where are you?” Deon asks, and I detect panic in his voice. Maybe Vern has spotted me and is wondering what I’m doing here. Maybe he’s forming adjacent theories to the one that names you as the prime suspect. Maybe he knows I’ve been to Ella’s, and now I’m pursuing this girl he’s admitted won’t talk to him, looking to complicate an already-complicated investigation.

  Even I have to admit I’m starting to look like a problem, but Deon doesn’t need to know this. “I’m running errands. Why?”

  “You need to stay gone.”

  “Stay gone?” From where? From you? From him? There couldn’t be a worse time for someone to speculate on our possibly having an affair.

  “Something’s come up at the station, either new evidence or something in Matthew’s case, and no one will talk to me, but Bert is in trouble, and you need to keep away from him.”

  “What kind of evidence?” I ask. In light of Vern’s conversation with Hannah, it could be anything.

  “I don’t know. Vern is only talking to a couple of people about this, and they’re under strict orders not to talk to me. He left the station a couple of hours ago, said something about an interrogation, and I think maybe there’s a witness.”

  I can’t imagine Hannah acting as such, but something has to be said about reliability, doesn’t it? How can Vern take the word of a mentally unstable girl who has thus far been ducking him? The simple answer is because he wants to, and whether it’s Hannah or Ella, he’s targeting people who might speak out against you.