“Re: Custody”
“Re: House”
She cringes as she reads his words, marvels at his cruelty. When did he change? What changed him? What happened to the man who loved her and her children? Was he still intact, his mind mis-wired, his soul eclipsed, riled by traumas decades old, unhinged by skipping his dosage? Drugs and rage and memories that overtook him? And if that man is still intact, can he be rescued? Despite all he has done, all the pain and the destruction, she loved Ryan recently, loved Ryan deeply. And it is only habit to wonder what his state is right now. Is he taking his medication? Has he found some solace?
Now Cass reads her own email to Ryan on the cloned phone. It is the closest she will come to understanding his perspective. It is as though she has become someone else, a different person, her own audience. A wife is making a plea to her husband that they meet and talk about the end of their marriage. She is begging him to take any means to avoid a legal battle, asking that they make a compassionate plan among themselves. In the email, she accedes to his suggestion for how they will share the baby until they reach a formal settlement. He will pick up the baby every third night until they work out a permanent schedule. It is excruciating to be apart from Sam at all, but some part of her—either the diseased or the still healthy part—believes Sam needs and deserves to see his father.
By force of habit, she walks up the stairs and stands at the door of her children’s rooms. Sam is sleeping in his crib. Alice is snoring loudly. Pete is sleeping in the same position he favored as a baby, bottom up, head under the pillows. Reassured, she turns to go, but something grabs her attention. A color in the periphery. A bag she has not seen before. She walks to it, examines it, unzips and drops its contents: women’s panties, lacy ones, a pair in black and purple. A handful of women’s T-shirts, one bearing the name of a local gym, and a bathing suit one would wear to swim laps, as opposed to one for sunbathing. And strands of hair that are dark and brown, not unlike the hair she found at the beach house. It is a bag that contains the gym clothes and several changes of clothing of a young and medium-sized woman. She racks her brain to think of a possible reason for the presence of such an item in her house, but no such reason surfaces.
She texts Marley to see if she has any information.
“Gosh, no,” she writes. “I don’t know anything about that.”
Cass puts the phone down now, unsure how to respond. “What an asshole,” she writes. This suffices at least to expel some of her humiliation.
“I’m so sorry,” Marley writes back. “No one deserves to be cheated on. Men are such bastards.”
Cass puts down the phone. There is solace in knowing heartbreak does not discriminate, and that others have survived this.
* * *
It is evening now and getting cold as Cass rushes from class, dodging students as she leaves and driving over the speed limit. The bay is a silver arrow, drawing a path for her. She opens the front door at home with the usual reflexive bracing, expecting the chaos of the dinner hour, squabbles over proprietary rights—food, toys, and attention. But the house is in an unexpected state when she arrives. Pete and Alice sit at the table, making an elaborate art project with all the colored markers. Alice draws the heads of animals while Pete draws the legs and bodies. Elmer’s glue in hand, they adorn the creatures with glitter and feathers. The kitchen gleams from a recent scrub. A thick red sauce simmers on the stove. Laundry circles upstairs. The dishwasher murmurs. Marley has the house under control, exactly as promised. If Cass were not so relieved, she might feel a pang of jealousy. The only glaring problem in this house is the absence of two of its main residents.
“How did the hand-off go?” Cass asks.
“No issues,” says Marley, smiling.
“Did Ryan ask you anything?”
“Nope.” Another cheery smile. She places a feather on the body of something between a bird and a tiger. “Oh, he did ask for my number so he could make arrangements without having to bother you.”
“And what did you say?” says Cass.
“I gave it to him,” said Marley. “Was I not supposed to?”
“You shouldn’t have done that,” says Cass.
“Oh, goodness. I’m sorry.”
“He and I will coordinate the schedule. Or the lawyers.”
“Got it,” says Marley. She looks down, an expression of contrition.
Cass softens and checks herself. She must not lash out at her allies. “I can’t tell you what a relief it is to have someone I trust here. With things as they are.” She stops, unable to finish the thought, relieved that Marley understands.
“Anything you need,” she says. “Please let me know how else I can help. If you ever need me to stay overnight, just let me know.”
Cass drops her bag by the door, takes a seat at the table with her children. In their company, she feels something like hope. She is fed by the sight of them, their joy, their health, the smiles on their faces. Their contentment will get her through this night, her first away from Sam. She will hold them close tonight, and this closeness will ward off their little brother’s distance.
Marley stands and watches as Cass and the kids begin to eat their supper.
“Feel free to head home,” Cass says. She yearns for privacy with her kids in a way that feels primal.
Marley walks toward the door and then stops and turns back to the table. “Oh. I almost forgot. I was wondering if it would be okay if I come in a little late tomorrow morning. I have a doctor’s appointment.”
“Sure. Everything all right?”
“Should be fine. My meds haven’t been working quite right. Probably just need to up the dosage. If it’s okay with you, I’ll go see my doctor when his office opens first thing in the morning. Should be quick. I’ll pick up Sam right after and be here by ten o’clock.”
“Sure,” says Cass. “I don’t teach till noon tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” says Marley. “Thanks so much.”
Marley smiles and walks to the door, laces up her ankle boots, pulls on her jacket. She turns back just before she leaves, her hand already on the doorknob. “Ryan texted, by the way, and asked if I could bring the baby to him a little bit early on Friday.”
Cass looks up at Marley. She’s on the floor, steadying a bridge in Sam’s tower. “No,” says Cass. “No, it’s not okay.”
“I told him it wasn’t my place to decide,” said Marley. “That I had to check with you first.”
“Thanks,” says Cass. “That was the right response.” Cass watches Marley now, studying her gestures. “Get home safe.”
“Thanks,” she says. “It shouldn’t take long at this hour.”
“How are you going?”
“Probably take the bus.”
“I thought you said you drove here.”
“Oh,” she says. “I usually do. But today, I parked at the bus stop because of the weather.”
Cass is accosted by a familiar sensation. Instinct and intuition converge in what amounts to a loud buzzer. Something here does not compute. Something is not like the other. But before she can delve further into the sensation, the conversation is diverted. The children are anxious to have their mom to themselves and recount the day’s adventures.
“I got ten out of ten on my quiz,” says Pete.
“Way to go, Pete,” says Cass.
“Miss Reyes liked the model,” says Alice.
“Atta girl,” says Cass.
Alice smiles, then looks down. “Mom, I miss Sam.”
“I know, sweetheart,” says Cass. “I do too. He’ll be back tomorrow.”
FIFTEEN
A night away from a two-year-old is a special kind of torture. In her heart, she knows Ryan would never harm their baby—on the contrary, his love for Sam has found its mirror in his hatred for Cass. He has told himself, she can only assume, that he is fighting for his child. That he would kill for this baby. That this is a virtue. But he has never been alone with Sam before, not for more than a few ho
urs. He has never been pressed to feed, bathe, or snuggle him in the absence of his mother. And so she lies awake this night in a state of focused worry. She is comforted by a strange paradox: knowing her husband is capable of murder and yet still, despite this—because of this—a loving father.
Cass palms the phone and scrolls to the text between Marley and Ryan. On first read, it is benign, but a second look reveals a discrepancy, and perhaps something more malignant.
“Marley?” he writes.
“Yes. It’s me.”
“Can you bring Sam to the office early?”
“Sure!” she writes. That’s all she writes. No mention of “checking with Cass first.” None of the conversation she reported.
“Great!” he writes. The exclamation point doubles the insult.
Cass stares at the exchange, trying to understand the scope of the betrayal. Her mind is a scribble of theories now. She begins to unravel. At the very least, Marley has lied to cover a minor transgression: she made a plan with Ryan without checking with Cass. This would be a telling but forgivable sin, an attempt to ingratiate herself to both parents. Also possible: Ryan has gotten to Marley, begun to “flip” her, launched his charm offensive, the process by which he curries favor and allegiance with most people. But there is yet a third alternative, a far more sinister thesis: that this is not Ryan and Marley’s first correspondence. That they have known each other a while, much longer than either one has acknowledged. With this in mind, two possibilities are equally likely. Did he already sleep with her, in the four days since she began her employment? Or—and this occurs to Cass now—did they know each other long before she sent her winning and, come to think of it, tailor-made application? Did they hatch this plan in bed, already lovers, while musing about their star-crossed love, and joking about how to stay together, how to off his pesky wife without a messy breakup?
Unnerved, Cass dials Matthew. She is speaking before he greets her.
“Can you run a background check on my nanny?”
“I’m not really supposed to—”
“Marley Lyons. West Virginia. There should be a license.”
Matthew says nothing. Cass waits during an interminable silence.
“That name doesn’t come up anywhere,” he says finally.
“It doesn’t come up anywhere?”
“Did you check her references?”
“The site I used does background checks. It said she was pre-vetted. She had some sort of badge.”
“I think you can pay for that. Did you speak to any of her references?”
“I was in such a hurry to hire someone. Ryan threw a fit about the previous person. He insisted I hire…” She trails off. “He insisted I hire someone quickly.”
“No medical license comes up either. And no evidence of marriage, which would explain a name change.”
“This is not good,” says Cass.
“Look, it could be nothing. These data searches are imperfect.”
“No medical license? She said she was a licensed nurse practitioner.”
Another pause. “Nope. No proof that this person exists at all. At least not the name we’re searching.”
“Dear God,” says Cass. Her body feels weightless.
“Like I said, this could be nothing. The worst thing you could do is to jump to conclusions. She seems like a nice girl and a huge help. And right now you need all the help you can get.”
Alarmed, Cass hangs up the phone, thoughts racing. She takes to her computer now, launching, from her rumpled bed, an alarmed mother’s, abandoned wife’s, and a seasoned journalist’s equivalent of a criminal investigation. She begins with a routine search of email, text, and social media. Facebook, Twitter, photo sites, readily accessible data. She begins with the facts she knows—or thinks she knows—like a child assembling like colors, all the blues, all the whites when beginning a jigsaw puzzle. These are the first few pieces: tattoos, guitars, rescue dogs, leukemia, illustration. Ryan was right. It’s amazing what you can find on Google. Within minutes, Cass sees a persona rife with contradictions. Within hours, it is clear that little Marley has said is true, from her name to her medical license. By morning, Cass has come to the chilling realization that the woman who has been caring for her kids is not only a stranger but a trailer park con. A match made in heaven, she now believes, with her scheming husband.
Marley’s Facebook page presents a schoolmarmish persona, a smiling sweetheart photographed with her dog, baby pictures of girls in bows and smocked dresses, snaps with grandparents on exuberant family vacations—bungee jumping, skydiving, a cruise through the Caribbean islands! A girl who has recently graduated from college and moved to the big city. A second, more candid Twitter feed reveals a contrasting body of information, the band in which she plays the guitar, an obsessive interest in acid, and a motorcycle she proudly rides on which she suffered a recent wreck. A selfie from the hospital, eyes glassy and gown falling below a bruised collar bone. “Eat me, Accident!” she boasts. “At least the bike’s not broken.” Cass is not amused by her cavalier presentation. This is the girl who spent the afternoon with her baby? This is the dutiful nurse? This is the bruise she claimed as proof that she, too, emerged from the depths of domestic violence? Cass quickly assembles the portraits of two disparate persons, or rather, one young woman who enjoys constant reinvention.
Now she delves into the archives of Marley’s Pinterest apothecary, a page devoted to her hobby, homemade herbal remedies. She sings the praises of ginger, its use in Chinese medicine, the virtues of milk thistle and dandelion root as natural blood cleansers. Parsley, cilantro, and watercress are the most potent leafy greens for heavy metal detox, possessing the power to clean the blood of impurities as disparate as dirt and lead and mercury. Even good old orange juice cannot be underestimated, as calcium contains, Marley extols, the ability to strengthen the bones and aid in the blood’s oxidation. And then, an entry on the list that catches her attention: arsenic, killer or cure? Invigorating health tonic or old-fashioned murder weapon? A couple of keyboard searches later, Cass is an expert.
Arsenic is unique in its dualistic nature, its capacity both to heal and to harm, to act as a cure or a killer. In small doses, it has a medicinal effect. At higher levels, it transforms from helpful to fatal. It is an example, perhaps more than any other substance, of the inextricable relationship between medicine and poison, endowed with the power both to revive and to destroy, to giveth and to taketh. Like two sides of the same coin, or the cruelest lover.
In ancient Chinese medicine, it was thought to be a cure-all, treating conditions from colds to rashes, even prescribed as an aphrodisiac. In ancient Rome, it is credited with ending the syphilis epidemic. In the Victorian era, it gained fashion as a health tonic and, later, as an ingredient in cosmetics—until lovely ladies, seeking to beautify, began to drop like butterflies. Then came its ubiquitous use as a dye and color enhancer, appearing in the lustrous Paris green paint and the brilliant pigments in wallpapers that turned a generation of women into shrinking violets.
But over time, it gained notoriety for a more sinister purpose, earning the auspicious title “the King of Poisons.” By the Renaissance, many embraced its two-sided nature, deploying it as a murder weapon in royal feuds or to expedite an inheritance. In the late 1800s, it was used with alarming frequency as a weapon for suicides and murders. Its claim to fame was twofold, its potency as a killer and its difficulty of detection. On the periodic table, arsenic is one of the heavy metals, which means the electrons in the atom outweigh the protons and neutrons. Its molecular structure causes it to bond quickly and with abandon. It is a literally a malleable metal. But its greatest attribute as a weapon is its speed of delivery. It is rapidly circulated by the blood and absorbed by the vital organs—the lungs, the heart, the brain. It stays in the blood for mere minutes before being absorbed—causing death by heart attack or stroke—never to be detected.
In World War I, it made its way from boudoir to battlefield, whe
n arsenic compounds were developed as agents of chemical warfare, lewisite and adamsite. Much later, it would find a surprising home as a household preservative, preventing the atrophy of wooden floors, cabinets, decks, even playgrounds, and in construction materials from paint to plaster. It ultimately found its most common use as a pesticide, killing insects on crops and pesky mice and rodents. But the strangest thing about arsenic is the way it flips from medicinal to toxic. It is Dr. Jekyll, then Mr. Hyde. A personality split between the capacity to do good and evil. Of course, it is true that any substance consumed in large amounts can wreak havoc—all good things in moderation—but arsenic turns from angel of life to angel of death in a hot minute. It is tasteless as a powder, colorless as a liquid, and scentless as a gas. Readily absorbed by skin, ingested by mouth, or inhaled through the nose. It saturates every surface it touches—whether a poison cloak, in the case of Jason by Medea, or old lace, as with Agatha Christie. The victim dies of seemingly natural causes within minutes of pulling up her britches.
These same attributes led to its use in the most unlikely of places. Arsenic has come to be widely used in modern cancer treatment. Chemo drugs and corticosteroids are the chocolate and peanut butter, the wine and cheese of the modern cancer cocktail. One is used to kill the cancer and everything in its midst, while the other is used to revitalize the red blood cells and other agents of the body’s own self-healing mechanism, to give the body a round of revitalization after the attrition. Corticosteroids, Cass discovers just before sunrise, are a blanket name for a variety of drugs, which include among them many hallucinogens and psychotics, such as regular steroids, anti-inflammatory drugs, and more typically used recreational drugs like LSD and its newest designer versions. Their chief purpose is to help the body rebuild after the devastation of chemotherapy with the added benefit of curbing nausea, reducing discomfort, and preventing the patient from puking up her medicine.
It is six now, and sleep will soon relieve the pain of these frenzied hours, but before Cass closes her eyes, she makes one last curious connection. Arsenic trioxide is the favored treatment for one cancer in particular: acute myeloid leukemia. Like so many substances used in the treatment of cancer, arsenic is both a killer and a cure. It has the power not only to end the division of the cancer cells but to kill off most everything in the surrounding area. It is like a nuclear weapon in this way, leveling the enemy at the cost of civilization.
Poison Page 18
