by Darcey Bell
I pulled the brush out of my bag and gave it to Emily. The feel and sight of Sean’s hair gave me first the shivers, then the creeps.
“I almost forgot,” Emily said. “What kind of criminal mastermind am I?”
She plucked a few hairs from the brush and scattered them around the car interior.
“Worst, worst case, someone finds the car. Runs the forensics. And guess what? It was Sean. Motive. Opportunity. Hair.”
I said, “I don’t know . . . I have to get home in time to pick up the boys after school.” What a ridiculous excuse. How lame and weak I sounded.
“Guaranteed,” Emily said. “You’ll be amazed how little time this takes. How little time and effort.”
It was so horrible that it was almost fun. I once heard someone talk about “the second kind of fun.” Something so terrible that it’s fun. Driving behind my friend with a dead man in her passenger seat just did not seem real. It seemed like a horror movie that I was being tricked into believing was real life.
Luckily, the road was empty. In any case, no one passing us would have noticed anything suspicious. Emily must have tipped Mr. Prager over so that it looked, from the outside, as if she were alone in the car. If only she were! If only what had just happened could still turn out to be a bad dream.
I kept checking the clock. Reality was knowing when I had to get the boys at school. But it was still confusing. How could the responsible mom who was never a minute late to get her child be the same person who was helping her friend cover up a murder?
Suddenly, Emily pulled off the road and went bouncing up the rise. I stopped my car and parked on the shoulder. As I began to climb up the hill, I saw Emily getting out of the driver’s seat of Mr. Prager’s car.
This was the worst thing I’d ever done. By far. Looking back, my affair with Chris and having Chris’s child and deceiving Davis into thinking that Miles was his and sleeping with my dead best friend’s husband—that was nothing compared to this. That was child’s play. And the weird thing was: it felt so liberating. As if I were being absolved for all the bad things I’d done by doing something so much worse. And doing it with someone else—my friend! I was so not alone!
The hill got steeper. How had Emily driven Mr. Prager’s old car all the way up the hill without getting stuck? Had she practiced somewhere else? Sheer strength of will, I guessed. I was panting slightly, taking in oxygen; the wind was blowing through my hair. I felt such a sense of excitement, of adventure. Of happiness.
I had never felt so alive.
Emily was waving me on. “Hurry up,” she said.
She hugged me when I reached the top. “Thelma and Louise,” she said.
In the past, I’d often missed Emily’s film references, though I’d always pretended that I understood. But now I totally got this one. Thelma and Louise was one of my all-time favorite films.
“That’s us,” I said. “Here we go. Girl power. Bad girls on the run.”
Emily reached in the car and put it in neutral.
“Like this.” She put one hand under the rear bumper and another flat against the trunk. I joined her and did what she did.
“One, two, three,” she said, and we pushed. “Again!”
“One, two, three,” I said. I was amazed that I could count to three, that’s how giddy I was.
“Concentrate,” said Emily. “Lean into it.”
Grunting and swearing, Emily and I pushed. I tried not to think about how much it felt like giving birth. Because there was a similar feeling of . . . lightness, a familiar rush of pure joy when we finally succeeded.
The car went over the ridge. It flipped over, rolled, flipped again, then burst into flames. We cheered and whooped, like kids.
“Bingo,” Emily said. “We got lucky.”
“Luck had nothing to do with it,” I said. “That was mom power in action.”
Emily and I hugged from sheer exhilaration.
“Look at us,” she said. Our gloves and boots were wet and slick with caked mud. Emily stripped off her gloves and threw them in the back of my car, and I did the same.
The explosion and fire were thrilling. Like fireworks, when you’re a child. We stood on the ridge and watched. I tried not to think about Mr. Prager burning.
I drove Emily back to her car, and we hugged goodbye in the parking lot.
“We’ll be in touch soon,” she said. “I’m sorry for whatever came between us. Nothing like that will ever happen again. I promise.”
“Why should I trust you this time?” I smiled, so she’d know that I wasn’t serious.
Emily wasn’t smiling.
“Because we’re in this together,” she said.
37
Stephanie's Blog
We Can Win This
Hi, moms!
Usually, except in cases of emergency, I’ve tried to keep the tone of this blog as sunny and bright as I can. We moms have enough stress without my adding to it by bringing up things that we would rather not dwell on. But I’ve been thinking about a problem that needs to be addressed because it affects so many moms—so many women—everywhere. And it’s one of those things that must be taken out of the shadows and looked at without secrecy or shame.
It’s the problem of domestic abuse. Every day the statistics get worse—the percentage of women abused by their husbands and boyfriends, the chances that any one of us will find herself the victim when the man who seemed so nice suddenly turns out to be a monster. When the person we thought we could trust turns out to be our enemy.
Sometimes it comes as a shock. Sometimes, looking back, we see the signs we chose to ignore. Looking back on my earlier blog posts, I have to wonder why I was so drawn to that French film about a wife, a mistress—and an abusive husband.
Sometimes we deceive ourselves into thinking that a man who abused a former wife or girlfriend will be an angel with us. Moms! Don’t be fooled! If a man does something once, he’ll do it again. And it’s not always easy to identify the serial abuser. It’s not always the guy with the tattoos and the motorcycle jacket. It’s just as likely the guy in the expensive haircut and the elegant business suit.
That is to say: any man.
Sometimes it starts early, but more often it takes a while—until we’re in so deep that we can no longer remember life without him. Or until we have kids. And we keep thinking that he’ll never do it again. He’s sorry; he loves us . . . We all know the story.
Some men lash out and leave marks, the black eyes and broken noses that send women to the emergency rooms and from there to the kindly social worker and the battered women’s shelter. But the real devils are the ones who hide the traces, who practice constant psychological abuse until the woman is all but destroyed.
It could be happening to anyone. Your coworker. Your best friend. And you have no idea. Sometimes the secret comes out too late. And sometimes just in time. A woman—a mom—may try to escape and be driven to do something extreme before she can get help.
What to do? Make your voices heard. Let our lawmakers know that women need to be protected by law. Volunteer at a shelter. Raise your sons to be men who would never mistreat a woman.
And if it’s happening to your friend?
Do anything she needs. Help her in any way you can.
Okay, moms, enough heavy stuff. I’m starting a chain so you can share your own abuse stories and let me know what you think about this subject.
Love,
Stephanie
38
Emily
I should have wanted them both dead. I don’t know why my rage collected around Sean and not around Stephanie. Maybe because, once again, Stephanie’s naive, dopey malleability meant that she could help me get what I wanted. And Sean seemed like an obstacle blocking my path.
To start, I wanted revenge on Sean. And why was I willing to plot against him with the so-called friend he was sleeping with? Because I knew it would work.
Also I wanted my ring back. Not because I stole it from Sean�
��s mom or because it had any sentimental associations with him, but because it was the last thing that touched my sister.
Even as I confronted the guy from the insurance company and set up a meeting, I knew exactly how I was going to fit Stephanie into my plans. Stephanie owed it to me for sleeping with my husband. And also . . . she was born to be the fish.
I suppose I felt a little guilty, making the abuse story up. The lying itself didn’t bother me, but I was pretending to have a violent husband, which is a real problem for many women. I felt bad for faking it to get the result I wanted.
But I was obsessed. I couldn’t rest until I’d made Sean pay for betraying me and ruining our plans for the future. For forcing me to kill my sister.
I let Evelyn die because her death would help me and Sean. And now there was no “me and Sean.” There never had been. He was always in it for himself—even while I was letting Evelyn go. There had been me and my sister, and now there was me and my son.
I was in it for me and Nicky. I wanted to raise my son alone—without the “help” and “support” of a man I didn’t love and couldn’t trust.
It would be tricky, making Sean give Nicky up. But I could do it. And Stephanie would help. All I had to do was mention the words abuse and violent, and she would drop Sean in a heartbeat and forgive her long-lost best friend for whatever she imagined I did. All I had to do was make her think that we were figuring this out together, when in fact I’d figured it out long before our tearful reunion in the bar.
I altered some details to make my story more credible. I told her that Sean was under pressure for failing at work, but actually he was doing quite well and had almost gotten back up to speed after working from home for a while following my disappearance. I had practice in controlling information, changing details. Spinning the truth was what I did for a living.
And oh, poor Mr. Prager. He was collateral damage. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong profession. He asked too many questions—too many of the wrong questions. Silencing him and getting Stephanie to help me dispose of the body killed two birds, as it were, with one stone. It solved my Prager problem and regained and ensured Stephanie’s loyalty, once and for all. There is no bond as tight as the bond between partners in crime. Thelma and Louise. Hilarious. Stephanie would die for me if she had to. Fortunately for Stephanie, I don’t expect that will be necessary.
The next thing I did was call Dennis Nylon. I talked my way up the food chain. I got as far as Adelaide, his bitch of a personal assistant.
She said, “How did you get this number? Emily Nelson is dead, and this is a tasteless joke. Whoever you are, you know Emily’s dead! What you’re doing is repulsive.”
I told her to calm down, and I revealed several facts about Dennis’s various crises and stints in rehab that only I—Emily—would have known. I could practically hear Adelaide’s jaw drop. Then I said, “Cut the shit, Adelaide. It’s me. Emily. I’m not dead. Put me through to Dennis.”
Dennis said, “I knew you weren’t dead. My psychic told me she couldn’t reach you on the other side—so you must still be here.”
“You must have quite a confident psychic,” I said.
“The best money can buy,” Dennis said.
“I need to come see you,” I said.
“Cocktail hour,” he said. “I’ll be waiting.”
I found him lying on the couch at one end of his cavernous loft/atelier. He put down the coffee-table book on Mughal miniatures and rose and kissed me on both cheeks.
Adelaide came in with a tray and two martini glasses filled with Dennis’s favorite mezcal-mango cocktail. The rims of the glasses were frosted with chili powder. They were much better than what I’d been making for myself at the Hospitality Suites.
“Cheers,” I said. “This is delicious.”
“Right back at you,” said Dennis, raising his glass.
“It’s good to be back,” I said.
Dennis drained his glass in three swallows. How did Adelaide know to reappear with another cocktail and remove his empty glass?
“I knew you would have to do something heroic to get out of that marriage. But I had no idea you would have to fake your own death. Everyone around here was devastated. Everyone except me. I knew it was all a charade, just like I knew the happy marriage was a fraud.”
“How did you know?” I said. “I didn’t.”
“I don’t mean to sound cynical, but most marriages are. And in your case . . . the whole world knew. By the way, some of the kids who work here were saying that you were having an affair or had a drug habit or something, and that you’d asked them to help you get a fake ID. I don’t know why you didn’t come to me. I could have found you the best fake credentials. The British husband was cute, but he didn’t have the brains or the stamina to keep up with you, to swim with a shark like you, dear. We all knew you’d get bored. You would have been out of there years ago if it weren’t for that beautiful son, who can now become a much more interesting child, the product of a broken home.”
A pang of missing Nicky shot through me.
“I need a favor,” I said.
Dennis said, “If you want your old job back, you’ve got it. We haven’t hired a permanent person. Life in the war zone hasn’t been the same without you.”
I said, “Really, that would be great. But I have a little . . . red tape to cut through first. Some things I need to take care of. I’m not totally sure yet, but I might need to talk to a lawyer. I know we have good ones on retainer.”
“A divorce lawyer?” Dennis said.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Domestic.”
“I know a great one,” said Dennis. “When that crazy male stripper was suing me, this guy made him go away. Consider him at your disposal. The psychic too, if you need her.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll let you know. Meanwhile I need something fabulous to wear.”
39
Stephanie
I still don’t know how it happened, but Emily made it clear that we were never ever to talk about the dead insurance investigator. Our vow of silence—her gag order, you could say—started immediately after we pushed his car over the ridge.
I took Emily to her car. She told me to follow her for a while. We kept going along the back road until Emily pulled over at a diner, and I turned into the lot.
We got a table by the window, far from any other customers. Emily ordered coffee and a grilled cheese. That sounded fine. Perfect, in fact. I ordered the same. I shouldn’t have been hungry after all the potato skins I’d eaten in the bar, but I was.
I was thinking how to begin to say what I wanted and needed to say when Emily said, “That never happened.”
“Excuse me?”
“What just happened never happened. Mr. Prager . . . the car . . . none of that occurred.”
I thought about it. “All right.” That certainly solved a lot of problems. “Someone’s going to find out. There have got to be consequences.”
“Consequences.” Emily rolled her eyes in a way that made consequences sound like the stupidest and most offensive word in the language. We fell silent when the waitress brought our food and ate in silence.
Emily seemed so confident. But I was sure that someone would track us down. I had gone to help a friend. And I had become a criminal, an outlaw. I imagined the Wanted poster with my face on it. The tape that Emily recorded beside the submarine ride was nothing compared to what she had on me now.
We were not allowed to talk about that, either.
“It didn’t happen,” Emily said. We finished our meal and got up and left the diner.
And after a week and then another week of nothing happening—no consequences—I was almost willing to believe that she was right.
Nothing happened. There were no consequences. Maybe it had all been a bad dream. Something I’d imagined.
But now, when I picked Miles up at school, when I read to my son and put him to bed, I was no longer the same person. I was a mom and a blogger
and an accessory to a murder.
40
Sean
The first alarming thing was that there were two cars parked in my driveway. One was Stephanie’s. That was strange in itself because a week had passed since she’d moved out. And though we still, so to speak, shared custody of the boys, ferrying them back and forth from house to house, and though she still picked them up at school in the afternoons, I hadn’t seen much of her.
Our relationship, if you could call it that, was doomed from the start. And there was no way it could have survived Prager’s visit. The chance—the fact—that Emily was alive would have made it impossible. I was furious at Stephanie for not telling me that my wife had a sister. And Stephanie was enraged at me . . . I didn’t want to tally up the things about which Stephanie had every right to be angry.
Well, I wasn’t all that sorry. I didn’t mind not having Stephanie around force-feeding me and Nicky her nourishing meals. It was fun to be just two guys again, father and son grabbing a pizza on the fly. It was good to be home, where we only had to deal with each other and we got along fine.
I got back in touch with Alison, so I had someone to pick up the slack when I had to work at the office and didn’t want Nicky to stay with Miles.
So now the fact that Stephanie was in my house was a little unusual. It made me uneasy. Well, maybe she’d come to retrieve something she’d forgotten. But whom did the other car belong to? Had Stephanie and whoever it was come here together? Another insurance investigator? I hadn’t heard anything from Prager since that initial visit, and I didn’t like that, either. No news was not necessarily good news.
