Pretty Ugly Lies: a gripping and chilling domestic noir

by Pamela Crane

  As I rounded a curve in the path, I bumped into a woman, sending her reeling backward and the stack of papers she carried flying.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry!” I said.

  “My fault,” the woman replied. “Should have been looking where I was going.”

  “Here, let me help you pick these up.”

  “No, really, it’s—”

  “I insist.”

  “Thank you,” she said. I detected genuine appreciation in her voice, and something else—barely masked pain.

  As we both stooped to collect the papers, I came face to face with a picture of a little girl with a baby-toothed smile and dimples. Two curly blond pigtails jutted out like sprays from a water fountain.

  MISSING CHILD was printed across the top in red Helvetica Bold type.

  And then it hit me. One mother to another, a sudden anguish coursed through me for this total stranger who had lost a child.

  “Is this your little girl?” I asked, afraid of what my question might spark. Afraid she’d break into tears and I’d have no idea how to comfort her.

  “Yes, this is my little Amelia. She’s only three.” The woman’s voice trembled and I imagined how hard it was to speak.

  “What happened?” I asked before I could think.

  “She was … abducted from this park two days ago.” A tear slid down her face, and I felt a lump rise in my throat. I hated watching the misery plague others like it did me. But this—this was a whole new level of pain I’d never understand.

  “Two days ago?” The wound must have been so fresh, still bleeding. “I’m so sorry.” My consolation sounded flat against the mountain of hurt she was climbing. I didn’t know what to say. What could I possibly offer this grieving, broken mother whose child was missing while mine were safe at home?

  “Do you come here often?” she asked me. The question indicated something other than mere friendliness; she was fishing for a lead.

  “Yeah, I’m here almost every day with my kids.”

  Her eyes widened with hope. “What time were you here two days ago?”

  “Um, around one-ish, I think. It was after lunch, I remember, so yeah, about one.”

  “Then you might have seen him—the man who took her! It happened at one thirty. Do you remember seeing my little girl?”

  I still had a stack of flyers in my hand. I studied the cherubic face.

  “Let me think.” I needed my memory not to fail me. For the sake of this woman and her child, I wanted to remember something, anything that could help her. I closed my eyes, concentrating on the details. I remembered sitting on the wooden bench, watching while the children scampered across the grass. But most of the time was a numb haze as I zoned out of my life into another world—a world where I didn’t have kids screaming or fighting or melting down for no reason at all.

  I was useless.

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t remember anything unusual.” Handing her back all but one of the flyers, our fingers grazed, her hand quivered. This poor woman was falling apart right there in front of me. “I wish I could be more help.”

  “Please! Try harder. You must have seen something. Anything?” An edge of hysteria to her voice. Mania. This I understood all too well.

  “I’m so sorry …”

  She wiped at her wet cheeks, reigning in the cavalcade of emotions plaguing her. “Well, if you think of anything or remember something, please call me or text me on this number.” She tapped a pink painted fingernail against the paper in my hands. “Thank you.”

  As she began to walk away from me, I touched her arm. “I’m truly sorry for what you’re going through. I really am. I hope you find your little girl and bring her home safely.”

  “I appreciate that,” she said.

  Smiling wanly, the woman strode purposefully toward a pine, stapled a flyer to the trunk, and rounded the corner.

  Her plight gave me a dose of perspective. I was worried about money woes while she worried about her child being murdered. I fumed over Mike’s laziness while she dreaded a kidnapper’s machinations. We’d lost a second income while she lost her baby. I suddenly felt so immature, so childish, so self-centered and absorbed with my two-bit problems when others suffered losses I couldn’t imagine.

  I wondered what it felt like to be her. To have a child vanish. To never see her face again. To never hold her tiny hands in mine. To never hear her voice or run a comb through her hair. What was the unknowing like? What would it feel like to remember a life before—when that tiny person blessed every moment and everything was whole—but knowing that only a fragment of it would remain?

  What if my own children were unreachable, but somewhere out there? What would life be like if they were suddenly … just gone? Would I yearn for the fights Arabelle instigated with her siblings? Would I miss Austin’s self-inflicted assault when telling him no? Would I suddenly find Kiki’s incessant whining a sweet melody? Would the absence of Juliet’s all-night feedings keep me up at night?

  Would the things that caused me such grief become nostalgic memories if they were taken away?

  It was hard to imagine the terror, the worry, and perpetual panic that this woman felt. So hard to imagine, in fact, that I didn’t feel anything at all. And for a startling self-realizing moment, I saw myself for what I was. A woman whose heart had been tapped dry. An exhausted, empty shell. A person who could no longer appreciate the little moments in life, because life was simply too heavy. A mother who didn’t love her own children anymore.

  I could feel for this woman, for the loss she had suffered. I just couldn’t turn the mirror back upon myself and feel the same. What kind of monster had I become? Did I even care?

  It was then that I wept.

  Chapter 16

  Ellie

  I’m suffering from a perpetual case of nausea, this urge to curl up in a ball on the bathroom floor waiting for my entrails to spill on the tile. It’s like my body is being torn to shreds and I’m helpless to stop it.

  I’m the walking dead. A decaying zombie, shuffling along and grasping for food to nourish my soul … and yet my soul is gone. I’m just a shell. There’s an emptiness where my essence used to be. I’m no one. Nothing. A vacant ghost wandering the earth, unseen and unnoticed.

  Denny doesn’t see me. Doesn’t want me. Desire me. Love me. To Darla and Logan I don’t exist, unless they need something. And only then do I become a pair of serving hands and scurrying feet to heed their every beck and call. My life’s purpose for the past decade—taking care of my family, adoring my husband, raising our children, building a safe home for us—it’s all char and ashes. I wish I could be a phoenix strong enough to rise from my scorched life, new and beautiful, but I simply don’t have the drive to start over. I must find the courage, though. If I don’t, I fear what I will do.

  There’s a sense of empowerment that comes with knowing something that no one else does. A little secret that you carry, clutch close to your heart, ready to use at just the right moment. A secret is like a loaded gun—it can protect you when cornered, or win you a war. It can kill, if necessary.

  My secret was my ace in the hole. But I was one card short of a royal flush.

  I needed one last piece of evidence before I went on the offensive.

  Denny thought he was so smart. So careful. He thought I didn’t know about his mistress. While I played dumb, happy wife, he thought he was playing me. But his starring role as lying, cheating husband would soon end. I’d see to that personally.

  When Denny called to let me know he’d be working late—“I’m sorry I have to work late again tonight,” he had said, “but I promise to make it up to you, babe”—I wanted to scratch his eyes out through the phone. But instead I checked my anger and replied coolly, “Aw, we’ll miss you, honey. I’ll save a plate of dinner for you.”

  I didn’t mention that there would probably be poison in his meatloaf.

  He had called me from his office phone, probably to ward off any suspicion, so I knew he
was still there—for the time being. I’d need to hurry if I was going to get there before he left to meet her. His whore. The kids grumbled as I packed them into the car when instead they should have been starting their bedtime ritual.

  “Where are we going this late at night?” Darla asked as I sped toward the office, keeping my eyes peeled for any cops with radar guns. “Aren’t we supposed to be in bed?”

  “We’re taking a little trip to Daddy’s work,” I explained stiffly.

  “Now? Mom, this is stupid.” She continued to gripe, but her words hid behind the buzzing in my brain.

  “Darla, just please stop talking or I’m going to lose it!”

  “Okay, sorry,” she whispered.

  My patience was on a short leash that threatened to snap. I didn’t want to take my pain out on my kids, but I’d lost all control of my impulses. I wasn’t behind the wheel; some strange, dark creature had taken over my body, forcing me to claw my way to the truth. I was the marionette of some deranged puppeteer. Maybe I was holding the strings; maybe the rage was. I couldn’t tell where I ended and the rage began. Maybe we were one and the same.

  An uncomfortable silence held Darla and Logan captive in the backseat, so unlike their usual bickering. I sensed that they were scared of me. Hell, I was scared of me at this point. I hadn’t wanted it to be like this. I wished that they could understand, but this was an adult situation that I couldn’t explain. Or could I? Was there a way to tell your children that your family was falling apart without causing them intense psychological harm? I wondered if I should say more. Certainly at age eleven Darla had enough understanding to know that Daddy wasn’t supposed to spend time with women who weren’t Mommy. Would that even register to her young mind? My goal wasn’t for understanding, though, was it? I wanted to turn the kids against Denny. I wanted them on my side. I wanted him to see their disappointed faces and decide to fix everything—if not for me, then for them. For his flesh and blood. If he couldn’t love me enough to stick it out, could he make the sacrifice for his children? I hoped so.

  Instead, I pocketed my thirst for vengeance … for now. I’d need to know for sure what was going on with Denny before I set the kids against their father.

  Minutes later I parked several spots away from Denny’s car. He was still at the office—I hadn’t missed him. I wasn’t sure if this was what I wanted anymore. My stomach roiled as I could hardly stomach the thought of watching him flirt with his mistress. I wasn’t ready for this, my body screamed for me to turn around, go home, and return to blissful ignorance. But I’d already seen too much. I already suspected too much. I couldn’t stop now. The impulse was too strong.

  Shutting off the engine, we waited in silence—me clutching the steering wheel as my knuckles whitened, the kids staring out the window in the backseat and grumbling.

  “Are we going in?” Darla asked after several soundless minutes. I could hear the wariness in her voice.

  “Not yet,” I muttered, watching for Denny to come out the red brick building’s revolving front door.

  “Can we stop for ice cream on the way home?” Logan chimed in.

  I sighed, my emotions thawing. The last thing I wanted was to turn this into a fun family outing, but perhaps I owed it to the kids after dragging them into my drama. “If you’re patient while we wait, I think we could do that.”

  “Yay!” Logan cheered.

  “That’s my boy,” I said, trying to keep up the mood.

  “You’re so dumb, Logan. I can’t believe you care about ice cream while we’re forced to sit here in the dark. Daddy would have taken us for ice cream without making us do this.” Clearly Darla’s fear had dissipated and her allegiance to Denny was firm. It was with this thought that I realized we had already divided, Denny and I. His side versus my side. A growing schism that we couldn’t seem to bridge. And the worst part was that the kids were stuck in the middle of a twisted game of Pick Your Favorite Parent. Who would they choose? I already knew the answer to that. It wasn’t me.

  “How much longer? I’m bored.” Logan’s voice stretched out the words in a whine.

  “We’ll be heading home soon. It’s a surprise for Daddy. Just hang in there for me, okay?” But it was too much for me to ask.

  “This is stupid,” Darla complained, and I felt my patience wearing thin.

  “What is your problem?” I spat back. “Why are you acting like a brat?”

  “Why do we have to sit here at night when it’s bedtime? I’m tired. Daddy’s probably working so he doesn’t have to spend time with you anyways. And I don’t blame him.”

  My jaw dropped. My ears hummed. Was that what my own children thought of me? I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, after abandoning a career for them, carrying them for nine months, pushing their fat newborn bodies out of me, nursing them while my body deteriorated, wearing their poop when their diapers exploded, catching their spit-up on my shoulder, losing sleep to tend to them, cooking for them, cleaning up after them, giving everything of myself to them. After all of that, they simply saw me as a useless robot whose only value was what I could give them. God forbid I try to discipline them, teach them values, or ask for a little patience. Their father was ever the hero while I was always the villain.

  And that was when I felt it: the snap.

  I swung around to face her, grabbing her by the chin. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing.” Darla’s jaws clamped shut, but I would pry that hurtful little mouth open with a crowbar if necessary. She wasn’t getting off the hook that easily.

  “No, I want to know what you meant by that.” I released my grip but watched her carefully.

  “Just that you’re never fun and that’s why Daddy works so much—to get away from you.”

  I couldn’t respond at first. To hear this kind of news from my child … “Did he say that about me?”

  “Sorta. When I asked why he works so much he said it’s easier than coming home to you.”

  I couldn’t believe he had said those words to our young, impressionable daughter.

  “Do you agree with him?” I didn’t want to hear the answer, but maybe I needed to. I wanted the truth more than I wanted the comfort of lies.

  “Kinda, yeah. You’re boring and you always tell us no. Sometimes I wish I had a different mom—a cool mom.”

  “A cool mom? What’s uncool about me?”

  “I dunno. You don’t let us watch scary movies, you always have to schedule everything, you don’t let me dye my hair or dress the way I want. You have to control everything, Mom. Even Dad—you control him too.”

  I had no defense. My eleven-year-old child was right. Wise beyond her years. I did have a complex—an addiction to structure, order, perfection. I’d dedicated my life to fitting in with the fitness moms, the PTA, the beauty pageant parents, the trophy wives with their luxury cars and landscaped yards and honor roll students and star athlete kids. This had been “the dream,” but it was never my dream. This was where Darla was wrong. It had always been Denny’s dream, not mine. His wish, enforced by me. I couldn’t care less if Darla’s hair was blond or blue, or if she wore trendy or goth. I only wanted them happy, and I had failed. In trying to please my husband, I let my kids down. Was this the plight of wives everywhere? Were we all just obeying orders in an effort to hold our marriages together? Or was I the only one?

  It was in that moment that I knew there was no point to any of this. To catching Denny in his affair, to confronting him, to threatening to take everything from him if he didn’t break it off, to reminding him of what we had and what he risked losing … because I had already lost it all. My husband didn’t want me. My own children didn’t want me.

  What else was there to lose?

  What else was there to gain?

  Absolutely nothing. I mucked my hand. There was no reason to play. No reason to fight. The war was over without a single shot fired. The only casualty: me.

  Chapter 17

  Shayla

  Her
voice was muted and remote, like she was calling me from a dream. Though heavy with sleep, my eyelids fluttered open, then squinted shut at the white light above me. Beneath me, cool tile pressed against my back, forcing me to shift on my side. Everything blurred into a haze, and I had no idea where I was.

  “Ma’am,” the girl said, her hand soft, but firm, on my shoulder. “You passed out. Are you able to get up?”

  As I forced my eyes open and pushed myself halfway up, that’s when the fog lifted. Every last painful detail slammed into me.

  The pregnancy test.

  There it lay, on the dirty restroom floor beside me, the glaring plus sign mocking me. I remembered now … seeing the results, my heart trying to shove its way through my chest. Then standing up off the toilet seat, making my way through the stall door clutching that goddamn pee stick … but everything after that was a blank.

  What stood out to me now wasn’t the red-shirted employee hovering over me, or the severe restroom lights, or the grimy floor pressing against my tailbone. The baby growing inside me—the baby whose father was a huge question mark—that was the only thing I could think about.

  I needed to talk to someone, to figure out what to do. But who? Confessing everything to Trent was a death sentence for my marriage. Telling Kelsey about the baby was a death sentence to my sanity. I couldn’t be with Kelsey because I didn’t love him. And I couldn’t tell Trent the truth because I did. I was in a no-win situation.

  Since high school Jo had always been my go-to conscious, the person I could count on to set me on the straight and narrow path of redemption. Jo understood me, loved me regardless, and accepted me no matter what. Like when I lost my virginity to Dougie Rollins, the STD king. While everyone else called me a whore, Jo hugged me through the tears—and penicillin. Or when I got high in the girls locker room and made a pass at our math teacher, Jo rescued me from a lifetime of embarrassment—and a guaranteed suspension—by lying to the teacher that I had taken one too many pain pills for a cheerleading injury.