Pretty Ugly Lies: a gripping and chilling domestic noir

by Pamela Crane

  The liquid courage led from one thing to another, and within an hour I was Olivia Newton-John to Trent’s John Travolta as we belted out a Grease medley. By early morning the three of us found ourselves at his apartment—a total bachelor pad with a few pieces of mismatched furniture and nothing to eat—chatting about life, love, and dreams.

  That night Trent picked me, not Bev; he kissed me, not Bev. And while she hadn’t shown the bitter regret then, it came pouring out now.

  “You found the most amazing man. How could you ever let him go? How could you betray him? If only he’d have picked me … I would have never hurt him like this.”

  Bev hadn’t found anyone worth marrying after that night, though the dates lined up for a chance throughout the years. She was beautiful, passionate, intelligent, and any man’s dream woman. But she was picky—too picky to settle for anyone who wasn’t Trent, apparently.

  “I didn’t mean for things to turn out this way,” I pleaded. But how did one capture a marriage steeped in disappointment in words? “It wasn’t something I set out to do. Trent and I have been growing apart; Kelsey filled in the gaps. Sometimes shit just happens.”

  “Getting pregnant by another man just happens?” she retorted.

  “First of all, I don’t know that Kelsey is the father. Trent could be. Which is why I don’t know what to do.”

  “Whatever.” Bev rolled her eyes.

  “And secondly, if you’d actually commit to a man for more than three seconds, you might actually know what it’s like for a relationship to decay. To become just roommates. Strangers that pass in the hall on the way to the john. It’s always new and exciting for you because you never settle down. Try living with the same person day in, day out and have kids and chaos and financial stresses and months on end without a night out, much less a good banging, and rushed dinners and falling asleep in front of the tube nearly every night like two fossils in an old folks’ home … You have no idea!”

  “Oh, I feel so sorry for you,” she scoffed.

  “I’m not asking for pity. I’m just tellin’ you how it is. After a few years it gets hard, especially when you’re never in the same place at the same time, and you’ve said all there is to say to each other. The kids make it so you are both so drained caring for their constant, incessant needs, you can’t fathom meeting another’s in that one hour of downtime before sheer exhaustion drags you into a restless slumber. And then it starts all over again. Day after mind-numbing day.”

  Bev watched me with skepticism, because she had no idea what I was talking about. How could she? She never lived it.

  “Then a cute guy tells you you’re beautiful and amazing—something you haven’t heard in years—and it’s easy to fall for it. It’s new and exciting and mysterious. And suddenly you’re desirable again after so many years of just feeling old hat. But you wouldn’t know anything about that because you’ve never been in the trenches with another person. You’ve never been to battle with someone—which I’ve done for years. For you, it’s always new. It’s always special. Did I mess up? Yes. But you could never understand why until you’re in my marriage, in my life, in my battle.”

  Nothing but crickets.

  I had shut her up, something I had thought was an impossible feat. We both knew there was nothing left to say. But Bev wouldn’t leave without getting the last word.

  “I’m just warning you because I love you, but if you don’t start being honest with Trent and yourself, you’re going to lose it all—Trent, the kids, everything. You’ve been warned.”

  And with that cryptic threat hanging in the air, my sister stormed out of the house, taking my breath away with her.

  Chapter 24

  Jo

  My darling Josephine:

  I must have tried to write you a hundred letters over the past ten years, and yet I could never figure out how to start them. I miss you. I never got over you. And yet I hate you for holding my heart captive for all these years.

  You’re probably surprised to hear from me after a decade. You may not even know who I am. I doubt you can even recall my face. No matter. I’ve remembered for the both of us. While you’ve moved on to play house with the man you never should have married, having children that should have been mine, I’ve kept your little secret. I’ve protected your little fantasy life, which should have been with me.

  It may sound crazy that our one night of passion has lingered so long for me. Maybe, just maybe, it’s lingered as long for you too. I can hope. It must. Maybe you remember seeing me across the bar, one week before your wedding, desperate to get out of your marital obligation. Your eyes were rimmed with tear-smeared mascara. Even in your pain I found you hauntingly beautiful. I can close my eyes and still picture you—the way your black top hugged your breasts, your curly hair framing your face, your cheeks flushed with the warmth of alcohol. You swayed in my arms that night, and you’ve been swaying in my memory ever since.

  Maybe it was the postcoital conversation in the back of my car that hooked me. As you cuddled in the crook of my arm, we shared laughter and life stories. Our dreams for the future. Our future. The unspoken agreement that we would find a way to be together. Or maybe it was your incredible mind that has kept you in my thoughts. Or maybe it’s because I’ve spent seven lonely years in prison filled with regret over letting you go so easily. Whatever the case, I haven’t forgotten your smile, your laugh, or the way it felt to be inside you.

  You told me that night that you’d never before felt the passion and connection that we had. I felt it too. It took me a while to recognize that’s what we had, but I finally understood. I hope it’s not too late to reclaim our destiny together. Do you remember the way our bodies melted into each other, blurring the lines of where you stopped and I began? I do. I relive it every night as I fall asleep. Memories are all I have to keep me going some days. But the memories we created are worth living for.

  I’ve often wondered if you miss me too. Do you even know my name? I don’t know if we’ll ever see each other again, but I hope to someday. Even if only to lay eyes on your face one last time and hold you in my arms again.

  Thinking of you forever and always,

  J

  I refolded the letter for the umpteenth time and shoved it in my underwear drawer, where I’d kept it hidden for the past month after I’d gotten it. My name and address scribbled messily on the front, no return address. Just a Pennsylvania postmark from a town I couldn’t remember anymore.

  If only I had been more lucid that night ten years ago, maybe I would have remembered J’s name, maybe I wouldn’t have slept with him in a cold-feet self-destructive moment of panic mere days before my wedding. Maybe I wouldn’t have been crying after the silly fight I’d had with Jay about the wedding flower arrangements getting mixed up because he hadn’t called to confirm our order like I asked him to.

  Odd how I clung to the memory of that fight when it really didn’t matter. Who cared what my bouquet looked like? No one would remember. I couldn’t even remember. And yet I could remember every detail of the ensuing argument. I couldn’t ignore the irony of how angry I was at him about it in the moment, when it was such an insignificant detail compared to the bomb I would detonate that same night in the arms of another man.

  For years I hated myself for that night, the night I became a fraud, and I often teetered on the verge of confessing everything to Jay simply to alleviate the guilt. But I always came back to the same conclusion—that destroying my family wasn’t worth a free-and-clear conscience. This was my burden to bear in order to keep my family whole. Yet it wasn’t whole anymore, was it?

  I hadn’t realized it a month ago when I pulled the envelope out of the mailbox, curious who would be sending me an anonymous letter. Then I read it, and now the words changed everything. Clearly our drunken tryst wasn’t as meaningless for him as it was for me. What if he had something to do with Amelia’s disappearance? Although he sent this from three states away, what if he was here now? He clearl
y knew where I lived, and knew way more about my life than made me comfortable.

  I had to confess—no matter what it cost me. If there was a chance he was behind the abduction, I had to find out. But I had nothing—no last name. No first name even, just an initial J. He had mentioned doing time in prison. I wondered how hard it would be to search for prison records for everyone whose first name started with J, to see what information popped up; maybe I’d recognize his name if I saw it. A ridiculous thought, I know. Of course, he might not have used his real name that fateful night, and damn if I could recall if he’d even mentioned it. Still, I might remember him from his mug shot, but that whole night was such a rum-induced blur, and I doubted he looked the same as he did ten years ago. Right now the idea of blindly searching through inmate records felt too daunting to deal with. Reliving the past was exhausting.

  I shut the drawer and shuffled to the window.

  Rain spattered against the windowpane, dropping like tears from the eyes of God above. If there was even a God watching. How could there be, with everything He was letting happen to me, to my little girl? There couldn’t be.

  I had always been spiritual—thanking God every Sunday morning, every night during prayers, every dinnertime meal. I’d even talked to God in the spare quiet moments while in the shower, or while power-walking in the evenings through the neighborhood in my Victoria’s Secret leggings and oversized T-shirts, my ear buds cycling through my iPod workout playlist. My neat ponytail swinging merrily while I tossed a friendly wave to every neighbor I spotted or car that passed by.

  That was life before.

  This was life now:

  I hadn’t slept in four days. My hair was so matted I couldn’t run a brush through it, nor did I even try to, giving a whole new meaning to the term “dirty blond.” My toothbrush sat in its ceramic holder, unused, for days, but my teeth weren’t collecting tartar because I wasn’t eating anyways. But never-ending mugs of coffee left behind a subtle brown tint, and I was pretty sure I felt a cavity taking over my back molar. I couldn’t tell the freckles on my nose and cheeks from the grime. The same sweatshirt and sweatpants I wore for the past four days were stained and reeked, but I didn’t care. My daughter was out there—dirty, scared, and hungry. Why should I deserve anything more?

  I kicked God to the curb along with all the other crap I no longer believed in. Like myself. Like living.

  Hiding in the bedroom, I couldn’t stand the sound of Preston and Abby playing and giggling as if their sister was there with them. How could they even smile during a time like this? Anger frothed up inside me, popping like little bubbles of fury. I didn’t want to be angry with them. In my head I knew they were just kids—only seven and five, what could I expect?—and they didn’t understand the magnitude of what Amelia’s disappearance meant. That she could be dead. Gone forever.

  I loved my kids, but their callousness poked at me. I reminded myself again and again that they didn’t understand. They were just children, unaware of the horrors their sister was facing. I spent their lifetimes shielding them from such truths, and yet here I was, needing them to suddenly face the world’s atrocities for my own comfort.

  What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I handle this? Why couldn’t I save Amelia? Why couldn’t I nurture Abby and Preston anymore? My brain was no longer navigating my actions; instead, a primal urge to find Amelia controlled every thought, every impulse, even at the neglect of my other children. I knew this, and yet I couldn’t stop it. There was only one way I could see to save all my children.

  My stomach lurched with bubbling bile. I needed fresh air. I needed quiet.

  Grabbing my keys and cell phone, I headed to the garage. Maybe just a quick ride around the block to help me think. Abby and Preston would be fine alone for five minutes.

  I pulled out into the downpour, wipers swiping the patter of droplets away. I turned out of the driveway, with no direction in mind. After circling the block once, then twice, I began to feel aimless, restless. Fifteen minutes later I found myself sitting in the car in an empty parking lot, engine running, staring through a rain-soaked windshield at the spot where Amelia was taken from the park.

  For the first time in my life I was utterly helpless. I had no way to control this. Nothing I did would give me my desired outcome—to have Amelia back in my arms. I’d done everything—posted missing child flyers, worked with the police, made daily rounds at the park pursuing every person I saw, begging for any information that could help, blasted Amelia’s picture all over the Internet, prayed. What else could I do? How could I fix this?

  I couldn’t.

  And that lack of control was frightening.

  What if Amelia was dead? At least right now I had hope. But if her tiny, lifeless body was found … then what? I might as well be dead too, because I couldn’t recover from that. Maybe a stronger mother could, but not me.

  My kids were my only purpose in life. They were my breath, my strength to wake up each day. Without them I was nothing. No one.

  Our family was worthless without Amelia. We needed all the parts to be whole—Jay, Preston, Abby, Amelia, and me. If one part died, the rest of us went with it. That was what family was about. All or nothing.

  The melody of my ringtone sang out from the center console. It was Jay. I answered hurriedly, hoping it was good news.

  “Please tell me Amelia’s home,” I sputtered.

  “Where are you?” he spat. His voice was terse and angry.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “What’s wrong?” His volume rose. “You left Preston and Abby here alone, Jo. Where the hell are you?”

  “At the park. I just needed to drive around to clear my head.”

  “You can’t do that, leaving two little kids at home by themselves! You’re lucky I came home early. God only knows what could have happened if I didn’t get here.”

  “They were just playing in the living room. They’re fine. I’m on my way home now.”

  “Don’t bother. I really can’t stand to deal with you right now.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that you’re not the only one dealing with losing Amelia. We’re all scared. We’re all in pain. But you can’t neglect your other kids, and me, and yourself because of it. When was the last time you bathed or ate?”

  I couldn’t answer him.

  “You can’t shut down like this, or you’re going to lose us all.” Jay’s words rammed into me, physically hurting me, and at the same time paralleling a familiar resonance with my own budding realization. “And quite frankly, I can’t deal with your obsession. Let the police do their job. Your job is to take care of the kids who still need you—here, at home.”

  “Amelia needs me!” I cried.

  “You can’t help Amelia. But you can help Preston and Abby by being their mom.” He paused, his exasperated sigh filling in the silence. “Maybe you should stay with Shayla for a few days until you’re emotionally ready to handle this better.”

  “It’s like you don’t even care, Jay. How can you be so detached about this?”

  “I’m not detached, Jo. Amelia’s my baby girl—I love her more than anything. But I can’t neglect everything and everyone else over this. Neither can you. So here’s your choice: come home and be a part of this family, or find somewhere else to wallow.”

  Jay had issued an ultimatum in the midst of the darkest days of my life. It was at that moment that I knew I hated my husband’s goddamn guts.

  Chapter 25

  Ten long years. That’s how long it had been since he’d seen Josephine Lively, or Jo Trubeau, the name she went by now. He liked her maiden name much better. It suited her. More befitting her lively spirit.

  It had been three days since he had taken her daughter. After much tears from the lack of promised puppies, he had been able to placate Amelia with bribes of sweets and treats. But still, three days is a long time to spend with a three-year-old, especially for someone not experienc
ed with children.

  By the end of the first day, after the umpteenth epic toddler tantrum over apparently nothing at all, he came to the conclusion that there had to be something very wrong with this child. This could not be normal behavior.

  He also discovered the unexpected, undesired side effect of his pacification tactic: sugar rush, inevitably followed by its equally enjoyable younger sibling, sugar crash. One moment Amelia is sprinting through the apartment, squealing, doing backflips off the sofa, the next she is laying on her back in the middle of the kitchen, wailing inconsolably at the ceiling.

  Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

  After a sleepless night tending to the aftermath of the candy-induced mania, he decided to employ the help of Big Pharma. A quick trip to the local drug store and he was stocked with every drowsy-causing liquid medicine available—just to be sure he got the right cocktail—and an oversized bottle of melatonin gummies.

  From the first dose, this seemed a much better alternative than his previous method. Amelia was much calmer, and a bit lethargic. No running. No screaming. No crying. This parenting thing wasn’t so tough as everyone made it out to be, he mused. Unfortunately, it didn’t last.

  He didn’t realize that concentrated levels of antihistamines, like diphenhydramine and doxylamine succinate, used in Benadryl and Nyquil, respectively, could actually cause hallucinations, especially in young children. A reality he was forced to endure at two in the morning while he tried, unsuccessfully, to assuage this frantic cherub that the puppies were in fact not going to get her.