Just Between Us

by Rebecca Drake

* * *

  Being so sleep-deprived can do odd things to one’s perception. I tapped the fender of the car in front of me one morning as I waited to merge onto Route 65 because I swore I’d seen his car moving. The irate driver sprang from his car yelling, “You! This!,” waving a hand at me and then at his car’s rear end and back again, while I tried to apologize and riffled through my glove box for insurance information, the traffic swelling behind us, a cacophony of angry voices and car horns.

  A few days later, I thought I spotted Heather at the Whole Foods in the city, where I’d stopped after a realty meeting. Pushing my cart slowly through a maze of organic, vegan, and gluten-free shelves, I came around a corner and spotted a familiar figure at the other end of the aisle. She had her back to me, but I knew it was her, that lithe body and messy blond bun, the thin legs in yoga pants and an oversize sweater. She was talking to someone as she rounded the corner, and I swore I recognized that languid, lilting sound of her voice, but when I turned the corner after her, I saw that it wasn’t Heather, but another woman altogether, part of a couple, the dark-haired, muscular man she was with resting a brawny arm protectively across her shoulders and bending to kiss the bare skin at the nape of her neck.

  A week went by, then another—time passing in the whirlwind of activity that is life with a job and children. I’d wonder how it came to be Friday when it felt as if I’d just woken up on Monday morning, and the struggle to stay on top of all my responsibilities, in addition to worrying about Heather, had left me seriously exhausted. That’s why, while I realized that things were getting worse, I didn’t understand just how bad, and by that time it was too late.

  * * *

  The day before it happened was a Tuesday. I remember waking that morning with the same drugged feeling I’d had every morning of late. Unable to sleep for most of the night, I’d finally fall into a slumber so deep that when the alarm went off it felt like coming out of anesthesia.

  I remember dragging myself out to the bus stop with Owen and Aubrey while gulping down a cup of coffee, and once the children had been successfully loaded on the bus and waved off, having a quick conversation with Alison. It was supposed to be her turn to check in with Heather, but she asked if I could cover, because she was late on a project. She looked as tired as I felt, shadows under her eyes, clothing and hair both rumpled as if she’d gotten out of bed and come straight there, which perhaps she had. I glanced at my watch; my closing wasn’t until ten that morning. “I can do it. I’ve got a form for the fashion show that I need to give her anyway, so it’s an excuse to drop by.”

  The drive to Heather’s took me no more than ten minutes, and only because I slowed down for lights. After the minor fender bender, I wasn’t risking any more accidents, but I also hoped to arrive after Viktor had left for work. When I turned in through the two stone pillars at the end of her driveway, the radio was playing some pop song by a singer I didn’t recognize, whose refrain, uttered in a low, mournful voice, was “Why did you have to hurt me?” I pulled up in front of the house and stopped the car, the voice cutting off abruptly at “why.” The only other sounds—the knocks and bumps of the engine as it cooled off and the slam of the car door as I got out—suddenly seemed very loud. There were no other cars on the driveway, but to the right of the house was a three-car garage, ample storage for Viktor’s beloved bottle-green Mercedes as well as Heather’s BMW. I was conscious of my heels clicking on the stone pavers as I walked to the front door, practically tiptoeing in an effort to avoid the noise. I had to ring the bell three times, listening to the faint melodious chime, before Heather finally answered the door, breathing hard and tying the strings of a filmy silk robe around her. Apparently I’d gotten her out of bed. “What time is it?” she said, stifling a yawn as she leaned forward to give me a kiss. As I stepped past her into the hall I caught a whiff of cigarette smoke.

  “Is Viktor here?” I asked in a low voice.

  She shook her head. “He left a while ago.”

  “How are you?” I asked as she closed the door, trying to act as if I weren’t scrutinizing her. She was sensitive to it; she’d asked me multiple times not to stare at her.

  With the door closed, the hallway was dim. Her skin, always pale, looked practically translucent in this light. It was hard to tell whether the purple smudges under her eyes were shadows or souvenirs from Viktor’s fist. She wandered down the hall, a ghostly figure, and I followed after her into the kitchen.

  “Can I get you some coffee?” Heather asked, yawning again as she opened a cupboard.

  “Yes, please, that would be great,” I said, amazed that my voice could sound so normal when my mind kept showing me shattered glass, cupboard doors hanging open like hairs standing on end.

  There was something off about the house, the stillness. Of course, I’ve been in hundreds of houses—some places so cluttered that I practically need a hiking stick to fend my way through mountains of junk, and others that are absolutely vacant, where dust balls linger in corners and even whispers echo. Homes have an energy that you can feel the moment you walk in the door. Some people pooh-pooh this and laugh at any mention of feng shui or bad flow, but as a Realtor I take these vibes seriously, so trust me when I tell you that there was something different in the house that day, some negative energy.

  “I just wanted to drop off the fashion-show form,” I said as I pulled it from my purse.

  Heather used her expensive espresso machine to make me a cup and then pushed the buttons again for hers.

  “Are you allowed to have caffeine?” I asked, surprised. “My doctor always said no.”

  She stopped short, jerking the cup back out as the machine continued to fill, and pouring it down the drain. “I forgot,” she said with a rueful smile. “Good thing you’re here.” She took a bottle of water from the refrigerator and the form from me. “I told you that I don’t think I can do it.”

  “You don’t have to answer now—just give it some thought.”

  Her eyes betrayed her skepticism, but she said nothing, just laying the form on the counter between us, before taking a long swallow from her water bottle. My own nervousness made me prattle on about the fashion show, desperate to try to ease the tension that hung in the air. Heather didn’t seem to notice. I hid behind my coffee, my eyes darting from her to the rest of the house, while she stood there fidgeting with the cap on her water bottle. Could she have lied? Could Viktor still be there, lurking upstairs, waiting for me to leave?

  This is what I’d berate myself for later. This moment. I’d known things were getting bad, but I didn’t realize just how bad they were until that morning in the house—the feeling of someone there, of some malevolent presence. I should have done something, but instead, after a few minutes, I said my good-byes, gulping in the air when I was on the other side of the door as if I’d been unable to breathe.

  chapter twelve

  ALISON

  The strange thing about a secret is it longs to be told. Someone can confide personal news—a terminal illness, having lied on a job application, even an indiscretion with a stranger—and you might simply focus on the story itself, the details and the implications, but if they add that caveat “don’t tell,” then suddenly that’s all you can think about doing.

  At least that’s how it was for me. At the bus stop in the afternoons or at the soccer pitch on Saturday mornings, I’d wonder if any of the other parents suspected anything. “Have you ever noticed anything odd about Viktor?” I always wanted to ask them.

  Finally, desperate to talk to someone besides Julie and Sarah, I drove one morning to Indiana, Pennsylvania, to talk to my brother. Sean is a police officer there, a job he’s held since he graduated from the academy back when he was nineteen. It was over an hour’s drive and I was behind in work, but I justified the trip and telling him because as a cop he’d be able to offer some real help. The truth was that I just needed to tell someone.

  Sean is four years older than I am and it’s always been the two of u
s against the world. Our mother’s family came from Indiana and some of my happiest memories are of time spent there, the two of us playing in the summer with cousins, or visiting at Christmastime. I know this is what brought Sean there—a happy place, the chance to build the life we’d never had. Stability.

  He was out on a case when I arrived, so the desk sergeant ushered me into a comfortable meeting room, joking that he could let me wait in a holding cell if I preferred. The secretary brought me coffee a short time later. It was all very friendly and yet just being in that building made me feel tense.

  As time ticked away I thought I’d made a mistake by coming. What if my brother asked for Viktor’s name? Or wanted to contact Heather? Just as I was standing up to leave, Sean opened the door.

  “This is a nice surprise,” he said with a big smile, giving me a hug. He looked good in his uniform. Sean had been promoted to lieutenant a year earlier and I wondered how many women he’d turned down over the years. “What’s up? You’ve been ducking so many of my calls that I thought you’d crossed me off your Christmas list.” He laughed, but I winced.

  “Sorry, I know, I’ve been busy,” I said, glancing at my watch to avoid meeting his gaze. “I just wanted to say hi, but I should get back. I need to pick up the kids.”

  “Hey, I was just kidding. You can’t leave yet—I just got here. Sit down for a minute.” He took a seat at the table and I sat back down across from him. He nodded at my mug. “You want some more coffee?”

  “No thanks.”

  “I know it sucks. I’m trying to get the department to cough up money for a Keurig.” He sat back, folding his arms across his chest. “You got the latest letter?”

  I should have known he’d bring it up. That’s why he’d been calling. That’s why I’d been avoiding him. Heather’s situation had distracted me from my own problems. I nodded, shifting in my seat. “They always show up, just like a bad penny.”

  He laughed, but his warm brown eyes weren’t smiling. “Did you read it?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you know about the cancer?”

  I nodded again. He didn’t say anything and I knew he wanted me to speak, to ask questions or express concern. I felt that familiar acid wash down my throat. “How long?”

  “They don’t know.” Sean shrugged. “Six months? A year? Might be longer, but the health care’s not that great, you know?”

  “Do you expect me to feel sorry about that?” I snapped.

  “Of course not. C’mon, Alison, I’m not the enemy.”

  “No, you just want me to talk to them.” I stood up and shouldered my purse, heading for the door. Sean came after me, touching my arm. The lightest touch, but it stopped me. He didn’t grab me; he’d never do that.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I said without turning, trying to steady my voice. “I can’t.”

  “Okay, I know, it’s okay.” He moved his hand to my shoulder, a gentle squeeze. “But don’t leave, not like this. Please?”

  It was the sadness in his voice that made me come back to the table and sit down once again. We disagreed fundamentally on this issue, but I knew it was as painful for him as it was for me. He was my big brother. He was the one I’d reached for when I was little and scared and he’d never failed to return that trust, his hand always closing protectively over mine.

  He rubbed a hand over his cropped brown hair and smiled, trying to start over. “So if you didn’t come here to talk about that, then why did you come?”

  I cleared my throat, fiddling with my purse straps. “I wanted to ask you about a friend of mine. I think she’s being abused by her spouse.”

  Sean’s face registered surprise for a second before he frowned, hands clenching into fists. “Is this really a friend? Is Michael hurting you?”

  “No, it’s not Michael—how can you even think that?” As soon as the words were out of my mouth I knew how foolish that sounded. He shot me a look that said as much. “It’s not Michael,” I said. “I’m not the one being abused.”

  “Swear,” he said. “Swear on the kids that you’re telling the truth.”

  I held up two fingers like a Boy Scout. “I swear on the kids.”

  He looked only slightly mollified. “What’s going on with your friend?”

  I filled him in on Heather’s situation and he listened, asking a few pertinent questions. When he asked for Viktor’s name, I shook my head.

  “I can’t tell you that—I promised not to.”

  “If I knew who it was, I could call the Sewickley police and they’d send someone to talk to him. They wouldn’t say it came from you—it could be an anonymous tip.”

  “She’d know it was me. I can’t do that.”

  He nodded, running his hand over the fake grain in the laminate table. “It doesn’t work most of the time anyway. It might even backfire—he might hurt her worse for telling someone. There are a lot of shelters she could go to.”

  “I know, I’ve given her all that information, but she won’t leave him.”

  “Does she know she can file a restraining order against him if she does? Because that’s what I’d advise her to do.”

  I shook my head. “She won’t do it; he’s got a prominent job and she’s afraid of losing her stepson.”

  Sean shook his head. “There’s not a whole lot that can be done if she won’t take that initial step. She’s got to leave and file a restraining order. Even if someone else called the police on him, you know as well as I do that victims usually won’t press charges. And you can’t force them to leave—it doesn’t work. She’s got to make that decision.”

  He changed the subject after that, talking about the holidays and what he wanted to buy the kids, and whether he’d make it to Sewickley on Christmas day itself or the day after, depending on his work schedule. As he walked me out to my car he brought up Heather again. “Cheer up, sis. She could leave him—she might be stronger than you think.” He shrugged, shaking his head in a knowing fashion. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this job it’s that people can surprise you.”

  I tried hard to believe what Sean said, to convince myself that Heather would find the strength to leave Viktor and everything would be okay. It didn’t work—I’m not that optimistic by nature.

  Christmas came and went, a flurry of decorating and gift buying that seemed more frenzied that year than ever before, but maybe it was because I couldn’t focus, jumping every time the phone rang, expecting the worst.

  On New Year’s Eve, the four of us met at Crazy Mocha in the afternoon for a quick get-together without the kids. I left Michael at home staring at college football on TV with the dog sprawled at his feet, while the kids ran in and out of the house, setting up sand buckets and plastic cups on the back porch to catch enough lazily falling snowflakes to “make snow cones.”

  “Have you told him about the pregnancy yet?” Sarah asked Heather when she waved away the gingerbread man that Sarah offered, saying it made her queasy.

  “Not yet,” she said, “I’m planning how to do it.” She’d been the last of us to arrive, hurrying in looking pale and wan, buying only bottled water. She’d lowered herself carefully into her seat, but she had no visible marks that day. Of course, with her high-necked sweater and jeans, there wasn’t much skin to see.

  “You’ve got to tell him soon,” Julie said. “You’re going to start showing.”

  “I know, I already am,” Heather said, and she smiled at that, looking around to make sure no one was watching before lifting the hem of her baggy sweater so we could admire her nonexistent “baby bump.”

  “That’s not a bump, it’s barely a burp,” Sarah said, and Julie and I laughed weakly, but Heather looked kind of offended.

  “What do you think of Abigail?” she asked. It was only when she added “Or Zoe?” that I realized she was talking about baby names.

  “Those are pretty,” Julie said, nudging me, and I nodded, trying to summon a smile, though my own stomach felt suddenly queasy.


  “It could be a boy,” Sarah said, tearing off the gingerbread man’s head. “Daniel might like a brother.”

  Heather ignored her. “I really like Emma, but it’s been used too much, don’t you think?”

  I thought the whole conversation was surreal, but I couldn’t bring myself to say anything to upset her. She reminded me of a child at that moment, sitting there talking about this name or that, while nobody spoke about what we all feared would happen when her husband finally found out about the baby.

  As I walked home through the snow, I had a sudden memory of another New Year’s Eve, long ago in Braddock, when my mother had let Sean and me stay up past midnight, handing us wooden spoons and pans to bang. “It’s going to be a good year,” she’d said to us after the ball dropped, her eyes wide and painfully bright. “It’s going to be so good—just you wait and see.”

  I spent the New Year and every day for the first few weeks in January dreading that phone call telling me that Viktor had killed Heather. Yet the night the call finally came I wasn’t at all prepared.

  Buzzing. In my dreams I waved at my face, chasing away a wasp, but the noise persisted. I woke in the dark, disoriented. My cell phone buzzed again. I fumbled for it on the nightstand, answering without looking to see the ID of the caller. “Hello?”

  “Alison?” The voice was panicked; my name ended on a high-pitched sob. “Help me!” A shriek.

  I sat straight up, looking toward Michael, but he took a sleeping pill most nights and didn’t stir. “Heather?” I whispered. “Is that you?”

  Instead of answering, she sobbed again. “Help me! Please, I need you to help me! Hurry!”

  “I’ll be right there,” I said in a low voice, slipping from my bed to the closet, struggling to change out of pajamas while balancing the phone. That son of a bitch had finally gone too far. “Have you called the police? Call them right now, Heather.”

  “I can’t.” Her breathing was ragged and hiccupping. All I could hear was her wild sobbing, as if she had her hand cupped around the phone.