Just Between Us

by Rebecca Drake

  “What, really?” It was gratifying that Julie sounded more surprised than Sarah had. “How did you find that out?”

  “I ran into the short detective.” I told her everything that had happened—being surprised by Tedesco, calling Sarah, Heather shopping and seemingly unaffected. There was silence on the other end of the phone when I was finished. “Hello?”

  “Maybe the detective just said that to see how you’d react.” She sounded defensive. “What are you trying to say—that Heather lied to us? Do you really believe she’d do that?”

  Put that way, it sounded so judgmental that I winced. Heather was our friend, she’d been badly abused, how could I believe that about her? “No, I don’t know, it’s just a big thing not to mention. I mean, if it’s true she had a prenup then no wonder she wouldn’t leave Viktor. It wasn’t just losing Daniel that she had to worry about.”

  “Look, we know she’s embarrassed about being from West Virginia—maybe that’s why she didn’t tell us. Maybe she felt ashamed of it—like it made her seem like a gold digger or something. That’s probably how Viktor made her feel. We don’t share everything with each other. I’m sure you have some secrets that you don’t tell.”

  That stopped me; I was glad Julie couldn’t see me because I actually flushed. Talking about the past was something I didn’t like to do either. Sometimes I’d share snippets from my life before I married Michael, the sanitized bits, the happy times that I could cut from the rest of it, a carefully constructed quilt of memories that made my life sound normal. Ironically, the one friend I’d actually shared more of my past with had been Heather.

  Until that moment, I’d forgotten all about a conversation we’d had one day, over a year ago, when Heather dropped by to pick up Daniel after a playdate. Somehow we’d started talking about how lucky our kids were and how much easier their lives were than ours had been. She told me about growing up in West Virginia, how her grandfather had climbed his way out of the coal mines, but her father got stuck as an almost white-collar office worker, moving from one low-level job to another, barely scraping by. And she told me about her mother, a woman so pretty she’d won a local beauty contest. Could have won Miss America, but she’d given up the chance for something better by marrying the first handsome boy she’d kissed, only to spend her days worrying constantly about how they’d pay the bills and keep a roof over their heads. “I didn’t want to be like her,” Heather had said, a feeling I could relate to.

  So I’d told her about my past. Not everything, of course. I had no desire to share some sob story of my life before college and Michael and the kids and moving to Sewickley. I’d said just enough to explain why I’d never wanted to go back to my hometown either. Just enough to tell her what had happened to my mother and her dreams.

  Heather had been so kind, listening without judgment. Remembering that made me ashamed. “You’re right,” I said to Julie, “she was probably embarrassed about the prenup. That’s got to be why she didn’t tell us.”

  But after getting off the phone, I kept picturing Tedesco’s face when he’d told me—that grin, those hard eyes. And that photo of Viktor’s first wife—those hollow cheeks, the hair that might have been a wig. What if Heather had lied to us? I couldn’t stop thinking about it. This is the problem with doubt: Once a little seed has been planted, it burrows deep into your darkest thoughts and takes root.

  Later that week, on impulse, I saw the kids off to school and drove to the city, to Children’s Hospital in Lawrenceville, one of the hospitals where Viktor had worked. I’d searched online and found the doctor whom I’d met at Viktor’s funeral. Or at least I thought it was him. It was hard to tell from the small head shot, and I couldn’t recall his name, but I hoped it was the same guy.

  I didn’t tell Julie or Sarah, and when Michael phoned I told him I was out running an errand, berating myself for lying once I’d hung up. The entire drive I felt that same crawly feeling, constantly glancing in the rear and side mirrors to see if I was being followed. It was ludicrous—why would the police be following me? Heather, maybe, but not me. Except the detectives knew me by name and they’d questioned me. Were the photos already there, on Tedesco’s or Kasper’s desk? Had they figured it out and were simply spinning a web to entrap us?

  The hospital’s parking garage was crowded and I had to circle multiple levels before finding a spot. I checked my makeup in the visor mirror and was startled to recognize my mother’s anxious face staring back at me. “Let’s not tell your dad about this, okay? This can be our secret.” Had I become that woman? Running scared and lying to my husband? Who was I to question Heather’s behavior?

  I almost didn’t go inside. Sitting there in the car, I thought about turning back, but I’d taken the parking ticket and it had to be validated inside. Once I stepped out of the car my resolve steadied. I had already taken the time to drive there; I might as well find out what Viktor’s colleague knew.

  Plastic Surgery was on the third floor. I got on an elevator crowded with a large bunch of balloons that read HAPPY BIRTHDAY and GET WELL SOON in cheerful letters, the two different messages appearing to war with one another, bobbing in and out of front position, as a middle-aged man struggled to contain them.

  The hospital was a maze. I took two wrong turns before finally arriving at the doors marked DIVISION OF PEDIATRIC PLASTIC SURGERY. The older woman in scrubs at the reception desk instructed me to sign in when I said I was there to see Dr. Barrow.

  “I don’t have an appointment,” I said, pen hovering over the clipboard she’d handed me.

  She looked over her reading glasses at me. “You got to make an appointment or you can’t see the doctors.”

  “I know, but it’s not medical, that is, it’s a personal matter.”

  “Personal,” she repeated, as if that were a word she didn’t understand.

  “Yes. I just need to talk to him for a few minutes.”

  “Is your child a patient?”

  “No.”

  “Former patient?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, this is the registration area for patients,” she said, taking back the clipboard and holding it against her chest. “I can’t help you.”

  A few people had stopped turning the pages of magazines or watching the game show playing on a large TV and were now staring our way. “Look,” I said, moving closer and lowering my voice. “This is a really private matter. Do you know how I can get in touch with Dr. Barrow?”

  She sighed, clearly annoyed that I wasn’t just going to go away. “You could try his secretary maybe, but you probably still got to have an appointment. Down the hall, third door on the right.”

  I was halfway out the door when I stopped and went back to her desk. She gave me an irritated look, like I was a fly she thought she’d managed to swat away.

  “Can you validate this?” I asked, holding out my parking ticket.

  * * *

  Dr. Barrow’s personal assistant was a twentysomething woman with jet-black hair dyed blue at the tips wearing a tight black dress with horizontal stripes of cobalt blue. Behind her was an enormous whiteboard yearly calendar with a neon rainbow of different-colored lines crossed through various weeks each month. Between all the bright colors and the way she stared—head cocked to one side, sharp eyes focused and unblinking—she reminded me of an exotic bird.

  “Dr. Barrow’s not here on Wednesdays,” she said. “They should have told you that—sorry.” She shifted that sharp gaze from me to her terminal, reaching for her mouse. “He’ll be in tomorrow and we have a cancellation at three and he might have one slot open in two weeks. Why does your child need an appointment?”

  “It’s not for my child. This isn’t medical—it’s a personal matter. Is there another way I could get in touch with him? A phone number?”

  She looked at me again. “I’m not authorized to give out his phone number. Are you a friend of Dr. Barrow’s?”

  Had I imagined the emphasis on “friend”? My fac
e flushed as though there were something between us. “Not exactly. I was a friend of Dr. Viktor Lysenko. I met Dr. Barrow at Dr. Lysenko’s funeral.”

  “I thought you looked familiar. I was at the funeral, too.” She leaned forward, her face becoming greedy and conspiratorial. “It’s a shame about Dr. Lysenko, isn’t it? He really loved that car, you know? I mean, not to blame the victim or anything, but when you love something you’ve got to let it go. That’s like karma, you know?”

  “Did you know Dr. Lysenko?”

  She nodded. “I’ve been the assistant here for going on eight years, so, yeah, I knew him. I know all the surgeons.”

  “Did you know his first wife, Janice?”

  “No, I don’t get to see the spouses much.” The disappointment I felt lifted as she added, “Pretty bad luck, though, you know? First she dies young, then he dies.”

  “Dr. Barrow mentioned that. He said she died of cancer?”

  The woman nodded. “Breast. Or was it ovarian? I don’t remember—one of those female cancers.”

  “I heard that she died from a fall.”

  “Who told you that? No, it was cancer and it took her fast—like six months fast. Oh, wait a minute—I think she did fall toward the end, I remember something about that ’cause Dr. Lysenko had to cancel a few patients that day. She was so weak from all the treatments they tried, that’s why she fell, but that was like a few weeks before she died.”

  A part of me had held out hope that Dr. Barrow had been confused and it was another doctor’s spouse who’d had cancer, but another, more rational part of me had known it was true. I’d known it since I saw that photo. Heather had lied to us, but why? I struggled to hide my dismay, but the young woman didn’t seem to notice.

  “I’ll tell you what, he got himself a hot second wife, didn’t he? She could be a model.”

  “She was one,” I said distractedly, gazing blankly at the calendar behind her. She saw me staring and said, “This is how I keep track of them all. Each doc’s got a different color, so I know when they’re not in this office. Dr. Lysenko’s color was that bright blue,” she said, pointing. “He liked that. Said it was one of the colors of the Ukrainian flag. Now I guess someone else will get that color. I’ve got to erase him, but it seemed too soon, you know?”

  It was odd to think of a life reflected in colored lines. Viktor’s blue was visible in virtually every month, stripes of various lengths that suddenly stopped all together a month ago. Here was a life and now it was over, wiped out with the swipe of an eraser. Had his patients mourned for him?

  “I was like totally shocked when I saw her,” the secretary said, pulling my attention back.

  “Who?”

  “Wife number two.” She hesitated, glancing around, before continuing in a furtive voice. “I’d heard that he was seeing someone else. As in an a-ffair.” She whispered the word, giving it an extra syllable like she was spelling it out for me. The look on my face must have surprised her, because she quickly said, “But hey, that was just a rumor, and I might have got it wrong. Anyhoo, when I saw his wife, I was like no way is he cheating on that, because it’s not like she was one of those women who totally lets herself go after marriage.”

  “So it’s okay to cheat on your spouse if she’s let herself go?” The words slipped out without thinking.

  She drew back, eyes flitting around again to see if anyone else had heard me. “No, I mean, of course not, I didn’t say that.” Her voice was huffy and she ran a hand through her hair as if I’d ruffled her feathers.

  * * *

  My chest started pounding as I struggled to find my way through the corridors and back to the parking garage. I paused, pressing one hand against a cool tile wall and rubbing my chest with the other hand, convinced I was about to have a heart attack. Various people in lab coats and scrubs passed by, some giving me sideways glances and a wide berth, but only one actually stopped. A short Indian man who looked far too young to be a doctor asked me in a pleasant singsong voice if I was okay. “Do you need to be sitting down somewhere?”

  My heart rate had slowed a fraction by that point and I realized it was probably a panic attack. I used to have them all the time when I was young. I shook my head, feeling ashamed, and pushed off the wall, thanking him over my shoulder as I trotted down the hall. My phone buzzed; it was Sarah, but I didn’t answer. I saw that I had multiple missed calls, but I couldn’t talk to anyone, not right now. The worst of the panic had subsided, but it was still there, an internal jitter keeping time with the questions beating against my brain. Had Heather really lied? She had to know that Viktor’s first wife died from cancer, didn’t she?

  Only once I was out of the hospital and in my car did I pull out my phone to listen to Sarah’s voice mail. It made me jump. She was practically shouting, her voice high and hysterical. And slurred. “Where are you? Did you see the news? It’s been on the news all morning—they found the gun!”

  chapter thirty-one

  SARAH

  Two boys fishing in a creek found the gun. That had been almost a week earlier. Somehow we’d all missed that news, though later I heard that the mother of one of the boys had claimed her fifteen minutes of fame by appearing on a local nightly broadcast to crow about her kid’s (never mind his friend’s) narrow brush with death, neither she nor the reporter bothering to mention that the gun hadn’t been loaded. The discovery of a random handgun garnered some attention, but when they linked the gun to Viktor Lysenko it was breaking news.

  I saw it on TV after getting Eric and the kids off to work and school. As always it had been a mad rush. Eric’s belief in gender equality and sensitivity to the plight of the stay-at-home mother meant that he insisted on helping with breakfast or packing lunches, which satisfied his own sense of fairness, but didn’t really make life any easier for me, which was supposed to be the point. Every morning his “helping” would put him behind and there would inevitably be ten to fifteen minutes of panicked, last-minute preparations, Eric buttoning his shirt at the same time that he dashed around trying to find the papers he’d been grading the night before, while I filled his travel mug with coffee, packed up his lunch, and generally tried to help hustle him out to his car. And almost every day, he’d pop back out of his car to say that he’d forgotten his glasses or his laptop cord, or his phone, and one or both of us would run through the house again trying to find this or that missing item. It was exhausting and completely avoidable.

  By the time everyone was out the door, I often felt as if I needed a spa weekend. That clearly wasn’t possible, but I’d try to re-create a little of that relaxation by adding some Prosecco to my orange juice. My own mimosa mix. Suburban moms needing an escape is almost a cliché, I know, but it’s not like I was taking Valium, so spare me the jokes about Mother’s Little Helper. This was only a tiny bit of Prosecco, not even one-fourth of the glass. But since Viktor’s death that on-edge feeling had gotten harder to shake, and so sometimes I increased the amount. I was never drunk though. Not really.

  Sitting there that morning on the couch, sipping my mimosa, I felt the tension easing, edges softening as I stared at the hosts of a national morning show flip burgers side by side while wearing ridiculous, poufy chef’s hats in a segment on grilling that they called “Not Too Soon for Summer!” Every sentence they uttered seemed to end with an exclamation point. The show was abruptly interrupted just as the female anchor had accidentally-on-purpose flipped her burger at the male anchor’s apron-covered chest.

  A slightly less photogenic local announcer spoke breathlessly into the camera: “Breaking news out of Sewickley this morning. Local police have identified the gun recovered from a creek last week as the same weapon used in the murder of prominent plastic surgeon Dr. Viktor Lysenko.”

  I choked on my mimosa, orange juice dribbling down my chin as I reached for the remote, cranking up the volume.

  The camera jumped to a press conference. Mostly male police officers clustered around a podium as a silver-haired whi
te man identified as the Sewickley chief of police and a dark-haired white man who was the head of the Allegheny County Police Department vied for equal time in front of the microphone. “Our ballistics experts have provided a perfect match between the barrel of the recovered semiautomatic and the bullet found in Dr. Viktor Lysenko.”

  Julie’s cell phone rang and rang before going to voice mail. In desperation I called her home, but the same thing happened. I called Alison, but she didn’t answer either. “Oh my God, oh my God,” I kept repeating as I paced up and down the living room. An unseen reporter asked, “Were there any fingerprints on the gun?” But the Sewickley police chief would only say, “We can’t comment on that at this time, but the investigation is ongoing.”

  How had they managed to fish out that gun? We should have gotten rid of it somewhere else; we should have sunk it in the river with a concrete block. Or burnt it. Could you burn a gun? We hadn’t been thinking clearly, we’d just been desperate to be done with it. So stupid. The whole plan had been stupid.

  Finishing my drink with one big gulp, I kept hitting the redial number for Julie. “C’mon, c’mon, pick up already.” I left voice mails again for her and Alison.

  Would they trace the gun to Julie? I imagined there was a serial number on it somewhere, but I didn’t know how that worked. She’d said Brian didn’t even know she had the gun. Had she bought it illegally? Wouldn’t that make it worse if they found out it was hers? What if Alison hadn’t wiped it off carefully—what if they found Julie or Heather’s fingerprints on the gun? The thoughts cycled around my head, endless and obsessive without any clear answers.

  The TV cut back to the morning show, where the grinning faces of the anchors now felt mocking. I shut it off and hurled the remote across the room as Julie’s phone went to voice mail yet again: “Hi! You’ve reached Julie Phelps. I can’t come to the phone right now, but your call is important to me. Please leave your name and number and I promise I’ll get back to you. Leave a message after the beep.”