Need to Know

by Karen Cleveland

  I hold his gaze, hold my breath, wait for him to continue.

  “We’ll pay. Enough for you to provide for your children, for a long time to come.”

  I stare at him, watch him take another drag, blow smoke from his nose slowly, looking out at the street. Then he drops the cigarette onto the porch, grinds it out with the heel of his boot. Gives me a pointed look. “You’re all your kids have left. Never forget that.”

  —

  AFTER THE MISCARRIAGE, there was no question I wanted another child. I ached for the one I’d lost. The little girl whose face still came to me in my dreams. Every time I saw a pregnant woman, I compared her belly to where mine should be, and my heart hurt. I wanted to be the one in pants with elastic waistbands, the one with the puffy ankles. I wanted to be turning the guest room into a nursery, folding the impossibly tiny newborn clothes.

  And most of all, I wanted a baby. I knew I’d never have her, the one I lost, but I wanted another. An infant to cuddle, to nurse, to love, to protect. I wanted another chance.

  We could afford two in day care, but not three. Matt was quick to point that out, and I couldn’t get his reaction to the last pregnancy out of my mind. So even though I wanted nothing more than to be pregnant, we waited until Luke was in kindergarten to try again.

  And this time, when the little line turned blue, I was terrified. That I’d lose this baby, too. That Matt would have the same reaction as last time. So I kept the news to myself, first for a day, then for two. I waited for the bleeding to begin. And when it didn’t, I decided I needed to tell him.

  I didn’t plan any sort of announcement. The BIG SISTER shirt was a painful memory. When the kids were asleep, when we were alone, curled up together on the couch for TV before bed, I held up the test strip and waited.

  He looked at it, then at me. “We’re pregnant,” he whispered, and a grin slowly spread across his face. Then he wrapped me in a hug, so tight I almost worried about the little one inside me.

  A few weeks later, we had our first ob-gyn appointment. I’d been counting down the days, desperate for this reassurance that everything was okay, terrified every time I went to the bathroom that I’d see blood. As I sat in the chair, beside the ultrasound machine, there was another fear filling my mind. That there’d be no heartbeat. That something would be wrong.

  Dr. Brown began the ultrasound. Matt reached for my hand, and I gripped it hard as I watched the screen, panic setting in. Waited for the fuzz to come into focus as she adjusted the wand, searching for just the right spot, the right view. Desperate to see movement, the flutter of a beating heart. And then there it was, a little white blob, heart beating away.

  And beside it, a second one.

  I stared at the screen, knowing exactly what I was seeing. Then I peeled my eyes away, over to Matt. He could see it, too. His face paled, and he shot me a smile, but it was strained.

  He may have been scared, nervous, whatever, but I was beyond thrilled. Twins. Not just one baby to cuddle, but two. Almost like I was getting a second chance with the baby I’d lost a year earlier.

  On the car ride home, we were quiet, each of us alone with our thoughts, until finally Matt spoke. “How are we going to do this?”

  I wasn’t sure if he meant raising four kids, or dealing with two babies waking through the night, or finances, or whatever. But I answered the question I thought was on his mind. The one that was on my mind. “I’ll stay home.”

  Matt was gripping the steering wheel so tight I could see the skin stretch over his knuckles.

  “At least for a while—”

  “But won’t you miss it?”

  I looked out the windshield. “I might.” I stopped myself before I said more. I knew I’d miss it. I’d miss the promise of making a difference. Of seeing if that new methodology I’d developed would actually lead us to anyone involved in the sleeper program. “I’d miss the kids more, though.”

  “But eventually—”

  “Eventually I can go back.” I hoped I could, anyway. When the kids would all be in school, when time didn’t feel like it was slipping through my fingers before I could catch it. When I could really focus on the job, give it the attention it deserved, and not feel like I was doing a mediocre job at everything in my life.

  “Can you, though?” He glanced over.

  I was quiet. The truth was, there was no guarantee I could return. Those long-rumored budget cuts had come to pass, and hiring was at a standstill. If I left, it might be for good.

  “Health insurance is going to be a problem,” he said. “We’ve been lucky with yours.” He shook his head. “My coverage is terrible. Premiums are through the roof.”

  I looked away from him, out the window. The words were true; Matt’s job had some real benefits, but good health insurance had never been one of them. “We’re healthy,” I said. I didn’t want roadblocks right now.

  “It’s just with twins, sometimes there are complications….”

  A car whizzed by in the next lane, much too fast. I didn’t respond.

  “And getting used to one salary’s going to be an adjustment.”

  There was a sick feeling in my stomach, a pressure in my chest, enough that I felt a flash of panic for the babies. I couldn’t be stressed like that. I needed to calm down. I took a deep breath, then another.

  “The babies won’t be babies forever, you know,” he said.

  “I know,” I said, my voice a whisper. Everything outside was a blur. What if I wasn’t just taking a break from climbing the career ladder? What if I could never get back on the ladder at all? My job was part of my identity. Was I ready to let it go?

  I wanted both. Time with the kids, and a rewarding career. But it didn’t seem possible.

  A few moments later, his hand reached for mine. “I just don’t know how it’s going to work,” he said quietly. “I just want us to be okay.”

  —

  I WATCH YURY WALK AWAY, to a car parked across the street, a black four-door sedan. D.C. plates—red, white, and blue. I read the tag and repeat it under my breath, once, twice. Watch him pull away from the curb, off down my street, until his taillights disappear. Dig into my bag, pull out a pen and a scrap of paper, scribble down the plate number.

  Then I collapse. I sink to the ground and wrap my arms around my knees. I’m shaking uncontrollably. Is this really happening?

  The only reason I’m in this whole mess is because I wanted to protect Matt, keep him there for the kids, keep our lives as normal as possible. And now he’s gone.

  He lied to me about Marta and Trey. He told Yury about them; of course he did. How could I have been so gullible? And why didn’t he just tell me the truth? I can’t get his face out of my mind, the way he looked when he swore to me he never told. Not a glimmer of deception. I really have no way of telling what’s a lie and what’s not, do I?

  And the kids. Oh God, the kids. You’re all your kids have left. Yury’s right, isn’t he? What would happen to them if I went to jail?

  I hear the door opening behind me, that creak that needs to be fixed. “Vivian?” My mom’s voice. And then footsteps, coming closer, the smell of her perfume as she kneels down next to me. “Oh, honey,” she murmurs.

  She wraps her arms around me, in a way she hasn’t since I was small. I bury my head in her softness, like I’m a child again.

  “Vivian, honey, what’s the matter? Is it Matt? Did you hear from him?”

  I feel like I’m drowning. I shake my head, still buried in her arms. She’s stroking my hair. I can feel the love radiating out from her. The overwhelming sense that she wants to fix this, to take away this pain. That she’d do anything for me.

  I pull away slowly and look at her. Somehow, in the dark, the way the light from the front door is falling on her face, the way her features are contorted in concern, she looks older. How many years do she and my dad have left, in good health? Not enough to care for my four kids. To raise them.

  And seeing me sent to prison, I can’t
even imagine what it would do to them.

  “You will, honey. I’m sure you will.” But the uncertainty is etched on her face. I know the look. The self-doubt. The realization that maybe Matt isn’t who she thought he was, because the man she thought he was wouldn’t just disappear. And I don’t want to see it. I don’t want the doubt, or the lies that are somehow supposed to make me feel better.

  She moves from kneeling to sitting, scoots close to me. We sit in silence. One of her hands is on my back, rubbing gentle circles, the same way I do with my own kids. I hear the cicadas. A car door opening, closing again.

  “What happened?” she asks quietly, finally voicing the question that I know has been at the forefront of her mind since I first called. “Why is Matt gone?”

  I stare straight ahead, the Kellers’ house, the blue shutters, blinds drawn, lighting peeking through a few of the windows.

  “If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine,” she says.

  I do want to talk about it. I have an overwhelming urge to just start babbling, to spill everything, to share the secrets. But it wouldn’t be fair to put that burden on my mom. No, I can’t do that. This is my burden, alone, to bear.

  But I have to tell her something. “There were some things in his past,” I say carefully. “Things he never told me about.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I see her nod, like it’s what she expected to hear, or at least like it’s not surprising. I picture her and my dad sitting around the night I called, trying to come up with explanations for what happened. I fight the urge to laugh. Oh, Mom, it’s nothing like you thought.

  “Before you met?” she asks.

  I nod.

  It takes her a moment to respond, like she’s gathering her thoughts. “We’ve all made mistakes,” she says.

  “The mistake was not telling me the truth,” I say quietly. Because it’s true. It wasn’t a single moment of weakness that brought us to this point, was it? It was ten years of lying.

  I see her nod again. She’s still rubbing my back, endless circles. One of the windows in the Kellers’ house goes dark. “Sometimes,” she begins haltingly, “we think that shielding the truth will protect those we love the most.”

  I stare at the dark window, the little rectangle, now black. That’s what I did, isn’t it? Tried to protect my family. I picture myself in front of my computer at work, cursor hovering over the Delete button.

  “I don’t know the details, of course,” she adds. “But the Matt I know is a good person.”

  I nod, tears stinging my eyes, trying my best to hold them in. The Matt I know, too, is a good person. One who wouldn’t just disappear.

  But what if the Matt we both knew didn’t really exist at all?

  —

  WHEN THE KIDS ARE ALL in bed and Mom and Dad have slipped into the makeshift guest room, the little nook with the pull-out couch, I sit alone in the family room, the silence heavy around me.

  Yury came to my home. This isn’t over. They’re not going to leave me alone like they left Marta alone, and Trey.

  I did something illegal. And they have proof that could send me to prison.

  They own me.

  Yury’s warning is reverberating in my skull. You’re all your kids have left. It’s true. Matt’s gone. I can’t keep waiting for him to come back, to swoop in and save the day. I need to do it myself.

  I need to fight.

  I need to stay out of jail.

  As long as Yury has proof of what I did, remaining free seems impossible. As long as Yury has proof. The thought hits me like a blow. What if he didn’t have it anymore?

  The CIA has nothing on me. It’s only the Russians. Only Yury.

  He must have a copy of what he left in my mailbox. Those printouts that prove I saw Matt’s picture. That’s what he’s using to blackmail me. What if I find his copy and destroy it? He’d have no leverage. Sure, he could still tell the authorities everything, but it’d be his word against mine.

  That’s it. That’s the solution, the way I stay out of jail, stay with my kids. I destroy the evidence.

  And that means I need to find him.

  Adrenaline’s coursing through me. I stand up, head into the hallway. Dig into my work bag, find the scrap of paper with Yury’s license plate number.

  Then I go up to the closet in the twins’ room, pull a plastic bin down from the highest shelf. Clothes they’ve outgrown. I dig around, find the burner phone. I head back into the family room, find Omar’s number, remove the battery from my cell, and place the call on the prepaid line.

  “It’s Vivian,” I say when he answers. “I need a favor.”

  “Shoot.”

  “I need you to run a plate for me.”

  “Okay.” For the first time, he hesitates. “Can you tell me why?”

  “There was a car on my street today.” Truth, so far. “Just sitting there. Seemed suspicious. It’s probably nothing, but thought I’d check it out.” The lie comes more easily than I expected.

  “Yeah, of course. One sec.”

  I hear shuffling in the background, and I picture him opening up his laptop, navigating to a Bureau database, something that pulls in registry information from everywhere, all the data that’s out there. The plate will give me a name and address. Whatever alias Yury’s using in the U.S., if I’m lucky. And if not his actual address, then at least a lead. Something to run down.

  “Ready,” Omar says. I read him the plate number and hear the click of keys on his keyboard. There’s a long pause, followed by more typing. Then he reads the number back to me, asks if I’m sure that’s it. I double-check the scrap of paper, tell him I’m sure.

  “Hmm,” he says. “That’s weird.”

  I hold my breath, wait for him to go on.

  “I’ve never seen this before.”

  My heart’s thumping so loud I can hear it. “What?”

  “There’s no record that the plate exists.”

  —

  THE NEXT MORNING, I’m pulling a coffee mug from the cabinet when I catch sight of the tumbler. Shiny metal, just sitting there on the shelf. I freeze.

  That license plate was my only lead to Yury. I have no idea how to find him, how to destroy the evidence that could land me behind bars.

  Slowly, I reach for the tumbler. I take it down from the shelf, place it on the counter.

  I could do it. I could bring that flash drive in to work, put it in the computer. Just like last time. And then this would all be over. Matt said so; Yury said so.

  We’ll pay. Enough for you to provide for your children, for a long time to come. Yury’s promise runs through my mind. That was a big part of the reason I didn’t turn Matt in to begin with—the fear that I couldn’t provide for the kids, on my own, if he were gone. Now he’s gone. And Yury just offered me a way to do it.

  And then Matt’s words, from so long ago, that day in the car. If anything happens to me, do whatever it takes to take care of the kids.

  Whatever it takes.

  “Vivian?”

  I turn, and it’s my mom. I didn’t even hear her come into the kitchen. She’s watching me, a look of concern on her face. “Are you okay?”

  I look back at the tumbler, see my reflection in it, that distorted image. That’s not who I am, is it? I’m different than that. I’m stronger.

  I turn away from it, back to my mom. “I’m okay.”

  —

  I SIT AT MY desk, a mug of coffee in front of me, bits of grounds floating on top. I stare at my screen, open to an intelligence report, something random, so if anyone glances over it looks like I’m reading, when I’m actually not. I try desperately to get my mind to focus.

  I have to find that evidence. I have to destroy it. But I have no idea how.

  Omar checked more databases, still came up empty on the plate. Vivian, what’s going on? he asked. I must have written down the wrong number, came my reply. But I knew I hadn’t, and the fact that there’s no record of the plate terrifies me.
>
  I think fleetingly of taking the kids and running, but it’s not an option. The Russians are good. They’d find us.

  I need to stay here and fight.

  —

  LATE THAT NIGHT, after the kids and my parents are asleep, I’m alone in the family room, mindless television for company, to avoid the heavy silence that descends on the house when it’s off. A dating show, dozens of women competing for a single man, all of them madly in love, even though not one of them can really, truly know who he is.

  My phone begins to vibrate, dancing ever so slightly on the couch cushion beside me. Matt, I think, because that’s the whole reason I keep it on now. But the screen says UNKNOWN instead of displaying a number. Not Matt. It continues to vibrate, a nagging buzz. I mute the TV, then reach for it and answer, holding it to my ear carefully, like it’s something dangerous. “Hello?”

  “Vivian,” he says, the distinctive voice, the Russian accent. My stomach twists into a knot. “Another day, and still you haven’t completed the task.” The tone is friendly, conversational. Unnerving, really, since the words are threatening, accusatory.

  “There wasn’t an opportunity today,” I lie, because in this moment, stalling seems to be my only option.

  “Ah,” he says, one thick syllable that somehow lets me know he doesn’t believe me. “Well. I’m going to patch you through to someone who”—he pauses, as if searching for the right words—“might convince you to find the opportunity.”

  There’s a click on the line, then another. Some sort of shuffling. I wait, tense, and then I hear it. Matt’s voice. “Viv, it’s me.”

  My fingers tighten around the phone. “Matt? Where are you?”

  A pause. “Moscow.”

  Moscow. Impossible. Moscow means he left. Left the kids alone that day, without a parent. I hadn’t realized until this moment that I didn’t truly believe it. That I was still holding on to hope that he’d make his way back to us, that he hadn’t really left.

  “Look, you need to do this.”

  I’m numb. Speechless. Moscow. This doesn’t feel real.

  “Think about the kids.”

  Think about the kids. How dare he say that? “Did you?” I ask, my voice hardening. I picture Luke, alone at the kitchen table, the day Matt disappeared. The younger three, waiting by the front desk at school.