Take It to the Grave Part 2 of 6

by Zoe Carter

  “You, too, hon.” I know she hasn’t been fooled by my performance. Di is the one person I’ve never been able to con. “Watch your back.”

  “I’ll try my best. Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  I clutch the phone to my heart for a moment, picturing Di and how much fun we used to have. We ruled the world once, she and I. We were queens of Manhattan.

  Somewhere along the way, I had lost myself. Remembering how I’d gorged that afternoon, I cringe. Even though Tessie’s buns are long gone, I swear I can feel them swelling in my stomach, making me uncomfortably full.

  The stink of something vile fills my nose.

  “Don’t make me eat those, please. They’re rotten.” Maisey’s voice trembles as tears spill over her cheeks. She gags, pressing a hand over her mouth and turning her face away.

  The memory causes bile to rise in my throat. I’d forgotten how my stepfather had tortured my sister, forcing her to eat rotten eggs and moldy bread until she vomited. Whenever I’d tried to intervene, he’d gotten angry and pushed me away. Afterward, I’d stay with her until she fell asleep, pressing cold cloths to her head and giving her ginger ale.

  How could I have forgotten?

  Locking the unwelcome memory back where it belongs, I remind myself of the task at hand—fixing the mess my life has become. My binging must end. I refuse to live like this any longer, feeling sluggish and ashamed; I’m going to lose this weight for good. I’m going to remind my husband exactly who he married.

  Warwick used to trail after me like an addict desperate for a fix. Somehow, after Elliot was born, the power shifted.

  My son’s whimpers turn into a howl as I reach for him. In spite of my cracked nipples, I decide to give nursing another go. Anything to make Warwick happy.

  Elliot promptly hits me in the breast, pushing his face away. His tiny lips are pressed together, his skin hot against mine.

  “Come on, El. You have to eat.”

  As my baby screeches, my newfound confidence fades. How am I supposed to control my husband when my own son won’t listen to me?

  “Why do you keep torturing yourself?”

  The voice startles me and I jump. I’d thought we were alone. I’m relieved when I see it’s Bridget again, not Warwick or Eleanor.

  The sympathy in her voice makes me want to weep. She must think I’m the worst mother ever. “He...he won’t latch on.” There’s no point in hiding it, not from her. Bridget sees everything that goes on around here. In many ways, she’s the true matriarch of the house.

  She lifts Elliot out of my arms, and for once I don’t panic at having him taken from me. “Some babies aren’t meant to nurse. Don’t keep beating yourself up about it.” She catches a glimpse of my raw nipples before I can re-button my blouse. “You’re bleeding.”

  “I never thought it would be this hard.”

  Bridget smiles. “If you think this is hard, wait until he’s two. Why don’t you get some balm for your skin and another bottle? I’ll keep him company, don’t worry.”

  “Eleanor will never be okay with this.” I say the words without thinking. I’ve never criticized my mother-in-law publicly before, not even to Warwick.

  “Well, it’s not her baby, is it?” Bridget sticks her tongue out, and I bite my lip to keep from laughing. “If Her Highness has a problem with it, tell her to talk to me.”

  The levity doesn’t last. As I warm a bottle for my son, I survey the spacious kitchen, so high tech it resembles the set of Star Trek. I don’t know how most of the appliances work, or even what they’re for.

  This house was going to be my castle. Warwick promised me I’d be treated like a queen. Why, then, do I feel like such a prisoner?

  Maisey

  “So then we had to catch the damn ferry, shivering in our jocks!”

  I laughed on cue, my hand tapping Hugo’s shoulder in a part pat, part caress move that I’d perfected during a stint building a women’s clinic in Bali. I shifted on the backseat in the taxi, and the smell of old sweat, tired perfume and—ugh, was that eau de puke?—hit me. I swayed a little in the seat as the cab turned a corner, and I winced a little at the Chinese burn on my skin as my bare arms didn’t quite peel off from the leather backrest with the movement. The air-conditioning consisted of rolling the four windows down. Yes, that’s right. Rolling. And today was hot.

  “Oh, I can tell you about a similar night out,” I said, ignoring the physical discomfort as I proceeded to regale him with the story of drunken revelry on Mykonos. The event had actually happened in Cambodia, but Lucy’s imitation Greek accent was way better than her imitation Cambodian accent. I’d learned that people didn’t really focus too much on details, just whether you could make them laugh or not. Hugo threw his head back as he roared when I told him we’d ended up behind bars. It sounded funny, in retrospect. Not so funny at the time, though. The rest of those details were murky. Well, okay, I had no recollection between then and my release, but Lucy never let me trouble myself over it. That was Lucy’s gift, making people laugh, relaxing them and finding the comedy in any horror story.

  “So after that I cut my hair short, just to avoid any further issues,” I said, running my hand through my pixie cut.

  Hugo nodded. “It suits you.”

  “Easy care, wash and wear,” I told him. That was me. Not too complicated, no fuss, just set and forget. Lucy was never plagued with guilt over Rich, or Pedro. She was a rolling stone...

  Hugo drove the cab through the quiet, tranquil streets of Long Island, and his gaze met mine briefly in the rear-view mirror. I didn’t miss the warmth, the admiration, there.

  “You know, Lucy, you’re a real nice lady,” Hugo said, returning his gaze back to the road. “I get so many fakes and phonies in that backseat, fascinated by their phones...” He shook his head, and I nodded, giving him a commiserating smile that I’d used when giving patients not-so-good news. Not to be confused with the look I used when giving patients bad, you-have-a-fatal-condition type of news. I’d learned that commiserating smiles weren’t appropriate on those particular occasions.

  “Oh, I totally get it. Folks are so preoccupied with talking to their so-called ‘friends’ online, they forget about the personal contact around them, right?” I nodded again.

  “Right.” Hugo nodded emphatically. Yep, we were both nodding. Hugo believed we were totally in sync.

  “I much prefer to focus on the people around me,” I said, and winked at him in the mirror. He grinned.

  “You and me both, baby.”

  Like I said. Totally in sync.

  Hugo looked a little older than me, but seemed so much younger. I felt so worldly, so cynical, in the presence of his open curiosity and naiveté. He was the kind of guy who accepted everything at face value. And he was cute, in a “just rolled out of bed” kind of way, his dark hair thick and wavy, and his brown eyes so dark and, well, sexy. Just my type. The ride over to Long Island had been pleasant. Lots of conversation. Lots of gazes meeting in the rear-view mirror.

  “So, Lucy, what do you do for fun?”

  I smiled as I leaned back in my seat, belatedly realising my skin was adhering to the leather like the suction pad on an octopus’s tentacle as it trapped its prey, but again decided to ignore the discomfort. I let Lucy’s flirtatious side come out. “Lots of things,” I said casually as I tucked a short wisp of hair behind my ear. “I like to get active.”

  “I bet you do, honey. You look...fit.”

  I laughed, and color bloomed in Hugo’s cheeks. “I don’t mean like some of those muscle-bound chicks,” he said hurriedly. “You’re fit, but still curvy.” He closed his eyes briefly. “I mean, you look good.”

  I grinned at his awkwardness, and decided to make things easy for him. “Thanks. I’ve just come from Thailand—the surf there is
awesome.”

  “You like to surf?” Hugo’s eyes flicked up to the mirror for a moment, and I could feel his gaze sweep over me, as though trying to picture me in a swimsuit. I arched my back against the seat, just a little, and right on cue, he focused on my breasts. And not the schlocking noise as my back separated from the seat.

  “Uh-huh. Give me someplace hot and I just want to get wet.” I was being suggestive, and we both knew it. Hugo’s eyes widened, as though surprised, but he liked it. He chuckled, shaking his head as he turned down yet another tree-lined street.

  “You’re bad, Lucy. I like it.”

  I laughed, low and throaty. The sound was knowing, familiar and just a little dirty, the way Lucy had practiced, and Hugo kept taking his eyes off the road to look at me, as though addicted to the sight, the sound. I loved it. Loved the teasing, the tempting, the persuasion... It was so easy, so relaxing, so fun. This was addictive, the first meet, the blank canvas, where I could be any way I liked, anyone I liked. And everyone liked Lucy.

  “So, what brings you to Long Island, Lucy?”

  I’d hooked him. It was almost too easy, but it’s what I did great. Charm people with a smile, some light flirtation and banter, and build the curiosity about Lucy.

  “My sister’s just had a baby,” I told him smoothly. “I’m here for the christening party.”

  Hugo smiled. “Her first?”

  I nodded.

  “Congratulations to her, and to you on becoming a first-time auntie.”

  “Thanks,” I said as I turned to gaze unseeingly out the window at the homes we were passing. Until I’d seen Sarah’s email invite, I hadn’t even known she was pregnant. For a moment, my smile dipped as I remembered Alice making her own announcement.

  My mother stood in the kitchen, a beatific smile lighting her face, and told my sister and me that we were going to have a new baby brother or sister.

  She was beaming at us, so happy, so joyous, so oblivious to our shock. Happy days apparently. She went on and on. The baby was going to make everything all right. Peter’s baby was going to make everything all right. The same man who’d smashed her face into the oven not five weeks before. The man who’d sworn he’d never hurt her again. Now everything was sunshine and rainbows and frigging unicorns.

  The cold linoleum against my bare feet was mocking the warm elation we were trying to dredge up as my mother walked out of the kitchen, that dreamy smile on her face, her stare just a little glazed over. I had a sinking-heart feeling, the dip in my stomach as though we’d crested the hill of a roller coaster and were plunging down a steep drop, out of control, racing toward rock bottom.

  My sister’s hand was clenched around mine. “Was it rape or make-up sex?” Sarah murmured as the door swung closed. I sat there wondering what rape was—and make-up sex? What on earth was make-up sex? There are different kinds of sex? I was still figuring out my period, let alone all the adult concepts surrounding that secret, taboo activity. Seeing the confusion on my face, she explained the difference. My mouth fell open. The shock didn’t come from learning about rape, it was from learning that my sister had thought, at least once, that it existed in our house.

  “This is it, Lucy,” Hugo said as he parked in a driveway.

  I blinked, finally focusing on the house we’d pulled up in front of. I gaped. It was...oh, wow. I rolled down the window, almost tasting the salt in the wind, hearing the muted roar of waves. The house was simply spectacular, and I caught glimpses of the beach and the sea beyond. Sarah and...Warren? Warwick? That sounded right. My jaw tightened. I was struggling to remember the name of my sister’s husband, the father of my nephew. Years ago one of my nursing colleagues had suggested I got checked out for my occasional blackouts, and even now, there were blank spaces in time when I just couldn’t remember what I’d done. Frankly, though, it rarely became a problem, and never affected my work. Still, I had to work hard to focus on some details. Like my brother-in-law’s name.

  I looked past the house. From what I could see, Sarah and Warwick’s home backed onto their own private beach. I squinted as light reflected off floor-to-ceiling windows, and I had to shield my eyes so that I could follow the modern angles and lines of the contemporary beachside mansion. And it was a mansion. This was no simple house. Clean, contemporary, there was a sharpness, a majestic aloofness, about the home, with an asymmetrical facade that drew the eye. Yeah, this was not a kit home, for sure. Architecturally designed, unique and very, very expensive.

  Who are these people? How on earth had my sister become a part of this lifestyle?

  I swallowed, then realized Hugo had turned around in his seat to stare at me, a spark of curiosity in his eyes as he watched me try to accept the implications of what I saw.

  I shook myself a little, and dragged on my sunglasses to hide my shock, my nervousness. “Well, this will suit Lucy just fine!” I forced one of Lucy’s husky laughs, and Hugo laughed right along with me. Totally in sync. My lips stretched into a grin, and thankfully my handbag hid my trembling fingers as I fumbled for some money for the ride.

  Hugo met my eyes as I paid him his fare. “Hey, Lucy...can I—can I get your number? Maybe give you a call sometime?”

  I looked into his so-young eyes and smiled. That sounded nice. Uncomplicated. Fun. “Sure.”

  I waited for him to pull out his phone, my gaze skittering back to the monolith of a mansion, then turned to him when he indicated he was ready.

  “Lucy—L-U-C-Y.” I spelled it for him, then gave him a string of digits that sounded like they could be Lucy’s phone number. He really was sweet. Too sweet for Lucy. She’d chew him up and spit him out, and I didn’t have it in me to hurt yet another guy’s feelings, not so soon, and not one so sincere, so artless. I was doing Hugo a favor. I was doing us both a favor.

  I waved casually as I hauled my backpack along the seat and climbed out of the car. For a moment I stood there, trying to take it all in. Too much. There was just too much. I ignored the cab as it reversed out of the drive; I ignored the friendly toot of the horn as Hugo drove off.

  I started to walk up the drive toward the entrance. Yeah, you couldn’t just call this a front door; it was an entrance. I could feel the heat of the dark paving beneath my shoes, building with each step I took, as though this place was trying to sear through my comfortable protection. It was hot. Not hot and muggy, like Thailand or Cambodia. No, this heat was scorching, saved from being suffocating by the slightly cooler edge of a half-hearted breeze off the water, as though even the wind was sapped of energy in this heat. I could hear the crashing of waves against the shore behind the house. From this spot I couldn’t see the beach—it was lower than the house—but I could see the massive expanse of ocean beyond, infrequently interrupted by the white cap of a wave. Mostly, though, it was like a plane of glass, a mirror to the cloudless sky, hiding its depths behind its reflection. My gaze focused on the glass-and-concrete facade, and sweat snaked between my shoulder blades, cold and panicky. I flexed my shoulders, trying to make sure the fabric of my top didn’t stick to my back. That would not do, not here. I could hear the rhythmic whish-whish of sprinklers, and I glanced at the garden. I halted.

  Holy. Crap. They have a gardener.

  My backpack hit the pavement. I watched as the man, his features obscured by a wide-brimmed straw hat, drove a ride-on mower along the width of the lawn. He reached one end, turned the wheel until he faced the direction he’d come from, and drove on, creating that striped pattern on the lawn that just oozed care, luxury and way too much money. That lawn was almost as big as the village center I’d just left in Thailand.

  I retreated a little, and checked the number on the front wall. Well, it looked like the right number. I glanced up and down the peaceful street. Was I in the right place? Really? Because this so wasn’t what I was expecting. I glanced back at the house, the wide expanse of lawn, the lus
h greenery, the edged drive and, along the fence, the gardener.

  He saw me, and apparently noticed the I’m-so-lost expression on my face so that he drove the noisy ride-on mower toward me. “Can I help you, miss?” he asked politely.

  I smiled, but even I knew it lacked confidence. “Uh, I’m looking for Sarah Taylor-Cox...?” I had to be in the wrong place. I glanced back down the street. Hugo and his cab were long gone. How was I going to find Sarah?

  “This is their home,” the gardener told me, smiling. I blinked, my jaw dropping as I stared up at the house that looked like it belonged on the cover of House Beautiful. “Oh, thank you,” I said, and took a tentative step toward the front door.

  Who are these people? The gardener touched his hat, then swayed a little with the ponderous rumble of the mower as he turned back to his task of keeping the lawn that already looked like part of a golf course. It was going to take him a good few minutes to reach the other end, where he would turn again. Monotonous, sonorous, it was a summer soundtrack like the one I’d grown up with, but different. Like comparing cassettes to re-mastered digital files. Same music, but the difference in quality was obvious.

  I swallowed. What the hell was I doing here? I’d spent the last few years working, playing and rolling in the dirt and dust, building clinics, saving lives for a charity I would bet my last baht none of these people had ever heard of or thought to support. I brushed my bangs off my sweaty forehead. I should have got my hair done. Honestly, a couple of hours in a hairdresser’s chair wouldn’t have gone astray. A cut, a color—God, a proper wash and head massage...anything to smarten up my look.

  You look fine. Sarah isn’t going to care about your hair. I reached for my backpack and cringed. Okay, a manicure would have been good, too. My nails were ripped, jagged, and it looked like I still had grit and dirt embedded underneath and along the cuticle. Classy. Get over it. I clenched my hand. Hell, I felt so nervous, so out of place, so—unprepared. The cab driver was easy. Flash him a smile, give him a wink and a nod, and he’d lapped it up. Easy. These people, though...these people were savvy. They encountered a lot of fake charm and attention. They could probably spot a phony smile at a hundred paces, so accustomed to the fabricated pleasantries. My stomach tightened, like a biker readying to let loose with a haymaker in a barroom brawl.