The First Cut

by Ellery Kane

  “Four, huh?” It’s not the first time she’s surprised me with something she must have kept locked up tight in her brain. Until her brain turned to Swiss cheese and some things were lost and some things remained. And she couldn’t remember which of those things were secrets anymore. I can’t be sure it’s true, but it rests heavy on my chest. The crushing weight of the past. Of questions I can’t ask, because there’s no one to answer them. It’s a brutal kind of melancholy. This I know: Dad made Detective in the LAPD Narcotics Division one year after I was born, and there were no more after me.

  “At least four,” she says, winking at me the way she used to do.

  I peek at the clock behind her bed. It’s already been ten minutes. “Would you like to wear your wedding ring?”

  It’s cruel, but what choice do I have? In an instant, her face clouds, and she stares at her left hand, at her ringless finger. “I thought . . . I . . . where’s my ring? What have you done with it?”

  I shush her, patting her arm, as she starts to cry. “It’s okay. You put it somewhere for safekeeping.”

  “I did? I don’t remember.”

  “I know. But I do.” I leave her sniffling on the sofa and head to the small closet where I’d hung the clothes she never wears anymore. It’s all sweatpants and gray gripper socks now. I reach beneath her lipstick-red peacoat and pull the safe toward me, out into the light.

  “I have a—?” My mother points at the perlite box, straining. “Oh, what is that called?”

  “A safe. It’s fireproof, and it holds all your important papers and belongings, including your wedding ring. Do you remember the combination?”

  I’m a horrible daughter. “I’m not sure,” she says.

  “It’s your birthday. One. Four. Fifty-six.”

  A horrible person. My fingers turn the dial to another date. One I know she’d never guess. Because it fell through the holes in her brain a long time ago. 6/5/96. The day my father killed himself.

  Appeased by my effort, by my guilt, the lock clicks, and I open the door. “Here you go,” I tell her, handing her the best engagement ring my father could afford on a cop’s salary. A simple gold band with a half-carat diamond.

  “Thank you, dear.” As my mother admires the ring, loose on her finger, I find what I came for and stuff it into my purse, closing the safe with a satisfying thud. “You look so familiar,” she says. “Do I know you?”

  I’m going straight to hell. “I don’t think so. I just have one of those faces.”

  ****

  I follow routine—it would be suspicious not to—and stop at the nurse’s station to exchange pleasantries with Nurse Ellerby before I book it back to the car. Later, I’ll call Cliffside and tell them I forgot to return my mother’s ring to the safe. I’ll ask them to keep it for me at the desk. For now, I put on the usual mask.

  “Mom is pretty out of it today,” I say, shrugging. “She thinks it’s 1981.”

  Nurse Ellerby grins. “Leg-warmers and parachute pants. My favorite decade.”

  “Don’t forget shoulder pads. And cheesy John Hughes movies.”

  “Like I said, my favorite decade.” She glances over her shoulder, then motions me to the log book at the corner of the desk. “Is everything alright, Doctor Lawson?”

  “As alright as can be expected. Why do you ask?” I keep my face solid, but my insides are mush. Hydra food.

  “A guy came by here asking to see the log book. He wanted to know who visited your mom last week.”

  “That’s strange. What did he look like?”

  “He was young. A stern, good-looking fella. Said he was a cop.”

  “Did he leave his name? Or sign in?” She shakes her head. “He said he’d be back though. After I told him he’d need a warrant.”

  “Is that true?”

  “Probably not, but it sounded good. And I had fun saying it. Anyway, I thought you might like to know.”

  “Thanks, Patty.” I pretend to turn to go. Then stop short and look back at her, hopeful. “Hey, would you mind if I took a look at the log? Without a warrant.”

  “You know I can’t let you do that.” Her eyes flit down the hall and back to me. “And I’m about to go on my break, so make sure you don’t sneak a peek.”

  “I’d never.”

  “Didn’t think so.”

  I wait until the sound of her footfalls grow faint and disappear. I flip the pages of the spiral-bound book and slide my finger down, down, down, until I find it. Tuesday, February 14. The afternoon before the murder. My name is there. At 6:30 p.m. As shaky as I’d been, the signature is neat. Legible.

  I scan the lines below it, not sure what I’m looking for. But it comes anyway. Certain as the tide.

  Wednesday, February 15, 1:15 p.m. Luke Donovan.

  I stare at it, still unsure. Trying to make sense of it. Luke has never come here alone. Hell, he’s never come here at all, not for lack of trying. And Luke doesn’t lie. I nearly laugh out loud at the absurdity of my faith in him. When will I learn my lesson? Lies attract liars, and I tell lies.

  I snap a picture of the log with my phone and head for the door, nerves buzzing. I drive a few blocks before I pull to the shoulder and open the bag from the safe. The blue canvas is stamped “Monterey County Bank and Trust.”

  “It’s all I can give you for now. I’ll have the rest next month.” That’s what Ian had said when he’d tossed the bag at me, disgusted. Like he couldn’t stand to look at me. “This isn’t you, Ava. You’re not like this.”

  “Like what?” I’d asked.

  “Spiteful.”

  “Really, Ian? That’s all I am. That’s what you made me. And you’re no different. Spite is the glue that held us together.” His lack of protest had leveled me. But at least his silence proved it. I was right.

  I count the money again, same as I’d done the night he’d given it to me. Ten stacks of one hundred crisp hundred-dollar bills. I sit back and breathe it in for a moment, thinking of Ian. Inhaling the sharp smell of ink and cotton. If spite has an odor, this is it.

  If the first year of marriage is the hardest, then you picked the wrong person.

  —Ian Culpepper, Prescription for Love

  Valentine’s Day

  Seven Years Earlier

  Ava leaned into the mirror and studied her face. The swollen spot above her left eyebrow ached, tender to the touch but not bruised. Luckily. Because she’d never been that sort of girl. Skilled with concealer. Handy with a makeup brush. She would only end up looking spackled and obvious.

  “Do people actually run into doors?” Ian asked her, pressing his lips to her neck. She tilted her head, giving him access, but kept her eyes on his reflection. His dark head of hair, speckled with gray. His hands looping around her waist. She never tired of looking at him and thinking—mine. “Because my patients are always saying that. And it’s usually . . .”

  “The husband?” she teased, turning to face him. “It was sort of your fault. I told you we need a night-light.” She didn’t mention that she’d been crying. That bleary eyes can’t see bathroom doors.

  “Yes, dear.”

  She swatted at him as he darted out, laughing. But her smile died when she saw his suitcase open on the bed, half-packed.

  “So, I guess you decided then.”

  “Don’t give me a hard time, Ava. It’s just one night. A quick flight to LA. I thought we talked about this.”

  Talked, meaning Ian had sulked, and she’d caved, nodding along to all his decrees. Yes, it was his first invitation to a major network talk show. Yes, it could be his big break. Yes, he’d been waiting for the chance to build his brand as a relationship expert, to show he’s heads and tails above all those other yahoos. Yes, on all counts.

  Then, she’d given her back to him and feigned sleep—tears trailing in silence toward her pillow—until
she’d heard his light snoring, escaped to the bathroom, and walked into the door. No good deed goes unpunished.

  “It’s not just any night though. Have you ever heard the saying about New Year’s Eve? That how you spend it is the way you spend the rest of the year?”

  “It’s not New Year’s.”

  “Exactly. It’s Valentine’s Day and our first anniversary. And you’re leaving me alone. It’s worse.”

  “I’m here with you now. Valentine’s morning.”

  “It doesn’t count.”

  “Fine.” He took a few pointed steps toward the door, glanced over his shoulder, the corners of his mouth drooping. “I guess I’ll just go spend the morning with someone else then. If you don’t want me anymore.”

  Ava knew this trick—loathed it—and she swallowed hard to quell the fire in the pit of her belly. “Of course I do. And come to think of it, it’s perfect you’ll be gone. What could be more anti-Valentine’s than being without you?”

  She took a breath and reached for him like he wanted, but he pulled away.

  “Please don’t be grumpy,” she said.

  One year of marriage and already Ian could remind her of him. Maybe she had married her father after all.

  ****

  Murphy’s Law of therapy: The last client of the day always had the crisis. And this time Ava was genuinely worried. Hannah, her 5 p.m. angsty teenager with a penchant for cutting, had shown up with fresh marks on her arms. The handiwork of a safety pin during sixth period. And then she’d said the magic words: “Some days I just don’t want to be around anymore.”

  “I know it’s hard, Hannah, but I think we should tell your mom how you’ve been feeling. It’s my job to keep you safe.”

  Hannah glared at her beneath jet-black bangs, and Ava steeled herself for an unfair fight. Because that’s what happens when you poke a bear. Or an adolescent female. “I thought it was your job to listen to me. Not to go blab everything I tell you. What’s the point of this shit anyway? You’re not even a real doctor, are you?”

  “If it’s easier, we’ll tell her together. Or I can sit with you while you tell her. It’s your choice.”

  “Whatever.” Which meant she’d chosen option three. Indignant silence.

  Hannah didn’t speak another word until she and her mom were on their way out, her cheeks striped with tears and mascara. And even then, it was more of a mutter. “Thanks a lot, Doctor Lawson.”

  Then, with a pointed glance, she reached into her jacket pocket and tossed a tiny envelope into Ava’s trash can. Ava knew instantly what was inside. She remembered slipping them into red and pink tissue papered boxes as a girl. A valentine. With Dr. Culpepper printed in block letters on the front.

  As soon as they left, Ava fished it out and crashed into the sofa where her patients usually sat. She ripped open the envelope and read Hannah’s loopy cursive.

  Roses are red

  Violets are blue

  You’re the first shrink I like talking to

  She sighed and tucked the card into her pocket. She wanted to call Ian, but he’d scheduled drinks with some bigwig television producer after the show taping, and he’d be annoyed if she interrupted for no good reason.

  A soft knock on the door made her sit up. What now? she wondered, stifling a groan.

  “Yeah?”

  “Can I come in?”

  Ava stood up and opened the door herself. Former back-row girl Brandy leaned her head in, grinning. They’d been working together at New Beginnings for two years now, but that didn’t stop Brandy from checking out Ian every time he came to meet her for lunch. It gave Ava a sick little buzz every time.

  “So I heard your hubbie’s out of town. Want to grab drinks with us single gals tonight?”

  She could think of only one worse thing. Going back to the empty house alone and spending her first anniversary with Julie’s ghost. Who was more like a shadow person.

  There, in the rug she’d picked out at an antique shop. There, in the dusty crime novels at the bottom of the bookshelf with her name written inside. There, in the strand of long blonde hair Ava had found clinging to the inside of one of Ian’s old sweaters. There and everywhere but always just out of her view.

  “Count me in.”

  ****

  Ava wished she hadn’t come, and she rubbed the diamond on her finger like a genie’s lamp. Sadly, still there. At the Uptown, a club near the UC Berkeley campus.

  She tossed back the last of the cherry vodka sour, paid her tab, and spun around on her barstool to face the dance floor. Brandy and the other girls were out there somewhere with all the other losers. Sweaty, drunk, and valentine-less. Grinding against each other beneath an artificial sky of starry hearts. Here because they had to be.

  But she didn’t. Not that this sort of place had ever been her scene.

  Brandy pushed her way through a tangle of bodies and grabbed Ava’s arm, yanking her forward.

  “C’mon, Mrs. Culpepper. When the cat’s away . . .”

  The mouse misses him? “I should be getting back. Ian and I made plans to talk at midnight, so . . .” She backpedaled from Brandy, waving at her with exaggerated cheerfulness. As if they were friends now. The moment she reached the crowd by the door, she hurled herself forward through an imaginary finish line. Although it was stale with smoke and cologne, she gulped the outside air greedily. Because it meant she was free.

  Free to be bumped, it seemed, because an unforgiving arm shoved past her. A voice trailed behind, mumbling an apology.

  “Watch where you’re going,” she said, eyeing the man’s drooped shoulders, his sad bald spot, with sudden familiarity.

  “Pri—Chuck?” She’d have a laugh with Ian about this later, she thought. Because she’d nearly called him Prick.

  “Ava Lawson. Wow. What’s it been, two years?”

  “It’s Culpepper now.” She tried not to gloat. “Time flies, huh? So where did you end up?” After you got canned.

  His owl eyes showed her his surprise, his embarrassment—or was it pity she saw there?—and she fought off a flash of hatred she couldn’t explain. “I thought Ian would’ve told you. I took an adjunct professorship at Berkeley. We work together now.”

  She shrugged it off like nothing. Like it didn’t knock her back. “He probably forgot to mention it. He’s been so busy lately. He’s actually in LA tonight meeting with a—”

  “I’m glad to hear it. It seems that you’ve done him some good. He was pretty wrecked after Julie left him.” The name sits between them, not a shadow person at all, but a bottomless black hole. A tear in the fabric of the night.

  “I didn’t realize you knew her.”

  “Oh yes. Quite well. She was also one of Ian’s students, and she interned at New Beginnings. A lot like you, actually. Smart. Ambitious. Young.”

  Flustered, she couldn’t quite think what to say. So Prick kept right on going, picking the bones of her life apart with surgical precision. “But I guess we all have a type, right?”

  Her mouth hung slightly open, and she shut it fast. The click of her teeth startled her like the chambering of a gun. And she realized what he’d said. “Uh, Julie left him?”

  Immediately, she regretted asking, letting him in. Giving him that power. But still, she had to know what Ian hadn’t told her. Even if it meant kowtowing to Prick. “Oh. Well, yes. They separated a few weeks before she died. He took it very hard. You know how he is about . . . losing. I don’t want to overstep here, but you weren’t aware?”

  Ava felt not good enough. The way she had that day in his office. Like he’d circled the three—mediocre or worse—in grading her marriage.

  “I should probably go,” she said, rubbing her ring again. A nervous habit.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you, Ava.” He put his stubby fingers on her arm, and she flinched.

&
nbsp; “But I would like you to know I didn’t steal anything from work. A few days before I was fired, Ian came by to talk to me about changing your performance review. He thought I was being too hard on you. But I refused.”

  “Are you accusing him of—?” She stepped away from Prick and nearly stumbled off the curb. Words spun in her head, a million words, and she could have said any of them. But she chose the four that were untrue. “I don’t believe you.”

  ****

  The hum of vodka in Ava’s blood had long worn off. She sat in her car, seat belt on, heat blasting. Going nowhere.

  She thought of her father. Then, Ian. Then, her father again. And the note she knew by heart.

  To Franny and Ava, my darling girls: I’m no hero. I’m not who you think I am. I’m a bad cop, a crooked one. I have been for a long time.

  And at the end of it—an entire page worth of her dad’s confessions—one last request, a request she’d denied him:

  Tell my story to the LA Times. Help me make it right, even if I won’t be there to see it.

  When her cell phone buzzed in her hand, she barely felt it. But the name on the screen brought her back to life. Her life. With Ian.

  “So, are you the next Dr. Phil yet?” She sounded so normal, even she believed it, laughing at her own joke. But Ian didn’t laugh, and she felt her face get hot.

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “At home.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  ****

  “Marriage is like an onion,” Ian had told her once. “Every day you peel back another layer. You see more and more.”

  “And sometimes it makes you cry,” she’d added, teasing him.

  But it made sense now. Layers stripped away, ripped off and discarded. Until there was only this.

  Ian pacing beside their bed, his eyes welling. “I’ll do it, Ava. If you leave me. I will. I’ll blow my goddamned brains out just like your father.”

  He knew the combination to the lockbox where she kept the gun—0214—and Ava watched as he moved toward it, where it gathered dust in the back of the closet. “You’ll have another one on your conscience. Is that what you want? You want me gone?”