Confessions on the 7:45

by Lisa Unger

  It was the complete opposite at the Tuckers’—the kids ran wild, no limits on devices, neither parent wanted to be bothered during the day unless it was an emergency. The Tucker boys would still be in pajamas, hopped up on some sugary cereal when Geneva arrived in the morning.

  She didn’t feel as bad about what had happened at the Tuckers’.

  But Selena Murphy was a loving, present mom. A faithful wife. A fair and kind employer. She didn’t deserve what was going on behind her back.

  Geneva immediately got to cleaning—making the beds, throwing in a load of wash, then the kitchen. It was intimate, wasn’t it, this position? Handling people’s clothes, tucking in their sheets, clearing the plates from which they’d eaten. She thought about that, as she wiped down the counter, how close she was, and yet—not. A paid employee; someone who might be fired at will. As intimate in some ways as family, but in no way as permanent. Expendable.

  That word was in her head when she’d noticed a brown dot on the counter. She walked over to work on it. What was it? It was only when it came up on the cloth that she realized.

  It was blood.

  There was another spot over the by the stove. She cleaned them both, feeling an odd tingling of dread.

  Now, the boys ate their snacks at the kitchen table while she unpacked their lunchboxes.

  “My teacher hates me,” Stephen said startling her back to the present. He rested a chubby pink cheek in hand.

  “No, she doesn’t,” said Geneva, starting the wash cycle.

  There had been another chat at pickup. Stephen was acting out, said his uptight teacher. Apparently, he’d pushed another little boy down on the playground. “She knows that you’re a nice boy who can behave better with others.”

  “She does hate you,” said Oliver unhelpfully. He was in a mood, too, though Geneva wasn’t sure why. He wasn’t a talker. Stephen would tell all, but Oliver held it in. “She hates you because you’re a brat and a baby.”

  “Shut up!” yelled Stephen, reddening and near tears.

  “Oliver,” said Geneva easily. “Apologize.”

  “Sorry,” said Oliver, sounding not sorry at all.

  They were eighteen months apart, acted more like rival gang members than brothers most of the time. But there was a closeness there, too, some rare moments of tenderness. Sibling relationships were so complicated. When Oliver left the room, Stephen followed. They both cleared their plates on the way out. Geneva rinsed them in the sink, thinking of her older sister a moment, that textured mingle of affection and competition, of admiration and resentment. But she pushed the thoughts away as she finished cleaning up.

  A few minutes later, she heard the boys running up the stairs. They’d been making videos of each other, recording on their iPads. This activity seemed to keep them goofily getting along, so she didn’t hassle them about too much time on their devices. It was creative at least, making and editing silly videos.

  In the living room, she tidied—folded the blanket, fluffed the pillows. She caught sight of her reflection in the screen when she turned off the television. Hair up, outfit slouchy—baggy shirt and jeans too big. Her boobs—they looked huge, not in a good way. Men were so into it. But she just thought her large bust made her look fatter than she was—and she was no skinny waif. Today, she wasn’t even wearing makeup. She looked like the worst cliché of a housewife. One without a house and who wasn’t a wife.

  Again, thoughts of her sister—her perfect sister who was a flawless beauty, never made mistakes, was always in control of every enterprise—surfaced, unwanted.

  Are you even dating? she’d asked recently. She had nothing but disapproving things to say about Geneva, her life choices, her work. Geneva shouldn’t want her approval so badly, but she did.

  The washing machine chimed that it was ready. She was about to go change it to the dryer when she heard the garage door open.

  Shit.

  Graham.

  Her palms got all sweaty. But he’d leave her alone, right? The boys were up. Since it was Friday, Selena could come home at any time. She went to the laundry room, changed the wash. She’d make a hasty exit. Selena could pay her on Monday.

  Then, after a few minutes, she heard Selena’s voice.

  “I’m home early!” she called. Thunder on the stairs a moment later as the boys came down, yelling for her. Mom! Mahhhm! Mommy!

  How nice that must be, thought Geneva, feeling a twinge she sometimes felt. The twinge of the voyeur, the interloper, the outsider on the inside.

  When is your life going to start, Geneva? Her sister again, that silvery voice heavy with mock kindness. There’s more to you, isn’t there? I’m just worried about you. You’re like a case of arrested development.

  Arrested development. When a person stops maturing at a point of trauma, grief, or at a place in her life when she felt the profound and total loss of love from a primary caregiver. Maybe it was an accurate diagnosis. No one ever accused her sister of being stupid.

  She finished folding the wash, headed downstairs.

  In the kitchen, the kids had attached themselves to Selena’s body, and she with an arm around each. She was tall and slim. Oliver shared her dark good looks, Stephen favoring his lighter, thicker father. Selena extracted herself, giving each boy another hug and kiss, then offered Geneva a tight smile. When their eyes met, Geneva’s stomach clenched. There was a distance to the other woman’s gaze, a coldness.

  She knew.

  “Lucky you,” said Selena. “You get to start your weekend a bit early, too.”

  “Great,” Geneva said, smiling.

  “Of course, I’ll pay you for the full day,” Selena said kindly.

  “Thank you.”

  She didn’t seem angry. If she knew—how could she stand the sight of Geneva? If she knew—how could she have gone to work? Pretend like nothing was wrong? She thought about that drop of blood she’d wiped away.

  She started gathering up her things.

  I’m sorry, Geneva wanted to say. I don’t even like him. There are reasons, deep and twisted, why I did it—according to my shrink. If you only knew the things that have happened to me, you might understand why I make so many bad choices. And then there’s my sister, what she asks of me, what I do for her. I’m tangled in my life. I can’t free myself.

  But she didn’t say any of those things.

  “Where’s Dad?” asked Oliver.

  “He’s away this weekend,” said Selena. “You remember.”

  Oliver shook his head, offered a confused frown. “No.”

  “Boys’ weekend,” she said. “He went fishing with Uncle Joe.”

  “Like a playdate?” asked Stephen, eyes wide with innocence.

  “Exactly like a playdate,” said Selena with a playful roll of her eyes. Geneva tried to share a smile with her, but Selena wouldn’t meet her gaze.

  “He didn’t say goodbye,” said Oliver, looking toward the door as if he expected Graham to walk back through.

  “He did,” said Selena. “In the early, early morning. You woke up, remember?”

  “No,” said Oliver stubbornly. “He didn’t.”

  Selena touched his head, gave him a loving smile.

  “You just don’t remember, sleepyhead.”

  “I remember,” said Stephen, presenting himself for Selena’s approval. “He whispered.”

  “That’s right,” said Selena, dropping a hand on Stephen’s shoulder. Stephen shot Oliver a victorious look, but the other boy was still frowning, unconvinced.

  “Is he going to call at bedtime?” Oliver wanted to know.

  “If they have service,” said Selena, voice neutral. “I haven’t heard from your dad today. So I wouldn’t get my hopes up.”

  If Selena was annoyed about Graham’s trip, if there was any more to it, it certainly didn’t show in front of th
e boys. The rag Geneva had used to clean up the small amount of blood had come away dark and red. There was still the faintest tinge of pink on the counter that wouldn’t come up. They said you could never really clean away all traces of blood. The hemoglobin always stayed behind, sank into porous surfaces, clung to fibers. She’d put the rag through the wash twice with bleach, stuffed it in the back of the cabinet with the other rags.

  “I’m just going to quickly change,” she said. “Do you mind getting them settled?”

  “Not at all,” said Geneva. “And if you need an hour to yourself this weekend, just drop me a text.”

  “I might take you up on that,” Selena said. Still, she glanced away, and then she disappeared up the stairs.

  Geneva got the boys in front of the television, agreeing on Trollhunters, which they were watching for about the millionth time. She kissed them each on the forehead, telling them to be good for their mom this weekend.

  Then she gathered her things, including the check Selena left on the quartz counter. It was exactly what she was owed; usually Selena rounded up or put a little extra.

  People communicated in the little things. Most people didn’t even realize how the smallest details spoke volumes. Geneva stared at the check, Selena’s flowery signature, the careful way she wrote the date.

  I’d better put my résumé together. Her sister was not going to be happy. But doubtless she’d have a plan.

  At the bottom of the stairs, she called up. “Boys are all set! I’m heading out.”

  “Thank you,” called Selena, her voice muffled from down the hall.

  Usually Selena would linger with Geneva, chatting about the boys or about work or the neighbors. But a wall had come down.

  The other woman was biding her time, wasn’t she? Figuring out her plan before she acted. She was a cool customer; she’d known people like that before. They didn’t react right away, kept it all inside. Action, when it was taken, was quick and decisive.

  She didn’t look back at the boys, at the house. Time to go.

  Geneva stepped out into the dim late afternoon, the sound of the television disappearing behind her as she closed the door. Sometimes when the air was frigid like this, she wondered if spring would ever come. Late January, all the fun of the holidays past, just the gray ceiling of the northern winter sky, a waiting for brighter days. A kind of hollow would open inside of her, an emptiness that felt as if it could never be filled. Her footfalls echoed down the walk.

  Athens. Venice. Barcelona. Anywhere. She could go anywhere really. She didn’t have as much money saved as she wanted. But she had enough to get by for a while, until she found another situation. Nannies. A good one was always in demand.

  She liked the Murphy family, and she was sorry for whatever role she might have played in what was happening now. But, to be honest, the fractures were already there. They always were, little cracks that would widen and deepen, threaten the whole structure when pressure was applied. If the structure was sound, nothing ever would have happened. She’d been in homes where the husband didn’t even look at her, let alone touch. Men who were in love with their wives, engaged with their kids, happy. Those men—and they did exist—left her be.

  Just before Selena’s family, there was the Tuckers. As a couple, the Tuckers were already unhappy when Geneva came—two jobs, two kids, a huge mortgage, two leased cars—a Lexus for her and a shiny BMW for him—a country club membership. The kids were wild—largely ignored by parents obsessed with work, their devices, their social lives. It was chaos. Erik Tucker had been handsome and charming; and something else. There was a darkness there. It was obvious now.

  Geneva was a serial homewrecker. She didn’t mean to be. She and her therapist talked about it at length without talking about all the layers, all the reasons. There were things she couldn’t share about her life. About the real reason why she found herself in these situations.

  When the same thing happens again and again, we have to look at that. We have to unpack it and figure out why we cause ourselves and others pain.

  At the curb, she paused. Should she go back?

  Should she try to talk to Selena? Maybe she could be honest with someone for once. Maybe this was one of those moments when you did something different, and something different happened.

  No, that was the first rule: always pretend that nothing was wrong.

  People—especially women—were racked with self-doubt. They looked around at others for cues, ways to orient themselves to a situation, the way passengers on a turbulent aircraft might look at the faces of the flight attendants. Just keep smiling, keep moving. Walk, don’t run.

  But maybe if she came clean with Selena, the other woman would help her. She was that kind of person, one who would seek to help even someone who had hurt her.

  Geneva, though, just kept walking away from the house.

  The neighborhood was quiet, the street shaded beneath towering oaks. She never saw anyone out in their front yards. Kids rarely played in the street, or rode bikes. There were no sidewalks. The large homes were set back far from the street, seemed remote from each other somehow though the lots weren’t huge. But that was the world now, everyone in their little silo, broadcasting versions of their lives from a screen, onto the screens of others. In the stillness, her footfalls echoed off the pavement. Her breath came out in clouds.

  She was just about to get into her vehicle when she heard the sound of a car door opening and closing. She felt the sound in every one of her nerve endings.

  Then, there was a dark figure on the street, moving toward her. Geneva looked back at the house, the warm interior lights glowing orange in the blue of early evening. The other houses were dark.

  She dug into her purse for her keys, the figure moving closer.

  Geneva’s heart raced a bit as she searched for and didn’t find those keys. Why was her purse such a mess? But as she approached her car, the doors unlocked automatically. She kept forgetting about that. How in the new car, the key was just a fob.

  Something stopped her from climbing inside; she turned around instead.

  As the form grew closer, Geneva squinted into the dim.

  Who was it? When she finally saw, she felt the shock of surprise and dread.

  “Oh,” she managed. “It’s you.”

  NINE

  Pearl

  “You shouldn’t do that, should you?”

  Charlie had walked into the bookshop back room to find Pearl digging through her mother’s leather tote.

  “She doesn’t care,” said Pearl.

  She inspected a small notepad shaped like a heart on which nothing was written.

  Pearl loved her mother’s purse, which Stella carelessly left all over the place. On the passenger seat of the car, the kitchen counter. She’d leave it in the shopping cart, walk away from it to look for this or that, as if daring someone to take it.

  It was a magic pouch, filled with mysteries. Pearl, whenever she got a chance, dug through it shamelessly. Lipsticks, all shades, matches from restaurants and bars Pearl had no idea when Stella had visited. A lighter shaped like the body of a woman. Whatever book she was reading—it might be Kafka, or some obscure foreign writer, or the latest romance bestseller. Literary, romance, thriller, classic, science fiction, fantasy, women’s fiction—her mother did not discriminate.

  Story is story, Stella said. It’s a portal you walk through into another world. And this world—which usually sucks—just disappears.

  A package of condoms. Mom slept around; just as with her reading, she was not particularly discriminating when it came to men—whoever struck her fancy, construction worker, doctor, businessman, store clerk.

  Candy. There was always candy. Swedish Fish, Tic Tacs, Mars Bars—Junior Mints were her favorite. Wadded up bills—why could Stella not put the money in her wallet? Because that would delay its spending, qui
pped Stella. Don’t even bother trying to hold on to it; it’s gone as quick as it comes. Phone numbers on scraps of papers. Sometimes cigarettes. Once a joint. Floss. Stella was meticulous about her dental hygiene.

  “Your mother’s a mystery, isn’t she?” asked Charlie.

  “Not really,” said Pearl. As far as Pearl was concerned, her mother was an open book.

  “All women are mysteries.”

  “Only men think that,” said Pearl. “Largely because they’re not paying attention.”

  Charlie was at her mother’s desk, doing something at her computer. Apparently, according to Stella, he was managing the accounting now. He’d been an increasingly large part of their lives for the last couple of months. Certainly, he was around more and for longer than anyone else had been. He was often in the kitchen now when Pearl came down before school, making breakfast. Last week, he’d proofread her English essay and they’d spent a long time talking about it. Pearl liked Charlie, but she wasn’t going to let herself get attached. She knew Stella too well. She’d tire of him eventually.

  “The only thing more mysterious than women are teenage girls.”

  She was aware of his eyes. He was always watching her. And she was always watching him. Trying to figure him out. He was polite, intelligent. He was always on time. Good with the customers. Good, according to Stella, with the books. He was well-read. He hand-sold, getting to know patrons and recommending books they might like. He’s a throwback, said Stella. A real bookseller, in an industry that had stopped caring about story and only cared about numbers.

  But. But. But.

  There was something else. Pearl was a watcher. She hid in the stacks, observing. Still, she couldn’t figure him out. Handsome, in a geeky way. Too skinny. Always impeccable—pressed button-down shirts, crisp khakis, sensible shoes. His socks always matched his pants.

  “Can you stock some books this afternoon?” he asked. “We just got a big shipment, the new Karin Slaughter.”

  He nodded toward some boxes stacked by the door.

  “Sure,” said Pearl.