Confessions on the 7:45

by Lisa Unger

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you tell him that you hate him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you mean it?”

  He didn’t answer right away. “I guess not.”

  “Just sometimes when you get so mad, so frustrated, you say things that you don’t mean, right?”

  “I guess.”

  “That’s what happened with me and your dad last night. I’m sorry you had to hear that.”

  She remembered what it felt like to listen to her parents fight. She and her sister used to cling to each other while their parents raged. She remembered—she felt helpless, powerless, afraid. That’s how she’d made Oliver feel. God, that was terrible. She hated Graham, she did. And she hated herself.

  She stroked her son’s silky hair; his forehead felt hot.

  He was quiet a moment, his chest rising and falling with his breath.

  “Zander’s parents are getting a divorce,” he said softly. “He says he gets two birthday parties and two Christmases now.”

  “Okay.” She didn’t know who Zander was.

  “I don’t want two birthdays,” he said.

  “I understand.”

  “So where is Dad?”

  “Boys’ weekend. I told you.”

  The lie hung between them.

  “Okay, I think he’s at Uncle Joe’s,” she admitted finally. That’s usually where Graham went when they needed a break, to his brother’s bachelor pad.

  “I think he’s outside,” said Oliver.

  “What?” she asked. “What do you mean?”

  “I think he’s sitting in his car across the street.”

  Selena got up and went to the window. Sure enough, there was Graham, sitting in their SUV across the street. She bit back an intense roil of anger, of annoyance. What the fuck? She told him that she needed time and space to think. That he should stay away. That she’d make an excuse for the boys and he could call on Saturday to talk to them. But, of course, he was going to do whatever he wanted. Because that was Graham. He didn’t respect or even understand that other people had boundaries and only bullies pushed through them.

  When she was a young woman, out of college, working, and her mother had finally confessed to Selena and her sister the true scope of their father’s many affairs, Selena pretended to understand why her mother had stayed so long.

  She said all the right things, offered her mother compassion and sympathy. But, deep down, she hadn’t really understood. Why had her mother endured the shame, the humiliation, the rage and just let him get away with it for, it turned out, decades? How could she live with it, with him, with herself? Selena had wondered. In this moment, in the dark of her bedroom, talking to her oldest boy, the truth of it came home, hard. You’d endure just about anything to spare your child pain. She pulled on her robe.

  “I’ll go get him,” she said. “Let’s get you back into your bed, okay?”

  “But—”

  She stewarded him to his room and tucked him in again.

  “Do you hate him?” Oliver asked as she moved away.

  The answer was so complicated it backed up in her throat. “No,” she said. “Of course not. No more than you hate Stephen.”

  He nodded, seemed to get the complexity of the statement, her little old man. “And we both love you and your brother more than anything. Never forget that.”

  No matter what happens next, she thought, but didn’t say.

  He was already drifting off, exhausted, as she pulled the door to his bedroom closed.

  Downstairs, she turned off the alarm and walked out into the dark in her robe and slippers. She knocked hard on the window, startling Graham from his doze. She looked around the neighborhood. She should have just called him on his cell phone; what would people think if they saw? They’d think they were a flawed mess of a family, just like everyone else probably was.

  “What the hell are you doing?” she asked when he rolled down the window.

  “Joe kicked me out,” he said, pathetically. “He had company.”

  “Have you ever heard of a hotel?”

  “I didn’t want to spend the money.”

  He had her there. She’d thought about canceling all his credit cards, moving their money from accounts he had access to into one that he didn’t know about. But she hadn’t followed through.

  He had a bandage over his eye. In her rage, she’d picked up Stephen’s robot and hurled it at Graham, hitting him right on the forehead. There had been lots of blood. Not her finest moment. She almost felt sorry for him.

  “Just come inside. Do you want the neighbors to see you out here?”

  “I don’t give a fuck about the neighbors.”

  “Or anyone else.”

  He offered her an elaborate eye roll, dropped his head back against the seat.

  “Selena.”

  She walked across the street and up the path to their door, hugging herself against the cold, and he followed.

  “Sleep in your office,” she said.

  “Can we talk?”

  “No,” she said, walking up the stairs.

  She didn’t turn to look at him, just returned to her bedroom, closing and locking the door. She sat in the chair a while, heart racing, mind spinning. What was she going to do?

  She was surprised to hear her phone ping, half wondered if it was Graham texting her from downstairs.

  A text from an unknown number read:

  Hey, how’s it going? Great meeting you last night.

  Who was this now? She was about to delete when her phone pinged again.

  I’d love to continue our conversation. I’ve been thinking about it a lot. Can we get together?

  No, thought Selena. It couldn’t be.

  The woman she’d met, her dark tone, the strange energy of it all, came back to her vividly. Heat came up in her cheeks: Selena had confessed her most personal secret to a stranger. Of course, the other woman had shared her secret, too. There was something oddly bonding about that, wasn’t there?

  They hadn’t exchanged numbers, had they? She moved to delete the text, but her finger hovered.

  Maybe she should answer. She felt a powerful desire to hear the other woman’s voice, to tell her what she couldn’t tell anyone else in her life. She hadn’t even told Beth. Yet there was a strong pull to bare all to this stranger.

  No. It must be a wrong number. She tapped to delete and block, but the phone chimed again before she could complete the action.

  It’s Martha, by the way.

  From the train.

  ELEVEN

  Selena

  Selena woke Monday morning before the alarm went off. It was still dark, and the wind howled, knocking branches against the window. Before she even opened her eyes, her to-do list asserted itself into her consciousness—write an email to Stephen’s teacher and schedule a meeting, get a birthday gift for her nephew, Jasper, polish her part of the big client presentation that afternoon, file her expenses, call her mother.

  Amazing.

  World crumbling, still making lists. Life went on.

  Graham pushed in the bedroom door and climbed into bed beside her. He was sleeping in the home office, coming into their bed before the boys woke up. She ignored him, kept her eyes pressed closed. The truth was that, at the moment, she could barely stand the sight of him. The image of Geneva on top of him was on an ugly loop in her mind.

  “Are you awake?” he whispered, reaching for her.

  “No,” she answered, shifting as far away from him as possible while still remaining on the bed. He turned away, lay on his back, gazing at the ceiling.

  The truth.

  Selena had posted on Instagram three times over the weekend. First, the boys helping with breakfast on Saturday morning. Every smart mom teaches her boys how to cook! she w
rote. Their wives will thank me one day!

  Then, the family walk they took at the state park about a half hour from the house. They’d hiked the trails, the boys rambling the rocky paths, she and Graham lagging behind, a dull silence between them. She snapped a picture of them by the river—Graham leaning down to show the kids a rock he thought might be a fossil. Nothing like a couple hours in nature to center and calm after a busy week!

  On Sunday, she and the boys finally got started on the Lego Death Star, an epic project that would take weeks. She posted a photo of the open box, the stack of instruction manuals, the clear bags filled with tiny pieces. Oh, boy! This is going to be a major undertaking!

  What didn’t make it onto social media: the leaden silence between Graham and her; the boys, clearly picking up on the tension, acting out every chance they got; Oliver and Stephen literally wrestling on the floor over a ladle; how they never got very far on that Lego project because of a fight over who got to open the first bag; Graham checking and checking his phone compulsively while the boys raged and were finally sent to their room. Later, while Selena did the laundry and some of the cooking for the week, the boys vegged in front of the television—for hours. She let them, just to get some quiet time. More laundry. The dishes. Stephen’s skinned knee. Selena crying in the shower out of sheer exhaustion and unhappiness.

  Was it a lie to only show the glittering moments? What about the dull, the mundane, the ugly? If they weren’t posted online, were they less real? Graham wanted to know: Why post at all? What are you trying to prove?

  “What’s going to happen?” Graham asked now. “What are we doing here?”

  Morning light made its debut, leaking milky gray through the blinds. He moved closer to her, pulled her back from the edge of the bed, and draped an arm over her middle. She thought about pushing him away. But the truth was that his warmth comforted her. She stayed still, marveling at how she wanted to throttle and cling to him. Even though the weekend was hard, they still laughed at times, still parented, still cooked and ate. The truth was that it was everything—the beautiful and ugly all in one impossible tangle.

  “I have no idea,” she admitted.

  The workweek loomed ahead—though the office was an escape sometimes. She needed some help. Obviously, Geneva would have to be fired. Today. Which meant Graham needed to stay with the kids—which meant that she couldn’t kick him out permanently. Yet. Maybe she needed to talk to Beth; she’d have ideas on how to navigate next steps.

  “We just go through the motions?” said Graham.

  “For now.”

  “Until what?”

  “I don’t know, Graham,” she nearly yelled. Christ, he was like one of the kids. She took a breath, released it. “I’ll take the boys to school and then head into the office. You fire Geneva.”

  He nodded but stayed quiet. They lay like that a moment, then she got up to take a shower before she had to get the boys started.

  She liked the water hot, nearly scalding. She let it beat on her skin, fog up the bathroom.

  She did her hair, her makeup, dressed in slim black pants and a blush-pink top, heels. By the time she exited the bedroom, Graham had roused the boys from bed. How nice that he chose this morning to finally step up.

  “Good morning,” she said on her way downstairs.

  Stephen and Oliver groaned at her like sleepy zombies, moving slow, dressing in the uniforms that she’d laid out for them last night.

  By the time she came downstairs, Graham had set the table, waffles in the toaster, boys’ lunches packed. If only he behaved like this when their marriage wasn’t imploding. The fact that he was being so on point now only aggravated her more.

  She poured herself a cup of coffee while he served the boys.

  She hadn’t thought much about the text she’d received on Friday. She’d deleted it from her phone and blocked the number. Likewise, she’d purposely pushed it from her thoughts. Martha was going to get ghosted. That was that. She didn’t need more complications in her life.

  When the doorbell rang, Selena startled, nearly spilling her coffee.

  Shit. Geneva was early. She’d hoped to be gone with the boys before she arrived. In fact, as much as she had liked and appreciated Geneva before, she’d hoped never to lay eyes on Geneva again. She’d seen far too much of her already.

  “Did you forget your key?” she asked, opening the door.

  But it wasn’t Geneva.

  At the door was a broad, clean-cut man, with dark hair. He wasn’t wearing a uniform, but there was something official about him even before he held out his detective’s shield. A black sedan lurked in their driveway, and another man—older, rumpled, climbed out and approached them. The morning was alive with birdsong, the air warmer than it had been in months. Maybe spring would come early. Selena’s heart started to thump for reasons she couldn’t name.

  “Mrs. Murphy?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m Detective Grady Crowe, and this is my partner Detective West.”

  She kept the door partially closed, her body blocking their view into her house. She fought the urge to call for Graham.

  “What can I do for you?” she asked.

  “Do you employ a woman by the name of Geneva Markson?”

  “We do.”

  “When is the last time you had contact with her?”

  Detective Crowe kept a steady stare on Selena, but West’s eyes were everywhere else—around the stoop, past her into the foyer, inspecting the potted plants, the shrubbery.

  “Why? What’s happened?”

  “Can we come in?”

  Her mouth felt terribly dry. Was it just something about cops that made you feel automatically as if you’d done something wrong?

  The boys went tearing up the stairs, not interested in who might be at the door. But Graham came up behind her as she let the detectives inside.

  The detectives re-introduced themselves to Graham, who instantly slipped into charm mode. He had that way. He put on this certain expression, a kind of wide-open affability, and took control of the situation. He led the cops into the living room, offering coffee, man of the house. He was showered and dressed, hair combed. A small miracle considering the state he’d been in since he lost his job.

  “She left here around four o’clock Friday afternoon,” said Selena, sitting on the arm of the couch. “I came home early from work.”

  Detective Crowe scribbled in a notebook. The other detective stood by the entry, eyes moving over everything.

  “You were both here?” asked Crowe.

  “No,” said Graham, rubbing at his eyes. Something he did when he was about to lie. “I was visiting my brother, helping him with a home project.”

  Helping with a home project. She nearly laughed. As if. As if Joe would have a home project. As if Graham would be any help at all.

  “Where’s that?”

  “In Remsen, about fifteen minutes north.”

  If she didn’t know he was lying, she’d never suspect it. No one would.

  “Can you tell us what’s wrong?” asked Selena.

  “Local police had a call from Ms. Markson’s sister saying that she was concerned not to have heard from her. Apparently, they were meant to meet for breakfast Saturday, but Ms. Markson did not show up. Her car is not in her parking space at her home. Her apartment is empty—her sister apparently has a key.”

  “Oh,” said Selena. “That’s odd. She never mentioned a sister.”

  Had she?

  “What time does she usually show up for work?” asked Detective West.

  Selena glanced at the clock. “Right about now.”

  “Well,” said Graham easily. He leaned back on the couch, crossed his legs. “She’s young, single. Maybe she took off for the weekend with friends or a boyfriend.”

  Selena flashed
on the image of Geneva on top of Graham, pushed it away. She sank into one of the chairs, looked out the window.

  Their neighbors across the street, the Browns, were pulling out of the drive. They left all together in the morning, taking their twins to school, Jill dropping Bobby off at the train so that he could commute into the city. Selena was usually pulling out at the same time, waving across the street. Have a great day! As Selena watched them disappear, she felt an odd sinking in her middle. That should be us. Off to start another normal day.

  There was some thumping upstairs, a shout. The boys were up there unsupervised; she rose to go check on them.

  “Is it usual for her to be late?” asked Detective Crowe.

  “No,” said Selena quickly. “She has never once been late.”

  “What happened to your face there?” asked Detective West, pointed to Graham.

  While Crowe had seated himself, West had moved over to the bookshelves.

  Graham touched the cut on his face. He nodded out the window from where the stone wall, the one he’d been trying to repair, was visible, still in shambles. A year later, he hadn’t finished the project. They all turned to look.

  “I was trying to fix that wall on Friday, bent over and cut myself. Not exactly a handyman I guess.”

  Wow, he didn’t miss a beat. That self-deprecating smile, the touch of embarrassment. Even Selena almost believed him. He hadn’t touched the thing, refused to call in someone who could do the work. The wall had become one of their go-to arguments—how he started things he didn’t finish, how he made promises he didn’t keep.

  Crowe made a note, West nodded, both men smiling in understanding. Home projects could be such a bear.

  Of course, Graham had to lie. What else was he going to say?

  Oh, during a marriage-ending fight, my wife threw a toy robot at me.

  What were you fighting about, sir?

  I was caught on camera fucking the nanny. You know, the one you’re here asking about.

  “What about her phone?” asked Selena, eager to move away from Graham’s lies. “Can’t you track her that way?”

  “Her phone is offline,” said Detective West. “She hasn’t used a known credit card since early last week.”