by S W Vaughn
“I can only give out patient updates to family members,” she says. But her voice softens as she asks, “Are you a friend of his?”
My heart lurches. The news is either very good, or very bad. “Yes, I’m a friend,” I say. “I want to visit him, but I don’t know if he’s …”
When I don’t finish, the woman speaks with a smile in her voice. “That should be just fine,” she says. “Our visiting hours are from ten AM to nine PM. And frankly, Mr. Dowling is doing miraculously well, though you’ll have to ask him for any details you’d like to know.”
“Thank you,” I say, not sure whether I’m relieved or afraid. Probably both. “I guess I’ll just call his room, then. I have the number.”
“All right, dear. You do that.”
I say goodbye and end the call, staring at the stark black numbers I’ve scribbled on the back of the white receipt. Brad is at the other end of those numbers — alive, awake, and ‘miraculously well.’ After all this time. I just can’t believe it, and I might not even after I hear his voice. I’m torn between what’s easy and what’s right.
After a long five minutes of indecision, I dial the number.
The phone rings three times before someone says, “Hello?” The voice is an older woman, and I close my eyes and pray it’s a nurse, even though I know it must be Willa Dowling. Still the mother bear to a child who’s nearly thirty.
“Mrs. Dowling?” I half-whisper. “I was wondering if I could … talk to Brad.” Maybe she won’t ask for my name.
“Well, I don’t know. He’s barely awake yet.” I hear a rasping voice in the background, raised in faint protest, and tears spring hot to my eyes. Brad. Oh God, it’s true. I still recognize him in that weak, awful murmur, even though I can’t make out a word he says.
I have a pretty good idea, though.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say I’ll call back later, but if I wait much longer I’ll lose my nerve. “If it’s okay with Brad, I’d really like to speak to him,” I say. “Please.”
“Who is this?” Willa nearly barks.
Damn it. I consider using someone else’s name, or making one up, but I know I’ll have to confront him face-to-face soon. I need him to know that I tried to call before I spring what may be the biggest shock of his life on him.
“It’s Celine,” I say. “Celine Bauman.”
Absolute, frigid silence responds.
“Mrs. Dowling?”
“You little bitch,” Willa hisses suddenly in a strained voice.
My breath catches, and the tears start flowing as I absorb what feels like a physical slap. I’d expected anger, but this is undiluted hatred.
“How dare you?” Her voice rises to that shrill tone I remember from the last time I saw Brad, when he’d already been unconscious for two weeks and I thought that was a long time. “You are not entitled to speak to my son, do you hear me? I won’t have you upsetting him after he’s finally come back to me!”
Mom! Who is it? This time I make out the background words, delivered in a ragged gasp that’s painful to hear.
“If you come near him, I’ll kill you.”
Willa Dowling speaks those words with a terrifying flat inflection, and then hangs up.
Just like the first time I heard Brad was awake, I can’t breathe. The phone clatters from my numb hand and falls on the table, and I stare at nothing as my eyes flood and my chest burns. God, this can’t be happening. What am I going to do?
I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting there when a hand brushes my shoulder, and I nearly jump out of my skin. Figuring it’s a concerned employee, I turn my face away and grab a napkin to swipe at my eyes. I’m probably smearing mascara all over myself. I heave a shaking breath, grab another napkin and try to determine the best way to head for the bathroom.
“Celine, honey, are you okay?” a voice says.
I blink in surprise and turn to see Missy Wilson standing there, with a blond-haired young man I don’t recognize hovering nervously behind her. “I, er … hi, Missy,” I mutter inanely. Of all the people to catch me bawling, it had to be her. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, I always come here in the mornings. They make a fabulous mocha espresso,” she says breezily, and then slides uninvited into the chair across from me, leaving her companion to stand awkwardly alone. She leans across the table and arranges her face into something like sympathy. “It always hits at the worst times, doesn’t it?” she says. “Poor Rosalie. I’m still in shock, myself.”
My airways loosen a little. I’m more than happy to let her think I’m crying for Rosalie, because she’s the last person I want to talk to about Brad. “Yes, it’s just terrible. Poor Rosalie,” I say as I grab a clean napkin and mop blindly at my face. “I’m sorry I left early the other day.”
“Don’t worry. I understand, with Brad and everything.” Missy unzips the little clutch purse at her side, and hands me a compact and a single-wrapped moist facial wipe. “Here you go, honey. I’ve practically bought stock in these things since the day I heard, so just shout if you need more than one.”
I’m surprised and a little touched by the gesture. “Thank you,” I say, and open the compact. When I get a look at myself in the mirror, I blurt out a watery laugh. The hollows under my eyes are smudged completely black, like the grease football players wear, and black lines radiate down my cheeks. “Oh, my God. I think I might need more than one.”
“Well, I didn’t want to mention that you look awful.” Missy laughs a little as she ducks her head to go through her purse again, and I catch the shine in her own eyes. She takes out two more pre-moistened wipes and looks away briefly before she puts them on the table.
It’s obvious that no matter what she acts like, she’s truly devastated by Rosalie’s death.
I clean myself up in silence, half afraid to say something that might set us both off. When I hand the compact back to her, she smiles, a little more in control. “Have you met my fiancé?” she says, gesturing at the blond guy who’s still hovering around like he’s not sure where to stand.
Fiancé? I’m pretty sure that Missy had gotten married right after college to some older man she met there. But maybe I’d heard wrong — or maybe things just didn’t work out for them. Either way, I wouldn’t bring it up. “No, I don’t think I have,” I say, turning a polite smile toward the blond. “Hello. I’m Celine Bauman.”
The man clears his throat and smiles. “Dan Voltaire,” he says. “Hello.”
I can feel my eyes trying to bug out and work to keep my features neutral. Danny Voltaire, the world’s most scatterbrained lawyer and the bane of Jill’s existence, is engaged to Missy Wilson. Oh, boy. I can’t wait to tell Jill about this one.
“Dan and I were just stopping by for coffee before he goes to work,” Missy says almost apologetically as she stands. “But then I saw you, and … well, I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Thank you. I’m glad you did,” I say with genuine warmth, getting up myself. “It’s fine, I have to go to work too. Thanks for the wet wipes.”
“Any time,” Missy says, and hugs me. This time I hug her back.
Once she and Dan leave the café, I gather my stuff and head to the bathroom. I need to wash my face and touch up my makeup before I go to the office, and I’m still more shaken than I want to be. I feel bad about Rosalie all over again, especially when I remember the bizarre suicide note. The one that claimed she couldn’t live without Brad.
And I can’t help wondering whether Brad knew that.
8
Friday
Life has been strangely normal for the past few days. Not that I want to complain about things being normal, but a return to the status quo means I haven’t done anything more about Brad. I admit it: I’m terrified of his mother. I absolutely believe she might try to kill me. If anyone ever hurt Alyssa, I might do the same thing.
I’m even starting to think that maybe she’s the one who sent that text.
But today
, it’s all quiet on the Bauman front. Alyssa still loves school, and I’m still pinching myself every time I remember that big commission I’ve got coming. I’m at the office, it’s around ten in the morning, and Sabrina and I are the only ones here — not counting Courtney at the reception desk, who ignores everyone anyway. Even the looming possibility that my coworker might wind up the snark-wagon at any moment doesn’t bother me, though.
Right now, I am the world’s okay-est real estate agent.
As I’m passively browsing the MLS, looking for potential matches for one of my sellers while I daydream about the money, my phone rings. The caller is in my address book — it’s one of the two home inspectors I usually work with, the one who’s doing the final inspection for the Quintaine property. I answer hoping for good news, and I get it. His report is finished and sitting in my inbox. Everything’s good to go.
We can close on Monday.
I’m smiling as I dial Hannah. The phone rings four times, and then I get a voicemail message — just a standard, prerecorded ‘the person you are calling is not available, please leave a message after the tone.’ For a second I think it’s strange, because she’s been immediately available every time I’ve spoken to her.
Then I realize that I’ve never actually called her. She called me first to ask about the house, and has preemptively called me to check in on things every time since.
The voicemail tone sounds, and I give my name and ask her to call me. But just as I set my phone on the desk, it rings and Hannah’s number flashes on the screen.
Okay. That’s exceedingly weird.
“Hello, Hannah?” I say as I answer. “I must’ve just missed you.”
“Oh, no. I never answer calls,” she says almost breathlessly. “I don’t trust them.”
I’m not sure what to say to that. I think ‘eccentric’ might be too mild a word for this woman.
“I’m so sorry. I said something strange, didn’t I?” Hannah gives a nervous laugh. “I guess I still need to work on my sense of humor. It’s not very good. Honestly, I was in the bathroom when you called. What I said was just a silly thing from a movie.”
I don’t know if I believe that, but I decide to let it drop. I only have to deal with her until Monday, and then I’ll never see her again. “Well, I called to tell you that everything’s ready for Monday,” I say. “If you can be here at the office by one PM with your cashier’s check, we’ll go over and sign the paperwork. It’ll take about an hour, and you’ll leave with the keys to the house.”
“Really?” Hannah says, sounding delighted. “That’s wonderful. I’m so excited! Celine, will you …” She trails off and clears her throat. “I’m sorry. This is embarrassing, but I wondered if you’d come and have a drink with me tomorrow night, to celebrate. At that bar where I saw you and your friend. I … I don’t know anyone else in town,” she finishes in a small voice.
I absolutely want to turn her down. But she sounds so pathetic, and I know she’s telling the truth — about this, at least. She really doesn’t know anyone else. Besides, I only have to keep up being friendly until Monday, and then she’ll move into her big house with all her money and do whatever rich people do.
“Sure, we can do that,” I say. “Do you mind if Jill comes with us?” I almost feel bad asking that, but I’m not sure I want to be alone with Hannah. Tons of awkward potential there.
“Your friend? Not at all.” She’s so relieved, I can hear it in her breathing. “Maybe we can meet there at nine?”
“That works for me. See you then.”
We hang up, and I smirk at the phone for a moment. Hannah really is something — I just wish I knew what. Now I have to call Tabitha to make sure she’s available tomorrow night to watch Alyssa, and Jill to make sure she’ll come with me. But before I can do any of that, I notice Sabrina stalking across the room toward my desk, spoiling for a catfight.
I imagine myself making some outrageous remark just to shut her up before she gets started, like ‘What’s wrong, Sabrina, did your plastic surgeon tell you he can’t fix stupid?’ Instead, like always, I paste on my fake smile and wait for her to drop the gauntlet.
It’s not a long wait. She stops in front of me and drawls, “So you’re finally closing the deal, are you? Took you long enough. I mean, if I had a property like that, I could’ve sold it in a week.”
“Yes, well, we can’t all be perfect like you,” I fire back. It’s the closest I dare to get to what I really want to say, and even speaking those words out loud makes me shaky. “Listen, Sabrina, I’ve got a lot of work —”
“Oh, I’ll bet you do.” She isn’t going to back off. “By the way, have you been to see Brad yet? I have,” she says. “His parents were so happy to see me. In fact, I’m thinking of giving him another chance.”
“You’re so full of shit!” I shout, startling myself — and Courtney, who glances over briefly from the reception desk before she goes back to playing on her phone. “You don’t care about him,” I say in a lower voice. “Go ahead and be the queen of real estate if you want to, but stop dragging Brad into whatever this is between us. He’s been through enough.”
Sabrina lunges and smacks her palms on my desk, leaning toward me with a shark’s grin. “You’re right. I don’t care about Brad,” she says. “You, on the other hand … I’m going to get rid of you.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” Her expression turns frosty. “I’m tired of busting my ass around here, just to watch you land the easy scores. I mean, how did you pull off a cash deal on a four hundred grand property? Nobody does that.”
I’m actually a little scared now. She looks deranged. “I just got lucky. Right place, right time,” I say in what I hope is a calm voice, glancing around to see whether Courtney is paying attention. Of course, she isn’t. “Sabrina, what’s this all about?”
The back door opens then, and Maxine bustles in with a cup of coffee in one hand and a box of donuts in the other. Sabrina backs off instantly, all smiles for the boss, but there’s a predatory gleam in her eyes.
“Happy Friday. Don’t say I never got you anything,” Maxine says as she crosses the room to deposit the donut box on the counter next to the coffee pot. If she notices the tension in the room, she doesn’t mention it.
Courtney makes a beeline for the donuts. I wouldn’t mind one, but I’m not ready to move just yet. I’m still shaken by Sabrina’s outburst.
“You’re the best, Maxine,” Sabrina says. “Wish I could have one, but I’ve got to run. I have an open house this afternoon and I’m expecting at least half a dozen offers.”
Maxine rolls her eyes slightly. “Good for you,” she says, already heading toward her office. “Hope you don’t sprain your arm too hard patting yourself on the back.”
I manage to clamp my mouth shut over a laugh, but it’s close.
At least Maxine’s presence has taken the air out of Sabrina’s sails. She heads stiffly to her desk, grabs her purse and briefcase, and turns to look at me. “Enjoy being on top while you can,” she says with syrupy sweetness. “You won’t stay there long.”
I shake my head as she walks to the back door and leaves the building. Whatever’s gotten into her, she’ll probably get over it once the closing is over and she has more amazing sales to boast about. I won’t be much competition for a while. I’m already planning to coast on my little windfall, at least for a few weeks, while I deal with other things. Like Brad.
Once Sabrina is gone, my heart rate finally settles somewhere around normal. I grab my phone to call Tabitha about tomorrow night. But it chimes in my hand as a text comes in, and my nice, normal heartbeat stops entirely.
You don’t deserve the life you have.
It’s from the same unknown number as the one accusing me of murder. Shivering, I tap on the message bubble, and another text chimes in as the thread opens.
I’m going to take it from you.
“What the hell?” I say aloud, hitting the reply box. I’m h
alf tempted to go out to the back parking lot and see if Sabrina is sitting in her car on her phone, but I tap out a reply instead. Is this you, Sabrina?
I send the message and wait. Eventually, the phone pings again.
It’s not going to be that easy. You’ll never see me coming.
I’m cold all over and wondering whether I should call the police after all. This definitely sounds like a threat. I just don’t know what they’re threatening.
But I have a sinking feeling I’m going to find out.
9
Saturday
Alyssa is thrilled about Tabitha coming over tonight. Since it’s not a school night, she gets to stay up late and watch movies and be goofy. She’s in her pajamas on the couch, and I’m next to her in my going-out clothes — boots and black jeans, a lacy cream-colored top, and a long, lightweight cardigan with big pockets.
My daughter works the remote, navigating Netflix with frightening ease. I don’t recall being this easy with technology at four years old. But then, who remembers being four? My first memory is turning eight, and feeling angry because my parents bought my little sister a present for my birthday so she wouldn’t feel left out. They never got me a present for her birthday. I remember thinking I’d confront my mom, and then playing out the conversation in my head: Why does Vivian get a present for my birthday, but I don’t get one for hers? Because you’re the big sister, Celine. You have to be responsible, and Vivian is too little to understand why she doesn’t get any presents. But she’s five, Mom. She does understand. It’s not fair. Well, if it’s not fair, then we’ll just take all the presents back to the store and no one will get any.
That exchange never took place, because after I thought about it, I decided not to complain. Even then I was afraid of confrontation.
Now Vivian’s in California, studying structural engineering at UC Berkley — and I’m still here, disappointing my mother. She’s never been the looking-forward-to-grandchildren type, and although she loves Alyssa, I know she wishes I’d done something more with my life. And both of my parents are still furious that I won’t tell them who the father of my child is.
