Jarrod had not been in the courtroom when she testified. ‘The rule’ had been invoked by both the state and defense, which excluded potential witnesses from the courtroom. Since he’d been listed as a witness for both the state and the defense, he was not permitted to hear her testimony and the judge had banned him from watching the trial live on TV or the recaps on the news. He’d also instructed both her and Jarrod not to discuss their testimony with each other. So she didn’t know exactly what he knew, but she’d figured out that he knew it hadn’t gone well: the bar in the family room had been cleaned out before she came home from rehab, but now the mouthwash was missing from every bathroom and the travel-size Listerine was gone from the toiletries bag. Same with cold medications. Even the rubbing alcohol was missing from the first-aid kit. Like she would ever drink rubbing alcohol …
She wanted to find her old friend. She did. She’d never wanted anything so much in her life. She wanted to resurrect her from the dead and find a bar and sit quietly in the corner and enjoy her company – think about old, fun times they’d had together, long, long, long before the nightmare that was her life now. She didn’t want to talk to anyone else, but she did need to be around other people, anonymously absorbed into the décor like a picture, because it would keep her honest. It would keep her clean. She was afraid that if she got a bottle and invited her old friend in for a drink, that would precipitate the fall. She had never really feared ‘rock bottom’ because she didn’t believe she was an alcoholic. That term defined someone who could not stop their descent because they had no control over it, and she always knew she had control. Until now. Now she feared she had no control over anything, and she feared that if she cracked open a bottle by herself at this moment, she would guzzle the whole thing until the last drop was gone. If she let that happen, she feared she would find herself in an ugly place that others might call ‘rock bottom’. A place where rubbing alcohol might just be the drink of necessity.
She had enough control of herself at this very moment to know to prevent that descent, and recognize that the pressure that was coming at her from every angle was the result of a situation. A situation that could not last forever. A situation that would ultimately pass, no matter what the jury decided about the fate of Derrick Poole. Eventually everyone would forget about him and this case and hopefully her, and the situation would be resolved and she wouldn’t feel this crazed panic in her chest. She wouldn’t hear the ticking of that damn time bomb strapped to her chest. Once the situation had passed she could trust herself again.
From the moment Detective Minkhaus had dropped her at the house after she’d testified, Jarrod had been with her. He’d been waiting on the front steps with a can of Coke in his hand while Maggie rode her bike in the street when the detective pulled into her driveway. It was a beautiful spring day, the lawn was green, the sun had set the sky on fire. It looked like a Norman Rockwell painting: Mom Home from Court. At that very moment, Faith was so very, very happy that she lived in a gated community, safe from the cameras and reporters that might have tried to camp outside in the street where Maggie was trying out her new bike, screaming, ‘Watch, Mommy!’ She’d been so overwhelmed by the apparent normalcy of the moment that she had cried. For the zillionth time that day she had cried – at what she was coming home to, and at what she might not be really coming home to. She didn’t know if Jarrod knew then, at that very moment, as he stood on the steps, smiled and waved at the car, but she knew he eventually would find out about the latest lie. The judge’s order wasn’t going to last forever.
Inside she’d found the Listerine and Nyquil gone. But he hadn’t asked what had happened during the trial and she hadn’t volunteered. They had dinner and watched movies and caught up on Breaking Bad and The Walking Dead. He had stayed with her in the house for the next two days. They cooked, watched movies, baked while Maggie played in the backyard. They didn’t turn the TV on and they didn’t answer the phone. She didn’t climb out a window and hop the guard gate to find a local watering hole.
Then Elisabetta texted him: it was his turn.
She sat on the couch after the front door closed and all she could think of was how badly she needed a drink. She tried to remember what the therapists had said. How she should handle her feelings, how she should channel her energy away from the overwhelming compulsion that ate at every rational thought. She smoked cigarette after cigarette and paced the backyard until her footprints had carved a path.
It’s over, anyway, whispered a sad voice in the back of her head. It was her old friend. He’s gonna know about the car. He’s gonna find out that you lied again. He doesn’t trust you. He was only doing this helping thing out of guilt. To get you on your feet again so he could leave you. You made it easy for him, Faith. You made it easy for him to walk away. You gave him his reason, and that is exactly what he’s gonna do when this trial is over: he’s gonna walk away anyway.
She screamed at the voice to shut up. She paced the halls of her nice house. She walked around the backyard some more. She turned on the TV only to see it was all about the Poole case. It was all about her. How her husband was about to take the stand. How the state’s case was falling apart …
Then she took Maggie for a ride.