I’m shaking so hard my legs are unsteady. I lurch from side to side down the dark tunnel of a hall.
Dana’s behind me. She calls out, beseeching. “Jo! Stop!”
I ignore her and stumble toward the den. My phone’s still clutched in one hand, pressed to my sleeping child. I’m scared I’ll drop Ruby. She’s increasingly heavy. I must put her down—now.
I shoulder the den’s mahogany door.
The room smells of cologne, sporty and manly. My throat clogs. It smells of Stan.
I swish the wall with tingling fingers until I find the switch. The sudden light is blinding. Ruby twitches in my arms. I hug her. “Shhhh,” I whisper.
The den’s very much Stan’s room, all chrome and black leather, with the world’s biggest flat-screen and a bookshelf full of golfing trophies. There’s a larger-than-life-sized closeup photo of Stan snowboarding: neon coat, flashing teeth, and shiny goggles hiding his eyes.
I stagger toward a massive sofa. Everything in this house seems made for giants, like some master race lives here. The ceilings are fourteen feet high.
Dana’s still behind me, still pleading: “Please, Jo! Please! Let me explain!”
My arms quiver as I release Ruby onto the couch. Her little face screws up, then smooths over. Thank God my daughter’s a deep sleeper.
Without Ruby’s weight, my arms feel floaty. I reach for a blanket neatly folded on one armrest. It’s printed with an image of Disney’s Little Mermaid. It must be Zoe’s. I want to cry. I shake out the blanket and allow it to settle gently over Ruby.
Phone in hand, I cross the room.
“No!” shriek-whispers Dana. “No! Don’t call!”
I stop. Even in the dark, Dana’s face looks blotchy. I gape at her, uncomprehending. “What the fuck happened?” Instead of answering, she stares straight ahead and wraps her thin arms around herself. I bark out her name: “Dana!”
She collapses onto another sofa, a wasteland of shiny black leather. Her bottom lip trembles. “Stan hit me.”
“What?” I recoil.
To say Dana is beautiful is an understatement. She’s ethereal, Grace Kelly in a wedding dress. Cinderella at the ball, graceful despite high-heeled glass slippers. And she’s not just a pretty face. She’s smart and successful. In her quiet way, she’s commanding. Her life’s always been charmed.
Dana brings her hands to her face, covering it. “It wasn’t the first time. Stan . . . He . . . It’s . . .” When she looks up, I hardly recognize her: she looks haunted and ghastly, a cowed, hunted creature. Her voice is tortured: “It’s been going on for years.”
I can’t move. Years? Jesus Christ. How could Dana have settled for that? She could have had anyone!
A memory floats free: me, walking from the bus stop and seeing Dana up ahead, outside our middle school.
“Dana! Wait!” I called, and ran to catch up.
She slowed but didn’t stop.
Up ahead, some older boys stood, slouching. Upon seeing Dana, they straightened: an honor guard at attention. Her effect on them was comical. What wouldn’t they do to impress her?
Meanwhile, none of them saw me. I was an accessory, like her school bag.
I shake my head, back in Stan’s ugly den. That bastard! “But . . .” I blurt. “Why didn’t you leave?”
She flinches and looks at her hands.
Guilt strikes. What’s wrong with me? This is the oldest story in the abused-woman book. Victims of domestic violence get gaslighted and blame themselves. They hope things will improve.
I’m her best friend. I’ve known her since we were twelve. Yet here I am, doubting her. And turning the blame onto her. Stan hit her! One look at her proves that. I feel sick. Oh my God.
Dana twists her pajama top’s hem. “Before . . . He just never . . .” Her voice breaks. “Not my face.”
I recall her long-sleeved, ladylike blouses. The endless Hermès scarves, even in summer. I fell for it, deceived by overpriced finery. What a fool. Some best friend I am!
I take a deep breath. “We need to call the police, Dana. This isn’t your fault. You didn’t mean for him to die!”
Her head snaps up, eyes fiery again. “No!” Her vehemence shocks me. “No, Jo! I did! Tonight, when he punched me, I lost it. I bashed him. Repeatedly. With a vase.”
I shake my head, stubborn. “So you snapped. He beat you. It was still self-defense!”
Dana stands. She doesn’t look cowed now, her back straight and regal. This is the Dana I know, able to still a room with one airy glance. “Jo,” she says softly. “You’re my best friend. You believe me. But no one else will. I spent all those years playing Mrs. Perfect. Even you thought my marriage was perfect!”
I can’t answer. Her life did seem perfect. And all along, Stan was hitting her . . . Trying to grind down her shine.
Dana steps toward me. “The police will crucify me,” she says. “They’ll ask our neighbors. And our friends.” This last word’s spoken with a hitch. “None of them will back me up! They never saw him hurt me. The cops will say I set this all up. What will that do to my children?”
Again, I can’t disagree. Dana’s the queen of Glebes Bay high society. Anyone who’s ever been jealous will say she’s a cold evil bitch, who planned this. Her ladies-in-waiting will be lining up to throw knives at her. It’ll be an orgy of schadenfreude. Even I feel a trace of it. Don’t I?
I do not. But I should have known.
“There’s no way you planned this,” I say. “Why would you?”
Her shoulders slump, and fresh tears fill her eyes. “There was someone else. Stan wanted a divorce, and I signed a prenup.”
I blink. An affair? A prenup? What the fuck? That’s not part of the fairy tale.
“They’ll say I did it for the money,” she says. “For all of this.” She waves a hand at the corniced ceiling.
I’m too stunned to reply. A savvy prosecutor would paint her as a jealous aging wife on the cusp of losing her looks, desperate to keep her claws on her husband’s hard-earned money.
“It gets worse,” she says. “He wanted custody . . .” A sob escapes. “Of the kids. Zoe’s only five!”
I can’t swallow. Holy shit. I don’t know what I’d do if Trev got custody of Ruby. Kidnap her, probably. Go on the run.
Tears spill down her mismatched cheeks. “He—Oh God, you know him, he’s ruthless! And he has endless money for lawyers. He claims I spoil the kids, that I’m a bad mother!”
I blink, my phone still clutched in my hand. She does spoil her kids a bit, but Dana’s not a bad mom. She’s just busy and distracted, a common story at Stanton House, where I teach. Half my students’ parents are missing in action, too busy redecorating their second homes or organizing charity balls, while the other half are helicopter parents.
“Oh, Dana . . .” My words sound hollow. I tell her everything about my life—or nearly everything. How could she have hidden all this? “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I just . . . I felt pathetic.” Her voice quivers. “I should have left him, but I couldn’t. We have three kids! I kept hoping.” She licks her split lip and winces, pulls herself back together. “Plus . . . You know.” She shrugs. “You have your own problems.”
I’m taken aback. It’s true though. I’ve had more than my share. Fucking Trevor and his debts. That ugly business at my last school.
I shake my head and crack a wry smile. “No shit. But compared to this? It kind of takes the cake!”
She smiles too. A giggle breaks free. Soon, we’re both cackling hysterically, not laughing because this is funny but because it’s not.
“I’ve had a crap year,” I say between snorts. “But you . . .” I flap a hand in the direction of her studio. “Jesus Christ, Dana!”
She wipes her eyes, not laughing now. “I win,” she says, “first prize for the biggest fuckup.” Her voice is wry.
“You always win, Dana.”
She steps closer and sinks down beside me. “I need your help,” she whispers.
I wait. After that manic laughter, I feel unsteady. I remember my dad learning English idioms from a textbook: There’s no free lunch. He’d say it again and again. Those r sounds are tricky.
All these years, Dana gave me things: hand-me-downs, gifts, and cachet. She plucked me out of preteen-loser-land. She made my adolescence bearable. And she got me hired at Stanton House—no easy task after Chicago. She had to pull strings, my very own fairy godmother. Beautiful, magical Dana.
On the sofa, Ruby snores softly. Dana’s gaze is imploring. I take a deep breath and look down at my sleeping daughter. “Let’s get out of here,” I say. We can’t discuss this near Ruby.
Dana rises shakily. She precedes me into the hall.
I look toward the front door. I could walk away. Grab my daughter and run.
Yet I won’t. Dana’s my best—indeed, only—real friend. It’s too late to leave. She needs me.
I square my shoulders and turn toward her gigantic kitchen.