My head bows, and my knees quiver. I can’t do this.
I’m at the sink, washing blueberries, the latest superfood. The kids are at the kitchen table, in their school uniforms, eating granola—the healthy kind, without too much trans fat or sugar.
The only way to get away with this is to act normally. Walk and talk, smile. Turn on the tap. Pick out the bad berries.
A clatter makes me turn. Zoe’s spilled her almond milk. A pool of white spreads across the glass table.
“Zoe!” snarls Chad.
My daughter’s round face collapses. “It was an accident!” she wails.
I grab a cloth and move their way. “Chad,” I warn him. He curls his lip and lifts his glass so I can wipe under it. His gaze remains glued to his phone.
I return to the sink and rinse out the cloth. That done, I stand, swaying. What was I doing? Right. Blueberries. Antiaging. Packed with antioxidants. I retrieve the colander. A few berries bounce out when I transfer them to a bowl. I don’t retrieve them. Thank God Gloria will be in later to clean up.
I set the blueberries on the table and sit down. I should eat something.
My swollen eye pulses. I touch it gingerly.
Since I couldn’t hide my injuries, I told the kids I ran into my closet door in the dark. I laughed about it, said it looked worse than it felt when the opposite’s true: it hurts more than it should. Everything hurts.
Zoe believed me. At five, she’s easy to fool. But the twins? Doubtful, despite their lack of reaction. Owen’s not a morning person. He never talks before 8:00 a.m. This morning he looks especially morose, slumped over his bowl, chin in hand. And Chad? Well, Chad’s the star of his own show, too intent on some text drama to spare much thought for his mom.
Only Zoe seems glad I’m here. Clad in gray tights, her short legs swing beneath her Starck chair. “Annie got a new bike,” she informs me. “It’s pink. With a white seat. And a bell.”
“Oh yeah?” I manage. I pick out a blueberry and eat it. It’s sour and dry, hard to swallow.
“Her new helmet’s purple.” When I fail to respond: “Sparkly purple.”
“Mmmmm, purple.”
“Do you like purple, Mommy?”
“Me? Ah, yeah, sure.”
“As much as pink?” she asks.
“Um.” I force down another blueberry. I’ve forgotten her question. “Yes,” I venture.
“Why?”
“Er.” I’m screwed.
At this age, all conversations with Zoe involve whys. Normally, I try to answer. Conversations with small kids can be curiously philosophical. Each why leads to another. Why must I go to bed now? Why does the time on the clock matter? Why can’t we choose a new time, to start now?
This morning I can’t think. One terrible question fills my head: How did last night happen?
I stand up. I can’t eat. I check the clock. Time to get moving. Return the yogurt to the fridge. Put Zoe’s lunchbox in her Frozen backpack. Remind Chad to pack his water bottle. Ask Owen if he’s got chess club. Pour a bowl of kibble for our fat orange cat, Toonces. Find Stan’s raincoat and hide it in my pink Marni tote bag.
After dropping off the kids, I’ll toss his coat by the sea cliffs in Norman Gaynor Park. The area’s popular with dog walkers, bird watchers, and suicides. A red herring. Part of Jo’s plan.
Behind me, Zoe’s still chattering. I zip up my bag. Toonces crunches his cat chow.
“It’s getting late,” I say tiredly. “Eat up, Zoe.”
She sounds cross. “Owen’s not eating.”
I turn and sigh. “Please Zoe. Just eat. And you too, Owen.”
From beneath his long bangs, my son glares at the cereal. “I don’t want it.”
I stay quiet, unsure how best to respond. Owen always eats this brand. He’s a creature of habit: same cereal, same bowl and spoon. It was worse when he was small. Even tiny changes—new branding on the milk carton—could send him ballistic.
Owen pushes back his bowl. “I don’t feel well.”
I hesitate. Should I keep him home today? No, routine’s better.
“I’m not hungry either,” pipes up Zoe. “Why can’t we get Lucky Charms? Annie gets those.” Her voice is dangerously whiny, as if tears are looming.
Owen rouses himself and leans closer to his sister. His tone’s confiding, like he’s letting her in on a big secret. “Did you know that Lucky Charms are colored with unicorn poop?”
Zoe makes a face. “Unicorns aren’t real!”
“Are too,” says Owen. “And they poop sweet rainbow-colored goo.” His voice drops further. “But it’s really sad. They’re kept in these giant factory farms and hooked up to machines that milk their magic poo!”
Zoe looks doubtful until Owen winks. She giggles.
I’m grateful to Owen and surprised he’s so chatty.
I check my watch. “Go brush your teeth, everyone.”
Zoe’s eyes widen. “But . . .” She picks up her spoon. “I’m not done with my breakfast.”
Even Owen manages a few more mouthfuls before dumping what’s left in his bowl into the garbage disposal. He shuffles off to the bathroom.
Ten minutes later, I manage to herd the kids toward the Range Rover. Toonces follows us outside and vanishes—a flash of orange in the cedar hedge.
I pull out of the garage and steer slowly down the long drive. Despite my dark glasses, the sky’s cruelly bright.
Chad is moaning about slow Wi-Fi. Zoe’s complaining she’s too big for her booster seat. Nobody has asked about Dad.
I’m relieved, and sad. If I vanished, when would they notice?
After exiting the huge gates, I stop and squint both ways. The road’s empty but for one parked car: Ralph Isles’s new Porsche. It’s unmistakable, some fancy model that was specially ordered. In the weak sun it looks extra tacky: bright midlife-crisis red, the only one of its kind in Glebes Bay.
I blink. Why is it here, across the street, a bit to the right of my driveway?
“Mom?” It’s Chad, riding shotgun. He sounds impatient. “What are you waiting for? The road’s clear.”
Just then, I see Ralph Isles jogging our way, feet flashing in white sneakers. Even dressed in shorts and a sweatshirt, he looks dapper, a trim man with a neat beard and short-clipped gray hair. A silver fox. I’ve never liked him.
I turn left and pull up in front of Ralph. I lower Chad’s window and call out. “Hey, Ralph.”
An MD, Ralph Isles is Stan’s business partner in a health care investment fund. He’s listening to music and must not hear. I try again, louder.
Ralph’s eyes hit mine. He looks startled and displeased, obliged to stop but obviously keen to jog on. Decorum pulls him closer. I am Stan’s wife, after all.
He pops out his earbuds and leans down to Chad’s window. “Morning.” Seeing my bruises, he frowns. “Oh dear. Dana, what happened?”
“Hi Ralph. I . . . ah . . . I had an accident. I’m fine. Really. You?” I sound disjointed. I hadn’t planned what to say. I just need to know why his car is parked out front of my house this morning.
“I’m fine,” says Ralph. He looks away, toward his car. “I stopped by last night to see Stan but realized he was, ah . . .” He pauses. “Busy.”
I cringe, icy ants up my spine. Ralph knows the gate code, as do all Stan’s buddies. He must have come by during our fight, in which case he heard us screaming.
“I decided another time would be better,” continues Ralph. “But realized I’d left my car key at home.” He shakes his head, like it’s funny but not. “You know, it’s that kind you push to start? I started the car, stuck the key in my jacket, went back inside, and left my jacket in the front hall.”
Some response is expected. “Oh, right,” I manage.
“I walked home, figured I’d jog over this morning. No big deal.” This is emphasized by a fake smile.
I nod. Ralph lives only a few blocks away, in a fussy Queen Anne, also in the Oaks.
He looks toward Winderlea. “Is Stan around?”
I take a deep breath, shake my head. “Ah, no.” I want to say more. I should admit to the fight, explain that Stan stormed off. Yet I don’t want to say this in front of the children.
“Ralph?” I let go of the wheel. “Can we have a word, please? In private?”
In the midst of his neat, silver beard, Ralph’s mouth purses. “Ah, sure,” he says, clearly reluctant to get embroiled in our domestic drama. He checks his watch pointedly and jogs on the spot.
I undo my seat belt and open my door.
Chad, who’s been intent on his phone, looks up, aghast. “I’ll be late, Mom!”
“No you won’t,” I say. “Just give me two minutes.”
Zoe’s in the back, watching Peppa Pig. Massive headphones are clamped over Owen’s ears. Despite the thumping bass, I’m sure he’s tracked my every word. He always does when I’d rather he didn’t hear.
I check for traffic and climb out of my car. Ralph joins me on the curb. We walk a few slow steps in tandem, heading toward his Porsche.
I stop. He frowns at me. “What’s happened, Dana?”
I don’t know Ralph well. Nor do I trust him. He’s got pale lizard eyes. He’s unmarried but has a son from a brief, long-ago union. This boy’s also at Stanton House, a year ahead of the twins.
Ralph looks anxious, thin lips pressed together. Is he repulsed by my injuries? My held-back hysteria?
He’s the most fastidious man I know, his nails manicured, his man bag packed like a bento box. I suspect he views women as disorderly.
“I can’t find Stan,” I say. “We argued last night. He left. He hasn’t come home.”
Ralph’s frown deepens. He leans away from me and my messy theatrics. “Oh dear. What time was this?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. Late. Past eleven.” I want to ask when he stopped by but can’t get the words out. The police will interview Ralph, ask him about my demeanor. Everything I say and do matters.
He looks toward my house. “I’ve been trying to reach him.”
“Why?”
He waves a hand. “Oh. Business matters.” His tight voice and stiff hand flick leave me convinced: there’s trouble.
Perhaps Stan’s fortune is disintegrating, all that theoretical money—stocks and bonds, numbers on a screen—popping like soap bubbles. Normally I’d want to learn more. Now I don’t care.
I lick my scabbed lip. “If he calls back, can you let me know? I guess he needs space, but I’m getting worried.”
Ralph nods. The man’s perpetually tanned, his skin usually so flawless he could be wearing foundation. Yet today he looks pale and drawn.
He’s still jogging in place, but it seems halfhearted. “I will,” he says. “And please tell him to call me when he gets in touch.”
“Of course.” I head back to my car.
The second I’m in my seat, Zoe asks the dreaded question: “Mommy, where’s Daddy?”
I reach for my seat belt, buying time. “He went out early.”
Her eyes, brown like Stan’s, meet mine in the rearview mirror. “Where to?”
I say the first thing that pops into my head: “Um, jogging.” This is pathetic. Even Zoe looks skeptical. Stan goes to the gym but doesn’t jog.
My insides curdle. I must do better with the cops.
While the twins don’t react, I feel them listening, feel the tension in the car. Owen’s music thuds from his earphones. Chad’s jabbing violently at his phone.
Before pulling away from the curb, I check my side-view mirror just in time to see Ralph Isles fold into his ludicrous car. When did he stop by last night? How much did he see and hear? Despite my glasses, I squint. My bashed eye throbs.
“Mommy?” It’s Zoe again.
“Yes, hon?” I pull away, feeling shaky.
“Annie Welland’s parents are divorced. That’s why she got a new bike, from her daddy. She already had one from her mom. But the new one’s better.” All of this is said matter-of-factly.
I try to answer but can’t. I know Annie Welland’s parents from the PTA. They’re embroiled in a bitter divorce, poor Annie a pawn in a hideous battle of “he said / she said.”
I want to cry. Would things have gotten that ugly between me and Stan? Maybe. Probably. He seemed determined to divorce me, convinced I was ruining our offspring, who needed what he called “tough love.” Stan wasn’t one to shy away from a fight. And I’d have fought tooth and nail to keep my children.
A breath rattles out of me. Poor Annie Welland. At least Zoe will be spared that.