Best Intentions (27 page)

“What do you think?” he asks, wanting something I cannot give him, approbation, exoneration.

“I don't know, Sam. I can't concentrate on it right now.” I was hardly listening.

“All right, I understand. This isn't the best time.” He cannot hide his dejection, though.

“I'm sorry. All I can think about is Deirdre.”

He nods. “What are you going to do this afternoon?”

“I'll pick the girls up from school. Maybe take them out for an ice cream or something.” I want them near me, that's all I know to do, keep them close, watch for fault lines, help piece them back together.

We rise and, careful not to knock into the table, we begin to gather our things, slip our arms awkwardly into our coats.

“I'll bring these to the counter,” Sam says, picking up our empty cups.

“I'll meet you outside.”

I am halfway out the door when my cell phone rings. I pull it out of my bag and glance at the number but I don't recognize it.

“Hello?”

There is a pause on the other end of the line.

“Hello?” I say again.

“Lisa, it's Jack.”

J
ack. Where are you?” I ask frantically as I rush out of the coffeehouse, where the hissing of the espresso machine makes it difficult to hear.

“In Boston.”

“Why haven't you called? I've left a hundred messages on your phone. Everyone's looking for you.”

“I know.” His voice is a hollow shell, everything alive is gone from it. “I just talked to a detective in New York. Some guy named Callahan.”

I lean up against a parked blue Toyota, trying to catch my breath, gather my rattling thoughts.

“What did Callahan tell you?” I ask cautiously. Every word is loaded.

He breathes deeply, his exhalation barely muffling a sob.

“Not much. Except that Deirdre is dead.” His voice shudders, then completely breaks. The pain is still fresh for him. It has not yet settled into the steady omnipresent ache that it is and always will be for me.

Or so he would like me to think.

I clutch the phone tightly.

“I can't believe it,” he says slowly. “You read about these things. But it's always other people, not you. Not the people you love. I just
don't understand, how could something like this happen to Deirdre?” Her name expands in his mouth.

“What exactly did Callahan say?”

“He wouldn't give me many details. Who could have done this?” It is a lament, really, and I have no answer.

“There was no sign of forced entry. They assume she let whoever did it in.”

“Jesus.”

Beneath the interminable silence that follows I can feel the beat of protest sounding in us both, It cannot be, it cannot be.

I snap out of it. He is no longer “friend,” I don't know what he is.

“Jack, what happened Monday night?”

“What do you mean?”

“After we spoke. What did you do?”

He doesn't answer.

I switch the phone from my right hand to my left. I hear his words, will hear them always, “I don't fucking believe they did this again…. She's not going to get away with this again.”

I steel myself, afraid to push him, unable not to. “Did you see Deirdre on Monday night?”

“Is that what they think?”

“No one knows what to think.”

“No, Lisa. I didn't see Deirdre. I couldn't. You have no idea how devastated I was after you called me.”

“Actually, I do,” I remind him coldly, irritated by his solipsism, the assumption that his suffering is greater than mine. “I told Callahan about the phone call, the pictures.”

“I see.” He swallows. “It seems the police should be talking to Sam then, not me.” His anger is visceral, pointed.

There is still so much he doesn't know.

“Jack, I was wrong. I never should have called you. I never should have said anything until I talked to Sam. It wasn't what we thought, what I thought. I made a terrible mistake.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Sam borrowed money from Deirdre. That's what they were getting together about. There was never an affair.”

“Who told you that?”

“Sam.”

“And you believe him?”

“Yes. The police found e-mails between the two of them. It was always about money.”

He doesn't make a sound.

“Are you still there?” I ask.

“Yes. Where is Sam?”

“He's here. With me. Jack, why didn't you return my messages?”

“I didn't get them until this morning. I didn't have my cell phone. After I talked to you, I was so upset I threw it on the ground and it shattered. I just left it there.” His voice lowers, intensifies. “I couldn't get the image of the two of them out of my head.”

“What did you do after we spoke?” I ask warily.

“The last few weeks I really believed that Deirdre and I were finally going to be together after all these years. I was totally blindsided. Everything came crashing in on me.”

“Jack, what did you do when you got off the phone?”

“I got in my car and drove. I didn't even realize what I was doing until I was halfway up to Boston.” A sob escapes, washing away his narrative. “This can't be happening. Lisa, I would have come sooner, I would have called if I'd had any idea. We just got back a few minutes ago.”

“We?”

“I'm at Alice's house. Our house.”

“What?”

“I didn't know where else to go.”

“The police need to talk to you.”

“Yes, I know. I'm coming down this afternoon to meet with Callahan. I'm heading to the airport now. I'll get the first shuttle I can.”

I hear him swallow.

“I loved her,” Jack says. “I always loved her. No matter what.”

I do not answer.

“Can I see you? After I talk to Callahan.”

I hesitate. “I'm not sure that's such a good idea.”

“Please,” he presses.

“Call me when you're done and we'll see.”

I flip my phone shut and look up to see Sam studying me.

“Jack?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Where the hell has he been?”

“Believe it or not, with Alice.”

“Just out of curiosity, they're still legally married, right?”

“Yes. Why?”

“How convenient for him.”

“What are you talking about?”

“A wife can't testify against her husband.”

“Sam, don't you think you're jumping ahead about a million steps?”

“Maybe. But keep in mind Jack happens to be one of the savviest lawyers around.”

A
t ten minutes before three I stand outside Weston, waiting for the girls.

I am an interloper here, a visitor to the country of mothers who pick their children up every day. This is their territory. They stand together in clumps, a few with strollers, keeping one eye on the blue doors and the other on each other as they talk. The nannies have positioned themselves a few feet closer to the entrance, ever mindful to appear more vigilant than actual parents. They know all too well the dangerous game of telephone mothers are more than happy to engage in if one is not deemed up to snuff. One of the school's security guards stands poised to lead children into the private minivans that we, too, used until this year, spending thousands of dollars to have Phoebe and Claire shuttled downtown to a waiting babysitter. Behind them, the street is clotted with cars despite all the recent e-mails and letters sent home advising, begging, threatening against it. In homeroom last week, Claire's class was asked to share their funniest bus or train stories. More than one girl admitted she had never been on public transportation. “That's not possible,” I protested when she reported this to me, but Claire just rolled her eyes. For all their political correctness, Manhattan's private-school parents surely have their own circle in eco-hell for their contribution to greenhouse gases.

I glance eagerly at the school doors. I crave them, my own children. I long to hold them close, to smell and to touch and enfold them, to batten down the hatches behind us.

I spot Georgia at the center of a group a few yards away and smile politely, hoping that will be sufficient interaction to satisfy any social obligations. I do not have the energy to engage. I am willing to cede to her, cede it all, anything she wants, if only I don't have to talk. Unfortunately, I see her extricate herself from her crowd and begin to make her way over to me wearing a look of great solicitous concern.

“Lisa, hi. Is everything all right?”

“Yes, why?” I ask cautiously. She cannot know about Deirdre, there is no way, and yet. The city has a message system all its own, an underground railroad trafficking in gossip and salacious news, hidden, lethal and decidedly hazardous to underestimate.

“We don't usually see you here.”

“I have a job,” I remind her, gritting my teeth. Or used to, I think.

She nods dismissively as if this is some crazy whim of mine. Women like Georgia cannot conceive of the notion that not everything in life is a matter of choice. I cannot help but wonder, though, if that will change as Wall Street bonuses vanish and layoffs escalate even in the upper echelons.

“Of course,” she says. “But I assumed you were swamped at work since you missed the benefit meeting this morning. Or perhaps you weren't feeling well?”

“Apparently neither seems to be the case,” I reply tartly. I realize that my attitude is not helping matters, but I cannot stop myself. I can feel the pent-up resentment bursting out, impossible to stanch.

“That's too bad. There is something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I'm confused. We all were, to tell you the truth. When Vanessa called Rita Mason the other day to arrange a time to take her picture for the catalogue she didn't seem to know anything about it.
In fact, she made it quite clear that she never volunteered for the dinner at all.”

I stare blankly at Georgia. It occurs to me that she could very well have called to ask me about this when Vanessa first had the conversation with Rita. She preferred to wait for the opportunity to publicly humiliate me. No wonder she was so disappointed when I didn't show up this morning.

“Rita changed her mind,” I reply. “There was a scheduling conflict. I thought I had told you.”

“I see. And is Ben Erickson really donating the photo shoot or is there a scheduling conflict with that as well?” she asks sweetly.

I stare at her. “You know what, Georgia? Screw you. Screw you and your two-bit committee.”

Her face freezes. Slowly, ever so gradually, her perpetual half smile begins to sink down her perfect face. It is the first and only time I have ever seen Georgia Hartman speechless.

My pulse is still racing as I watch her storm off to her posse, which immediately begins to roil and stir, shooting outraged looks in my direction. I'm fucked, my children are fucked. Already regret is nibbling at the edges of my defiance. I stand up straighter, bracing myself as the school doors open and girls tumble out in chattering clumps, calling out to each other, hugging as if they are about to part for months, pulling on coats as they stuff cookies into their mouths, the straps of their two-hundred-pound backpacks slipping off their shoulders, a cheerful chaos that makes me smile. I have a brief vision of a different life, one where I pick the girls up every day, take them out for treats and hear all their news, we have all the time in the world for each other. Of course, if I actually tried to accomplish that, we would end up destitute.

I see Phoebe immersed in conversation with two of her pals, a symphony of laughter and eye-rolling, surely directed at some poor teacher's incalculable stupidity. She suddenly notices me and I smile broadly, expecting to see a mirror image of my pleasure reflected in her expression. Instead she takes a step back, as if she doesn't quite recognize me. Finally, she regroups and smiles
tentatively as if this is the reaction she knows that I expect and is offering it up out of kindness. She separates reluctantly from her friends and walks over to me.

“What are you doing here?” she asks suspiciously.

I lean down, kiss her. “I'm happy to see you, too.”

“You know what I mean, Mom.”

“Can't I pick you up from school if I want to?”

“Sure, but you never do.”

I exhale, defeated. Children give you no leeway, none.

“I didn't go to work today and I thought it would be nice, that's all.”

“Why didn't you go to work? Because of Deirdre?”

“Yes.”

Phoebe stares at the ground, shuffling her feet. Nothing is as it was and my presence is a jarring reminder of that. Rather than a pleasurable surprise it is another disturbance. She glances back at her friends, at the world I have disrupted, and then forces herself to return to me, conscious of not wanting to hurt my feelings.

“It's okay,” I tell her. “Go talk to your buddies.”

She shakes her head, her lower lip tucked into her top teeth. She has gnawed a bloody red hole in it, an old nervous habit she had only gotten the better of after the pediatrician warned her that if she continued she would have permanent scars. She hasn't done it in months.

We are standing there, making awkward small talk as if we have just been introduced at a cocktail party, when Claire comes out with Lily. The minute she notices me she turns, whispers something to Lily, and strikes off alone in my direction. She has never been one to deal well with transitions and, judging by the look on her face, it is doubtful today will be an exception.

“Why are you here?” she asks as soon as she reaches me.

I groan. “Good Lord, why do I need to apologize for my presence? As I informed your sister, I felt like picking you guys up, okay? I thought it would be nice. In the future I will submit a request in writing.”

“I was just asking,” Claire replies sullenly.

“You're right. I'm sorry. I guess we're all on edge.”

Both girls shrug.

I give it one last try. “How about going out for ice cream?”

Phoebe looks hopefully at Claire, who vetoes the idea. “I have homework.”

“Since when does school take precedence over a hot fudge sundae?”

“Can we just go home?” Claire asks.

“Of course.”

Deflated, the three of us ride downtown on the Lexington Avenue bus in a disgruntled, cranky silence.

As soon as we get in the door the girls peel off to their bedrooms. I hang up their coats—I don't have it in me to nag them today—check for messages and then go knock gently on Claire's door. “Can I come in?”

She opens the door wordlessly.

I touch her shoulders and if she doesn't fall into my arms, she doesn't shrink from me, either. She looks up, at once fragile and guarded.

“Are you okay, sweetie?” I ask.

She doesn't answer.

“I know you loved Deirdre. I did, too. She was my best friend.”

Claire looks at me, waiting for something I cannot give her.

“There's nothing I can say that's going to make this better. But if you want to talk, I'm here. Always. You know that.”

There are tears in her eyes and I can feel her shaking slightly. I kiss the top of her head and let her go back to her computer, where a close-up of a single pale pink rose fills the screen, a different flower every day, last week it was kittens, she is so young still, so sentimental.

I look in on Phoebe, who has climbed under her blankets with a book. She has always had the ability to submerge herself in stories, losing track of time, of any reminder of the outside world. I sit down by her on the bed and wait until she finishes her page before I speak.

“How are you doing?”

“Okay, I guess.” Though she is deeply shaken, I suspect a part of her acknowledges that Deirdre belonged to Claire, that Claire's grief takes up more room, overshadows hers. “Did they find the robbers?”

I shake my head. “Not yet, sweetie.” I envy her the world of black and white, good and bad, of simple explanations.

“But they will?”

“I hope so.”

I stroke her cheek with the back of my fingers, kiss her, then gently tap her lip where a new red sore is already forming and remind her not to chew it.

There is a dividing line, a moment when you realize that you cannot make everything better, kiss every hurt away. I don't know who that realization leaves more bereft, parent or child. Once passed, though, it is impossible to return to the time before love's limitations have been rendered so painfully blatant, no matter how much you might long to.

Phoebe picks up her book once more and I withdraw into my bedroom, shut the door. My eyes, swollen and ragged from crying, fill once more. I let the tears trickle down the slope of my cheeks, too drained to wipe them away. I curl up, grasping a pillow tightly between my arms.

Jack must be in New York by now, talking to Callahan. I wonder if he is in the same gray airless room with its dusty linoleum floor, I wonder if Gibbs is there as well, with her thin gold chain and her innuendos. I assume they would call me if they had made an arrest, but I could be wrong.

It is a little after six when Sam walks in with two large bags of take-out food. I rouse myself to go out and greet him, kissing him hello without desire or relief.

“How are you?” he asks as we head into the kitchen and unpack the cartons of enchiladas, guacamole, tacos, fajitas, rice, beans, little plastic containers of sour cream and hot sauce. I know that he meant well, that he, too, is groundless, grasping at anything that might offer
comfort, but the extravagance of it all irritates me. He pulls out a Tecate beer for himself and one for me. “Did you pick the girls up from school?”

“Yes, but I didn't exactly get the response I was hoping for,” I admit. “Maybe surprising them wasn't the world's best idea, but I thought they'd be at least a little bit happy to see me.”

“I'm sure they appreciated it on some level.”

“I don't think they appreciate much of anything right now. How could they? They're stuck in this nightmare, too. I don't know what to do. Should I bring Deirdre up, should I not bring her up? I don't know what will help and what will make things worse. I feel so helpless.” The ability to console my own children has been decimated along with everything else.

Sam touches my shoulder. “You're doing everything you can.”

“But that's just it, there's nothing I can do. I can't change anything, I can't help anyone, I can't make us go back in time.”

I shut my eyes, wrap my arms about myself, as if this will somehow keep everything within me from exploding into fragments, a splatter of grief and fear and regret that, once let out, I might never be able to rein back.

Sam holds me tightly until my breathing steadies.

“I don't want the girls to see me like this,” I say quietly, straightening, though the barrier is fragile and may not hold.

I move slowly, underwater, putting a stack of napkins in the center of the table. “I promised Deirdre's store manager, Janine, that I'd go in tomorrow afternoon and help her sort through things,” I tell Sam as I get out silverware. “She's totally overwhelmed. The police took Deirdre's computer and a lot of her papers. I don't know how much I can accomplish but I can at least sift through invoices and that kind of thing. It's going to be weird, being in there without her.”

“Lisa, maybe it's not such a good idea right now. It might be too much. You're allowed to change your mind.”

“No, I want to do it.”

We turn to see both girls edging into the kitchen, eyeing the massive amounts of food with skepticism.

“What's all this?” Phoebe demands.

“I believe they call it dinner,” Sam says.

“For a Mexican army?” Claire retorts.

“Stop complaining and eat a taco. Or twenty,” Sam replies.

He passes around containers and the business of arranging plates of food distracts us all.

“How was school today?” Sam asks as he piles his taco with such a gravity-defying mountain of lettuce, cheese, chicken and sour cream that biting into it will be an insurmountable feat.

“Fine,” both girls mutter.

“I suppose if I ask what happened, the answer will be ‘stuff'?”

They look at him and decide to ignore this.

Instead, Phoebe turns to Claire. “What happened with Kara Fielding today?”

Sam leans over. “Now we're getting somewhere. I was wondering the same thing. What did happen with Kara Fielding?”