Page 6 of I Know She Was There
As Mary placed her mug on the rickety glass-and-steel table between us and lit up, I thought none of us got what we deserved in this life. I didn’t deserve to have my father die when I was only six. I didn’t deserve to have my mother taken from me just when I needed her most. I thought of all the motherly advice she’d never give me.
Mary’s voice broke into my thoughts, “Caroline, things are going to be okay.”
I noticed the reddish wood stain was beginning to peel at the edges of the deck boards. “Do you really think so?”
“With time.” She took a long drag and held it in her lungs.
“I don’t know. Tim talks like he has no intention of coming back to me. Ever.”
Mary exhaled. “You need to give it... time...”
“It’s been months. How long do I hold out?” I looked at her, saw the Baileys kick in as she focused her glassy stare on the weed-filled grass of my backyard. It was futile to believe she’d be capable of giving me sound advice now. “Do you have any more of that stuff?”
She looked at me for a second as if she’d forgotten I was sitting in front of her. But then she smiled and patted her pocket with her free hand. She pulled out another nip, her expression bordering on surprise, as though someone else had tucked it into her sweater pocket. But of course no one had. She lived alone. When Tim and I moved in, she’d explained her husband, Bill, had left her and then died, years before. Did Mary deserve that?
No wonder the poor woman drank. She’d been unable to hold on to her man and then was robbed of the chance for a do-over when death snatched him permanently away. Would that happen to me too? I pictured Tim twenty pounds lighter, disease carving haggard hollows beneath his eyes and a ragged cough turning his voice ominously husky.I’veonlygotweeksleft, he’d say, and I’d reach out to him, my hand poised to caress his cheek. Offering him the comfort he’d so heartlessly denied me.
I rubbed my lips with my pointer finger, thinking that may just be the endinghedeserved. But as Mary held the nip toward me, regret lodged in my throat. Of course Tim didn’t deserve a painful death. He was the father of my child, no matter how much I resented him these days. Jane Brockton’s bitchiness must be getting to me. I seemed to be thinking just like her.
CHAPTER4
MONDAY, AUGUST 14
Nearing twilight at eight in the evening, the temperature was still stifling but had cooled enough to head outside.
I’d have to steer clear of Woodmint Lane that evening. Another encounter with Jane Brockton could be downright dangerous. If it came to blows, I wasn’t sure I could beat her back. Even though she was about ten years older than I was, she was in fantastic shape. I, on the other hand, was sporting a saggy pouch of post-baby pudge around my middle.
As I made my way out of Highland Knolls, my body laboring in the oppressive humidity, I peered into the lives of my immediate neighbors. There was Mary, blinds open, watching a retro game show as she slugged back something in a clear rounded bottle that usually held the hard stuff: gin or vodka.
Beyond Mary, Dolf Green’s ranch was dark, as usual, except for his lighted office on the far left, the top of his bald head motionless in the eerie bluish glow of a computer screen. Across from him, the Washingtons’ dining-room light was on, but the room was empty. I walked on. I pushed thebabyzenup the hill through the moist, tepid air, listening to Emmy’s happy babble.
“Exercise is vital,” I told her as we passed bilevels and ranches, exertion turning my tone breathy. She didn’t understand, but her melodious prattle told me she recognized my voice.
I thought of my own mother’s voice, which came to me often but never imparted the child-rearing advice I needed. The one weary message she usually sent—It wasn’t your fault—was tedious. But I did appreciate her tone, which was kinder than when she’d been alive.
During my childhood, the stress of single parenting often tried Mom’s patience. It wasn’t until I became a mother that I understood why she’d often tuck me into bed before the sun went down. Parenting was exhausting. I remembered her unending diligence: unplugging the television after discovering I hadn’t finished my homework; arguing at the dinner table over my feeble consumption of lima beans, broccoli, or brussels sprouts. I smiled, recalling how she’d had to get creative to get me to eat the vegetables when I was quite young.
“A half for you and a half for me,” she’d chirp, shoveling the hated morsels first into my mouth, and then into hers.
My smile faded. Nearly a year since the head-on car collision that had taken her life. It didn’t seem possible that so much time had passed. She’d been both mother and father since I was six, and she’d never remarried. We might have been happier if she had.
Must think of other things, pleasant things.
I exhaled, unable to dredge up anything positive. Except for Emmy. One shining example of a successful life. Wrangling her colic had been a major achievement. Things could only get better, especially if Tim and I could work out our differences. Become a proper family again. Muzzy was key to making that happen. If Tim knew my former friend and I had settled our differences, he might realize there was hope for our marriage too. I wasn’t as unpredictable as Tim had so often suggested. I paused, dabbing at the perspiration dribbling from scalp to forehead before pushing on.
As I neared Route 55, a meaty hound raced through the shadowy light cast from the lone streetlamp on the block. He pressed his nose against the chain-link fence and howled. I slowed, calculating the beast’s ability to leap the five feet it would take to clear the thing, even as a large dog of uncertain origin to my left growled and barked in response. Ironic that only tiny purebreds seemed to dot Deer Crossing’s expansive acreage, but massive mutts were penned into my immediate neighbors’ minuscule yards.
“Settle down,” I snapped at the dogs as I resumed my trek through the wet air, trying to ignore the clinging stickiness of 90 percent humidity on my skin. Taking a labored breath, lungs heavy as a soggy loaf of bread, legs sluggish, I moved even slower. Pushing the baby carriage felt more like shoving a pile of bricks through a tight doorway.
I paused at the edge of Route 55 to look both ways. The day had been sweltering, ringing Emmy and me in sweat no matter how many times I changed our garments. After we’d bought our ranch, Tim had been too cheap to install central air conditioning, overriding my complaints, explaining it was only unbearably hot in Upstate New York for two months a year. But now the stifling humidity of August was here. And he wasn’t. And the apartment he’d moved into had the central air I craved.
I veered left and rolled onto Pine Hill Road, the entrance opposite Woodmint Lane. If I stayed within the web of intersecting streets on the west side of the development, I could steer clear of Jane’s house as I made my way to Muzzy Owen on Primrose Way. If only Muzzy was relaxing on her front porch. I’d wave as I passed by. Perhaps she’d return the gesture. Maybe she’d even invite us up for a visit. After all, it was past her children’s bedtime. They’d all be tucked into their beds for the night. And Muzzy loved cuddling Emmy.
Pine Hill Road was flat and winding. Perfect for a leisurely stroll. If I was lucky, I’d catch a glimpse of Matt on the corner of Pine Hill and Lakeside, just before turning onto Primrose. A picture of him came to mind: fair-haired and tall, his toned body enhanced by a faded red polo shirt and khaki shorts, like the last time I saw him doing lawn chores. I was always struck by how much he resembled the actor Matthew McConaughey.
I thought again about how utterly enchanted I’d been watching him dance with...
Melanie.