Page 25 of Unforgivable
I’m so happy that when I greet Bronwyn on the stairs later and she doesn’t speak to me, I laugh. I don’t care. We’re going to be just fine. And if Bronwyn thinks she’s going to hang arounda few weeks, she has another thing coming. Because I don’t know what she’s doing here exactly, but I don’t believe it’s just for Charlie’s birthday and signing the divorce papers. She’s up to something, and I won’t rest until she gets on her broomstick and gets the hell out of here.
TWELVE
It’s Tuesday afternoon. Countdown time. Three days to the opening of the new show, four days to Charlie’s birthday party. There’s so much to do, and yet I can barely function. I spent Monday on autopilot, trying to understand what,We’ll see what the future holds…actually means. I’ve been telling myself that it means nothing, that’s what, that Bronwyn can come and go as she pleases and so what if she wants to spend a few days or weeks back in Seattle? It’s not going to make any difference to us, except that Charlie will get to spend time with her mother, so that’s good, right? Other than that, it means nothing.
If only.
I haven’t looked at Bronwyn’s Instagram account for months. Last time I checked, it looked like something out of a Conde Nast travel magazine. Endless shots of Bronwyn and Leon on boats, strolling hand in hand on narrow cobbled streets, eating at some gorgeous restaurants, strolling along the Amalfi coast with its colorful villages and clear blue seas, Bronwyn on a yellow bicycle with the front basket full of flowers. An ideal life that everyone in their right mind would envy. Which is the point, obviously. Unless you’re me. There is nothing about Bronwyn’s perfect life that I envy. I got everything I ever wanted right here.
I’m looking at her Instagram now, my stomach twisted within an inch of its life. We’ve finished hanging most of the works and I’m sitting at the front desk with my forehead resting against the palm of my hand, poring over each new post with a lurch of my heart and a pounding behind my ears, berating myself for not checking sooner.
Her latest posts consist of selfie after selfie after selfie of Bronwyn and Charlie. Bronwyn and Charlie on top of the Space Needle with the view of the city behind them; Bronwyn and Charlie outside the Children’s Museum—which personally I think Charlie has outgrown, but whatever. Bronwyn and Charlie in a place I don’t recognize; outside the pop culture museum; ice-skating; eating ice creams…and then I see it, and for a moment I wonder if this an old image that has popped up in her timeline. But of course, it can’t be. This is a recent photograph, you can see that this is Charlie now, today. I check the timestamp and see that it is from yesterday.
I recognize the setting since it’s one of my favorite places in the world. They’re standing outside the Chihuly Garden and Glass, near the purple sculptures that Charlie says look like a family of octopuses. From the angle it’s clear that it’s Bronwyn who is holding the phone. Jack is carrying Charlie on his back, she is beaming with her arms around his neck, Bronwyn is on the other side of Charlie, her hand on Jack’s shoulder, her head forward so that their cheeks are almost touching. Actually, now that I take a closer look, I think theyaretouching. The three of them look unbelievably photogenic, natural, the perfect little family, and the sight of them squeezes at my heart.
This was yesterday. I was here, of course, at the gallery, all day. Why didn’t Jack tell me that they went? Nobody told me. Not even Charlie. What did we do last night? I went to help Charlie with her homework but she said she’d already done it.Mommy helped me, she said. Even hearing that sent a little pinprick at my heart. A tiny one. Just a prickle really, a toothpick’s worth, and I recognized that I had no right to feel even slightly hurt because it was a good thing. That’s what I told myself as I went to make dinner.It’s a good thing that Bronwyn is helping Charlie with her schoolwork.I took out the Bolognese sauce I’d defrosted from the fridge that morning and cooked pasta for everyone. We acted like everything was great, but I noticed Charlie was a little quiet with me. She interacted more with Bronwyn and gave monosyllabic answers to my questions about her day. Now I wonder, when exactly, did they go to the Chihuly yesterday? Has Charlie not been going to school? Is that even possible? And as I scroll through the rest of the images, I can’t tell if that’s why I feel so shaken, or if it’s because in every image Charlie looks so happy. She is positively beaming from ear to ear, or she’s got her arms around her mother’s neck, kissing her on the cheek, or she’s sitting on her lap, laughing, and that one especially reminds me of the photo I framed and put in her room, except that in this one she’s not trying to get away.
“Your step-daughter looks adorable.”
I look up with a start. Summer was out the back unpacking the last of the artworks and I was so focused on my phone I didn’t hear her come in.
“Thank you. Yes, she is,” I say.
“Can I see?” I look at her outstretched hand, bangles jingling on her wrist, and hesitate for a moment, then I hand it over. She scrolls through them. “She looks very sweet, very happy.”
She says this with the best of intentions, and yet her words send a tiny sting into my chest, even though I was just thinking the same.
I nod. “Yes, she does.”
“And this is Bronwyn?”
I told Summer about Bronwyn. Summer has been with me for a week and Bronwyn has been around all of that time.Charlie’s mother is staying with us for a few days. Yes, it’s very nice. It’s for Charlie’s birthday, you see? Yes, Charlie is thrilled. Bronwyn lives in Italy. With her new fiancé, Leon.
“Yes, that’s her.”
She nods thoughtfully, points at the photo taken at the Chihuly Garden. “And this is your husband?”
“That’s Jack, yes.” I feel an unexpected sharp twist in my stomach. “My partner, we’re not married yet.”
“Hot. Good for you.”
* * *
Hot. He hasn’t been so hot lately. He’s been prone to lying in bed until late. Although when I have complained about house chores being left to me—and what if he got up in the morning instead of sleeping till midday? How about trying that for a change?—he snarls at me.
“You don’t know that! You’re not here, Laura! You don’tknowwhat I get up to when you’re at work. You want to know what I do all day? I look for work, Laura, I call people, I send application after application. That’s what I do, all day, okay? So stop being such a bitch, because you don’t know, okay?”
Oh, but I do know, I don’t say. Iknowthe bed is unmade, Iknowfrom the trash can that you’ve drunk at least three beers and ordered take-out pizza for lunch. Iknowthe dishwasher hasn’t been emptied and the kitchen tap is still dripping, and while I don’tknowyou’ve been watching TV all day, your bare feet on the coffee table, Iimagineit’s probably true. Iknowyou haven’t shaved for days, and Iknowyou haven’t called anyone to set up job interviews because your cellphone log for the day shows you only made one call, to Rocco’s Pizza.
* * *
But in this photo, Jack looks different. Dressed well, twinkled-eyed, happy,hot. At least she doesn’t comment on the obvious, that the three of them look like they’re doing a photoshoot for a perfect family ad. That there is no place for me, in this photo. Not even a gap where I’d fit.
I stare at the zoomed in photo of Jack and Bronwyn and Charlie together, their cheeks almost touching, their faces radiant.
“Very modern family. Nice. All power to you, Laura.”
“Why do you say that?”