Die for You (17 page)

“What?” she said by way of greeting, more testily than she’d intended.

“We need to talk, Linda.” She felt a jangle of alarm as she flashed on her assignation in the bathroom at the Java Stop. So tawdry. So foolish. Did she
want
to ruin her life and marriage? Erik could have easily seen her coming or going. Maybe someone in the building had heard Ben pleading at the intercom, mentioned it to Erik.

“Sure,” she said, laying her bag by the door. She moved over to the couch and curled herself up in a ball there. In spite of the tension, she still found herself glancing about at the perpetual mess that was their home. If it was cluttered, at least it was clean—but only because of the weekly cleaning woman. How long had Trevor’s soccer jersey been hanging off that chaise? Wasn’t it anybody else’s responsibility but hers to pick up after the kids? Weren’t they old enough to pick up their own stuff?

“Don’t worry about the mess, Linda. I’ll take care of it in a minute.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

He released a breath through his nose. He was perched on a stool, a half-f glass of water in his hand. She found she couldn’t look at him directly, couldn’t hold those earnest, loving eyes. She didn’t deserve that gaze. She looked down at her fingernails. Her nails were a mess; she needed a manicure.

“I’ve made a terrible mistake,” he said. He shifted off the stool and came over to her, sat heavily beside her on the couch. “I’ve done something really stupid, possibly unforgivable, Linda.”

Relief mingled with concern and she raised her eyes to his face. She saw him then, maybe for the first time in days. Their busy life was a perpetual swing dance between kids and home, her work and his, meals and pickups and drop-offs from various activities—kung fu for Emma, violin lessons for Trevor. Sometimes they just fell into a heap on the couch after the kids went to bed and watched an hour of television, or read in bed until one fell asleep and the other turned off the light. She thought some days he noticed the dishes in the sink before he noticed what she was wearing or that she’d changed her perfume. Sometimes she thought they’d see each other more if they worked apart, each of them going to an office and returning home at the end of the day.

She regarded his sandy stubble and ocean-blue eyes, the lean lines of his high cheekbones, his aquiline nose. That face had tamed her heart. He had sunshine at his core, a breezy summer day at the beach.

“What are you so mad about?” he’d asked early in their relationship. A swank gallery in SoHo; he was fifteen minutes late. It wasn’t even her show. But she raged at him on the street in the rain. “Because I
know
you’re not this angry about my being fifteen minutes late.”

She felt as if he’d thrown a bucket of cold water on her. Embarrassed, sobered, she caught sight of her reflection in the gallery’s picture window. She didn’t recognize her own expression, her own posture. A few people were watching; one strikingly thin woman smirked, a small plastic cup of wine in her hand. Why he didn’t walk away right then, she never could figure out.

“You’re too young, too beautiful, too good to let yourself be this way,” he whispered, taking her hands. She knew then that he really
saw
her, that he might have been the first and only person who ever had, other than her sister. The face she wore for everyone else, the demure and polite smile, the unfailingly kind demeanor, the proper girl who did everything right… he didn’t even notice it. When he looked at her he saw straight to the heart of her.

Within a month, she was seeing a shrink, trying to figure out why indeed she was so angry. And then she had to claw her way out of the quicksand of her own inner life before coming to shore. In a cozy office on the Upper West Side, a motherly psychologist with a comforting wave of gray hair and a soft bosom asked her, over time, questions she almost couldn’t stand to hear.

“Do you really blame your mother for moving on, for doing what she thought she had to save herself and her girls? Do you really hate Fred for loving your mother? Isn’t it just that you’re angry with your father for abandoning you, for being absent emotionally before that? Isn’t it just safer to be angry at living people because there’s no way to resolve the anger you have toward your father? Do you really think he loved your sister more than he did you?”

These were the hard things she had to face and answer. But she never would have thought to confront them at all if not for Erik. And where would she be then? She reached for him, touched his face and let her hand drift down to his shoulder.

“How could
anything
you’ve done be unforgivable?” she asked. He lowered his head at this, put his chin all the way to his chest.

“Linda.”

“I forgive you,” she said. “Whatever it is.”

She slid into him and wrapped him tight in her arms. She held on to him, her buoy against the great tides of regret and shame, guilt for the things she’d done, how she’d betrayed him.
I’m so sorry
, she said to his heart.
I’ll never see him again
.

“Linda,” he said again, pulling away from her. She looked at his face and didn’t like what she saw there. Despair. A dark flower of dread started to bloom in her center.

“Erik,” she said, releasing a breath with his name. “What is it?”

A cop started asking me questions: What happened? How was it that I was already injured? Could I describe the men who did this to my stepfather? I asked for Detective Crowe. He was called. I was escorted to a waiting area.

I waited, pacing. Fatigue was replaced by nervous energy. I couldn’t stop moving, couldn’t keep my mind from racing back over the story of my marriage, looking for the chinks, the flaws in the plot. And there they were, the clues, the foreshadowing that the hero was really a villain, waiting behind the curtain with his dagger drawn.

But no. Life’s not so simple. People are many things, each of them true. Marcus was my husband. He was right: We were great friends and excellent lovers. That was true once, even if it didn’t matter much now.

I came back to the present when a doctor pushed into the room, told me that a bullet had grazed Fred’s head, leaving a valley over his ear but never penetrating his skull. He’d lost a lot of blood but he’d walk away from the injury. A lucky man. Then, suddenly, Detective Crowe was there with his little black notebook and expensive pen, taking a statement from me that I now barely remember giving. I wondered how he’d gotten there so fast, and he told me they’d been in Inwood, searching the apartment of Charlie Shane, my doorman, another familiar figure in my life who, it seemed, was not what he appeared. They’d found nothing useful. But Charlie had disappeared.

I vaguely recall offering Detective Crowe a recount of the events at Fred and Margie’s house. Was it skepticism that I saw on his face as I recounted the scene?

“Isabel.” There was that friendly use of my name again. “Are you leaving something out?” His pen hovered.

“Of course not,” I answered, indignant.

I felt the weight of his gaze. “Don’t be foolish,” he said quietly, moving a little closer to me.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

He let an awkward minute pass, during which I looked at my cuticles in the horrid white fluorescent light. I watched nurses with their swift, quiet steps, listened to the incessant electronic rippling of a telephone that no one answered.

“You know what’s starting to bother me?” he asked finally.

“What’s that?”

“You seem to be having all these run-ins with unsavory types—FBI impersonators and European thugs—and yet you always emerge unscathed. Meanwhile, the bodies of the injured and dead litter the scene.” Poetry again, from the gentleman cop.

I fixated on the word choice a moment, as I’m prone to do, analyzed it for its appropriateness.
Unscathed:
without suffering any injury or harm.

“I wouldn’t exactly say I’ve ‘emerged unscathed,’ Detective. Quite the opposite.” I pointed to my head but I was thinking of the deeper injuries, my riven life, the derailed narrative of my marriage.

“Relatively speaking,” he said with an assenting lift of his shoulders. “What I meant was, there was really no reason I can see for any of these people to leave you breathing. We’re not talking about people operating with conscience. We’re talking about murderers and thieves. So I find myself asking: Why are you still alive?”

It was a good question and one I’d certainly asked myself, even posed to my sister.

“Any theories?” I asked, only half a smart-ass.

“One theory might be that you have a greater involvement in this than we initially suspected. That rather than a victim, you might be an accomplice, hiding in plain sight, playing the role of the injured wife.”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Because to me, you don’t seem like the type for this sort of thing. This woman you see on the talk shows—her husband has another family in Kalamazoo, or her suitor took off with her life savings—that’s not you. You’re sharp, aren’t you? Together.”

“Maybe not sharp enough to be immune to subterfuge, but definitely too sharp to be a part of anything like this. People dead around me, my stepfather very nearly killed, all my money gone, my sister’s money? No. No.” Just the recounting of it all filled me with that dangerous cocktail of rage and fear. I realized suddenly that both of my fists were clenched hard, nails digging ruthlessly into my palms. I released them with difficulty.

“Then just tell me what you’re holding back.”

“Nothing,” I said, trying to look as earnest as possible. “I swear.”

Lies are a contagion, a virus that replicates itself. Marc’s deception was the germ that had infected me. I was sick with it, fevered with a compulsion to understand how he’d managed to deceive me and why, so I was coughing up lies of my own. The detective was right. I was withholding information. The text message from Marcus, the name given to me by Ivan, his alleged brother—those things belonged to me. It felt like all I had left. If I let him have these things, I’d have lost ownership of them as well.

“I don’t believe you,” he said simply.

“I want a lawyer.”

He raised a hand, gave me a warning look. “If you go down that road, it puts us on opposite teams.”

Oh, spare me. Did he really think he could manipulate me out of my rights?

“Our conversation ended thirty seconds ago,” I said.

The detective pressed his mouth into a thin, tight line and I saw his nostrils flare just slightly. Would he blush or pale with his frustration? I wondered. Then his cheeks fired up, a lovely rosey blush on the white of his skin. Marcus always used to go gray when he was angry. It didn’t seem healthy. Red is the color of emotion brought forth, a brilliant rush of flame that burns hot and incinerates itself. Gray is the color of ire that’s eating you up inside, hollowing you out.

Detective Crowe opened his mouth and then clamped it shut again. We had a brief staring contest, which I won. He lowered his eyes, turned and left the waiting room, the electricity of everything he had wanted to say trailing behind him. He’d have slammed the door, I’m sure, but the hydraulic hinge only allowed it to close with an unsatisfying hiss.

He wasn’t gone long—I was still staring at the door—when Linda and Erik burst through. I’d called Linda upon arriving at the hospital, quite by instinct. I barely remembered the conversation. Her arrival caused some odd combination of anxiety and relief. Trevor and Emily followed behind, holding hands, looking like bush babies with wide eyes and nervous smiles. The sight of this made me sad. If they weren’t fighting, they were scared. I had to take responsibility for everything. I’d let Marcus into our lives, and he’d damaged us all.

“Have you seen Fred since he arrived? What happened?” Linda asked, rushing to me, grabbing me hard with both arms. Then, “How could you just race off like that? And why haven’t you answered my calls? I’ve been really
worried
about you.”

I let myself sink into her strong embrace, into the soft cashmere of her coat, didn’t even bother answering her questions. Over her shoulder, I looked at Erik, who gave me a sad nod. Suddenly I could feel the undercurrent of tension between them and I knew he’d told Linda everything.

“Fred’s okay,” I said into her shoulder. “He’s going to be fine.”

I recounted the events at the house, leaving out the details I’d kept from Detective Crowe. I didn’t want them to know anything that could get them in trouble later.

“You need a lawyer,” Erik said, pulling his cell phone from his coat.

“Call Fred and Margie’s guy,” Linda said to him, her tone polite but clipped. “I left messages for Mom—one on her cell phone and a message at the hotel desk. They said they’d find her and tell her there was an emergency. I know she’ll come right home.” She shot me an apologetic look. “With Fred being hurt, I had to call her.”

I nodded my understanding. “I called, too, of course.”

Emily and Trevor hadn’t said a word, something I wouldn’t have thought possible just two days ago. I knelt down and opened my arms and they both came to me. I held on to them, felt their arms wrap around my body.

“It’s okay” I whispered, even though this was a lie, that disease again.

“Mom is really mad at Daddy,” Emily whispered. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Linda bow her head. Erik turned toward the window and looked out at the parking lot. He seemed to be scrolling through the phone book on his cell; I could hear the soft musical beeping as he scanned contacts.

“It’s okay,” I repeated. “Everything is going to be fine.”

I pulled back, looked at their sad little faces, gave them each a kiss, then reluctantly moved away.

“I’m going to check on Fred,” I said to Linda.

“I’ll come with you.” I didn’t want her to, but I could hardly refuse. I grabbed my bag off the chair and Erik’s voice followed us out.

“This is Erik Book, Fred and Margie Thompson’s son-in-law. Is John Brace in?”

In the hall Linda grabbed my hand and held on tight as we walked.

“You already know,” she said. Not a question.

“Yes,” I said, squeezing her hand. “It’s going to be okay.” This was fast becoming my stock response as everything fell apart around us. But I found I couldn’t look at her long, or give her the comfort of my gaze. Her blue, blue eyes seemed to glow in the pale landscape of her face. The purple smudges under her eyes, the strain around her mouth hurt me too much. She didn’t have to say anything else; I knew every emotion rocketing through her. I could feel it through her skin. And she knew she didn’t have to say anything. We’d talk later, dissect and analyze, figure and resolve.

But for the moment we moved down the hall toward the room Fred now occupied, not saying a word. Before we got to his door, I stopped and took both her hands.

“Forgive him, Linda. As awful as it is, he did it for you.”

“I forgive him,” she said, not looking at me. “I just don’t know if I can live with it. I feel like Mom. He did all this, risked our whole future, and I didn’t even know. There are other things, too. My fault. I don’t know if we’re strong enough to survive everything that’s wrong.”

“Don’t say that.” The thought of their marriage falling apart because of a mistake I had made filled me with a terrible anxiety. “Please. Let me fix this.”

“This is not for you to fix, Iz,” she said, putting a gentle hand on my face. “Don’t you get that? You didn’t do anything wrong. You loved him.”

“You warned me. This is my fault.”

“Even I didn’t imagine this, honey.
This
is not what I meant. I just thought he was a jerk, that he couldn’t love you the way you deserved.”

“You were right,” I said. I let her take me in her arms, rested my head on her shoulder. “Don’t leave him, Linda. Your marriage, your family. It’s real, it’s solid. It can survive anything. It’s only money.”

She squeezed me hard but didn’t answer. “Let’s go see about Fred,” she said after a moment, pulling away from me and taking my hand. She didn’t want to talk anymore; I let her off the hook and led her to Fred’s room.

We stopped at the entrance to the dim space, watched Fred’s still, narrow form, listening to the reassuring tones of his heart monitor. I was buffeted by twin tides of regret and anger. But when he saw us huddling in the doorway, he smiled. That was Fred. He could always manage a smile. Or maybe it was the pain medication.

“You look just like when you were girls,” he said. A dreamy, loopy quality to his words made me wish for a little dose of whatever they’d given him. Linda moved to the bed and took his hand. The births of Emily and Trevor had brought them closer. Fred was a wonderful grandfather, the only one her children knew. He showered them with love, and I think in recent years she was finally able to see the man we all saw. She’d take care of him until Margie got back; I knew that. The good girl.

“I’m sorry, Fred,” I said from the doorway. “I’d never have come to you if I knew …” I let the sentence trail.

He shook his head slowly. “I’m glad you did. I just wish I could have protected you, Isabel. I keep forgetting I’m an old man.”

I went to his bedside and leaned down to gently kiss his forehead. He pointed to his bandage. “Maybe we could get everyone else to wear one just so we don’t look so silly.”

We both smiled and Linda leaned in to kiss him on the cheek when her phone rang. She answered it quickly.

“Mom,” she said. “Everything’s okay.”

With Linda talking and Fred looking at her expectantly, neither of them noticed as I slipped from the room. I backed into the hallway and then walked toward the elevator bank, just missing the closing doors of one car. I pressed the button hard a couple of times, but the digital screen above it told me the car was floors away and I might be waiting awhile. I decided on the stairs.

“Where are you going, Izzy?”

I turned to see Trevor looking slim and stylish in faded jeans and a retro rock-and-roll Ramones T, Vans on his feet. His curls were wild; a worried smile flashed his face, then turned into a frown.

“I’m going to get some air,” I lied.

He shook his head just slightly, and in that moment he looked so much like his mother—the same knowing aura, the same curious narrowing of the eyes. I saw him taking in details—the wrap on my shoulders, the bag strapped around my body.

“You’re going to find him, aren’t you?”