“I wanted it,” I said. “And I took it.”
“You have to give it back. I’ll tell Mum that it dropped into your purse when you were in the kitchen, and that you didn’t find it until now.”
“Please keep your voice down, dear.” The flight attendants were looking at us. Were the cute newlywed lovebirds (Sean had told them we were on our honeymoon) already having an itty-bitty honeymoon spat?
“I’m not giving it back,” I said. “What’s your mother going to do? Extradite her son’s bride and have her arrested? And if you try and tell your mother that I found it, that it wound up in my possession by accident, I’ll tell her that I stole it. That I meant to do it. And what do you think will be worse for her? Thinking she lost her ring—or knowing that her son has married a thief and a liar and a sadist who wants her and her son to suffer?”
Which is not why I did it, actually. I didn’t want anyone to suffer. I just wanted the ring. I liked it. I didn’t understand why it wasn’t mine.
I said, “Maybe I should tell her that you stole the ring so you could give it to me.”
Sean stared at me. He knew I was determined. I saw that he was afraid of me—of something about me that he’d never suspected. There was a lot about me that he didn’t know, some things he never found out—and maybe never will.
What did he think I would do? That was never clear. But why would he proceed to raise a child with someone he distrusted and feared? I suppose because he loved me. And maybe he was in love with the fear.
“And now,” I said, after I’d ordered more champagne, “you’re going to put this ring on my finger. And you’re going to tell me you’ll love me forever. Say, ‘With this ring I pledge my troth forever.’”
“You already have an engagement ring,” he said.
“I like this one,” I said. “I’ve already sold the other one you gave me. Did you really not notice?” In fact I’d worn it the day before. I’d sell it when I got home.
Sean took my hand. He slid his mother’s ring on my finger. His voice shook as he said, “With this ring I pledge my troth forever.”
“Forever,” I said. “But for now . . . meet me in the bathroom in twenty seconds. Knock twice.”
We had sex standing up, my ass pressed against the sink, in the cramped airplane bathroom. I had him. He was mine.
*
Until now it never occurred to me that Sean might be really stupid and weak. Stupid enough to have sex with the first woman who made it clear that he could have her if he wanted.
I know he thinks I’m dead—even though I specifically told him not to believe reports of my demise. Couldn’t he follow instructions? Did I have to tell him not to believe the autopsy report? Did I have to say that even if he got back my ring—his mother’s ring—it wouldn’t mean that I was dead? Though to be fair to Sean, even I hadn’t expected that the ring would get back to him. That was a bonus, an accident. Once more Sean’s mother’s ring was working its magic.
Sean’s an honest guy. Too honest. Too trusting, as it turns out. And altogether too simple.
I told him: I will not be dead. No matter what you hear. I will not be dead. It was like a warning in a fairy tale. Don’t turn around and look back at me on our way out of hell. And once again, the hero blew it.
Even if Sean believed that I’d taken a drunken, pill-addled fatal swim in the freezing lake, shouldn’t there have been a decent mourning period? Time for him to grieve and begin to forget about me and recover? To resolve to “move on,” to quote Stephanie again. Maybe after a suitable lapse Sean would find a woman whom he would never love or desire as much as me—but who would cook and clean for him and take care of Nicky.
But my “best friend” Stephanie? It’s embarrassing! Insulting that he could look at her after he’d seen me! She’s a wounded mess consumed by guilt and determined to repent for her sins by being the best mom in history. She’s like a fuzzy bath mat pretending to be a person.
Sean’s being with her is maddening. How could I have married a guy who hits on Stephanie the minute he thinks I’m dead?
Maybe revenge is in order.
Sean’s stupidity is what I’m looking at as I stand behind a tree at the edge of the yard and watch Stephanie flap from window to window like a bird trapped in a house. Trying to see me, to see where I am. Holding up two fingers, then seven. Staring into the woods.
Thinking, Help me! Help!
I let Stephanie run around my house, skittering from window to window. She’s afraid to go outside. I watch her for a while more, then leave. My car is parked just beyond the driveway.
I drive back to my room at the Danbury Hospitality Suites, where I am registered with a phony credit card and under an assumed name. I’m driving my mother’s car, which I took from the lake house after I ditched the rental in the woods.
I’m betting that Stephanie won’t tell Sean I called, or that I’m spying on them. She used to ramble on about being afraid that people might think she was paranoid and crazy. She’d say (I’m hearing her voice now), “Isn’t it awful how people are always trying to convince moms”—(how I hated the way she said that word moms)—“that they’re insane.” That was what I had to listen to on those dreadful Friday afternoons as I tried to figure out how I was going to go to work on Monday and deal with Dennis’s latest meltdown.
If Stephanie suggested that a dead woman is not only alive but also a Peeping Tom—well, that might make her seem cuckoo indeed. It would prove that she is crazy. I never worry that anyone will think that I—the flawlessly dressed and made-up public face of Dennis Nylon, the cool, competent mother and wife—am crazy. Though if anyone knew the truth, they might conclude that I am way loonier than Stephanie, who is just silly and not too bright and terribly insecure.
If Sean admits to anything, he will have to admit to everything: we had a plan to defraud his firm’s insurance carrier of a (relatively) small fortune. Sean has learned from his work in finance not to show his hand. Poker players and bankers know. And thrill seekers, like yours truly.
*
Our plan began with a little game I’m sure lots of couples play. What would we do if millions of dollars fell into our lap? We’d quit our jobs. We’d take Nicky to some beautiful place and live till the money ran out. That was the fantasy.
Sean was doing well at work. I had a good job. We had a nice house, a great kid.
You might think that we would have liked our lives. But we didn’t. Maybe discontent isn’t the greatest thing to share. Maybe restlessness isn’t the strongest foundation for a marriage. But it’s probably better if both people in the couple are restless and discontent, rather than just one. Sean despised the crooks he worked for. He resented the time and energy his company sucked out of him, which made it easier for me to persuade him that what I was planning was some righteous Robin Hood sort of thing. Bonnie and Clyde, that was us. Outlaw heroes.
Meanwhile I’d had it up to here with the fashion business, with everyone acting like the world was coming to an end if a runway model stubbed her toe. The models were temperamental. They lived on water and cigarettes.
Sean and I bought lottery tickets every week. If we won, we would quit our jobs and move to rural Italy or the south of France and live there for as long as the money lasted. Then we’d figure out the next step.
I was the one who thought of a different sort of . . . lottery. A lottery over which we had more control. The jackpot we needed to save ourselves. To live large, to have the lives we wanted. To have time for our son and not be tired and stressed all the time, even when we weren’t working.
That’s what I told him we wanted. Now it turns out that he wants Stephanie. Which is fine with me.
I always wanted Nicky. I wanted my kid. I still do.