“Our kids are in school,” said Captain Mom, a bit self-righteously, I thought. But I couldn’t blame Stephanie for playing the mother card.
“Naturally,” said Mr. Prager. “I’m a great fan of your blog.”
He got up and dusted himself off. He shook our hands and thanked us. He gave us each one of his cards. He told us to please feel free to call him at any hour of the day or night if we had any thoughts about this or any other subject, or needless to say, if we heard from my wife . . . He told us to stay in touch.
He said he could let himself out, and we let him. We had no choice. We watched him go. Stephanie and I couldn’t get up off the couch.
“Did you know?” I said. “How did you know about Emily’s twin? How could you not tell me?”
“There are things you don’t tell me,” she said. “Everyone has secrets.”
35
Stephanie's Blog
For Real: When a Friend Asks for Help
Hi, moms!
How do we moms know when something is real? How can we tell when our child is sick or when he is only pretending in order to stay home from school? The first few times, we get it wrong, but we learn. How do we know when our friend so desperately needs our help that we must forget the mixed feelings and awkward times we may have experienced in the past and we do what she needs, because it’s real, and we have to help?
It’s a gift that mothers develop, a built-in you-know-what detector, an instinct for the truth that can help us in our non-mom lives, in the many kinds of careers and artistic pursuits that we engage in at the same time as being moms. It is why women are so expert in the so-called caring professions and in ordinary family caring. It’s why we make such good friends.
We know when our friend is asking us, really asking, for a simple favor. It’s the way a friend says please. And we do what she needs, no matter what.
I’ll have more to say about this, for sure. For now, I’ve got to run. I’m meeting a friend, and I think I may have important things to take care of that may keep me from blogging for a while.
More soon, or as soon as I can.
Love, in haste, Stephanie
36
Stephanie
Mr. Prager’s visit was extremely upsetting. Sean and I stopped communicating. We didn’t trust each other, that much was clear. Maybe we never had.
I was intrigued to learn that Mr. Prager read my blog—another sign of how far my message in a bottle has traveled, how distant a shore it’s washed up on. I was tempted to read back as far as I could to see if I’d posted anything incriminating. But whom would I have incriminated?
After Mr. Prager left, I asked Sean what was going on. Could he please—finally—tell me the truth? Had he and Emily pretended she was dead in order to collect an insurance payout? Had they played me? Was I the sucker in their scheme? Was I still?
He insisted that nothing like that had happened. He claimed that he was as confused as I was. He’d really believed that Emily had died. Otherwise . . . He didn’t have to explain. I knew what he meant. Otherwise he wouldn’t have invited me to share his life.
He was understandably fixated on the fact that Emily was a twin. And I had to admit: That was a very strange thing to learn about your wife of six years. I’d been shocked to find that out—and she’d only been my friend for a relatively short time.
Had Emily ever told me the truth? Was Sean being truthful now? Not knowing should have made me hate them both. It was weird that it didn’t.
I was going to have to make some changes. Though perhaps they’d be made for me. What if Sean and Emily both went to jail? Had I been chosen and groomed to take care of Nicky in case the worst happened? Emily hadn’t been thinking of the worst that could happen. She wasn’t even thinking of Nicky. Or the two million dollars. The lying and the game were what had gotten her high. The lying to everyone. Especially me.
I had a momentary fantasy: What if Emily and Sean were sent to jail and I got custody of Nicky? I’d always wanted to have a second child. Allowing myself to let that thought cross my mind, even for a split second, made me feel so guilty that I pinched myself to make the fantasy go away.
There were so many questions that Sean hadn’t asked Mr. Prager. If the dead woman was Emily’s twin sister, how did Emily’s sister die? They already knew that. She’d drowned, her system overloaded with alcohol and pills.
*
A week or so after Mr. Prager’s visit, out of area came up on caller ID.
I knew I should despise Emily. She’d lied to me. She’d mistreated me. She’d betrayed our friendship. She’d terrorized me. She’d stalked me from the woods behind her house and entered my house when I wasn’t there. So I cannot explain how happy it made me just to hear my friend’s voice. I can’t pretend, even to myself, that my emotions make sense.
Emily said, “Stephanie. It’s me. I desperately need you to help me. Please.”
The way she said please made me want to blog about it—about helping a friend in need. About how we know when a friend really and truly needs us. I could never write the whole truth. But I wanted to write about why I couldn’t say no. Maybe if I blogged about it, I would understand myself and why I did what I did, why I was willing to forget, or at least overlook, all the awful things that Emily had done to me.
All I knew now was that Emily needed my help. She’d gotten herself into a dangerous situation.
She said, “A man is following me. He’s been following me for a couple of weeks. He’s not making a big effort to stay hidden. I don’t know what he wants.”
“What does he look like?” I said.
“Middle-aged. Light-skinned black guy. Always in a suit and a bow tie. He looks a little like that hit man on The Wire.”
“I never saw The Wire.” I was stalling for time.
“Jesus, Stephanie, no one cares if you saw The Wire.” In all the time we’d been friends, she’d never spoken to me in that tone. Why not tell her the truth? Especially when everyone else was lying.
“There was a man here who sounds like the guy you’re describing,” I said. “He’s an investigator from the insurance company. He’s looking into the claim that you and Sean took out. Your accidental death.”
“I knew it,” Emily said. “I don’t know why. But I knew it. That’s the vibe I got off the guy. This is bad. Did Sean tell him where I was?”
“Emily,” I said, “Calm down. Sean doesn’t know where you are. I don’t know where you are. Remember? The last I knew, you were in the woods, watching me.” It was the most critical (and the nerviest) thing I’d ever said to her, and I was holding my breath. But Emily wasn’t thinking about my tone—or about our friendship.
“I don’t know how he found me, then. Maybe Mother’s license plate turned up on some CCTV footage.”
“Be careful,” I said. “He’s not a stupid guy. He gives the impression of being a little bumbling, but I think he notices and registers every little thing.”
“Stephanie, I need to see you.” Emily’s voice had tears in it. I’d never heard her sound like that, either. “I need to talk to you. I need your advice. I need a friend.”
I knew that I was speaking to someone who had lied about some very important things. She’d lied to her husband, to me. She probably lied to herself. But I was also a liar. And she was my friend. I believed her.
This might be my only chance to get an explanation, to find out what she really thinks. Who she really is. There was so much she’d kept to herself. Emily’s secrets were as dark as mine. Maybe darker.
You could say we were meant to be friends. We could still help each other.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll come see you. But you have to promise that you’ll tell me the truth this time. No more lies, no more secrets.”
“I promise,” Emily said.
*