Julie was tight like me, too, but this was temporary hamstring tightening from her running, and Sarah, mommy belly notwithstanding, turned out to be a rubber band. “Beautiful!” Shanti would exclaim, clapping her hennaed hands together. “Class, pay attention to Sarah’s form!”
“The only asana I can really relate to is the Cow,” I said after the third class, when we were walking out to the parking lot. “I certainly feel like a cow when I’m doing it.” I saw Sarah exchange a look with Julie; it was just a slight glance, but I knew they’d been talking with each other about me. I flushed, suddenly more self-conscious than I’d been in the class, and I remembered my grandmother’s advice: “Never have an odd number of children, because someone will always be left out.” My mother had obviously listened; it had been just Sean and me growing up, and I’d taken it to heart, too, giving Lucy a younger brother before I stopped. Watching Julie and Sarah’s secret communication in the parking lot that day, I realized that Nana’s advice could also apply to friends.
I think after that I was subconsciously on the lookout for a fourth to join our group. If you believe in the law of attraction you might say that I made Heather part of our circle every time I wished that I wasn’t the third wheel, though of course Julie was the one to actually find her.
The first Friday that Heather showed up at the coffee shop with Julie, I felt that little twinge again, insecurity rearing its Hydra head. Here was this tall, gazelle-like woman who was drop-dead gorgeous and clearly as comfortable in her own, flawless skin as I was uncomfortable in mine. But there was something vulnerable about her, too—I could see it in the way she looked at us with shy, yet eager, eyes. It turned out that her little boy was in preschool with Sarah’s middle child, Olivia, but none of us had ever seen her at the preschool drop-off.
“I like to sleep in,” Heather said. “So I let the nanny take Daniel.” The nanny. The first time she said that it was Sarah and me exchanging surreptitious glances, because we used babysitters, not nannies. There were plenty of families in Sewickley who had “help,” and we knew we were in a different income bracket than Julie, a million-dollar producer in real estate married to Brian, a VP of business development for a big medical-device firm. It turned out that Heather was a SAHM (stay-at-home mom), just like Sarah, but with a much bigger household income—she was married to a surgeon.
“Viktor Lysenko?” Julie asked that first morning. “As in Dr. Viktor Lysenko?” She sounded surprised and more bubbly than usual, although Julie’s excitement meter always ran at a higher level than the rest of ours.
“That’s him,” Heather said, her casualness in sharp contrast to Julie’s enthusiasm. Seeing my and Sarah’s blank faces, Julie said, “Viktor Lysenko is a preeminent plastic surgeon, he specializes in craniofacial and reconstructive surgery. There was an article about him in the Post-Gazette last month; didn’t you see it? He volunteers worldwide, too, performing operations free for people in poor countries.”
“Wow,” Sarah said, “he sounds like a saint.”
There was only the faintest hint of snideness, but I remember that Heather flushed at Sarah’s comment. “He’s just Viktor to me,” she said in a light tone, before deftly changing the subject.
Was he the one who’d left that large mark above her wrist? That had been my first thought when she’d jerked her sleeve down to hide it, my pulse uncomfortably quickening. I’d known her for almost two years and I’d never seen anything, never suspected, but after I tried to remember the shape of that large, purple splotch—hadn’t those been finger marks on her skin?
What if I hadn’t noticed that bruise? And what if another one of those familiar white envelopes hadn’t been waiting for me just the day before, giving me that same awful jolt I always felt when one showed up in my mailbox? I tried not to read them, but sometimes I’d tear one open, rapidly skimming the crabbed handwriting. They always ended the same way: “I never meant to hurt you. Please forgive me.”
If that hadn’t been fresh in my mind, would I have been so concerned when I saw that bruise on Heather? Would I have been so quick to call Julie after?
chapter two
JULIE
Heather? Abused? “I can’t even begin to imagine that,” I said to Alison, and quite firmly, too. She could be hypersensitive and I thought she was inflating Heather’s reaction. “Perhaps she was just embarrassed that she had a blemish on that beautiful skin—I’d want to cover it up, too. Why would you assume someone’s hurting her? You shouldn’t think the worst of people.”
If I focused on the bad and the ugly, I’d never get anything done. I’d certainly never sell another house. Look for the good in everything and you’re sure to find it—I read that somewhere a long time ago and I liked it enough to scribble it down. I carry it around on a little laminated note card that I keep in my purse. It’s helpful just to hold it tight when I’m dealing with a difficult client or a hard-to-sell property. Like the man I helped recently who said, “Every place you’ve shown me is a dump!” This after hours of driving within a twenty-mile radius to show him properties in his price range.
He used to live in a large, beautifully maintained, four-story Victorian, and that has spoiled him for anything else. He’s getting divorced and doesn’t seem to realize that this has seriously cut into what he can now afford. I guess all he pictured was freedom on the other side of signing that final legal document and starting fresh in some high-ceilinged, ultramodern bachelor pad. Stainless steel, stone, and a twentysomething bimbo reclining naked on a leather sectional. No can do when his ex-wife is keeping the house and he doesn’t have any equity. After alimony and child support, he can only bring a limited down payment to this purchase.
I know what will happen; I’ve seen it before. He’ll end up choosing a small apartment or townhome in a barely middle-class neighborhood with dirty white walls, stained carpeting that’s just a grade above industrial, and a kitchen last updated circa 1990. He’ll have plenty of time to contemplate the demise of his marriage as he eats his microwave dinners alone at the laminate kitchen counter.
This is the life he chose, so he’s got to make the best of it—we all have to live with the consequences of our actions. I’ve had to live with having dismissed Alison’s concerns about Heather out of hand. I was upset with her for even suggesting that Viktor Lysenko could ever hurt his wife. “He’s a really caring doctor,” I said. “If he was hurting Heather, wouldn’t she have confided in us?” I forced it right out of my mind because that’s what I always do to stay positive. You’ve got to be careful about what you allow space for in your thoughts—garbage in, garbage out.