“About your marriage. Was it happy.”
Heather’s eyes widened at that and in her nervousness she bumped against the stool, sending the Nordstrom bag sliding. I shot out my hand in a futile attempt to stop its fall just as Heather bent to grab it, and we connected, my hand grazing her face.
“Sorry,” I said, flustered, as she put the bag back on the stool, but she didn’t flinch, focused on what I’d said to the detective.
“What did you tell him? I hope you told him yes.”
“Of course I did. But you should be careful—you don’t want to attract attention.”
She frowned. “What do you mean by that?”
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t do certain things,” I said in a low voice, feeling uncomfortable. “Things that could be interpreted as you not mourning your husband.”
“Are you talking about shopping?” she said, incredulously, not bothering to keep her voice down. “What am I supposed to do—just sit at home wearing black? I was buying new pants for Daniel. Are you saying that makes me look bad?” I glanced at the kids, concerned they might be listening, but they seemed absorbed in their show.
Heather blinked rapidly, her eyes glistening, as if she was on the edge of tears. It made me feel awful, but so had the detective. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you,” I said, speaking as quietly as I could. “All I’m trying to say is that we need to watch out because the police are watching us.”
“Don’t you think that’s a bit paranoid?” she said with a tiny, nervous laugh.
“Maybe, but why is he asking questions?” I said. “If he wasn’t suspicious, he wouldn’t visit your house, right?” And he wouldn’t have mentioned a prenuptial agreement, I thought, but chose not to say.
*
I said it to Julie instead, calling her once I was back home and the kids were occupied. The minute she answered, I blurted out the same question I’d asked Sarah: “Did you know that Heather had a prenup?”
“What, really?” It was gratifying that Julie sounded more surprised than Sarah had. “How did you find that out?”
“I ran into the short detective.” I told her everything that had happened—being surprised by Tedesco, calling Sarah, Heather shopping and seemingly unaffected. There was silence on the other end of the phone when I was finished. “Hello?”
“Maybe the detective just said that to see how you’d react.” She sounded defensive. “What are you trying to say—that Heather lied to us? Do you really believe she’d do that?”
Put that way, it sounded so judgmental that I winced. Heather was our friend, she’d been badly abused, how could I believe that about her? “No, I don’t know, it’s just a big thing not to mention. I mean, if it’s true she had a prenup then no wonder she wouldn’t leave Viktor. It wasn’t just losing Daniel that she had to worry about.”
“Look, we know she’s embarrassed about being from West Virginia—maybe that’s why she didn’t tell us. Maybe she felt ashamed of it—like it made her seem like a gold digger or something. That’s probably how Viktor made her feel. We don’t share everything with each other. I’m sure you have some secrets that you don’t tell.”
That stopped me; I was glad Julie couldn’t see me because I actually flushed. Talking about the past was something I didn’t like to do either. Sometimes I’d share snippets from my life before I married Michael, the sanitized bits, the happy times that I could cut from the rest of it, a carefully constructed quilt of memories that made my life sound normal. Ironically, the one friend I’d actually shared more of my past with had been Heather.
Until that moment, I’d forgotten all about a conversation we’d had one day, over a year ago, when Heather dropped by to pick up Daniel after a playdate. Somehow we’d started talking about how lucky our kids were and how much easier their lives were than ours had been. She told me about growing up in West Virginia, how her grandfather had climbed his way out of the coal mines, but her father got stuck as an almost white-collar office worker, moving from one low-level job to another, barely scraping by. And she told me about her mother, a woman so pretty she’d won a local beauty contest. Could have won Miss America, but she’d given up the chance for something better by marrying the first handsome boy she’d kissed, only to spend her days worrying constantly about how they’d pay the bills and keep a roof over their heads. “I didn’t want to be like her,” Heather had said, a feeling I could relate to.
So I’d told her about my past. Not everything, of course. I had no desire to share some sob story of my life before college and Michael and the kids and moving to Sewickley. I’d said just enough to explain why I’d never wanted to go back to my hometown either. Just enough to tell her what had happened to my mother and her dreams.
Heather had been so kind, listening without judgment. Remembering that made me ashamed. “You’re right,” I said to Julie, “she was probably embarrassed about the prenup. That’s got to be why she didn’t tell us.”
But after getting off the phone, I kept picturing Tedesco’s face when he’d told me—that grin, those hard eyes. And that photo of Viktor’s first wife—those hollow cheeks, the hair that might have been a wig. What if Heather had lied to us? I couldn’t stop thinking about it. This is the problem with doubt: Once a little seed has been planted, it burrows deep into your darkest thoughts and takes root.
Later that week, on impulse, I saw the kids off to school and drove to the city, to Children’s Hospital in Lawrenceville, one of the hospitals where Viktor had worked. I’d searched online and found the doctor whom I’d met at Viktor’s funeral. Or at least I thought it was him. It was hard to tell from the small head shot, and I couldn’t recall his name, but I hoped it was the same guy.
I didn’t tell Julie or Sarah, and when Michael phoned I told him I was out running an errand, berating myself for lying once I’d hung up. The entire drive I felt that same crawly feeling, constantly glancing in the rear and side mirrors to see if I was being followed. It was ludicrous—why would the police be following me? Heather, maybe, but not me. Except the detectives knew me by name and they’d questioned me. Were the photos already there, on Tedesco’s or Kasper’s desk? Had they figured it out and were simply spinning a web to entrap us?
The hospital’s parking garage was crowded and I had to circle multiple levels before finding a spot. I checked my makeup in the visor mirror and was startled to recognize my mother’s anxious face staring back at me. “Let’s not tell your dad about this, okay? This can be our secret.” Had I become that woman? Running scared and lying to my husband? Who was I to question Heather’s behavior?
I almost didn’t go inside. Sitting there in the car, I thought about turning back, but I’d taken the parking ticket and it had to be validated inside. Once I stepped out of the car my resolve steadied. I had already taken the time to drive there; I might as well find out what Viktor’s colleague knew.
Plastic Surgery was on the third floor. I got on an elevator crowded with a large bunch of balloons that read HAPPY BIRTHDAY and GET WELL SOON in cheerful letters, the two different messages appearing to war with one another, bobbing in and out of front position, as a middle-aged man struggled to contain them.
The hospital was a maze. I took two wrong turns before finally arriving at the doors marked DIVISION OF PEDIATRIC PLASTIC SURGERY. The older woman in scrubs at the reception desk instructed me to sign in when I said I was there to see Dr. Barrow.
“I don’t have an appointment,” I said, pen hovering over the clipboard she’d handed me.
She looked over her reading glasses at me. “You got to make an appointment or you can’t see the doctors.”
“I know, but it’s not medical, that is, it’s a personal matter.”
“Personal,” she repeated, as if that were a word she didn’t understand.
“Yes. I just need to talk to him for a few minutes.”
“Is your child a patient?”