“Really?” I laughed. “I meant do you trust them with your things? I didn’t even think of eavesdropping.”
It occurred to me at that moment that there were always people in this house—the cleaners, the nanny, the lawn crew—and if what Alison suspected was true, then wouldn’t these people have seen something? Wouldn’t they have reported it, even if anonymously? This wasn’t our parents’ generation, after all, with its polite silences and stiff upper lips, when people didn’t talk about what went on behind closed doors. We lived in an era of public spectacle, reality TV and confessions. See something, say something—wouldn’t that apply to marital terrorism as well?
That should have been the end of it. I’d concluded that there was nothing whatsoever going on with Viktor and Heather, and I texted Julie this, giving her the green light to forget about what she’d seen and to tell Alison to forget it, too. I’d been in Heather’s house, I’d seen how many people were around; if something was going on we’d know about it. “Alison needs to stop letting her imagination run away with her,” I told Julie. I was utterly confident when I said that; I never apologized to Alison, but I should have.
It was over a month after Julie had seen Heather and Viktor at the Chens’ party, and almost three weeks since I’d stopped by her house, when something happened that changed my mind. A weekday morning, a Tuesday I think, the kids off school for some teacher in-service day.
“I don’t know why the schools have so many of these,” Julie complained as she watched her kids racing around the playground. “We never got this many days off.”
“Yes, and we walked uphill to school both ways,” I said with mock solemnity.
“In the snow,” Alison added with a laugh.
“I’m serious,” Julie said, but belied that by laughing, too.
We’d met at the War Memorial Park, which despite its somber name had a bright and cheerful playground. I was almost giddy with pleasure at the chance for some adult company and conversation. The three of us sat at a picnic table near the swings, relaxing under the sun, unusually warm for fall, while keeping an eye on the kids. Julie glanced at her watch, asking, “Where’s Heather?” We’d arranged to meet at ten A.M., which really meant tenish, but it was almost eleven and there was still no sign of her. Usually, if one of us got delayed we’d text the others, but no one had heard from Heather.
A few minutes later, Daniel dashed past us to join the other kids, and we turned to see Heather crossing the lawn from the parking lot, carrying one of those cardboard take-out trays with coffee cups. “Stopped at Starbucks for us,” she said, passing out cups.
“You’re a godsend!” Julie exclaimed as she took hers, immediately removing the lid to blow on it.
“Starbucks?” Alison said. “How come?”
As in how come she hadn’t stopped at Crazy Mocha, our coffee shop, which was also closest to the park? “Went to one with a drive-thru,” Heather said, taking a seat at the table. She leaned back, turning her face up to the sun and closing her eyes. From the playground, Daniel’s voice cried, “Mommy, come swing me!”
“In a minute,” Heather called without looking. She lifted her head enough to take a sip of coffee. “It’s so beautiful out.”
“We’d almost given up on you two,” I said. “Busy morning?”
“Oh, I just forgot the time,” Heather said in her usual languid way. This was the way she always was, relaxed and seemingly without a care—that’s what I want to emphasize, that she never seemed under any particular stress and that’s why I never guessed that anything was wrong.
Before Heather could reply, Daniel interrupted, crying, “Mommy! Mommy! Come swing me! Come now, Mommy!”
“Okay, hold on,” Heather said, sighing as she sat up and gave us all an apologetic smile before heading over to help her son. I heard the crunch of another car and looked toward the parking lot. When I turned back to the playground, Heather was going hand-over-hand across the monkey bars while Daniel laughed and clapped with glee at his mother’s antics.
“What the hell?” I swore under my breath, but Alison heard it all the same. I’m sure she was surprised; I try not to use profanity, especially around the kids. I felt her look at me, but I was staring at Heather. Hanging from the bars made her coat and shirt ride up, exposing her midriff.
My envy of her firm, finely toned abdomen had been followed by shock as she turned and I saw a long swath of fiery red, raised skin—a large welt that was fresh from the looks of it. Julie must have seen it at the same time, because she blurted out, “What on earth happened to you?”
Heather seemed startled, but then she let go of the bars and dropped to the ground, immediately tugging down her coat. I swallowed hard against the sudden bile in my throat as Heather came back at a rapid clip across the grass to pick up her coffee as if there were nothing wrong.
“That’s a painful-looking welt,” I managed to say to Heather. “How did you do that?”
“I’m fine,” she said, waving a hand as if it were nothing of consequence. “I bumped into a door.”
“Bumped?” Julie said. “I’d call that more like a slam.”
Alison’s lips were compressed in a thin line and she shot “I told you so” eyes at Julie and me. Questions raced through my head: Was that mark really from a door? And if so, had someone thrown her against it? Had Viktor? I couldn’t ask the questions; they stuck in my mouth, thick and unpleasant. I suddenly understood how Julie felt at the Chens’ party.
I felt the same nasty shock seeing that mark on Heather’s alabaster skin, my stomach turning over with the queasiness of having seen something I shouldn’t, of having trespassed, unwittingly, into someone else’s private life.
chapter four
HEATHER
I haven’t told my friends, but I think they might suspect. It’s hard to make too many excuses without my absence raising questions.
We haven’t seen you in so long! Julie wailed in a text when I begged off, for the second week running, from our Friday morning coffee. A flurry of texts from Alison and Sarah followed, all expressing concern. It’s very sweet, although frustrating, too, adding stress on top of the stress that I’m already feeling. They would ask questions if they saw me—they would notice what I don’t want them to notice—and I just can’t handle that on top of everything else. I think I might explode.
But I can’t. I have to get through each day and put on that happy face before Viktor gets home in the evening. He likes me to be happy; he says if I would only smile more it would relieve the stress from his day. I know that he thinks he’s given me everything and I should be grateful. I am grateful. Or I try to be. I read books like 365 Days of Happiness and Gratitude Your Attitude, the kind found in the self-help sections of bookstores and libraries. All advise me to perform tasks like list the things I’m thankful for in my life.