When I told Richard what Dr. Hoffman had said, he immediately agreed to get retested. “I’ll make the appointment for Thursday at lunch. Think you can keep your hands off me for that long?” We’d learned the first time that he had to wait two days to build up a good number of mobile sperm.
At the last minute, I decided to join Richard for this test. I thought back to how he was always beside me at my fertility appointments. Besides, I didn’t have much else to do that day and figured it might be nice to spend the afternoon in the city, then meet him after work for dinner. At least those were the reasons I told myself.
When I couldn’t immediately reach my husband on his cell phone, I called the clinic. I remembered the name from the first time Richard had gone years earlier—the Waxler Clinic—because Richard had joked that it should really be called the Whack-Off Clinic.
“He just phoned to cancel a little while ago,” the receptionist said.
“Oh, something must have come up at work.” I was grateful I hadn’t begun the journey into the city.
I’d assumed he’d go the following day, and I planned to suggest at dinner that I accompany him.
That night, when I greeted him at the door, he folded me into a hug. “My Michael Phelps boys are still going strong.”
I remember time seemed to shudder to a stop. I was so stunned I couldn’t speak.
I pulled back, but he just hugged me tighter. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’re not going to give up. We’ll get to the bottom of this. We’ll figure it out together.”
It took everything I had to look him in the eye when he released me. “Thank you.”
He smiled down at me, his expression gentle.
You’re right, Richard. I will get to the bottom of this. I will figure this out.
The next day, I bought my black Moleskine notebook.
My aunt has been my confidante for much of my life, but I will not burden her with this. I reach into my purse for the bottles of water I brought along and give one to her, then I take a long sip from mine. After a little while, we stand up. Before we leave, Aunt Charlotte slowly runs her fingertips across the engraved letters of her husband’s name.
“Does it ever get easier?”
“Yes and no. I wish we’d had more time. But I’m so grateful I had eighteen wonderful years with him.”
I link my arm through hers as we walk home, taking a long route.
I think of what else I can do for her with Richard’s money. My aunt’s favorite city in the world is Venice. I decide that when this is all over—when I’ve saved Emma—I will take my aunt to Italy.
After we arrive home and Aunt Charlotte goes into her studio to work, I am ready to execute my plan to get the AmEx statement to Emma. I know how I’m going to do it, because Emma never changed the cell phone number she used as Richard’s assistant. I will photograph the document and text it to her. But I need to transmit it when Richard won’t be near, so she can absorb the full implications of what she is seeing.
It was too early when Aunt Charlotte and I left this morning; they might have still been together. But by now he should be at work.
I take the statement out of my purse and smooth it open. The AmEx is Richard’s business card, the one he keeps for his sole use. Most of the charges on this statement are for lunches, taxis, and costs associated with a trip to Chicago. I also see the fee for the caterers for our party; I signed the contract and specified the details, but since it was primarily a business function at our home, Richard had said to use the AmEx card they had for us on file. The four-hundred-dollar charge from Petals in Westchester covered the cost of our flower arrangements.
The Sotheby’s wine refund is at the top of the statement, a few lines above the charge for the caterers.
I use my phone to take a photograph of the entire page, making sure the date, the name of the wine store, and the amount stand out clearly. Then I text it to Emma with a one-line message:
You placed the order, but who canceled it?
When I see that it has been delivered, I put down my cell. I didn’t use my burner phone; there’s no longer any need to conceal what I’m doing. I wonder what Emma’s memory will reveal when she looks back at that night. She thinks I was drunk. She believes Richard covered for me. She is under the impression that I polished off a case of wine in a week.
If she realizes one of those things is not true, will she question the others?
I stare at my phone, hoping this will be the thread she begins to worry between her fingertips.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FOUR
Emma’s response arrives the next morning, also in the form of a single-line text message:
Meet me at my apartment at 6 tonight.
I stare at the words for a full minute. I cannot believe it; I’ve been trying to reach her for such a long time, and now she is finally welcoming me in. I’ve created the necessary doubts in her mind. I wonder what she already knows, and what she will ask me.
Exhilaration floods my body. I don’t know how long of an audience she will grant me, so I write down the points I must make: I can bring up Duke, but what proof do I have? Instead I write fertility questions. I want her to ask Richard why we weren’t able to become pregnant. He’ll surely lie, but the pressure will build in him. Maybe she’ll see what he fights to keep hidden. His surprise visits, I write. Has Richard ever shown up unexpectedly, even when she hasn’t told him her schedule for the day? But that won’t be enough; it certainly wasn’t for me. I will need to tell her about the times Richard physically hurt me.
I have never shared with anyone what I am about to reveal to Emma. I need to harness my emotions so they don’t overwhelm me and reinforce any lingering suspicions she might have that I’m unbalanced.
If she listens to me with an open mind—if she seems receptive to what I am saying—I must explain to her how I meticulously crafted a plan to free myself. That I set her up, but that I had no idea it would go this far.
I will beg for her forgiveness. But more important than my absolution is her own. I will tell her she has to leave Richard, immediately, tonight even, before he ensnares her.
When I last saw Emma, I tried to craft the image I wanted her to see: that we were interchangeable versions of each other. Now I strive for plain honesty. I shower and put on jeans and a cotton T-shirt. I don’t fuss with my makeup or hairstyle. To burn off nervous energy, I plan to walk to her apartment. I decide to leave at five o’clock. I cannot be late.
Be calm, be rational, be convincing, I repeat to myself. Emma has seen the act I’ve put on; she has heard Richard’s rendering of my character; she knows of my reputation. I need to reverse everything she believes about me.
I am still practicing what I will say when my cell phone rings with a number I don’t recognize. But I know the area code well: it’s in Florida.
My body tenses. I sink onto my bed and stare at the screen as the phone rings a second time. I must answer this.
“Vanessa Thompson?” a man asks.
“Yes.” My throat is so dry I cannot swallow.
“This is Andy Woodward from Furry Paws.” His voice sounds hearty and affable. I’ve never spoken to Andy before, but I began to anonymously donate to the shelter in Maggie’s honor following her death, since she’d volunteered there in high school. After Richard and I married, he suggested that we increase my monthly contribution substantially and fund the shelter’s renovation. As a result, Maggie’s name is on a plaque by the door. Richard has always served as the contact to the shelter; he suggested it, saying it would be less stressful for me.
“I got a call from your ex-husband. He told me the two of you have decided that in light of everything, you can no longer afford your charitable gifts.”