Twenty minutes later, I arrive in the doorway to Emily’s home with an iced latte in hand, one from the new coffee shop in town. In the plastic cup the ice cubes melt, turning the cup sweaty.
“For you,” I say, as I call for Maisie to come, and thank Emily for taking her off my hands for a bit. “You’re such a good friend,” I say, though no words are mentioned about Maisie’s tantrum in the grocery store parking lot, my pitiable parenting skills or the fact that Emily may have saved Maisie’s life. My mind is reeling from the information I’ve been delivered in the last few hours: the fact that a woman named Melinda Grey filed an Order of Protection against Nick, the fact that they were having an affair, the belief that she—a jilted lover seeking revenge—pushed him from the side of Harvey Road. I wish more than anything that I could talk to Emily about this, and yet there’s something so disgraceful about a cheating spouse that I can’t bring myself to say the words aloud, not to Emily at least, of whom I’ve been so judgmental of her marriage.
“It was no bother,” she says to me as she invites me inside. I step into the foyer. Her home is meticulous, an art deco–style with bold colors and geometric designs. There isn’t an item out of place, and at this I feel chagrined, knowing how my own home is a mess, in shambles, poor Harriet the dog left alone all day without a walk. She’ll have found a corner to pee in by now, no doubt, and I’ll scold her as if she should have opened the door herself and let herself out to pee. “Really. Teddy just adores her,” she says to me. “We should get them together more often to play.” And Emily asks whether or not I was able to get my shopping done, and I say yes, that I never would have were it not for her, and at this she smiles and says kindly, “Anytime.”
Emily is the type of woman that—until you get to know her—women easily despise. She’s lovely, with her hair the color of obsidian and flawless olive skin. Like other women, I despised her, too, the first time I laid eyes on her as she and Theo moved into the vacant property on our block, a grand Victorian-style home. It wasn’t until later that I discovered that her warmth and compassion belied her beauty as if one couldn’t be both, pretty and nice.
We went years without speaking, though by all accounts we should have been friends. We had so much in common, from concurrent pregnancies to children born just weeks apart, to husbands with hectic work schedules who left us to our own devices for ten hours or more each day.
But it wasn’t until Maisie and Teddy discovered one another at the age of two and a half that Emily and I became friends. It was then that I realized she was sweet and kind, not at all the haughty woman I’d assumed her to be.
“Stay for dinner?” Emily asks of me, reminding me that Theo is out of town. She’s a tall woman, as am I, but taller still, so that her eyes look down to mine.
“Of course,” I say, remembering, and, “Massachusetts. An auto show,” but I shake my head and tell her no. “I can’t stay,” I say, and for a fraction of a second these words nearly follow: Nick will be home soon. It’s habit, a force of nature. Nick should be coming home soon. But tonight Nick will not be home. Tomorrow Nick will not be home, and I’m afflicted by the sudden and painful reminder: Nick is dead. My hand goes to my mouth, but I refuse to cry. I will not cry, there in the foyer to Emily’s home with Teddy and Maisie just upstairs. I feel the warm tears spring to my eyes, but I force them aside.
Emily’s hand comes to rest on my arm. “I’m so sorry, Clara,” she whispers, swallowing her own tears. “I’m so sorry this is happening to you.” But I shake my head quickly and hold up a hand. I can’t have this conversation, not here, not now. Because then I will cry, and I don’t want the children to see me crying. I call for Maisie again, my voice louder now, unbridled and less repressed.
“I’ve left Felix in the car,” I tell Emily, imagining the heat and humidity of the day enveloping his tiny little body, making him sweat. “I need to go,” I say, my voice wavering, losing restraint, and then, nearly a scream for Maisie as the little girl appears at the top of the steps in Teddy’s magician costume—the poplin jacket with its satin lapels, the red cape, the black hat—and asks if we’re ready for the show. She and Teddy have a show for Emily and me to see, a magic act whereby they plan to turn a dollar bill into ten and make a sock randomly appear. I wonder if they can make Nick appear, too.
“We can’t leave now,” says Maisie, with a frown upon her face, her ungovernable hair hanging in her eyes. She stomps her foot and demands of me, “We can’t leave before the show.”
And then I cry.
“Where are we going?” Maisie asks as I drive past our house and continue down the street. It isn’t a question so much as a complaint. If she can’t play with Teddy, then Maisie wants to go home. I stare down at the address I’ve scrawled on a hand, the same one that’s now programmed into my GPS. Maisie begins to groan, “Home, Mommy, home,” as our front porch fades from view.
I think fast.
“I could have sworn, Maisie,” I say as I inch the car through our neighborhood and toward the highway, “that I saw a lost dog walking down the street. Can you help me look for the dog, Maisie, so we can get her home?” I ask as a means of distraction only, for there was no dog, though I go on to describe it for her, a big yellow dog with a purple collar around its neck, as Maisie presses her face to the windowpane, quietly searching for the lost pup, forgetting that she’s tired and hungry, that she wants to go home. I turn on the radio to counteract the silence, watching as, in the rearview mirror, Maisie’s toes begin to tap, her eyes glued out the window, and I pray that between the music and the dog, she’ll be temporarily content.
Parkshore Drive is nearly nine miles south of our own home. At the onset of rush hour, it takes over fifteen minutes to get there, out of our neighborhood and onto the highway, bypassing gas stations and restaurants until the landscape becomes residential again and the houses return. The homes on Parkshore are retro and dated, circa 1950-or 1960-something, when sprawling ranch homes dominated suburban American life. The trees are tall and wide, the houses shrouded by leaves. As I pull onto Parkshore, there are half a dozen boys playing a game of baseball in the middle of the street. They part like the Red Sea before me, so that I can pass through.