He hissed in irritation. “At least give it to Dylan when he wants to get married.”
“I’m actually gonna hock it,” I said. “Or give it to a homeless person. I haven’t decided. Maybe I’ll throw it in the ocean, like Rose does in Titanic.” That had always made Brad cry, the sap. (Why toss a priceless diamond, lady? Sell it and donate the money!)
“You’re so petty,” he said.
“You have no idea,” I answered.
“I’m so relieved to be starting over with someone who embraces joy the way I do,” he said, and my hand twitched to punch him. “The light in me sees the light in you, Lillie.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“Melissa doesn’t swear, by the way. One of the many things I love about her.”
He shouldered his bag, picked up a knapsack and walked out of our house, backing his car neatly out of the driveway.
Since the day he told me he was cheating on me, he had never once said he was sorry.
I walked down to the dock, stripped off all my clothes and dove into the water. It was silky smooth and pure, and when I surfaced and looked at the darkening sky, I felt . . . cleaner. At least I wouldn’t have to lie to my son anymore.
I stayed in the cool water, floating on my back, until my skin was pruney, and even then, it was some time before I went back into my empty house.
Time to get a dog.
CHAPTER 8
Melissa
Much to Melissa’s surprise, about two years into their marriage, Dennis started to get . . . restless. Impatient. With her.
“I can’t believe you’re not bored,” he snapped one night as she showed him the new sofa that had been delivered that day. “You don’t have a job, you don’t have a . . . a cause or a charity or whatever. You don’t even have hobbies! You don’t read anything other than magazines. You just go to the gym, take yoga classes, spend money and futz around here. I didn’t think I was marrying someone whose goal was to be a housewife. You haven’t even looked into adoption agencies.”
She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. First of all, did he think this body didn’t need upkeep? Secondly, yoga was a practice of self-awareness and calm. It was more than a hobby! Was she supposed to take up knitting? And thirdly, she didn’t want a child, so she wasn’t going to get pregnant or adopt a child. Do the math, Dennis. Instead she said, “Maybe we need to go in for fertility treatments.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me. I have two kids.”
It was a warning shot across the bow, and it infuriated her. Did she not earn her keep, gosh darn it? Didn’t she give him porn-worthy sex? A delicious meal every night they didn’t go out? Didn’t she make him breakfast every day? Feign interest as he talked about the new doctor they’d hired? Throw the best grand opening party when they expanded the surgical center? Wasn’t every man he knew completely jealous of him because his hot wife knew how to take care of a man in every possible way?
She said nothing for a moment, breathing deeply into her stomach. “You’re right,” she said, because it was the only answer he’d accept. “I’ve gotten a little lost. You swept me off my feet, and I do love our life. But you’re right. I’ll think about this. And I’ll call a doctor to get checked out.” She had to grit her teeth before forcing a smile. “There’s nothing I’d like more than having your baby,” she lied, kissing his cheek.
“Good,” he said, then got up and went into the den.
Oh, no! Would she have to get pregnant?
She certainly couldn’t go to medical school. She didn’t want a job. She could be a yoga teacher, maybe . . . she’d done enough of it. A therapist, because that didn’t involve anything besides listening to people, right? And she could have a swanky office, not dark and crowded like the one in Couples Therapy or In Treatment, but one with a view of Central Park, maybe. Now that would be cool.
Unfortunately, becoming a legitimate therapist would require quite a bit of school, Google told her. Dang it.
And then, as always, the universe intervened.
One night when Melissa was sitting in the bath, neck-deep in bubbles and drinking a glass of Antoine Jobard Meursault, pretending to be sore from her fictional gynecological exam, her phone rang.
Unknown number. She let it go to voice mail, then listened. “Hey, Missy, it’s Kaitlyn. I need a favor. Call me back, ’kay?”
Her sister. Melissa had never told her parents she was married. They weren’t the type to use the internet to track her down, but if they did, they’d want money, and she would die, having them invade her pristine, carefully curated life. She doubted they remembered her changed name, and if they did, it was a common enough name, Melissa Spencer. There were plenty of doctors, CEOs, authors, professors, real estate agents with the same name . . . they’d never be able to find her.
The only time Melissa reached out was to send cute outfits and gifts to Harminee (the name still made her wince) on the kid’s birthday and at Christmas, wanting her to have something nice in her life. She never listed the return address . . . that was what Amazon was for, wasn’t it?
But Melissa had given Katie her cell phone number. Her county had one of the highest per capita overdose deaths in the nation. If her sister died, Melissa would want to know. Kaitlyn may have been addicted to drugs and was a petty criminal, but once upon a time, the two of them had been close. More than close. They’d been best friends.
She got out of the tub, wrapped herself in her white bathrobe and peeked in on Dennis. He was watching a Yankees game, and the score was tied, which meant he’d be glued to the set till the last second of the game. Good. She couldn’t risk him overhearing her. Back down the hallway she went, into the guest room and into the vast closet there where she kept her shoes, and called her sister back.
“Whaddup?”
“Kaitlyn? Is that you?”
“Yeah, hey, Missy-Jo. Listen. I’ll get straight to the point,” Kaitlyn said. “I’m heading to jail again, and I need some help.”
“What?”
“Angela had a stroke, so they can’t watch Harminee anymore.”
“Angela . . . the one who’s raising her? Her grandmother?”
“Can you give me a fuckin’ break? Yeah, raisin’ her, watchin’ her, whatever. Mama and Daddy said no because of Daddy’s back, but you and me know that’s bullshit.”
The grammar made her cringe. Was that how she’d once sounded? Awful. “Who’ll take care of Harminee, then?”
“Well, shit, Missy-Jo, I thought you were smart. Dintcha go to college?” There was a pause, and Melissa could hear her take a drag on a cigarette. “I want you to take her, dumbass.”
“What?” She shook her head to clear it. Surely she hadn’t heard right. “Can’t . . . I mean, can’t someone else watch her until you get out? Someone closer? What about Aunt Rena?” Melissa could hear the white trash creeping back into her voice. Whubout Ant Rena?
“Aunt Rena ain’t right in the head, Missy. The social worker said immediate family’s best. Look. I can’t keep her. I gotta be clean for somethin’ like two years before I can git her again, and I’m lookin’ at five to ten. You’re my sister. It should be you.”
“I can’t . . . That’s crazy. I can’t take her.” She looked at her rows of shoes, so organized, so beautiful. A kid? No, thank you.
“She’s seven,” Kaitlyn said. “She’s your niece, Missy Jolene Cumbo.”
There was a threat in that sentence. While her parents were computer illiterate, Melissa was sure Kaitlyn could find her in about ten minutes. She’d always been cunning that way.
“Just let me think a minute,” she said to her sister.
Her niece. Seven wasn’t a baby. Seven was all-day school and lessons and maybe a nanny. She and Dennis were wealthy, after all. She could save Harminee and give the kid an escape from her all-too-certain future. Hadn’t she prayed for the very same thing as a child? A rich aunt or godmother who’d swoop in and change everything?
Suddenly, the idea of rescuing a little girl sounded utterly amazing.
“Let me talk to my husband,” she said. “I’ll call you in a couple of days.”