She was asking only Mary, but Mary gripped Stefan’s hand. “We’ll stay with you,” she said.
Mary waited until Hannah was asleep and Stefan’s breath had started to go shallow, until his eyes closed and she heard the breath at the back of his throat. Until he was at the precipice of sleep but not over it. Then she extracted herself from her position, went to the bathroom, slid down on the tile—so bright white in the dark—and began to cry.
She thought of Diane, saw in slow motion her limp, unconscious body thrown forward at the moment of impact, saw the soundless shattering of glass. She thought of her grandfather, thought of the inside of his body, the empty black cavities the disease had eaten through. And the tears came quickly. She let them come without fight or restraint. Let them stream down her cheeks, finding their way into her mouth, her hair. She let the sobs break up through her chest, let them rip into the air. Until the bathroom door opened, and Stefan’s face appeared.
“Oh, baby,” he said. And in a moment, he was on the floor next to her.
As he pulled her into him, Mary climbed and clutched him as if she were drowning. His fingertips found the back of her head, her wild black hair. “What’s wrong?”
She took a breath as if readying herself to speak, but only ragged breath came out, as if her grief stayed buried until it was needed.
“Shhhh,” Stefan said, his lips to her forehead. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”
Mary swallowed, gasping, seeing her mother again and again.
“Mary, baby, what is it?”
She breathed in and out until she was steady enough to speak. “It’s Tim,” she finally said, moving her face back and forth against Stefan’s shoulder, wiping her eyes.
She felt Stefan tense, protectively, reflexively. “What about him?”
“After I . . . After my mom died . . . I went to stay with Tim’s parents.” She paused, felt Stefan’s hand slide down to her back, pull her closer. “Tim’s dad . . . at first he just seemed so nice.” She felt the broadness of Stefan’s body, the constancy of it. “I thought he was just being sweet, you know? It was Christmas. He bought me and Hannah these necklaces. His wife went to bed and he offered me some wine.” She felt her tears come again, genuine and true. “There are pictures, Stefan. Tim has them. He thinks . . . I don’t know what he thinks, but I left the next day. I didn’t know what to do. I don’t know how it happened or why I let it. But now he says he’s gonna show you the pictures. Show your family.”
Stefan’s hand made its way up and down Mary’s back. Shhhhh. Shhhhh.
Stefan stayed with Mary in the dark bathroom until her mind drifted into unconsciousness, where the line between what was real and what was not was a fluid, lovely thing.
She woke the next morning beside Hannah, the sheet pulled up to her waist. He must have carried her to bed. She got up and looked out the window. Stefan’s car was still there, parked under a crab apple tree, its fruit growing red and heavy on its low-reaching branches.
Padding down the soft carpeted stairs, she expected to hear voices, confrontation, but she heard only quiet. In the kitchen, Stefan was alone at the table, drinking a cup of black coffee. When he saw her, he pushed his chair away from the table, the legs groaning over the floor, then he patted his lap. “Come here.”
Mary went to him, her arms wrapped across her chest, her T-shirt slipping down over one shoulder. He wrapped his arms around her waist as she stood before him, resting his head against her smooth pale belly. “Don’t worry,” he said. “He’s gone.”
“What?” gasped Mary. “How?”
“I told him that he had to go.”
Mary lowered her chin to her chest and squeezed her eyes tightly, feeling them grow wet, feeling her cheeks burn red. It was as close as Mary Chase came to mourning what she was. “I’m so sorry, Stefan.”
“There’s no reason to be sorry.”
She lowered her head to his, brought her hand to the back of his neck. Stefan was goodness and righteousness. Stefan was the light to her dark.
“He’s flying back to Miami in a couple of days. He’s going to stay in a hotel by the airport until then.”
“Where is he now?”
“A car came for him an hour ago.”
Mary found Stefan’s eyes. “Where’s he getting the money?”
“Don’t worry about that,” he said.
Mary searched Stefan’s face for a sign that he had seen the pictures. “Did he show you the . . .”
“No,” he answered quickly.
And Mary became lightheaded with relief. “Thank you,” she said, lowering her lips to his head, breathing the words into his hair.
They stayed like that for what felt like several minutes, Mary feeling the ebb of adrenaline, feeling the nearness of the escape. Tim was gone. She had outmaneuvered him. She and Hannah were safe.
And when her limbs could move again, she sat down beside Stefan and he poured her a cup of coffee. Hannah puttered down soon after, asking for orange juice. “I got it, Banana,” Stefan said.
They watched cartoons that morning, the three of them on the couch, Mary and Stefan’s eyes meeting over Hannah’s head as she giggled. Outside the sun was bright and high and fearless.
“It’s too beautiful,” Mary said, her head resting against the back of the couch, her gaze rolling toward the window. “I’m going to go get ready. We should go do something.”
And when she reached the top of the stairs, she looked behind her to see the door to the guest room where Tim had stayed—a white rectangle set against a white wall. She walked toward it, the carpet quieting her footsteps. Inside, the room was empty. The bed was made, the shade pulled up, the closet door closed. All signs of Tim were gone save for a white note folded and left atop the comforter. MARY was written on the front. Inside, it said only YOU’RE WRONG.
Nineteen
1983
Over the next couple of days, Mary felt Tim’s presence in the periphery, lingering just out of sight. He was there when she was alone, as she unloaded the dishwasher, as she lay in bed awake, the words a whisper in her ear. You’re wrong.
But what was she wrong about? She pressed Stefan for the details of their conversation, but he simply held her, brought her head to his chest. Don’t worry, Mare, he said, though Mary couldn’t see his eyes. And she knew Stefan’s impression of her had started to fray around the edges.
It was five nights after Tim’s departure that the phone rang. She looked at Stefan, who was lying on the couch reading. Hannah was asleep in bed. Stefan glanced up at her. The phone rarely rang in the condo; no one called Mary save for Stefan and Martina. Without a word, Mary stood, instinct making her alert, tensing her muscles. She went to the kitchen to take the call, stepping out on the deck and closing the door behind her. Pulling up the antenna on the handset, she answered. “Hello.” She already knew it would be him, but for a moment, there was only silence. Until Mary’s own voice spoke to her.
I’m at the B & M Diner. Right by the Miami Herald. You’re going to meet me here in three hours with ten thousand dollars in cash.