The Sister-in-Law Page 10

  A knock on the bathroom door pulled me back into the present. Then another soft knock. The knock of a child’s knuckles.

  ‘Yes?’ I said to the door.

  Again: knock … knock. Slowly, intentionally.

  I swung open the door, but the hallway was empty.

  ‘What the hell?’ I spoke into the dead air.

  I glanced up and down the hallway – nothing. Maybe the kids were playing a prank. Or maybe I was just hearing things. It wouldn’t have been the first time. When I closed the door and returned to the sink, the mirror dripped with condensation like it was crying. Most days I felt like crying too.

  I rooted through my makeup bag for my essentials. A dash of bronzer, a swipe of mascara, Burt’s Bees shimmer lip gloss. Less is more when you have the taut skin of a woman in her twenties. A couple days ago, when passing Harper’s room, I caught her mid-makeup-routine. There couldn’t have been fewer than fifteen products on her face. The sight made me dread my thirties.

  Heading to my bedroom closet, I still hadn’t decided what to wear yet. Outfit number one was a surefire way to piss Harper off – a bralette showing underneath a strappy floral maxi dress – but we were supposed to be working on our friendship today. So I picked the more conservative outfit number two, and hoped it would appease her bland sense of style.

  The sacrifices one makes for family.

  By the time I made it downstairs, dressed, game face on, and purse in hand, Harper was waiting by the door.

  ‘You finally ready?’ she asked.

  The woman was perpetually in a rush. I was perpetually not. Already we were clashing.

  The eerie knock on the bathroom door still echoed in my mind. ‘Yeah. Um, did you knock on the bathroom door while I was in there?’

  ‘No, why?’

  Strange. ‘Are the kids around?’

  ‘No … I think they’re outside with Aubrey, the babysitter. Lane’s heading to work shortly.’ Her voice lifted with concern. ‘Why do you ask?’

  I shook away the strange thoughts floating around in my head. ‘It’s nothing.’

  I wondered if Jackson was rubbing off on me.

  ‘You look nice.’ Harper grinned with approval at my conservative jeggings and retro Fleetwood Mac T-shirt. Her gaze caught for a moment on the holes in the knees and the frayed hems, but at least she wasn’t commenting about my cleavage under her breath. Wearing an adequate bra in public seemed to have scored me an even higher approval rating.

  ‘Thanks. You do too.’

  And she did look nice … for a sixty-year-old lady, not a late-thirties woman. I checked my hobo bag. Lip gloss, wallet, cell phone, all-natural mood stabilizer. Everything I would need to endure a day with Sis!

  A week ago, I would have never agreed to a Sisters’ Day Out! as Lane called it. He had been begging me to make some ‘girl time’ with my new sister – in-law, I added in my head – but eventually I caved. Not for me, but for him. So I agreed to a shopping outing. Especially after the tension Harper and I had been wading through the past two days. Shopping was easier than forcing stilted conversation over a meal at a restaurant, and I could easily wander off and browse by myself without injuring her dainty ego.

  The best part was when Lane handed me his credit card and told me to treat myself to whatever I wanted. ‘With a growing belly, you’ll probably need a whole pregnancy wardrobe,’ he suggested. Don’t mind if I do!

  I had never had someone who wanted to spoil me. I didn’t dress in name-brand clothes or walk in expensive shoes, but Lane made me feel like a designer woman. You deserve nice things, he’d insist when I turned down his gifts, his face droopy and sad. It makes me happy to treat you well.

  And so I let him. Soon I realized just how happy it made me too. I was his queen, he was my king, and I felt every bit the part.

  ‘Don’t you have your own credit card?’ Harper asked.

  ‘Nah, she can use mine,’ Lane said.

  ‘But she can’t forge your signature. That’s illegal.’

  Oh Harper, ever the rule follower.

  ‘You’d be impressed with how scary good her forgery skills are!’ Lane laughed.

  Harper frowned.

  ‘When you don’t have parents, you’re forced to learn such skills to get by in life. Permission slips don’t sign themselves,’ I joked, hoping Harper wouldn’t read into it. ‘So, we all set?’

  I plastered on a smile and off Harper and I went. As I stepped into the car, the movement of curtains above the front porch drew my gaze upward. A shadow passed across my bedroom window, and a chill prickled my skin. Lately I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.

  By the time we reached the mall, I’d pushed the stalker sensation out of mind and prepped myself for a shop-fest. The Streets at Southpoint in Durham, North Carolina, had a bit of everything for everyone. Urban Outfitters for me. Lands’ End for Harper. Victoria’s Secret for me. Maidenform for Harper. So when Harper parked the car and proceeded to hang at my hip from one store to the next like a parole officer, I couldn’t help but feel claustrophobic. And when I felt smothered, I rebelled.

  We wandered side by side through the mall, the cutesy storefronts made to imitate the street shops one might find in a quaint but lively 1950s town that no longer existed. Harper’s watchful gaze followed me around every clothing rack, through every aisle, never giving me a moment’s peace. You’d think the sisterly companionship would feel comforting, but instead it was unsettling and downright obsessive. Maybe it was because of the earrings I had pinched and hidden in my coat pocket. Or the stolen ring I brazenly wore, as if claiming ownership so publicly entitled me to that ring. I couldn’t help my thieving impulse.

  It wasn’t about the items, because Lane’s checking account would easily cover the cost. It was about Harper – and her judgment as she looked down on me as less than. The moment Lane handed me his credit card I felt it. Harper thought I was a gold-digger, but I didn’t need or want Lane’s gold. I could take what I wanted, when I wanted it, and so I shoved my sin in Harper’s principled, entitled face. With pregnancy hormones raging through my body, I needed to feel normal again – myself. And myself was a rebel. A heart thief. And today, apparently, a jewelry thief.

  Three hours and six shopping bags later, I could tell Harper was growing weary. Her gait had slowed, her eyes had lost interest in me, and her chitchat had gone stale. My advantage was being ten years her junior, which equipped me with the stamina to shop for hours on end without exhaustion. If shopping were an Olympic sport, I’d be wearing a gold medal.

  ‘You ready to head home?’ Harper asked me for the umpteenth time.

  I felt sufficiently stocked up on all things maternal, so I agreed to cut the poor woman a break. She had given it a good run.

  ‘Yes, I’m ready. And famished. I’m sure the baby is exhausted too. Let’s go.’ I glanced at her empty hands. ‘You didn’t find anything you wanted to buy?’

  ‘No, nothing I needed.’ She eyed my full hands. ‘You didn’t find anything you didn’t want to buy?’

  I couldn’t tell if the lilt of her voice was attempting humor, accusatory, or simply annoying.

  ‘All of it’s for the baby,’ I answered.

  ‘Well, not all of it.’ Her lips straightened in a line with the touch of a frown.

  If she knew about my sticky fingers, at least she didn’t push it. I imagined her whispering to Lane in secret tonight about my extracurricular thieving. I felt another she-said/she-said argument brewing.

  Harper led the way outside through the automatic doors, to a large outdoor shopping and dining patio that stretched a good two blocks ahead. Between the rows of stores were street performers singing, fountains spraying water, and even a climbing wall where kids were clamoring to the cheers of their parents. One day I’d watch my own child’s unsteady legs and chubby arms heft her way up the climbing wall. I couldn’t wait for that day to finally arrive.

  Harper halted in front of an Italian restaurant with a
sandwich board announcing its specials for the evening. ‘Did you want to stop now for a bite to eat, or just make something when we get home?’

  I couldn’t stomach a long meal of awkward silence or awkward conversation with her.

  ‘Let’s just head home. My dogs are barking.’ I chuckled, and Harper looked confused.

  ‘Your dogs are what?’

  ‘My dogs are barking. You know, John Candy and Steve Martin in Planes, Trains, and Automobiles.’ Nothing seemed to register. ‘Wow, you’ve never seen that movie?’

  ‘Can’t say I have.’

  ‘Harper, it’s from your generation, not mine. And it’s a cult classic.’

  She shrugged indifferently.

  ‘How about we have a John Candy marathon? We’ll start with Uncle Buck and work our way down to The Great Outdoors.’ My spirits lifted. Maybe we could actually bond over the big-hearted buffoon. ‘Oh, and we can’t forget Spaceballs.’

  Her grimace deflated all my hope. ‘Anything starring John Candy I wouldn’t enjoy. I prefer documentaries, nature shows – more educated entertainment, not slapstick comedy. I’m guessing you found Ace Ventura simply riveting.’

  What kind of person didn’t love John Candy? I almost felt bad for her, going throughout life with such solemnity, no humor to lighten her existence. It explained a lot about her, though. Her personality was as stale as her film choices.

  We wove our way through the crowd, past a man strumming John Mayer’s ‘Your Body Is a Wonderland’ on a guitar, toward a fountain with bronze statues of children splashing one another. I touched my stomach where my own baby swam inside me and thought about how she would one day run through a sprinkler, giggling as it sprayed her with water. In my heart, I just knew she was a she. Mother’s intuition, perhaps.

  ‘One second,’ I told Harper as I fished a penny from my purse. Lifting it to my lips, I whispered my wish, kissed the coin, then tossed it into the fountain. It made a plop before it sunk to the concrete floor where hundreds of other wishes glistened in the watery sun.

  ‘What did you wish for?’ Harper asked, sidling up to me.

  ‘If I tell you I’d have to kill you.’ I smirked, but Harper frowned. ‘I’m kidding. Geez, relax. You’re not supposed to tell your wish or it won’t come true.’

  ‘I thought only children believed that.’

  I ignored her remark because the day had turned out better than expected and I wasn’t going to let her sour it. Lifting her chin high, she took off, her back stiff and straight. I followed a beat behind her, the pregnancy drain hitting me suddenly. As I paused and leaned down to adjust the American Eagle shopping bag that had slipped from my fingers, a man wearing aviator sunglasses bumped into me, nearly knocking me over.

  ‘Excuse you!’ I yelled. ‘Watch where you’re going!’

  The man stopped and pivoted to face me, his body shadowed and just a silhouette with the sun sinking behind him.

  ‘Maybe you’re the one who needs to watch out.’ His voice was a low growl as he rushed off.

  What did he mean by that? My stomach dropped inside me. My breath snagged in my throat. I shaded my eyes with my hand. It couldn’t be him … my past coming to revisit me.

  Before I could know for certain it was him – because maybe I imagined his voice, maybe I was wrong – please, God, let me be wrong – the man disappeared into the crowd. The panic followed me all the way to Harper’s car, then all the way home as the gray ribbon of highway unrolled ahead of us, my thoughts drifting back in time …

  ***

  Sweat and mothballs – that was the scent of the woman sitting next to me. Except not the sweet workout kind of sweat. It was the dank kind that soaked her armpits and collected under the folds of her neck when crammed into a Greyhound bus for six hours, wearing a hotbox knitted sweater that’s a size too small.

  The scenery outside my window whizzed by in a blur of crooked trees, open fields, and an endless highway. After riding through the night, I opened my eyes to a streak of cardinal red that melted into burning ember orange. Kissing the sky was a dusty rose that receded into a swelling regal blue. It was the perfect sunrise for a perfect fresh start.

  If only I was inhaling the hay-scented country air outside my window instead of the reek of offensive body odor. I would have switched seats if there were any other window views available. Instead, I curled up as best as I could into the cold vinyl seat and leaned against the glass, watching town after town drift into the background of my life. As I pulled my sleeve over my hand and covered my nose, I vowed never to return to my condemned love in my condemned city.

  Every love had a story. Mine and Noah’s started in death and ended in death. We were darkly poetic that way. He was the only one there for me when my parents died, picked up my broken pieces, helped me put them back together. But they never quite fit, no matter how hard we forced them. And those jutting edges that were left? Well, they cut me so deep I bled out.

  I breathed a patch of warm dew on the window, then traced a heart in it. I didn’t know if I would ever love another again – because no matter how dysfunctional Noah and I were, I still loved him deeply – but now I would begin to love myself. The sunrise pouring through the heart promised light. Light cast out darkness. No more feeling sorry for myself. No more swimming in the ache. I didn’t quite know where I was going, but I would know when I arrived. Freedom was a lofty goal for a broken spirit, but I was a fighter backed into a corner.

  Armed with nothing more than a single duffel bag, a pocket full of stolen cash, and a lie, I would leave my identity along with the pain behind. But instead of being another victim, this time I vowed to be the victor.

  Chapter 12

  Harper

  It took one moment to break trust and a lifetime of work to rebuild it. I really thought Candace and I had shared a connection at the mall today. United over fashion, related over décor. Retail therapy! She even let me snap a selfie of us raising our banana-mango-kale smoothies, as if toasting the camera. I think she even smiled! We had started over, lemony fresh.

  My gait was perky when I entered my bedroom with its stiff, avocado green wallpaper, the kind your grandmother would have picked out when she bought her first house in the 1940s. Trails of mustard yellow flowers climbed in distressed rows where the sun chewed away at the paper. The scent of hardcover books and dust lingered in the fabric of the walls, telling stories that only ghosts remembered.

  After our rejuvenating outing, I yearned for companionship. Friendship. I even felt more like myself, my face made up and hair curled. It felt good to feel pretty again, existent, alive. Picking up my phone, I stared at the black screen. It was time, time to freefall back into society. Modern society, that is, where face-to-face human interaction was as rare as a monkey sighting in the city. Now, we all lived inside our phones, where our deepest human connections were tethered to our Internet connections.

  First things first, I wanted to look up that name Detective Meltzer had mentioned, the one Ben had opened up a bank account for. I found the envelope in my purse where I had scribbled it in the corner: Medea Kent. A quick Google search gave me nothing. Not a single result. Strange. The name sounded exotic on my lips. An international client, perhaps? Clearly I wouldn’t find my answers today.

  My Facebook hiatus had raised a lot of concern among my so-called friends. I hadn’t posted on social media since Ben’s death, only browsed my newsfeed a time or two and searched for Candace. After all of the messages offering condolences and prayers, I figured I owed my friends a status update. It was the least I could do to show I still existed in the land of the living. Ben had believed that social media was the downfall of society. According to him, it turned everyone into agoraphobic preachers with their own personal pulpits to spout whatever nonsense bubbled inside them that day. Everyone now had a cause, but only behind the safety and anonymity of a screen where there was no accountability. But even I couldn’t resist its draw. You could impulse buy, get your fake news, and make new
best friends all in a matter of minutes, with just the swipe of a finger!

  Initially, I joined the bandwagon to keep track of long-distance high-school friends. Though maybe friends was a stretch when you hadn’t seen or spoken to someone in person in nearly two decades. But it sated that gnawing curiosity – was the head cheerleader still prettier than you (there went her tight body after three kids!), does the captain of the football team still have that charm (look at that receding hairline!)? It turned out that even the most popular, good-looking kids in high school eventually did plateau out into normalcy, with flabby arms and beer bellies and wrinkles and bad haircuts just like the rest of us. Social media was a socially acceptable form of stalking and self-validation.

  Today I had decided to end my Facebook lull and publicly grieve – and publicly heal, I suppose. It was expected when everyone knew your husband had passed … and those who didn’t know deserved fair warning before they tagged me in marriage memes. I admit, I clicked on my Facebook app icon with trepidation. When Ben’s murder hit the news, a lot of speculation had pointed to me, the black widow. It was inevitable, since even the police had their eyes on me. The questions. The accusations. The suspicions. When a spouse ended up dead, with no enemies to speak of, people tended to point fingers at the only obvious suspect: the one with the most to gain. A multi-million-dollar insurance policy was exactly that.

  Considering all this, one couldn’t blame me for hiding from public view. Wasn’t that what guilty people did – hide? But I wasn’t guilty. I just wasn’t ready to face all the backlash or sympathy. Until today, when Candace had validated me as a human, spent time and shared laughs and smoothies with me … and it felt so good. I needed more of that, and I knew the first step was back into the virtual world if my healing was to start gaining traction in the real world. I wasn’t the talk of the town anymore. People had moved on for lack of caring. After all, it was a well-off, middle-aged man who was murdered, not a woman or child. I’d bet most people assumed he had it coming.