A Good Marriage(103)
“He didn’t even tell you? Interesting.” Her voice was smug. “Wendy Wallace. They’re having drinks. Or something,” she said coyly. “Isn’t she on that case of yours? Pretty ironic—Paul, of all people, thinking he’s got the right to run around being the morality police.”
I hoped the sense of betrayal didn’t register on my face. But Paul having drinks with Wendy Wallace? After I’d told him how nasty she’d been when I went to see her? Of course it was a betrayal, even if it was probably one I should have seen coming.
“Oh right, I forgot,” I said to Gloria. “If you could just let him know I stopped by.”
I wandered back to my office to collect some files to work on at home, feeling wounded. Not that I was one to judge Paul. All I did was curate the truth—about my marriage, my family, myself. But what I’d said to Millie was the actual truth: it wasn’t like I’d set out to lie.
I’d arrived by bus at Cornell’s manicured campus for the start of freshman year upright, but barely. By then, I’d had precisely enough therapy to keep moving, but not really to heal, not in any meaningful sense. Standing in my empty dorm room, with no parents to deliver me or to help set up my room or to cry at the door when they said goodbye, I felt myself backsliding with alarming speed. Like there was a giant black hole of desperation about to suck me away. And then my roommate appeared, so blond and sunny with these big innocent eyes and two warm parents. And just like that a new version of my story—two dead parents, no one in jail—popped out fully formed to rescue me. From that moment on, that became my truth.
And it had been so much more palatable than the actual facts: that my dad had finally found that regular who’d stolen from him and destroyed his business and—in my dad’s view—killed my mother by bringing on her heart attack. They’d argued in the man’s apartment, which the prosecution proved my dad had broken into, though he insisted he’d done so only to find evidence of the fraud. There was a struggle, and the man ended up with a kitchen knife in his stomach. All of it an accident, my dad claimed. But the jury hadn’t believed it—he was convicted of felony murder, sentenced to twenty-five years to life. That was what happened when you killed someone while committing a burglary. And how upset had my dad really been in the aftermath? I was the only one who knew he’d come home that night and eaten dinner like nothing had happened, wolfing down his food with remarkable zeal. I was also the only one who knew he’d asked me to lie and give him an alibi. A request I’d politely declined.
And so my mom was dead and my dad was gone—like I’d told my Cornell roommate and then Victoria and Heather at Penn, and then Zach and, finally, Sam. He was just “gone” upstate at the Elmira Correctional Facility. Right before law school, I’d even legally taken my mother’s maiden name—I figured law firms might be judgmental. They were; I was right about that. So was the US attorney’s office, but I had made it through the background check anyway, after a few scary follow-up questions. What I had been wrong about was my ability to will the truth away.
It had been right there with me the entire time.
Waiting for the elevator, I bristled when I spotted Gloria again, this time at the far end of the reception area, talking with a woman standing at the polished lobby desk. Talking at the woman, more likely. I jabbed the elevator button repeatedly.
“Oh, there she is now,” Gloria called out in my direction, just as I was about to step onto the elevator. Shit. “Um, hello, Lizzie, Maude is here!”
When I turned, there was Amanda’s friend Maude headed my way. She looked distressed, and I absolutely did not want to be dealing with her. From the instantly apologetic expression on her face, my aversion must have been readily apparent.
“I’m sorry to just show up like this, especially on a Saturday. But I did leave a couple messages for you. The prosecutor came by my house … And there’s something I need to tell you. I don’t think it can wait.”
Awesome.
“Sure, no problem,” I lied. “Why don’t you come back for a minute, and we can talk?”
We started toward my office.
“You know, I didn’t even look at your contact information until today. I didn’t realize you worked here, too, of all places …” Maude motioned over her shoulder, gesturing to Gloria. I couldn’t imagine how the two knew each other, and honestly I didn’t want to know. I just wanted to get Maude in and out as fast as possible. “I wasn’t even sure the office would be open. But I thought it couldn’t hurt to try.”
“Yes, with the endless hours we all work here,” I said, aiming for lighthearted but landing closer to caustic, “we are easy to find.”
I flipped on the lights in my office and put down my bag. Maude swayed slightly as she sat.
“Whoa, are you okay?” I asked.
“Oh, um, yes. It’s probably just low blood sugar,” she offered weakly. “I’m diabetic. I’ll be fine, but do you have some juice maybe?”
“Yes, sure. Of course,” I said, hustling out to the nearby snack station.
When I returned, I handed Maude a small bottle of orange juice. Luckily, she had already regained some of her color. The last thing I wanted was her passing out in my office.
“Thank you,” she said, taking a large swallow.