Confidential(90)

Finally, we placed our order: dumplings and buns for me, since I’d been craving starch; some exotics like edible fungus and chicken feet for Flora so she could prove how badass she was; and an assortment of vegetables for Lucinda.

“So,” Flora said, “where do we start?” She tossed her dark hair back, but it immediately returned to the same spot, as if magnetized.

“Let’s compile the data,” I said. “What do you know about Michael?”

“He grew up in Oakland,” Lucinda answered.

“On the East Coast,” Flora countered, “like me.”

“The Midwest,” I said quietly. My stomach lurched, and it wasn’t from what looked like pig intestines being doled out from a silver cart onto a plate at the next table. “He said he was raised by a mother who was intensely needy and smothering. He needed to get away.”

Flora gave me a look like I must be some kind of fool. Of course she thought the version he told her was the truth. “His mother left when he was a little kid.”

I turned to Lucinda, like she might be able to settle this. “What did he tell you?”

“He didn’t talk about his childhood.” I picked up an air of defensiveness from her. Or maybe it was defeat. She didn’t like that he had revealed himself more to Flora and me than he had to her, even though what he’d disclosed to at least one of us was bullshit.

I wanted to think that he’d been telling me the truth. The other two could either be misremembering (in the case of Lucinda) or lying (Flora). Flora seemed absurdly competitive, wanting to prove she knew Michael better than I did. If she thought he was the Antichrist, why did she even care?

I was making mental notes for when I talked to him later. Both of them lacked credibility, as far as I was concerned. There could be a simple explanation for the childhood inconsistencies. Flora seemed like a terrible listener, and Lucinda was so scattered.

All I knew was, I wanted to get the hell out of here ASAP.

“Let’s come at this another way.” I pushed my hair back, and, unlike Flora’s, mine receded. “What happened between you and Michael?”

“Who are you talking to?” Flora asked, a bit sharply.

“Both of you. Whoever wants to talk first.”

“Maybe you should go first.” So Flora didn’t like me, either. Somehow, I’d survive.

We were in a staring contest when the first of my dumplings and Lucinda’s vinegary cucumbers were heaped on our table. We waited until the cart had moved on, and then I returned to looking at Flora expectantly. The smell of the BBQ pork filling was making my mouth water, but I could hold out. Lucinda, however, began to eat her cucumbers, one after the other, almost compulsively. Maybe she had some kind of eating disorder.

I put my hand to my stomach, picturing the growing baby inside, no bigger than a legume.

Abruptly, Flora started talking. She gave so many details about her couples sessions and her individual sessions that it seemed like at least some of it must have been accurate. But how stupid could her ex-husband have been for Michael to get away with all that under his nose? It was tragic that her cousin was in a coma, but that didn’t make sense, either. What person has a relapse and nearly dies because her cousin won’t break up with her boyfriend? There had to be more to the story. Flora must have been more culpable than she was letting on. But she wanted it to be all Michael’s fault.

And what was the big deal, really? So he hadn’t waited the requisite two years after therapy. She hadn’t, either. Still, I hated thinking of them together, and it was hard not to, since she pulled out her phone and showed us her proof. It was the pictures she’d taken of him asleep beside her. The father of my baby had been with that woman.

And then I started picturing the cousin in the hospital bed, never being able to walk or talk or think again . . .

I’d never even pulled the dumplings toward me, but I pushed the plate away anyway.

Next up was Lucinda. As she spoke, she stared down at the tabletop. Her fingers were kneading the white linen that rested on her thigh. It created a creepy juxtaposition, how she appeared to have regressed twenty years, even as she was detailing illicit sex acts.

It was harder to dismiss what Michael had done to Lucinda. She did not appear to be a woman of sound mind, and even if she was giving consent, Michael should never, ever have touched her. But then, she’d been victimized before. That could have caused her to misinterpret . . . No, if he was really fucking her in his office, that was pretty depraved.

If he was fucking her. It wasn’t like she had any proof. Flora had the photos (as if she’d always been preparing for this moment, which was, in itself, rather suspect). But I didn’t have any way to verify Lucinda’s story. I just had to trust her, and, who knew, maybe with Flora there to egg her on, Lucy was exaggerating. She might have wanted to be in Flora’s club. She seemed very suggestible.

Only I glanced at Flora and saw how genuinely sympathetic she seemed. She believed Lucinda.

But I couldn’t. I was the only one here who couldn’t simply walk away from Michael forever. He had no claim over either of them, but he did have some rights over my child.

As Lucinda reached the conclusion, her voice was suffused with anger. “He told me that I need to own my power,” she said, “but he didn’t think I could ever use it against him.”