The Lies I Told(77)

I searched the darkness, half expecting to see someone lurking, watching me. But the shadowed alleys were still and quiet. I shook off the feeling, chalking it up to withdrawal from the booze.

Twenty minutes later, I’d swung by three different drugstores until I found the right batteries. At home, I dropped my purse by the front door, clicked on the lights, and sat on the couch, more exhausted than most days.

As moonlight streamed through my window, I opened the camera’s battery compartment and dumped the old two out. The connection points were a little corroded, so I spent another few minutes cleaning them. New batteries loaded, I sealed the case. Crossing my fingers, I pressed the power button, praying it still worked. After a moment’s hesitation, the white power light turned on and the screen sparked to life.

Holding my breath, I looked at the last picture Clare had taken. It was of me, sitting on my bed in our room. My long red hair hung around my face, which was still youthful enough to hide the drinking. I’d never noticed her taking the picture. Five minutes later I left the house and never saw her again.

My throat tightened and tears welled in my eyes. I wondered if there was any wine left in the bottles stowed in my trash can. Shit. This was why I’d gone to the meeting.

The next two images took me back in time an hour to the version of Brit I remembered best. She was smiling, dressed in her blue silk robe, and her clean, softly rolled hair was piled on top of her head. She was wearing makeup. She looked as if she felt fine and was still in New Year’s party mode. Sometime between those moments and two hours later, she’d become too sick to leave the house.

The next few images were candids of the family. Dad off to the side. The Stockton girls sitting by the half-decorated Christmas tree. (It had been my job to finish it.) There was random garland and holly in the background, and the date stamps—December 26, 25, 24—slipped back in time with the images. There was a picture of Dad, his girlfriend Sandra, and her daughter, Tamara. Tamara’s arm was still in a sling from a fall down the stairs, and she was frowning as she talked to Dad and Sandra. That kid was always either talking, complaining, or flirting with Kurt. But she’d done us all a favor when she’d broken that arm and delayed the wedding.

I kept pressing buttons until I hit the first of December and then worked my way back in time. There were a few of me, but I was always looking off to the side. Clare could be quick with the camera, and a distracted person could miss the soft click.

There were two images of Kurt. In one, he was wearing his football jacket. He’d been more muscular, leaner in those days. His hair was short, and his face bore the same grim expression his teammates shared. Reminded me of children mimicking adults who really understood the world. Next there was a shot of Jack and Brit, standing arm in arm, smiling.

I scrolled back to late November, when Clare would have gotten pregnant. The first was a wide shot of an art studio in the city that had long ago closed. That was the show I was supposed to have attended.

The next image was of a young man. Tall, broad shouldered, dark hair, and facing away from the camera. I couldn’t make out his face.

In the next frame, he was turned slightly to the side, and his profile was in full view. Dark eyes, rounded face. My first thought was David. It couldn’t be David, could it? He’d had no ties to the city or us then.

Suddenly restless, I rose from the couch and walked into the kitchen and made myself a cup of coffee. The coffee dripped into the carafe as I rested my elbows on the counter and placed my head in my hands.

As I stared at this much younger version of David, a name called out to me from the Black Hole. Jeff. I didn’t know any Jeffs but was suddenly certain that, during the lost week and a half, I’d met a Jeff.

When the coffeepot was full, I filled a mug and stirred in extra teaspoons of sugar and a splash of milk. The sugar would soothe my nerve endings’ cravings that I always had after a drinking binge, and the caffeine would chase away the fatigue creeping up my spine.

The longer I stared at the photo, the more convinced I was that the guy was David. Clare could never have met David. He was five years older than us. He’d gone to the same college as Brit, but he’d been a junior her freshman year, and she’d never mentioned they’d known each other in college.

At my computer, I typed in David Welbourne’s name. His profile appeared on a few financial sites, which all linked to his website. His professional headshot looked outdated by a half dozen years. He’d gained weight since and his hair was grayer. This version of David looked more like Clare’s photo.

David’s website didn’t list a physical address, just an email address and a PO box. Brit had said he worked from home.

Brit and he had met at the hospital after my accident. He’d appeared, explaining he’d arrived to visit a neighbor who’d suffered a stroke. He’d started making conversation, and they’d learned they’d gone to the same college. Brit had said how helpful he’d been. He’d taken her mind off me. He’d shown up a couple of times, and when I was out of the woods, he’d called Brit, asked her out on a date. The rest was history.

Two college alumni who’d reconnected in an emergency room after my accident. And now he was going to be a permanent part of Brit’s life. I sipped my coffee, found it had grown cold.

I rose, placed the mug in the microwave, and hit one minute. I hadn’t been introduced to him until the night of my birthday party. He’d seemed nice. Easygoing. As the wheel spun in the microwave, I couldn’t summon too many more details about David.