The Lifeguards(44)
“So I tried to kiss her—this is so embarrassing—and she turned away. She was nice about it. She claimed she was in a serious relationship. She claimed she just wanted to be friends.”
Salvatore nodded. If Jay were involved in Lucy’s death, it would not be the first time a scorned person’s rage got the best of him. (Or her.) “Did you see her again after that?” said Salvatore.
“I told you, I saw her at the pool sometimes.”
“But not socially?”
“No,” said Jay. “She didn’t really want to be friends, as it turned out,” he added bitterly.
“Damn,” said Salvatore.
“Well, thank you for—” But Jay cut him off.
“I can’t believe she’s gone!” he cried.
“If you could send me a list of employees,” said Salvatore. “Custodians, workmen. I’d like to interview…”
“Sure, sure,” said Jay. He sighed, seemingly close to tears.
“Thank you very much.”
Jay nodded and walked toward the metal staircase. Salvatore pushed open Lucy’s door and stepped inside.
Seeing Lucy’s painstakingly decorated condominium made Salvatore ache. Over an eggplant-colored couch with pale pink throw pillows, Lucy had framed a print titled 1964 Amsterdam Women Gymnastics, depicting a woman’s abstract figure wearing a red leotard. A coffee table held a neat stack of books and class notes, three sharpened pencils beside them. Lucy’s bed (located in the corner of the studio) was neatly made. Elegant gray floral sheets and pillows (Salvatore could imagine Lucy purchasing the set to begin her “adult” life) contrasted with a threadbare pink bunny, its legs carefully tucked under the comforter. On a plywood bookcase, Lucy kept rows of well-read paperbacks and scented candles. There was only one framed photo: Lucy in a cap and gown, hugging what must have been her mother. Lucy’s eyes were closed and her smile was wide and her mom embraced her. The pride in the older woman’s face was piercing and radiant.
Lucy’s bathroom was spotless, cheery yellow towels hung next to the shower, bottles of Sunshine and Citrus shampoo and conditioner, a fresh bar of soap, and a razor on a shelf. In the medicine cabinet was the usual array of over-the-counter medicines, and a prescription bottle with the label torn off: a bad sign that she’d bought the pills on the black market. Salvatore would know more when his tech guys filed their report detailing her phone and banking information.
Salvatore moved to the refrigerator. If Lucy was OK, Salvatore knew he would find dinner ingredients—either fresh fruit and vegetables or Diet Coke and Lean Cuisines. It was only the late-stage addicts who barely ate, saving every cent for their drugs. These poor souls could live for a long time on ramen noodles.
Salvatore opened the fridge and sighed. There was nothing—no milk, no butter, no Diet Coke, champagne, or juice. No Tex-Mex leftovers brought home from work.
And in the cabinet: no coffee or tea.
Just three ramen packets in a lonely pile.
-10-
Whitney
ON THE DAY THEY got Roma’s diagnosis, four years before, Whitney and Jules had left the doctor’s office without speaking; they were silent during the whole ride home. As Jules turned onto their street, Whitney’s shoulders eased a bit, relieved that at least there was an answer. She and Jules could be on the same page now; it was no longer her opinion versus his. They just needed to sit down together, as they’d done so many times—talking about college 529 funds for the twins, planning vacations, working through mortgage documents—and discuss their next steps. Some sort of fancy mental hospital? An intensive, inpatient treatment center? The doctor had been grave, but Whitney believed that everything could be solved. It was just a matter of work, period. Nothing was truly uncontrollable if you worked hard enough (and had money).
That afternoon, the doctor’s words still ringing in her ears, Whitney held her tongue as Jules paused by their safety gate, letting the scanner register his identity, then maneuvered the car into the dim garage. He turned off his Mercedes and it made the ticking noise as its complex engine cooled.
“Jules,” said Whitney.
“Darling, I have a surprise,” he said.
“Jules,” Whitney repeated.
He turned to her. “New Zealand,” said Jules. He put his hand on her knee. He was exactly the prize she wanted…or the prize she had been trained to want. Her grandmother had been so pleased. But now Gram was dead and Whitney could wonder: did she want her husband anymore? Had she ever loved him—or just mistaken security for love?
Ballet trained you to obey orders. Your job was to become your teacher’s vision. Nobody wanted a dancer with opinions.
“We should go to New Zealand,” said Jules. “A vacation. All of us—together.”
New Zealand? It was useless. Ridiculous. A big expensive itinerary that led them right back to this horrible place.
The doctor had said: We call it conduct disorder with callous and unemotional traits. I’m sorry.
“That’s your surprise,” said Jules. He alighted from the car and walked into their house, already calling someone about something with his Bluetooth headset.
In this moment, Whitney wondered if Jules’s remote aloofness, his inability to be won, was not a positive characteristic but rather a symptom of a disease. The same disease, maybe, that their daughter had just been diagnosed with—it ran in families, the doctor had said.