Open House(23)

And then I throw up.

I’m still on the steps; I haven’t even made it to the sidewalk yet. “Emma?” Priya says as I heave. “Are you all right?” I hear the door close behind her, and she comes toward me, but I don’t want this—I don’t want to make a scene; I don’t want anyone else seeing us. I wipe my mouth and stumble down the steps. “Leave me alone,” I hiss. I say it as meanly as I can so she won’t come after me, and she doesn’t.

I race over the sidewalk. I only turn around once to see Priya still standing on the steps in her robe, her hand on her stomach as though she can shield the baby—her future—from all of this. A streetlight sets her black hair aglow.

Finally the row of town houses ends, and I round the corner, collapsing against the redbrick wall. I catch my breath for a moment, and then I pull my phone from the pocket of my jeans. I fire off three texts to Brad, pressing the send key with shaking fingers.

Just went to your house and talked to your fiancé.

I know her. She’s my teacher.

Stay away from me.





FIFTEEN

Priya

Priya was still in the kitchen fumbling inside her bag to find her medication as Brad paced the creaking floorboards overhead. He’d told her she could take up to four pills per day, but when she googled the medication, the dosage seemed more aggressive than what WebMD said to do.

Priya swallowed her fourth pill and went back to the table. She sat, waiting for the blurry, numb feeling to come, staring at the empty space across from her. Who had texted her husband to make him hurry from the room? When her thoughts started to soften around the edges, she drifted back to the texts she’d found ten years ago from Emma.

Just went to your house and talked to your fiancé.

I know her. She’s my teacher.

Stay away from me.

Priya had never stopped thinking about that night Emma showed up on the steps of Brad’s town house with their illicit relationship written all over her face; it was always right there on the fringe of Priya’s thoughts, where it belonged. Emma McCullough had haunted Priya for ten years now, and the girl would most likely haunt Priya until the day she died.

Brad’s stir-fry sat unfinished on his plate, the soy sauce and chicken fat congealing. Priya could hear his muffled voice upstairs as she took a slow sip of her water and glanced out the french doors into her neighbor’s yard. She wished she could catch sight of Elliot, but it was too cold for the neighborhood kids to be playing outside, and they did different things now on play dates, didn’t they? Less outdoor play, more iPads and video games. When had that happened? Could they ever go back?

That night ten years ago, after Emma showed up, Priya didn’t confront Brad right away. She’d wanted to talk to Emma once more, to get all the details before Brad could convince Emma not to tell her anything. But the following Monday morning, just as Priya was getting her classroom ready for nine a.m. watercolor class and trying to figure out what she was even going to say to Emma, a police detective knocked on the door. “Can I help you?” she’d asked, swinging it open. She was breathing heavily just from the trek across the classroom; she was due with Elliot any day.

“Have a minute?” the detective had asked, not waiting for an answer.

Priya had wiped paint from her cheek as she followed him across the studio, and he’d seemed almost relaxed as he studied the paintings clipped to easels. “You teach Emma McCullough?” he asked.

Priya’s body had reacted before her brain. Adrenaline coursed through her, and blood rushed from her hands and feet into her midsection. Maybe it was her body’s way of protecting the baby, but it left her with the odd sense of being dismembered, of floating through space as only a mother, a round pregnant ball without limbs to anchor it.

“Yes,” she’d answered the detective, shifting her weight. “I do.”

“Any of these hers?” he asked casually, studying the paintings as if they were at an exhibit together.

“This one,” Priya said, gesturing to a watercolor of a cracked vase holding vibrant purple orchids. It wasn’t Emma’s best, but he wouldn’t know that. Priya leaned against an easel, unsteady.

“Are you all right?” the detective had asked, his eyes traveling up and down her body, lingering on Elliot inside her.

“I’m fine,” Priya had said. Sweat broke out along her hairline. “I’m just very pregnant.”

“Please, sit down,” the detective instructed, pulling out a chair. Priya did as he said, trying to focus as he spoke. “Emma went missing on Saturday night,” he’d told her, his words even, “and now we’re speaking with her teachers, trying to get a sense of if she was having any problems, any difficulties in school or with friends.” The detective’s eyes were on her face, and she prayed he couldn’t see the way her chest was heaving as she tried to breathe. “We’re trying to figure out if she had any reason to run away, or to hurt herself,” he said, his words slowing, each one hitting her like a slap. Priya nodded as her heart raced on. Could Brad have done something to Emma? Scared her in some way, or worse? She didn’t think so—she honestly didn’t. Brad wasn’t religious, but he was one of those people who believed life was sacred. It was what drove him to be a doctor, he’d once said, the idea of protecting God-given life. Surely he couldn’t hurt a young girl? Or was Priya stupid to even think that? Did she know him well enough to know for sure? She was carrying his child: Could she really trust herself to think rationally about this?