Sweet Water(93)

Certainly, Cash didn’t mean to put his sister in harm’s way. So what happened, then? And why has the curiosity for closure turned into stark terror, the feeling that if I don’t figure it out soon, something else horrible is going to happen?

My head gets caught in the lining as I throw the flimsy floor-length dress over my head. I hate dresses, but I hate them even more tonight. I apply minimal makeup because I don’t want to doll myself up for these people. I also throw on a pair of diamond studs for a tiny bit of flash, so I don’t appear like I’m in a state of emotional collapse because of my son’s involvement with Yazmin’s death. They’ll all be looking for that.

They look at everything in Sewickley.

Martin drives up to my father’s house and rings the doorbell right on time with a bouquet of flowers in his hands. It should be sweet, but my father scowls and rolls his eyes, and I just toss them on the end table.

I kiss Dad on the cheek and leave.

Martin is dressed in his black-tie garb and looks very nice, but I’m so distracted from my afternoon drug deal, I can’t comment.

Martin opens the car door for me. “You look lovely.”

“Thanks.” I slide into the passenger side and feel like a stranger sitting on the cool leather seat. I’m already dissociating myself from Martin. Our marriage is disintegrating at an uncontrollable rate, but the kids are older now, and they’ve had a wonderful upbringing—a nice, tight family of four. Their childhood memories will be of us together. That’s the most important thing, I tell myself.

“Have you thought about what we talked about in the kitchen? I have a wonderful therapist in mind who—”

“Martin, let’s just get through tonight,” I beg. It’s annoying how he already has a plan. Martin always has a plan.

“Okay, okay,” he says, drawing in a deep breath.

Even if I would give him a second chance, which I won’t, it’s way too soon to try.

We make it to the gala and find our seats just in time for the host to give the same speech he gives every year about the importance of the Children’s Heart-to-Heart Foundation and the generous patrons of the community who’ve donated items to be auctioned off to support the cause. The curtains on the stage glitter red. The townspeople perch on their chairs attentively, their jewelry sparkling as brightly as their effervescent smiles. I usually feel special pride for my community and look forward to this event every year, but right now, I cannot wait to get out of here.

My skin crawls with unanswered questions and unknown fears.

If Yazmin didn’t aim to hurt Finn, then it had to be Cash. If he’s the one who handed Yazmin her weed, then he’s the one who gave Finn the bad joint, who slipped Rohypnol in it to make him forget.

Why would he do that? What didn’t he want Finn to remember? Could those nail marks possibly be Cash’s?

No, I saw her long, jeweled nails.

Wouldn’t I know if Finn had a major beef with his girlfriend’s brother? He never mentioned a word. Although that’s the boy he’s become. The one who tells his mother nothing.

All Finn said was that he barely knew Cash, that he wasn’t friendly with him when he came over, and that he went to a different school. I read the parts in the journal about the arguments and the fight over the kissing, but that seemed pretty minor, teenage quarrels.

“Sarah?” Martin whispers. I look at his face. It’s close to mine, and his spicy cologne scent that usually makes me curl into him is making me turn away. His eyes plead for attention, my eager dachshund. “Where have you gone?” he asks.

I shake my head. I cannot answer him. If he wants to know where I’ve gone, where I’ve been, he should have joined me on this journey to figure out what happened to Yazmin. But he would have to care about what happened to her in the first place in order to do that.

The speech is completed, and cocktail hour begins.

Camille and her husband, Dallas, waltz over to our table. I stand up to greet Camille and give her a tight hug while Dallas accosts Martin with his loud Southern accent and a pat on the back. “I heard you’re fighting for property on the riverfront.” Dallas is a lawyer who specializes in real estate.

Martin chortles. “Yes, news travels fast. I’ve been thinking for some time that we need to get together.”

“How’re you holding up?” Camille asks me. “Haven’t seen you at the club.”

“Hanging in there,” I tell her.

“It’s too bad about that girl. Is Finn doing okay?” she asks, and I see some other women lean in as they walk by, sharp smiles and gentle waves to disguise their desire to scoop up yummy gossip.

“He’s coping, but it’s hard, you know? She was a nice girl,” I say, tilting my head and feeling my crappy updo begin to unravel. The honey brown of my hair has turned syrupy because I haven’t had time to get to the salon to highlight it, and after seeing how nicely Camille’s hair is done, I’m ready to take myself out of the game completely. I’m tired of trying to keep up with these people.

“Have you called Amazing Amelia yet? I don’t know a good child therapist, but I can ask her for a referral.” Camille smiles, but for the first time, it looks plastic—fake—like everything else in this paper town. If Hanna lived here, she would’ve been at my door with precooked meals and wine and tissues after Yazmin was found dead. Nothing is real here, not even my so-called friends.