If You Only Knew(107)

I wonder if Dorothy’s been here. If she’s seen Dad’s grave. Watered his flowers. Talked to him, the way I haven’t let myself since the day Dr. Dan confirmed what I’d seen all those years ago.

Leo’s already through the gates.

I’ll be spotted if I follow him in there, so I lurk under a giant pine tree in the park, the misty rain dripping from the needles, the smell of the tree rich and deep. Leo disappears from view. I wait.

It doesn’t take long. A few minutes later, he comes out, hands in his pockets, head bent against the rain, which has turned heavier. The shoulders of his suit are darkened with moisture. He doesn’t look my way, just heads back toward downtown, toward home.

Except his home isn’t really a home. It’s a place to live, but it’s not a home, and my heart feels thick and leaden, because it’s dawning on me just why that is.

I run into the cemetery and walk along the lane. It’s easy to spot the bouquet; the yellow sunflowers glow against the dark gray granite.

I walk over to the grave.

Amanda Walker Killian

Beloved wife, mother and daughter

Leo’s wife would’ve been thirty-five.

Rachel

It rains all day Sunday, which means the girls are climbing the walls. Adam preempts me by letting them watch a movie at 10 a.m., which means I won’t be able to plop them down at the witching hour, which is four until dinnertime, when they seem possessed by demons. Limited screen time is a hard-and-fast rule; I don’t want kids who can’t sit still without a device in their hands, so I mete it out carefully.

Now Adam’s used it up, which I didn’t realize until I was done cleaning up the breakfast mess. Adam put them in front of the TV because he’s working in the den. Or playing Soldier of Fortune. Or watching porn. Or who knows what? He’s been on his superbest behavior these past few weeks. I know he’s trying.

The weather also means there will be more of a play mess to clean up later on...a deeper mess, because if the girls can’t go outside and run off some energy, they’re more creatively destructive than usual. One time, when I thought they were napping and I was folding laundry—Me Time—they tore up eight rolls of toilet paper to make snow. Another time, Grace flooded the bathroom so she could “be a goldfish, Mommy.”

Already, they’re bickering over who gets to sit on which part of the couch. Charlotte keeps taking Rose’s sippy cup for no reason. Rose is angry that I didn’t let her drink wine with breakfast—“or ever, Mommy! You so mean!” Grace is scowling at the movie, because she wanted to watch Dexter instead, which I recently bought on DVD. Shockingly, I said no.

On impulse, I stick my head into Adam’s office. He whirls around in his chair and closes his laptop. “Hey!”

Not a good sign.

“What are you working on?” I ask.

“Oh, some briefs. Boring stuff.” He smiles. I can’t tell if it’s genuine.

“Which client?”

“Bloomfields. You know. The strip mall owners?”

“Right. Listen, I’m gonna take off for the day, okay? See you later.”

“Wait! Where are you going?”

“I’m just a little itchy. I don’t really know yet.”

“Maybe we can all go somewhere,” he suggests.

“No. I want some Me Time.” I smile. I can’t tell if that’s genuine, either.

“When will you be back?”

“I don’t know. I’ll call you.”

Ten minutes later, I’m in the BMW. I don’t ask. I don’t even tell. I pull out my phone and call Kathleen from book club. “Hey, it’s Rachel. I know this is spur-of-the-moment, but do you want to go on a little day trip with me? Right now?”

“God, yes. This weather is killing me.”

“Pick you up in five minutes, then.”

She runs to the car when I pull up at her house, laughing. “I feel like I’m playing hooky,” she says. “We’re supposed to go to see Brett’s parents today. And you know how it is. We go in, the kids start tearing the place to shreds, and Brett decides that now is a good time to fix his parents’ furnace. Anything other than talk to them. So, yeah, I’m thrilled that you called.” She laughs merrily and closes the car door. “Where are we going?”

“To spy on my husband’s mistress,” I say.

Her mouth falls open. “Well, holy shit, Rachel.” She gives her head a little shake. “Let’s get going, then.”

* * *

Dear old Google gives us Emmanuelle’s address, courtesy of a search for Emmanuelle St. Pierre, Trump, recent real estate transactions, Manhattan.

We find on-street parking—a sign, Kathleen says, that God has blessed our mission—and go in the lobby. The thing is, it’s a big building. I have no idea what to do now.

“Can I help you?” says the doorman.

“Um...uh...” Shoot. I have no game.

“We’re interested in moving here,” Kathleen says. “Is there an empty apartment we can see?”

“You’ll have to make an appointment with the manager,” he says.

“Oh, I get it. You discriminate against lesbians.”

Wow. She definitely has game.

“Uh, no!” the doorman says. “No, we don’t. We have several same-sex couples here.”