The Middle of Somewhere(52)

She nodded once.

“When was your husband last here?”

“About an hour ago.”

“Had he been drinking?”

“We each had a beer at dinner. The last two.” She felt a drop of water on her bare leg. She put a hand to her face. It was wet.

The man said, “We can do this later.”

She looked up. “What else do you have to ask?”

“Was your husband depressed?”

“No.”

“Then he went out because . . .” He leaned forward, narrowing the distance between them, making it easier for her to toss the answer.

“We ran out of beer.”

The officers stayed while she made a phone call. She called Valerie, and kept it short.

“Okay,” the woman officer said. “Someone’s on the way?”

“Yes.” But she neglected to say Valerie lived in Paris.

Valerie wasn’t just the first person Liz wanted to tell about Gabriel; she was the only person. She did call the Pembertons that night, because there was no escaping it. She had killed their son. Her hands shook so much it took three tries to get the number right. Pastor Thomas Pemberton answered. She told him the bare bones of the story because that was all she could manage. A man used to dealing with death, he took the news calmly, or calmly enough, even asking Liz to confirm someone would be looking after her. Yes, of course. He said they would speak the next day, to make arrangements. At first she misunderstood what he meant. She thought it bizarre he would suggest arranging flowers when his son had just died, then the word locked into its context. Arrangements for the transition to the next world. For the pastor it was heaven; for Liz it was tomorrow, and all the days afterward, absent of Gabriel because of her.

She hung up and imagined the ripple of shock and sorrow as it passed from the pastor to his wife, to their other children (four now, only four), and to other relatives and friends, outward through their many branches of kinship, love and support, connections they tended with care. The community of people the Pembertons had nourished would now nourish them. They would all say, in their messages, that losing a child was the greatest loss of all, and wish them strength. Liz was the domino that fell, knocking Gabriel flat on his back, and starting the wave that set the Pembertons and their world in tragic motion.

She did not call her mother.

Valerie was ignorant of Mike. She barely knew anything about the problems between Liz and Gabriel. Or, more accurately, the problem Liz had with Gabriel, because he never acknowledged anything was wrong.

Valerie was her best friend. She knew her better than anyone else, but that didn’t mean she knew Liz well. They met in college, not long before Liz met Gabriel, so Valerie knew only the Liz who was loved by Gabriel. She hadn’t met the marginalized high school Liz or the Liz who played alone on her bedroom floor, tinkering with the guts of some machine. Liz in love with Gabriel was so much more acceptable than any previous versions—or that’s how it seemed to Liz—so she filed her other selves away, and referred to them infrequently. She did so out of habit, not concerted effort. Liz believed she would always have Gabriel as he was during their courtship, so her life before him was irrelevant to Valerie, and to herself.

When Gabriel began pulling away, Liz talked to Valerie about it. Her friend laughed and said not to worry. He loved her madly, anyone could see it, she said. It was probably nothing more than the inevitable mellowing even the most romantic relationship experiences. Normal life. Had she used that phrase? Now Liz wasn’t certain.

More than a year ago, Valerie moved to Paris to study at an art institute, and there never seemed to be a right time to talk since she’d left. Liz was reluctant to complain about Gabriel across such a distance, and the differences in their schedules discouraged her further. Morning in Albuquerque was dinnertime in Paris, when Valerie was either out, tired or on the wrong side of a bottle of wine. If Liz called during her evening, her friend would be groggy with sleep or impatient to start her day. It was too difficult, so she kept her own counsel more and more.

Valerie, and the rest of the world, never learned about Mike. For so long, there was nothing to say. She imagined the conversation.

“I eat lunch with a guy at work.”

“Are you attracted to him?”

“No.”

“Does he flirt with you?”

“No.”

“Then why do I care about it?”

By the time she realized there was a reason for Valerie to care, she was too ashamed to tell, and too worried she might lose her best friend.