If You're Out There(62)

I think I misjudged Amanda. She only sings when he’s gone. Before I thought he just didn’t like her voice, but now I wonder if it’s actually a signal. Either way, she helped me find my moment. She was singing “Over the Rainbow” when the screen lit up. The DONG-GEE-DONG noises howled for what felt like an hour, and then . . . voilà! For a brief window, the world opened. I saw the icon: MAIL. I was so excited I didn’t notice the singing stop. He walked in, shouting as my fingers raced across the keyboard. I thought of the only email address I knew by heart, and thrashed toward the SEND button before he yanked me away.

Dang.

I’m not sure if my plan to get him out into the world really worked. The hope was that he’d get himself spotted, or caught. But even if I did hit a wall with this one, at least all the taunting had the added benefit of making me extremely happy.

Me: That can’t feel great. Knowing there’s evidence out there, waiting to be found. The broken phone probably won’t look great, either.

Him: Shut up.

Me: Aw. Don’t get down. I always say, Gotta get through rain before the rainbow.

I almost wonder if I did it on purpose—letting those papers fly from my grasp so that some landed behind the desk. I’ve been mentally thanking myself for being cognizant enough to print them in that moment. I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t found out. If my phone hadn’t run out of battery while we were packing up. If I hadn’t been compelled by that bit of random musing and opened up his laptop.

The random musing that changed the course of my life? It’s so dumb I almost can’t bear to write it down. Clears throat Does excessive carrot ingestion really turn people orange? And if so, does it only occur in white people? The worst part is I never got an answer. (Okay, no, not the worst part.)

HOLD UP.

I have to admit something here. . . .

A small part of me is beginning to fear that this journal is, in fact, for posterity.

What kills me is that I could have gotten away. I was blowing it all up—dialing Anushka as we yelled. He ripped the phone from my hands and it shattered, the papers flying everywhere. And then—JUST THEN—the doorbell rang. He peeked out of the office, stealing a quick glance at the windows that overlooked the porch. I didn’t see what he saw. When I spoke, he shushed me, and something in his face made me keep quiet.

I let him pull me to the garage, where his voice was so low it was barely a whisper.

Him: We’re not safe here. That man out there? He’s here for me.

Me: WHAT?

Him: Shh! I had help, okay? And when I shut it all down because of, well—you—my partner wasn’t happy. He has guys . . . That work for him. And they’re willing to travel. He warned that without a sizable payout, which I do not have, one of them would be . . . sent after me. After both of us.

Nothing in my life had quite prepared me for a moment like that. So you know what I did? I stood there, just like he told me to. When he tiptoed back inside, I didn’t run. After a minute, he came back with the stack of papers and a laptop. We drove off together, before the man could get inside.

In the car, I stewed. He looked miserable. And pale. And I’ll admit it—he looked sorry.

Me: Is there even a job in California?

Him: No. But I got us an apartment. You’ll like it.

Me: He’ll find it.

Him: Huh?

Me: If he goes through our house. You left the lease out on the kitchen table.

Him: I did?

Me: God. Did you even love her?

Him: Of course I—

Me: You have a funny way of showing it.

Him: She left you a college fund.

Me: That was before she’d even met you. And she only set aside enough for my education. She wanted me to work. To make something of myself. Not that you would understand. And anyway, you were already rich!

Him: I was, and then I wasn’t. Money is a fickle thing.

Me: Just so we’re clear. I’m not on your side.

Him: I know.

Uggggghhh. I hate this. Okay, FINE. I shall call this next installment . . .

A Brief Reluctant Breakdown for Posterity:

Week One. We stayed in motels. Argued. Tried to make a plan. We bought clothes and supplies at Target and watched our backs. Paid for things in cash.

Week Two. He fired the nurse over the phone. I felt bad. We showed up hours later. He wouldn’t let me call people. Knowing could put them in danger. We ate popcorn and watched Jeopardy! Amanda seemed vaguely pleased with the company.

Week Three. I got restless. Walks were too risky. But at least I had the yard. He started spending time in the basement. I noticed Amanda’s landline phones go missing from the walls.

Me: Aren’t people going to notice all this silence? At least let me tell Zan and Nick.

Him: Absolutely not. And anyway, I took care of that. All your passwords are the same, Pri. Bacon? Really? But don’t worry. You’ve been getting lots of likes.

For a second I saw red, but breathed through it.

Me: People will know it’s not me.

Him: We’ll see.

Week Four. I woke in a clean, white room.

Me: . . . ?

Him: There may have been some Ambien in your smoothie this morning.

I was on a couch. The junk that was here when we arrived had been cleared out. He left the TV and the minifridge. There was a bathroom off to one side, and a closet. I noted the window—briefly hopeful, before I remembered Amanda and her home safety infomercials. I never noticed the door down here had a dead bolt. Maybe he’d installed it.