The Other Mrs.(95)

Officer Berg himself offers me a ride, but I say no to that, too. I need to get away from him.

I start to shrug off the coat Officer Berg gave me, but he stops me, saying I should keep it. He’ll get it another time.

It’s dark outside. The sun has set. The world is white, but for now the snow has stopped coming down. Traffic moves slowly. Headlights maneuver through snowbanks. Tires scrape against the packed-down snow. The streets are messy.

There are slippers on my feet, though they’re a far cry from shoes. They’re knit and a faux fur that only absorbs the moisture, making my feet wet, red, numb. My hair hasn’t seen a comb today. I have no idea what I look like, though I’d venture to guess it’s just a hairbreadth away from a madwoman.

As I walk the few blocks home, I piece together the last few hours of my life. I left Otto alone with the washcloth and the knife. The police came searching for these things. By the time they did, they were gone. Someone did something with the washcloth and the knife.

As I make my way toward our street, I put my head down and walk, my arms tied into a knot to stave off the night’s fierce wind. The snow on the ground still blows about. There are icy patches on the street, which I slip on, falling once, twice, three times. Only on the third time does a Good Samaritan help me to my feet, taking me for a drunk. He asks if he can call someone to come pick me up, but by then I’m almost home. I just have our street to climb, and I do so gracelessly.

I see Will in the window when I arrive, sitting on the sofa, the fireplace red-hot. His legs are crossed and he’s lost in thought. Tate dashes through the room, smiling merrily, and on his way past, Will tickles his belly and he laughs. Tate takes off, running up the stairs and away from Will, and then he’s gone, to some other part of the house where I can no longer see him. Will returns to the sofa, laces his hands behind his head and leans back, seemingly content.

There are lights on in the upstairs windows, Otto’s and Imogen’s, which face the street, though the curtains are closed. I can’t see anything but the glowing peripheries of the windows, though it surprises me that even Imogen is home. At this time in the evening, she isn’t often home.

From the outside, the house looks perfectly idyllic as it did that first day we arrived. The rooftops, the trees are covered with snow. It covers the lawn, sparkling white. The snow clouds have cleared, the moon illuminating the picturesque scene. The fireplace spews smoke from the chimney, and though outside the world is freezing, inside it looks undeniably homey and warm.

There’s nothing amiss with this scene, as if Will and the kids have moved on without me, no one noticing my absence.

But the very fact that nothing is amiss makes me feel instinctually that something is wrong.



WILL


The door bursts open. There she stands, all slovenly and windblown.

Nice of Berg to give me fair warning that she’d been let go.

I hide my surprise. I rise to my feet, go to her, cup her cold face in my hands. “Oh, thank God,” I say, embracing her. I hold my breath. She smells putrid. “They finally came to their senses,” I say, but Sadie’s giving me the cold shoulder, pulling away, saying I left her there, that I abandoned her. It’s all very dramatic.

“I did no such thing,” I say, playing to her weakness, her penchant for losing time. Roughly a quarter of the conversations Sadie has, she doesn’t remember having. Which has become unexceptional for me, but is quite the nuisance for coworkers and the like. It makes it difficult for Sadie to have friends because on the surface she’s moody and aloof.

“I told you I’d be back just as soon as I made sure the kids were all right,” I say. “Don’t you remember? I love you, Sadie. I would never have abandoned you.”

She shakes her head. She doesn’t remember. Because it didn’t happen.

“Where are the kids?” she asks, looking for them.

“In their rooms.”

“When were you going to come back?”

“I’ve been making calls, trying to find someone to come stay with the kids. I didn’t want to leave them alone all night.”

“Why should I believe you?” she asks, a doubting Thomas. She wants to look at my phone, see whom I’ve called, and it’s only because fortune smiles down on me that there are recent calls in the call log to numbers Sadie doesn’t know. I assign them names. Andrea, a colleague, and Samantha, a graduate student.

“Why wouldn’t you believe me?” I fire back, playing the victim.

We hear Tate upstairs jumping away on his bed. The house groans because of it.

She shakes her head, feeling spent, and says, “I don’t know what to believe anymore.” She rubs at her forehead, trying to figure it out. She’s had a hell of a day. She can’t understand how a knife and washcloth could just up and disappear. She asks me, her tone exasperated and contentious. She’s looking for a fight.

I shrug my shoulders and ask back, “I don’t know, Sadie. Are you sure you really saw them?” because a little gaslighting never hurts.

“I did!” she says, desperate to make me believe her.

This is turning into a bit of a shitstorm now that the police are involved, unlike last time when things went so smoothly. I’m usually so much tidier about such things. Take Carrie Laemmer, for example. All I had to do that time was wait for Camille to come, put the idea in her head. Camille is suggestible, as Sadie is easily suggestible. It’s just that Sadie isn’t the violent type. I could have done it myself. But why would I, when I had someone willing to do my bidding for me? I cried my eyes out, told her all about Carrie’s threats, how she accused me of sexual harassment. I said I wished she would just go away and leave me alone. My career, my reputation would be gone if Carrie made good on her threats. They’d take me away from her; they’d put me in jail. I told her, She’s trying to ruin my life. She’s trying to ruin our lives.