“I think you need to tell Mark.” Her voice is very soft. “It’s not your fault, you know. This guy took advantage of you.”
“You don’t know. I’m the one who pursued him. I used to write him these letters.” I shudder, embarrassed at the memory. They were pornographic ramblings, the pathetic attempts of a high school girl to appear sexy and sophisticated. Never in a million years did I imagine those words would be used against me like this.
Leah shakes her head. “No, Allie, you can’t believe that. Consent is meaningless in that situation.”
A silence hangs between us. I have always held myself responsible for my part in what happened. It was what I wanted, after all. I didn’t berate myself. But I did pride myself on not sugarcoating the role I played. I wasn’t like my sister and mother, who never took responsibility for anything that went wrong in their lives. I was different than that.
“Allie, I’m the mother of a teenager. You have to know that you were just a kid. Kids do dumb things, and the adults are the ones who are supposed to help, not take advantage,” Leah says. “You have to forgive yourself.”
I try to smile. Instead, I burst into tears. Leah disappears into the powder room and returns with a wad of toilet paper. “You really need to tell Mark.”
“You sound like my sister.”
“Your sister’s right.”
I laugh. “That would be a first.”
“What if he sees the photo?” Leah asks. “What are you going to say then?”
“You’re right, that would be awful. I’m going to tell him.” I am not sure how I am going to bring myself to explain to Mark that I slept with my teacher in high school. Mark had always said my past didn’t matter, but he had no idea what was hidden there. Would he think of me differently if he knew the truth?
Leah pulls me close to her. She smells like vanilla cookies, warm and reassuring. “We’re going to get to the bottom of this,” she whispers. “Don’t you worry.”
Once Leah leaves, I wander from room to room, shutting off the lights except the one in the front hall, which I leave on for Mark. Then I go upstairs and ready myself for bed.
At ten, I give up on waiting for Mark to come home. I shut off the television. I drift off into a fitful sleep punctuated by vivid dreams. Sounds from the street wake me every so often, but Mark’s side of the bed remains empty. Still not home.
Then I dream that I’m back in the Moonlight Motel, lying naked atop the seafoam-green bedspread. Paul kisses first my neck, then my shoulder, then moves down my torso, gaining fervor. I arch my back with each delicious sweep of his lips across my skin. Outside, the roar of the trucks on Route 1 sounds like waves breaking on the shore. I clutch at the popcorn chenille bedspread, balling it in my fist. We’re safe here in our own little paradise.
I jolt awake. It’s after midnight, and Mark’s still not home. The game must have gone into extra innings.
Unable to sleep, I go downstairs to pour myself the last of the wine that Leah brought. I turn the lights down low and pace the kitchen in front of our huge picture window that lets in so much sun during the day. I hear distant laughter from the back, where a pedestrian alley cuts behind the houses. The one that connects my house to Rob Avery’s. It would be a one-minute walk, two tops. Is that what the police think? That I snuck out in the middle of the night and went to his house and killed him?
The laughter rises and falls. It sounds like teenage boys, laughing in that cruel way of theirs. Up until a few weeks ago, the red twig dogwood provided a green curtain of privacy. Now, in October, the denuded shrubs leave me exposed. I wonder if the boys can see me and if it is me they find funny.
27
On Friday morning, I wake with a pounding headache to the whir of the blender. Mark is in the kitchen, making his breakfast smoothie. The morning light slices my eyes like a blade. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. I look around, disoriented for a moment, until I realize I am on the living room couch. On the floor beside me lie an empty bottle of sauvignon blanc and my laptop. Bits of the night come back to me.
“Drink this.” He hands me a tall glass with a thick green liquid in it.
“It looks gross.” I sit up and take it from him. The first sip tastes like freshly mowed grass. Disgusting, but it’s a peace offering, so I finish it.
“It’s good for you.”
I do as he says, chug it, and drag myself upstairs for a shower. Afterward, I stare at my dark-rimmed eyes and sallow skin in the mirror. The wine and disrupted sleep are catching up with me. I apply my makeup more thickly than usual, hoping to approximate the glow of a healthy woman. Back in the kitchen, Cole sits cross-legged on the floor in front of the TV, eating cereal, violating our established no-screens-before-breakfast rule. A large, animated pig with an English accent twirls on the screen.
“Where are the photos, Daddy?” Cole asks during a commercial. “Did you remember to pick them up?”
“I did, actually,” Mark says. “They’re in an envelope in my bag.”
Cole rushes to Mark’s cubby in the mudroom. He comes back holding a large manila envelope, struggling with the clasp. He hands it to me to open.
“Please?” I say and take the envelope from him.
“Please,” he repeats.
The return address is not for Kane & Burrows, the law firm where Mark works, but LFW Research. “What’s LFW Research?” I ask, looking up at Mark.
With a sudden jerk, Mark snatches the envelope from my hands and
