Jack.
I’m sad and destroyed over Graham, but just the thought of Jack, the grief of not being able to hold him right now, to tickle his chubby neck, to hear him sayMommy, threatens to swallow me whole.
I slide my phone off the nightstand and call Graham. Predictably, it goes to voice mail. I don’t leave a message. I let ten minutes pass and then I text him.
Me:Do you have Jack yet?
He lets five excruciating minutes pass before replying.
Graham:Yep.
Me:Where did you tell him I was?
Graham:Working. I told him you had to go back to Chicago for work. That way he won’t be looking for you every five seconds.
A cry bubbles up in my throat. I cannot believe I can’t see my own son. He is less than three miles away and I could just drive over, drop in, but that would be cruel.
Me:Okay. I love you.
I know I shouldn’t have typed that last part but I couldn’t help myself. I wait five minutes for Graham to text back, but he doesn’t. Why would he? What could he possibly have to say to me right now?
I flick the bedside lamp on and sit up. Slipping my feet into my sandals, I grab my keys off the coffee table and head outside into the blinding sunlight. The leather seats in the Highlander seal themselves against my bare legs, but the heat feels good after the frostiness of the motel room. I’ll need a strong drink tonight if I’m going to stand any chance of sleeping, so I turn the key in the ignition and head to the nearest liquorstore.
53
Wednesday, April 25, 2018
I WAKE WITHa sharp pain in my temples, my breath still reeking of last night’s bourbon.
I hadn’t planned on drinking as much as I did, but with only the remainder of the potato chips for dinner, the alcohol hit my bloodstream, fogging my judgment.
I found myself refilling the plastic cup with ice and bourbon more times than I can remember.
When I arrived back at the motel from the liquor store, bottle in hand, I strode through the lobby and nabbed a copy of the newspaper. I wanted to grab them all, hide them from the rest of the motel guests, pitch them in the trash, but I lifted just one from the rack, slipped it under my arm, and hurried to my room.
Even though I kept it on the corner of the desk, far from the bed, Margot’s picture peered out at me, taunting me. Every time my eye caught sight of her, rage pulsed through me. At one point, I nearly drunk dialed her to unleash my fury, but luckily, I stopped myself.
I’ll have to confront her in person.
I’m still weighed down by grief, but in addition to being sad this morning, I’m something else: mad. Furious. Pulse poundingly so.
Creaking from bed, I step into the bathroom and am immediately assaulted by the sharp fluorescent lights. I flick the light switch off and run a hot shower, washing my hair in the dark.
I dress and head downstairs to the breakfast room. The sun-filled room is gloriously empty, except for an elderly man reading the paper (oh god!) and nursing a cup of coffee. I grab a Pepto-pink tray and spoon a helping of what looks to be powdered eggs on my plate, along with a jelly-filled croissant and a healthy stack of charred bacon. I need to fortify myself. My mouth is still pasty from the hangover, so in addition to the gallons of coffee I’m sure to guzzle, I also fill a large glass tumbler with orange juice.
Taking a seat at the window table, I snap a piece of bacon in two, shovel it in my mouth. Margot’s image from the newspaper creeps back into my mind.Fucking Margot. I’m sure her husband is livid, but I bet he hasn’t thrown her out. She’s handling and being handled by her lawyers. Insulated from being under suspicion for Abby’s murder by framing me. I can picture her now, lying out by the lake, sipping a chilled glass of wine without a care in the world.
And that’s exactly where I plan to head to next.
54
IT’S WEDNESDAY, MARGOT’Slake day, and I’m hoping to catch her out there by surprise.
I’m at the edge of town now, turning on the country road that leads me to the lake. I don’t have a real plan of attack, of what I’m going to say or do, but I can’t sit by one second longer and allow her to destroy my life.
Easing onto the lake road under a dome of bright green trees, my hands practically shake on the steering wheel. It’s probably partially the bourbon hangover, but it’s mostly my rage. I think of Jack, waking up this morning, walking sock toed to our bedroom, looking for me, and the fury that’s been simmering all night now turns to a boil until my whole body is quaking.
I’m going to call her out, ask her what the fuck she thinks she’s doing to me, and let her know she’s not going to get away with it. No matter what I have to do. I’m done rolling over.
