“What is it, Kat?” I ask again, but before she can answer me, Maisie’s voice comes again, so that I have to tell Kat to hold on. Maisie is upset again, but this time it has nothing to do with hunger pains.
“Who’s that?” Maisie asks, her voice agitated as another car drifts past the median from behind, a little too close to my tail end for comfort, honking their horn and making a harebrained attempt to pass. What an idiot. He or she is going to get us all killed. It’s a no-passing zone, the solid yellow line I can clearly see even with the blinding sunlight. It’s not as if I’m driving slowly, but regardless I take the hint and pick up the pace, accelerating now down Harvey Road so that this jerk will get off my tail. But the car comes at me again, making a second attempt to pass, and this time Maisie is scared, truly freaked out, and she screams to me, “It’s the bad man, Daddy! The bad man is after us,” and I reach into the back seat and pat her kneecap, telling her everything will be fine. But I see it, too. I see exactly what Maisie sees as she says to me, “He’s going to get us, Daddy!” as a black vehicle soars around up from behind so that I have to tug on the steering wheel to get out of the car’s way, again hitting gravel. It’s Theo, Maisie thinks, but it’s not Theo. It’s just a black car. Just some driver in a hurry, trying like the rest of us to get home. I let up on the gas to let the driver pass, watching as he or she breezes by.
But before I can tell Maisie not to worry, Kat speaks.
“They were negative, Nick. Gus is not your son,” Kat says, and as she begins to sob on the other end of the line, I’m speechless.Gus is not my son.
I’m wondering what I should say to Kat. This wasn’t what I was expecting, a negative result. I thought for sure that Gus was my son. I’d convinced myself he was mine.
What I feel is an overwhelming sense of relief, the weight of the world lifted from my shoulders—again. A sense that for once in my life, I’m the luckiest man alive. The tide has turned. Good things are happening to me.
He is not my son.
“Are you sure?” I ask, and Kat gathers herself for a moment and says that she’s sure, but then she sobs through the phone, telling me how much she’d hoped it was true. How much she needed it to be true, and I placate her by saying, “Me, too,” though that’s the last thing in the world I was hoping for. If he was mine, I would have manned up and done the right thing. I would have told Clara, and she and I would have welcomed Gus into our lives. But without Gus around, life is much less complicated, less complex.
I press down on the gas pedal, suddenly excited to be home. To hold Clara in my arms and know for the first time in a long time that everything will be all right.
This is good news, I tell myself, smiling broadly as the car skids off the side of the road, hitting gravel, and I right it quickly, forcing both hands on the steering wheel. I tell myself to focus, to drive in a straight line. To slow down a bit.
Clara will still be there whether I get there in five minutes or ten.
I picture Clara holding Felix in her arms, both of them half asleep, waiting for Maisie and me.
I try hard to put Kat and Gus out of my mind, though it’s near impossible with Kat on the other end of the line crying.
“It’s going to be okay,” I say drily. “You and Steve,” I say, “you’ll be okay,” though what I’m thinking is how I will come clean to Clara about my meetings with Kat. Tonight. How I will wipe the slate clean with a confession, and then remove Kat forever from my life. There will no longer be secrets between Clara and me. It’s one of the cardinal rules of a happy marriage. No secrets. A promise I made to Clara long ago, and one I plan to keep.
All I can think about in that moment is getting home. Of being home. Of being with Clara and Maisie and Felix. The loves of my life. Of sitting on the sofa with the three of them and Harriet by our feet. Of telling Clara everything, every last secret I’ve been keeping from her, every last lie. And even though Clara won’t be happy about it, she’ll understand. Because that is Clara. Indulgent and understanding.
And in that moment I’m hardly able to contain my excitement, wanting nothing more in that split second than to be in Clara’s arms.
CLARA
In the end it’s Maisie who stops me. My Maisie standing in the stifling garage, watching as I hoist the baseball hat over my head for the sixth or seventh time, while Izzy cowers in the corner of the wood-framed walls, hands to her head to protect it from my blows. There is blood. A steady stream of it that snakes from her nose. Bright red blood, red like red currants, that drips to the concrete floor.
“Mommy,” says Maisie, that simple word knocking me in the gut.Mommy.
In her hand, my cell phone. “Mommy,” she whispers to me again, extending the phone, though her eyes travel from Izzy to me and back again, scared, so that I can see the way the phone shakes in her hand, and I know it isn’t Izzy she’s scared of.
It’s me.
Her eyes are wide and terrified. They fill with tears. She stands in a princess dress because it was what she insisted on wearing today and I didn’t care enough to object. It’s a beautiful dress made of organza, a Halloween costume that Maisie considers appropriate for daily wear, with glittery rosettes stitched to the bodice and light-up, high-heeled shoes. On her head is a tiara. Lilac in color with feather trim and colored jewels. Perched askew on the top of her head, threatening to fall.
She’s just a child. A wholesome child watching her mother beat the life out of another woman while the woman begs for her to stop.
“It’s Boppy on the phone,” she says, trying hard not to cry, and in that moment I lose control of my body. My legs go weak and lame. The bat falls from my grasp. “Tell Boppy I’ll call him back,” I say as I shrivel to the ground like flowers withering in the heat of the afternoon sun, and Izzy takes advantage of this—bruised but not broken Izzy, who limps and bleeds but is very much still alive—to make a run for it. I don’t have it in me to stop her as she hobbles through the house for her purse and keys, and heads for her car. I watch on as she climbs inside and fights the aging engine to start, driving off down the street, herIzzycharm still clenched in my fist.
Izzy can wait.
“It’s okay,” I say to Maisie, extending my pinkie finger as only Nick would do. “Pinkie promise, it’s okay,” I tell her and, as she slips her tiny pinkie through mine, she smiles weakly, though her hand still shakes and on my fingertips there is blood.
I stagger into the police station with Felix in my arms and Maisie on my heels. The very same quasi-receptionist in uniform greets me, and this time I don’t need to wait fifteen minutes to speak to the detective. Detective Kaufman is phoned without delay, and he quickly appears, standing before me, eyeing my children and me.
“Mrs. Solberg,” he says, and I’m not sure if it’s concern that crosses his face or something more like disbelief or incredulity, but I don’t care. My mouth opens, and these words come tumbling out, “She did it. She killed Nick,” I say, and the detective asks, “Who, Mrs. Solberg, who?”
“Izzy,” I say.
“Who is Izzy?” he asks cynically, and I don’t respond right away for I can’t find the words to explain. Again he asks, “Mrs. Solberg, who is Izzy?” and this time I manage to tell him.
