“But what about people?” Elodie asks.
“I like them well enough,” I say. But Elodie’s mischievous grin pulls a little truth out of me. “In small doses.”
If buddy-cop comedies and stakeout episodes of law-and-crime TV shows are to be believed, there’s a special bonding that happens in cars. The effect even works on me, because the more time I spend with Elodie, the more I’m starting to think we could get along.
“I can never talk to them about what I really do, so what’s the point? ‘Wow, Cynthia, sorry to hear you didn’t get that promotion. The alleged murderer I’m pursuing under cover of darkness hasn’t left enough evidence for a conviction, so I’m also not advancing in my career.’ ”
Elodie throws her head back, laughing in a way I did not expect. I wonder if I could have had a friend like her if my teen years had been normal. Someone to go to the movies with, or drive around, talking about our silly problems, commiserating over crushes and homework and our parents.
But my teen years were spent locked in a legal battle where I was forced to fight for my freedom. When I met Waylen, he was the only one who had given me a sense of “home” in years; the fact that he wanted to build a life with me endeared him to me more than chocolate or roses or cheesy poetry ever could.Just try making friends, he’s always saying, in that gentle, coaxing way of his.You deserve them.
Curse Waylen and his ceaseless optimism for people. His happy childhood didn’t make him much of a cynic.
“Well, I hope we can be friends,” Elodie says. “I’m really good at keeping a secret. Or two.”
I’m thankful that she breezes forward without giving me time to respond, because I’m suddenly feeling too awkward to reply. “So, what do you say? A train leaves for NYC every twenty minutes or so. We can be there in a couple of hours.”
Today I need to go to the hospital to speak with Mr. X’s doctors. And then I need to go to his house and secure his computers and documents so that there’s no trace of them when he comes home. He will need in-home care, whether he wants to admit it or not. Already the pressure is overwhelming as I realize I’m carrying the weight of all he does for me.
He’s protected me all my life. We’re all each other has, and now it’s my turn to look after him. So I hide howstressed I am. I don’t want him to see how hard it is to take over his role and pretend everything is fine. I owe him that much.
How will I keep Elodie safe? How will I keep myself safe?
I don’t say any of this, of course. I can’t.I’m really good at keeping a secret, Elodie just said. But I’m no good at sharing them.
“I’m working on something here,” I say. What’s one more little lie, if it’s for a good cause? And anyway, it’s partly true. I do need to figure out a new in with Bertram. “Bertram isn’t buying the book angle, so I’m trying something new.”
Elodie pulls the ponytail holder from my hair.
“Ow!”
“Your hair is one of your best attributes.” She waggles her eyebrows at my breasts. “One of yourthreebest attributes. Don’t be afraid to use what you’ve got.”
“I’m not going to seduce him,” I say. “A little flirting was fun to get us in the door, but if I give him the wrong impression, I could derail the whole thing.”
“Nobody saidseduce,” Elodie counters. “Mislead, maybe. Just to keep him on the hook.”
I snatch the ponytail holder from her hand, and she hisses playfully at me, like a cat.
“I’m happily married,” I say. Waylen would be beside himself with glee to hear me admit it.
“Yeah, yeah, me too,” Elodie says, tapping her wedding ring against mine like two champagne glasses. “But seriously, what’s your angle? Maybe I can help.”
If I want to communicate with Elodie, I have to mimicher a bit. Speak her language. Lean into the whole “girl talk” conspiratorial tone she’s set up for us. So when I open the car door, I glance back at her with a wry smile. “A magician never reveals her tricks.”
—
Mr. X is looking much better this morning, after a night of fluids and hospital cafeteria Salisbury steak. But he grouses that it’s impossible to sleep here, because there’s someone waking him up every half hour for his vitals. He wants to come home. I tell him that if he hadn’t ignored his illness for so long, maybe it wouldn’t be this bad. I tell him that I’m looking into home care options and I don’t let him argue. According to his doctors, remission may still be on the table. All he needs to do is rest, and I’ll handle everything.
“That isn’t the way it’s supposed to work, Margaux,” he tells me as I’m getting ready to leave. “I’m supposed to look after you.”
“We’re supposed to look out for each other,” I tell him. And then I close the door behind me.
In the elevator, I catch my reflection in the metal doors. For a second, I see the twelve-year-old girl I once was, in another elevator in another hospital, all the way in Oregon. I had just been told my parents were gone, and it felt as though the world was ending.
My brother and I are not those kids anymore, I tell myself.And nobody knows what we did.
I stride through the hospital parking garage with new determination. I can handle things while he’s infirm—of course I can. First I’ll settle things at his house.
