The Hunting Wives Page 41
AFTER AN HOUR of sobbing on the sofa, I unlatch my knees from my chest and stand up. I can’t believe Graham is kicking me out, but I can hardly say that I blame him. And I know I need to do what he requests if I want any chance of salvaging things between us and saving our family. I can’t work him over anymore, I can’t fix this, and who knows what he could do with Jack if I push him. The term unfit mother creeps into mind.
I walk down the hall toward our room, pausing at Jack’s door along the way. I step inside and go over to his unmade bed, lift his Thomas the Tank Engine comforter, and bring it to my face, breathing in his little boy smell. Juice and baby shampoo. Tears flood my vision, so I drop the comforter and make his bed, tucking his favorite stuffed bear next to his pillow before leaving. I need to do this quickly, before I lose my nerve and Graham comes home to find me here.
Even though it kills me, I go into our closet and pull down my pale pink duffel bag from the top shelf. I yank a few shirts off their hangers and stuff those in the bag with some shorts and pajamas. I swipe my toothbrush and toiletries from the bathroom and toss in a pair of sandals. I’m not packing a lot; I’m determined to get back home in a few days, no matter what I have to do.
Before leaving, I grab a few bottles of water, some bags of chips, and the sticky note with the lawyer’s number scrawled in Graham’s handwriting; then, I head out.
I coast all over Mapleton. Not many choices here. A shabby, one-story motel on the east side of town that looks like a halfway house. As much as I want to punish myself and check in, I can’t bring myself to do it.
I keep driving until I settle on a chain-run extended-stay motel. The sign out front advertises free breakfast and, more importantly, a pool.
I’m harboring the hope that Graham will let me bring Jack over to swim. He loves the water.
I step into the lobby and am immediately assaulted by a rack of newspapers parked next to the checkin desk. The sordid headline screams out at me, but as I walk to the desk on wobbly legs, the hotel clerk greets me with a smile. Clearly, she doesn’t recognize me from the picture in the paper. And even as I slide my driver’s license across the counter, her face registers nothing other than Southern hospitality.
“Here’s your room key, Mrs. O’Neill. You’re in 203. It’s the second floor toward the middle of the building.” She waves her hand to indicate the location.
The room is nice and clean enough, done up in buttery beiges and pastels with a beachy vibe. But still, the carpet holds the antiseptic odor of all hotels and there is an AC window unit, already droning noisily, instead of central air and heat. I know I won’t sleep well here.
I toss my bag on the luggage rack and sit on the edge of the bed. Digging in my purse for my cell, I fish out the number to the lawyer and dial it.
“John Gunther and Associates!” a bright, female voice chirps on the other end.
“Hi, I need to speak with Mr. Gunther.”
“May I tell him who’s calling?”
“I’m, um, yes, this is Sophie O’Neill.”
“Oh, yes!” I hear her tongue click with delight. “We’ve been expecting your call!” She pauses as if she wants me to respond.
I don’t.
“Well, please hold the line. I’ll get John for you right away!”
Cheery hold music fills my ear, but only for a second. I end the call. Cradling the cell in my hands, I let my arms flop between my legs.
I need to talk to somebody, but I’m in no mood to talk to an eager-beaver attorney.
I go to my contacts, to the people I have saved as “favorites.” Erin’s name is the third one. I tap it. It rings once but then the call goes straight to voice mail, as if she dismissed it. Surely that’s not the case, I think, so I punch it again and listen as it rings four times and then rolls over to voice mail. I’m just about to leave a quick message for her to call back when my phone dings in my ear. With a text, from Erin.
Erin: I’m sorry, Sophie, but you’re not who I thought you were.
Heat rises to my face and it feels like my body is being filled with liquid shame. I can hear my heart pounding in my ears. I’m frozen by her words. And stung. But honestly, I’m not surprised. Erin could forgive me, possibly, for keeping the Hunting Wives a secret from her, but she can’t overlook my involvement with Jamie. It’s a line she would never cross.
My phone nearly slips from my hands they’re so clammy, so I wipe my palms on the thin, cheap, seashell-print comforter and scroll through my phone log. I stop when I reach Tina.
She usually answers on the first ring, but it rings three times before she picks up. Her voice is tentative and wary. “Hi, Sophie.”
“Hey—I just wanted to call—” I’m stammering because I really don’t know what to say to her.
“Listen, Bill’s here,” she says. “And,” she continues, her voice growing softer with each word, “please don’t call or text me anymore. This makes me uncomfortable. I can’t talk to you anymore.”
My lips tremble and I press end before she can hear me cry. What a bitch. She was okay with Margot messing around with Brad; she thought it was funny, a scene to rubberneck, but she can’t handle what I did with Jamie. Even though she doesn’t know the whole story. But then it hits me square in the eyes—she probably doesn’t care at all about Jamie. It’s much worse than that: She thinks I murdered Abby.
I feel sick to my stomach and realize I haven’t eaten all day. I scrounge in my purse for the bag of potato chips and tear them open, but can only force myself to crunch through a few. I have no appetite.
I should try and find Rox and call her no matter where she is in the world, but I can’t; I’m too ashamed. Even my mom Nikki’s face pops into my mind, but I know that telling her all this will somehow make me feel so much worse.
I set my phone down on the night table, stand, and cross the room. I grab the cord to the vinyl blackout shade and yank it, darkening the space. Creeping back to the bed, I crawl under the covers.
* * *
—
I STARTLE AWAKE. The boxy clock on the bedside table reads two thirty p.m. The time of day when I pick Jack up from preschool and he flings himself into my arms, molding his little boy body into mine, fingers twining through my hair as I carry him out to the car.
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 say Mommy, 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 liquor store.
53
Wednesday, April 25, 2018
I WAKE WITH a 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.