HER PERFECT SECRET a totally gripping psychological thriller Page 18

  Maybe it’s all a sign of how much he loves my Jo. That he didn’t run, even after he realized what a horror show of a coincidence this whole thing was.

  And so — then what? He comes to visit, and he has to suspect I’ll recognize him. But he plays ignorant? Does he really think he’ll get away with the lie?

  Or is this whole “hazy memory” part of a new deception? Maybe it’s a way for him to safely return to the truth without looking like a liar — in my eyes or, more importantly for him, in Joni’s eyes.

  Instead of coming clean in one fell swoop, he’s admitted that his past remains enshrouded. He’s asked me to be the one who helps tease out more of his memory. Once we get back to full recall — meaning, once he playacts his way back — he’s in the clear. He can be the boy I remember and be Michael, too. His lie to Joni can get explained away by having caregivers implant it when he was young. That, and, having gone through such a traumatic experience, he did some heavy compartmentalizing.

  But . . .

  But it leaves a few things on the table. Like the proximity to Laura Bishop’s prison and the timing of her parole.

  Enough. I pick up my own dishes and put them in the sink. The kitchen is a mess. I left for Mooney’s in a bit of a hurry, and food was prepared in my absence. The ketchup is still out. Crumbs on the tile countertop. Knives caked with peanut butter. Only my son would have ketchup and peanut butter in the same meal.

  Thinking of Sean pierces my heart with grief. He was making himself a sandwich — or something — then he took his sister’s fiancé sailing, and then . . .

  And now he’s . . .

  I don’t know what he is. Or where he is. I know where his body is, but his consciousness seems lost to me. I can’t feel it.

  I miss him already.

  The sudden and gripping sadness soon curdles into anger.

  Maybe if I want to get to the bottom of things, I really should call the police right now, explain everything. Maybe it’s time. What do I have to be worried about? If it turns out this is truly linked to the past, anyone can see it’s a case of police corruption. Coercions and cover-ups. Using a respected therapist to legitimize their case.

  Talk about throwing my life into chaos. It’s been chaotic before; I’m not sure I could handle it again. There would be media following us around. Nightly news segments about “the case from fifteen years ago.”

  I just don’t know if I could handle it all right now. Cops here, Joni stabbing me with her eyes, Michael nervous but trying to cooperate.

  And now I’ve been treating him? Using my tools as a psychotherapist to uncover a past I myself was a part of? The cops would have a field day with me, given such a conflict of interest, such an ethical breach.

  My career would be over.

  It dawns on me then, as I go through the kitchen, sweeping crumbs into my palm, wiping down the countertops, that I’ve got to see this through on my own. If Michael is faking to save face — pretending he can’t remember to subvert the humiliating truth of his lie — maybe I can help him with that. If, on the other hand, he’s part of some grander deceit, I’ll be more in control of it than I am now, just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  By the time I’ve finally worked all this out in my head, I’m already at the top of the stairs. Moving down the hallway, I stop in front of Joni’s door.

  “Come in,” Michael says when I knock. He’s on the bed, looking at his phone. He sets it aside and stands up. “Everything okay?”

  I pull a slow, easy breath. Looking deeply into those green eyes, I say, “Let’s try again.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  “I really love your daughter,” Michael says from the bed in Joni’s room. “I think she’s amazing.”

  “She is amazing,” I say. “She’s come through a lot.”

  He gazes up at the ceiling, contemplative. I drag a chair into the corner. It’s the chair from Sean’s room. We used his room last night, but I couldn’t bear to be in there right now. It’s all I can do just to keep my head clear.

  Of course, that’s impossible. Sean is my son. My firstborn. And he’s lying in a hospital bed with a machine breathing for him.

  But he’s going to wake up. He’s going to come back to you. Because he’s strong. Sean has always been strong . . .

  “Joni says you and Paul were a little bit . . . I don’t know. Kind of wild? Back in the day?”

  Michael’s question catches me off guard. I slowly sit down in the chair. “What did she say?”

  “Just that you guys used to throw big parties. You know, Fourth of July, that kind of a thing . . .”

  “I don’t know that I’d call them ‘big parties.’ We had some families over from the neighborhood for holidays. It was hardly all the time.”

  “. . . Joni says she had her first drink at one of those parties.”

  I place my hands in my lap. “I remember.”

  “Sorry, I’m just a little nervous.”

  “Nothing to worry about. I’m right here, and you’re safe.” The words sound flat to my ears. I always have my patients’ best interests at heart, but it sounds less than genuine coming out of my mouth.

  Leave it. Call it off right now.

  “What else did Joni say?”

  “Just that you stopped. No more parties.”

  “People move on. Families get older, you lose touch.”

  “Yeah . . .”

  His disbelief gets under my skin. Is he playing some sort of game? I play a different hand.

  “What about growing up in the Bleeker home?” I haven’t used this name yet and want to see how he reacts. “Maybe we can start there. Did they have people over for the holidays?”

  “My uncle is a bit of a loner. Maybe an introvert. Very smart guy. He writes technical manuals, plus he’s published a few of his own books. And my aunt was a college professor. She worked almost right up until she died.”

  Michael’s answer seems genuine. And the depiction of his aunt reminds me of Rebecca Mooney for a moment, looking dark and desiccated in her bed, the rain spitting against the windows.

  I ask, “And how was it having a sister? Do you still keep in touch with Candace?” It’s another dig for information.

  “Not really. When Aunt Alice died, it kind of broke up the family.”

  “I’m sorry. The whole thing is very sad.” I’m sliding back toward sympathy. Michael once again seems guileless. A man who’s grown up in the long shadow of a terrible family tragedy.

  But it could all be a trick. I need to keep reminding myself of that.

  “We saw each other through the funeral and everything,” he says, meaning Candace. “I’d been at Colgate for a year. I mean, we talk every once in a while . . .”

  “She has a husband?”

  “Yeah. Greg. He has a trucking company or something.”

  It checks out with what I already know.

  But there are things Michael doesn’t know. And so I tell him about visiting his Uncle Arnold, and how Candace showed up, and that her husband Greg grabbed me. How they thought I was harassing their father.

  Michael absorbs it all, at first looking shocked, but recovering quickly. “Yeah, she’s a little high strung. A little fussy. She used to clean all those pigs her mother collected, dust them all off. Pigs everywhere in that house. So . . . you were checking up on me, huh?” A smile edges his mouth.

  “I was. I’m probably still checking up on you. This isn’t therapy. Not in any clinical sense.”

  “I know.”

  “This is me, hoping that unveiling the truth can help you. That it can help us both.”

  “I understand. How did Arnold seem?”

  Small, I want to say. Shrunken. But instead I describe him in what favorable light I can, and this seems to please Michael.

  What I don’t elaborate on is how upset both Arnold and Candace were upon discovering who I was. That Candace accused me of being part of something. How, at first, I thought Arnold was maybe getting senile, pa
ranoid. But that I’ve since come to think they were unhappy with Laura’s trial.

  After I’m done describing a highly edited version of my encounter with Michael’s family, he stares off for a bit, lost in thought.

  “Michael,” I say, not knowing how to begin. “If this . . . if you’re being honest with me, then this really may not be the setting. To uncover the truth, and a truth as hard as what yours might be . . . It’s like surfacing in the water. You know, you can go too fast and get the bends. For your own health, your own safety, this should really be with a clinician, someone other than me.”

  He locks on me with those preternaturally light eyes. Eyes shining with intelligence. “You still think I’m lying.”

  “I don’t know what to think. I’m trying not to have an opinion, to be objective. But you see how silly that is? I’m too close to this. You could say I have an agenda.”

  He’s quiet. “I want to do this. I think it will help. Please.”

  I take a slow breath. My gaze wanders to the window, to the lake, growing dark in the eventide. I picture the sailboat cutting through the chop. My son sitting at the back, gripping the tiller, wind in his hair, grin on his face. We taught Sean to sail when he was very young.

  This whole thing — sitting here with Michael — it’s surreal. I should be at the hospital with my son.

  But I am here. For whatever reason, because of whatever choices I’ve made, I’m here.

  Once more, I’m driven by my own need.

  “All right, Michael. Lie back now, okay?”

  A smile slipstreams across his face, almost too quick to catch. “All right,” he says, instantly sobered and ready for business.

  “All the way back. There you go. Okay. We’re just going to breathe for a minute. We’re going to inhale to a count of three, and exhale to a count of five. We’re going to slow the heart rate. We’re going to calm the mind.”

  I take a few breaths of my own. I move my thoughts from the lake and my son to this young man. This room. This space in time.

  “Good,” I say. “Inhale again. And exhale. That’s it, breathe. Are you ready?”

  “Yes.” Michael’s breathing is regular and deep. His eyes are closed, but he’s awake.

  “Then let’s begin.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  The air is cold but humid, holding the promise of snow. Tom feels the dampness, but it registers further back in his mind; unimportant. What’s important is that he’s home at last, after nearly eleven hours of school and day care, he’s back. He’s thinking about the book he’s reading. It’s a good one — Deathly Hallows — and he’s excited to return to that world.

  “Wash up before you do anything else,” his mother says, as if reading his mind.

  They walk from the driveway to the side entrance. There’s a garage, but it’s filled with Dad’s tools, an old motorcycle, a hundred boxes of things — no room for a car.

  “Okay,” Tom says, and his mother keys the lock and lets them inside.

  It’s warm in the house. He breathes in. It smells like traces of the coffee and bacon from that morning. The leathery, rubbery odor of shoes and boots lining the entryway. Dust and pine and mildew. The ticking of the many clocks — there are fourteen of them.

  This is home.

  He kicks off his boots and heads for the downstairs bathroom. There’s a stool tucked under the sink and he pulls it out so he can look at himself in the mirror. He can’t wait to grow taller. His teacher says he’s an advanced reader. He wishes he were an advanced grower too — he’s nearly the shortest boy in his classes.

  Hands washed, Tom bounds upstairs.

  “Dinner in twenty minutes!”

  “Okay!” He doesn’t have a watch and can barely figure twenty minutes, but she’ll call again. For now, he’s going to immerse himself in his favorite alternative reality . . .

  . . . and lose himself until his mother appears in his doorway.

  Has it been twenty minutes? She’s holding his plate. Her face is blank and her eyes devoid. “Do you want an invitation? Or do you want me to just throw it out?”

  “Sorry!” He hops up — he’s hungry — and brings the plate back downstairs. Once in the kitchen at the table where they usually eat, Tom sits down. (There’s a “dining room,” but his parents only really use it for company, for their parties and Christmas and things like that.)

  His mother’s plate is empty, but her wine glass is full. She sits across from him and drinks, staring off into space.

  “Use your napkin,” she says, catching him. He wipes some spaghetti sauce from the corners of his mouth.

  Dad isn’t there. The fact of it feels big and loud, though neither of them mentions it. It’s a familiar predicament. And Tom knows that asking about his father will only make his mother more upset; her mood has darkened like this before.

  Besides, Dad will be along eventually. He always comes home. At least, sometimes, when Tom is in bed before his dad gets in, he’ll hear the footsteps coming into his room and feel the dry kiss on his forehead.

  Tom’s mother drinks her wine, then gets up. She pours another glass and stands at the sink, gazing out the window.

  “It’s going to snow tonight,” she says.

  “Maybe we can go sledding tomorrow?”

  But she doesn’t answer or turn around. She only stares out the window, like she’s deep in thought.

  * * *

  “I want my mom back,” Michael mumbles.

  I sit up a little straighter. “What’s that, honey?”

  He delays a response. “She’s just angry.”

  “What is she angry about?”

  But he doesn’t answer.

  Carefully, I ask, “Tom . . . where are you right now? Are you still sitting with her at the table?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me what happens next.”

  * * *

  Dinner is awkward and silent. At one point, his mother leaves and doesn’t come back until after he’s finished. He waits for her return before taking his dishes to the sink — this way, she can see he’s cleaned his plate.

  She barely notices. She has a funny smell, like car exhaust. But when he drops his plate in the sink a little too harshly, it rouses her. She looks around, as if coming out of a dream, then focuses on him.

  Wonderfully, she smiles.

  He cautiously approaches — has she been crying? Her eyes are glassy, and there’s a faint black smudge under each. Like her makeup ran.

  “All right, let’s get you ready for bed, mister.”

  She’s back. Mom is back.

  They go through an evening ritual. Since dinner started late, it’s nearly bedtime now. First, she runs the bath for him and fills it with suds. She lets him play, crashing his toy plane into the water. But he doesn’t feel much like playing. He reads long chapter books now. His teacher says he’s an advanced reader. What other third grader reads whole Harry Potter books?

  Soon, he’s toweling off with his mother’s help, and then, on his own, getting into his pajamas. She has him get in bed and promises she’ll be back to read some of his book with him.

  But she never comes. He starts to read on his own. Part of him wants to call out to her, but he’s reluctant. She’s acting this way because Dad still isn’t home. Tom knows they’ve been having problems. Shouting, sometimes. Mom going off into her room and crying.

  Dad is always working late. He said once that their marriage was a “sham.” Tom knows what a sham is. But he doesn’t know why his parents don’t love each other anymore. He can only suspect it has something to do with when his mother first started acting like an imposter. Like someone else was sharing her brain. Which was — hard to say for sure — maybe a year ago.

  * * *

  “How was she acting strange?” I ask.

  Michael rolls over on the bed. He draws himself up into a fetal position and pulls one of the pillows to his chest. In a light voice, he replies, “She picked me up from Miss Diana’s on
e day and she was different.”

  “Did she look different? Act differently?”

  “She wore different clothes than usual. A dress. And she smelled like perfume.”

  “Tell me what happened next. After she left your room . . .”

  * * *

  He’s in his bed, reading, when he hears a noise. A car engine. A moment later, the front door opens and closes.

  It’s hard not to get out of bed and rush downstairs to see his father. But he holds fast — and a moment later, he hears voices. He’s pretty sure it’s his mother and his father.

  At first, they’re normal — the deeper voice of his father vibrates through the floorboards. The higher pitch of his mother drifts up the stairs. She’s unhappy, and letting it be known.

  I made dinner for us. Tom and I sat here and waited.

  Tom guesses it’s what she’s saying. The shape of her words sound close, anyway.

  I’m sorry, his dad replies, I told you I had to work late . . .

  Tom wants to hear more clearly. He slips out of bed and creeps to his door, opens it quietly and props it ajar.

  Their voices carry up the stairs.

  “I don’t want to have the same argument,” his dad says.

  “So don’t, David. Let’s just not talk at all. Just keep punishing me.”

  “I’m not punishing you, Laura. You do that to yourself.”

  “Oh, isn’t that convenient for you. So you’re passive-aggressively punishing me. Bravo.”

  “Just let me eat.”

  “Why don’t you divorce me?”

  “You’re drunk, Laura.”

  “I’m not drunk. Why don’t you? I think you’re afraid to. I think you’re afraid to be alone. You don’t love me, but you can’t bear to be alone. But really, what it is, it’s better for you to punish me. You like having something on me. Something you can feel superior about. This is right where you like to be. Because you’re mean, David. You’re—”

  “Enough!”

  His father’s bellow seems to shake the house. Tom hears David get up from the table and stride to the sink, dump in his dishes with a clatter. A moment later, he’s moving toward the stairs. Tom closes the door and hurries to his bed, diving back under the covers as his father’s heavy footfalls ascend the stairs.