I don’t recall if Stevie’s case was ever resolved. Typically, I would have followed up—it’s my journalistic instinct—but I was far too preoccupied with my impending divorce.
As my eyelids became heavy, I listened to Ward’s resonating words from the screen.
“Helen Mirren, who played Jane in the movie version of my novel Another Woman, once told me, ‘You write your own life story by the choices you make. You never know if they have been a mistake. Those moments of decision are so difficult.’ I’d love to write my own story one day. I’d love to explore that.”
As I drifted off to sleep, I thought about what my story will be, now that it’s taken an unexpected turn. I also prayed that Ward, wherever she is, will be able to tell hers.
8 BREE
“Do you have everything packed for Dad’s?” I asked Chloe, who was slumped over the kitchen island, snubbing the smoothie I’d made her. Lacey buys hers at Green & Tonic It doesn’t taste like sludge.
“My bag is by the door,” she grumbled.
“Do you want me to drop it at Dad’s place?”
When Jeremy and I split up, he was more than happy to let me keep the house. At first, he thought he’d move back to New York City, since that’s where he works, and he’s always resented the commute. But despite the inconvenience, he decided it would be easier to rent an apartment in Stamford—slightly less travel time and much closer proximity to Chloe.
“No thanks.” She glanced out the window, undoubtedly for Cole.
I promised myself I wouldn’t ask if he’s her boyfriend.
Nearly three decades later, the humiliation of my mother interrogating Jamie Williams when he picked me up for our first date is still fresh. Poor Jamie had no idea what he’d signed up for. She wanted to know what he’d eaten that day (a bowl of Cap’n Crunch cereal without milk and a handful of grape-flavored Big League Chew), where he got his hair cut (it was down to his shoulders), and what his professional aspirations were (we were in eighth grade). Needless to say, Jamie never asked me out again.
“Are you sure? That way you don’t have to take it on the train with you.”
“Dad’s picking me up.”
“Here?” As a rule, I’m comfortable with Jeremy coming by the house. We made a commitment to each other that there’d be no standing on ceremony as far as Chloe was concerned. If “his night” doesn’t work for him one week, Chloe is welcome here and vice-versa.
“No, at school.”
“School ends at three o’clock.” Jeremy makes the 8:04 p.m. train, when he’s lucky. That’s how it’s always been, and I assumed that’s how it would always be.
“I know. He’s taking off early so we can go to dinner and a movie.”
“Oh. Wow. That’s nice.” I meant it.
Not only that, but I was mature enough to censor what I really wanted to say, which was that not once in the twelve years we lived together in Connecticut did Jeremy come home before nine p.m. for anything other than a crisis, of which there were two: First, the time I lost my footing, tumbled down the stairs, and had to be rushed to the emergency room so they could charge me a thousand dollars to tell me I didn’t have a concussion. Second, the time when Chloe was seven and she knocked her two front teeth out by swinging from her knees on the jungle gym and falling on her face, while I was home with the flu.
“Yup,” she said smugly, as if I’ve never taken her to dinner and a movie.
“Well, great then.” I smiled. Easy breezy. That’s me. Co-parenting 101. “Is that new?” I motioned to the letterman-style jacket she was wearing, which I’d never seen before and was three sizes too large for her.
She looked down at it, as if she’d forgotten what she had on. “Kind of.”
“Where’d you get it?” I pressed gently, better judgment notwithstanding.
“It’s Cole’s, if you must know.” On cue, a car horn honked in the driveway. “That’s him. I’ve gotta go.” She jumped to her feet.
“Wait!” I tried to grab her arm. “I won’t see you for two days. Can you at least say goodbye?” I walked toward her with open arms.
“Bye, Mom.” She barely patted my back, which is probably what caused me to ask the one thing I knew would push her even further away.
“Are you and Cole having sex?” There it was. I couldn’t take it back. She just shook her head incredulously and closed the door behind her without a word.
I didn’t bother to look out the window.
My baby girl was already long gone.
* * *
But Chloe wasn’t the only one with plans for the weekend. By Sunday afternoon, I’d researched Ward DeFleur extensively, which was nothing short of physically gutting. I held my breath as I read the reports about her daughter, Stevie, whom the police had found that night in an abandoned apartment. Apparently, the walls were covered with photos of Stevie and Ward with bloodred X marks obscuring Stevie’s face. She’d been rushed to the emergency room, barely alive, where they’d determined that she’d been drugged and physically mistreated, though not violated sexually, thank God. They’d expected her to live, but in a harrowing turn of events, she’d passed away the next day.
I don’t know how a parent survives that. It made me think about what Ward said in the E! profile about telling her story, and I started to wonder, What if I can write it for her? It felt like exactly the kind of passion project that could propel me back into the workforce and onto the radar of editors and literary agents again.
The only problem is that no one has seen Ward DeFleur since the day her daughter died.
I called Maggie and asked her to meet me at the coffee shop in town. I wanted to bounce the idea off someone immediately.
* * *
“I’m not gonna lie. It’s a little random,” she said.
“In what way?” I tore off a piece of my croissant, even though I was too anxious to eat.
“I don’t know. I mean, why her?” Maggie lifted a forkful of egg white omelet to her mouth. “I swear if you don’t eat that, I’m going to rip it out of your skinny little hand.”
“I saw part of her profile on E! and it reminded me about what she went through with her daughter, and you know I’ve always been a big fan of hers.”
“That was horrible. She died, right?” Maggie whispered.
“Yes, but it’s not a secret.”
“I know, but it’s standard protocol to speak in a hushed tone about the deceased.” She stabbed at a roasted tomato. “So, what does Ward’s daughter’s death have to do with you wanting to tell her story?”
I took a sip of coffee and allowed the warmth to permeate my chest, as I searched for the right explanation. “Toward the end of the profile, Ward said that we write our own stories by the choices we make, even though those choices could be mistakes. It really rang true for me. And then there’s the fact that Stevie was the same age as Chloe—and Amanda, too—which is scary.”
“It’s terrifying. Okay, that makes sense.”