The headlines have mostly faded by now, the newest school shooting or celebrity scandal taking their place. My life, my career, also forgotten about, but left ruined in the wake of accusations and a runaway husband.
The friends I once had don’t know what to say to me anymore. My personal life is splayed open, wet, raw, and exposed—I may as well be naked, spread wide on an exam table. Every detail, from the sexual intimacy I allegedly had with Carter Daley to my prescribed medications, were public knowledge.
Even when they tried to talk to me like a normal person at a dinner or the occasional obligatory event I still forced myself to attend until recently, there was something behind their eyes—a tinge of suspicion, maybe. Or worse yet, pity.
I guess that’s the same reason I can only take Ellie in small doses these days. It’s not just the perpetual shitty diaper and baby powder smell in her house and the squawks and shrieks of dancing puppets on the television that made me want to run (like literally run from her place directly to the gynecologist for a tubal ligation), it was that she’d been there through every turn, God love her, but to see her face is to see Liam. She was right next to me on our wedding day, and for almost every memory. His bare feet and white linen pants as we tried to ignore the hot wind and scorching sand beneath our feet on the beach for the ceremony. Late at night, when I’d talk to Ellie on the phone and tell her about our dates, in the early days, all the details of exotic foods and hours of lovemaking. All of the summer-soaked backyard barbecues, the Christmas Eves watching George Bailey curse the Building and Loan, the maternity ward when Ellie gave birth, the trips to Belize. It was the four of us. Ellie and Joe, me and Liam, and the reminder of a life robbed from me was too much sometimes.
I fish out a lime rind from my drink and suck on it. I remember someone telling me that lemon and lime peels have more bacteria than a toilet seat. I don’t much care at the moment. I think about Marty the computer guy. Maybe he could be someone to drink with. He didn’t even flinch when Hilly was gushing about being a fan. A fan of who? Who was I? He didn’t give a shit. I liked that. That’s the kind of uninvested stranger I need. How pathetic that I’m going to corner this poor guy because he gave me a flyer.
I know what I should do. I should call old friends. I’m back in the city, I’m standing upright, I’ve dressed myself. There is progress. And now, I have all the information I asked for. It’s time to move on. I could work out a new book idea with Paula about self-reinvention, life after loss or something, get back into the world.
But I don’t do any of that. I stumble out of Grady’s, walk upstairs, get into bed, and don’t leave the condo for days. I’m not sure how long I would have stayed like that if I hadn’t seen something shocking.
I’m sitting with a bottle of wine on a dark October afternoon, icy rain tapping at the windows, and I’m trying to muster up the energy to pay a stack of bills. Then I see it. Something in a forgotten corner of Liam’s desk that changes everything.
EIGHT
THEN
There was no evidence, but in the Twittersphere, that hardly matters when it comes to someone’s reputation. The police asked me a series of questions about Carter Daley. His parents decided to push the matter with the district attorney and insisted they file a suit, so I was officially under investigation.
In the days that followed, I stayed home for the most part. I made the colossal mistake of looking in the comment threads of the posts about my case. It was now “a case.” I knew enough after a couple years in the spotlight with my TV work to know that you never read the comments section. Even armed with a Klonopin and a bottle of moscato, doing so could easily cause one to slip into an unrecoverable depression, if not a homicidal rage. I couldn’t help myself though.
A Facebook post blinked on my screen. It was a still shot of Carter in front of news mics when he gave his public statement—his random, out-of-the-blue, wild accusation, meant-to-ruin-me statement. I click it and read the comments:
Candy_grl7156: That ugly ass bitch should rot in jail. I hate her face and her stupid radio advice. “Leave your abuser.” Oh, why didn’t I think of that!? She needs a PhD for that shit advice?
RwrdyDawg001: Who you callin’ ugly, fat stick? I’d let Faith Finley molest the shit outta me.
HyPnOTk1998: It’s not something to make light of, I know, but you’re right, like, why would that kid even complain. I’d eat that pussy all day. LOL.
Momoffour19_78: You all should be ashamed of yourselves. This kid is a victim. Educate yourselves. Sexual assault is sexual assault. No matter looks, or anything else.
There were hundreds of these. Some were on my side. Most weren’t. People...really hated me. Paula tried to remind me that next week no one would even remember, and we could recover from this. I could tell she didn’t believe that. And the more I scrolled through comments, the more I saw hate messages aimed at Carter too.
Jnk_n_Trnk96: What a faggot.
AllyCat0011: That kid’s a liar, and like totally autistic or some shit.
Lrd!_!Voldemort: He goes to the media to make an accusation, and then cries like a bitch saying he doesn’t want to get anyone in trouble. #goodjob #supersmart #douchecanoe
* * *
I hated these people. I didn’t know why Carter was doing this, but I felt the urge to protect him—to stand up for him. I knew I couldn’t say anything publicly, but if I could just talk to him, maybe this could all be resolved.
The lawyer Liam put me in contact with, Ralph Kinsey, was one that he used now and then when someone tried to sue him for a bad review of their restaurant or something of that nature. Kinsey came to the house and sat down with me for an expensive fifty-minute hour on the day after this all came out. He was a sweaty, red, impatient man with a neck too large for the tight white collar that pressed his flesh out over the sides. He looked very uncomfortable, as if it took effort just to be sitting upright. As off-putting as he was, I wondered how he garnered enough credibility to be the hard-hitting lawyer Liam assured me he was.
He sat in our front room; the sofa protested slightly. He wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead with a soiled handkerchief and told me, in no uncertain terms, that I was not to contact Carter Daley for any reason whatsoever.
“He said/she said cases are the hardest and most involved kind, especially if there is truly no evidence, as you claim. And for God’s sake, don’t talk to the press,” he said, cramming the wet handkerchief back into his pocket. It was hard to believe my future could rest with this distracted, fidgety man, who looked at Liam when answering questions I asked. I didn’t feel like I should do anything to hurt or otherwise disappoint Liam after causing him all of this upset, so I took Kinsey’s card politely, nodded when he said he’d be in touch, and thanked Liam for his help recommending the guy. Liam hugged me into him, an “it will be okay” gesture, but he felt very far away from me already.