“We’re married. You can’t just—”
“Don’t tell me what I can’t do. You’re a liar!”
And the bedroom door opens. Emma’s eyes are huge and accusatory. “You’re too loud,” she says.
Andrew holds out his arms. “I’m sorry, baby. Let’s get you to school.”
“I want Lizzie.” She runs forward, darting around him, and holds her arms up to me. My knees give way and I am on the floor, embracing Emma, my face pressed against her sweet head. If I keep my eyes screwed shut, maybe I can stay here forever.
Andrew sighs, and I think maybe at least one of my prayers was answered. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. I’ll come with you.”
I raise my head and look at him. Does he love me? I can’t tell from his face. But even if this is just pity, it’s better than nothing.
Knowing he will be with me to talk to the police, maybe even to see my parents, softens the blow. I can do this. I can tell the truth if he’s with me.
For once, the truth really is that I’m innocent.
“I love you,” I tell him, but he looks away.
* * *
A happy soundtrack of Laurie Berkner, Dan Zanes, and other folksy kid-rock tunes fills the car on the way to preschool. In the back seat, Emma hums tunelessly and kicks her feet in time.
My phone is completely silent. Ominously silent. A number of the playgroup moms are inveterate texters. Usually there’s a continuous buzzing coming from my phone. Everything from a slowdown on Highway 90A to a plea to borrow a juice box for a school lunch to an FYI about the PTO (and I don’t even have a child in elementary school) to an invitation to meet up at the park.
I know without a doubt that texts are flying around. I’m just not included in them. Someone must have recognized me on the news. Who will be the first to report I am living under an alias? I hope it won’t be Felicia or Bethany, but they are the most likely to recognize my picture. The ones who would realize how vague I’ve been about my past. They were my friends, but I’ve been lying to them too.
I don’t give a shit about a “mean mom” thinking less of me. Playgroup is full of them, the kind of women who specialize in plastic smiles and sweet little burns. They wrap their venom in southernisms like “Bless your heart” or “I’ll pray for you” or “Just so you know, sweetie …” which is never followed by anything nice. No one says, “Just so you know, sweetie, your child is a genius and you’re an amazing mom.” It’s always something like “Just so you know, sweetie, your child ate the only yellow crayon and I barely stopped her from running into the street.” The subtext is clear: “Your child needs help and you’re a disgrace.”
I don’t understand the rules of this kind of girl-game, so I mostly keep a bland, unoffended smile on my face and back away, storing up the most cutting remarks to mock with Felicia later. Felicia was the second person to make me laugh and forget I was pretending to be someone else.
Andrew was the first. I glance at him, but he’s looking straight ahead. I’m afraid to say anything, afraid he might not answer me. Maybe I don’t exist for him anymore.
We stop at the intersection where the train runs parallel to Highway 90A. From the back seat, Emma starts singing “Little Red Caboose” in time to the crossing bell. Somehow, whenever you’re late, you’re always on the wrong side of the tracks. I can’t tell how long this freight train is, but it seems interminable.
With a jolt I remember I agreed to watch Felicia’s son, Sam, this afternoon while she gets her hair cut. Will I be back? I steal another look at Andrew. The longer we go without speaking to each other, the harder it is to be the first one to say anything.
I pull out my phone and text Can’t watch Sam. Family emergency. So so sorry. She’ll have to scramble to find someone else, or bring a squirmy child with her to the salon, or wait five weeks for another appointment while the mean moms give her side eye. One more way I’m letting down someone I care about.
Usually she would text back right away: OMG Hope all OK? But my phone is silent. The last car of the train—not a caboose, just a basic boxcar—slides away. The crossing bell stops and the gate swings up.
Andrew doesn’t ask who I’m texting, doesn’t even look at me. Either he doesn’t give a shit or he’s trying not to act like he doesn’t trust me. Which makes me feel worse. My heart is as heavy as my silent cell phone.
We bump over the tracks and back onto the smooth pavement. I can’t go back to who I was. This is my life, my husband and my child. This is where I have friends. This is where Lizzie has friends. And you’re not Lizzie.
As we pull into the school parking lot, cars are moving in every direction with kids darting between them. It’s an obstacle course, but Andrew pulls the car slowly into a free parking place and sits for a minute with the engine off.
Outside, moms and dads trudge into the school with their kids and practically skip out unencumbered. Some are clearly on their way to work in crisp trousers and skirts, holding their children at arm’s length to fend off sticky hands. Others are ready for a day at home in casual jeans or even sweat pants and tees. And a few of the übermoms are decked out in coordinated track suits or supertight spandex, ready to star in a workout video. I’m glad none of these stay-at-home parents has a name tag declaring “I used to be a lawyer” or doctor or accountant or whatever. Being a mom let me hide my past as a dilettante. Student of all, master of none. PhD in advanced lying.
Finally, Andrew says, “I’ll take Emma in. Be right back.”
“Okay,” I whisper, not sure whether I’m sad not to have what might be my final hug from Emma or relieved that I’m being spared a moment that might break my stone-cold heart. “Have a good day, bunny.”
“See you later, ’gator,” she shouts, squirming to get out of the car seat’s chest clip. “I can do it my own self, Daddy. You take care of you.” With a last grunt, she hits the ground, holds up her hand for his, and trudges toward the school.
Across the parking lot I can see Felicia helping Sam cross safely among the Expeditions, CR-Vs, and Odysseys. I want her to look up at me and smile, to text me that it’s all going to be okay. But if she knows I’m a liar, I can’t count on her friendship anymore. And then she’s gone, disappeared into the school.
Andrew took the keys in with him. Did he think I’d go peeling out of the preschool parking lot in his Escalade and make a run for it? Honestly, if I were going to, I’d have taken my own damn car, a little Ford Fiesta. Half the size of Felicia’s SUV, it’s the best car I’ve ever owned. Just big enough.
“Is this really what you want?” Andrew asked when I picked it out. “You can have something bigger. What if you want to carpool?”
“We can fit one other car seat in the back. They’ll just have to be cozy.”
I’m smiling at the memory when my phone buzzes. Felicia. She did see me. I snatch it up, but the text reads Get out of the car and run.
What? I do get out of the car, a rushing sound in my ears, and turn around, looking for Felicia. There’s an older woman sitting in the driver’s seat of the car parked next to us. Her head is bent over a screen, but when I slam my car door, she looks up and I see the GPS app on the screen.