“But what if it was an accident? What if he lost it the way he did with me? He got angry with her because she didn’t want him, didn’t want to sleep with him again? He might not have meant to kill her, but then he did?”
“And then made it look like suicide afterward? That’s a little calculated, don’t you think?”
“He’s changed, Frank. I feel like I don’t know him anymore. Just tell me, okay? What did the autopsy say?”
“All right. Give me a sec.”
I hear him tapping on a computer. I am so happy to know a guy like him, who’d do anything for me. I know he is risking his job. I’ll have to make it up to him someday.
“Here it is. It looks like it was ruled a suicide—nothing out of the ordinary. She cut her wrists with razor blades, then bled out in the water. Time of death is dated to between noon and two o’clock.”
I swallow. Ryan had said he’d stop by at noon for coffee. At two o’clock, he was sitting on my doorstep. How long had he been there?
Stop it! You’re being paranoid!
“There is nothing strange about this death,” Frank says. “I think you can let go of this thought.”
I breathe relieved. He’s right. They had an affair. Ryan came over, then left, and she killed herself afterward. Maybe he didn’t want her anymore. He wanted to take care of his family. Maybe he told her that? No matter what, it doesn’t have to be suspicious. Tragic, yes, devastating too since it’s the end of my marriage, but it’s not murder. There could have been a ton of reasons why she killed herself. It didn’t even have to be about Ryan. It could have been something she experienced while over there. Things she couldn’t talk about—like Ryan refuses to talk about that mine and the rescue of Chip. Only Sandra herself knew what she was carrying, what kinds of terrible experiences she had to relive in her nightmares. They all had them. I knew that much.
“Thank you,” I say.
“I hope it makes you feel better.”
“It does. It really does.”
I hang up, then realize it’s a lie—because there’s another thought that has struck me. One I can only think and not say out loud.
What if they did something awful over there? Something they were covering up?
Why did he need to talk to her? Why did she say it’s time we forget what happened?
What if that doesn’t refer to sleeping together?
I look out the window at the house across the street where she used to live. The house is empty now; no one lives there anymore. I can still see those cuts in my mind…and those dead eyes and feel her cold skin against my fingers as I frantically searched for a pulse.
That’s when I realize that I have to ask him. I have to know what they discussed.
Chapter 8
I text Ryan and then call him. He doesn’t answer either. He never does. It annoys me. Damian returns from school, and I make him a bowl of Cheerios, then help him with his homework. Except I am not really there. I am constantly thinking about Ryan and Sandra. I think of them sleeping together. I picture them sneaking off at the camp, finding a remote place where they know no one goes, then having sex. I picture them in different positions—him on top, her on top. Then I decide I’m an idiot, close my eyes, and return to Damian’s math problems. As I stare at the numbers on the piece of paper, I see them kiss; I see them smile at one another secretly when no one is watching. I cast the thought away, but then realize if they aren’t having an affair, then it could be something much worse. And I don’t want it to be that. Maybe I do. Maybe I want them to have killed someone over there by accident and then tried to cover it up—maybe some local woman at the village, who they thought was carrying a bomb, when it was, in fact, just groceries. Maybe that’s what they’re running from; maybe that’s what’s tormenting them. I’ve seen movies about stuff like this. It happens. They meant well, but they were under pressure; they thought it was them or her. But they were mistaken, and maybe they realized it too late. Yes, that could be it. It could be as simple as that. Awful, yes, but no sex involved.
I check my texts every five minutes or so, then realize it’s time to pick up Isabella from her friend’s house. She lives off base, and this is the only way my daughter can get home.
I am driving across the small town while Damian is in the back seat, playing on his iPad. I see a homeless man sitting on a bench with his head bent like he’s either crying or sleeping. I wonder if it is Ryan. I worry it is him. I think I see him many places all day—from the window at the coffee shop downtown…when driving to the hairdresser…when driving to school to pick up the kids if I pick them up and they don’t go by bus. I think I see him when I walk down to the beach to do my powerwalk, and I see a group of homeless people hanging out by the pier drinking, or see one of them sleeping leaned up against a pillar. I worry about him all the time. Is he eating properly? Why can’t he be with us? Has he hurt someone? What did he do over there? Will he kill himself like Sandra did?
We eat dinner in town at a small Puerto Rican place with the best shrimp tacos in the world. Isabella gets the nachos while Damian gets a Caribbean burger. We sit outside, since it is hot out, even for January. I look at the stars above us while we eat, then wonder what Ryan is eating. I check my phone, but he still hasn’t answered my texts or called me back. I think about opening the app and seeing where he is but stop myself. I don’t want to go there. It’s a dark place and leads to nothing but me imagining the craziest of things. I don’t want to be that lunatic wife.
It’s dark when we return to base. Damian is tired, and I have to carry him inside even though he is getting way too heavy for me. Isabella isn’t saying much as usual. She’s been very quiet since she saw her dad attack me. I can’t blame her. I often still feel those fingers around my neck, and sometimes I wake up at night and can’t breathe, dreaming I am being strangled. That feeling of not being able to breathe—it’s awful.
“Did you do your homework?” I ask her as we walk up toward the house.
“I did it with CC,” she says, sounding annoyed. I know she hates it when I ask, but I need to know. Her grades have been going down lately, sliding slowly, and I fear she’s giving up. You can’t slide much before you fail in school these days. It was different when I was a kid. We could easily get by with a lot less. Today, the kids need to perform constantly—test after test, almost every day. I fear for her. She gets anxiety, and I fear it’ll break her.
“Okay,” I say. “Just checking. No reason to be upset.”
“But that’s the thing, Mom. You’re not just checking. You don’t trust me. You don’t think I know I need to do my homework or study for tests, but I do. And I am always prepared for school. You never recognize this. You act like I am two years old.”
I chuckle, holding Damian close to me, carrying him toward the door, reminding myself to enjoy these years before he turns into a teenager too.
“Well, to be fair, you were only two years old just the other day, and you’ll have to forgive me, but it takes a while to get used to you being so big all of a sudden. It feels like just a few days ago that you needed me for everything.”