His Other Wife (15 page)

Just their luck to get a driver who wasn’t in a hurry to head home. With their stomachs rumbling and sneezes coming on, they
hid behind a maintenance tractor while the guy whistled and walked the circumference of the bus, checking the windows, examining
something in the vicinity of the tailpipe. “Come
on
, mister,” one of the boys had urged through his teeth. It was getting cold out there.

Eric had always wanted to drive a bus. He’d always wanted to drive a car, too, for that matter. And now, with his learner’s
permit in his wallet and at least two hours of practice with his grandfather, Eric felt like an old hand.

Floodlights bathed the yard. No sooner had the driver shouldered his bag and keyed in the code to slide the gate into place,
than they bolted.

One shove on the hinge and the door accordioned open. He’d left it unlocked. They tramped up the stairs, falling against the
hand railing and the steps with laughter.

“Think you can hot-wire this thing, Raymond?”

The kid didn’t answer. He was already jimmying the ignition with a knife.

Dane stared at the gearshift. “Wynn, you know how to drive a stick?”

When the engine started up, Dane flipped on the public-address system and held the microphone to his face. The machine emitted
an earsplitting wail until he pulled it away. “Our tour of Rome has been rescheduled. Today, ladies and gentlemen, you’ll
be pleased to know that we’ll be taking you on an all-expense-paid, death-defying trip to Addison Street, where you will see —”

Eric had stomped on the clutch and tried to find reverse. He found the gas pedal instead and the bus lurched forward. They
fell on top of one another. Eric shifted again, a horrible grinding noise that sounded like the transmission was eating itself.
The bus leapfrogged forward, clipping off the bumper of the Handi-Van in front of it and impaling its nose in the fence. “Evacuate!”
someone shouted, and, leaving the engine running, they leaped, ducked through the hole the bus had torn through the fence,
and ran.

Even though the school district had pressed charges and they’d gotten suspended for two weeks, even though Eric had taken
a 0 on a test and it brought his grade down to a C, even though he’d missed the first track meet because he’d had to get in
a certain number of practices before he could run with them again, his friends hadn’t ostracized him. Even his own father
had told the story, years later, with a twinkle in his eye. But there hadn’t been a life at stake. When they’d made it back
to class, they’d been treated like heroes.

Eric’s BlackBerry indicated he had a message. That’s all it took, the vibration in his palm, to return Eric to the present.
There wasn’t a need to check who’d sent the text. He already knew.

He weighed the small device in his hand for a moment, just let it balance there, and thought how easy it would be to let it
fall through his fingers. His whole life, captured inside the small screen and a narrow case. By any investigator in the know
Eric’s every call could be retrieved, a jumble of information from acquaintances who’d communicated only once, family and
friends he cared about whom he talked to a half-dozen times a day. In his palm, he held Pam and the kids’ itinerary for their
return flight to LAX. He held the photo of Ben hugging his best friend, Charlie. He held the complete sequence of Lily’s life,
starting with that first fuzzy shot of his daughter in the pink hospital cap all the way to the U5 soccer game last week,
with Lily’s shin guards almost bigger than she was. His second life encapsulated on a PDA.

Yet Eric still caught himself thinking about Hilary. She’d always been exhausted from juggling Seth with her long days at
the hospital. She’d been distraught over a patient they’d lost. She’d been busy making Seth a costume or going to Bible study
or having coffee with the girls. She’d always found some excuse to be distant, and he’d always found some excuse to let her
stay that way. He’d let it happen. He’d blamed it on everyone but himself. He’d fallen for Pam. The days had passed and they’d
been swept into an irreversible current. Even now he’d argue that it hadn’t been a mistake. It had just been
life
. And
life
made everything more complicated.

Can a man live the same story twice with a different cast of characters? Could he blame Seth for his abrupt pulling away when
he had been the one who’d taught his son how to do it?

There was more than one way for a man to fall off a cliff.

E
mily stared at her phone, willing it to ring. She shouldn’t even have it on. Cell phones were prohibited in the hospital.
She’d sent Seth about a dozen messages, but he wouldn’t answer.
Come on
, she thought, aching.
Don’t do this to yourself.

Don’t do this to
us.

It was a horrible feeling, wanting to save him, wanting to tell him that nothing was going to happen to Laura, wanting everything
to be okay for him, when she really didn’t know.

She should have guessed it would happen this way. When it came down to it, people sided with the injured one. When the police
had come to the hospital to question Seth’s friends, Emily didn’t think anyone had actually told the whole story. Not because
they wanted to protect Seth from anything but because they wanted to protect themselves from getting into trouble. Rumors
were running rampant on the Internet: Seth had been drunk and had dared Laura to the climb. Or they’d been up there fighting
about something. Or maybe he’d even pushed her. People could be so stupid.

Nothing could move as slowly as the hours at the hospital. Most of the kids in the senior class had stopped coming by now.
There wasn’t anything anyone could do. One of Laura’s mom’s friends had set up an account on CaringBridge and was sending
an updated report every few hours. It had been three days and no one could get in to see Laura except family, so only a few
of her closest friends still kept watch. Now people were talking. Texting. Blaming. Covering their tracks.

At least
most
people were texting. Seth wasn’t.

Down the hospital hall Emily saw Laura’s mom shut the door to Laura’s room. When the woman glanced up and saw Emily waiting,
she offered a faint smile. “Oh, honey. You’re still here.”

Emily nodded.

Laura’s mom held out her arms for an embrace. Emily buried her face against the woman’s sweater.

“There’s not anything else you can do here, Em,” Abigail Moore said. “You ought to go home and get some rest.”

“I’m so sorry,” Emily whispered. “It’s my fault, Mrs. Moore. She wouldn’t have done it if not for me.”

“Emily. You can’t say that. I’m sure you didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“I
did
. I don’t want to leave until she’s better. Please don’t make me go.”

Abigail held Emily away so she could see her face. “The nurse says that the last sense people lose is their hearing,” Laura’s
mom said. “If she can hear, Emily, she knows you’re here. I’ve told her many times.”

“She knows it’s my fault. I’m the one who told her it would be okay.” How could Emily make Laura’s mom understand that it
hadn’t only been Seth, it had been her, too? Emily had told Laura she could climb it, there wouldn’t be any problems if she
went with Seth. When the police had come to ask questions, Emily had stood in a corner with her throat sealed shut, like she
was trying to swallow a mistake she’d never be able to change.

Abigail touched Emily’s shoulder. “Would you like to go in? I could convince the nurse to let you see Laura. Now that the
crowd has thinned out, I don’t think anyone will mind.”

“You’d let me do that?”

“It would be good for you to talk to her.”

“I…I don’t know what to say.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I —”

“Tell her you’re glad to see her. Remind her of the fun things you do together. Hold her hand if you’d like. Tell her things
that will make her want to fight to come back.”

Emily followed Laura’s mom up the hall. When the heavy door swung open, Emily hung back, not knowing what to expect. Her eyes
took several seconds to adjust to the darkened room. The small, draped figure on the bed didn’t look like anyone Emily knew.
The shape might have been a mannequin onstage, a strange pale thing used for a prop, its head wrapped with dressings, skin
as pale as wax. An array of hoses hung at the bedside, the clear tubes dangling from the IV station, delivering coma-inducing
drugs. The plastic tubing that carried oxygen and the flex trach tube attached to the ventilator. The shape in the bed didn’t
have hair; it must have been shaved. Laura’s hair had been long and thick, dark strands that just last week Emily had braided.

Just when Emily thought she could pretend this person wasn’t anyone she knew at all, just when Emily thought that this must
be some terrible error, this wasn’t Laura here at all, she recognized the feet poking out the end of the blanket. She saw
the long second toe that Emily had always teased Laura over, the cracked nail that had happened when Laura had stubbed her
toe. They’d been dancing to a Taylor Swift song.

Emily couldn’t hold back another sob. Other than the chest rising and falling with the ventilator, her friend lay motionless.
Emily lifted Laura’s hand and used her other hand to close Laura’s thumb over her own. “I’m here,” she whispered. “I’ve been
here lots. Did you know that? Your mom said she told you.”

No response. Emily glanced at Laura’s mom for reassurance.

Abigail nodded.
Go ahead
, she mouthed.

“You know how we planned to go shopping for our dorm rooms together?” Emily asked. “There’s a bedspread at Urban Outfitters
I really like. I can’t wait to show it to you.”

A long pause, then, “We can go to the thrift shop and find old chairs we can paint to match. I watched a TV show about how
to refurbish old chairs.”

Another pause. “I miss you. You’ve got to get better.” Here the tears started again while Abigail came up from behind to hug
her. Emily had lost count of how many times she’d cried. “You’ve got so many stuffed animals and flowers and balloons in the
waiting room. You should see it all.”

Then, “You’ve got to keep fighting, okay? We just want you to get better.”

Laura’s mom’s fingers tightened on Emily’s shoulder.

After Emily left the hospital she tried once more to reach Seth.
Hi, you’ve reached Seth’s phone. Leave a message. I’ll get back to you.

Leave.

She left a voice message when he didn’t pick up. She punched in a text message, which he didn’t return.

She waited, but the screen stayed dark. Emily shoved the phone inside her purse as she climbed the steps to the L. She pitched
her backpack onto the bench as the train lurched forward. Her body went boneless as she slumped onto the seat and buried her
face in her hands.

Hilary dropped the tangle of towels on the kitchen table and began to fold one, her hands smoothing the terry cloth into thirds.
Across the room, she watched as Seth sat slumped on the sofa, his albatross arms draped across the entire width of the couch.
Perched on his small knees, his feet tucked under, Ben had settled in beside Seth, his face upturned toward his stepbrother’s.
The question, innocent and troubled, left Hilary’s throat knotted.

“How come you don’t like the truck we gave you?”

“Man.” Seth must not have realized his mom was anywhere within hearing distance. “You’re wrong about that. It’s the hottest
truck
ever
.” Hilary stopped, gingerly laid the towel on top of the pile, raised her head.

“Really?” Ben asked.

“Of
course
. Are you kidding?”

The boy’s eyes grew round, expectant. “Then why won’t you drive it?”

Seth drew in a sharp breath. He untangled his long arms and rocked forward. He rubbed his thumb against the bridge of his
nose as if trying to make a headache go away.

“Why?” Ben asked again. “I don’t understand.”

Hilary stood her ground that Eric and Pam should have talked to her before they showed up with a Ford F-150. It’s true they
ought to have conferred with her as they’d kicked around the idea of a
truck
. But she’d let that woman bait her into returning hostility and bringing herself down to Pam’s own level. And because of
that, Hilary had let Seth see beyond the poker face she ought to have been wearing and, like the day he’d tried to knock-knock-joke
her back to sanity when he’d been eight, he’d gone and done what he thought he needed to do to make Hilary feel better.

Which you were perfectly willing to let him do
, she reminded herself.
You were perfectly willing to walk away and let him carry the weight of all that, the way you’ve been willing to let him carry
the weight ever since Eric left home.

Seth said, “I guess some things are hard to explain.”

Apparently Seth’s noncommittal answer was enough to satisfy Ben. The little boy shifted subjects with the same deft speed
he used when he shifted to go after a rebound.

“We’ve got pictures on our camera. You want to see pictures?”

“Sure.”

With their heads together like that, even with one dark and the other light, it was hard to see where one boy ended and the
other began. Ben launched into a travelogue of the adventures of the Wynn-children-exploring-Chicago-with-their-mom, which
he accompanied frame by slow frame from the viewfinder of the digital camera. They’d visited the Children’s Museum and spent
a great deal of time in the schooner exhibit, he told Seth, with Lily checking out the fish and Ben scaling the schooner riggings.
They bought a kite in the museum shop and Pam had to find an open spot so she could teach them to fly it.

Then, just like that, Ben’s conversation changed course again. “Seth, if you ever drive your new truck, can Lily sit in your
lap and hold the steering wheel? She really wants to.”

“Of course she can.”

Whatever the boys had been watching on television ended. Music played, then gave way to a toothpaste commercial. “Seth?” Ben
asked.

“Yeah.”

And when Hilary heard his words, her heart felt too big for her chest. “You know what I’m going to do if you get put in jail,
Seth? You don’t have to worry. I’ll come rescue you. I’ll figure something out. I’ll break you out of there.”

John R. Mulligan, Esquire, was grateful for business. No matter that the economy had tanked on Wall Street, no matter that
people were going hungry on Main Street, litigable conflicts didn’t go away.

Sure, divorce numbers had fallen. Not as many folks could afford a breakup these days. But when it came to knife altercations
between neighbors, brothers threatening each other over the selling of land, colleagues accusing each other of blackmail and
conspiracy, the trade kept getting better and better. Let people call him idealistic if they wanted. He liked to think of
himself as representing the poor, the injured, the ignored, the forgotten.

If he liked civil cases, he liked pro bono criminal cases better. Still, he didn’t take a case unless he was sure he could
win it. He’d told this to Hilary Myers, the former Hilary Wynn, the first time she’d appeared in his office. John was a modest
attorney who had never lost a criminal case as either a prosecutor or a defense attorney. He was best known for his powerful
courtroom victories. He hadn’t lost a civil case since 1983.

He had his tricks; this was easier than it sounded. He kept the odds in his favor by declining cases he couldn’t win, no matter
what he believed about the guilt or innocence of his client. He liked mounting wins without any intervening losses. Selective
maneuvering. That’s what he called it.