The Secrets She Keeps (3 page)

My voice sounded hollow and clanging in all that silence, and I embarrassed myself. Thank God people don’t see all the crazy things you do in private. I felt a little out of control, because I knew if that paper was anywhere, it would likely be in one of two remaining places—the trash can outside or, where I looked next, the kitchen garbage. I rooted past a banana peel and a half-filled coffee filter, mad at the cliché it all was, and then my phone rang. I startled, as if I was the one who’d been caught.

I have no excuse for the fact that I answered. Answering right then was unwise. It just added a rainstorm to a bad driver on a curvy mountain road. I loved my mother, but she made my head ache. It was almost instantaneous, like eating ice cream too fast. Still, you go on eating ice cream too fast.

“I’m glad you’re there. I have a favor,” she said, skipping straight past those pesky hellos.

Headaches, ice cream, mountain roads—none of it mattered. I needed my mother. “Thomas is seeing someone,” I told her.

“Like a someone-someone?”

“I think so.”

“What do you know.”

I crooked the phone against my shoulder, washed the coffee grounds off my hands.

“Jesus, are you standing under a waterfall?”

I shut the faucet off, dried my hands on the legs of my jeans. “Is this where I’m supposed to throw his stuff on the lawn?”

“Are you sure about this? Thomas isn’t the affair type. He’s as loyal as a pocket watch.”

I was surprised she defended him. Men had a thousand ways of disappointing you, according to her, and she was always happy to list them. I was also surprised that the comment stung me a little. He was my pocket watch, after all. Or had been, all these years.

“He would. He did. Is. I don’t even know.”

“You sound awfully calm about it.”

“I do?” I didn’t feel calm. I felt like I was holding back an avalanche with the palm of one hand. I opened the fridge and stared inside for answers. Instead of answers, there was a note I hadn’t noticed yesterday, inside the butter container. I lifted the little door.
Love you, Mom,
it said.
Don’t
worry.

My throat got tight with tears, and I swallowed hard.

“Are you there?” Gloria asked.

“I’m here.”

“What did he say about it?”

“Nothing yet.”

“Nothing? He hasn’t admitted anything?” If it were her, she’d be lighting his favorite record albums on fire by now. At least, that’s what happened with her boyfriend, Bob, when I was a kid; I remember a funny smell and the melted faces of Sonny and Cher over the Weber in our backyard.

“I tried to get him to tell me, but he wouldn’t.”

“Do you have proof? Did you check his email?”

“Not yet.”

“You have to check his email! That’ll tell you everything.”

“I can’t. I don’t even know if I want proof. It all just seems weirdly
inevitable
.” How could it not? There was my mother herself, and Shaye, and that ranch, and the way history could ride along in your bloodstream.

“Nonsense. If anyone can stay married forever, it’s you,” my mother said.

She sounded like my sister. Shaye had said the same thing to me a million times. Maybe I was overly sensitive, but it always seemed like one of those insults disguised as a compliment. Shaye and Mom were the similar ones, from their romantic histories and Bay Area houses down to their light hair and delicate features. I resembled our father, who left just after Shaye was born, at least according to the three snapshots we had of him, the white-bordered, yellow-hued kind from the days of drive-through Kodak Fotomats. With Shaye and Mom, I was always the one in the backseat, saying,
What? Who?
because I couldn’t quite hear back there. Not that I entirely minded—the backseat has its benefits. More space, for one.

“Thanks, I guess,” I said.

“That’s not a
bad
thing. Anyway, I’m sure there’s some kind of mistake.”

“I don’t think so.” I paced the perimeter of the kitchen.
Some kind of mistake.
I never knew how lovely that phrase was.

“Did you hear the news?”

“I don’t think I can take any more news.”

“Shaye’s threatening divorce. Eric bought a sports car.”

“Oh, no. It’s getting ridiculous over there.”

“I told her he should’ve just painted his dick red.”

I always seemed to forget that needing your mother and getting what you needed from your mother were separate but neighboring planets. I considered making brownies and eating the whole pan of them while polishing off a bottle of wine. The urge got worse right after what she said next.

“That’s not what I called to tell you, though. I need you to do something for me. Remember Art Harris? Nash’s…well, I always thought they were lovers, but never mind. He called. He thinks someone should come. Her health isn’t the greatest, for one, and apparently she’s been doing some bizarre things.”

“What kind of bizarre things?” My aunt wasn’t one for irrational acts, and it was perhaps the thing I loved most about her. She was practical. Able. Calm when angry. The antithesis of my mother.

“She’s been taking off, causing scenes. Letting things go. There’s some crisis with the forest service about her property. I have no idea. She’s getting senile, probably. It’s shitty getting old. You’ve got to keep active, and what does she do out there? Watch the grass grow? Well, she’s always been strong-willed, to put it politely.”

This was akin to a tornado insulting a hurricane. “Something’s wrong, then,” I said. “Because none of that sounds anything like her.” I couldn’t even fathom senility in an equation involving Nash, with her solidity and sturdy resolve. Likely it all had a purpose, if a cryptic one, though what did I know about being eighty.

“What is she thinking, living out there alone at her age?” my mother went on. “She should have sold that place a long time ago. It’s, what, two hundred plus acres? She could’ve got a nice condo like mine. Can you imagine spending your whole life on that ranch? God, how could you stand it. And, now, Jesus, she’s the big eight
-
oh.”

“Well, you’re seventy-nine.”

“Do you know how shocking that is? If we have to get her into a
home
, it’s beyond me how we’ll do it. Someone’s got to go over there,
assess
the situation. Harris could be completely overreacting. I don’t know the guy as far as I can throw him.”

“You’re her sister. You should be the one. And obviously I’ve got a lot going on here.”

“You know I hate that place. I’m not good in a crisis. I don’t want to see her old and crazy. Besides, I can’t leave my students.” Gloria taught pottery three days a week at the community college near her place in San Rafael, where she and Shaye moved when Shaye married her first husband, Mathew. “You’re not working. You could take the girls! They’d love to ride the horses.”

“They’re not seven, Mom. Amy just left for Costa Rica. Melissa’s in college. She’s got a
job
.”

“
You
don’t! We need
someone
! We can’t just ignore the guy after he calls, saying there’s an emergency.”

I gave her my response through gritted teeth and pursed lips.

“Never mind! Fine, forget I asked.”

We had a few more minutes of tense, meaningless conversation, which was actually only an opportunity for my mother to display by her tone of voice how I’d let her down and how she would now rise above it. She was old, too, and I was supposed to be nicer. I reminded myself of this a hundred times. You didn’t want to have regrets. But she never seemed truly old to me, except in flashes where I noticed a slight imbalance in her walk or an unexpected difficulty when she rose from a chair. She was as large to me as ever; she would always be large, likely, even when she was gone, and after we hung up, I felt a bolt of rage jet through me. It braided together with a strand of unearned but maddeningly persistent guilt. I wouldn’t easily shake off Nash’s distress, and my mother knew it. Unlike her, I was the type to remember the birthdays of elderly relatives, the one who showed up at the airport two hours before departure, the one who never parked in handicapped spots. Someday I was going to go wild and keep my phone on just before takeoff.

I uncorked that wine, took a swig right from the bottle like a cartoon pirate. And then I finally did it. I dug through the trash can outside.

It was that easy, the white ball nestled up against—yes—some discarded tofu! Fucking tofu! I hated the stuff! I hated those smug gelatinous cubes, and the years of patience I’d given them shoved together and became a burning fury.

I took the business card into the house. I sat down on that helpful bench we’d put next to the door, where a person could remove their shoes or set a stack of mail. A pair of Amy’s colorful flats waited on that bench like a hopeful boy at a dance. I didn’t want to open that ball of paper, and I did want to. These confused desires made my hands shake. The card had dried, and much of the print had been lost among our joint laundry. But there. You could see it clear enough.
Mary Evans,
it read.
Eastside P—
That was all. No clue what came after the
P,
and much of the phone number was missing. The lost alphabet letters were likely trapped in the suffocating hell of dryer-vent fuzz, and good luck to them.

Jarret Somebody, financial services, eh, Thomas? It wasn’t even a good lie! And for God’s sake, if you’re going to lie, have enough self-respect to make it
believable
. Make it have legs and a backbone, make it
stand up
, instead of pulling some rubbery story out of your childish ass.
Cover your tracks
, at least.

Rage gathered, and it filled me with an energy I never knew I possessed. I could lift a car off a baby. I could strangle Thomas and Mary Evans with my bare hands, if I wasn’t already utterly done and finished with this pathetic nonsense. Great! No problem, Thomas. Honestly, after dealing with his moping and moods, what I most felt was
Good. Go.

The phone call from my mother had actually been a kindness from the fates; I was sure. It wasn’t an irritating interruption after all but an offering, an outreached hand. I was a woman who believed in fate. Maybe I even believed that the timing of that call was a reward—
finally!
—for my own goodness. I looked down at that horrible card and truly believed that something was being made easy for me. Likely it was just another hapless move by our old pal coincidence, but there you had it.

The energy turned into a swift plan. No,
a plan
sounded graphed and numbered. This was more a swarming mass that spoke one word:
out
.

It was Thomas and Mary Evans at Eastside P, but not just Thomas and Mary Evans at Eastside P. It was the dog dying, the daughters growing up, the unchanged mother, the floors of the house beginning to slope. It was Thomas’s back, and a bad perm from a lifetime ago, and adventures in Costa Rica, and the failed idea that I might find happiness once everything finally got crossed off the list, only now that the list was mostly crossed off, what I was most was crushingly lonely.

I knew there were road maps in the den. Yes, we had a den! I know! Who has a den? Dens were in the television shows of my childhood, the territory of Darrin Stephens and Mike Brady. Forgive me, but it also had paneling. I liked the paneling! It was reassuring! The maps were in a box up in the closet. Who has maps anymore, either, but I wanted one. A real foldout map, with roads and possibilities you could follow with one finger.

The box was high up, and it fell when I tipped it down. Maps spilled. I found the western states and left the rest on the floor. I packed what I needed. I brought Amy’s note from the butter shelf. I didn’t leave a note of my own, unless you counted the crumpled business card I left on the kitchen table, the one that once passed from the hand of Mary Evans, Eastside P, to that of my husband, Thomas Bennett.

It had been a long while since I’d been out to the ranch. The last time was when Thomas and I took the kids when they were small. Back then, Nash had been fit enough to get on a horse. Still, I remembered this, even without a map: seven hundred fifty miles, thirteen hours, to Reno. Drive past the Washoe County Courthouse and the Park Chapel, and then head over the bridge. After that, it was just under an hour down the dusty road to the log archway and double gate of Tamarosa Ranch.

What heedless actions would you change if you could read the future? I don’t have the answer to that even now. I am still a woman who believes in fate, same as Nash. Kit Covey was also likely
meant
.

I hauled my suitcase down that perfect brick walk and wedged it into the trunk of my car. I slid behind the wheel and buckled my seat belt. But then I unbuckled it again and got out. I went back inside the house. I filled Hugo’s water bowl, which still sat in its place on the kitchen floor. And then I jammed the car into reverse and screeched around the corner like Starsky minus Hutch.

Nash drives past the Washoe County Courthouse and the Park Chapel, and then she heads over the bridge. After that, it is just under an hour down the dusty road to the log archway and double gate of Tamarosa Ranch. She doesn’t realize how tightly she’s been gripping that steering wheel until they arrive in front of the main house. She unclenches her fingers and rolls her knotted shoulders with relief. The trip felt a day long, going that carefully over the bumps in the road. When they pull up, Jack Waters is waiting on the porch. Oh, Jack—that’s how she feels when she looks at him:
Oh, Jack
. He’s only a few years older than she is, but he’s a man who can carry the world on his shoulders, all the while wearing that grin of his. Not everyone’s eyes twinkle, but his do. The ladies always wink at each other about the way he looks on the back of a horse, but that’s not the best thing about him. He watches out for a person, and that is.