Heartbroken (7 page)

“I swung by the restaurant,” said Dean when he saw her. He had a guilty look on his face. “They said you went home.”

“You were late,” she said.

“You should have waited.” He had that edge to his voice. He got this way when certain kinds of people were around, as if he had to show everyone who was boss. She walked out of the room and put the wash in the white basket in the tiny laundry room. She didn’t care if she was being rude. She took out the trash, came in, and started the dishes.

Then he was behind her. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

She didn’t answer him. The television was louder in the other room. They’d turned to a game, and she could hear the tinny sound of a crowd cheering. She started the faucet to rinse the dishes before loading them into the dishwasher.

“Who is that?” she asked without turning around.

“Just someone I used to know.”

She knew what the phrase meant. She spun around to look at him. “What does he want?”

He looked down at the floor. She noticed the half-moon scar around his eye where his father had hit him with a closed fist, cutting Dean with his ring. Dean had told her that he was twelve at the time. He smelled like cigarettes, though he’d sworn last week that he’d quit. They couldn’t afford cigarettes right now.

“How did you do on tips today?” he asked.

She hugged her arms around her middle. She’d done pretty well. But she needed to pay the rent on Friday. “Not great,” she lied. “How much do you need?”

“A couple hundred.”

“I don’t have it,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

She’d taken to stopping at the bank on her way home from work, not keeping a lot of cash on hand. She hadn’t done that today because she didn’t have the car, so she was carrying almost a hundred dollars in her purse.

He looked at her. “Then get dressed and come with me.”

“No.”

“Baby,” he said. He wrapped his arms around her, placed his mouth to her ear. “Please.”

He sounded desperate; she felt herself relenting. She knew he could sense it. “Wear the blue dress,” he said. “It looks so pretty on you.”

She walked away from him and went into the bedroom and closed the door, her heart pounding. Why was she so weak? She took the blue wrap dress from the closet and slipped it on. In the bathroom, she brushed her hair and put on a little lipstick.
Pretty enough
, she heard her mother say,
in a common way
. Emily grabbed the cute black patent-leather clutch and matching flats, other gifts from Dean that she knew he couldn’t afford. She wanted to lie down on the bed and go to sleep. She looked over at the fluffy white comforter and soft pillows. She was tired after the breakfast shift, which started early and was always hectic. It would feel so nice to lie down. But she went to him, as she knew he wanted her to. He gave her a wide smile when she emerged; it seemed more victorious than loving.

“This is my girl, Emily,” said Dean. “Em, this is my old friend Brad. We came up together in Florida.”

Dean had done time in Florida, three years in juvenile detention for an armed robbery. He’d come north to escape that life, he’d told her. But Emily wondered if you could ever really escape where you came from. It didn’t seem like you could.

She reached out for Brad’s hand, and he shook it more gently than she would have expected. He had long blond hair that hung, uncombed and unwashed, around his shoulders and a goatee that needed trimming. He might have been handsome, but there was something mean about the set of his mouth, the narrowness of his eyes. He looked at her with naked desire, and she turned away, moved over to Dean. He draped a possessive arm around her.

“Pleased to meet you,” Brad said. Was there something mocking about the way he said it?

D
ean drove, with Brad riding shotgun and Emily in the backseat. Nobody said anything until they pulled off the main road into a development, following the paper signs to the open house.

“Look at these places,” said Dean.

The houses were huge, each one grander than the last—brick and stone, some of them three stories high. When Emily first met Dean, she’d been working for a maid service. This was one of the neighborhoods where she had come to clean.

She couldn’t believe the way people lived—with media rooms and gyms in their basements, master bedroom suites bigger than any of the homes she’d ever lived in, kitchens that looked like they belonged in a restaurant but so spotless she knew week to week that they hadn’t been touched. The kids’ rooms were what killed her, the closets stuffed with designer clothes, the computers, the iPods, the video game systems, the shelves of books, the mounds of toys.

“It’s disgusting,” said Dean. Brad grunted beside him.

Emily didn’t think it was disgusting. Why was it disgusting to work hard and get wealthy and live well? Most of the people she’d cleaned for were nice enough. Sure, there was the occasional snob. Mostly, they were normal families, working too hard, too busy to clean.

When she was in those homes, it wasn’t the wives she envied, with their manicured nails and stylish clothes; it was the children, the daughters especially. These were the loved children, the wanted ones. These were the girls who were cherished. Their parents told them that they were loved, and beautiful, and smart, that they could do anything they wanted to in this world. They believed it, so it was true. Emily would touch their clothes and hug their dolls, straighten their pillows with extra care. She wondered if it was like fairy dust, all that love. Maybe some of it would rub off on her.

When they pulled up to the open house, there were several other
cars parked around. That was best, when there were other people there and the broker was busy answering questions and showing off the features of the house.

Dean stepped out and pulled the seat forward so that she could climb out.

“You look nice,” she said. He’d changed into pressed chinos and a royal blue oxford with the red silk tie she’d bought him for Christmas. He closed the door, and they walked up the drive together.

“Thanks for this,” he whispered. “You know how much I need you.”

“What does he want, Dean?” she asked for the second time.

“I owe him some money.”

“How much?” She felt a rush of disappointment and anger.

“Don’t ask,” he answered.

For a minute, before they got inside, she let herself sink into the moment. Both of them dressed in their best, her arm looped into his, she let herself imagine that they were a young professional couple, newly married, looking for their first home. He had a great job, making tons of money. He was a star at his company. She was expecting their first child, not sure whether she’d continue working once the kids started coming. She imagined that they were walking through the big wooden door with every expectation that this house, or one even better, could be theirs. She let herself be that woman. What did she do? She was a teacher. Yes, that was it. She didn’t make as much as her husband did, but she loved her work. She loved molding young minds, giving them the knowledge they needed to succeed in the world. That was what Emily was studying in school, early childhood education. She’d go back. She would.

It was a triple-height foyer, which Emily just loved. High ceilings meant wealth; if you could afford all that space with nothing in it, you had money to burn. The staircase swept dramatically up the side of the wall to a landing. She could imagine herself gliding
down in some fabulous party dress, Dean waiting for her at the door in a tuxedo. The floors were hardwood, solid beneath her feet. What impressed Emily most were the fresh white calla lilies in tall vases. Giant decorative bouquets like that cost a fortune and lasted about a week. Emily loved the look and aroma of fresh flowers, even though they reminded her of how nothing lovely and delicate can stay. If you could afford to surround yourself with flowers that someone else carted away and replaced every week, you had arrived at the good life.

Emily and Dean didn’t need to talk or plan. They’d done this so many times. They would make sure the broker saw them; they would take the flyer and one of the little bottles of water. She’d coo over the double fireplace that could be seen from the kitchen and the open dining room. He would say he loved the floor plan but worried about the landing, with the baby and all. She’d marvel at how much natural light there was and wonder how they kept the skylights clean. He’d be disappointed that the pool didn’t have an attached hot tub.

If the broker was an older person, she’d immediately sniff out that they didn’t have any money, especially if she’d seen their car. Depending on her personality, she’d either ignore them or watch them closely. The younger ones were still naive and hopeful. Most of them probably didn’t have that much money themselves and didn’t yet know what it smelled like or looked like. This broker was young, probably not much older than Emily. And she looked nervous.

Dean held her up, asking things about the house. When was it built? Who was the developer? What were the private schools in the area? Emily drifted up the stairs. Most sellers knew to safeguard their valuables for an open house, so there wouldn’t be jewelry lying around. Most homes like this had safes, and if not, at least things were locked up in boxes or drawers, though once she found a very expensive watch in a nightstand. And they knew to take down all their pictures so that potential buyers could envision themselves living in
the home. Which was also good for Emily, because she didn’t have to look at the faces of the people she was violating.

This four-bedroom house, she figured, would have three and a half baths. But it was only the master bath she was interested in. Root canals, migraines, back problems, sprains or breaks—most people had experienced some kind of malady for which a doctor would prescribe powerful painkillers. Most people didn’t take any of it, or at least not all of it. But those bottles of OxyContin or Vicodin stayed in their medicine cabinets. Some people forgot about them, while others didn’t know how to safely dispose of them; still others kept them, she guessed, for some just-in-case scenario, like an army of little orange soldiers with green caps at the ready to rescue them from sleepless nights, free-floating anxiety, or sudden toothaches.

When Emily worked for the cleaning service, she had ready access to medicine cabinets all day long. It was easy to see from week to week what was being used and what wasn’t. She’d check the prescription dates, count the pills. She hadn’t visited a home yet that didn’t have something interesting … Ambien was popular for insomnia, Ativan for anxiety. Then, of course, there were Prozac, Ritalin, Zoloft, lithium. Those were trickier because people who had any of those medications usually took them regularly; they knew exactly how many pills were in each bottle. If they tried to refill before the time allotted by the doctor or insurance company, a red flag would go up. They’d know someone else had been taking the pills. Emily had learned that lesson the hard way.

She drifted around the bedroom, looking at the books on the shelves, moving into the bonus room, which this family was using as a cozy television sitting area. She could tell by the feel of the fabrics that the furniture was expensive.

There was another couple in the master bath, oohing and aahing over the steam shower and marble floors. Emily sank down on the love seat and looked out over the tops of the maple and sycamore trees, pretending to take in the view; this was where you’d come after
the children went to bed. You’d bring your glass of wine and look outside, unwind. You’d talk to each other about your day—how the kids were wild, how the boss was a jerk.

When the other couple left, she went into the bathroom and shut the door. She’d have to be quick; she could hear other voices on the second floor. The master bedroom was one of the most important features of a house.

She didn’t have to be cautious, like she’d had to be as a cleaning lady. Then she’d take only one or two pills from whatever she found, depending on how much was in the bottle. She’d carry little bags in her pocket, careful to keep everything separate and labeled. You got more money that way, Dean had taught her, when people knew what they were buying. The pain pills and the antidepressants had the highest value. The ADD drugs were good, too. Though Dean’s dealer would take anything for the “cocktail parties.” Someone would have a bowl of prescription drugs, and the people at the party would take whatever was in there without knowing exactly what they were ingesting. Mostly, it was kids. It was totally crazy. Emily didn’t understand how anyone could take a pill without knowing what it was or what it could do.

She opened the cabinet and started rifling through. Cold medicine. She grabbed the Sudafed, because that could be used in making other drugs. There was always demand for it. There were Motrin, Tylenol, and a box of Imodium. None of that was any good. The top two shelves were all prescriptions. Jackpot. She didn’t bother to look at what they were; she just put it all in her bag. They could sort it out in the car. There was no one in the room when she came back out. So she drifted down the stairs, where Dean was still talking to the broker.