Miss Me When I'm Gone (18 page)

“Well, you know . . . the first couple of weeks . . . knowing Frank just as an acquaintance, even . . . I thought, no, it couldn’t be. It didn’t seem like . . . you know, you want to feel like you could
know
that about a person, when you looked in his eyes. I couldn’t quite believe it. And that’s maybe just because you can never believe someone you know could do something like that. But some people
do
. And Shelly
did
talk about how he was unpredictable when he was drinking. And that they’d fight. She never said that he hit her, but she never said he didn’t either. I’d like to think that she’d have told me. We confided about a lot of things. I didn’t know what to think. And the trial left a lot of questions. I don’t know about Frank. It took me a while to decide it was possible that it was him. And I still feel it’s possible. I’m not like some of her other friends, though. I’m not
sure.
”

“You say you guys confided in each other a lot. Do you think there was any truth to the rumor that she was getting involved with her boss?”

“Phil Coleman?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah. Hon, I don’t want you to have a bad memory of Shelly. Shelly was a real sweet girl, and smart about a lot of things. Just not men. You know? She was still young. A lot younger than you are now, even.”

“So you say yes. Why? Did she tell you she was involved with him?”

“Uh. Yeah. It wasn’t going to go anywhere. She went out with him one night after work. For a drink, or whatever. And I don’t know what else happened, but it sounded to me like things got romantic. I was honest about that when the lawyers asked me. I know some of her family and friends thought I was helping them destroy her reputation. But that’s never what I wanted to do, hon. When people ask me questions about my poor friend who was murdered, what am I supposed to do but tell the truth? I felt the truth was the best way to find out what really happened. Even the unflattering parts of the truth. Do you mind if I smoke, hon?”

“Not at all,” Gretchen said.

After a pause of about fifteen seconds, Melanie continued. “I told you, Shelly’s way of dealing with men was kind of warped. I think it always had been, since she’d started getting in trouble with the boys in high school. I think this time it was that Shelly was afraid of losing her job. There were a couple of incidents at work where Phil was unhappy about some mistakes she’d made, or something. And getting a little flirty or romantic with Coleman . . . I think that’s how she’d always dealt with problems like that. Really, I loved Shelly. But it was true. That’s how she tried to solve her problems a lot of the time. I’m sorry to say it. As I said, she was young.”

“It’s okay,” Gretchen said. “So, this idea that Frank had, that she was looking for an upgrade, someone who’d make her look like a more responsible parent . . .”

“That’s crazy. Shelly had some crazy impulses with men, but she wasn’t dumb. She wouldn’t have rationalized going out with Coleman—who was engaged—as a good parenting choice.”

“But Frank obviously knew
something
was up between Shelly and her boss.”

“Yeah. Yeah, obviously he did.”

“And that could’ve been enough to make him really, really angry.”

“Yeah. That’s all true.”

“Do you think that’s what happened?”

“Probably, Gretchen.”

The interview stopped abruptly there. There was a silent spot on the recording, and I hit pause again, to take it all in. Melanie was certainly different from Shelly’s childhood friends. I wondered if I should track her down and talk to her, too.

I hit play.

Gretchen was saying, “Thanks for talking to me again.”

“Oh, no, no, no. It’s my pleasure,” said a hoarse male voice.

“How are you feeling today, Dr. Skinner?”

“Oh, pretty nice.”

“That’s good to hear,” Gretchen said loudly, enunciating.

“You said your name is Shelly, right?” Dr. Skinner asked.

“No, I said Shelly was my mother. My biological mother, you know?”

“Oh. Then what’s your name again?”

“Gretchen.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Dr. Skinner said good-naturedly.

“But I wanted to
ask
about Shelly. That’s probably why you were thinking of her name.”

“Yes. Probably. That and . . . you look just like her.”

“Yes! That’s what everyone says,” Gretchen replied.

“Everyone is right,” said Dr. Skinner.

“Maybe it would be easier if we started with what you knew about Shelly before she died,” Gretchen said. “I know she and your daughter spent a lot of time together. At each other’s houses.”

“Oh, yes. All of the girls liked to come over and go in the pool.”

“Diane’s friends, you mean? Judy and Shelly?” Gretchen asked.

“Yes, Judy and Shelly. Nice girls, both of them. Shelly was the prettiest, though.”

“I see.”

“Judy had excellent manners,” Dr. Skinner continued. “Still does, really. Knows how to talk to people.”

Gretchen coughed. “Shelly didn’t have good manners?”

“Oh, sure. Just not exceptional. Each of the girls was exceptional at something.”

“What about Diane?”

“My daughter? She’s very athletic. She’s very good at basketball.”

“Does she still play?” Gretchen asked.

“Oh, that’s silly. No.”

“So, getting back to Shelly. You knew her a long time.”

“Oh, yes.”

“What did you think when she moved back into the neighborhood? When she was in her early twenties?”

“I can’t say I thought much. I was glad to see she was doing better. It was generous of Bill to rent her that little house. I’d have been afraid of druggies going in and out at all hours. But he felt he owed it to Florence to be nice to her daughter. Florence was Shelly’s mother, you see.”

“I know,” I said.

“Yes, I guess you would.”

Dr. Skinner was starting to sound a little confused. Gretchen continued anyway.

“So you didn’t have much interaction when she was older, when she moved back in?”

“Nope. Not at first. But after a little while.”

“Tell me about it,” Gretchen said gently.

“I’d see her around the neighborhood. Ask her about her job. Try to catch up. She was still a sweet girl, despite all of the trouble.”

“Did you have any impressions of Frank? Frank Grippo?”

Dr. Skinner sighed. “I heard he was bad news.”

“Uh-huh, anything specific?”

“Hadn’t he been to jail?”

“Well, no. He’d been arrested a couple of times in the past. He’d beaten a guy up once while he was drunk . . .”

“Shelly could have done better.”

“I agree,” Gretchen muttered.

“Shelly was usually so sweet.”

“That’s what they say,” Gretchen said, with a sigh still in her voice.

“But she did give me some trouble,” Dr. Skinner said, his tone suddenly different—clearer, more confident, as if he’d just remembered something. “When Dr. Platt died, she started giving me trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?” Gretchen asked.

“She wasn’t happy. She wanted me to do something.”

“What could you do about it?”

“I don’t know.” The doctor was quiet for a moment. “You’re right. I don’t know. What could I do but take on some of the kids? Help out by taking some of the kids as patients? What else could I do?”

Gretchen paused. “Did she have questions about his death?”

“No. He had a heart attack. That was that. The man smoked like a chimney and had three rib eyes a week. No one who knew him was surprised.”

“But Shelly was surprised? Was she close to him, or something?”

“Close? Uh, not that I know of. Why would she be close with
him
?”

“I don’t know,” Gretchen said quickly. “I’m just trying to figure out what you’re saying. You mentioned to me last time that you chatted with her a few days before she died. Was this the chat you were talking about?”

“Yes, dear. What else would it be?”

“Okay.”

“It was me she gave a hard time to. She gave me a hard time, when he died.”

Gretchen sighed. “But why?”

“Because nothing I said would calm her down. I offered to do this or that to help, but no. Nothing.”

“Like what else did you offer?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Dr. Skinner sounded exasperated. “Everything I could think of. I’m getting a little tired, dear. Forgive me.”

“But why was Shelly so upset when Dr. Platt died?”

“Because, then, there weren’t enough doctors.”

“I don’t understand. Enough doctors for what?”

There was a long pause then.

“Shelly?” the doctor said hoarsely.

“Yes?” Gretchen replied quietly.

“There’s nothing to worry about. The kids will be fine.”

“Why wouldn’t they be?” Gretchen asked.

“Exactly. That’s what I said. They’re fine.”

“Dr. Skinner?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Can we talk about the day Shelly died now?”

Then there were some shifting sounds.

“I’d rather not,” Dr. Skinner said. “Forgive me. I’m tired, and it was the saddest day.”

“Okay,” Gretchen said, sounding disappointed.

My cell phone rang just then. With some relief—this conversation with Dr. Skinner was depressing me—I stopped the recorder and rolled off the couch to go answer it.

It was Gregor.

“Um . . . sorry to bother you,” he began.

“You’re not bothering me.”

“It’s just . . . I wanted to ask you about something. Um, is Gretchen’s ex gonna be helping you with the whole literary executor thing?”

“Jeremy? No. Not that I know of. I mean, I’ve tried to contact him a few times to chat . . . but so far we haven’t talked. Why?”

“Well . . . It’s just . . . he showed up here yesterday, saying that Gretchen’s parents had asked him to help, too. Wanted the same files you got. Asked if that could be arranged.”

“No one in Gretchen’s family told me about that.”

“Huh. You’d think they would’ve.”

“Did you call them and ask them?”

“No. They . . . uh . . . I just don’t think they like me much.”

“Did you let him have her files?”

“No. I was headed out. Didn’t have time. Wasn’t sure if I should, anyway.”

“Maybe I should call the Waterses and ask them.”

“Yeah. That’d be great,” Gregor said.

Five minutes later I had Mrs. Waters on the phone.

“Jeremy?” she repeated. “No. I haven’t spoken to him at all. Why, dear? Do you need help? Maybe you should slow down? What’re you now, seven months? More than that, right? Just put it aside for a little while and relax. Really, I don’t care if you wait a
year
. . .”

“No, it’s not that,” I said. “I don’t need help.”

I hesitated, realizing I didn’t wish to worry her. “Jeremy’s been asking if I need any help, and I didn’t know if he’d spoken to you.”

“Oh. No,” Mrs. Waters said. “He hasn’t. No hard feelings with Jeremy, dear, but I’m not sure if Gretchen would’ve wanted that.”

“Okay. Really, it means a lot to me to be reading Gretchen’s stuff. I don’t need help. I was just asking, is all. To make sure.”

“Well, thank you for that, honey,” Mrs. Waters said with a sigh.

After I’d hung up I called the newspaper and told them I was sick.

I knew I was pushing it—with all the days I’d had to call in during my early pregnancy. But I had a few things to say to Jeremy. And I wasn’t willing to wait.

Chapter 34

Jeremy’s condo was in a boring but well-manicured complex in a quiet central Massachusetts town. The place was a mass of gray paint and white balconies, each unit with the same red-brown door.

I could hear some kind of video game playing behind Jeremy’s door—the revving and crashing of a driving game. The noise stopped after I rang the bell. As the door opened, I pulled my cardigan over my stomach and buttoned the button over the roundest part. Jeremy stood in front of me in a light blue work shirt and a pair of navy sweats.

“Jamie!” He put his hand on his head and rubbed his hair. “What’s going on?”

I put an indignant hand on my hip. “I need to talk to you.”

“Huh? Do you, uh, want to come in?” Jeremy said. He glanced over my shoulder and squinted at my car in the parking lot. “Is Sam here with you?”

“No. And no. I’ll talk to you out here. What the hell is going on, Jeremy? Did you break into my house?”

Jeremy’s mouth hung open for a moment. “What’re you saying, Jamie?”

“I heard you wanted to get your hands on Gretchen’s manuscripts.”

Jeremy ran his hand through his hair again, but said nothing.

“Gregor called me, Jeremy. He told me about your conversation the other day. And I
know
Gretchen’s parents don’t have any intention of getting you involved with her book.”

“Right,” Jeremy whispered, pressing his glasses up his nose. “Jamie, won’t you come in so we can talk?”

“Nope. Right here.”

“I hate to have you standing out here . . .”

“Spare me the fragile condition bullshit, okay? Just tell me what’s going on. Did you try to
steal
Gretchen’s notebooks?”

“Her notebooks? From whom?”

“The laptops? Did you think her work would be in those laptops? Because it’s not.”

“What laptops? Jamie, you need to help me out here. Did someone steal Gretchen’s drafts from you?”

I didn’t reply. He pushed his glasses up his nose.

“I really
don’t know,
” Jeremy said. “I
did
ask Gregor for the files, yes. I shouldn’t have done that. But I wanted to see them before I talked to you. I needed to know what kind of conversation we were going to have to have.”

“You haven’t answered my e-mails. Why didn’t you just answer me and ask to see them?”

“There’s a bench outside.” Jeremy tugged at his sweatpants’ drawstring and tied it tighter. “Will you at least sit out there with me? We obviously need to talk, and I have a feeling it’s going to take more than a couple minutes.”

“Fine,” I said, and he led me to an island of hedges in the middle of the parking lot, where there were three granite benches surrounding a small fountain with no water.

“Nobody ever sits here,” Jeremy informed me before sitting.

I plopped myself down on the bench opposite his and waited for him to speak. Instead, he watched as a white Hyundai drove up and parked by the condo next to his. A young couple—a beefy guy and a pretty redhead in low-rise jeans—got out. The guy opened up the back and started sliding out a large box from IKEA. His lady friend grabbed hold of the other end of the box. He talked and she giggled while they worked, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying.

“What is it you wanted to tell me?” I prompted Jeremy.

Jeremy gazed at the couple until they’d disappeared behind their red-brown door with their box.

“I’ve wondered often, especially lately, what she told you about the divorce,” he said finally.

“Not all that much, really,” I admitted.

I watched him play with his sweatpants drawstring for a few moments, wrapping it around his thumb.

“She tell you I hit her?” he asked quietly.

I stared at him. “No.”

He put his palms on either side of him, flattening them against the granite as if he were about to spring up. But he stayed put.

“You mean once or you mean a lot of times?” I asked.

“More like once.”

“More like once?” I repeated.

The red-brown door opened and the couple returned to their car, pulling smaller IKEA boxes from it. This time, when they returned to their apartment, they left the door open. I watched them intently so I wouldn’t have to look at Jeremy.

“I want to tell you what happened between her and me,” he said.

I hesitated, distracted by the obvious question: Why hadn’t
Gretchen
told me what happened between them? Why was this the first I was hearing of this?

“Okay,” I murmured. “So tell me.”

“My dad was real sick. He died of lung cancer, did you know that?”

I nodded. “Yes. I’m sorry.”

“And Gretchen and I, we’d been talking a lot about how we’d have kids soon. I mean, around the time he decided to refuse any more treatment. A really hard time.”

“Okay,” I said again.

“And, not like she has it in the book. In the book, she makes it sound like some kind of agree-to-disagree thing we had going. But she basically had said yes, we were doing this. She’d stopped taking the pill and everything. Did she ever tell you that?”

“No,” I said, feeling vaguely inadequate for not knowing that either. Not that Sam or I told anyone when we were at that stage.

“Okay. Well, she did. We were trying, you know? And with my dad, there were some days when that was the only thing that kept me going. Knowing there’d be this other life . . . knowing there’d be something to look forward to. I know it sounds weird from me, the guy, to be so sentimental about it. It was like we were reversed. The woman’s usually the one who’s all excited about it.”

“I don’t know about that,” I said. “I’ve known a lot of couples where the guy’s the one who really goes crazy over the kids.”

“How is it with you guys?”

I had to think about this before answering. It was a good question.

“We’re both equal, I guess. We both knew we’d do this eventually. But, um, it gets more complicated when it becomes a reality.”

Jeremy seemed to hear only the first part of my response. “Well, that was kind of how I thought we were. That we both wanted it. But one day I got home early and took in the mail. And there was this notice for Gretchen from the medical center. It pissed me off, because she’d had some X-rays done like eight months before for a back problem she’d been having, and the insurance was supposed to pay for it. We kept getting the bills. And then we thought we finally got it squared away with the insurance, but here was a bill again. At least that’s what I thought. I tore it open, and what was in there wasn’t a bill for an X-ray. It was a reminder notice. It said that Gretchen had to come in for her next Depo-Provera shot. Do you know what that is?”

“Yeah,” I said. My heart did an extra little hard thud. This was starting to sound like a sordid story—the kind Gretchen probably wouldn’t have wanted me to hear.

“Women get them every three months—”

“Jeremy, I know what they are. I don’t know if we should be—”

I’d been gazing at the open red-brown door of the young couple. Now I was watching as a long-haired tuxedo cat pranced out of their apartment.

“I just want you to
understand
what happened.” Jeremy was staring at me, trying to reestablish eye contact. I let him. “I need someone who was close to her to know. I thought it was a mistake. I thought, this stupid hospital fucks
everything
up. I think that’s what I said when I showed the notice to her when she got home. And then the look on her face . . . And she starts telling me that she just couldn’t handle it yet, it was impossible for her to even think of kids yet. Oh my God, Jamie. I was so angry.”

“So you . . .”

“I kind of pushed her into the wall. Hard. When I heard that, I was just, like, out of control for a couple of minutes there. Like there must be something terribly wrong with both of us for her to do that. To do that and let me think we were trying for all that time, rather than just
talking
to me. To make me think that any minute now we’d be—”

“It had been three months?”

“Six.”

“Okay. So how did Gretchen react? When you did that?”

“Well, she was shocked. And she kept trying to explain . . . That she wasn’t ready, she was terrified, but I had been so sure, and so stressed about my dad, she didn’t want to upset me. It felt like crazy talk to me, though. I mean, who
does
that?”

I shrugged. “Maybe a lot of women? I mean, not with such extreme measures. Maybe for a lot of people, though,
controlling
the situation is easier than talking about it?”

“I don’t know. But I thought we could talk about things. I mean, I’m not some insensitive prick. I mean, that day aside. We talked about everything. Or . . . I guess . . . I thought we did.”

“So was there another time?”

“A few days later. After I visited my dad in the hospital, I went for a couple of drinks. When I got home, I was getting all up in her face. I was like ‘When do those magic shots wear off, Gretchen? When are you going in for your next one?’ I was following her around saying that, while she was trying to dry dishes and put them away. I kept getting in front of the cabinets wherever she was trying to reach, blocking her way. And then finally she looked right back at me and said, ‘So you’re an asshole now? This is who you are now? Because I’m not ready to be your baby machine?’

“That’s it. That’s when I hit her.”

“In the face?”

“Yes.”

“With your fist?” I asked, not sure I wanted to know the answer.

“No. With my hand, though. The other side of her face kind of slammed into the cabinet door. Then she pushed me away. She ran into the living room, and I followed her, trying to apologize. She started pulling books off the shelves. Big ones—the biggest she could find. Dictionaries and stuff. And throwing them at me. She was screaming, ‘Don’t you EVER hit me! Who do you think you are? What the fuck do you think this is? A turn-of-the-century whorehouse?’ ”

I bit my lip, stifling a snort. “She said that?”

Jeremy’s face was purple by now. He stared at his hands. “Yeah. And she kept throwing those books. Till one hit me in the head. Then she ran upstairs and locked herself in the bedroom. She wouldn’t let me in to talk. I could hear her crying in there all night long. The next day she had a bruise on her face. I think she may have called in sick so people couldn’t see her. And she spent that night away. I don’t even know where she went. A couple of days later she tells me she thinks we should separate.”

“DAMN IT, ANGELA!” A yell came from the open apartment, and the IKEA guy came outside, looked under his car, then under the bushes nearest his door.

“And did you agree that you should?” I asked.

“My head was kind of still exploding from everything that had happened, so I didn’t know what to think. But we met for dinner a couple of days later. And she was like, ‘I had to tell the people at work I bumped into a door. I had to be one of
those
women.’ And I didn’t know what to say to that. I was sorry I put her in that position. I kept apologizing. But I guess I expected her to apologize, too. She didn’t, really. Should I not have expected her to?”

“I don’t know. Apologizing after you hit her . . . why would you expect that?”

“Um . . . I didn’t mean it like that. Of course that sounds terrible. I was sorry. I can’t tell you. Really sorry. I still am. But I mean, I expected her to acknowledge the other thing. That was never really resolved, though. She started saying stuff about how if we broke up now, and didn’t stretch it out, there would still be time for me to find someone I could have a family with. Because she was pretty sure it wasn’t going to happen with her.”

By now both the young man and the young woman were outside, looking under cars for their cat.

“And I started to see that she was right. It was like we’d both seen each other’s absolute bottom. Lying and sneaking and hitting and shit. It was, like, who wants to try to be in love after that? We’d already seen how bad we could be to each other. It was like something was erased after that. There wouldn’t be any joy in getting back together.

“And she started talking about Shelly a lot. I think, in a way, it was always about Shelly. At one point, when I was trying to get her to come back, she said to me, ‘I never really knew how to pretend to be a daughter. I don’t really want to try to pretend to be someone’s mother either.’ ”

“I see,” I said slowly. It sounded like Gretchen also found it difficult pretending to be someone’s wife.

The tuxedo cat ran out from under my car just then. The guy leaped at him but missed. The young woman tried to chase him back into their apartment, but the cat ran right past the door.

“Should we help them?” I asked, turning to Jeremy.

Jeremy shook his head. “They do this at least once a week. Even if the whole baby question wasn’t about Shelly, then the, uh . . . incident between me and her . . . what I did . . .
that
was. I think it sort of triggered something in her. I’d flipped a switch. She couldn’t give me another chance, because that was the sort of thing Shelly was always doing. And she couldn’t make the same mistakes as Shelly, cuz look where that led.”