These Girls (25 page)

Words intruded into her thoughts. “Tell me about Anna-belle,” Renee was saying, her voice surprisingly firm. “Abby, tell me something you love about her. One thing. Right now.”

Abby’s body shook a few more times, then stilled. She thought about Annabelle’s chubby, trusting hand in her own. She could almost feel the little girl’s satiny skin, the open smile that showed her tiny white teeth. “I love the way she says my name,” she finally said in a hoarse voice. “She calls me Bee-bee.”

“What else?” Renee asked. She grabbed a few tissues from the box on the nightstand and handed them to Abby. “Tell me something else you love about her.”

“Reading to her. How she curled into my lap . . . she fit so perfectly. We read
Goodnight Moon
every night, and
Guess How Much I Love You
. And she smelled so good. . . . She loved it when I washed her hair and combed it out. I called her my little princess . . .”

“You love each other,” Renee said, her voice gentler now. “What else did Annabelle like to do?”

The images from the dream threatened to come back, but Abby pushed them away, fighting to keep a picture of Annabelle firmly fixed in her mind. “She liked the swings at the playground,” Abby said. “We went there every day when the weather was warm.”

“Did she like the slide, too?” Renee asked. Abby knew what Renee was trying to do; by making her talk, she was forcing her to stay in the present. The two of them were fighting as hard as they could to keep Abby from slipping back into terror.

“Yes, but only the little one,” Abby said. She tried to picture the playground. “There were two slides. One of them was too high for her. Once she tried it. I helped her climb up onto the platform, and then I went around to catch her at the bottom, but she was too scared to go down. . . . This little boy climbed up right behind her, so she was stuck.”

“Did you go up and get her?” Renee asked.

“No.” Abby shook her head. “I was about to, but the boy
pushed her when she didn’t move. She started to fall. She grabbed the side of the slide, but that just spun her around, so she wasn’t facing the right way. I knew she was going to somersault down the slide and get hurt. She cried out . . . She called my name . . .”

Abby’s voice trailed off for a moment as she remembered. “I knew I couldn’t reach up high enough to grab her, and other kids were blocking the steps to the slide, so I couldn’t get to her fast enough. I just ran straight
up
the slide.”

Renee smiled. “Like you were scaling a mountain? But without the climbing gear?”

“Yes,” Abby said. That day came rushing back to her: She remembered how adrenaline had flooded her body at the sound of Annabelle’s cry, making Abby feel like Superwoman. She’d almost
flown
up the tall plastic slide. She’d kept her eyes fixed on Annabelle and her arms had reached out to catch the little girl just as Bella lost her grip.

Kids were still blocking the ladder, so Abby had simply put Annabelle on her lap and wrapped her arms around her, then slid down. Annabelle wasn’t scared to do it with Abby. Abby thought about the feel of chubby little arms around her neck, the warmth of the sun on her face, and another nanny who’d witnessed the scene clapping her hands together, calling out to Abby, “Good job!”

Annabelle hadn’t even cried.

“You saved her,” Renee said. “Annabelle was going to get hurt and you were there.”

Abby nodded. She could barely speak, because her throat was raw from the tears she’d shed. She missed Annabelle so much it was a constant ache, but now there was something else mixed in with her pain, a tiny glow in the darkness.

Abby reached out for Renee’s hand. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Renee had managed to hold it together when Abby needed her, but now she was shaken. It was 4:00
A.M.
, and Abby had finally fallen back asleep, still clutching a crumpled tissue. Renee slipped off Abby’s bed, moving slowly so she didn’t awaken her. She tucked the blue comforter more securely around her, then stood there looking down. Even in sleep, Abby’s face was troubled, and every now and then, a shudder ran through her body.

Renee had read about veterans suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome, and it seemed similar to what Abby was going through—the nightmares, the trembling, the depression. Something wrenching had happened.

At least she was starting to talk about it, Renee thought. She glanced down at the nightstand light and decided to keep it burning. She didn’t want Abby to be in darkness when she woke up again. As she moved her arm away, she knocked a pile of papers to the floor. She bent down to pick them up and realized they were letters. Annabelle’s name was on every envelope.

Oh, Abby,
she thought, carefully stacking up the letters. There must have been a dozen. So Abby had been writing to Anna-belle ever since she’d arrived in New York. Maybe her secret was contained inside of the letters.

Renee tiptoed across the room, trying to balance her weight evenly so the floorboards wouldn’t creak. She started to close Abby’s door, then changed her mind and left it half-open, just in case.

Tonight marked some kind of breakthrough. Renee hoped Abby wouldn’t regress. Maybe next time she’d talk a little more, and Renee would be able to put together some of the pieces of her story. Abby had said she’d done terrible things. Renee knew something had happened between Abby and the husband at
her job—Cate had mentioned it—but it had to be more complicated than that. Could Abby have gotten pregnant?

Renee found herself wishing Cate were here instead of in Philly visiting her mother; she would have loved to talk to her about it. She went into her room and looked down at her bed, which was still made up from this morning. She’d just finished doing a hundred sit-ups and had been wide awake and about to swallow a Xanax when Abby’s screams had pierced through the walls. By now, Renee needed to dissolve one of those bitter orange pills on her tongue every night in order to sleep, and she always woke up with a dull headache that never really disappeared, even when she swallowed two Tylenols and washed them down with glass after glass of cold water.

It was too late for her to take a Xanax now, Renee realized. She needed to get up in three hours and be sharp for work. It would be better if she stayed awake and powered through the day, then went to bed early tonight. Renee knew she could do it; even though her body felt tired, her heartbeat was still a bit quicker than usual and her mind was racing. Her thoughts seemed crisp and quick on diet pills, as if her synapses were firing faster than usual—another reason why she loved those pills.

She took a shower, dried her hair, and slipped into her ratty old terry-cloth robe, briefly imagining the luxurious new one she’d buy if she got the job, before opening her laptop and scrolling through her blog pages. A few days ago, Cate had suggested Renee try to boost her blog followers by giving away goodies from the magazine’s free shelf. The magazine was constantly being inundated with gifts from PR firms hoping for publicity. Sometimes the freebies were small or silly—like M&M’s emblazoned with the name of a floor tile company—but often, legitimate prizes adorned the shelves: an alarm clock with soothing white noise features, yet-to-be-released hardcover books, scented Diptyque candles . . .

“Really?” Renee had asked. “Do you think it would be okay? What if someone who works here wants the stuff?”

“You said Nigel told you to be creative,” Cate had said. “Do you want a magazine writer to get another tube of overpriced eye cream, or do you want the job?”

“Good point.” Renee had barely finished saying the words before scooting over to the free shelf and scoring a cute beach bag with sunscreen, self-tanner, and Oakley sunglasses.

Now Renee read through the blog comments, then checked the numbers of followers Diane and Jessica had on their blogs: She was ahead of them by almost a hundred! If Nigel chose his new beauty editor based on social media buzz, Renee would be a shoo-in.

She decided to step on the scale. She’d been dying to weigh herself for the past few days, but she’d forced herself to wait. Sometimes she felt as if she could feel her fat burning away, and already her clothes were looser. She went into the bathroom, still moving quietly so she wouldn’t awaken Abby, and removed her robe. She automatically sucked in her stomach as she stood on the scale, and looked down. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw she’d lost another three pounds. She was down six pounds total!

All of Renee’s worries floated away, as if they were as insubstantial as bubbles blowing off a wand. For the first time, her weight-loss goals seemed within reach! In another week, when she’d really see the results of her diet, she’d come up with a reason to update her photo on Facebook and the blog. And suddenly the visit from Becca didn’t seem quite so intimidating, either.

And Trey . . . would he look at her differently once he saw how she’d transformed herself? He was hanging around the apartment an awful lot, and he’d brought those yellow roses, even though he’d pretended they were from Abby. She didn’t
think she’d ever mentioned they were her favorites to him, but maybe she had, and he’d remembered. Maybe they were edging toward each other again, but slowly, the way Renee had instinctively known she should have the first time around. They were friends now. It could grow into something more.

Renee flung open the bathroom window, stuck out her head, and let out a soft whoop. She breathed in a great gulp of the icy air, feeling it burn her cheeks and eyes and tongue. In that glittering moment, she felt like she could do anything at all—open the window and fly out, turning somersaults above the skyscrapers of New York; or dance all night, then run a double marathon. Although the city beneath her feet was never supposed to sleep, she felt like the only person in the world who was awake.

She’d never felt so alive.

Nineteen

ABBY KNEW WHAT JEALOUSY
felt like. In high school, the guy she had a secret crush on had asked her best friend to the prom. Abby had never revealed her true emotions. What would be the point? She’d gone shopping with her friend and helped her choose a blue spaghetti-strap dress, and she’d gone to the dance with a boy from her physics class. She’d thought she was handling things just fine, but as she swayed to a Chicago song with Ned, who had sweaty hands and an even sweatier neck, she’d caught a glimpse of her best friend and her crush making out, their hands running all over each other. Her stomach had tied itself into knots, and she’d felt physically ill. Even today, she quickly switched to another station whenever that song came on the radio.

But that sensation was nothing compared to this.

Abby couldn’t bear to be near Bob and Joanna when they were together, and she couldn’t stand it when she wasn’t around them. They’d never been a particularly affectionate couple, but Abby felt as if she was being punched whenever they did things as simple as discuss their schedules for the day, or when she passed by their empty bedroom to deposit Annabelle in her crib
for a nap. Once the door was wide open and Abby noticed the sheets on the bed were rumpled. She had to stop and catch her breath as she imagined Bob and Joanna sleeping together. Did they cuddle up close, or hug the opposite ends of the mattress? She couldn’t imagine that they were still having sex—how
could
Bob?—yet she knew Joanna would get suspicious if he suddenly lost interest.

So they had to be having sex. Once the realization hit, it spun Abby into an obsession. Did they have sex at night, when she was just two floors below them? Did Bob pretend it was Abby when he was inside of Joanna?

She was consumed by the images; it was the worst kind of torture. She wanted to ask Bob, but she couldn’t bear knowing the truth. Besides, they had so little time together—a snatched hour here or there—that she didn’t want to waste it arguing.

She began waking up in the middle of the night, wrestling with the almost-uncontrollable urge to sneak upstairs and peer into their bedroom to see if they were touching. If they woke up and caught her, she could always say she thought she’d heard Annabelle cry out. Should she do it?

Once, at around 3:00
A.M.
, she made it all the way to the foot of their stairs. She stood in the darkness, holding her breath, listening. She heard nothing.

In her calmer moments, she convinced herself they weren’t sleeping together. Bob probably claimed he was tired, or made up other excuses. But in the next breath, she doubted her own conviction. They were
married
. A change like that would force a conversation she didn’t think Bob was ready to have.

She couldn’t stand wondering any longer. The next time she and Bob had a chance to talk alone, she’d tell him. They needed to figure out where their relationship was heading. If he was going to leave Joanna, maybe Abby should quit. She could still see Annabelle, but she could make up an excuse for why she
couldn’t work full time. The conversation was looming over their heads. She’d have to be the one to force it.

But one Friday morning, before Abby even had a chance to tell Bob that she wanted to talk, something happened. Joanna and Bob were pouring their coffee into to-go mugs and collecting their coats. Abby had taken over with Annabelle and was coaxing the little girl to eat her strawberry yogurt.

“Choo-choo,” Annabelle said, meaning she wanted Abby to play their game. So Abby swooped the spoon around the kitchen, making train noises until Annabelle laughed, and then Abby popped the spoon into her mouth.

Joanna watched the scene and shook her head. “I don’t know how you do it all day long,” she said. It could have been a compliment, but it came across more like an insult.

Abby smiled through clenched teeth. Joanna was particularly prickly lately; could she be picking up on the charged energy between Abby and Bob? The baby leaned forward for a kiss, and Abby’s smile became genuine. Annabelle was the happiest, most affectionate kid.

“Bee-bee,” Annabelle said, and Abby nuzzled her nose, smelling strawberries and Annabelle’s own delicious scent.