Woman in Black (41 page)

“I don't think anyone deserves to be hurt like this,” Lila told her.

“You didn't always feel that way.”

Lila was once more reminded of what Abigail had suffered all those years ago, partly, because of her. Now she seized the opportunity to make long-overdue amends. “I never meant to hurt you back then,” she said softly. “I realize that's a pretty piss-poor excuse, so I don't expect you to forgive me. I know I wasn't a very good friend, and I'm sorry for that—truly I am.” She averted her gaze, unable to bear the hot accusation in Abigail's eyes, looking down at the coverlet instead as she traced its stitched pattern with her fingertip, as if it were the hands of a clock that she could turn back. “I was a kid faced with a situation I didn't know how to handle. And the reason I never wrote to you was because I was so ashamed of letting you down, I didn't know where to begin.” Lila's shoulders lifted and fell in a helpless shrug. “I know it's not much of an apology, but it's all I have to offer.”

She brought up her head to find Abigail staring at her, but not with the pitiless eyes of before. “I thought you didn't care,” she said in a small, cracked voice. “I thought our friendship had meant nothing to you. Then when my mom died …” Her face convulsed as if in physical pain. “I had no one but my aunt and uncle, and believe me, they were worse than if I'd been living on my own. My uncle—” She broke off, and Lila saw that she was squeezing the pillow in her lap so tightly that, had it been a small creature, she'd have choked the life out of it. “You can't imagine what it was like for me.”

“Actually, I can,” Lila said. “I don't think I fully realized it until after I'd lost everything of my own, but now I know just how awful it must have been for you.” She felt her throat tighten, and she had to swallow hard before she could continue. “I know I can never make it up to you, Abby, but won't you at least let me try? Not,” she added with a dry note of remonstrance, “by cleaning up after you. But by being your friend. I think we could both use a friend, don't you?”

Abigail's eyes narrowed. “Give me one good reason why I should trust you.”

“For one thing, don't you think I've been punished enough?”

“Actually, I think I've been remarkably fair, all things considered.” Abigail's haughty tone was back. “Remember, you came to me. I could just as easily have turned you out into the cold.”

“The only reason you didn't was because you wanted to see me grovel. Not that I blame you,” Lila was quick to add. “You had every right after what I did to you. But at least have the guts to admit it. Don't tell me you didn't enjoy seeing me on my hands and knees.”

Abigail gave a small, grudging smile. “Actually, I thought I'd enjoy it more than I did. The truth is, I was getting a little tired of your Cinderella routine. Also, I won't deny that it bugged me, the fact that you and Kent got along so well. Even Phoebe likes you better than she does me.”

“No one likes their mother at that age.” Lila thought once more of her fight with Neal, how awful it had felt to be the focus of her son's rage, even if he'd only been lashing out blindly. “You can't take it personally.”

“I suppose you're right,” Abigail conceded with a sigh. “But that doesn't make it any easier. And just wait until she finds out that her father and I are getting divorced—she'll hate me even more.”

“Do you really think it'll come to that?”

Abigail's expression hardened once more. “Ask Kent. He seems to be the one with all the answers.”

“I would, except it doesn't look as if he's around at the moment,” Lila said, glancing about her.

“That's because he packed his bags and cut out as soon as we got home from the party.”

Lila's gaze was drawn to the walk-in closet, which stood open. Inside, dresser drawers gaped, and there was an empty space on the rod where Kent's suits and blazers had hung.

“Where did he go?” she asked, although she had a pretty good guess.

Abigail gave a bitter laugh. “He didn't say, but I'm sure he's with her. In which case, I doubt he'll be coming back anytime soon.”

“Would it be the worst thing in the world if he didn't?” Lila ventured, not wanting to overstep her bounds. “After the smoke clears, you might be happier on your own.”

“Happy?” Abigail snorted in derision. “I don't even know what that is anymore. It's all a crapshoot, whichever way you look at it. You, of all people, should know that—look what happened to you. Your brother's the one with the right idea. He was too smart to fall into that trap.”

Lila wanted to ask what role Vaughn would be playing in Abigail's new life as a divorcée, but now wasn't the time. Besides, she wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer.

“So what now?” she asked.

Abigail sighed once more. “You tell me.”

An idea popped into Lila's head, and she smiled. “There's a bottle of champagne in the fridge. What do you say we crack it open? I think we could both use a drink. Maybe more than one.”

Abigail rolled her eyes. “Please. I'm still recovering from the last time we got drunk together.”

Lila had forgotten all about it, and now the memory came rushing in: the night they'd gotten plastered on Boone's Farm apple wine (purchased for them by an older brother of Lila's friend Missy Stanislaus). They'd been fourteen at the time, and Lila's parents had been away for the weekend. Rosalie had given Abigail permission to stay over at the big house, and Vaughn had been away, too, on an overnight camping trip with his Scout troop. It had been just Lila and Abigail, and they'd stayed up until all hours, getting sillier with each pull off the bottle and singing along in their underwear to Duran Duran.

Now, all these years later, she laughed and said, “Come on, it'll do you good.”

Abigail closed her eyes, as if to shut Lila out. She remained motionless for so long that Lila thought she must have drifted off to sleep. Then her eyes opened and she abruptly swung her legs off the mattress. “This doesn't mean we're back to being friends,” she said as she rose to her feet. She scowled at Lila, drawing herself up to her full height and tightening the sash on her robe.

Lila struggled to keep a straight face. “No, of course not. You can tell everyone I took advantage of you while you were drunk.”

“Just as long as it's not Boone's Farm apple wine. God, do you remember how we were up half the night throwing up? The bathroom smelled like rotten apples. Do you know it was years before I could even look at an apple?” Abigail paused as they were making their way down the staircase, smiling faintly. “We had some good times back then, didn't we?”

“Yeah,” Lila said. “We did.”

“
You're not thinking
of backing out, are you?”

Phoebe was eyeing him as if he'd said something, when he hadn't spoken a word. She must have read his mind. “No,” he replied glumly. She gave him a look that prompted him to add, “What, you think I'm just saying it to make you feel better?”

“I didn't say that. It's just, you know, it's a big deal.”

“No turning back. I get it.”

“Why are you so mad? You're not mad at me, are you?”

“No, I'm not mad at you,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Then what the fuck's your problem?”

“Why do you keep asking me that? Maybe you're the one with the problem.”

“Yeah, I have a problem all right—you,” she shot back, furious at him all of a sudden. As if she hadn't just blown him. As if they weren't sitting in the front seat of his mom's car, Neal with his jeans unzipped and Phoebe with her lipstick all smeared. “If you're going to back out, do it now so I'll know not to count on you. Anyway, it's not like I need you. Don't forget, it was my idea to begin with. You're just along for the ride.”

They were parked out by Miller's Pond, a favorite make-out spot for the local high school kids. There was a sign posted at the entrance to the dirt road leading up to it that read “Private Property,” but everyone knew that the owner lived out of state, so they pretty much came and went as they pleased. Now, in the moonlight that shone through the winter-blown trees, Neal could see the trash scattered about. Beer bottles and soda cans, the charred remains of a campfire. The last time they'd been out here, during the day, he'd even spotted a few used condoms. He remembered thinking at the time, At least someone's having fun.

The fun had long since gone out of his and Phoebe's fucking. Not that he ever would have used the word “fun” to describe what they did. It was more like a fever that had settled into his brain, an itch from a heat rash that he couldn't keep from scratching. There had been times, with Phoebe bucking beneath him, hissing in his ear,
Harder … harder
, while grinding her hips into his, that it had almost seemed as if she were punishing him … or maybe herself. In the end, after he'd come, he would always feel a little dirty. Not because of any stupid moralistic reasons but because he felt beside the point somehow.

He was aware that guys weren't supposed to feel that way, that it was mainly the province of “nice” girls. But with Phoebe, nothing was ever like it was with other people. At times, it felt as if they were like two magnets repulsing each other; at other times, as if she were the magnet pulling him in, a pull he was helpless to resist. When that happened, it was like the high from having pounded one too many beers kicking in: that part-sickening, part-exhilarating realization that it was too late to undo what was done, so he might as well hang tight and enjoy the ride, even knowing that he might end up doing something really stupid—no, would almost surely do something stupid—while blasted out of his mind, and that he would have a wicked hangover in the morning.

But the really great thing about Phoebe was that he didn't have to fake it with her. With everyone else, he merely went through the motions, playing the role of dutiful son, hardworking employee, straight-A student. He'd fooled everyone—Dr. Goldman, his boss at work, his teachers at school, even some of his closest friends. Everyone, that is, except his mom.

He knew she was on to him because earlier tonight, when he'd let his guise slip, he'd seen the look on her face. She hadn't even been mad; more like alarmed—the way she might have looked if she'd found a loaded gun in one of his drawers.

What made it so tough was that he knew she probably would have understood if he could have found a way to tell her what was going on inside his head. She'd been there that day. She'd seen it with her own eyes, just as Neal had: his father lying there on the floor in his own blood. So, yeah, she'd have understood, and she would undoubtedly have sympathized. At the same time, she would have insisted on sending him back to Dr. Goldman, or to some new shrink. As if paying a fortune for fifty minutes' worth of some lame doctor pretending to give a shit about him was going to do any good.

Even the antidepressants Dr. Goldman had prescribed were a joke. All they'd done was mess with his head even more. After dutifully taking them for the better part of a month, thinking that eventually the effects would kick in, he'd realized that wasn't going to happen and had tossed the remaining pills. Now there was no hope. No series of commands, like on his computer, with which to erase the memory of that horrible day. No miracle that was going to bring his father back to life. Whenever he thought back to when he'd been a kid, when he and his dad used to hang out and do guy stuff together—like going to auto shows or watching movies at the IMAX theater on West 69th, where his dad had always let him have all the junk food and candy that his mom wouldn't let him eat—that kid always seemed to him like some other person, like someone he'd been friends with a long time ago who'd moved away.

No, there was only one way out, he thought: the solution Phoebe was offering. The exit strategy to end all exit strategies.

What was weird was that, as soon as he'd made the decision, a strange euphoria had overtaken him. A feeling that was a little like—he cast another look at Phoebe, huddled in her seat staring out the window—well, like falling in love. He wouldn't have to tear himself to shreds trying to dig himself out of the collapsed mine shaft that was his life.

He could just let go.

There was only one thing nagging at him: He couldn't stop thinking about his mom. This would destroy her. And despite his having lashed out at her tonight, which had been stupid, he knew—getting all hot under the collar about that Karim guy when, really, why the fuck should he care? Especially since Neal wasn't going to be around much longer—he still cared about her. She was still his mom; nothing could ever change that.

But on the other side of the equation, there was Phoebe … and the promise of sweet release she held out to him.

He reached over and took hold of her hand. “Hey, what are we fighting about? I told you, everything's fine. I've already talked to Chas about getting the stuff we'll need.”

“You're sure?” Phoebe turned to him, her eyes glittering in the moonlight.

Neal hesitated only an instant before answering, “Yeah, I'm sure.”

Phoebe seemed to take his word for it, and in the silence that followed, Neal gazed out at the pond, its frozen surface a ghostly glimmer in the darkness. He'd heard that some kid had drowned in it years ago, and he pictured the body trapped beneath the ice, locked in eternal limbo. He began to shiver. His mom had gotten the car heater fixed, but he still felt cold, even with it going full blast.

“I was just thinking … Do you ever wonder about your parents? Like what it'll do to them,” he asked cautiously.

Phoebe leaned into the door on her side, resting her head against the window. “My dad, yeah. I know it'll be hard for him. Not my mom, though—she probably won't even notice I'm gone.” Phoebe looked so forlorn in that moment, like a scared little girl lost in the woods, that Neal's heart went out to her.