Page 17 of I Know She Was There

“You need a friend,” Tim had explained after she left. “We don’t know the neighbors all that well.”

“There’s Mary...”

“Mary is more than fifty years older than you.” He’d looked at me pointedly, his eyebrows raised. “Among other things.”

“Tasha doesn’t live around here though.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “She’s over in Glenwood Estates. Each backyard in that development is bigger than our entire neighborhood.”

“She lives a few miles down Route 22, Caroline,” he said, impatience ribboning through his words, as usual. “Close enough.”

Butworldsaway, I thought.

As if summoned by my musing, Tasha peeked her head around Emmy’s door.

“Everything okay, Caroline?”

“Yes, I’m just putting Emmy down. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

“I’m sorry, I’ve gotta run. I have to get my kids from their enrichment program.”

“But you just got here.”

Tasha looked at the carrier strapped across my chest, the set of her mouth—lips thinned, the corners turned slightly downward—suggesting disapproval. “I got here forty minutes ago.”

I glanced at the digital clock on Emmy’s dresser. I couldn’t believe how long I’d been soothing her. “Oh geez, I’m so sorry to have left you sitting in my kitchen all this time. I had to?—”

“It’s okay.” She held up one hand. “I’ll drop by next week.”

“All right.” I followed her as she hurried toward the front door and let herself out. “Next week,” I repeated to the closed door. Would the day come when Tasha would no longer find value in our friendship? Would she realize she was getting nothing out of her visits with me? I thought of her pristine manicures and hurried into the bathroom in search of a nail file. Spotting a worn emery board on the top shelf of the medicine cabinet, I snagged it and crossed back to the living room, settling on the couch. Reaching around a now-sleeping Emmy bundled against my heart, I shaped the uneven tips.

The pretty girls stick together.My mother’s words. How often had she told me that during my childhood? Every time I didn’t get invited to a birthday party or play date.

The advice paid off,said Mother now.You were popular in high school.

I laughed at the thought. Mypopularityhad more to do with my expanding bra size the summer between seventh and eighth grades than any personality advantage. I blossomed from a 32A cup to a 34C in three months. And I let the captain of the football team feel me up.

Now I must pay more attention to my grooming habits. As my mother had often chimed, friendship had standards. Motherhood did too. Scratching Emmy’s tender skin with one of my untended claws would be unforgivable. I sawed away at the jagged nail edges.

“You’ll get invited to everything,” I nuzzled Emmy’s downy head with my lips and angled the emery board with purpose. “I’ll make sure of it.”

CHAPTER8

FRIDAY, AUGUST 18

Tim was going to take Emmy away. I knew he was. My husband’s refusal to even talk to me spoke volumes more than his previous threats. Was he avoiding me because he’d discovered I couldn’t stay away from Deer Crossing, even after what had happened with Muzzy? How would he even know? I gnawed at the inside of my cheek, my teeth scraping painfully against the tender skin. He always knew what I was up to. I wasn’t sure how.

Of course, Muzzy could have told him about my numerous lingering strolls in front of her house. If only she’d emerge from her front door. Engage, even if it was just to yell obscenities at me. Any interaction might help us get past the incident. I closed my eyes against the memory, counted slowly backward from ten, but it didn’t work. My mind lingered on that day.

I was to blame for what happened; I was. I never should have agreed to picnic at the pond beside Muzzy’s house that warm May afternoon. She couldn’t have known my fear of being so close to the water—of course she couldn’t. I hadn’t told her about the accident that killed my father. I hadn’t wanted to drag down our budding friendship with my myriad burdens. Muzzy’s only emotional crutches seemed to be a socially acceptable compulsion to scrub all surfaces with Clorox, and a nightly addiction to the thousands of creamy, cold calories Ben and Jerry provided in convenient pint-sized servings. I blinked, staring at a bare wall in my living room but seeing Muzzy.

When I arrived at her house that fateful Monday, I’d paused outside the gate, watching my friend line up picnic baskets on her outdoor table, the children hovering around her in an excited flurry of bright T-shirts and wildly swinging limbs.

“Are you moving outside permanently?” I joked, causing Muzzy to look up and break into one of her wide smiles.

“No, just fulfilling an annual family tradition.” She stuffed a sippy cup into one of the baskets and shoved the wicker top down over the cup’s protruding nub. “On the first really warm spring day, we duck next door and have our lunch pondside. I even let the boys dip their toes in the water.” When she said this, Alex and Christopher jumped up and down in excitement, calling out their approval. Muzzy laughed at their antics, adding, “This year you get to join us!”

“Oh.” My voice faltered. A yawning darkness opened inside me and spread outward, threatening to overtake all five senses at once. “Fun.”

“Are you okay?” Muzzy’s voice sounded far away. A wall of gauzy haze appeared between us; my brain wavered like heat waves emanating from scorched pavement.

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