Page 5 of I Know She Was There

But he walked out of the store with my number digitally tucked into his iPhone. I’d watched him add my name, Caroline Messier, to his contact list, wedging it between “Erika Merchant” and “Myer’s Meat Market.”

A few years later, just after we’d married, I looked for the hammock in the items he was moving from his storage unit into our new garage. When I asked him where the hammock was, he didn’t even pause as he explained he’d tossed the thing years earlier.

“I thought you loved it.”

He shrugged. “I did until I brought it on a camping trip and spent an entire night in it. Felt like a butterfly caught in a net. My joints haven’t been the same since.”

I’d watched him shove boxes across the garage’s concrete floor, realizing for the first time how casually Tim could discard something he’d claimed to love.

I looked toward the blazing kitchen window as if staring at the searing brightness could blast the memory from my mind. The sad truth was, I’d become inconvenient. Maybe Emmy was too. We made his life more difficult. Uncomfortable. Maybe he felt like that trapped butterfly. Trapped in our small house with no escape from the baby’s cries. Or from me.

The doorbell cut through my musing.

“Good morning, dolly.” Mary Whitton, my ancient next-door neighbor, stood on the front stoop, her ample frame swaddled in an oatmeal-colored sweater over navy polyester pants despite the morning warmth. “Have you got a cup of refreshment for a weary traveler?”

Swallowing a sigh, I recited my well-worn lines: “Those three dozen steps between our houses can challenge even a marathon runner.”

Mary seemed to draw energy from the stale exchange. As usual. Stepping over the threshold, running a hand through her already tousled gray flyaways, she beamed. “I can smell the coffee brewing.” She stretched her hand out with a flourish. “After you, fearless leader.”

I led her through the living room and nodded toward the tiny table near my galley kitchen, though I needn’t have bothered. Mary knew the drill. She sat down heavily as I hooked my hand around the coffeepot handle and grabbed a mug from the cabinet above the steaming machine.

When I placed Tim’s “#1 Tennis Player” mug in front of her, she pulled out a mini of Bailey’s from her sweater pocket, twisted it open, and dumped the contents into the mug. “I like a strong cup of coffee. Good for what ails you.”

“What ails you today? Arthritis acting up?”

“Always.” She heaved a dramatic sigh, her breath emanating in briny waves thanks to her two-pack-a-day habit and daily gargling with salt water. She claimed it was good for her throat, though I suspected it was an attempt to neutralize the ever-present alcohol vapors. I could hardly judge. I’d been known to nip during daylight hours myself. Still, the stench of her breath, reminiscent of bilge water in the hull of a dilapidated boat, churned my stomach.

“You want some ibuprofen?”

“No, dolly. I’ll...”

“Manage without it?” I had to do that a lot, finish her sentences, that is. She seemed to forget what she was sayingasshe was saying it.

She nodded, staring down at her steaming mug.

I filled my own cup and leaned against the counter, watching her lift her mug to her puckered lips with one hand while digging into her sweater pocket with the other, deftly fishing out a pack of Newports. She’d barely gotten the mug back onto the tabletop when she pulled out the matches stuffed between the pack and its outer cellophane wrapper.

“Mary, I’ve asked you not to smoke in the house. It’s bad for the baby.”

“I don’t see no baby around here.”

“Well of course not. She’s sleeping.”

Mary shook her head. “That poor child.”

I frowned. “Goodness, Mary. It’s not as if Emmy’s an orphan. I’m here, and Tim is still her father, even if we aren’t living together right now. You make it sound as though he’s dead.”

“Just like my Bill. Dead.”

I sighed and opened the kitchen door. Mary was in a melancholy mood this morning. Probably still hungover. “Let’s go out on the deck.”

“Good idea, dolly. It’s so...”

“Nice outside?”

She followed me to the two faux wicker chairs I’d set up in the corner. Mary settled, crossed her legs, and gulped her drink, letting her unlit cigarette rest between her yellowed index and middle fingers. “Not that Bill couldn’t be a perfect bastard when he wanted to. But the baby, she didn’t...”

“Deserve this?” I looked at Mary’s quivering lower lip. “No, she didn’t.”

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