Need to Know (16 page)

Fear and hopelessness swirl inside me.

I think back to the panic I felt on the way to day care. Panic about the kids. If I thought Matt was in trouble, that something had happened to him, shouldn't I have felt that same panic about him? Shouldn't I be feeling it now?

Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe deep down I think he left. Maybe I'm even glad he did.

And then a thought strikes me. Something so obvious, I don't know why I didn't think of it before. I start moving toward our bedroom. I find my way to the closet, pull down the shoe box from the shelf, the one with the dress shoes. Sink down to the carpet with it in my lap. I'm almost afraid to open it. Afraid of what I might find, even though I already know.

I lift the lid, see the shoes. They're empty.

The gun is gone.

This isn't real, can't be. I continue to stare at the empty space, like the gun might reappear.
He left
. The words are reverberating in my head. I raise my fingers to my temples as if they can somehow silence the thought. He didn't. He wouldn't. There has to be another explanation.

Finally, I reach into my back pocket, pull out my phone, scroll to a number on speed dial.

“Mom?” I say when I hear her voice.

“Honey, what's wrong?”

How she knows something's wrong from that one syllable astounds me. I swallow. “Can you and Dad come stay for a bit? I could use a hand with the kids.”

“Of course. Is everything okay?”

My eyes are filling. I can't get words to form.

“Honey? Where's Matt?”

I'm trying hard to keep it together, trying to find my voice at the same time. “Gone.”

“For how long?”

A choking cry escapes my lips. “I don't know.”

“Oh, honey,” my mom says, her voice pained. And I can't hold it in any longer. I cry silently in the dark, lonely house, until tears cloud my vision.

The night passes without any word from Matt, and by morning I've stopped spending every moment expecting it. I still don't know if he left or something happened. And I don't know why I'm not more desperate, why I feel like none of this is real.

The four kids are around the kitchen table, bowls of cereal in front of the older two, scattered O's and smashed blueberries on the twins' trays. I'm at the counter, making Luke's lunch—another of those things Matt usually does—and nursing my second cup of coffee; another sleepless night. There's a knock at the door, a few quick raps. Ella gasps. “Daddy?” she squeals.

“Dad wouldn't knock,” Luke tells her, and the smile fades from her lips.

I open the door and Mom bustles in, in a wave of perfume, bulging shopping bags in each arm, full of what I'm not sure. Presents for the kids, probably. My dad follows close behind, hesitant, more awkward than usual.

I didn't tell the kids they were coming. Wasn't sure when they'd arrive. But here they are, and the kids are thrilled, Ella especially. “Grandma and Grandpa are
here
?” she screeches when she sees them.

My mom heads straight for the kitchen table, drops the bags to the floor beside it, wraps her arms around Ella, then Luke, then plants kisses on the twins' faces. I see lipstick marks where her lips hit their cheeks.

“Mommy, why are they here?” Ella says, turning to me.

“They're going to help out while Daddy's gone,” I say. I make eye contact ever so briefly with my mom as I spread jam on bread, then quickly avert my gaze. My dad's hovering over near the coffee maker, like he doesn't know what to do with himself.

“How long are they going to be here?” Ella presses. “How long is Daddy going to be gone?”

The room goes quiet. My parents are suddenly very still. I can feel their eyes on me. Everyone's eyes are on me, waiting for an answer. And all I can do is look at the sandwich in front of me, because I can't for the life of me remember if Luke likes it cut into triangles or rectangles. My mom jumps in. “Presents! I've got presents.”

She reaches down into the bags, and the kids begin clamoring for whatever treats are inside. I exhale slowly, and when I look up, my dad's still watching me. He gives me a half smile, uncomfortable, then looks away.

When the kids have their gifts—stuffed animals, markers and coloring books, great big tubes of finger paint—and finish their breakfast, I get Ella's backpack ready, help her find something for show-and-tell—it's the letter
W
today, and we settle on her princess wand, the one with the sparkles. I give hugs and kisses to Luke and the twins, pour another cup of coffee into my travel mug.

Then I remind my parents of the time Luke's bus arrives, the corner where it stops. “Are you sure you're okay watching the twins?” I ask. They offered to watch Ella, too, but two kids all day seemed far more manageable than three; I told them not to worry, that Ella could go to school, like usual.

“Of course,” my mom says.

I hesitate, car keys in hand. “Thank you,” I say. “For being here.” I can feel myself fighting back tears, and I look down, because I'm terrified if I keep looking at my mom, the floodgates will burst open. The next words are a mere whisper. “I wouldn't be able to do this alone.”

“Nonsense.” My mom reaches over and gives my hand a squeeze. “Of course you would.”

ELLA WASN'T EVEN ONE
when I got pregnant for the third time. It was an accident, really. We hadn't talked about when—or even whether—we'd have a third, and we certainly hadn't been trying. But I'd packed up my maternity clothes in a plastic tote, just as I'd packed up all the newborn ones. I hadn't gotten rid of anything, and Matt hadn't suggested it. They'd just gone into the basement, into the storage area, along with the infant bathtub and the baby swing and everything else. So I guess we both assumed we'd have another, eventually. Just not this soon. Definitely not this soon.

I left work early that day and picked up a shirt for Ella on the way home. It was actually hard to find one that small, but I did. A little pink shirt with purple writing.
BIG SISTER
. I put Luke in his
BIG BROTHER
shirt, the one that still fit from the last time. When Matt called to say he was on his way home, my heart started fluttering. I knew he'd be thrilled. A little scared, a little overwhelmed, like me, but thrilled.

When I heard the key in the lock, I gathered the kids, made sure they were both facing him—Ella in my arms, Luke at my side. He walked in, greeted them enthusiastically, like always, bent to kiss me. Then I saw his eyes take in the shirts, Luke's first, then Ella's. His face froze, his entire body froze. I waited for the smile, the joy that had been all over his face with the first two. But it didn't happen. “You're pregnant?” was all he said. It was almost accusatory.

You're
pregnant. The words cut through me. With the other two pregnancies, he'd said
We're pregnant
so much it had grated on me. I'd even lashed out a couple of times, reminded him that
I
was the one with the morning sickness, with the heartburn, the aching back. But now I wished like anything that he'd say those words again. That we'd be in this together.

“Yeah,” I said, trying to brush it off.
He's in shock. He's worried. Give him a minute, let him adjust, let him get excited.

“You're pregnant,” he said, still no smile. And then an emotionless “Wow.”

The bleeding started that night. I remember seeing the blood on my underwear, the terror of it. Brown at first, red when the cramping started. Calling the doctor, because that's what you do, right? The sad voice that spoke back.
There's nothing you can do.
Then the statistics. One in four. Like that somehow made it easier. I remember huddling in a ball on the cold tile of the bathroom. Not taking anything to ease the pain, because I wanted to feel it. I owed her that, at least.

Her
. She was a girl. I could feel it. I could see her little face, an existence that would never be.

I couldn't bring myself to go wake Matt and tell him. Not after the way he'd reacted to the news. Picturing his face, his words—he wouldn't feel the same level of absolute heartbreak I was feeling. I was sure of that. I needed to do this myself. Lose my baby, mourn my baby. The most painful, heart-wrenching experience of my life, and I wanted to do it alone.

I'm sorry,
I whispered to her as the cramping intensified, as the pain became almost unbearable, as tears dripped down my face. I didn't even know what for. Matt's reaction, I guess. In that very brief existence, shouldn't she have known nothing but love? Excitement? Joy?
I'm so sorry.

And then the pain, which I thought couldn't possibly get any worse, did. I was doubled over, immobilized, sweating, clenching my teeth to keep from screaming. I knew I was going to die, it was that bad. Blood was everywhere, so much blood. No one told me this would be like childbirth, that it would be
that
bad. And then I couldn't hold it in any longer. Just when I was about to scream, Matt was there on the floor beside me, wrapping his arms around me, almost like he could somehow sense my pain.

“It's okay, it's okay,” he murmured, and the words were wrong, so wrong, because it wasn't okay, none of this was okay. He rocked with me, back and forth on the floor. And then all the emotion inside me came rushing out and deep sobs racked my body, ones I couldn't control, because I didn't want him to be here, because I'd lost the baby, because life wasn't fair.

“Why didn't you wake me?” he asked. My head was buried against his chest. I could hear his heartbeat, the vibration of his words when he spoke, louder almost than the words themselves.

I pulled away, looked up at him, whispered the truth. “Because you didn't want her.”

He recoiled, his eyes widening. I could see the pain in them, and then guilt ripped through me like a flood tide. This was his baby, too. Of course he wanted her. Could I have said anything worse?

“Why would you say that?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

I looked down at the floor, the grout between the tiles, and the silence hung heavy around us.

“I was scared,” he admitted. “I didn't react the right way.” I looked up at him, but the hurt in his eyes was more than I could handle, so I leaned back against his chest, the shirt that was now cold from my tears. I felt his hesitation, then his arms wrapped around me, and for the first time all night, I felt like it
was
going to be okay.

“I'm sorry,” he murmured, and in that moment I knew I was wrong. I never should have assumed the worst. I never should have done this alone. “I love you, Viv.”

“I love you, too.”

MOM CALLS IN THE LATE AFTERNOON
to let me know she picked up Ella from school, that my dad walked Luke home from the bus stop, that somehow Luke is missing his backpack, but everyone is home, safe and sound. I breathe a sigh of relief.
I don't care about the backpack,
I finally tell her, exasperated, after she mentions it for the third time.
We can get him another.
I care that the kids are safe. I didn't even realize I was waiting for her call, waiting to make sure the pickups went smoothly.

I spend the day working feverishly. Typing names in search bars, combing through records, trying desperately to find the ringleader, to make some progress, to be in control. It's futile. Another fruitless day of searching.

Another wasted day.

I leave work after eight hours exactly. Dusk is beginning to settle by the time I reach my street. I pull into the driveway, let the car idle for a moment while I look at the house. Lights are on inside, the curtains sheer enough to see the shapes of my parents, of my kids.

And then something catches my eye. A figure on the porch. Sitting in one of the chairs, settled into the shadows.

Yury.

Even without seeing his features, I know it's him. Almost like a sixth sense.

My heart does a backflip. What's he doing here?
Here,
my home, just a few feet from my kids. What does he want? Without thinking, I pull the keys from the ignition, reach over for my bag, never taking my eyes off him. I get out of the car and walk up to the porch.

He sits very still, watches me. He looks bigger in person. Meaner. He's in jeans and a black shirt, the top two buttons undone, a gold chain around his neck, some sort of pendant. Black boots, the combat kind. I come to a stop in front of him, my mind willing the door to stay closed, for the kids to stay tucked away inside.

“What are you doing here?” I say.

“Come sit down, Vivian.” He speaks with an accent, but not as thick as I would have expected. He motions to the chair beside him.
My
chair.

“What do you want?”

“To talk.” He pauses, watching me, waiting for me to sit, but I don't. Then he gives a half shrug and stands. He reaches back into his rear pocket, pulls out a box of cigarettes. There's something solid at his hip; I can see the outline through his shirt.

A holster, probably. My heart's racing now.

He taps the box against his hand, once, twice. He eyes me appraisingly. “I'll be quick, because I know your kids are waiting for you.”

A shiver runs through me at the mention of the kids, and my eyes drift back to his hip.

He opens the box, pulls out a cigarette, closes it again. There's nothing quick about what he's doing, nothing at all. “I'm going to need you to go ahead and take care of that flash drive.”

I have the fleeting thought that he shouldn't be lighting up here. That I don't want the cigarette smell lingering on the porch, anywhere near the kids. Like
that's
what I should be concerned about right now.

He puts the cigarette between his lips, reaches into his front pocket for a lighter. The edge of his shirt lifts just enough that I see black plastic at his hip. Definitely a holster. “You do that, and we both get what we want.” The cigarette dips and bobs as he speaks.

“Both?”

He clicks the lighter once, twice, and a flame appears. He holds it to the tip of the cigarette until it glows orange. Then he looks at me, shrugs. “Sure. I get the program loaded, you get to go back to your life. You get to be with your kids.”

Kids.
Not husband and kids. “What about Matt?” The words come out before I can censor them, think through them.

“Matt?” A brief look of confusion crosses his face. Then he laughs, pulls the cigarette from his mouth. “Ah, Alexander.” He shakes his head, smiling. “You really are quite naive, aren't you? But then, that's what Alexander counted on, wasn't it?”

There's a sick feeling rising in me. He takes a drag of the cigarette, blows out a puff of smoke. “Isn't he the one who got you into all this? Betrayed you?”