Catherine McKenzie - Hidden

“That’s easy for you to say. I can’t read them.”

I let my face go slack, then register surprise. I’ve just thought of something.

“But you can. I have them here.”

I pull out my phone and scroll down past the barrage of texts from Zoey and Brian, till I get to the text I sent to Jeff on Saturday.

“Here,” I say, holding it out to her.

She takes the phone and reads the words I reread earlier tonight: How’d it go? There’s no answer from Jeff. Of course, there can’t be.

“If you scroll up, you can see the earlier texts you were asking about.”

These are trickier, but I’m counting on the fact that if I treat them as innocent, she’ll see them that way too.

Jeff to me, 10:53 a.m.: Where are you?

Me, a moment later: Where are *you*?

Where I said I’d be.

Then, an hour later, me to Jeff: John Scott is here. Help!

Jeff’s instant reply: I’ll be right there.

“Do you know John Scott?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says.

“Is it just me or is he a total jerk?”

She keeps her head bowed over my phone for a long moment of silence. Then she looks up at me and hands me back my phone.

“He is. Is there anything else?”

“No.” I stand. “Only that I’m so terribly sorry if I’ve done anything to make you feel this way. There wasn’t anything between us.”

He chose you. Please believe me.

He chose you.

I don’t know her, so I can’t tell if she’s buying this. But what I want to believe, what I want to see, is that she’s hoping I’m telling the truth. That what I’ve said, what she’s read, clears away the questions, eases the pain of surprise, of hurt, of doubt.

What I want to see is a coin flying up, flipping over, and coming down on the side that will convince her of Jeff’s innocence.

That she’s content with that.

That she won’t try her luck again.

Or mine.

When I got home from the golf weekend with Tish, it felt like I’d been away for longer than two days. It felt like I used to feel when I got home from summer camp, or college, the feeling that I’d missed the changing of the season, or something else that happens by inches when it’s right in front of you.

It was a feeling that was hard to get rid of, that I tried to ignore, though I knew I couldn’t or shouldn’t.

But I tried.

I buried myself in work, barely looking up from the moment I sat at my desk.

I made an extra effort to do things with Seth at night and on the weekends. I helped him with his homework. I bought him a new set of golf clubs, the clubs that would see him through till he was fully grown, and we made plans for the summer, discussed the rounds we’d play when school let out.

I made some time for Claire too. We cooked meals together, me acting as sous chef, chopping, tasting, and cleaning up when we were done. I got a sitter for Friday night so we could go to a movie she’d been eager to see for months. Afterward, we made love slowly, quietly, after we’d taken the sitter home and made sure that Seth was actually asleep instead of just pretending.

A weekend full of mending fences, literally—a whole section at the back of our lot was rotting into the ground. It wasn’t my sort of thing, I wasn’t any good at it, but I drove those fence posts home. I hammered the cross sections into place, so they were there, slightly off plumb, for all to see if anyone was looking, even though I knew I was the only one who was.

I was here. I was staying.

I kept myself busy so my mind wouldn’t stray, so it would stay faithful.

I tried, but I couldn’t do it.

A week after we got home, I got an email from Tish at 11:04 a.m.

I was sitting at my desk, my muscles aching from the unfamiliar effort I’d put in with the fence posts over the weekend, my mind aching too.

I know the exact time I received the email because I’d been watching the clock on my computer tick over every minute since I sat down at my desk, an email to her open but unstarted.

This was not the first communication we’d had since we said good-bye in L.A.—we’d kept up a light flow of banter since then—when we’d given each other a brief hug at the airport, when we’d wanted to hold on tightly. But I knew from the first and only word that this email was different, that somehow, in the symbiosis that was us on our good days, we were finally going to have the conversation we should’ve had, maybe a long time ago.

So…is all she wrote.

So, I answered back.

We have a problem, yes?

Houston, we have a problem.

Don’t joke. Not now.

Sorry, I wrote.

It’s okay. What are you thinking?

Honestly?

Of course. Always.

I paused, trying to think of what to write. Trying to put together the words I’d been puzzling out since I’d come home.

But there wasn’t any way I was ever going to get this right.

2 + 2 = 4, I typed eventually with cold fingers and the blood rushing in my ears. We learn this as kids, we teach this to our kids, and unlike so many other things we’re told and we tell others, it’s always true. So maybe that’s why I’ve been trying to add all of this up. But the thing is, the awful thing is, whatever I do, it doesn’t. No matter how I work it, no matter what formula I use, nothing works. Because what I can’t take out of the equation are Claire and Seth, but—and this is harder to say than you could possibly know—if I take you out of the equation, it works. It adds up. At least, I think it does. I’ll never know unless I do it, as much as I don’t want to. Does any of this make sense? Can you possibly not hate me right now?

I hit Send before I had time to stop myself. Then I sat staring at the screen, wondering what I had done.

I had to wait a long time for a response. Several hours. Hours with my door shut, my fingers pressed against my eyelids, trying to blot out the worst headache I’d ever had.

Then, finally:

Will you believe me if I say that your email is one I’ve known has been coming since the beginning? she wrote. It’s one I’ve known I should be writing. It’s one I’ve written a million times in my head. For all the reasons you’ve said. For all the reasons we talked about. Of course I understand. Of course I agree. Of course you’re right. Only, one thing, okay? I need a soft landing before we rip the Band-Aid off.

I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach, but what other outcome was I hoping for? That she’d beg me to reconsider? That she’d have the missing piece to the formula I couldn’t figure out?

Soft landing? I wrote back. Band-Aid?

Haven’t you ever done that with Seth? When he’s been hurt but then he’s healed, and there’s only the Band-Aid as evidence? So you say, I’m going to rip it off quickly at three, because doing it slowly is worse in the end. I’m thinking that if we do it on a count we agree on, it will hurt like hell for a moment, but not as much as a slow peel.

Okay, I get that, but not the soft landing part.

What I meant is that I need some time to heal before I get injured again.

How much time?

A long pause, then: April 30.

A month away.

Why that date?

I don’t know. Jesus. It’s not like there’s a rule book here.

What do we do from now until then?

Act normal. Be friends.

And then what?

We rip off the Band-Aid.

We say good-bye?

We say good-bye. Yes?

One last moment of doubt, then I typed the last word. The hardest word.

Yes.

When Tish leaves my room, I realize I can’t stay in this town any longer. Coming here in the first place was probably a massive mistake. Before, I had questions. Now, I have answers, but can I believe them? Can they possibly be true? If only there was a way to verify them, to not have to rely on the word of someone I don’t know and, instinctively, don’t trust.

I check online, and if I don’t care about arriving in the middle of the night, I can get home. I throw on my clothes, zip up my suitcase, and drive the car back to the rental place.

I have half an hour to wait at the airport, and those minutes of being alone in a crowd give me an idea. Maybe there is a way I can check some of the things she said. Maybe there’s some certainty I can seek from a third party.

It’s late, but it isn’t too late for that.

I use my phone to find a number on the company website and call.

“John Scott,” he says, his voice rough and slightly slurred.

“Hi, John, this is Claire Manning.”

A pause. Ice clicks in a glass. “Claire. My goodness. We didn’t get a chance to speak…the other day. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

“I…did you need something?”

I can’t think of any way to say this that won’t make him think I’m crazy, but I have to go ahead anyway, and at least I have recent widowhood to fall back on if I ever need to explain myself.

“You were at that retreat, right? The one in Palm Springs?”