“What?”
“I’ve been thinking about what you said—what you’ve been saying—about Zach.” Amanda sucked in a breath. It was amazing how scary it was, admitting just that.
“And?” Carolyn sounded cautiously optimistic.
“I want to talk to you about it when I see you.”
“Um, okay, sure.” Carolyn sounded disappointed now. “But I can’t tonight. Tomorrow?”
Amanda resisted the urge to press. “Great. See you at the usual spot, eight o’clock tomorrow night.”
When Amanda got out of the shower, there was a text from Sarah:Coffee? Maude and me. In 15 at Blue Bottle.They often met at the caféon the corner of Seventh Avenue and Third Street before starting their day. Amanda used to go to Blue Bottle even more often, to read in the afternoon, before things with the foundation began heating up. She’d loved sitting there, watching the neighborhood writers at work—Park Slope had so many—like the young, shaggy-haired dad with the 26.2 sticker on his computer who always seemed so focused. Amanda could feel it in the air, the magic of all those stories being built. Sometimes, she imagined asking that dad what he was writing, or how many marathons he’d run. But of course she never had.
Yes! See you there,Amanda replied.
It was amazing that Amanda and her friends all had the flexibility for late-morning coffee dates. But then both Maude and Amanda were their own bosses, and Sarah was technically an employee, but only of Amanda’s. Sarah did like mentioning that at every opportunity, though. Not in a hostile or resentful way, more like she wanted to be sure that Amanda knew she hadn’t forgotten. Sarah didn’t need the paycheck, of course. She’d taken the job at the foundation to give something back to parents who really needed it—a break from the ungrateful contingent of the Brooklyn Country Day PTA.
Amanda dressed quickly in one of her casual, quirky summer dresses, the kind she’d finally learned were exactly right for daytime summer in Park Slope (when paired with pricey but “minimalist” sandals). She headed down the hallway feeling almost cheerful. It had been nearly twelve hours since the last call. More than two days since she’d last thought Daddy was following her. She knew better than to get her hopes up, but there was the chance that he’d slithered back into his hole.
Amanda was about to turn down the stairs when she caught sight of Zach’s open office door up on the third floor. Zach didn’t usually leave the door open when he wasn’t home. His office was his private space. Even Amanda didn’t go in unless she needed to do something specific like fix the closet (finally scheduled for next week). This had been true in every house they’d ever lived in, once their houseswere big enough for luxuries like an office.
“Zach!” Amanda called up. Maybe he’d gone to work early but stopped back home on his way to the airport or something. Often Amanda had no idea he was scheduled to travel until he’d come and gone. She took a couple steps back and aimed her voice more directly. “Zach!”
The house was utterly quiet.
Amanda made her way up and toward the open door with a rising sense of dread. But what exactly was she afraid of? She’d lived for so long—always, really—by such a clear set of rules. There had been the rules for surviving back with Daddy in the trailer—hide, lie still, run. There were the rules for avoiding conflict with Zach—don’t complain, don’t ask questions, don’t be where you’re not supposed to go. Simple, really. Considering breaking any of them—intentionally—was bound to feel dangerous. Amanda was holding her breath by the time she finally reached the top of the stairs and peeked into the office.
An empty room. She exhaled.
Three massive computer screens, wrapped around like a cockpit on Zach’s sleek midcentury modern desk. The shelves were lined with the books that Amanda was sure Zach had never read. She’d been there, back in Palo Alto, when the “personal library curator” had selected the books to give the precise intellectual impression Zach desired—not that he ever had anyone in his home office to appreciate it. It was too bad. The books did paint a convincing picture of someone who was adventurous and curious, a casual athlete and an open-minded traveler. A person who was interested less in the finer things in life and more in a life well lived. It was an appealing idea of a man, just not one that had anything to do with Zach.
The only thing that Zach had ever cared about, as far as Amanda could tell, was success. And not even for the money—which she might have understood better—but for the pure satisfaction of coming out on top. Winning for winning’s sake. Zach didn’t just want it. He needed it. As if without it, he’d have vanished into thin air.
Amanda had never cared before about Zach’s obsession with success or those pretend books. But today, all of it grated. Amanda thought about those novels she’d pored over so longingly at the library, the stories that had saved her life. And yet here was Zach, thinking he could have all that just by laying down some cash. But then, why not? After all, he’d bought her.
Amanda’s face felt hot suddenly. Her heart was throbbing in her ears. No. She was not a thing that belonged to Zach. Of course she wasn’t, and neither was Case. This was her home, too.
Amanda felt a little rush as she stepped inside the office, arms crossed tight.
On the floating shelves on either side of Zach’s desk was a scattering of the framed photographs that had been taken over the years by an assortment of paid photographers Zach had insisted Amanda hire. The pictures, displayed throughout the house, were lovely. But Amanda longed for family photos like Sarah’s, with mussed hair and chocolate-covered faces and closed eyelids. Even Maude and Sebe had these kinds of pictures—of life in all its perfect imperfection. For Zach, that kind of thing simply wouldn’t do. For him, their family had always been an airbrushed abstraction, something to be put on a shelf and admired from a distance.
But what did Amanda want out of her family, her marriage? She’d never seriously considered the question. To be able to tell her own husband that she was scared. She wanted at least that much. And she wanted him to care.
Amanda made her way over to Zach’s desk chair and sat down. When she put her hand over the mouse, the computer screens came to life. Yet another photo of the three of them, taken by a photographer in Sunnydale, where they’d lived until Case was a year old. Outlined in light, they were standing by the window of their loft apartment—which looked far more glamorous than it had actually been. Zach had Case cradled in his forearms. Amanda stood behind them, her hands on Zach’s shoulders, gazing down at Case. As if this was a thingthey did: touched each other, gazed adoringly.
When Amanda swiped the mouse again, a password request popped up. She tried her birthday and Case’s together, halfheartedly. As she expected, the password was rejected. It was too demoralizing to consider other possible alternatives.
Instead, Amanda pulled at the drawer to her right. To her surprise, it slid open, unlocked. Inside, were several manila folders, crisp and neatly stacked. Amanda lifted them out and set them on her lap. The top was labeledCase Camp. There were brochures for several of the camps they had discussed, including the one that Case had ultimately attended. Amanda maintained all the files for Case—school, camp, activities. She’d had no idea Zach ever kept anything.
Amanda flipped to the next file,Case Activities. There was a brochure for the Brooklyn Conservatory of Music, where Case took guitar lessons, and for the DUSC Soccer League.Case Schoolhad copies of Case’s Brooklyn Country Day report card, the school newsletter they’d gotten at spring parent-teacher conferences (the only one Zach would probably ever attend—he knew the minimum that was required), and the student directory. Looking at all of it, Amanda felt such a strange mix of confusion, guilt, and sadness. Like she’d stumbled upon some rebellious teenager’s secret collection of well-loved toys. Was this the true Zach? Was this what he really wanted? To be more involved. Maybe he didn’t know how to ask for what he needed, any more than Amanda did.
At the bottom of the stack was something she’d never seen before: emails from the Brooklyn Country Day headmaster’s office to Zach’s personal email. Three of them, to be exact, all with the exact same text, though slightly different formatting—there’d been an unfortunate incident involving Case that Country Day needed to discuss as soon as possible—followed by details about how a meeting could be set up, with what was probably a drag-down selection of dates. Three such messages over the past three months, starting about a month after they’d arrived—April 24, May 19, June 5.
Of all the clerical mix-ups, Country Day had emailedZachabout something so important? They might as well have flushed the emails straight down the toilet. She couldn’t even blame Zach for ignoring them. He would have assumed that Amanda had gotten them, too. That she was dealing with the “incident” as she ordinarily would have, completely and thoroughly and alone. The messages were maddeningly vague, too. Were they about something Case had done or something that had been donetohim? Washethe problem, or was it a problem he was having?
Amanda closed the folder and clutched it to her chest. She couldn’t even call Country Day now to find out, because they were closed for the first two weeks of summer. And how could she ask Zach about the emails without revealing that she’d discovered them by rifling through his desk?
She’d have to figure out a way. She couldn’t let Zach’s absurd rules, the ridiculous standards she’d come to accept, get between her and protecting Case. She’d already let Zach haul them to Brooklyn in the middle of the year, which was probably what had caused the school problems to begin with. It had been a mistake not to speak up then. It would be a mistake not to speak up now—about her dad, about these emails, about her right to a voice. She would not, could not, let her son pay the price for her weakness any longer.
