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The meeting opened with a woman named Judy greeting them as a group. Tall and thin with a sprig of red hair, she wore little makeup, jeans, and a comfy sweatshirt. After the mass greeting, she launched into a humorous story about how, in the rain, a little girl in her neighborhood had been trying to sell lemonade from a stand in front of her house. Everyone chuckled, but Elizabeth’s mind was on Chloe and the disturbing things she’d said. How had she known about Court and Whitney Bellhard? Or, was that just coincidence?
He’s mad because we killed him. . . .
The mood in the room grew sober and one woman and then a second began talking about how they were coping with their problems from loss or misery or death—whatever reason had sent them to Sisterhood in the first place.
He said he loved you but I think he did some bad things....
“I don’t care. I just can’t forgive him,” the second woman—her name tag read STELLA—declared. She told the story of a cheating husband who’d been diagnosed with terminal cancer. She finished with, “I’m sorry. I’ll say it. I wish he’d just die.”
Elizabeth’s attention returned with a bang. Her throat tightened and she felt suddenly hot. This woman could be echoing thoughts she’d had before Court actually died.
Judy soothed, “You wouldn’t be the first woman to express those feelings, Stella.” A soft chorus of agreement followed.
“I don’t think it’s my duty to take care of him now,” Stella continued, her fists clenched, her voice shredded with tears. “Why should I get that job? Call me a bitch. Go ahead. I’m not spending the next few years of my life taking care of that loser!”
She still cares about him, Elizabeth realized, her heart breaking a little for the woman’s obvious pain. For a second, she looked inward. Do I still care about Court? When she thought about him, guilt was the most consuming emotion. Guilt for wishing him dead. Anger, too, still simmered in her heart; she was still furious about the way he’d left her and left his daughter. It had been wrong. Heartless. Of course she missed him and felt his loss, for certain, but was that just because she was feeling rudderless without him?
You’re putting too fine a point on it. You’re sorry he’s gone. Accept that and stop trying to make yourself out to be some kind of monster. You wished him dead, but really you just wanted the pain he’d caused you to end.
She looked around and asked Vivian in a whisper, “How often does Nadia come?”
Vivian leaned in close. “She doesn’t anymore. I think she felt kind of like a fraud because her grief was different, you know, with the miscarriages. They happened pretty early in the pregnancies, so she didn’t have a child or husband or family member that she could name.”
“Ah . . .”
The meeting went on and a woman named Char spoke about how long it had been since her son and husband had died in an automobile accident. Elizabeth’s head started to pound as she realized the depth of pain experienced by the women at the meeting. Their feelings were raw, their despair and grief palpable, tears flowing in some cases. Words of consolation and understanding were whispered throughout the room.
Like Nadia, Elizabeth felt a bit of a fraud for being here when her own feelings were so conflicted.
The discussion went from one person to the next and when it was her turn, Elizabeth shook her head as she’d seen a number of the women do. She wasn’t ready to open up to these strangers about her feelings or her family. Instead, her fingers curled over her skirt and she bit hard on her lip. It was a mistake coming here. She was more certain than ever.
Unlike Elizabeth, Vivian was eager to take the f
loor. She spoke about her Carrie, how difficult that first year had been after her death, and how, even though she had Lissa, Carrie was with her every day. The others nodded in commiseration, and Stella, the woman who’d wished her husband dead, wiped a few angry tears away as she was still lost in her own misery.
The meeting wrapped up about nine and Elizabeth slowly let out a breath, relieved that the evening was over. Grabbing her purse and foraging inside for her keys, she didn’t know what she felt more, a need to get away from all this depression or the desire to see her daughter again and scoop her into her arms, make sure she was all right. The last few weeks had been terrible, but she still had Chloe and that was worth everything. Everything.
Gratefully, Vivian didn’t want to linger.
When she dropped Vivian off at the Eachuses house and picked up Chloe, Elizabeth learned that Chloe and Lissa had been in yet another fight. The girls were watching television in separate rooms, Chloe in the family room with Bill, Lissa in the master bedroom.
A frazzled Bill made a face, spread his hands, and declared, “Babysitting’s hard,” to which Vivian rolled her eyes even while she told him he’d done fine. “And honey,” she reminded him gently, “it’s really not babysitting when it’s your own child.” Turning toward Elizabeth, Vivian mouthed, “Men!” as if she couldn’t believe how clueless they, and Bill in particular, were.
“Thanks,” Elizabeth told him and ushered her daughter to the car.
Elizabeth tried to talk to Chloe on the way home, but it was impossible. Chloe was tired, grumpy, and uncommunicative. When Elizabeth attempted to return to the conversation they’d begun in the car on the way to Vivian’s, about the woman Chloe had claimed to have seen touching Court’s leg in his BMW, Chloe shut down completely.
“I don’t wanna talk!” she practically screamed, turning her face away from Elizabeth to stare out the window of the backseat.
Once home, Chloe went straight to bed without a complaint, even running a toothbrush over her teeth without having to be reminded.
Elizabeth was left alone with her thoughts and worries. She slipped out of her clothes and into a robe, then washed the makeup from her face and applied a cool, soothing cream, telling herself she needed to ignore the concerns crowding and scratching at her brain.
After ten, she picked up the remote and clicked on the television. There was still a little time before the local news and a crime drama she’d watched the previous season was being aired. Elizabeth half-listened while shaking out her clothes and draping the jacket, skirt, and blouse over a bedside chair. Her thoughts turned toward the next day, work in general and her upcoming meeting with Mazie’s daughter. Padding from the closet, she realized she’d switched off her phone’s ringer at the meeting and never thought about it again. She found the phone in her purse and discovered a number of texts and a phone message. The texts were from the Moms Group, the ones who knew she was going to a grief meeting with Vivian and wanted to offer encouragement. Nadia’s text simply said, Call me when you’re back, but Elizabeth didn’t want to rehash the experience, no matter how well intentioned Nadia’s motives might be.
The voice mail froze her blood—a message from Detective Thronson.
“Hello, Elizabeth,” the detective’s voice sounded in her ear. “I want to catch you up on the investigation into your husband’s death. Would tomorrow work for you? Let me know.” She finished the message with her cell phone number.
