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SADIE
Everything has a solution, Ann says. She is busy working on a new book. My morning hours are filled with the hotline so that she has time to put words on the page. She says she needs to focus, that a first draft requires all of her, and that she’s sorry, but by afternoon, there isn’t much left of her to give. It’s mostly okay. I have Chet for the afternoon. He’s always happy to take a break. Eagerly, he fills my evening hours too.
He’s working on the master bathroom, and we’ve hit the shower and managed all of the counters. I’m careful not to let him fuck me in the bed. There’s something too permanent in that. It feels like third base, when I prefer to stay safely on first.
I probably have nothing to worry about. He hasn’t tried to tell me his story yet. He could have a wife at home and a house full of kids for all I know. Not that I care. He’s a welcome distraction. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Still, in the haze of sex, he whispers that I’m beautiful. I wonder if he knows that appearances can be just as deceiving as words. Chet doesn’t know me. Not the way he thinks he does
Speaking of appearances—in front of our neighbors, Ann blames her recent obscurity on her devastation over Darcy, like everyone. She keeps to herself mostly, and when she doesn’t, she speaks in hushed tones and lowered glances. But with investigators, I notice Ann is different. In the few times they’ve stopped by while she was writing and I was running the hotline, I notice she’s curt. She conveys a clipped and factual manner, and quite frankly to me, she seems put off by the whole thing.
“What can you do? ” she asks one afternoon as we shop for patio furniture. Never mind that patio furniture is next to impossible to find in January. Even in Texas. Ann says nothing is impossible, and all life is eternal. The heart wants what the heart wants. She said that to me specifically about Ethan. Don’t be dense, Sadie, she’d remarked earnestly. Of course you can’t just let go. Love never dies.
More often than I care to admit, I find myself appreciating Ann’s perpetually sunny nature. Somehow, she has an answer for everything. No problem is insurmountable—even our neighbor’s death. Ann says she wants to help by offering the neighbors grief counseling. And even though I worry the investigators will find out she’s doing it, on a suspended license, Ann says everything will be okay because when she gets to the bottom of what really happened, they will turn the other cheek. No one cares how they come by the information, she says. Just so long as they have it.
“We’re all going to die eventually, Sadie,” she’s telling me now. “I just wish Darcy White had chosen somewhere else, you know?”
“Me too.”
It’s like she isn’t even listening, because she says, “What happened, happened. We can’t change that. We can only use it to our advantage.”
I don’t see what she is getting at. I don’t see what is advantageous about a woman at the bottom of your pool. Messy business, if you ask me. But then I think of my mother. I think of all those chickens, and how she used them up. I consider that I, too, could become like her—used up and discarded. For that reason, I go fishing anyway. “How?”
“It’s a long story.”
I shrug, because we’re looking for invisible furniture, and literally all we have is time. A story could help to take my mind off of things. Shopping makes me itchy. I feel nauseous. I don’t see the point, I say to Ann. Why not just order online from the comfort of her own home and not have to see or talk to anyone?
How else am I supposed to show you off, she asks, and suddenly I don’t care if we ever find furniture.
She’s right. People stare at us, and I tell myself it’s Ann’s celebrity and not the fact they’re wondering what she’s doing with someone like me. One person after another approaches and asks to take a selfie. At this rate, I’ll never get alone time with her. I take back what I said before. It feels like we’re destined to spend an eternity in this store, and all the gawking, doesn’t make me feel special. It makes me feel like a caged animal. Worse, Ann introduces me to her fans as her assistant, if she does so at all. Several of her admirers have mentioned how lucky I am. I should be proud. She has proven her point. And yet, that’s not how I feel at all. Rage builds threatening to spill out.
“What’s with you?” Ann demands to know.
“Nothing,” I tell her.
“The dinner is coming up. We should start thinking about the menu.”
“Huh?” I feel like I’ve missed something. Ethan always accuses me of not listening, of zoning out, of being in my own little world. Or at least he used to. She was supposed to dig. She was supposed to call my bluff. She wasn’t supposed to sweep my feelings under the rug. Ann is the most emotionally intelligent person I know. This isn’t an accident.
“The invitations you handed out…on New Year’s Eve. They were for the dinner we’re hosting next week.”
I like the way she says we. I’m aware she’s probably referring to Paul but pretending works just as well. I like the way she takes me high and then low. Low and then high. I’m falling in love with her unpredictability, in the way I wish my husband could have fallen in love with mine.
“I thought you might have canceled, considering…”
“No. I think we should do it in Darcy’s honor.”
“I thought you didn’t even like Darcy.”
“I liked Darcy fine,” Ann snaps. Her eyes dart around the store, and I realize I’ve spoken louder than I thought. Social cues are not my strong suit. It’s apparent in the way she leans toward me and says in the barest of whispers, “You really shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, Sadie. And anyway, it’s not for us. It’s for them.”
“Them?”
“Yeah. The other women—they aren’t like you and me, Sadie. They aren’t strong.”
I have no idea what gives her the notion I’m strong, but it feels good that someone thinks as much. I’m certainly not going to correct her. Besides, Ann isn’t fond of being made to feel wrong, so I throw in a sort of half-laugh. “I know. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“A dinner party?”
