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“Not really.” I stare at my fingernails. “Talking to donors, stumbling, feeling paranoid. Everyone knew about Greg’s affair, and I was soembarrassed.I hated that my daughters were going to read those e-mails, too—everything just felt hopeless. I remember wanting to leave, and looking around for Dad to see if he’d give me a ride. But I couldn’t find him. And IthinkI remember sitting in my car before I left...”
I definitely remember sitting in my car, actually. I wassobbing. About what, I wasn’t even sure. The messed-up state of my relationship. The building fury in my chest for what Greg had done. The humiliation of seeing Patrick with Lynn Godfrey.
“What happened after you woke up on the floor of your powder room?” Willa asks.
I lick my lips, explaining how the house seemed eerily silent. “I walked into the kitchen... and found Greg.”
“I’m sorry to ask, but... did Greg... say anything to you?”
I shake my head. I walk her through calling 911 and the EMTs coming, and running upstairs to see that Aurora was still okay—I hadn’t yet known she’d gone to a friend’s. I don’t tell her the weird relief I’d felt after the ambulance took Greg away. Or the nagging feeling that I’d brought on Greg’s death.
“Did the police find forced entry into your house?” Willa asks.
“I don’t think so. But I’m not sure. They’re checking.”
“Was anything stolen?”
“The cops had me look around when I went back to get some clothes. My jewelry was still there. Everything was in the safe. They didn’t take any TVs or computers.”
Willa jiggles her leg nervously. “Maybe the Lolita person killed him?”
I shrug. “She was embarrassed by being outed in the hack?”
“In the e-mails, Greg comes on strong at first—there’s a lot of dirty talk on his end, but she’s more... demure. But she never tells him to stop, either. Later, it shifts. She’s begging him by the last e-mails. Maybe he broke up with her and wouldn’t see her.”
I shut my eyes. I hate that Willa has read the e-mails so carefully that she has a detailed analysis of them. Then, a strange feeling comes over me. I give her a steely look. “Are you doing a story on this?”
Willa’s eyes widen. “No!How could you say that?”
When struck by sunlight, the gold thread in the couch cushions gleams.Our 24-karat settee,our mother used to joke. “A lot of people have been calling me. They’re dying to know what happened, and I’m not sure it’s always with good intentions.”
Willa crosses her arms over her chest. “So you lump me in with everyone else?”
“I’m sorry.” I don’t know why I’m picking on Willa. I want to talk to her about this. I need to talk tosomeone.“Forget it.” I lookdown. “I’m sorry. And okay, sure. Maybe Lolita did it, I don’t know. But I have no idea who she is. I’ve thought about women Greg is around at the hospital, at the gym, at this charity he volunteers for... but nobody fits. No one is his type.”
“Whoishis type?” Willa asks, a little begrudgingly. I can tell she’s still hurt.
Me,I almost say, but I am no longer sure.
I flash on the moment Greg and I met, three years before. Martin was dealing with the congenital heart issue he’d battled since birth—something he was cavalier about when we’d gotten together but which quickly revealed itself as a very big deal. He was hospitalized three times in a row that winter. Most people who had his condition dropped dead with no warning; doctors only figured out what they had in autopsy. Martin was already living on borrowed time, and he’d become so weak and frail. He’d cut back on teaching hours, which slashed our income. Many doctors suggested a transplant, but we didn’t want to take those risks. According to online reports and Best Doctors awards, Dr. Greg Strasser was the best. We felt lucky to get an appointment with him.
When the nurse called out Martin’s name to be seen, I had to help him up from the waiting room chair. He hobbled toward the exam room, his back stooped, his breathing labored. In the office, we slumped in the chairs and stared at one another wearily. I figured we were in for a long wait—the more important the doctor was, it seemed, the more behind schedule.
Martin frowned. “Did you see what this costs?One hundred seventy,just for a consultation.”
“Actually, that’s a bargain,” I argued. “My dad talked them down to half their usual fee.” Dr. Greg Strasser didn’t take our insurance, but because he was affiliated with Aldrich University, my father was able to pull some strings.
Martin ran his hand through his thinning hair. In college, it had been so thick, almost unruly, but the surgeries and medications hadravaged it. “So everything’s going to cost that much? Even at half, we can’t afford this.”
“It’s yourhealth,” I hissed. “We can find the money.”
Martin set his jaw like he knew what I might suggest next: We could always borrow from my father. It had always been a bone of contention, whether in arguing to buy a bigger, better house, or get a newer car whose brakes didn’t squeal, or take the kids to Disney World. I knew my father would bail us out, but Martin wouldn’t hear of it: He wanted to support us on his own. Though both of us had grown up comfortably, we gave little thought to money or choosing careers that would put us in a high tax bracket. I admired that Martin wanted to teach elementary school; I didn’t care—then—that it paid barely enough to support a family of four in our expensive suburb. I also loved the idea of being a young parent, having the energy to actually have fun with little kids.
But once I had Sienna, and then Aurora so quickly after, I started to notice that everyone else around me had more for themselves and their children. The mothers who could afford a cleaning lady so they could spend weekends taking their kids to museums and playgrounds. The parents who didn’t sneeze at sending their kids to arts camps and fancy dance classes, or taking the whole family to Europe for two weeks of cultural enrichment. The moms who didn’t freak out when they saw the costs of sports uniforms or overnight field trips or even a babysitter for a night out. I was around easy excess constantly. It wasn’t hard to want those things, too.
Yet Martin remained content with where we were. He questioned why I’d changed; I questioned why he hadn’t. It was a rift between us—the wanting and not wanting. It was like Martin didn’t seem to understand what I was craving. Sure, it was juststuff...but that stuff sometimes made the difference between a miserable day-to-day experience and a pleasant one. Or at least I thought so, then.
Suddenly, the door to the exam room swung open. Dr. Strasser walked in, startling us both—especially me. He was taller than hispicture inPittsburghmagazine made him out to be. He was imposing in his white coat and disarming with his big, straight smile. He shook Martin’s hand first—“Call me Greg”—and then mine. And I hate to admit this, but when our hands met, when he looked me straight in the eye, I felt a stirring in my chest.
