Please. Please forgive me.
He looked around the kitchen, which had been decorated by Chloe, with her painterly sensibility and her attraction to the happy colors of her native Provence. The walls were a sunny yellow, the woodwork a crisp white, and the curtains had a flower pattern that was bright red, warm gold, and deep blue. Chloe’s collection of Quimper plates ringed the room, each showing a French peasant in primitive dress. Mike remembered the day he had hung them, with her supervising.
Honey, they have to face each other, Chloe had said.
Why?
They’re married.
Like I said.
He found his gaze returning to the stain. Chloe’s blood had seeped into the floorboards, running from her veins into its veins, as if to bring it back to life. But it was only wood, not flesh or bone, and Mike knew firsthand that nothing dead ever revivified. He couldn’t imagine her lying here, dying in her own kitchen, in a spreading pool of her own blood.
His thoughts defaulted to the doctor in him, trying to understand her final moments. People who bled to death didn’t simply lose all their blood, as most laymen believed. When their blood level dropped, tissues went into oxygen deprivation, which triggered the metabolism to slow down. The body would lose its ability to stay warm, which in turn caused hypothermia, depressing the heart rate, circulation, and the blood’s ability to clot, or coagulate, the last line of defense. Finally, the cells, starved for oxygen, would produce lactic acid, which dropped PH levels in the blood as the body began to crash. The heart would cease to contract and it would surrender, the vessels and fluids released in a slow process. Every step of the way, Chloe would have known she was dying.
Suddenly Mike felt his gorge rising. He rushed to the sink, where he vomited until he was dry heaving. He turned on the hot and cold water and the garbage disposal, waiting for his stomach to settle, resting his shaking hand on the counter. His mouth tasted disgusting, so he drank some water from the tap, then looked around for a paper towel. The rack on the wall was empty, leaving only the cardboard tube, which Chloe never could have done.
Mike, when you use the last paper towel, replace it, huh?
He went to the pantry and opened up the cabinet where they kept the paper towels, but there were none. Chloe always kept back-up, but Danielle or the cleaners must’ve used them. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, then spotted something glinting in the back of the cabinet. He shoved his hand in and pulled it out. A bottle of Smirnoff vodka, half-full.
Mike held it, in astonishment. He twisted off the lid and took a whiff. Vodka. If the paper towels had been there, the bottle wouldn’t have been visible. It was hidden, not even where they kept their liquor. He moved some cans aside, and there were no other bottles. It couldn’t have been Chloe’s vodka. Maybe the cleaners had left it when they cleaned.
He set the bottle down and went to the top cabinet, where they kept their liquor. Mid-priced merlot, chardonnay, and pinot bottles stood in front, with a few of hard liquor in the back. He took out each bottle, double-checking. The wine bottles remained sealed, and the only opened ones were a bottle of Tanqueray, a quart of Chivas, and Patron tequila, all from his deployment party. They’d invited his partners and their wives, and the staff. Mike drank beer, and Chloe drank wine, as usual.
He opened one cabinet after the next, relieved to find no more vodka bottles, then went back to the kitchen and looked in the first base cabinet, next to the sink. Nothing but frying pans, in a concentric stack. He went to the cabinet under the sink and spotted a telltale glint behind the bottle of Windex. He reached inside and pulled a bottle out by its neck, throttling it between his fingers. It was another bottle of Smirnoff, mostly full.
Mike shook his head in disbelief. He stood up with the bottle, cool and smooth in his hand. The cleaners must have left this, not Chloe. He wasn’t in denial, it didn’t make sense. She had no reason to hide vodka from herself. Maybe somebody was hiding the vodka from her. Maybe she didn’t know it was there, or the other one, either. Just because it was here didn’t mean she drank it.
He set down the bottle, left the kitchen, and went to the front door, then opened it and hustled to the Beetle in the frigid air. He tore open the car door, reached inside, and grabbed the coffee cup from the cupholder. There was still liquid left in the cup, of whatever was inside.
He held the coffee cup a second, examining it in the Christmas lights. The plastic lid bore traces of Chloe’s pink lip gloss, and her lips imprinted around the tiny slot. He held the cup to his lips and put his lips where hers had been.
Kissing her one final time.
Chapter Eight
Mike hurled the bottle against the kitchen wall, where it shattered, spraying glass and vodka. He’d missed the Quimper plate. Alcohol poured down the wall, making the yellow paint slick. His chest heaved in fury and confusion. Chloe was a secret drunk. If she hadn’t been loaded, she’d be alive today.
He threw another bottle, higher and harder. It exploded on the wall, an inch from the Quimper plate. Vodka and glass shards rained everywhere. It killed him to think that she drove while she drank vodka and coffee. It killed him that he didn’t know why. It killed him that he thought she was okay. It killed him that she was dead.
He fired another bottle and hit the Quimper plate. It smashed on contact and fell off the wall in pieces. He crossed to the wall and yanked off every other plate, smashing the married couples on the floor. He looked around for something else to throw, his mind ablaze. Chloe could have killed Emily in that car, drinking and driving. She could’ve killed herself. She could’ve killed anybody.
Mike seized a kitchen chair and flung it across the room. He grabbed another chair and hurled it against the cabinets. He flipped the kitchen table and swept the toaster off the counter. He yanked out the microwave plug and flung the microwave into the air. He stormed to the pantry, tore open the liquor cabinet, and yanked out each bottle, smashing them on the floor. He reached the tequila, but spared it. He tugged out the cork and took a swig. Tequila burned down his throat. He stalked out of the kitchen, down the hall, and upstairs in a rage.
He stormed to their bedroom, lurched to Chloe’s bureau, and straight-armed her perfume bottles onto the rug. He set down the tequila, picked up her jewelry box, and sent it spiraling toward her closet. He pulled out each one of her drawers and dumped them, and he was just getting started. He was going to destroy everything, the way Chloe had destroyed everything. Him. Their life. Their baby’s life. Herself. He wouldn’t rest until he laid to waste all he once knew, and loved.
Turns out he had to come home, to wage war.
Chapter Nine
Mike opened his eyes. It was light. His head pounded, his tongue felt dry. He didn’t know where he was. The FST had to roll out. He had to get to the OR. Casualties were on the way in the medevac.
“Mike, wake up!” Bob was standing over him in his topcoat, shaking him.
“Okay, okay. I’m awake.” Mike put his hands up. His brain started to function. It was all coming back to him, in a sickening blur. He was home in bed, and Chloe was a secret drunk. And even so, he mourned her with every beat of his heart.
“Come on, Mike, we gotta go. Didn’t you hear your phone?” Bob stood over him. “What did you do? The house is a mess.”
Mike’s head hurt like hell. He caught a whiff of Bob’s minty shaving cream, which nauseated him.
“Get up, we’re gonna be late for the funeral director. We have to get a casket. We’ve been trying to call you. I have Danielle’s car.”
Mike rubbed his eyes, remembering. He still had his phone turned off.
“We have to pick out the casket and get them the dress, that’s my marching orders.” Bob shook his head. “After that, I have to go to the city, I have a pretrial conference that I couldn’t get out of. Try telling a federal judge his schedule isn’t the only schedule. If this case settles, I’m done with work until after the funeral. Sara’s coming over to pick out the dress.”
/> “Sara, here? When?”
“Around noon.” Bob looked around, eyeing the debris. “She wanted to help out, so we decided that Danielle should stay home with the baby and Sara should come over and pick out the dress, but I didn’t know it would look like this. Sheesh.”
“I found the booze.” Mike felt sick at heart. “She hides it, I don’t know why. I found booze in the car, too, so she drives drunk. I don’t understand, I just don’t. It’s not her, it just isn’t her.”
Bob sank onto the bed, deflated. “I didn’t think she’d drink and drive. Don’t tell Danielle. She doesn’t need to know.”
Mike didn’t like secrets, but he let it go. A snowblower blared outside, and the patterned curtains hung open. Sun shone through the window, glittering on the jewelry strewn on the rug. “Sorry I freaked on you, when you told me.”
“S’allright.” Bob turned to him, his expression pained. His white collar was so sharp it cut into his neck. “My conference is at eleven, in the city. You can get ready fast, right?”
“Sure. I’ll shower and wear clothes from here.” Mike started to get up, but Bob stopped him, checking his watch.
“No, wait. Let’s go to Plan B. You stay put. I’ll go pick out a casket, and you clean yourself up and the house. Get ready for Sara.”
“Thanks, but no. I should get the casket.” Mike sat up, fighting queasiness.
“No, you meet Sara. She really wants to see you, and I’ll buy a nice casket, I looked online. They have bronze, copper, and stainless steel, but I’d go with hardwood. Something simple, maybe cherry. The poplar looked ugly in the picture.”
“Yes, fine, cherry.” Mike felt mixed up, loving and hating Chloe. She deserved either the best casket, or cardboard. He wondered when he could see her body. “When is she, you know, going to be ready?”
“Not until the end of the day. I’ll order flowers, too. The funeral home has a package deal. What was her favorite color?”
“Yellow.” Mike thought of the kitchen walls, slick with vodka.
“I’ll get lots of yellow. Mums, roses, right? Burial expenses are about fifteen grand, all told. Her burial expenses come out of her life insurance, under the will. You were her beneficiary.”
Mike hadn’t even thought of it. Bob had drafted their wills, powers of attorney, and their living wills. “Okay, whatever.”
“I bought a burial plot, which fits two people, and I can be reimbursed by the estate. FYI, we ran an obit and a funeral notice, too.”
“Thanks. I appreciate everything, really.”
“I know.” Bob touched him on the shoulder. “Clean up downstairs, so Sara doesn’t see it like that. Don’t tell her about the drinking. We didn’t tell her.”
“I don’t like keeping secrets. I forget them.” Mike’s head thudded. “Anyway, haven’t we had enough secrets?”
“So what are you saying?” Bob frowned. “You’re gonna tell Sara, ‘hey, your best friend was a drunk’? Why speak ill, and she’ll tell Danielle. Keep it to yourself.”
“But what does Sara think about how Chloe died? She won’t understand why Chloe didn’t call 911.”
“Sara didn’t question Chloe’s death. Sara thinks Chloe hit her head so hard she died, which is completely possible. I told her, you know how many people die in household accidents each year?”
“You said that? You lied to her?”
“No, I didn’t lie, I just didn’t tell her everything. It’s an omission, but it’s not material.” Bob rose, abruptly. “Chloe paid, okay? She paid enough. She paid with her life.”
Mike didn’t know what to say. Bob was right, and wrong, too.
“Wait.” Bob hurried to a mound of clothes on the floor. “You know what? Forget Sara coming over, you can’t clean up in time. We’ll pick out the dress. I’m going to the funeral home. I’ll take it over.”
“Let me help.” Mike got out of bed and crossed to the ransacked clothes. He recognized every outfit, feeling his grief and anger resurge. It was true that Chloe had paid, but he would pay, and Emily, too. The baby would grow up without her mother.
“Just pick one.” Bob gestured at the clothes. “Which one would she like? Did she have a favorite dress?”
“The white.” Mike pointed to a dress he knew Chloe loved, and Bob lifted the dress up by the hanger, a filmy sheath of ivory silk. The contours of the dress had been shaped by Chloe’s body and it hung suspended in the air like her very ghost.
“Now we need shoes. What shoes go with the dress? What did she wear with it?” Bob shifted to the pile of overturned shoeboxes, and Mike spotted the sexy black stilettos Chloe adored. She’d worn them once when they made love, one of the few times they’d gotten kinky. He looked away from the stilettos.
“Take the brown ones.”
“Done.” Bob grabbed the shoes and straightened up. “Do you think we need underwear and all?”
“No. I’m not doing that, and neither are you.” Mike didn’t even want to think about somebody at the funeral home, dressing Chloe. It occurred to him there was so much he didn’t know about what happened to her body. “Bob, did they autopsy her?”
“Yes, sorry.” Bob glanced at his watch. “They had to, by law.”
“Does that mean there’s a police or a coroner’s report?”
“I suppose so.”
“Did a coroner come that night, too? Does Chester County even have a coroner?”
“Sure. Yes. Why do you ask?”
“I want to know.” Mike tried to think through his hangover. “I assume if they had reports, they would show alcohol in her blood. A toxicology screen would show the levels, how drunk she was. Don’t they have to do a tox screen for an accidental death? I don’t know, you’re the lawyer.”
“I’m not a criminal lawyer, but I can follow up. Look, I gotta go. I’ll keep Danielle’s car, you keep mine. Take care. Clean up. Bye.” Bob turned away and left the room, the sheath fluttering beside him, floating through the air.
“Thanks, bye.” Mike surveyed the damage of their bedroom. He’d dumped her bureau drawers and emptied her armoire. The bedroom looked searched, and he realized that he had been looking for more bottles. He remembered finding one in Chloe’s nightstand and looked over. Her hand cream and hardback books lay on the floor, next to an uncapped Smirnoff’s bottle. Some had spilled out, soaking the novel’s pages.
Mike spotted a framed photo of Emily near the book, so he walked over and picked it up. He had taken the picture, and she was asleep in her carryall. He flashed on the soft, warm, and substantial bundle she’d made in his arms last night. He would spend time with her and remind her of who he was again. He wanted her to know that she still had a father who loved her very, very much.
His pity party was over.
It ended when he sipped from that cup.
Chapter Ten
“Anybody home?” Mike walked in the front door, having showered and changed into his old clothes, a black down parka, a white oxford shirt, navy V-neck sweater, tan Dockers, and loafers. He felt raw and horrible inside, but he had to move forward and there was a lot to do, for Emily.
“Mike, that you?” Danielle called from upstairs.
“Yes.” Mike glanced around for his backpack, which was leaning beside the couch. He went over, unzipped it, and yanked out his laptop and power cord.
“Hi, how are you?” Danielle came downstairs with a sympathetic frown, dressed in a maroon V-neck with khakis.
“Fine, thanks. Danielle, I’m sorry I was such a jerk last night.”
“Don’t say that, and you weren’t, poor thing. Bob called and told me what happened at the house.”
“I know.” Mike slipped the laptop under his arm and kissed her cheek. “Is Emily awake?”
“No, she just went down.”
“I keep missing her. When does she sleep? Does she have a schedule?”
“Yes. She naps twice a day, the first time around now, the second around four.”
“Good to know. I won’t
wake her up again.” Mike managed a smile, and Danielle smiled back, touching his elbow.
“When she wakes up, we’ll reintroduce you, like you said. She’ll get used to you. Don’t worry.” Danielle met his eye directly, her gaze a sharp blue, with an intelligence behind them. “Now, did you eat? I have turkey sandwiches, if you want one. I’m not going to work.”
“Thanks, I’d like that.”
“Good.” Danielle led him into the kitchen, and Mike looked around for an outlet for the laptop.
“I need to check my email. Do you mind?”
“Not at all, make yourself at home. We have Wi-Fi, and the outlet’s by the end of the table.” Danielle went into their stainless steel Subzero. “We’d love for you to sleep here while you’re home, in the guest room. It would be more comfortable for you and the baby, too.”
“Thanks so much, I’d appreciate that.” Mike plugged the laptop in, set it on the table, opened the lid, and fired it up.
“We’re happy to have you.” Danielle poured him a Coke and brought it to the table.
“Thanks, again.” Mike let his laptop find the network, typed in the password, and logged into his email, skimming subject lines that read Condolences, Sympathy, So Sorry To Hear About Your Loss, and We’re So Sorry until he got to PhillyNanny, AuPairinPA, Live-In Professionals, and Childcare Professionals. “As far as childcare for Emily, when I go back, I know you work during the day, but I know you’ll want to help with her.”
“Of course, I will.” Danielle was opening the turkey. “It’s only for a month, so we think she should stay here.”
“I was hoping you’d say that. Thank you so much. I’d appreciate that.” Mike’s mouth went suddenly dry, because he didn’t want to presume anything. “I know you love your job, and Bob needs you at the office, so I’m thinking that I should hire a nanny to take care of Emily during the day, or whenever you guys need a break or have something you need to do at night.”