That was when I knew I had to get out of there before I became even more of a monster.
When I had finished telling this story, I realized Laurel was cradling one of my hens in her arms like a baby, silent tears sliding down her gaunt cheeks as she stroked its feathers. I’d volunteered too much information. I fully expected her to start avoiding me after that.
But I was wrong. That was the first time she opened up about her hospitalizations.
Still, admitting vulnerability was different than admitting guilt. Revealing my aversion to hair clippers felt, in a way, almost worse than admitting I had once killed another human being without remorse.
Jesus Christ, I was one sick fuck.
Laurel shook her head as she watched me attempt to fix my man-bun. “I’ll cut your hair,” she offered, grabbing the handle of the basket of cucumbers on the ground. “With scissors only. I’ve cut Jack’s hair plenty of times.”
Every time she said her husband’s name, I felt a twinge of unjustifiable jealousy. I stupidly wanted to pretend he didn’t exist. When she mentioned him, especially by name, it broke the illusion that we were the only people who mattered.
I needed to get laid. It was the best way to rid myself of these dangerous feelings.
No matter how many times Laurel laughed at my jokes or cried during my stories, I knew deep down in my inky-black soul, her laughter and tears didn’t belong to me. They were merely on loan, and I was pretty sure they were about to be repossessed.
I agreed to let Laurel cut my hair, my first haircut in almost two years. We washed and dried the cucumbers to get them ready for pickling the next day, then she sat me down in a dining chair on my small covered patio. I closed my eyes and listened to the distant sounds of traffic as she brushed the tangles out of my hair.
I hoped she didn’t notice how every time she touched me, chills spread over my skin. Maybe the tattoos did a good job of disguising the goose bumps. Suddenly, I had an idea for a new tattoo: a laurel tree.
I shook my head at this stupid thought.
Laurel laughed. “Don’t shake your head!” she said. “I almost stabbed you in the neck with the scissors.”
I smiled on the outside, but inside I was thinking about the day I got the dagger tattoo on my neck.
I had been back from Afghanistan for three days, staying at my parents’ house in Stillwater, Minnesota. I hadn’t seen my brother Dane or my fiancée Nicole since I landed. Nicole told me she was at her aunt’s house in Minneapolis and would be home soon. Dane, who was living in Minneapolis at the time, said he would pick up Nicole on his way out.
Boy, did I feel like an idiot when I found out they had been living together for five months and Nicole was two months pregnant. Everyone, even my parents, knew. Everyone except me.
I wasn’t supposed to have access to the trust fund my parents set up for me until I turned thirty. I was twenty-six years old when I got back from that third tour. But after what happened with Dane and Nicole, my parents took pity on me and removed the age stipulation from the trust agreement. The education stipulation had already been met when I graduated from infantry officer training.
I was free to spend my $2.7 million as I saw fit. So of course, the first thing I did was went out and got a tattoo right over my carotid artery of a dagger with the word “blood” carved into the blade. It seemed appropriate since I had been stabbed in the back by my fucking twin brother. The tattoo would serve as a reminder to never let my guard down again.
And yet here I was, on the brink of falling in love with a married woman.
When Laurel was finished cutting my hair, she brushed away as much of the loose hairs off my neck as she could. I wondered if she could see how tightly wound my muscles were as I tried to push aside thoughts of pulling her into my lap and burying myself inside her.
“Are you okay? You look tense,” she said, walking around the chair to examine the front of my hair, tilting her head to see the various angles. “I promise it’s not as bad as you probably imagine. It actually looks kind of…” She flashed me an uncomfortable smile. “It looks good.”
* * *
“So are you still gonna work on your mom’s garden?” I asked Laurel.
She was silent for a moment. “Of course. Bonnie — our marriage counselor — thinks it will be easier for us to work on the communication exercises if we’re not so far apart. But I’ll still come back every couple of weeks to prune and primp. That snazzy timer you installed for the sprinklers should do a good job of keeping everything watered when it doesn’t rain.”
I couldn’t even force a fake smile. My instinct was to offer to maintain her mom’s garden in her absence, but then I might never see her again. It was selfish of me not to offer, but it would be pretty stupid of me to offer free services to a married woman whom I clearly had feelings for.
“Well, I hope it works out for the best,” I replied.
I sure as hell didn’t know if her marriage counselor’s advice was sound. I’d never been married. And I didn’t exactly have the best track record with relationships, which was why I steered clear of them.
The awful truth about what happened with Dane and Nicole was that I was partially to blame. I had told Nicole we’d get married after my second tour. But when I got home, I started drinking a lot and ended up having only a vague recollection of kissing a random girl I’d met while out with Dane.
I probably should have kept it to myself, but I’d never hid anything from Nicole before. I confessed to her the very next day and, by the time she forgave me, I had already received my orders for the next deployment. We decided to put off the wedding until I got back.
Nicole’s sudden lack of interest in planning the wedding should have been a clear sign. But I thought she was just being considerate, letting me focus on my work. I never thought I’d come home from Afghanistan in one piece only to find my entire life had blown up.
We both turned toward the street as we heard a creaking noise. Edna had her cane and she was coming out of her front gate. Probably coming over for a chat.
As we waited for Edna in silence, I thought of the voicemail message I listened to this morning from the girl who called herself Emily. I didn’t know her, but she’d been leaving me multiple voicemails every week for the last couple of years. Apparently, when I moved to Oregon and changed my phone number, she had been assigned my old number.
Her voicemails started off full of uncertainty.
* * *
Uh… hi. This is Emily. You don’t know me, but I think my new phone number might be your old phone number. At least, I hope this is the right person and I hope you don’t mind me calling. I googled Isaac Evans near Portland and you’re the only one that seemed to be the right age. I just wanted to let you know that someone named Harold Erickson from the VA office in Portland left you a few voicemails on my phone. He said that if you still want to pursue your claim, you need to call him back within forty-five days. His number is…
* * *
But the more voicemail messages she relayed to me, the more certain she was that I was just listening to them and ignoring them. Over time, her tone became less uncertain and more like a person speaking to an old friend. At first, I ignored the messages because I wanted nothing to do with my old life. But lately, I ignored them just so I could remind myself that there were still people out there who cared what happened to me, even if this one was a total stranger.
The message Emily left this morning turned my stomach to twisted steel.
* * *
Hi. It’s Emily again. Your mom called today. She asked me to tell you she misses you and hopes you’ll call her to say happy birthday when she turns sixty-two next week. She said if she doesn’t hear from you, she’s going to try texting me some pictures of your nephew, Ethan, who she said is starting to look just like you. Should I forward those to you? As usual, if it’s okay to give them your new number, just let me know and I’ll pass it on. Your mom is apparently as stubborn as you. She sti
ll won’t accept the number unless you say it’s okay to give it to her. Anyway, I guess you’ll hear from me again soon.
* * *
Emily and I had been having a one-sided conversation for two years. Lord knew what my mom had told her about me since they became phone pals. But I had to respect them both for their persistence, and their insistence that I should be able to resume communication with my family on my own terms.
I just wished I knew what to say to my mom. There was nothing I could say that would make Dane’s suicide okay. And there was no one who could convince me that I wasn’t partially responsible for Dane’s death.
“Who butchered your hair?” Edna asked as Laurel and I joined her on the sidewalk.
I smiled, pointing my thumb in Laurel’s direction. “Officer, this is the butcher you’re looking for.”
Laurel gasped. “Geez, no hesitation fingering me, huh?” As soon as the words came out of her mouth, she realized the double entendre and clapped her hand over her mouth.
Damn fucking right, I would not hesitate at all.
“It’s not that bad, is it?” she asked Edna, clearly trying to steer the conversation back to the haircut.
Edna flashed me a sweet smile as she insisted my hair didn’t look so bad, though I didn’t know if she was smiling at my bad hair or at Laurel’s slip of the tongue.
I used the opportunity to distract myself from thoughts of Laurel, and the many things I’d say — and do — to her if she weren’t married. I’d have to settle for doing those things with a complete stranger after Laurel left.
“Did you finish up the repairs on that vehicle, sweetie?” Edna asked me, changing the subject. “My grandson is looking for a car and I think he likes those old muscle cars.”
I shook my head. “Almost. She’ll be ready in a couple of weeks, I expect. Give me your grandson’s phone number and I’ll get in touch with him. Send him some pics.”
Edna’s eyes glazed over a bit, as if I might be speaking too fast for her. “Okay. Come on over. I have his number in my pocketbook.”
As Edna headed back toward her house, I shrugged at Laurel. “You need me to come by and help with that mesh?”
She flashed me a beautiful smile. “I’m fine. I think I can handle it alone. Thanks… for everything.”
I tried not to let the pain register on my face at the revelation that she was really leaving. “It was nothing,” I replied with a smile, then I turned around and headed toward Edna’s without another glance in Laurel’s direction.
As Edna stood aside for me to enter her house, she wore a knowing grin. “You’ve sure helped Laurel out a lot. Her garden is looking stupendous.”
I shook my head. “It’s nothing more than what Beth did for me.”
She nodded as she led me toward the kitchen with the faded oak cabinets and orange Formica countertops. “Of course. You and Beth were thick as thieves. It’s terrible what happened to her, but I’ll bet she’d be very proud of you two.” She opened up a drawer in her kitchen and pulled out a pink pocketbook. “Have you thought any more about getting in touch with your VA worker.”
Every time I spoke to Edna, she asked me if I’d spoken with my worker. Her son Benjamin was an army captain and one of the first to be deployed to Fallujah in 2003. He committed suicide in 2008, three years after his second tour ended.
“I think I’ll call him this week,” I replied, but this time I wasn’t trying to placate Edna. This time I meant it.
The warm smile on her plump face solidified my resolve. I would schedule a meeting with my VA worker as soon as I left Edna’s house. Then, I would text Emily, giving her permission to pass along my new phone number to my mom.
Chapter 23
Laurel
It took two and a half hours to put up the galvanized mesh in the backyard by myself. Afterward, I lingered for forty minutes in my second shower of the day. I wanted to arrive at home clean and revitalized and ready for a fresh start with Jack.
I packed a few of my favorite pieces of clothing and the framed photo of my mother and Junior I’d placed in the downstairs office. I carried the red suitcase down, stopping at the bottom of the stairs to look around the living room. I couldn’t really be sure if I’d forgotten anything important, because everything in my mother’s house felt important to me now.
Unlocking the deadbolt, an impending sense of doom came over me as I pressed down on the latch and pulled the front door open. I lifted the suitcase over the threshold, setting it down softly on the porch as I stepped outside. As I turned toward the door, I hesitated, my heart fluttering wildly.
For a split second, I was overcome by a very familiar torture that sucker-punched me every so often. The awful feeling that I’d forgotten Junior inside.
I couldn’t breathe, clawing at my chest as it tightened painfully. Finally, I let out the sour air in my lungs, and quickly reached for the door to pull it closed.
Grabbing the handle on the suitcase, I lifted it up and lugged it down the stairs. I stopped at the bottom of the porch steps, pride swelling in my chest as I stared at the rows of freshly planted hydrangea and honeysuckle lining the walkway. I admired the bright-green foliage on the newly trimmed laurel hedges along the garden fence and the gardenia tree in the corner.
I had accomplished what I had come here to do, with a lot of help from Isaac. And Isaac had been helped by my mother. So, in a way, it was still my mother who had guided me.
I smiled as I rolled the suitcase to the SUV. “Thanks, Mom.”
As I drove along I-84, I tried to imagine what I’d be doing right now if I had never left Hood River. But I didn’t dwell on this thought long. No amount of speculation could ever provide the answer to the one question I had that still plagued me: Would Jack and I ever feel whole again?
I might never know the answer to that question. But the only way to find out was to try. Even if Jack and I couldn’t figure out how to be good for each other. Even if, God forbid, we didn’t make it through this. I never wanted to be that far away from Jack again.
When I pulled into the driveway of our three-bedroom house in Hood River, Jack was leaning against the rear bumper of his truck, which was parked on the right side of the garage. He was busy typing on his phone. He looked up at the sound of my car and flashed me a soft smile as I pulled into the parking space on the left.
Jack made his way to the door leading into the laundry room. “Is your suitcase in the back?” he asked, as I rounded the front of the SUV and headed toward him.
I tilted my head back so he could plant a kiss on my lips as I passed him. “Yes. Thank you.”
He retrieved the suitcase from the Tesla. I hit the button to close the garage door, then he placed his hand on the small of my back and led me inside.
My first instinct, as I stepped into the laundry room, was to check the drawer where Jack normally kept his gun. I had faith that he would honor our deal to get rid of his firearms if I allowed him to hire a security team. But I’d have to give him some time to purge the house of all weapons. I could call Drea and ask her to have lunch with me, so I wouldn’t have to be here while he gathered up his arsenal.
Or maybe I should just find a grieving parents support group, as Bonnie suggested. The idea of sharing the details of my son’s death with a group of suffering parents felt scarier than anything I’d ever done. I couldn’t bear the thought that even one of them would judge me for leaving Junior that night knowing that there had been burglaries in the area recently.
As I stepped into the bedroom, I was not surprised to find the bed made and everything in its place. Jack lived his life with discipline and precision. He approached every task with the pursuit of perfection in mind.
I wanted to ask him if he’d also cleaned up his office to get rid of the disturbing case photos. I wanted to be able to enter the room without constantly reliving the worst moment of my life. The killer lit a fiery anger inside my husband that night. Those case photos, the surveillance footage, the Faceboo
k group, and websleuths.com kept the anger very well fed.
But I knew in my heart that angry man wasn’t the real Jack. I wanted the Jack that I celebrated my third anniversary with two years ago. The one who seemed ready to emerge from the dark cave he’d been hiding in for two years. I wanted him back. Every part of him.
It was selfish, because he probably wanted the woman he’d fucked on the waterfront that night. The woman who supported him in everything he did.
The woman who looked for errors in his code when his eyes were glazing over. The woman who stayed home and planned out every aspect of our home life so he never had to worry about the little things. The woman who made him a better man.
I’d have to wait before I could broach the topic of the case photos in his office. Tonight, I would focus on settling in and getting some rest.
Jack pushed the red suitcase into the walk-in closet and shut the door. Out of sight, out of mind. I turned away from the bed to face him as he approached. The triumph in his eyes was unmistakable.
“I’m meeting with a guy on Monday to discuss an armed security detail,” he said, grabbing my hips to pull me close. “I don’t trust a rent-a-cop without a gun to protect you.”
“What about when I’m running errands or working at my mom’s house? Are they going to follow me around everywhere like a bodyguard? Do I really need that?”
He shook his head. “You agreed to the security detail. I want you safe whether you’re here or at your mom’s. These past few weeks have been torture,” he said, brushing the pad of his thumb over my cheekbone. “Thousands of miles away from you in Japan, unable to protect you… I couldn’t rest.”
I laid my hand on his chest, comforted by the warmth of his body radiating through his gray T-shirt. “Will the bodyguard be in the house with me?”