Pink Slips

  “Breathe,” I command myself, inhaling through my nose and exhaling with a haaaah out of my mouth. The kicking ceases. It seems that Baby likes it when I take in deep breaths.

  I settle back in bed with clouds of pillows and my down comforter surrounding me. I lean on my propped-up wedge pillow and grab a book to read, hoping to get my mind off the loud noise. Barney sits next to me, our bodies barely touching but enough to generate warmth between us. Together, we wait, listening. He’s looking up at a spot on the ceiling. Maybe it’s another spider homicide?

  My mind wanders around the silence in the room to my parents’ bed thirty years ago, a bed that had way too many pillows. Their dog used to hop up and get lost in the sea of fluff, like Barney often does now. I would watch my mom create a little moat and cocoon with the two larger, king-sized pillows while aligning the two smaller pillows at the head of the bed. The V-shaped top would allow her to rest her head just so. My dad, on the other hand, would use one flimsy foam one and be just fine. I can still picture their room. The pale blue sheet and pillowcase perfectly highlighted the gray paint and wallpaper scheme my mother had selected for their master suite. I’ve often thought she could have been an interior designer. Mom is so creative the way she can pull colors and textures together.

  Dad would say, “Your mother’s back acts up from time to time—maybe it’s all that bike riding in Europe—so the doctor says she should prop herself up to give her support and relief.”

  One time I came right out and asked Mom about all the bedding, and she just laughed and said, “A ruffled mind makes a rested pillow, according to Charlotte Brontë. You know, Betsy, she’s that British gal who wrote Jane Eyre.”

  “Oh, of course,” I had replied, preoccupied with the mound of comfort before me.

  Now, I hope my parents are doing okay in the guest room. I wonder if they, too, heard a banging sound? Did I leave Mom with enough pillows? She’s too polite to ask for more. Should I go in and check? “No, it’s after midnight. Let it go, Betsy,” I whisper to an empty room as I rest my back against the fluff and fold my arms.

  My head is throbbing, my back is strained, and my heart weighs heavy as I think about the empty space on Steven’s side of the bed. But I’m thankful I inherited my mother’s pillow affinity so I can sleep in comfort and avoid the unidentified sound outside and the pain from the events of the day.

  Ring-ring-ring.

  Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I reach for the blaring phone on the nightstand, not recognizing the caller ID. I hope it’s not another scary call. “He-llo?”

  “Hey, babe, it’s me.” Ah, Steven’s familiar voice. “Were you sleeping?”

  With the back of my hand, I wipe off the drool on the corner of my mouth. “Oh no, not at all. I must’ve dozed off while reading. What time is it?”

  “It’s eleven o’clock out here, I’m calling from the hotel phone. Sorry it’s so late, but we just got out of our dinner meeting. It’s all good news. I’ll share it with you when I get home in a few days.”

  “I can’t wait.” Luckily, he can’t see me rolling my eyes.

  “I wanted to let you know that I love you. Please give the boys and your belly a kiss for me, okay?”

  “I will, I love you, too.” I smile as I hear his voice, yearning to reach through the line and give him an “I’m sorry” hug. He doesn’t mention the fight, which is a good sign that he’s not mad anymore.

  “I’ve gotta go now. The guys are going back down to the hotel bar to grab a drink and rehash the details from today’s meeting. I’ll talk to you tomorrow night. Everything good there, honey?”

  Not wanting to expose my sudden rush of rage, hearing the words hotel bar, I quickly answer to avoid sounding jealous. “We’re doing fine. I’m just sleepy right now. Go celebrate. You guys worked so hard on this merger. You earned it.” Was I convincing?

  He knows he should speak with me a little longer, but I understand why he wants to make the call quick. It’s late, plus I don’t want to let on that I’m freaking out over a stalker. Now is not the time to talk about it—it’s complicated, especially at this hour. What could he do for me right now anyway? Sit and wait for another note to arrive? I’ll be fine with my parents here.

  “Betsy?” he asks again.

  “Yeah?” I hear myself saying as I scrunch my face, hoping to avoid any confrontation. “I’m doin’ great.” My nose is flaring wildly, and I’m grateful he’s not here to see. “The boys are great, Barney’s great. We’re all great. I’m looking forward to hearing the details of your good news when you get home. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Good night, Steven… love you.” I hang up the phone and sigh as I squeeze the pillow close to my chest—some of the spiky ends of the feathers poke me through the pillowcase and my pajama top. I get the point.

  “Barney, I hope I didn’t hang up too quickly with Daddy,” I admit. “But he was having such fun while we’ve been going through H-E-double-hockey sticks today. I just don’t have the energy to tell him about our crazy stalker.” I glance over and see my dog sleeping with his legs twitching, like he’s chasing a squirrel. Then he stops and rolls over to his back. He’s down for the count.

  Back inside my cloak of bedding protection, I nestle in and restart my book. Heck, it’s one in the morning and I’m wide awake… I might as well read for a while. I try to concentrate on the chick lit in front of me, even though my life is starting to look like a suspense novel.

  Bam-bam-bam.

  After dozing off, I’m shaken from my reverie again as I ask Barney, “What the…?” Growling, he scrambles to his feet to investigate the sound outside. Not far behind, I clamber to stand over my best friend and steal a peek through the shutters, again. The moonlight glints through the slats. This time Misty is standing in her backyard, throwing big pieces of lumber onto a pile. What on earth? I grab my cell phone and shoot her a text: Whatcha doin’ with all that wood this time of night?

  A few seconds later, my phone screen lights up with her reply: Those crazy contractors messed up the bathroom rehab, so I’m hiring someone else. In the meantime, I’m getting rid of their junk. They can come get it in the morning—those jerks. Her watch must be broken or she doesn’t care what her neighbors think, but this isn’t normal—not to mention creating a roaring sound causing me to jolt out of bed like a dart.

  Okay, neighbor, I punch the letters on the keyboard. But you know it’s 2 AM. You scared the bejesus out of me! Please don’t frighten me like that again, girlfriend! My toes squish into the shag carpet, making a foot fist.

  Deal. But don’t be such a chicken, she replies.

  Come over in the morning, after I take the kids to school, I text her. Are you around then? My house. I have your favorite coffee!

  Sure! I’ll just swing by after my kickboxing class and bring bagels and cream cheese—your fave! G’nite, she writes back.

  Leaning on my headboard, my mind shoots back to the conversation I had with my dad earlier today. I hope, after we reported another note the police, they’ll increase patrolling in this area. It’s the best we can do until we know the identity of this crazy person.

  Back under my mountain of covers, I slip back into my dreams—blocking out the fear—only for a few short hours.

  I watch my boys climb the stone steps to meet the teacher at the entrance of the school, mingling with the other children their age. Patches of red, brown, blond, and black hair create a rainbow of natural colors, a veritable Monet masterpiece of tresses. Morgan is blithely swinging his left arm as if the cast were not even there—that child! Still, I can’t help but smile when I see his teacher toss me a joint hello and goodbye wave as the children file in behind her. It’s comforting to know they’re in good hands, because today I am determined to track down this madman.

  I scan the playground and down the street before I pull away from the curb. There’s an out-of-the-ordinary white van parked across the street from the school. I drive ahead and park my car out of the way of the carpool li
ne and wait. Pretending to look at my phone, I peer over my sunglasses at the rearview mirror. There’s one man sitting behind the wheel, unmoving. To stay razor focused, I turn off the radio and tune my senses into the threat across the street.

  I’ve never seen this vehicle here before, and for it to be parked across from the school, it signals a red flag. Betsy, go over there and ask him what he’s doing.

  I flick on the hazards button and slide out of my car, though I need to wait for a passing vehicle to get out of the way. The whoosh of the bus pulling from the curb indicates the last of the children filing into the school, which also means the crossing guard and the remaining group of teachers will be going into the school and out of sight by the time I get over to the van. Hurrying my pace, I teeter across the street and walk right up to the window of the van and firmly wrap my knuckles.

  The man turns his face toward me, and I realize that I recognize him. Rolling down the window, my doctor’s custodian Henry says, “Yeah, whadda ya want?”

  Jerking my chin back over my collarbones I reply, “Uh, oh, hi. Hi, Henry, how are you?”

  He blinks a couple of times then casts a skeptical look at me. “I’m good.”

  The silence between us is dense and detached. Say something, Betsy. Ask him if he’s the stalker! “I came over to see if you needed any assistance. I noticed you were stalled on the side of the road and thought you might need a hand.” Good God, Betsy! My nostrils are flailing wildly.

  “I’m not stuck, I’m waitin’.” Then he rolls up the window and looks the other way.

  My eyebrows hike up and my lower lip drops. “Haaa!” Realizing I’m not getting any further with this conversation, I turn on my heels and storm back across the street and hop in my car.

  While I’m fastening my seat belt, my phone pings. It’s a text message from Mom. “Hey Honey, we tried to call you but it went to voicemail. We understand you’re scared to death about this stalker but trust we’re here for you. We locked the doors behind us this morning. We have appointments later but we’ll check in afterward. Love you.”

  I’m glad they checked in. Last night, Dad seemed very agitated after the police left. I can almost imagine how he’d react if he witnessed this guy’s behavior just now.

  Could the stalker be Henry? This interaction didn’t get me anywhere, but it seals my belief that he’s a lot ruder than I thought he was. He may have been in the middle of something, but I was surprised by his curt response… and then to roll the window up on my face? I’m going to add his name to my ever-growing suspect list since he showed up somewhere unexpected, like Freddie.

  Knowing I can’t do much else with Henry, I return my thoughts to what I’ll share with Misty when I get back home.

  I’ve known her since the day we moved into our Ash Street abode, almost ten years ago. Our hairstyles were longer and our makeup more dramatic. Our day-to-day lives were different then, too—less stressful. With only Barney to round out our still-tiny family, Steven and I were the cute, new couple next door, just starting out. No fighting. Over time and through plenty of changes, my trusty neighbor has been a consistent friend, a sounding board, and fashion aficionado. But we’ve always had boundaries.

  Today, that will change. Sure, I’ve cried and complained to her, but never have I let on that I envy her or that I need her help—which I require now more than ever. Because earth-shattering or not, those pink slips are turning my life upside down. And I think my plucky neighbor will have some useful ideas.

  Misty got divorced right after the birth of her second daughter, Samantha. Her older daughter, Abby, was just a year old, and she found out the hard way that her ex, a powerful, wealthy CEO in the city, was a no-good cheater. She got a hefty settlement in the divorce. He had been having an affair with his secretary and living in a high-rise apartment on Lakeshore Drive, with a lake view, five nights a week for goodness knows how long. Sounds like television drama. When Misty caught him there with the girlfriend one night, it was an ugly scene—she used her karate moves on him. It was rather entertaining to see his black eye the following week. I called her right away and made a joke about what a brute she was. She put up a good front, but I know it was hard on her.

  Her now ex-husband doesn’t come around much anymore. I can’t imagine going through a divorce and raising two children under the age of two on my own. To this day, I don’t know how she does it.

  My friend rolls with the punches, gets back up on the horse, and continues to motor on—not skipping a beat. I’ve learned this about her in bits and pieces over the years. We’ll meet for wine on the patio, or coffee talk after school drop-off, but she never gets down to the nitty-gritty. Misty never shares her deep, dark secrets. Instead, she’s guarded about what she’s willing to offer up.

  I, on the other hand, will spill the beans after a single glass of wine. My co-workers, Richard and Heidi, always used to tease me, saying I’m a wimp. Many nights after work, they’d tie one on and I would say, “Oh, look at the time—I’ve gotta go!” or “Gosh, I’m just so tired.” After a while they figured me out. Misty had me pegged as someone who doesn’t drink much the week she met me, and quite frankly, that’s fine with me because it’s nice to know my friends realize who I am. Knowing that my dad had some issues with drinking, I’m not willing to tempt fate. I’m fine drinking club soda!

  At home, I fill the copper kettle on the stove, set out some precision-cut fruit, and place fragrant flowers on the table for my guest. I take my time to create harmony to tie in with the soft hues on the teacup. The arrangement should always blend in with the décor, not dominate it, I remind myself, as I lift the stems out of the vase just a little and reposition them, fluffing the greens. No one flower wants to be the loudmouth in the setting. Focusing on my love of flowers helps distract me.

  The doorbell rings as my spunky neighbor slides through the open door. Her black yoga pants and purple Nike sweat jacket covers her workout clothes, but you’d never know she just worked out because her skin is flawless and fresh. She pops into the kitchen, exuding boundless energy—she’s one of those “life is a bowl of cherries” people despite her past hardships. Quite her opposite, I’m the bowl of pits today. I pull at my top to cover my belly as I wipe and re-wipe the spotless countertop with the worn, yellow sponge—then fumble to return it to the holder inside the sink. Misty sees right through me, of course. Thanks, stalker!

  “What gives, Goldilocks?” Misty cradles her mug of lukewarm coffee in her palms as she takes a sip. Her light pink nails are manicured perfectly.

  Stalling, I get up to reach for the extraordinary display of fruit I’d assembled before her arrival, and casually reply, “Oh, you know…”

  “Yeah, I do, but what aren’t you telling me?” she interjects, raising her eyebrows.

  “You know! I mean, what? What do you know?” Tilting my head, I look at her and scrunch my eyebrows as I place the silver serving spoon down next to the uneaten fruit rainbow.

  Determined to get me to open up, my ally leans in and whispers, “Steven. Is he acting up again?”

  “Oh… no, that’s not it!” I respond. “But what have you heard about Steven?” I ignore my stomach grumbles to lean in and find out more.

  “Betsy,” she starts, placing her hand on mine. “I hear you guys fighting all the time. It’s no secret you’re having problems. I see him coming home late, leaving early. I know the signs.”

  I lean forward and draw in a breath, not only because she hasn’t touched the gorgeous fruit extravaganza I’ve prepared or commented on my lovely flower display that highlights (but doesn’t scream) look at me, but because I feel she’s tiptoeing over the assumed red boundary line we drew in the sand years ago. This is not the topic I’d been planning to cross the line with, at least not today. “What fights? We just talk loud and…” I pause and retreat. “Well, okay, if you must know, Mr. Wonderful is pushing the San Francisco move thing again.”

  “Betsy, Betsy, Betsy…” Misty shakes her head
.

  “No! You need to listen,” I snap. “He’s not having an affair… at least, I don’t think… We’re fine. That’s not what I brought you over here to talk about today!” I purse my lips and exhale a plaintiff little humph. A tiny flame is heating up in my belly, making its way upward. Another exhale puts it out. I decide to sit and listen to my friend.

  Choosing her words wisely, Misty hesitates, takes a breath, and returns to the conversation, apparently attempting to soften my already-deep frown lines. “I’m sorry, it’s just that this looks and smells so much like my pre-divorce scenario. I don’t want to see you get hurt.” She offers a genuine smile and takes a swig of her tea.

  “Thank you, I figured that, and I so appreciate having you right next door. I feel safe knowing you’re a text or phone call away. And we will return to the Steven conversation someday soon, but what I want to share with you is much more… well, it’s crazy scary and urgent.” The armor begins to strip from my heart as I prepare to tiptoe over the red line to join Misty in this new phase of our friendship.

  “Put on your seat belt, girlfriend, you won’t believe this…”

  After hearing the sordid chain of frightening events, my friend gawks at me with her mouth hanging open. “Holy crap, Betsy! What are we going to do? I know what I would do—kick his butt—but what do you want to do? You have four stinkin’ letters, a threatening phone call, and a dead bird? Come on!”

  “I don’t know!” I reply, throwing both my arms into the air. “I have to admit that at first I thought it was a cruel joke or something, but since that second letter came to my doctor’s office yesterday, I just don’t think so. I’ve talked to the police twice, but they have done little except take my statement and tell me to call if anything else happens. That’s why I wanted to tell you, Misty. Plus, for your safety, I had to share this with you. You’re a good friend. And it doesn’t hurt that you can beat someone up with your eyes closed.”