I casually look over at Barney for direction, wondering what kind of vibe he’s picking up from my doctor. Not that he’d tell me, but his actions may indicate something. Barney must sense my angst about this conversation because he hops on the couch next to me, snuggling in and then turning a cold gaze on my doctor. Involuntarily, I massage his ears and scratch under his chin. He’s my security blanket.
Dr. Deller keeps talking. “I gave up holding onto anything after my wife died four years ago. It seems like yesterday. I can’t seem to get over it, so I put in extra hours at work.” He looks down at his clasped hands resting in his lap and then back up at me. “I’m trying to keep my mind off things. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve gone through the obvious stages of grief, but the hole in my heart doesn’t want to close. I think that’s why I take additional care with my special patients when there’s a problem.” We share a look of agreement.
“Loss is so painful, Betsy. I know you’ve lost three babies, and it’s my job to make sure you and baby stay healthy.” My doctor reaches for my hand and gives it a quick squeeze, then offers a small, innocent smile.
I’m not sure why I feel so uncomfortable. He’s trying to help me… or could he be attempting to catch me off guard? My intuition is bouncing around like a Ping-Pong ball. I don’t know what to think! Okay, this conversation needs to end. I really don’t want to talk about my past losses. I’d prefer to focus on more positive things.
“Very true, thank you!” I reply. “Hey, I just realized my sons will be home from school soon. I have to call my neighbor to see if she can help out and walk Barn for me.” Okay, so I’m lying, kind of. Nostrils flaring.
“I can take him out for you, if you’d like,” he offers.
“I may have him sit here with me while we wait. He calms me down, but thanks. My neighbor really doesn’t mind. In fact, she owes me.” I shift my attention to Barney and scratch his belly. “It’s been a long day. If you don’t mind, can you show yourself out? I don’t want to hurt the baby by getting up off the couch.” I smile and hope he obliges.
He seems to register something in my abrupt reply as he says, “You’re right, Betsy. I have to get going.” At the door, he gropes awkwardly for the handle and leaves.
As the door clicks shut, I wait a minute or two and then do a swift tippy-toe run over and bolt the lock. Then I run to each of the wooden shutters and flip them shut. “What was that, Barney? Did you feel as weird as I did just now?”
“Chuff-grr-rowf,” he says, as if to say, “Heck yeah, Mom.”
I flick a stray dog hair off my throw pillow as Misty howls, “Are you kidding me, Bets? How did the conversation get so odd in that short amount of time?”
“I don’t… I’m not sure.” Maybe I’m not explaining this well. “I mean, I had no choice. There was spotting and I panicked. I didn’t want to take the chance and drive to my appointment alone so I canceled it, but he said he’d swing by here after work. After I offered him a drink, it was as if I’d opened Pandora’s box or something.” I pause as Barney shoots me a look, as if to say, I didn’t get a good feeling about that guy.
I shift my attention back to Misty and continue. “Almost as if I let my guard down and he seized the opportunity to share his pain with me. I never really took the time to think about his wife’s passing and how it impacted him. I have been so preoccupied with my pregnancies and miscarriages.”
“That’s sad about his wife, but why lay it all on you?” Misty frowns. “Maybe he thought it would make you feel better knowing that he had suffered a loss, too?”
“That’s true,” I concede. “But Barney seemed to get a strong sense of him. He acted almost as if he was protecting me from the doctor. God, I hope he’s not the stalker.”
Barney looks up at me as if to say, Yes, Mom, I did. I smile at him and then look back over to Misty.
“Did his conversation ever make you feel awkward before? Like at your appointments?”
I pause and think. “Not really. It’s always been strictly professional, given that he looks down there quite often.”
“Ew. Now I’m very uncomfortable.” She laughs, grabs the dog’s leash, and says, “We’ll be right back, Goldilocks. You sit tight. I have some doo-doo to collect.”
I really do have the best next-door neighbor.
Hearing Morgan and Kyle chattering with Misty’s kids, Samantha and Abby, in the other room reminds me that I need to figure out dinner. I never did get over to the grocery store today. I accept defeat and tap the Domino’s Pizza app on my phone to place an order for pizza, salad, and chocolate lava cakes…and a bottle of root beer, for good measure. As a chef, it’s almost sacrilegious for me to order from a fast-food Italian chain, but given the circumstances I believe I get a free pass today. Plus, they do make yummy lava cakes. I have made hundreds of pizzas from scratch, sourcing plump tomatoes, fresh basil, and mozzarella… it’s laughable that I’m relying on an app for dinner.
“I love Domino’s,” Misty says, as she peers over my shoulder, unclasping Barney’s collar from the leash. “Wanna split an order, like usual?”
“Yes, ma’am. I already put it in.”
“Remember to get a bottle of Sprite, too.”
“Done. Now we just need to feed the pup and we’re all set for dinner. We can count our calories and fat intake tomorrow.”
“Cheers to that, neighbor.”
I watch Misty as she walks into the boys’ playroom-turned-office to share the dinner news with the kids. Kyle does a fist pump, while Morgan, Abby, and Samantha jump up and down in circles, cheering, happy that they get to have a fun pizza night together. I take a mental snapshot to save this image in my mind, forever. This is what motherhood is: memories with friends.
I’ve had so many mixed feelings over the past few days, and as much as I hate what’s happening to me with these damn envelopes and the baby, I’m thrilled that my friendship with my feisty little neighbor is growing and evolving. Our children get along great and we moms really do have a lot in common. I join Misty and our children in a group hug. The kids give us toothy grins and smiling eyes.
Working my way back to the kitchen, I crack open a couple of shutters to let the last light of the day seep in while I switch on a lamp. From the corner of my eye I notice that my side gate is wide open—and, I realize as a wave of adrenaline courses through me, with an envelope taped to it. I call Misty into the room, trying to maintain my composure, but my knees buckle and I fall to the floor with a thump, right in between the couch and the table.
“Betsy! What the heck?” Misty runs over and squats down to help me back on my feet. “What are you doing on the floor? Kids, go play until dinner gets here!”
I’m whimpering, pointing to the window. “The envelope. Please, no more.”
Misty helps me over to the couch and then runs fearlessly outside into the twilight to grab the note on the fence. She runs back into the house and rips it open. Her face turns the same shade of white as the envelope as she reads the message.
“What does it say?” I ask, as she pulls the door shut behind her and runs over to me. She gulps and turns the paper to face me. In the familiar scribbled print, it reads, Did the bleeding stop?
I look at Misty, wild-eyed and shaking.
“Breathe slowly. Okay, it’ll be okay, girl. Just take a minute. I’m so confused, though, because I locked the gate after I took the dog out and there was no envelope when I came in. So how could this be possible?” She shakes her head.
“I don’t know,” I say, voice shaking, “but we must call the police again, Misty. He must’ve jumped the fence when he saw you come back inside, or maybe he made a copy of the hidden side gate key before I removed it? I should get the lock changed right away—it’s on my to-do list. Can you slide that shutter closed?”
She runs over to the window and to do just that. “I’m calling the police. After they come by, you and I should make our own plan, too, including calling that locksmith. We have to be ready for th
is fence-hopping creep if he shows up again.”
After settling down and locking the doors and windows, Misty agrees with me that we’ll call the police, and while we’re waiting for them to arrive, we’ll eat our dinner. Feeling helpless, I take a minute to acknowledge and appreciate having Misty here with me. The tension throughout my body seems to slip away, knowing there are two of us to defend our children, if we must. Looking on the bright side, if there is one, I get to sit down and enjoy a tasty cheat meal with Misty and the children. The only thing can I do at this point is stay seated and relaxed. I’m hoping the stalker is long gone, at least for tonight.
Tonight’s fast-food feast is just what I need, and baby seems more relaxed, too. Pizza and root beer are my favorite diet cheats aside from Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food with sliced banana and whipped cream.
I sit quietly at the table while Misty cleans up after dinner, and try to shift from a place of intense fear to consciously focusing on something positive. I love being in my kitchen. My chef’s kitchen, in French known as la cuisine aménagée, is the heart of my home—and the place for one of my true passions. When we built this house, I told Steven it had to have all the elements and spaces that a professional kitchen could offer, which explains the ample counter space, walk-in pantry, and extra freezer. My friends and family love to see me work my magic in my favorite room.
I am determined to chase the most recent note out of my head as I continue to recall memories of family, friends, and especially food, and how they give me comfort and joy—and since we eat the stuff three or more times a day, why shouldn’t it be special and memorable? I remember being a young girl, lying on my bed looking at the ceiling, mentally writing out lists of foods that I wanted to try. I’d look through my grandma’s cookbooks, deciding what we’d have for our Sunday family dinner each week. Her beef tenderloin roast, complete with roasted carrots, potatoes, and onions, always topped my list. Most kids my age didn’t enjoy the foods I liked—I was different. I tasted all kinds of cuisine, from French, Italian, and Greek, to good old American apple pie. I took pleasure out of working in the kitchen by my grandma’s side—scallions and all. She taught me how to make a roux or mirepoix —a soup stock; and in high school, I joined the cooking club to continue cultivating my dream. In the morning before school I would join her and don my apron to practice my knife skills and perfect my grip so I could chop garlic with ease, slice onions paper-thin, back-slice peppers, and rock-chop parsley like a pro. I know she’s looking down on me, cooking up a storm.
After high school, I graduated from Le Cordon Bleu in Chicago with degrees in culinary arts, patisserie, and baking. My first real job was working at the Ritz Carlton in Chicago as a commis, or basic chef, under the direction of the chef de partie, Frederick Berteau. He was tall and thin with dark, slicked-back hair and a pencil-thin mustache. I learned the responsibilities of the food stations and ranges, and how to manage day-to-day operations. I was a quick study and in time moved up the chef ladder.
These days success comes in the forms of serving as room parent, carpool line coordinator, and baking for class parties. I’m definitely in a culinary career holding pattern.
I can’t worry about that tonight. Right now, we moms have a different kind of “cooking up” in mind, while the kids are safe, playing in the other room. While the police do their job, I’ll brainstorm with my neighbor to gather more clues about this madman’s agenda.
Feeling fueled after dinner and ready to meet with the police again, I grab my phone and the pile of envelopes containing the pink notes, and snap pictures of them. I learned that trick on an episode of Law & Order: SVU. I don’t want the police to take them as evidence and then leave me with no proof of this stalking. I remember once I wanted to contest a speeding ticket but had misplaced it; I had such difficulty pleading my case. Now I always try to be prepared and cautious. Tonight, shouldn’t be any different.
The first time the officers showed up they didn’t take the original envelope. This time I will insist further that they investigate where the notes originated. I’m sure they’ll want to pull fingerprints or other clues.
This reminds me of what the character Edna Mole says in the Disney movie, The Incredibles, “Luck favors the prepared.” Last year Steven and I were watching the movie with our sons (while munching on way too much buttered popcorn) when I heard the line. It’s a motto I’ve lived by since, and yes, now I can say I live my life by a quote from an animated movie—and from bad experiences in the past. Whenever I quote Edna, my husband just rolls his eyes and says, “Are you kidding me? You’re citing a Disney character for safety?” Why not? Always be ready for what might happen. I often wonder if I had used my pepper spray that night in the city, if things would’ve been different. I may not have lost my first baby! Live on the defense, not the offense. Experience in this case, explains the top-of-the-line security system with video surveillance we had installed last year. You can never be too safe or well-equipped.
A light bulb goes off in my head, and I sit up from the comfortable position I found. “That’s it! Misty, help me stand.”
“What is it, Betsy?”
“With all the commotion, I forgot about the surveillance videos. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner. Where is my head?” Misty squints, so I continue. “It’s so unlike me; this stalker must be distracting me so much, causing me to forget things. When the security company installed the alarm system in the house, I included the video feed option.”
“Of course!” Misty says, shrugging her shoulders as if to say, Why didn’t I come up with that myself?
I waddle directly over to the desk and pull open the drawer. “Now, where did I put the login information? I thought I taped it to the bottom of the drawer. I never thought I’d need it living in this neighborhood, but… oh, here. Luck favors the prepared.”
I grab my laptop and sign into the security site so we’re able to download the files to my desktop before the police arrive. I want to give them everything they need so they can catch this crazy man. Since I’ve had no legal issues with the police in this village, I’m not sure how they handle stalkers—or to what extent they can fight them off, except for filling out that form they talked about the other day. It isn’t every day that a guy tapes threatening notes to a person’s door, causing them to fight for their life.
“Here we go, username… password… this goes back seven days.”
“Let’s hope we catch him on the footage.”
“Misty, look at this,” I say, waving my hand to the screen. “There I am with Barney leaving for a walk. Now I’ll fast-forward it… there. See it?”
An accomplished twinkle inside spurs my excitement to continue down this path of investigating. I see a man wearing a dark jacket, ski mask, and boots. I can’t see his face.
She leaps up and throws both fists into the air. “Is that the guy? He’s big, maybe six feet tall.”
My mind jumps to the night ten years ago when that horrible man killed my baby. He was about the same height. I try to push the thought from my mind, but the parallel is too similar not to bring it up. “Yeah, but the mask doesn’t help identify him—much like the jerk that attacked me in the city. What is it with these guys and ski masks? Can you see anything?” I narrow my eyes to get a clearer look. There’s no way it’s the same guy… right?
Grabbing my laptop, Misty says, “Let me see that. Look! Right there. He’s opening the gate and putting the note on the side door with his left hand. Who is left-handed that has a key to your gate and house? Did the attacker in the city use his left hand when he came after you? It’s highly unlikely he’s moved to the northern suburbs with all of the soccer moms, Betsy.”
I wonder while rubbing my belly, hoping the baby can feel the heat of my loving touch through the skin between us. “Maybe it’s the guy who installed the new locks on the gate, or someone from the landscape crew? A few people have the front door key—Steven’s assistant, the pet groomer, and the cleaning s
ervice. But my God, Misty, how did he get the key to the side gate?” I hold my forehead with an open hand. “I’ve only given it to my parents, you, and the landscaper. I keep very close tabs on who has entrance to my property. Perhaps he found the key that Steven insisted we hide outside, in case we ever needed it? I know it’s still there, so he could have easily put it back after copying it.”
“That’s the only logical explanation. He must’ve found it.”
“Regardless. I want to snoop around to find other clues. It’s not that the police are unable to do their job, but they’re at a standstill so far, until we can identify who the stalker is. I need to keep searching. It’ll distract me from having to constantly look over my shoulder.”
“I agree, Betsy. And even though your video doesn’t give us a good glimpse of his face, I was thinking we could compare it with the footage from the light post security cameras along our street.”
“I completely forgot about those little cameras they recently installed! I know they’ve used them in the city for a few years, and it’s cut down on crime. Unfortunately, they didn’t have them ten years ago when I could’ve used the footage to identify my attacker.”
Shaking her head, Misty replies, “I never thought I’d live to see the day when, even in the ‘safe’ burbs, we are being watched. Times are truly changing.”
“They certainly are. I’m not sure how we’ll get access to that video footage, but it’s worth checking into at Village Hall.” Chuckling I continue, “At first I thought it was to catch us moms speeding to and from school pickup or to the grocery store, but now I have a different opinion.”