CHAPTER 4
Jeff finds me on the sofa with Lisa’s book in my lap and my eyes raw from an afternoon spent crying. When he drops his suitcase and sweeps me into his arms, I lay my head against his chest and weep some more. After two years of living together and two more of dating, he knows not to immediately ask what’s wrong. He simply lets me cry.
It’s only after I’ve soaked his shirt collar with tears that I say, “Lisa Milner killed herself.”
Jeff’s grip around me hardens. “The Lisa Milner?”
“The very one.”
That’s all he needs me to say. The rest he understands.
“Oh, Quinn. Hon, I’m so sorry. When? What happened?”
We settle back onto the sofa and I give Jeff the details. He listens with a heightened interest—a byproduct of his job, which requires him to absorb information before sifting through it.
“How do you feel?” he asks when I’m done talking.
“Fine,” I say. “I’m just shocked. And in mourning. Which is silly, I guess.”
“It’s not,” Jeff says. “You have every right to be upset.”
“Do I? It’s not like Lisa and I ever actually met.”
“That doesn’t matter. You two spoke a lot. She helped you. You were kindred spirits.”
“We were victims,” I say. “That’s the only thing we had in common.”
“You don’t need to trivialize it, Quinn. Not with me.”
That’s Jefferson Richards, the public defender, talking. He lapses into lawyer speak whenever he disagrees with me, which isn’t often. Usually, he’s simply Jeff, the boyfriend who doesn’t mind cuddling. Who’s a far better cook than I and whose ass looks amazing in the suits he wears to court.
“I can’t begin to understand what you went through that night,” he says. “No one can. No one but Lisa and that other girl.”
“Samantha.”
Jeff repeats the name absently, as if he knew it all along. “Samantha. I’m sure she feels the same way you do.”
“It’s just weird,” I say. “I can’t understand why Lisa would kill herself after everything she went through. It’s such a waste. I thought Lisa was better than that.”
Once again, I hear her voice in my head.
There’s nobility in being a survivor, she had once told me. Grace, too. Because we’ve suffered and lived, we have the power to inspire others who are suffering.
It was bullshit. All of it.
“Sorry for being such a mess,” I tell Jeff. “Lisa’s suicide. My reaction. All of it feels abnormal.”
“Of course it does. What happened to you was abnormal. But one of the things I love about you is how you haven’t let it define you. You’ve moved on.”
Jeff’s told me this before. Quite a few times, actually. After so many repetitions, I’ve actually started to believe it.
“I know,” I say. “I have.”
“Which is the only healthy thing you can do. That’s the past. This is the present. And I’d like to think that the present makes you happy.”
Jeff smiles just then. He has the smile of a movie star. CinemaScope wide and Technicolor bright. It’s what first drew me to him when we met at a work event so dull I felt the need to get tipsy and flirty.
Let me guess, I told him. You’re a toothpaste model.
Guilty as charged.
What brand? Maybe I’ll start using it.
Aquafresh. But I’m aiming for the big time—Crest.
I laughed, even though it wasn’t all that funny. There was something endearing about his eagerness to please. He reminded me of a golden retriever, soft and loyal and safe. Even though I didn’t yet know his name, I clasped his hand. I really haven’t let go of it since.
Between Pine Cottage and Jeff, my social life was quiet to the point of nonexistence. Once I was deemed well enough to return to school, I didn’t go back to my old college, where I knew I’d be haunted by memories of Janelle and the others. Instead, I transferred to a school slightly closer to home, spending three years living alone in a dorm room designed for two.
My reputation preceded me, of course. People knew exactly who I was and what I had gone through. But I kept my head down, stayed quiet, took my daily Xanax and grape soda. I was friendly but friendless. Approachable yet purposefully aloof. I saw no point in getting too close with anyone.
Once a week, I attended a group therapy session in which a grab bag of afflictions was dealt with. Those of us who attended became sort-of friends. Not close, exactly, but trusted enough to call when one of us was too anxious to go to the movies alone.
Even then, I had a hard time relating to these vulnerable girls who had endured rape, physical abuse, disfiguring car accidents. Their trauma was far different from my own. None of them knew what it felt like to have their closest friends snatched away in a single instant. They didn’t understand how awful it was to not remember the worst night of your life. I got the sense my lack of memories made them jealous. That they, too, only wanted to forget. As if forgetting was somehow easier than remembering.
While at school, I attracted an interchangeable string of skinny, sensitive boys who wanted to unlock the mysteries of the shy, quiet girl who kept everyone at arm’s length. I indulged them, to a degree. Awkward study dates. Coffeehouse chats where I amused myself by counting the ways they avoided bringing up Pine Cottage. Maybe a teasing kiss goodnight if I was feeling especially lonely.
I preferred the jock-ish types found solely at frat parties and raucous keggers. You know the type. Big arms. Beefy pecs and slight beer gut. Guys who are incapable of being gentle. Guys all too happy to tirelessly fuck, piston-like, and definitely not upset when you slip out afterwards without giving them your number.
After those encounters, I’d leave feeling sore and chafed and oddly invigorated. There’s something energizing about getting what you want, even if that something is shame.
But Jeff is different. He’s perfectly normal. Polo by Ralph Lauren normal. We dated an entire month before I dared bring up Pine Cottage. He still thought I was Quincy Carpenter, marketing grunt about to start a baking blog. He had no idea I was actually Quincy Carpenter, massacre survivor.
To his credit, he took it better than I expected. He said all the right things, ending with, I firmly believe it’s possible for people not to be harnessed to bad things from their past. People can recover. They can move on. You certainly have.
That’s when I knew he was a keeper.
“So how was Chicago?” I ask.
From the half-shrug Jeff gives me, I can tell it didn’t go well.
“I didn’t get the information I was hoping for,” he says. “You know, I’d rather not talk about it.”
“And I’d rather not talk about Lisa.”
Jeff stands, struck with an idea. “Then we should go out. We should get dressed up, go someplace fancy and drown our sorrows in too much food and booze. You game?”
I shake my head and stretch cat-like across the sofa. “I just don’t have it in me tonight. But you know what I’d really like?”
“Wine from a box,” Jeff says.
“And?”
“Take-out pad thai.”
I muster a smile. “You know me so well.”
Later, Jeff and I make love. I am the initiator, tugging the case file out of his hands and climbing on top of him. Jeff protests. A little. It’s more like feigned protest. Soon he’s inside me, exceedingly gentle and attentive. Jeff is a talker. Having sex with him involves fielding a hundred questions. Does that feel good? Too rough? Like that?
Most of the time I appreciate his thoughtfulness, his vocal desire to meet my needs. Tonight is different. Lisa’s death has put me in a mood. Instead of the ebb and flow of pleasure, dissatisfaction seeps into my body. I want the impersonal thrusting of those nameless frat boys who thought they were seducing me when it was the other way around. It’s like an internal rash, irritated and itchy, and Jeff’s earnest lovemaking doesn’t come close to scratching it. Yet I pretend it does. I fake moan and squeal like a porn star. When Jeff asks for a progress report, I cover his mouth with mine, just so he’ll stop talking.
Afterwards, we cuddle while watching Turner Classic Movies. Our usual post-coital habit. Lately, that’s become my favorite part of sex. The aftermath. Feeling his firm and furry body next to mine as rapid-fire forties speak lulls us to sleep.
But tonight sleep doesn’t come easily. Part of it is the movie—The Lady From Shanghai. We’ve reached the ending. Rita Hayworth and Orson Welles in the hall of mirrors, their reflections shattering in a hail of bullets. The other part is Jeff, who shifts uneasily beside me, restless under the covers.
Eventually, he says, “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about what happened with Lisa Milner?”
I close my eyes, wishing sleep would grab me by the throat and drag me under. “There’s not really anything to talk about,” I say. “Do you want to talk about your thing?”
“It’s not a thing,” Jeff says, bristling. “It’s my job.”
“Sorry.” I pause, still not looking at him, trying to gauge his level of annoyance with me. “Do you want to talk about your job?”
“No,” he says, before changing his mind. “Maybe a little.”
I roll over and sit up, leaning on my left elbow. “I gather the defense isn’t going well.”
“Not really. Which is all I can legally say about it.”
There’s very little Jeff’s allowed to tell me about his cases. Client confidentiality rules extend even to spouses. Or, in my case, future ones. It’s another reason Jeff and I are a good fit. He can’t talk about his cases. I don’t want to talk about my past. We get to hopscotch over two of the conversational traps that usually ensnare couples. Yet for the first time in months, I feel like we’re close to being caught in one and struggling mightily to avoid it.
“We should sleep,” I say. “Don’t you have to be in court early tomorrow?”
“I do,” Jeff says, looking not at me but the ceiling. “And did you even stop to consider that’s why I can’t sleep?”
“I didn’t.” I drop onto my back again. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t think you understand how big this case is.”
“It’s been on the news, Jeff. I’ve got a pretty good idea.”
Now it’s Jeff’s turn to sit up, lean on his elbow, look at me. “If this goes well, it could mean big things for me. For us. Do you think I want to be a public defender forever?”
“I don’t know. Do you?”
“Of course not. Winning this case could be a huge stepping stone. Hopefully to one of the big firms, where I can start making real money and not live in an apartment paid for by my girlfriend’s victim fund.”
I’m too hurt to respond, although I can tell Jeff instantly regrets saying it. His eyes go dead for a second and his mouth twists in distress.
“Quinn, I didn’t mean that.”
“I know.” I slide out of bed, still naked, feeling exposed and vulnerable by that fact. I grab the first article of clothing I can get my hands on—Jeff’s threadbare terrycloth robe—and slip it on. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine,” Jeff says. “I’m an asshole.”
“Get some sleep,” I tell him. “Tomorrow’s important.”
I pad into the living room, suddenly and irrevocably awake. My phone sits atop the coffee table, still turned off. I switch it on, the screen glowing ice blue in the darkness. I have twenty-three missed calls, eighteen texts and more than three-dozen emails. Virtually all of them are from reporters.
Word of Lisa’s death has gotten out. The press is officially on the hunt.
I scroll through my email inbox, which has gone neglected since the previous evening. Buried beneath the wall of reporter inquiries are earlier, more benign missives from fans of the website and various makers of baking tools eager for me to give their wares a test drive. One email address stands out from the flow of names and numbers, like a silver-scaled fish breaching the surface.
Lmilner75
My finger jumps off the screen. An involuntary recoil. I stare at the address until it sears itself onto my vision, the afterimage lingering when I blink.
I know of only one person who could have that address, and she’s been dead for more than a day. The realization forms a nervous tickle in my throat. I swallow hard before opening the email.
Quincy, I need to talk to you. It’s extremely important. Please, please don’t ignore this.
Beneath it is Lisa’s name and the same phone number written inside her book.
I read the email several times, the tickle in my throat transforming into a sensation that can only be described as fluttering. It feels like I’ve swallowed a hummingbird, its wings beating against my esophagus.
I check when the email was sent. Eleven p.m. Taking into account the several minutes it took for police to trace the 911 call and get to her house, it means that Lisa sent the email less than an hour before she killed herself.
I might have been the last person she ever tried to contact.