Lie Still

23

Mike was already snoring on top of the covers, chest bare, boxers on, black plastic reading glasses slid halfway down his nose, a file placed open and upside down on his chest. Tanner Kohl’s. Someone else I didn’t know.

The small TV on the bedroom dresser exploded with a low-volume cheer as an Illinois coach lost it, charging a ref, screaming, permissible unless he took that behavior out into the street.

I snapped it off, along with Mike’s reading light. I slipped off his glasses and set them on his bedside table, picked up the file and rested it on top of the short stack on his dresser.

His files, my files, Caroline’s files. Way too many files.

I shook out my new quilt lying at the end of the bed, watching the lucky birds fly and gently float back down.

As soon as the fabric brushed his skin, Mike shifted on his side, still sleeping, to settle into a more comfortable nest. I prayed that I was doing this mundane routine for him when he was eighty, when every bit of passion was dried up, settled into memory fuzz like a good book.

Sleep did not come so easily for me. My mind circled like a Ferris wheel in a never-ending loop.

Questions with no answers.

Round and round, round and round.

One person in particular was still stuck on the ride. I couldn’t see her face as she whizzed past. She was just a name on a slip of paper.

Alice.

The next morning I approached my laptop, tucked into a tiny alcove in the breakfast area. The built-in desk was designed for old-fashioned writing with a pen or pencil. There was just enough room for my laptop, not an inch to spare.

A few wooden slots attached to the wall above it were perfect for mail and bills, and we’d dutifully started filling them up. Mrs. Drury’s relatives had bequeathed us the small scratched wooden stool that slid out of sight underneath. I noticed my rear end didn’t fit on it as easily as it did five days ago when I’d paid the electric bill.

I ran my fingers across the laptop keys like it was a piano that needed tuning. Four months ago, this Mac laptop loomed large in my world, an addiction. Technological crack. I’d never been a big texter, but I checked my Facebook and email so obsessively in New York that Mike whined that it interfered with our sex life.

As soon as I passed the riskiest stage of the pregnancy, the need to reaffirm my existence every day disappeared. I no longer wanted to update my status on Facebook to share a picture of an especially nice pastrami sandwich from Zabar’s with 522 friends. I was connected to another human being in the most intimate way possible and it filled me up.

Since we’d arrived in Clairmont, I checked email once a day and had fallen completely off the Facebook wagon. Now I was thinking Facebook could be a very useful tool.

But first, Bradley Hellenberger. I typed his full name and journalist into a Google search, immediately rewarded with dozens of hits. He hadn’t fallen into a ditch. He was a managing editor for a prominent online newsmagazine in New York. This was going to be easier than I thought.

I clicked the third link, which promised a bio. When the picture flashed up, I thought I’d made a mistake. The guy who appeared beside the short profile was dark-complected with brown hair. Intelligence and ego radiated out of his eyes. This man was definitely not a light breeze. And definitely not poor, skinny Bradley with the small nose holes.

My eyes traveled over the bio. By the second paragraph, I began to get the sense that something was very wrong. This Bradley was that Bradley. Or at least, their history was the same.

Bradley graduated magna cum laude from Windsor with a double major in journalism and history the same year that I was raped. He began his career as an investigative reporter on the Windsor newspaper, with stories that received national attention in papers around the country.

He worked as a writer and editor at The Wall Street Journal and The Philadelphia Inquirer before going to work for magazines. So The Wall Street Journal hadn’t blown him off after the controversy. He was a two-time finalist for the Pulitzer Prize. He made his home in New York City with his wife and three children.

It didn’t mention a cosmetic surgery overhaul.

The Bradley I met thirteen years ago on the steps of the liberal arts building wasn’t the real Bradley. I’d met an imposter.

Why?

My hands were suddenly ice-cold.

It entered my mind that maybe Lucy could help. Maybe she even knew Bradley Hellenberger. My best friend happened to be a reporter in New York journalism circles, with a generous freelance contract writing for Vanity Fair.

Lucy had the voice of a poet and the eye of a cynic. She told me she’d never write fiction, because life was way more bizarre and fascinating than anything she could dream up. I specifically remember the day the Joseph Fritzl case broke. The Austrian monster who had locked his daughter in the basement and proceeded to rape her for twenty-four years and father her seven children, never letting her see the sun.

I remember saying, “And nobody knew. Nobody knew.”

Lucy and I were sitting companionably on the patio of a small SoHo café, finishing a bottle of wine. She tapped out her cigarette and threw me an intense look I won’t ever forget.

“Emily, honey,” she said quietly, “of course somebody knew.”

That’s one reason I picked Lucy as my best friend. She was at home with me in the scarier places.

I punched speed-dial No. 3.

“Hello. Lucy Blaize.”

“Lucy, it’s Emily.”

“Emily!” No one had sounded that happy to hear my voice in a while. “I miss you. Nobody else understands that when I whine about my problems, I’m not looking for advice on how to solve them.”

I got right to the point. “I need a favor. Do you know a Bradley Hellenberger? He’s an editor in New York.”

“Brad? Sure. I see him here and there. We got hot and heavy at a Condé Nasty party last month arguing about whether newspapers should disappear from the planet. Brad’s turned into a complete Internet whore. Ezra and I can’t live without The New York Times lying in little piles all over our bed every Sunday morning, can we, Ezra?” I pictured Lucy scratching Ezra’s chin. Ezra was her ten-year-old cat, snow-white except for one black paw, and her most consistent male partner in life.

“So you know him well? What’s he like?”

“Smart. A pretty decent guy. Has a reputation for taking risks, sometimes running with things without enough sourcing. His reporters adore him. He’s married and never hits on me at these silly parties, which always makes me respect a boy. Why do you want to know?”

That did say something about Brad, because Lucy was beautiful, even from behind. I’d seen dozens of strange men stare at her, waiting for her to turn around, because they already knew. She moved at parties like royalty or a ballet dancer. What they didn’t know is that her Polish grandmother forced her to walk around with an encyclopedia on her head every day after elementary school and for an hour on Saturday. Lucy found it ironic that one of the things people found most beautiful about her rose out of childhood torture sessions with a sadistic granny.

That’s not to say she can’t disguise herself. When I first met her in line at the bagel shop underneath our building, she looked about fourteen, with a smattering of freckles, no makeup, and glasses. Cute. The kind of cheeks you wanted to pinch. The second time, I didn’t recognize her until an hour into a museum gala. She had snaked on a little black dress, her shiny auburn hair swinging like silk when she moved. Lithe body. No jewelry. Tall black pumps. The only adornments were clear green eyes and a slash of red lipstick against pale skin. A painter’s dream.

The good thing and the bad thing about Lucy is that she only sees herself as the freckle-faced girl.

I’d never told Lucy about the rape. How great it would be to spill everything now, to pile it all on her. But I couldn’t. Not on the phone.

So, another lie.

“A gallery friend of mine is desperate to get a little feature in his magazine about one of his collectors. Could I give him a call and drop your name? Help her out?”

“I guess.” Lucy sounded dubious. “He might be interested if the collector is someone powerful who’s shunned an interview in the past. He’ll need a hook.”

“Do you have his number? I’m afraid of getting put off by a secretary.”

“Not his cell, but I’m pretty sure I’ve got a card with his direct line at work. Never know when Vanity Fair will tire of me. Hold on.”

About thirty seconds elapsed before Lucy came back on the phone.

“Ready?”

“Yep.” I typed Bradley’s number onto my computer screen.

“How’s the baby?”

“Great, great. Fingers crossed.” Lucy had wiped enough tears away after my miscarriages to fill the Trevi Fountain.

“Hey, I might be down to see you in a couple of months. I’ve been assigned a ‘think piece’ about signs of the apocalypse. Jerry Jones and that spaceship of a Cowboys stadium made the list. Do you know it costs a family of four a thousand dollars to go to a game?”

“Who’s Jerry Jones?”

“You artists are hopeless. Let me know how it goes with Mr. Hellenberger. And, Em-call me anytime. Anytime.”

I hung up, knowing how much she meant it. And thinking how odd life was. Lucy knew Bradley.

I punched in Bradley’s number while I still had the guts. Right as it started to ring in New York, someone began banging a fist on the side kitchen door like the world was ending.