SORRY CAN'T SAVE YOU: A Mystery Novel Page 4

  “All right. Give me a sec.”

  I hear him tapping on a computer. I am so happy to know a guy like him, who’d do anything for me. I know he is risking his job. I’ll have to make it up to him someday.

  “Here it is. It looks like it was ruled a suicide—nothing out of the ordinary. She cut her wrists with razor blades, then bled out in the water. Time of death is dated to between noon and two o’clock.”

  I swallow. Ryan had said he’d stop by at noon for coffee. At two o’clock, he was sitting on my doorstep. How long had he been there?

  Stop it! You’re being paranoid!

  “There is nothing strange about this death,” Frank says. “I think you can let go of this thought.”

  I breathe relieved. He’s right. They had an affair. Ryan came over, then left, and she killed herself afterward. Maybe he didn’t want her anymore. He wanted to take care of his family. Maybe he told her that? No matter what, it doesn’t have to be suspicious. Tragic, yes, devastating too since it’s the end of my marriage, but it’s not murder. There could have been a ton of reasons why she killed herself. It didn’t even have to be about Ryan. It could have been something she experienced while over there. Things she couldn’t talk about—like Ryan refuses to talk about that mine and the rescue of Chip. Only Sandra herself knew what she was carrying, what kinds of terrible experiences she had to relive in her nightmares. They all had them. I knew that much.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “I hope it makes you feel better.”

  “It does. It really does.”

  I hang up, then realize it’s a lie—because there’s another thought that has struck me. One I can only think and not say out loud.

  What if they did something awful over there? Something they were covering up?

  Why did he need to talk to her? Why did she say it’s time we forget what happened?

  What if that doesn’t refer to sleeping together?

  I look out the window at the house across the street where she used to live. The house is empty now; no one lives there anymore. I can still see those cuts in my mind…and those dead eyes and feel her cold skin against my fingers as I frantically searched for a pulse.

  That’s when I realize that I have to ask him. I have to know what they discussed.

  Chapter 8

  I text Ryan and then call him. He doesn’t answer either. He never does. It annoys me. Damian returns from school, and I make him a bowl of Cheerios, then help him with his homework. Except I am not really there. I am constantly thinking about Ryan and Sandra. I think of them sleeping together. I picture them sneaking off at the camp, finding a remote place where they know no one goes, then having sex. I picture them in different positions—him on top, her on top. Then I decide I’m an idiot, close my eyes, and return to Damian’s math problems. As I stare at the numbers on the piece of paper, I see them kiss; I see them smile at one another secretly when no one is watching. I cast the thought away, but then realize if they aren’t having an affair, then it could be something much worse. And I don’t want it to be that. Maybe I do. Maybe I want them to have killed someone over there by accident and then tried to cover it up—maybe some local woman at the village, who they thought was carrying a bomb, when it was, in fact, just groceries. Maybe that’s what they’re running from; maybe that’s what’s tormenting them. I’ve seen movies about stuff like this. It happens. They meant well, but they were under pressure; they thought it was them or her. But they were mistaken, and maybe they realized it too late. Yes, that could be it. It could be as simple as that. Awful, yes, but no sex involved.

  I check my texts every five minutes or so, then realize it’s time to pick up Isabella from her friend’s house. She lives off base, and this is the only way my daughter can get home.

  I am driving across the small town while Damian is in the back seat, playing on his iPad. I see a homeless man sitting on a bench with his head bent like he’s either crying or sleeping. I wonder if it is Ryan. I worry it is him. I think I see him many places all day—from the window at the coffee shop downtown…when driving to the hairdresser…when driving to school to pick up the kids if I pick them up and they don’t go by bus. I think I see him when I walk down to the beach to do my powerwalk, and I see a group of homeless people hanging out by the pier drinking, or see one of them sleeping leaned up against a pillar. I worry about him all the time. Is he eating properly? Why can’t he be with us? Has he hurt someone? What did he do over there? Will he kill himself like Sandra did?

  We eat dinner in town at a small Puerto Rican place with the best shrimp tacos in the world. Isabella gets the nachos while Damian gets a Caribbean burger. We sit outside, since it is hot out, even for January. I look at the stars above us while we eat, then wonder what Ryan is eating. I check my phone, but he still hasn’t answered my texts or called me back. I think about opening the app and seeing where he is but stop myself. I don’t want to go there. It’s a dark place and leads to nothing but me imagining the craziest of things. I don’t want to be that lunatic wife.

  It’s dark when we return to base. Damian is tired, and I have to carry him inside even though he is getting way too heavy for me. Isabella isn’t saying much as usual. She’s been very quiet since she saw her dad attack me. I can’t blame her. I often still feel those fingers around my neck, and sometimes I wake up at night and can’t breathe, dreaming I am being strangled. That feeling of not being able to breathe—it’s awful.

  “Did you do your homework?” I ask her as we walk up toward the house.

  “I did it with CC,” she says, sounding annoyed. I know she hates it when I ask, but I need to know. Her grades have been going down lately, sliding slowly, and I fear she’s giving up. You can’t slide much before you fail in school these days. It was different when I was a kid. We could easily get by with a lot less. Today, the kids need to perform constantly—test after test, almost every day. I fear for her. She gets anxiety, and I fear it’ll break her.

  “Okay,” I say. “Just checking. No reason to be upset.”

  “But that’s the thing, Mom. You’re not just checking. You don’t trust me. You don’t think I know I need to do my homework or study for tests, but I do. And I am always prepared for school. You never recognize this. You act like I am two years old.”

  I chuckle, holding Damian close to me, carrying him toward the door, reminding myself to enjoy these years before he turns into a teenager too.

  “Well, to be fair, you were only two years old just the other day, and you’ll have to forgive me, but it takes a while to get used to you being so big all of a sudden. It feels like just a few days ago that you needed me for everything.”

  Isabella growls, but she can’t help smiling too. She likes talking about when she was younger, back when Mom and Dad were happy and still together in the same house. I know she must feel insecure about the future.

  I know I do.

  “What’s that light?” she asks as we approach the house. She points toward our house in front of us. “In there?”

  I look and see that there’s a light turned on in the guest room downstairs, the one we never use.

  “That’s odd,” I say. “I don’t remember going in there recently, do you? I don’t think I have been in that room for weeks.”

  Isabella shakes her head. “I never go in there. It’s just a lot of boxes and old stuff anyway.”

  “Then how come the light is on?”

  I stare at the window, feeling frightened. Is someone in our house? I open the door using my key, then put Damian on the couch, where he continues to sleep. I walk to the closet and grab one of Damian’s baseball bats. With it lifted, praying it’s not a burglar, I walk to the guest room and push the door open. Inside, I see him. Ryan. He’s sleeping, lying on the bed on his side, curled up into a ball.

  “It’s Dad,” Isabella says behind me.

  I lower the bat as my fear goes away.

  I signal for her to be quiet, and we look at him together. He do
esn’t look homeless. His hair is clean and recently cut. He smells good too. He doesn’t smell like alcohol at all. He is taking care of himself. I wonder if he knows about Sandra…if he has heard. I am sure his friends have told him. He is sleeping heavily and doesn’t even notice we’re there. I’m guessing he needs his sleep. I sigh, turn out the lights, and we leave him in there, closing the door quietly.

  At least I know where he’ll be tonight.

  Chapter 9

  I dream about Ryan again that night. Nothing unusual in that. I dream about him most nights, just like I think about him most days. What is unusual is that he is crying. He sits in a corner and cries, his body shaking. As I try to comfort him, he starts to scream. I jump back, my heart beating so fast it’s almost painful, and I fear it’ll never relax again. I wake up with a start and realize I am completely soaked in sweat. Tears are streaming down my cheeks, and I fight to breathe and calm myself.

  That’s when I realize I am not alone in the room.

  Someone is sitting in the chair by the door next to my bedside, in total darkness, staring at me. Frantically, I turn on the bedside light and look at him.

  It’s Ryan.

  “Geez, you scared me,” I say and clasp my chest. “How long have you been sitting there?”

  He doesn’t answer. He stares at me, his red-rimmed eyes almost glowing. He looks upset. Angry.

  “Are you okay, Ryan?” I ask.

  Then, I see the tears. They’re running down his cheeks. His face is strained, and he can no longer keep himself composed. His body is shaking. I don’t think twice about it. I jump out of bed and go to him. I hug him and hold him tight while he cries.

  “Is it because of Sandra?” I ask as I feel him calming down slightly in my arms. “Are you crying because of her?”

  He nods, then sniffles loudly. “I don’t think I’m doing so well.”

  “Oh, sweetie,” I say and hug him again. His tears and snot wet my shoulder. His body is shaking, and he smells like alcohol. On the bedside table stands an almost empty glass. There’s a little bit of scotch left on the bottom. The bottle next to it is completely empty. He’s been drinking while watching me sleep.

  “What’s going on, Ryan?” I ask, squatting in front of him. “Can’t you tell me what is happening with you?”

  He shakes his head, still crying. I stare at his lips, missing them terribly. I have the oddest urge to dive in, to let go of all my issues, all my worries, and just do it. After all, I don’t know with certainty that he has cheated on me. Their meeting could have been about something else, something completely different. It might not even be anything terrible. Maybe he just missed her because they were friends? I know I am lying to myself, but I don’t care. I need this distraction right now. I need this.

  I kiss the lips. I lean forward and kiss him. He kisses me back. We stay like this for a few seconds until he pulls away. I don’t understand, so I look at him, puzzled. His shoulders are shaking. I raise my hand and put it on his neck. He doesn’t push it away. I pull him closer, and we kiss again.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “If I haven’t made your coming home easier. I want to, but you have to help me. You have got to talk to me. Tell me what’s going on.”

  He pulls back forcefully. I realize I have gone too far; I have pushed him again. He doesn’t like that. He straightens up, then pushes my hand away from him. Then he laughs. It’s a bitter laugh. The terrifying sense of panic is rising inside of me, devouring me. I don’t feel like I can count on him. He seems out of it—like the time he tried to strangle me. Remembering this, I pull back.

  “Ryan?”

  I can see the veins underneath his skin. He gets up and grabs the empty bottle next to him. I want to go to the front door, but he is blocking my way. I have to get past him first, and I don’t want to, not now that he’s holding that bottle in the air, his other hand in a clenched fist.

  “Please, Ryan,” I say on the verge of tears. I raise my hands to protect myself. “I’m sorry.”

  The bottle hits the wall behind me and shatters. Glass rains onto the carpet, and I sink to my knees, terrified. Seeing this, Ryan stops. He reaches down toward me, grabs me by the shoulders, and helps me get up.

  “I’m scared,” he says. “Don’t you understand? I am so terribly scared.”

  “Of what?” I ask, crying. “What is it you’re so scared of?”

  “I’ve been to war! Don’t you get it? I have seen rocket-propelled grenades that just missed me by inches. I have been shot at, blown up, and I have seen children die. I was almost killed myself.”

  His shoulders slump as he says it. I feel my heart grow soft. My fear dissipates. He’s not dangerous. He’s a broken man. He’s hurt.

  I rise to my feet and take him in my arms. He leans on my shoulder and cries again. Then we kiss some more. I feel his body close to mine. He kisses me now, demandingly, grabs my hair and pulls it; then he pushes me down on the bed. He is on top of me, taking off my clothes, and we make love right there on top of the bed. He is rougher than he used to be with me, and it scares me a little, but I also enjoy being close again.

  “I still can’t believe she’s dead.”

  Ryan shakes his head. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed when he starts to talk. It’s unexpected, and I sit up, worried that I might ruin the moment if I say anything.

  He turns to look at me. His cheeks have color in them, probably from the sex.

  “Sandra,” he adds. “I can’t believe she’d kill herself.”

  I swallow. It takes me a few seconds to finally find the courage to ask.

  “When was the last time you spoke to her?”

  He scoffs. “I don’t even remember. Right after we got back, I think.”

  He puts on a sock, then pulls it up. A ton of alarm buttons go off inside my mind. Ryan just lied to me.

  Ryan never lied to me before.

  He sighs and looks at me kindly. He reaches over, places a finger under my chin, then lifts it and kisses me.

  “I think maybe it’s time I come back home, huh?”

  I stare at him, not knowing what to say. He sees it, then exhales.

  “Listen, I know what happened was bad. That’s why I left that day. I didn’t trust myself around you or the kids. But I’m better now.”

  I look toward the broken glass on the carpet. I still have the picture frame he broke the last time in the top drawer of the dresser by the front door, the one with the palm trees. It’s the picture of him and me together from before we had children and went to Italy on our honeymoon. On the day he tried to strangle me, he threw it on the floor, then stomped on it, breaking the glass. Frightened, I put it in the drawer where it has been ever since. I haven’t wanted to take it out. I don’t want to be reminded of that day.

  “You don’t trust me,” he says. His eyes are on me, scrutinizing me. He shakes his head a little like I am some child who has misbehaved. “Do you?”

  I don’t know what to say to him. I want him to come home, yes. But do I dare to have him here? Do I believe he’s truly better? He just lied to me. Things change when people start to lie.

  “I want to,” I say, stifling my tears. “I want to believe you’re okay…but I don’t.”

  He nods and moves closer to me. He pulls me into a kiss. A tear escapes my eye, and he wipes it away with his thumb.

  “Then I’ll just have to prove myself to you, won’t I?”

  Chapter 10

  I wake up, and the bed is empty. Ryan is gone. I exhale and feel his pillow, remembering how we had fallen asleep in each other’s arms, just like when we were younger and had just met—back when everything was easy and exciting. He had whispered in my ear how much he had missed me and that he needed me more than ever and for me please to be patient with him. He was coming around. He just needed me to wait for him.

  And I had enjoyed every second of it. It was all I had wanted since he got back—to feel his closeness, his breath on my skin, his heart beating close to m
ine.

  We made love three times during the night. It was like he was insatiable…like he couldn’t get enough of me. Every time I thought we were about to doze off, he had wanted more. And I didn’t stop him; I didn’t want to. I enjoyed him wanting me this badly, feeling his deep desire for me, and the more we were together, the gentler he became. It was like we found each other this night, slowly got to know one another once again. We found the pace. Or re-found it. It was quite intense.

  But now, he is gone. His side of the bed is empty, and I am filled once again with grief. I hate not knowing where he is, not knowing if he’ll stay or be going. I hate that he won’t tell me what drives him to go. It is, after all, Saturday, and we could have spent the day together.

  I had hoped we would.

  With a deep sigh, I sit up, then check my phone. No messages. I stare at the screen, wondering if it’s something I said or did. Maybe it’s what I didn’t say or do? Am I not comforting enough? Am I not understanding enough?

  Am I not enough?

  That’s when I hear the voices—laughing voices, and happily yelling voices. They’re coming from the kitchen downstairs. I get dressed, fast, then rush down. By the breakfast counter, I spot Damian. He’s eating something, and it isn’t Cheerios. He sees me, and his face lights up.

  “Mom! Dad made pancakes!”

  I walk closer and see Ryan behind the stove. He is wearing his old jeans and a white T-shirt while flipping the pancakes and placing them in a stack next to him.

  “It was supposed to be a surprise,” he says, grinning. “But Damian couldn’t wait.”

  Isabella has heard the ruckus and comes into the kitchen, then sees Ryan. “Dad?” she says, her voice raised. “What are you doing here?”

  Ryan reaches out his arms. You can see his muscles flex underneath the T-shirt. He has been working out a lot and looks very fit. “Isn’t it obvious? Making pancakes, of course. Come, dig in before your brother eats all of them.”