The Art of Saying Goodbye - Ellyn Bache [82]
Slumping once again on her couch after Brynne leaves, Julianne thinks she can’t stay awake another moment. Then she recalls what Andrea said earlier, about Paisley’s hot tub party all those years ago, and how everyone had noticed Julianne’s unaccustomed long hair, and the enormous amount she was drinking, and the way she showed off her belly button ring, and knew something was going on.
Something dangerous.
But only Paisley knew that.
And soon, she would take it to her grave.
Chapter 20
Ten Years Earlier
Two weeks before Paisley’s hot tub party, Julianne had been home alone with her seven-year-old son, Toby, when a Pandora’s box opened inside her of murderous instincts she had not known she had.
It was evening, almost dark. Toby had obediently taken the dose of Tylenol she’d given him to control his fever and gone upstairs to get ready for bed. She was about to go up to say goodnight.
If not for the sudden summer virus that had laid Toby flat earlier that day, the whole family would have been at a baseball game at the stadium in the city. It was a perfect outing for them, far enough from home that Bill had to get someone to cover for him, which meant he would pay attention to his sons and not his medical practice; far enough from home to make Julianne feel, for a few hours, released from the burden of planning activities and hot-weather meals. The promise of that evening had muted, for weeks, not just Julianne’s summer weariness, but even the restlessness that had haunted her for a year, the misery that pressed down on her like a weight, inexplicable and so disturbing she sometimes thought she was going crazy.
When Toby grew listless and spiked a fever, there was no question that Bill should go to the game with Joe and Will, and Julianne stay home with her son.
Not even a discussion.
Julianne had not, for some reason, done the dishes that day. It was unlike her. A jumble of glasses and plates and silverware rested in the sink, along with the large knife she’d used to cut watermelon and a smaller paring knife—a short, deadly length of steel that regularly took nicks out of her fingers.
“Mom, are you coming up?” Toby called down the stairs.
Julianne had the oddest sensation then—of herself, in some alternate reality, lifting the paring knife from the sink and slipping it into the pocket of her shorts. Quite clearly, she saw this other self going up the stairs and into Toby’s room. After that, her vision clouded. She sensed, but could not quite imagine, the woman with the knife moving quickly and purposefully toward her son, intending to hurt him in some unspeakable way.
No!
Toby was her baby. Sometimes she thought she loved him best.
This is the power you have over a child who depends on you. You are the custodian of his innocence.
This is the power you have in the world.
If not for Toby, she could be at the ball game. She would not be in this house forever and ever, with Bill and his riches, till death do us part.
She could be free.
“Mom?” Toby called again, his voice gravelly with phlegm.
“In a minute.” She grew aware, as if from a distance, of a tightness in her chest. A fog in her mind. A lapse that was not quite a total break from reality, but close. She said to herself, Walk out of here. Before you become that woman. Before you do anything, walk out.
Snatching a large, heavy serving platter from the sink, she dropped it over the paring knife so she couldn’t see it. Walk out, she said to herself in the sane, cool back of her mind.
She did not walk out, though it was a pleasant evening. Instead, she ascended the stairs. She kissed her son goodnight. A wave of tenderness and love for him welled in her chest. She pulled his top sheet up to his shoulders. The air-conditioning cut on, purring through the vents. Already, she could tell, his fever was beginning to break.
Later that night, after Bill’s breathing had grown deep and