Lisa Unger - Darkness My Old Friend

“How’s Willow?”

How dare you even ask? is what Bethany wanted to say but didn’t. Enduring her ex-husband’s weekly guilt call was almost more than she could take this afternoon. She still felt off center after her meeting with Henry Ivy, was regretting her decision to let Willow stay after school to study at the library. She kept watching the clock. She was tempted to call the library again. But she didn’t want to be that kind of mom. Once was careful. Twice was paranoid. The late bus would pull up at 4:35. She couldn’t quite see it from the house, but she could hear it if the television was off, if she was listening for it. And today she was listening for it.

“She’s adjusting.”

“Not getting into trouble?”

“It’s not really your problem anymore if she is.” She couldn’t keep the sharp edge from her tone. It crept in against her will, a thug pulling a switchblade, not afraid to use it. Usually he’d snap back and the conversation would turn into an alley fight, dirty and mean, ending abruptly. They’d try again next week, for Willow’s sake. But he surprised her this time, by waiting a beat before answering.

“I still care, Bethany. About you. About Willow. Maybe it doesn’t seem like it. But I do.”

She felt her core melt a bit. And then she got it. What’s-her-face-Miss 34DD-had taken a walk. She’d picked up on the fact that all the money and buff good looks in the world didn’t make up for everything Richard was lacking. Richard Coben looked damn good-even pushing sixty, he was in better shape than most men half his age. That head of prematurely gray hair was exotic, sophisticated. Those icy blue eyes bored into you, seemed to see every romantic dream you ever had. The opening act was spectacular-roses and candlelight, surprise trips to Paris. The girls swooned-Bethany included. But they didn’t stay around very long.

“Brenda left?” she asked. They’d known each other too long to beat around the bush.

She heard him sigh. “Yeah. Things didn’t work out.”

He wasn’t a bad man. He wasn’t even a dog, really. He was shallow and unfaithful, sure. Work-obsessed, self-involved. But his fatal flaw was that he didn’t keep his promises, his vows. He couldn’t follow through on the big things. This was disappointing to the girlfriends, painful for the wife, crushing for the child.

Look at this apartment, that ring on your finger, that trip we just took to St. Lucia. Isn’t that enough?

It’s not nearly enough. It means nothing at all. We don’t want or need any of those things. We just want you .

He’d never understood that, still couldn’t by the sound of it.

“You know what she called me?” he said. “She said I was an emotional castrato.”

“Wow,” said Bethany. She was so glad she didn’t have to keep the smile off her face. “That’s a big concept for someone like Brenda. You met her in Vegas, right? Cocktail waitress?”

“Very funny, Beth. And she was a dancer. Not a stripper. A showgirl.”

“Oh, my mistake.” She walked over to the picture window and looked down over the tree cover. She could see the road in patches now that the trees were losing their leaves. No bus yet.

“You have to be very athletic to do that. She’s very talented,” Richard was saying. She’d heard this tone of petulant defense before. It used to enrage her. Now she just found it sad.

“I’m sure,” she said. “And flexible.”

She liked Richard much better now that they weren’t married, now that he couldn’t hurt her anymore. Sometimes, like now, she even found him amusing. She wouldn’t say he was an emotional castrato, exactly. That was a bit harsh, if extremely funny. He was more an emotional toddler, clumsy and unaware of himself, seeking to put every shiny, pretty thing in his mouth, ignorant of consequences. No surprise, really, if you met his parents. Joan, his mother, was an overpraising, enabling parent and a doormat of a wife. His father, Richard Sr., acclaimed cardiac surgeon, was a demanding taskmaster, highly critical and distant. He was used to putting his hands inside an open chest cavity and massaging the heart back to life, never missed an opportunity to tell you that. Talk about a God complex. Honestly, Richard could have turned out a lot worse. If he were a sociopath, he might have been a serial killer instead of a plastic surgeon.

“It’s not funny, Beth.”

“No, I know. I’m sorry.”

“Why does everyone leave me?”

“Oh, Rich.”

It was true. She had left him, but only because he’d given her no choice. Infidelity was a deal breaker, especially when you have a daughter. She couldn’t stand to have Willow think that was okay. Plus, he was a terrible stepfather-absent, forever failing to keep promises big and small. Why didn’t he know that?

Bethany wished-if wishing was the right word for a desire that felt like a burning pain in your chest-that Willow had known her real father. How those two would have loved each other. How different things would have been for her and Willow. She felt a decade of grief and disappointment claw its way up her throat. She couldn’t open her mouth, didn’t trust her voice. There was a moment of silence between them where she imagined he remembered every harsh word and recrimination she’d ever hurled at him.

Then, “Are you okay, Beth?”

“I’m okay,” she whispered. “I am.”

“Can I come see Willow this weekend? I miss you guys.”

“Yeah, maybe.” She’d ask Willow. It might cheer her up a bit. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

She heard the rumble and hiss of the bus, even saw the bright yellow roof through the trees. Richard was going on about how he could come up, bring some stuff they liked from Zabar’s. They’d walk in the woods, have dinner in. He wouldn’t stay the night, of course. Richard couldn’t stand to be alone. They’d see a lot of him until he found another girlfriend. She put up with it because it was important for Willow to see him. He was the only father she’d ever known. Bethany was half listening to him, as she listened to the bus stop in front of the drive. Then it rumbled on its way.

“The bus just dropped Willow off. I’m going to go meet her on the drive so she doesn’t have to walk alone. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Bethany jogged down the front steps and stepped onto the gravel. It was a long, winding drive. And if she hadn’t been on the phone, she’d have driven the Land Cruiser down a few minutes before the bus arrived to wait for Willow. But the walk would do her good. She figured she’d run into her daughter about halfway. But she didn’t. She kept walking, hearing in the distance the sound of girls laughing. Willow had probably stopped to chat with the twins who lived on the next lot. Their homes were separated by acres, but the driveway entrances and mailboxes stood side by side. A few neighborhood kids had the same stop-Willow, the twins Madison and Skylar, the painter’s son Carlos, and one other girl named Amy or Ava, something like that.

When she reached the street, Madison (or maybe Skylar-who could tell those girls apart?) and the other girl were chatting and giggling. “He’s such a dork. I can’t believe it,” she heard one of them say. Their backs were to her, so she didn’t know which one.

“Hi, girls.”

“Hi, Mrs. Graves,” they said almost in unison. Madison offered a sweet smile. The other girl looked shyly at the ground. No Willow.

Bethany found herself glancing back up the drive, though of course there was no possibility she could have missed Willow on the way down.

“Wasn’t Willow on the bus?” she asked. She tried to keep her voice light, but already she could hear the blood start to rush in her ears.