Liv Constantine - The Last Mrs. Parrish

I hung up and ran to the car. What could have happened? I pulled out my phone and looked at it. No missed calls. I checked my texts. Nothing.

At the red light, I searched through my e-mails and didn’t see any from the school. A sick feeling wound its way from my belly up to my chest. Jackson had to be responsible, but how? Had he deleted the e-mails and texts from my phone? Could he have blocked the school phone number? And why would he do this to the girls?

I skulked up to the main office, dying of embarrassment, and took my little girls from the office of the disapproving headmistress.

“Mrs. Parrish, this isn’t the first time. This behavior cannot continue. It’s not fair to your daughters, and frankly, it’s not fair to us either.”

I felt my cheeks go warm, and I wished the floor would swallow me up right then and there. Only a couple of weeks before, I’d been over an hour late for pickup, and Jackson had been called to retrieve the children. Earlier that day, he’d come home for lunch, and after he’d left, I was suddenly exhausted and lay down for a quick nap. I didn’t wake up until the three of them came in the door at four o’clock. I had slept right through the phone alarm.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Sinclair. I don’t know what happened. I don’t have any of the e-mails or texts, and for some reason my phone never rang.”

Her expression made it clear she didn’t believe a word I was saying. “Yes, well. Please see to it that it doesn’t happen again.”

I went to take their hands, and Bella pulled hers away, stomping ahead of me toward the car. She didn’t speak to me the entire ride home. When we got to the house, Sabine was waiting, fixing a snack for them.

“Sabine, were you here this afternoon? The school was trying to reach me.”

“No, madam. I was at the grocer’s.”

I picked up the house phone and dialed my cell. It rang in my ear, but the cell phone in my hand didn’t buzz. What was going on? With a sinking feeling, I unlocked my phone and went to Settings, tapped Phone, and looked at My Number. My mouth dropped open as it revealed a number I didn’t recognize. I took a closer look. It was a new phone. My old one had a tiny crack in the plastic by the home key. Jackson must have replaced it. Now I wondered about the other time I’d been late for pickup. Had he drugged me?

“Daddy’s home!” Bella squealed.

As she ran into his arms, he leveled a look at me over her head. “How’s my girl?”

She stuck her lip out. “Mommy forgot us at school again. We had to sit in the office all day. It was terrible.”

A look passed between Jackson and Sabine.

He hugged her tighter and kissed the top of her head. “My poor darling. Mommy has been very forgetful lately. She missed her French class too.”

Tallulah looked over at me. “What happened, Mom?”

Jackson answered for me. “Mommy has a drinking problem, sweetie. Sometimes she just gets too drunk to do what she needs. But we’ll help her, won’t we?”

“Jackson! That’s not—”

I heard Sabine gasp.

“Don’t lie anymore, Daphne. I know you missed your French class last week,” he interrupted. He took my hand in his, squeezing hard. “If you just admit you have a problem, I can help you. Otherwise, you may need to go back to the hospital.”

Tallulah jumped up, tears springing to her eyes. “No, Mommy! Don’t leave us.” She threw her arms around my waist.

I struggled to find my voice. “Of course not, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Sabine will pick you up from now on. That way, the school won’t get the wrong idea if Mommy forgets again. Right, Mommy?”

I took a deep breath, trying to slow the pounding in my chest. “Right.”

He reached out and touched the sleeve of my shirt. “And that’s a really ugly outfit you have on. Why don’t you go change? Bella, go help Mommy find a nice dress for dinner.”

“Come on, Mommy. I know what would look pretty on you.”

All of a sudden, everywhere I looked, there were turtles. They hid behind photographs, peered out from bookshelves, perched menacingly on dresser tops.

In the early days, before I learned not to share my soul, I’d told Jackson why I hated them. When Julie and I were young, my father bought a turtle for us. We’d always wanted a dog or a cat, but unrelated to her CF, Julie was allergic to both. My mom had asked him to get a box turtle, but he brought home a snapping turtle instead. It had been returned to the store after a year because its previous owner couldn’t care for it anymore. That very first day, I was feeding him a carrot, and he snapped and bit my finger. His jaw was so strong I couldn’t free it, and I screamed while Julie ran to find my mother. I can still remember the pain and my panicked feeling that he would bite it off. My mother’s quick thinking of offering him another carrot worked, and his mouth opened again. I pulled my bleeding finger out of its mouth, and we went to the emergency room. Of course, we returned the turtle, and I was left with a permanent fear of anything with a hard shell.

Jackson had listened, murmuring comfort, and it had felt good to unburden myself of another childhood trauma. When Bella was a baby, I put her down for her nap one day, and as I was leaving her nursery, something leaning over the shelf caught my eye. It was positioned among her stuffed animals. I called Jackson at work.

“Where did the turtle in Bella’s room come from?”

“What?”

“The turtle. It was in with her stuffed animals.”

“Are you serious? I’m in the middle of a killer day, and you’re asking me about a stuffed animal. I have no idea. Is there anything else?”

I suddenly felt foolish. “No. Sorry to bother you.”

I took the damn thing and threw it in the trash.

The next day, Meredith stopped by for a visit, and I invited her to have coffee in the conservatory. She walked over to the floor-to-ceiling bookcases and picked something up.

“This is lovely, Daphne. I’ve never noticed it before.” She was holding a white-and-gold porcelain turtle.

I dropped my cup, spilling hot coffee all over myself.

“Oh my gosh, what a klutz,” I sputtered and rang for Margarita to clean up. “Jackson must have picked that up. I hadn’t noticed.” I clasped my hands together to stop them shaking.

“Well, it’s quite beautiful. Limoges.”

“Take it.”

She shook her head. “Don’t be silly. I was only admiring it.” She gave me a strange look. “It’s time I was going. I’m meeting Rand at the club for lunch.” Then she put her hand on my arm. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, just tired. I’m still adjusting to the baby’s schedule.”

She smiled. “Of course. Try and get some rest. I’ll call you later.”

After she left, I searched online to find the turtle. Over $900!

That night, I placed it on the table in front of his plate. When he sat down to dinner, he glanced at it, then back at me.

“What’s this doing here?”

“That’s exactly what I’d like to know.”

He shrugged. “It belongs in the conservatory.”

“Jackson, why are you doing this? You know how I feel about turtles.”

“Do you hear how crazy you sound? It’s just a little figure. Can’t hurt you.” He was looking at me with that smug expression, challenging me with his eyes.

“I don’t like them. Please stop.”

“Stop what? You’re being awfully paranoid. Maybe that postpartum depression has returned. Should we talk to the doctor?”

I threw my napkin on my plate and stood up. “I’m not crazy. First the stuffed animal, and now this.”

He shook his head and made a circular motion with his finger by his ear — like kids do in school to indicate someone is cuckoo.