Every Last Lie. Mary Kubica

Connor, “it’s the only thing I have left.” But a dental practice is nothing without a dentist. Without Nick here, the practice is meaningless.

      A look of confusion crosses Connor’s face. “You don’t know?” he asks, and I implore, “Know what?”

      But he doesn’t answer right away. He drinks his beer, three long, slow swigs while I wait for him to reply. “Know what?” I ask again as he sets his finished beer on the countertop, and I reach into the refrigerator for another one.

      “There have been some layoffs,” he says in a tight-lipped way, as if he doesn’t want to say the words aloud, as if he wants to sugarcoat them like he’s speaking to a child. “Nick had to let some people go.”

      But I shake my head and tell him that I didn’t know. “Who?” I ask and, “When? Why?”

      “A month ago, maybe more,” he says and my heart sinks. It slides from my chest and plummets somewhere down to my stomach, where for a single moment I think that I will be sick. I grip the countertop, my knuckles turning white. Why didn’t Nick tell me about the layoffs? I imagine the ladies who work at the front desk, Nancy, with her predilection for hot cocoa with mini marshmallows, and Stacy, a math wiz, matter-of-fact and thorough; she’s a crackerjack with the bills. Are they gone? Have they been fired? And what about the hygienist, Jan?

      “Financial trouble,” he tells me, and I sharply inhale, my fears overwhelming me as I wonder desperately about all the things I don’t know. Nick paid the bills; he handled the finances. I handed them over willingly and without question when we were married and turned a blind eye to all fiscal matters. I could barely compute simple math; I wasn’t good with numbers. The last thing we needed was me paying the bills.

      “Why wouldn’t Nick tell me?” I wonder aloud, and Connor shrugs his shoulders and says that he doesn’t know. He thought for sure Nick would have told me. And now, standing in the weak glow of the kitchen’s dimmed recessed lighting, I wonder: If Nick could keep this secret from me—if he could go weeks without alluding to financial trouble, if he could lay off employees and not mention it to me—then what else wasn’t he telling me?

      What else don’t I know?

      * * *

      That night Maisie asks to sleep with me. She treads lightly into my bedroom as I tuck Felix into the bassinet, seven and a half minutes after tucking Maisie into her own chambray sheets and pulling the quilt up clear to her neck that way that Daddy does it. Snug as a bug in a rug.

      “I can’t sleep,” she tells me, crossing the room where I’ve recently swept the broken picture frame glass, and I ask, “Did you try?” to which she nods her little head so vigorously that hair falls in her eyes. She clutches the teddy bear by a single leg, the deplorable thing hanging upside down. He’s nearly gone blind thanks to Maisie’s unending chewing, the plastic brown eyes about to fall from their place, hanging on now by a single brown thread. I pull back the sheets and welcome her in, grateful that someone is here and I don’t have to spend the night alone. Maisie happily obliges, rushing to the bed and hopping inside, right where Nick should be. She sets her head on his pillow, her body failing to fill the space where his body once lay, his warm arms wrapping me in a cocoon while I slept, a leg tossed across mine, growing heavier in time. The air is imbued with the fresh scent of Johnson & Johnson Baby Wash and the sweltering summer air that eases itself uninvited into the open window and again makes us sweat.

      It’s the middle of the night when Maisie wakes up screaming.

      “The bad man!” she yowls in a piercing voice, and then, straight on the heels of the first desperate declaration, “The bad man is after us!” she shrieks as my heart begins to dash. She’s crying beside me, sitting upright in bed, clutching the bed pillow as if she believes it is Nick. The tears fall from her eyes like the rushing water of Niagara Falls, urgent, the kind that can’t be slowed down.

      I lay a shaking hand upon Maisie’s clammy one, and say to her, “Shhh,” but she pushes me away with so much might that I all but tumble from my side, latching on to Felix’s bassinet for support as it lurches precariously on its stand. Felix, rattled from sleep by the sudden shove, begins to cry, a cry that easily trumps Maisie’s and my own cries. Felix’s cry quickly escalates into a caterwaul as Maisie hides her head under the pillow to try to smother the noise or to hide from the bad man who trails her. I don’t know why it is that she hides, though I can imagine because I, too, want to climb under a pillow and hide.

      “What bad man?” I ask loudly, over the sound of Felix, as I slip from bed and slide my hands under the weight of him, lifting him from the bassinet. “Shhh. Shhh,” I croon to Felix now, standing beside his bassinet and trying to sway him back to sleep. “What bad man, Maisie?”

      “The bad man,” screams Maisie redundantly, her voice muffled by the pillow. As my eyes adjust to the darkness of night, I begin to see Maisie’s legs kicking persistently at the bed before she pulls them into herself and throws the sheets up over her tiny body. I scrabble around inside Felix’s bassinet for his abandoned pacifier, for something, anything, to silence the insistent sound. He’s upset, scared, maybe even a bit pissed off that Maisie and I woke him from sleep.

      “What bad man, Maisie? What man? Tell me about the man,” I beg frenetically as I slide my arm from the spaghetti strap of a tank top and place Felix against my chest. It is not quite time for him to eat. By my count, Felix shouldn’t eat for another hour, and yet the pacifier is nowhere; there’s no other way to stop his screaming than to let him suck on me. As his gums latch down, my breasts begin to protest. The nipples are cracked, the skin dry, riddled with a bloody discharge; my breasts are hard and sore and unimaginably clogged. Like water held back by a beaver dam, the milk refuses to flow at the same pace Felix would like—a trickle rather than a surge, and so he slurps and slurps to little avail, making my chest crack and bleed. How has the nursing been going? Dr. Paul had asked in the exam room, and I’d lied, Just fine, before telling her the truth: the pain, the broken skin, the low milk supply. What I expected was a haranguing on breastfeeding, but what I was given instead was a way out. There are other ways, she told me before listing them for me: infant formula, a breast pump, donor milk.

      Maisie won’t tell me about the man, and I want to tell her that she’s wrong, because I’ve spoken to the police and I’ve read the newspaper articles. I’ve been at the scene. They all seem to corroborate the same truth, that Nick’s speeding was the cause of the crash.

      “Tell me about the man,” I say again, and when she won’t, I ask Maisie to tell me about the car. She’s told me already that the man was in a car, and I picture him racing after Nick on Harvey Road. “Was it a red car?” I suggest when Maisie says nothing. She shakes her head negligibly; it was not a red car. “Was it blue?” I ask, to which she replies with another shake of the head. “Was it a black car, Maisie?” I ask this time. “Was the car black?”

      This time she doesn’t shake her head. Her response instead is a long drawn-out cry, a wolf howling at the moon, as she runs from the bed and from the room, calling over and over again for Daddy. She flees the bedroom in search of some other room where she can hide, the bathroom door still removed from its place and lying on the wooden floorboards, which I trip over in an attempt to catch my four-year-old daughter before the click of a lock bisects Maisie and me. In my arms Felix is no longer pressed to my chest, but now trying to imbibe anything he can find: my nightshirt, his hand, my hair. With a handful of my hair in his mouth, he no longer has the ability to scream.

      It was a black car. A man in a black car. If what Maisie says is true.

      I drop to the floor before Nick’s office door and ask three times for Maisie to come out. “Please, come out.” On the other side of the wooden pane I hear her cry, and imagine Maisie’s tiny body splayed across Nick’s ikat rug, her tears getting absorbed by the weft threads, the frosty grays with the citron stripes. Or maybe she’s hurled herself over the arm of Nick’s club chair, hugging the tufted back, pretending that it’s Nick.

      When she doesn’t come, I make my way out to the garage in search of a nail and a hammer.

      I’m