The heaving, yet silent cries tearing from me, were painful. They made a sickening ache inside of me. It was like they were bouncing around in the hollowed walls that were once my chest.
My head and neck were soaked from their tears as wails of the word "Mommy" filled my dark hair.
We moved like an ocean of misery, rocking and swaying into each other, like we rode painful torrents of heartache. The blinding pain inside of me would never go away. Betrayal was a terrible feeling; it overshadowed the grief tenfold.
"I love you, babies," I whispered when I ran out of tears.
"I love you too. Can we go home and have eggs?" Jules asked and wiped her little chubby cheeks. She was so matter-of-fact. I laughed and wiped my face. I could at least be grateful, their pain was never going to be as bad as mine was. I would guarantee they would be spared the details.
We sniffled and smiled and tried to be strong the whole ride home. I parked the van in the driveway and looked at my house. It was nice—fancy even. We lived a good life. I was grateful at least all of that would still be there… our life that we built together. We were two crazy military intelligence officers who fell in love and got pregnant and then married. We were happy against all of the odds that everyone believed would destroy our marriage. No one believed I could be capable of being a housewife.
We had been cocky in our ability to make a marriage out of nothing; it had been easy.
Of course, that was because it was a façade.
His smile was gone forever, but it still broke my heart every time I saw it in my mind. The fake him with the fake smile would have to live on in our children. My heart was no longer going to allow him to take up space.
I had to shut him out of it. I had to let him and his filth die together.
I climbed out of the van and looked at the ringette and hockey gear against the other door. How would I afford it all? The money from the insurance was going to have to last the year until Jules started school full-time and then the rest would have to go to their schooling.
I stared at the gear and shook my head. Baseball, soccer, dancing, skating, ringette, swimming and hockey. Two kids who played two sports a season. It never felt like too much before, but that was before I needed time scheduled for my daily dose of self-pity and a nap. I closed the van and added it to the list of shit I still didn’t have a plan for, which was everything. I wasn’t going to make it past his funeral, I was sure of that.
My mom opened the door and smiled at me. She hugged Jules and rubbed Mitch's head. She was my godsend. I wished Dad were there for the second I had to watch them embracing. Her eyes were sweet and kind, soft brown and gentle, but they looked worried. She nodded at me, "There is a man in the office. A Mr. Wilkes. He was James' attorney."
I swallowed and cringed inwardly. I didn’t want to see anyone. I wanted a hot bath and a glass of red and to be left with my tears and my plans.
"I don't know a Mr. Wilkes," I said softly.
"Well, he’s in the office. I'll make them some supper." She pulled the kids in the house and smiled at me.
"Thanks," I called after her.
She laughed and walked away, "Worry about the important stuff, Evie." She walked into the kitchen and started making noise. The kid’s spoke to her about their day, she made things normal.
I placed my coat down and walked down the hall to the office. I swallowed and opened the door to the study. An older man with glasses and a wrinkled face put his fingers to his lips, like he was pretending to scratch, "Mrs. Evans, it's so nice to see you again."
I didn’t understand, but I went along with it and nodded, "Yes. How are you?" The question felt forced and awkward. I hadn’t played this game in a long time, and just the thought of it made my insides ache.
He smiled gently and placed a package in my hands. He leaned in and whispered softly, "Meet me outside in five minutes. We can take a walk. Don't bring the package. Leave it in here."
My stomach sunk.
He pulled back and spoke in a loud voice, "Everything you need is in the package; the instructions are there. Everything is explained. Have a nice evening." He nodded and walked from the room. He was the first person not to tell me he was sorry for my loss.
He closed the door and I took a deep breath. I looked around the room and wondered what he was whispering for, who he was, and what on earth I was holding? Was I being brought back in? Could they do that? Could I do it? It would solve my money issues, but I needed to be a mom for my children.
I sighed and sat in the chair behind me; the government could do anything they wanted.
His whispering and telling me not to bring the envelope, made me wonder if it was bugged. I could only assume if it was bugged, I was being brought back in.
I felt sickness rolling around inside of me, as I slid my finger along the taped edge and braced myself for it.
I stared down into the huge envelope. It contained three small things; a phone, a Visa card, and a smaller envelope. The name on the Visa was an old name I had used once in Bangladesh, on a mission.
My world spun. I felt as if I were outside of myself looking in. I stared at the name so long, my eyes fuzzed out on the letter. Macy Green…she was a dead travel agent.
The door opened, making me jump up as I placed the envelope on the shelf next to me.
"You want dinner too?" Mom asked, giving me a weird smile. She looked around the room.
I shook my head and walked past her, "I need some air." I walked down the hall and grabbed my coat. I pulled it on and looked back at her, "Be right back."
She tilted her head and watched me for a second, before her kind look returned. She knew the routine. I could see it in her eyes. She had played this game for a long time too.
I leaned in and kissed her cheek, "Thanks." What I didn’t say was thanks for not asking and not needing to know. She never did, even when it had been my dad with the secrets and lies. She smiled and pretended everything was fine. She trusted. I couldn’t help but wonder, which parent had been right. The blind one who smiled through it all, or the one building the wall of bullshit. Having been on both sides, I preferred to know what I was facing.
Her hands wrapped around my head, squeezing and holding me there, with a tremble. She whispered, "Hurry back. I'll keep a plate warm for you."
I pulled back and walked through the front door. Mr. Wilkes waited across the street.
Dressed in a trench coat and dark slacks, he looked like a lawyer, but I didn’t know what to expect from him. He could be one of them.
My arms crept across my body, wrapping around me before I could even stop myself. I was holding myself together. I was vulnerable. I didn’t need to hide it; he already knew it, if he had been watching me.
"You’re in a situation," his bold words stunned me.
I stopped and watched his face for a sign of anger or violence. I would have to run, I was pretty sure I couldn’t fight anymore.
He waited for me to hear his words and process them before he continued, "I'm not sure what your husband did for a living, beyond his day job. I'm not sure what you know, but I am sure you're in a terrible bind." He started walking away from me but continued talking as he walked, "He has left you a rather large pile to clean up."
I jogged and caught up, "What do you mean?" Am I not being brought back in?
He shook his head, "I can't say, but I do know that there is a man who requested that package be delivered to you. Your husband owed him everything."
I swallowed hard and tried to imagine how that was possible. Had he been gambling? After the other deeds I had learned about, gambling seemed like a rather small thing.
He looked at me with emotions filling his stare, "The man who now owns you…is trouble." He looked around us, nervously.
I scowled, "No one owns me, Mr. Wilkes."
He ignored me and continued, "He is the worst of the worst. He owns your house, your van, your life. He has information on you, crucial information. He can make it look like you have done things. I have seen it."
I stopped walking. The words wouldn’t sink in, I wouldn’t let them. I didn’t have any responses. I was already over my head in the debris my marriage had created.
He glanced back at me casually, "Do you understand me?"
I shook my head.
He looked at my neighbor's houses and turned around, "Your husband did something. I don’t know what. But the man who sent that package, is the one who now owns your life. You're alive because he says it's okay for you to be alive." He looked wicked in the gloomy, dim light of dusk, as it fell upon my lush and rich neighborhood. It felt clandestine—something I had not felt in a long time.
I frowned, "What?" Of course, I had heard of it. People disappearing because of the intel they had or being tried as traitors for crimes we all knew they hadn’t committed. It was like the military’s version of a ghost story. "Is the man military?" I asked. I could be tried as a traitor for the things I had done before.
He nodded, "I would imagine something along those lines, or drugs, or weaponry. I am guessing, but I'm just a lawyer and a messenger." His words remained cold, but his eyes warmed to me. He took a step forward and put his hands on my arms. He gripped and looked into my eyes deeply, "You are in danger. Your husband is dead and his debt is now yours. Do you understand me?"
My military training slowly crept back in. I nodded, like a good soldier.
He smiled, but I could see the panic in his eyes, "You have tonight to run. Take your kids and your mother and run. Be fast and silent and find a new life. You know how to do it. You know how to disappear. As of Sunday, they're coming for you. You will be contacted either by that phone or by messenger at your dead husband's funeral."
I took a step back, "What am I going to do?" My heart was in my throat.
He shook his head and I watched him shut the emotion off, "I wanted to warn you. I knew your father. He was a good man and because of him, I wanted you to have the chance to run. I know very little of the details. What I do know is, if you get wrapped up in this, it will be bad for you. You and your kids and your dear mother."
