Page 81 of The Five Year Lie

It’s maybe ten minutes later when I think I hear my mother’s raised voice. I mute the TV and listen closely. She must have her windows open, too, because I can hear her and Ray arguing.

Anxiety rears its familiar head, and I tiptoe to my kitchen window.

“Why wouldn’t yousaysomething?” she demands.

“This is why!” Ray shouts back. “Because it doesn’t matter. And you’re making a big deal about it!”

Eventually I realize I’m holding my breath. When I was a little girl and my mother and my father fought, I used to cower behind my bedroom door.

She rarely had the courage to stand up to him. And when she did, it always ended with a sharp slap. And then sobbing, behind a bathroom door.

He didn’t hit her, I told my therapist in college.But he would sayanything.And the slap was, like, punctuation.

A slap ishitting, Ariel. Men who strike their wives are abusers. And men who try to useshameand belittlement as weapons against their daughters are also abusers.

I open my door and step outside to listen for the slap.

“Why is that police report here in this house?” Ray demands. “It’s just going to upset you.” He sounds aggrieved, but he waits to hear what she has to say.

“I want to know what happened!” she yells back. “It never made any sense. And now you tell me you saw him that morning?”

“We both saw him! He wasfinewhen I was here. He wanted some files from the office, and he wanted his meds delivered. So he treated me like his gopher. It was just another day of dealing with his bullshit, until it wasn’t anymore. I brought him his things, he didn’t saythank you, and I never saw him again.”

My mother says something too low for me to hear, and I take another few steps closer to the backyard. Their voices are coming from the second-floor den.

“I’msorry, Imogen. I know you have questions. But we’ll never know who rang the doorbell, and we can’t ask Edward why he did the things he did. You’re making yourself crazy with this.”

Their voices drop to a level I can’t make out anymore, and I finally remember to breathe. It takes me a few beats to realize thatmy mom is having a different kind of fight with Ray than she had with my father.

They’re arguing, but it’s a fair exchange. Just two people with some things to get off their chests.

It’s not like the old days. I can unclench.

Or I would have, if I didn’t see movement out of the corner of my eye. I whirl around, peering into the backyard shadows. And my heart seizes as I see a man walking toward me in the gloom.

He takes another step closer, and I finally recognize Zain’s skinny form and wild hair.

“Jesus Christ,” I hiss as he gets close to me. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

“Sorry,” he whispers.

I wave him toward my kitchen door, let him in and then close the door behind us.

“I came up Pine Street and crossed the yard as a shortcut. But then you were standing there, eavesdropping, so I held still, like a criminal.” His expression is sheepish.

Well, I haven’t exactly cornered the market on rational behavior myself this week. “What’s up? Did something happen?”

“Yeah, you didn’t show up for work today.” He leans against the counter and takes me in. “Everything okay?”

“Not really.” I move to the cabinet and grab another wineglass out of the cabinet. Then I take the bottle out of the fridge. “Want some?”

“Sure.”

I pour him a glass and then retreat to the little sofa and flop down on it.

Zain follows me, choosing the chair and setting his backpack down next to it. “Do they fight like that a lot?”

I shake my head.