Catherine McKenzie - Hidden

I sit at my desk and spend a mindless half hour cleaning up my emails, something I haven’t done in a while. Moving ones I need to keep into subfolders. Deleting the endless series of reply-alls, etc., that are the bane of office existence. I leave my sent items folder for last. Scrolling through it, I come to the last emails I sent to Jeff. There are eleven over the course of the weekend, that weekend.

I’m surprised there are so many. I thought I had better control of myself than that, but clearly not. My mouse lingers over the first one, but I don’t need to open it. I’m worried. I’m worried. I’m worried is what they all say in one way or another, and I already know that. The manifestation of the worry is something I don’t know how I’ll recover from.

So I delete the emails, all of them. Then I put my head down on my desk and try to keep myself from weeping.

At the end of the interminable day, I slog through a heavy rain to my car, pull the soaked-through warning citation off my windshield, and drive home. Everything’s starting to take on that bright green spring look, the good part of so much rain.

Brian’s in the kitchen, surrounded by the ingredients for a salad. A large piece of fish is on the counter, waiting to be steamed.

I give him a kiss, resting my head against his shoulder.

“You smell like rain,” he says. His hand cups my head and holds me there for a moment, then releases me.

“It’s brutal out there.”

“I heard on the radio that there might be a slide on the backside of Tupper.”

“Yikes.”

“Hopefully there aren’t any hikers caught out.”

“I guess you’ll be on call tonight, then?”

“Till the danger passes.”

“Where’s Zoey?”

“She’s up in her room. So you really don’t think we should ground her?”

He starts to shred a head of lettuce with his hands, tossing it into a large wooden salad bowl. I pull olive oil and balsamic vinegar out of the cupboard.

“I think she feels badly enough already, don’t you? And it must be terrible for her at school.”

“If she were a normal kid, we could take away her video games or something.”

I smile at him. “I think I’ll take Zoey as she is.”

He smiles back. “Me too.”

He picks up a knife and starts dicing tomatoes. He’s not a surgeon, but he dices tomatoes like one. Every cube the same. Perfect.

“How was your day?” he asks.

“So-so. Got a parking citation.”

“On purpose?”

“Maybe. You?”

“Hectic. And I think a patient of mine might be stealing meds.”

My hand freezes on the bottle cap. “Why do you think that?”

“Some pills I keep in my medical bag for emergencies are missing. I usually check regularly, but with everything that’s been going on, I can’t remember the last time I did.”

“What’s missing?”

“A mild sedative.”

“Any idea who might’ve taken them?”

“Could be any number of people, unfortunately.” He stops chopping. “You don’t think that Zoey…?”

“Of course not. No. She’d never.”

“You’re right. And maybe I miscounted. It was only off by a bit.”

Thank God I never went back for more.

“You want me to cook that fish?”

Dinner’s a quiet affair. We try to get Zoey to tell us how school went.

“Fine,” she says. Some kids in eighth grade got caught drinking after the football game on Friday. They might get suspended or expelled, and that’s what people seemed to be talking about mostly. At least, when she was around.

I suspect she’s downplaying how it really was. There’s a red rim around her eyes, but she must be sick of talking about it, and I can’t blame her for that. I’ll follow up later. A few hours of dishes and homework and normalcy are due.

Brian’s beeper goes as we’re clearing the table. He steps away to call in and comes back looking grim.

“The slide?” I ask.

“Two people. Trauma evac.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Hopefully they’ll be all right. I’ll be back late.”

“Of course.”

We kiss quickly as he grabs his coat and medical bag and sprints for his car through the rain. I watch him for a moment. Someone’s parked across the street, the smoke from their cigarette trailing out the open window. A red ember glows brighter, fainter, brighter.

I close the door and finish clearing the table. Zoey’s in the breakfast nook, a few missed days of assignments spread over the table.

“You need any help with that?”

“Nah.”

“Well, how about I try to help anyway? Let your mother feel like she’s doing something?”

She laughs, but the doorbell interrupts her answer.

“They make those Mormon guys go out in the worst weather,” she says.

“Your brain works in mysterious ways sometimes.”

She shrugs. “Why are they always dressed the same? Does God choose their outfits?”

I walk to the front door, laughing. I swing it open, “We’re not interested” already forming on my lips.

But it’s not two young men in neat black slacks.

It’s Claire.

Did I ever really get over the shock of seeing Claire and my brother kissing? I’d ask myself that after enough time had passed that it wasn’t something I thought about every day. I’d forgiven her, I had, but I’d been changed by it. We’d been changed by it. And not in the ways I might’ve thought. I didn’t distrust her. I didn’t think she was going to end up in the arms of another man. I didn’t think she was going to leave me for Tim.

But did I feel like I had some credit? Some bad deeds stored up, some chips to cash?

I guess I did.

But that doesn’t mean that when I cashed them in, I didn’t feel guilty at the payout window.

The morning of day two at the retreat was taken up with putting together prize packs for the golf tournament and a couple extremely boring lectures on “who we are” and “what we want to be.”

The only good thing about it was knowing I’d be playing golf all afternoon, and the shy, proud look on Tish’s face as she inscribed copies of her daughter’s poetry book for the prize packs.

I’d been assigned to the prize committee, as had Lori, the woman Tish was replacing at the retreat. As part of the team-building aspect of the weekend, we were supposed to put something personal in the prize packs—a kind of adult show and tell. All I could come up with were prints of pictures I’d taken of people from around the office on my phone at candid moments. Since Tish was late to the party, and Lori hadn’t been organized enough to put something together before she got sick, the only thing she had time to bring was her daughter’s book.

“You’re showing off,” I teased Tish as she wrote I’m a proud mama in copy after copy of the slim volume. There was a prize pack for everyone, fifty of them in all.

Apparently “winning” meant being there in the first place.

“If you can’t live vicariously through your kids once in a while, what’s the point?”

“So you have someone to look after you in your old age?”

“There’s that too.” Her pen paused. “Do you think it’s weird, me signing these instead of Zoey?”

“Do you think she’d mind?”

“No. She was kind of embarrassed when Brian ordered so many copies in the first place…and you should see our garage. We can’t even park in there anymore.”

I flipped through the deckled pages. “I’d love to meet her someday.”

“I’d like that,” she said, but there was a hesitation in her voice. I had a flash of her meeting Seth, and I felt weird. Cold.

We finished our task and went to the buffet lunch. At some point, I slipped away to check our golf assignments; Tish and I were playing together, I saw with pleasure. In fact, we were a twosome in a sea of foursomes, presumably because of our low golf handicaps. Tish had listed hers as a four. Halfway into the second hole, I knew she’d lied.

“Why’d you do it?” I asked after she’d landed on the green in eagle position.

“What?”

“Lie about your handicap? You clearly don’t have one.” She shot me a look over her collared shoulder. Her expression was hidden by the shadow cast by her cap.

“Didn’t I tell you I suck at putting?”

“Did you? When?”

“The first time we met.”

“I don’t remember you saying that.”

“Well, I did.” She tapped the side of her head. “I have perfect recall of conversations.”

“That must come in handy.”

“Sure. Especially at three in the morning. You’re away.”

I was the farthest away from the green, by a long shot. Unlike hers, my third shot wasn’t even on the green.

You know how you think you’re good at something until you see someone who’s really good at it?

I pulled off a tricky chip shot that was more luck than skill, but I took Tish’s “nice shot,” anyway.

I picked up my ball as a loud horn blasted through the air.

“Storm warning,” Tish said. “We should head for cover.”

She was looking into the distance at a massive black thunderhead that hadn’t been there ten minutes ago.

“I thought it never rained here?”

Her reply was silenced by a zigzagging flash and concomitant boom.

“What’d you say?” I yelled.

“Run!”

She pointed at a decrepit wood structure about five hundred yards away, a rain shelter that had been sorely neglected because it never rains in Palm Springs. Except when it does.