Breaking the Facade

 Note: Contains some physical violence and suicide.

          I never guessed my mom was having an affair with Jack Bishop. Looking back, I remember playful glances and small gestures. I see now she maintained her act as devoted wife and mother to avoid another failed marriage. None of us—especially not my stepdad Brian suspected when she cheated on him, but when he found out, he cracked.

I missed every hint. My mom would go shopping three times a week. On Saturday mornings, she spent three hours at Walmart, stocking up on everything we needed for the week, but she shopped exclusively at the Target on Cleveland Avenue on Tuesdays and Thursdays. The Bishops’ house was in a housing development within walking distance from the Target on Cleveland Avenue. Jack worked mostly from home, while his wife Annie worked long days—Tuesdays and Thursdays—at the hospital.

Mom would be gone when I got home from school on the days she shopped, but she rushed into the kitchen shortly before Brian came home with a couple bags of groceries, a new item of clothing for herself, and either Chinese takeout or pizza for dinner. We were always overstocked on toilet paper and toothpaste. I assumed those shopping trips were retail therapy, but after the Bishops moved away, the extra shopping stopped.

It was a Wednesday in October. Kellie and I were reciting our lines from Our Town and experimenting with our delivery after rehearsals, when Nathan texted me. I hadn’t heard from him since Monday, so I was giddy to see his name on my phone. He asked if I wanted to go with him and Sarah to Dairy Queen. My thumbs twitched as I typed a response. Trying not to sound too eager, I replied, “Sure. Pick me up?”

I forgot all my lines, stealing glances at my phone and biting my lips, while I waited for his response. Kellie gave me hints to help me remember, but I could only think about Nathan. Finally, my phone chimed, “On our way.”

His black 2001 Saturn cruised into the school parking lot. Sarah winked at me as she squeezed into the backseat of his two-door to let me sit beside him. She grew up next door to Nathan and promised to set us up.

A little black pine tree hung from his rear view mirror, but beneath the musky air freshener, I smelled that familiar hint of his Axe body spray. Nathan cranked up the volume on a pop radio station, making it nearly impossible to talk, and Sarah sang or rapped along with every song, not caring when she was out of tune or butchered a lyric. We left behind our little commuter town, driving past acres of the tan, broken remains of the corn crop. Red and green combines pummeled fields, threshing the last of the dried stalks. The Upper Midwest is beautiful that time of year. The trees wore gradations of fall color until it was time to disrobe. Autumn lasted longer in Indiana than in Milwaukee, where I lived before my parents’ divorce.

We ate our ice cream in his car, noting the most drabby or sour-faced passersby. We took turns making up back stories or personalities for the characters visiting Dairy Queen. On our way back, Nathan turned the up the radio until the pounding bass made us lose the sense of our own heart rates. As he dropped me off, he turned down the volume enough for me to hear him say, “I’ll text you later.”

I smiled at him and said, “Okay,” before I swung his car door shut.

Unable to stop smiling, I unhooked my bike from its chains by the side entrance of our school and cycled past leveled farmlands and a neighborhood of ranch-style houses. The leaves flitted from branches onto neatly trimmed lawns. A gust of wind made them run and tumble like gymnasts along the curbs.

It was nearing dusk when I reached my driveway. As I came in the front door, my mom met me in the doorway.

“Okay Lydia, give me your phone,” she demanded with her right palm open.

“What! Why?” I scoffed.

“What’s the point of having a phone if you can’t be bothered to tell me when you’re gonna be late? Where were you?”

“I went for ice cream with some friends.”

My mom recited her normal script, “Your dad told you when he gave you a phone you have to check in if you’re not coming home on time.”

I pushed past her and hung up my jacket, refusing to look at her. “You wouldn’t’ve let me go if I told you.”

“That doesn’t matter. You have a responsibility to your parents to—”

“Which parents? Dad never makes me tell him where I’m going, and Brian doesn’t care what I do.”

“Then you have a responsibility to me.”

I knew my lines for this debate and retorted, “Pretty soon, I won’t have to answer to you anymore. I’ll be completely free. So, why don’t you just leave me alone now?”

She pressed the bridge of her nose between two fingers, closing her eyes, “I hope you will value your freedom and use it wisely after learning what it’s like to be without.” I paused. She changed the script, leaving me unsure of how to refute her. She must’ve planned her arguments too. She stretched out her hand again, “Your phone.”

           I frowned and reached into my pocket, silently reminding myself I had only one more year until I turned eighteen. As I headed upstairs, my mom called behind me, “That means you come straight home after rehearsals tomorrow, and the Franklins will be here in half an hour. Come down and set the table.”

Every Wednesday night for four years, the Bishops and the Franklins came over for dinner. After working the morning at the bakery, my mom spent the whole afternoon preparing a meal from scratch. Most nights we ordered in or baked frozen pizzas, but for the Wednesday dinner parties, a three-course dinner with wine and dessert was essential. Jack and Annie were a childless but friendly couple. Jack was dapper with straight, white teeth, and a skill for comedic timing. Annie laughed often, making veins surface on her forehead like strings running from her eyebrows to her hairline. My mom wasn’t particularly fond of her. Even though the Bishops were the life of the party, my mom and Leah Franklin decided to continue the routine after they moved away. The Franklins were a few years older than my mom and Brian. Kevin Franklin’s dark hair had flecks of gray, but his soft eyes held no judgment. I adored their daughter Elise. Whenever we were together, she gave me her full attention, instead of compulsively checking her phone and pretending to listen to me talk while texting someone else. On each of my birthdays, she showed up at my house with a gift and balloons. We could never focus on our homework when we were together, yet she managed to remain the top of her class at the private school she attended. After we stuffed ourselves, Elise and I chatted in my room while pretending to do homework until her parents were ready to leave. My sister, Millie played video games or watched TV with Elise’s competitive little brother, Patrick. From my room, we could hear them squealing and laughing and our parents yelling at them to settle down.

A mixture of delicious smells greeted me when I trotted downstairs to the kitchen. Out of routine, I set eight places, arranging the napkins, flatware, plates, and glasses neatly on the table like an empty stage awaiting performers. My mom tossed a salad. A dish of brownies sat on the kitchen island, chicken parmesan sizzled in the oven, and a rolling boil blurred the pasta underneath. A pot of a thick marinara sauce spluttered on the stovetop.

Brian arrived with his eyes wide and his jaw stiff. Nothing could draw his attention away from whatever was going on inside him. My mom tried to slide her arms around his ribcage with a warm smile, but he went rigid and pushed her aside.

He whisked into his office and shut the door. His entry the night before had been nearly identical. He was always preoccupied with something, but for two evenings in a row, he was unreachable and cold. My mom’s lips formed a thin line.

The Franklins appeared at the door with bright smiles, carrying a half gallon of ice cream. Kevin slapped Brian affectionately on his shoulder. Ordinarily, Brian greeted Kevin with a comment on how their favorite sports teams were doing and discussion commenced, but Brian forced a tight grin and barely uttered a syllable. My mom ladled sauce atop bowls of steaming pasta. The sound of clattering plates and utensils was the loudest noise in the room.

As we took our seats around the table, Leah launched into a story about an awkward incident she witnessed earlier that day at the supermarket. Brian stared at his food, and when the rest of us laughed at Leah’s anecdote, his eyes moved blankly from Leah to my mom. Leah cleared her throat and asked my mom about her sauce recipe.

Kevin asked softly, “Have you heard from Jack?”

At the sound of his name, my mom’s eyes flashed.

Brian’s jaw flexed, “No.”

The Franklins exchanged a look of concern. The sound of utensils scraping dishes overtook the room and spanned several minutes. When Leah inquired about dessert, she and my mom headed to the kitchen to cut the brownies and scoop the ice cream. Apart from the wordless sounds of enjoyment and compliments regarding the dinner and dessert, no one spoke a word. Millie and Patrick darted for the TV. Leah resorted to displaying pictures from her phone to encourage conversation. While she rambled about a blurry picture of a bird, Elise and I slipped upstairs. We opened our textbooks on my bed, and I said, “You’ll never guess what happened today.”

Before I finished my story about Nathan, Leah called Elise from the bottom of the stairs. The Franklins normally stayed until close to ten o’clock, and it was not yet eight. I had so much I wanted to tell her, but the precious time we had was cut off. She slapped her textbook shut and gave me a quick hug.

As I watched her go, my mind wandered back to Nathan. He told me he would text me. Whenever my mom took my phone, her favorite hiding place was the top left drawer of her dresser. I tiptoed downstairs in my socked feet. My mom made enough noise washing the dishes in the kitchen to cover the noise of the creaking stairs. I slid across the wood floor into my mom’s room. My phone was exactly where I thought it’d be. As I retreated to the staircase, Brian’s voice echoed through the kitchen, “How many times, Julie?”

He usually called her Jules. The faucet turned off, “What?”

Brian entered the kitchen from his office, fidgeting with his pockets. Guilt was written on my face. At one glance, I thought, either of them would know I had my phone in my pocket. I side-stepped toward the stairs. Brian spotted me.

“Go upstairs,” he growled. “Don’t you or Millie come down.”

He never fumed at me like that before. My eyes were wide, and my ears started ringing as I jogged up the stairs, my jaw pulsing. When I reached the landing, I lowered to the floor and clutched the banister, craning my neck to hear what was happening downstairs, chewing at my chapped lips.

“How many times were you with him—Jack?”

His voice was level but cold. I was confused for a few seconds, but the extra shopping trips to Target, the Franklins’ expressions at dinner, the way my mom used to make a Boston crème pie every Wednesday night, because it was Jack’s favorite, and the way her eyes lit up whenever someone mentioned him flooded my mind, like a montage. The curtain rose, the spotlight shone on my mom, and she froze.

She sounded weak, “How did you—”

“Kevin told me—yesterday at work.”

 “It’s over now,” her voice was shivering.

“Of course it is,” he mocked her. “He’s five hundred miles away now.”

Brian’s shallow breathing echoed through the kitchen, “Did you really think I’d never find out? How stupid do you think I am?”

The sniffling started as he spoke, but her tears seemed to fuel his fury.

He yelled, “Did you think you could ruin my family and get away with it!”

“You never loved me!”

“Now you’re going to blame me? How dare you!”

His shoes pounded quickly across the floor. Her sniffling escalated into audible sobbing, gasping. My stomach writhed. She hardly ever cried.

“How many times?” Brian demanded. The words flattened through gritted teeth.

Her voice shook, “I don’t know!”

“That many?”

Her body thudded against the pantry door with a gasp. I heard a faint click. Her crying became louder.

“Please … don’t do this. I’m sorry,” she whimpered breathlessly.

“You know, that may be the first time you ever said that to me. As long as I’ve known you, it’s always been my fault.”

“Brian, I—I’m sorry,” her voice was thin. “Think of Millie.”

“I AM thinking of Millie! You ruined our family!”

“We can work through this. We can see someone. You don’t need to do this.”

“No, Julie. This is the only way to make it right.”

A bang echoed through the kitchen. My heart seized in my chest. I lost my grip on the banister and hit my shoulder at the sound. A muffled bump followed the boom. The countertops and wood floors amplified each sound. Another shot boomed, followed by a second thud.

I waited for any sign that they were alive, gnawing again at my bleeding lips. With every passing second, my ears rang louder. A slithering feeling twisted in my stomach. My knees shook as I stood. The floor creaked behind me. Millie stared at me with saucer eyes, eyes like Brian’s. We both trembled.

My legs were weak and stiff as I dragged one foot in front of the other down the stairs, gripping the railing. Tears blurred my eyes. My gut quivered. Brian lay between the kitchen and the dining room, with a hole through his head. Blood spilled on the wood floor, reflecting the light. I gasped for air when I saw another pool forming behind the kitchen island.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Nathan’s name was on the screen. I needed to dial 911.