The Stranger
Page 39
“When was the last time you saw Corinne?” he asked her.
“A long time ago.”
“How long?”
Adam saw her eyes look up to the right. He didn’t necessarily buy the idea that you could tell lies by the way the eyes move, but he did know that when someone’s eyes look up and to the right, it usually indicated that the person was visually remembering things, as opposed to the left, which meant visually constructing things. Of course, like most generalizations, you couldn’t really count on it, and visually constructing did not mean lying. If you asked someone to think of a purple cow, that would lead to visual construction, which isn’t a lie or deception.
Either way, he didn’t think she was lying.
“Maybe two, three years ago.”
“Where?”
“It was a Starbucks.”
“So you haven’t seen her since . . .”
“Since the time she figured out I was lying about being pregnant,” she finished for him. “That’s right.”
Adam hadn’t expected that answer. “No phone calls?”
“No phone calls, no e-mails, no letters, nothing. I’m sorry I can’t help you.”
The postal worker kept moving, kept delivering the mail, kept eyeing Adam. Adam put his hands to his eyes to shade the sun. “Corinne followed your lead, you know.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“You know what I mean.”
Through the crack in the door, he could see Suzanne Hope nod. “She did ask me a lot of questions.”
“What kind of questions?”
“Where did I buy the prosthetic belly, how did I get the sonogram pictures, stuff like that.”
“So you directed her to Fake-A-Pregnancy.com.”
Suzanne Hope put her left hand against the frame of the door. “I didn’t ‘direct’ her anywhere.” Her voice had a little snap in it now.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Corinne asked, and I told her about it. That’s all. But yeah, she was almost too curious. Like we were kindred spirits.”
“I’m not following.”
“I thought she’d judge me. I mean, most people would, right? Who could blame them? Weird lady pretending she’s pregnant. But it was like we were kindred spirits. She got me right away.”
Wonderful, Adam thought, but he kept the sarcasm to himself. “If I may be so bold,” he said slowly, “how much did you lie to my wife?”
“What do you mean?”
“For one thing”—he pointed to the hand on the doorframe—“there’s no wedding band on your finger.”
“Wow, aren’t you a real-life Sherlock?”
“Were you even married?”
“Yes.”
He could hear the regret in her voice, and for a moment, he thought she would slip that hand back inside and slam the door shut.
“I’m sorry,” Adam said. “I didn’t mean—”
“It was his fault, you know.”
“What was?”
“That we couldn’t have kids. So you’d think Harold would have been more sympathetic, right? He was the one with the low sperm count. Shooting blanks. Bad swimmers. I never blamed him. It was his fault, but it wasn’t his fault, if you know what I mean.”
“I do,” he said. “So you’ve never really been pregnant?”
“Never,” she said, and he could hear the devastation in her voice.
“You told Corinne you had a stillborn.”
“I thought maybe she’d understand better if I said that. Or, well, not understand. Just the opposite, really. That she would sympathize anyway. But I wanted to be pregnant so badly, and maybe that was my fault. Harold saw that. It made him withdraw. Maybe. Or maybe he never really loved me. I don’t know anymore. But I always wanted kids. Even as a little girl, I wanted a big family. My sister Sarah, who swore she’d never have any, well, she has three. And I remember how happy she was when she was pregnant. How she glowed. I guess I just wanted to see what it was like. Sarah said being pregnant made her feel like somebody important, everyone always asking when the baby was due and wishing her luck and all that. So one day, I did it.”
“Pretended you were pregnant?”
Suzanne nodded in the doorframe. “As a gag, really. Just to see what it would be like. And Sarah was right. People held doors for me. They wanted to carry my groceries or give me their parking spot. They asked me how I was doing and really seemed to care about the answer. People get hooked on drugs, right? They get hooked on highs, and I read it’s all because of some dopamine release. Well, that’s what this did. It was a dopamine release for me.”
“Do you still do it?” he asked, though he didn’t know why he cared. Suzanne Hope had pointed his wife toward the website. He had already figured that out. There was nothing really new to learn here.
“No,” she said. “Like all addicts, I stopped when I hit rock bottom.”
“Do you mind my asking you when that was?”
“Four months ago. When Harold found out and discarded me like an old tissue.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Don’t be. It’s for the best. I’m in therapy now, and while I own this illness—it’s me, not anyone else—Harold didn’t love me. That’s what I realize now. Maybe he never did, I don’t know. Or maybe it’s because he started resenting me. A man can’t have a child and it hits home with his manhood. So maybe that’s it. But either way, I looked for validation elsewhere. Our relationship had become toxic.”
“I’m sorry,” Adam said.
“It doesn’t matter. You didn’t come to hear about that. Suffice it to say I’m happy I didn’t pay the money. Maybe that guy telling Harold my secret was the best thing to happen to me.”
A chill started somewhere in Adam’s chest and spread to his fingers. His voice seemed to be coming from somewhere else, somewhere far away. “What guy?”
“What?”
“You said a guy told your husband your secret,” he said. “What guy?”
“Oh my God.” Suzanne Hope finally opened the door and looked at him in anguish. “He told you too.”
Chapter 24
Adam sat on the couch across from Suzanne Hope. Her apartment had white walls and white furniture and yet somehow it still seemed dark and depressing. There were windows, but little natural light seeped in. There were no visible stains or dirt and yet the apartment felt grimy. The artwork, if that was what one would call it, would be considered too generic for a Motel 6.
“A long time ago.”
“How long?”
Adam saw her eyes look up to the right. He didn’t necessarily buy the idea that you could tell lies by the way the eyes move, but he did know that when someone’s eyes look up and to the right, it usually indicated that the person was visually remembering things, as opposed to the left, which meant visually constructing things. Of course, like most generalizations, you couldn’t really count on it, and visually constructing did not mean lying. If you asked someone to think of a purple cow, that would lead to visual construction, which isn’t a lie or deception.
Either way, he didn’t think she was lying.
“Maybe two, three years ago.”
“Where?”
“It was a Starbucks.”
“So you haven’t seen her since . . .”
“Since the time she figured out I was lying about being pregnant,” she finished for him. “That’s right.”
Adam hadn’t expected that answer. “No phone calls?”
“No phone calls, no e-mails, no letters, nothing. I’m sorry I can’t help you.”
The postal worker kept moving, kept delivering the mail, kept eyeing Adam. Adam put his hands to his eyes to shade the sun. “Corinne followed your lead, you know.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“You know what I mean.”
Through the crack in the door, he could see Suzanne Hope nod. “She did ask me a lot of questions.”
“What kind of questions?”
“Where did I buy the prosthetic belly, how did I get the sonogram pictures, stuff like that.”
“So you directed her to Fake-A-Pregnancy.com.”
Suzanne Hope put her left hand against the frame of the door. “I didn’t ‘direct’ her anywhere.” Her voice had a little snap in it now.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Corinne asked, and I told her about it. That’s all. But yeah, she was almost too curious. Like we were kindred spirits.”
“I’m not following.”
“I thought she’d judge me. I mean, most people would, right? Who could blame them? Weird lady pretending she’s pregnant. But it was like we were kindred spirits. She got me right away.”
Wonderful, Adam thought, but he kept the sarcasm to himself. “If I may be so bold,” he said slowly, “how much did you lie to my wife?”
“What do you mean?”
“For one thing”—he pointed to the hand on the doorframe—“there’s no wedding band on your finger.”
“Wow, aren’t you a real-life Sherlock?”
“Were you even married?”
“Yes.”
He could hear the regret in her voice, and for a moment, he thought she would slip that hand back inside and slam the door shut.
“I’m sorry,” Adam said. “I didn’t mean—”
“It was his fault, you know.”
“What was?”
“That we couldn’t have kids. So you’d think Harold would have been more sympathetic, right? He was the one with the low sperm count. Shooting blanks. Bad swimmers. I never blamed him. It was his fault, but it wasn’t his fault, if you know what I mean.”
“I do,” he said. “So you’ve never really been pregnant?”
“Never,” she said, and he could hear the devastation in her voice.
“You told Corinne you had a stillborn.”
“I thought maybe she’d understand better if I said that. Or, well, not understand. Just the opposite, really. That she would sympathize anyway. But I wanted to be pregnant so badly, and maybe that was my fault. Harold saw that. It made him withdraw. Maybe. Or maybe he never really loved me. I don’t know anymore. But I always wanted kids. Even as a little girl, I wanted a big family. My sister Sarah, who swore she’d never have any, well, she has three. And I remember how happy she was when she was pregnant. How she glowed. I guess I just wanted to see what it was like. Sarah said being pregnant made her feel like somebody important, everyone always asking when the baby was due and wishing her luck and all that. So one day, I did it.”
“Pretended you were pregnant?”
Suzanne nodded in the doorframe. “As a gag, really. Just to see what it would be like. And Sarah was right. People held doors for me. They wanted to carry my groceries or give me their parking spot. They asked me how I was doing and really seemed to care about the answer. People get hooked on drugs, right? They get hooked on highs, and I read it’s all because of some dopamine release. Well, that’s what this did. It was a dopamine release for me.”
“Do you still do it?” he asked, though he didn’t know why he cared. Suzanne Hope had pointed his wife toward the website. He had already figured that out. There was nothing really new to learn here.
“No,” she said. “Like all addicts, I stopped when I hit rock bottom.”
“Do you mind my asking you when that was?”
“Four months ago. When Harold found out and discarded me like an old tissue.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Don’t be. It’s for the best. I’m in therapy now, and while I own this illness—it’s me, not anyone else—Harold didn’t love me. That’s what I realize now. Maybe he never did, I don’t know. Or maybe it’s because he started resenting me. A man can’t have a child and it hits home with his manhood. So maybe that’s it. But either way, I looked for validation elsewhere. Our relationship had become toxic.”
“I’m sorry,” Adam said.
“It doesn’t matter. You didn’t come to hear about that. Suffice it to say I’m happy I didn’t pay the money. Maybe that guy telling Harold my secret was the best thing to happen to me.”
A chill started somewhere in Adam’s chest and spread to his fingers. His voice seemed to be coming from somewhere else, somewhere far away. “What guy?”
“What?”
“You said a guy told your husband your secret,” he said. “What guy?”
“Oh my God.” Suzanne Hope finally opened the door and looked at him in anguish. “He told you too.”
Chapter 24
Adam sat on the couch across from Suzanne Hope. Her apartment had white walls and white furniture and yet somehow it still seemed dark and depressing. There were windows, but little natural light seeped in. There were no visible stains or dirt and yet the apartment felt grimy. The artwork, if that was what one would call it, would be considered too generic for a Motel 6.
