The Apple of My Eye Page 9

  PHONE CALLS

  It was a relief to return home, but it was with mixed emotions that I registered the smell of marinara sauce from the kitchen and the sound of charming little baby boy giggles coming from the great room. I wasn’t even sure which of my parents was in which room, but it filled me with joy and sadness. I was glad they were here, but I was also sorry it was necessary and sorry that I wasn’t the one doing either of the things that they were.

  I quickly made for the great room. My stomach reminded me I hadn’t eaten well for some time, but my aching heart trumped it. I yearned for little Noah.

  As I entered the room, I called, “Noah,” and he immediately turned at the sound of my voice, his eyes dancing. Flashing me his biggest smile, he got on all fours and crawled my way just as fast as he knew how. I scooped him up into my arms and held him fast. When he squirmed away from the tightness of my embrace, I set him down and sat down right beside him.

  It was only then that I noticed my father. He was watching the two of us with a knowing smile. He had been waiting all day for this moment, just as much as I had. I grinned at him, a reassuring smile that I was going to get through this, and then turned my attention back to Noah. We played peek-a-boo and pat-a-cake until Mom called us for dinner.

  I was hungrier than I thought possible and more exhausted than that. It was no surprise that I was emotionally and mentally drained. Much as I wanted to spend every possible second with Noah, I didn’t resist when my mother sent me off to bed long before Noah.

  I remember wishing, once again, that my bed wasn’t quite so lonely, and then I drifted off into a dreamless sleep. But the sleep didn’t last. I awoke at 2:20 am and my mind immediately started to attack the problems at hand. After a half hour I accepted that sleep would elude me, and quietly made my way downstairs.

  Making a beeline for my purse, I retrieved Paul’s cell phone. The battery was dead, but I knew his charger was in my den. The office space was filled with my things except for the odd item or two that Paul kept there for ready access, like car keys and phone chargers.

  I paused at the doorway. Paul had encouraged me to embrace this office, to use it in any way I wanted. What would Paul think about how I was about to use it now? He had always trusted and encouraged me. Why hadn’t I been able to trust him in return?

  I sat down at my desk and placed his cell phone on the desktop in front of me. After plugging it in and turning it on, I pulled up his recent calls. The last call was an outgoing call at 12:34 am the morning of his death. Paul had identified the contact simply as “B P,” whoever that was. I looked under his contacts and no other information had been entered. He was meticulous about recording as much detail as possible with all his contacts, probably a habit he picked up from needing to document computer programs so someone else could follow his thinking. It struck me as odd that B. P. had no other information attached, almost as if Paul was purposely hiding who B. P. was.

  Without thinking about the hour, I called the number from his phone. As the time dawned on me, I was relieved, but disappointed, to learn the number was no longer in service.

  I wasn’t sure what to make of that. If it was another woman, did she know about me and change her number after Paul’s death? That seemed somewhat calculating and devious, but calculating and devious were two words that seemed to apply to this situation.

  A wave of grief hit me, mixed with hurt. The last person he spoke to before he died was not me. It felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. I slid off the chair with his phone still in my hands, landing on the floor in a heap. I curled up in a little ball and buried my head in my knees.

  What was I to Paul? Did he care about me? I thought he did, but had baby tiredness clouded my sight?

  I looked at his phone again as if it were the enemy. The more I learned the more I felt stabbed in the heart. I was tempted to fling the phone against the wall, to obliterate it.

  As I stared at the screen, deciding what I would do next, it went dark, going into power save mode. When it did, I could see a muddled reflection of myself, dark like the screen. It brought me up short. Was I trapped in darkness? This wasn’t about the past as much as it was about the future. I needed to learn what had been going on, so I could truly put it behind me and move on.

  As I sat pondering the meaning of all that I had discovered and what might be ahead, I absent-mindedly fiddled with Paul’s phone. I began to scroll through his contacts. I recognized most of the names but not all. Did these unknown names belong to passing acquaintances or people who played a role in his life, unbeknownst to me?

  I looked to see if there was a listing with the initials B. P. under a different number, but there were no matches. Next, I returned to the recent calls to look for anything unusual. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for exactly, simply hoping that I would recognize it when I saw it.

  As I scrolled through his calls, I noticed that he had made two additional phone calls to B. P. One was forty minutes before the last phone call and the other was two and a half hours before that. But even though I scrolled back fifty calls, back to where the record ended, no other calls to B. P. could be found.

  In the process of doing this, I noticed one other thing, that Paul had made repeated calls to Alex, no last name, just Alex. The last call had been two days before his death. I didn’t know any Alex. Was Alex male or female? It didn’t match with B. P., so what now?

  Aware of the hour this time, I didn’t dial Alex’s number. Instead, I clicked on the info under that name on Paul’s phone. It didn’t surprise me to find that no other information had been entered for this contact as well.

  I seemed to be going nowhere fast. I decided to scan through the other contacts to see if it was more common than I thought for him not to enter additional information. It was as I had originally expected. Every other contact had more information entered, such as an email or home address. At least there was still something I thought I knew about Paul that was correct.

  It echoed as hollow comfort since this discovery just made it all the more obvious that something was different about Alex and B.P. I wished I knew what.

  What else could I learn? I decided to check his text messages. There were no texts to B. P., and surprisingly, even though he had spoken with Alex frequently, there were no texts sent to or received from Alex either.

  Allowing myself to smile, I saw a long list of texts back and forth with me. I pulled them up to reread them. Two nights before his death he had texted me from work. No, I had to admit to myself, he wasn’t at work. He had texted me from wherever he was.

  “Kiss the applet for me.”

  There were other texts, simple things.

  “Be home soon. If still awake, wait up for me. <3”

  “Need any milk? Bringing cookies.” My response: “Yes!” His: “Skim ok?”

  They were simple exchanges, but they reminded me of happier times when life seemed bright and clear. I loved him so much. I missed his smell, the touch of his hand on my face, or the feel of him coming up behind me and slipping his arms around my waist. My heart would race and I would turn to embrace him. These thoughts left me weak, overcome with the memory of Paul and being his wife, living my life with him.

  Had that all been real? It was real on my end, that much I knew for sure.

  I sat back in my chair and closed my eyes. I forced my thoughts away from Paul himself and focused on his phone and what I had found tonight. Questions were flooding through me with no sense of how to restrain them, let alone answer them. I wished I could at least connect them to each other, but that cohesion was elusive. Somehow, I needed to keep moving forward and pursue any answers I could find.

  Not able to think of anything else productive to do in such wee hours of the
morning, I reluctantly headed back upstairs. I peeked in on a sleeping Noah before returning to my bed for a few more hours of exhausted sleep.

  DAY TWO

  The next morning (it was Thursday, I was keeping track now) found me waiting in the parking lot when the bank opened for the day. I should have made this visit weeks ago, shortly after Paul’s death, but I wasn’t doing much of anything “shortly after Paul’s death.” Since his death I had checked our accounts and knew what we had in savings, but I hadn’t checked on our investments. I had trusted Paul with the accounts before his death, otherwise I might have noticed that money was being transferred from savings rather than coming from a paycheck from the hotel. Now I was looking for anything unusual prior to his death that might explain Paul’s late night activities.

  . . .

  An hour later, I returned to my car with no new information. Even though Paul had stopped working, financially I was in good shape. Buying the house outright with Paul’s inheritance money had made it possible for us to set aside or invest the amount of a mortgage payment each month. Combine that money with some residual inheritance money and the small amount coming from Paul’s life insurance policy and I would have plenty of time to figure out how to balance being Noah’s mommy and making ends meet.

  That news was good news, but it somehow disappointed me. I was so desperate for answers that I would have welcomed large sums of money disappearing from our bank account for some unknown purpose. Even strange deposits might indicate some new activity – legal or not. But there was nothing unusual. Paul didn’t just disappear each night and do nothing. What in the world was going on?

  Since he had quit his job, he must be doing something that would eventually bring in money. Money had always been important to him, much more so than to me. I heard him more than once refer to himself as a “self-made” man. Although I knew that we were doing well financially, it was his parents’ inheritance that had given us a huge leg up. I never quibbled with his somewhat arrogant description of himself. It didn’t seem important at the time, and I guess it wasn’t important now either. It was just a reminder of the chinks in his armor that I had chosen to ignore.

  . . .

  I moved on to the next thing on my list. While still sitting in my car I dialed Alex’s number. After two rings a woman’s voice came on the line with, “Hello.”

  My heart caught in my throat, but I steadied my voice and responded, “Yes, I was wondering if Alex was in?”

  “No, not right now. Could I take a message?”

  “Yes, Alex just won a free pizza from Pizza Pete’s. I was wondering if I could get an address where I could mail the gift certificate?”

  “Sure. It’s 6540 Shadow Lane.”

  Jotting down the address I continued, “I assume that’s in Summerhill?”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay, thank you very much.”

  “No, thank you!”

  As I hung up I made a mental note to send them a gift certificate. The deceit didn’t sit well with me.

  Apparently, Pizza Pete’s, a popular hangout, had been a safe bet. However, I still didn’t know who Alex was, be it a spouse or a roommate, and still could be male or female. If Alex wasn’t home now, when would he or she be home? I figured I had called a home and not a business. The phone had been answered in a casual manner, and I seemed to remember that most of Shadow Lane was residential.

  Not knowing what else to do, I decided to drive past the address. It dawned on me, too late, that I should have disguised my voice on the phone. Then I could have gone to the door and worked some other angle to glean more information. Oh well, I wasn’t used to trying to manipulate my situation or the people around me. It wasn’t in my nature.

  I pulled up across the street from 6540 Shadow Lane. Now what? It was a cute little house, nondescript. That told me nothing.

  While I sat contemplating my next move, a car pulled into the driveway. I slid down in my seat hoping I hadn’t been seen. The car was an older model. When I heard the car door slam, I peeked out of my window to get a glance. I gasped. It was one of the “rude” mourners from the funeral! I had seen him only at the back of the church, but I was positive it was the same man. This must be Alex. I was at once relieved it wasn’t a woman and at the same time confused. Why slink out of Paul’s funeral if you were his friend?

  I really couldn’t go to the front door now. Surely he would know who I was, and if he hadn’t wanted to meet me at the funeral and express his regrets, I couldn’t see why he would want to meet me now.

  Then again, maybe the direct approach would work. But what would I say? “I’ve been checking up on my late husband and you seem to figure in with whatever he was hiding. So, what’s up?” Somehow, that seemed like a bad idea. I had to learn more before I talked with Alex. Somewhat disappointed, I drove away.

  This day was turning out to be a waste. I was reasonably certain I now knew who Alex was, but I knew nothing else. Is that what detective work was like? A few answers with long periods of getting nowhere?

  I hated the thought of wasting time. The desire and need to be Noah’s mom tugged at me constantly, and I was spinning my wheels, getting nowhere. What should I do next? I was running out of ideas.

  . . .

  Pulling into my garage at home, I was just as lost as ever. I leaned my head onto the steering wheel, trying to devise a plan. My current approach wasn’t working, so it was time to try a new one, but what would that be?

  I got out of the car and dejectedly made my way inside. The house was quiet, an easy tell that Noah must be down for a nap. Making my way to the great room, I discovered my parents sitting on the couch, both reading, my mother a novel and my father the newspaper. They looked up when I came in.

  Mom spoke first. “Hi, sweetie. Come in and sit down.”

  I sank into a chair beside them. “I’m not sure what I’m doing. I don’t seem to be getting anywhere.”

  “Well, what are you trying to find?” Dad asked.

  I had to stop and think about that. What was I trying to find? “I guess I’m trying to find out who Paul really was. I thought I knew, but every time I turn around lately, I find things I didn’t know. I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what to believe. I’d just like to find the truth. Who was Paul?”

  “Then focus on figuring out exactly that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, it seems to me, you’re trying to figure out what he was up to right before he died. Maybe you need to focus on who he was. Go back further into his past rather than looking at recent events. Who knew him before you met him?”

  The answer was obvious. “Professor Haynesworth.” I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of him before. “Thanks, Dad, you’re brilliant!”

  I jumped up and nearly skipped to my office to find his number. It would be delightful to visit with Professor Haynesworth, even if it yielded no new information whatsoever.

  He picked up on the first ring. “Haynesworth, here. Can I help you?”

  I loved a man who answered his own phone. “Professor, this is Brea. How are you doing?”

  “Ah, Brea, such a lovely child. I am absolutely wonderful. But the real question is how are you?”

  “Well, I’ve been better. Are you, perchance, free today or tomorrow? I was wondering if I could talk to you about Paul.”

  “Certainly! I have a class this afternoon, but I’d love to take you to dinner. Would that be all right?”

  I hesitated. Once I determined a path for myself I was impatient to be on it, but I needed to talk openly with him. “I would like that, but I was wondering if we could speak more privately, if that’s okay.”

&nb
sp; “Sure. I should have thought of that. How about I have Alaina whip us up a nice dinner at my place?”

  Alaina was the Professor’s longtime housekeeper. She was like a sister to him, a big sister that watched out for him. “That would be perfect. What time shall I come?”

  “I think I can be done here in my office around six. Would you like to meet me here about then, and we can walk over together? I’d love a stroll with a beautiful woman on my arm.”

  I smiled at his words. He always knew how to put others at ease. “Sounds great. I’ll see you at six then.”

  After I hung up the phone, I sat there in my den remembering with fondness that first class taught by Haynesworth, the introductory programming class. Computer science was Paul’s minor. His major was people, or at least I always thought of it that way. In reality, he majored in hospitality management. He was a natural at dealing with people. I didn’t understand at first why the computer science minor, but the way Paul explained it to me was that he liked working puzzles. People were easy to understand, no challenge really – for him, anyway. Programming, on the other hand, was like a puzzle. He liked being able to put the pieces together and seeing the finished result. Being a teaching assistant for that class combined his two loves – puzzles and people. He was good at both.

  I sensed Professor Haynesworth recognized these traits in Paul and eagerly welcomed his assistance. Haynesworth was a no nonsense professor. He didn’t like excuses, but he was happy to help if you were willing to put in the work. He was my perfect teacher. I spent that first semester so conflicted about Paul that I had to work harder than normal to pull an A. Often I found myself in Haynesworth’s office working out the complexities of our various assignments. I wasn’t about to go to Paul, and I think, in looking back, that Professor Haynesworth knew what was going on in my head as well as in Paul’s. He always seemed to greet me with a twinkle in his eye and never questioned why I hadn’t approached Paul with my questions.