The Housewife(8)

All I ever thought about, every minute of the day, was getting out of jail, living with my sister, and starting our catering business.

For the first four or so years, we wrote at least twice a week and spoke on the phone every day. She’d send me cookbooks every month, so that while everyone around me was reading romance novels with shirtless men on the covers, I was learning how to make the perfect crème br?lée. (The key is to not overbake it. Also torch just before serving.) I still had another year or so before my release, and I was leaning against the wall, eating an apple and chatting to Deb on the phone in our section corridor, when she told me.

“Hey,” she said softly. “I have news.”

“Oh?”

“I’m getting married.”

I stopped eating. I had to replay the words to make sure I heard her right. “Are you serious?”

She laughed. “Yes!”

I blinked. Suddenly, it was hard to breathe in this place. “When? How? How long have you been seeing him for?”

Behind me, Maureen was yelling at me, “Jo, hurry up. It’s my turn.”

I threw my apple core at her and it bounced against her forehead. “Go away. I gave you my turn yesterday.”

She walked away, shuffling her feet and checking her forehead for blood.

“You okay?” Deb asked.

“Totally. What did you say?”

“I think I’m in love.”

I leaned my forehead against the brick wall, forcing myself to breathe. “Is he rich?”

She laughed. “Stop it.”

“Just kidding. ”

“As it happens, he’s very rich,” she said. “His name is Roy, and he’s a psychologist. He’s written lots of books and he’s wonderful, and I moved into his house last week. He has the most beautiful home in Beverly Hills. I can’t wait for you to see it, Jo. You’re going to love it.”

I swallowed a hard lump in the back of my throat. “You moved in last week?”

“Yes!” She laughed. “And we’re getting married in a month. I wanted to wait till you got out, but—”

“No, no. Don’t do that. I’ve got another year and a bit in here.”

“I know,” she said softly.

“Why didn’t you tell me about him before?”

“I don’t know. I just wanted to be sure it was for real, I guess.” Then more brightly, she added, “And when you get out, you’re coming to live with us.”

I straightened. “You’re not telling your psychologist about me, are you?”

“He’s not my psychologist; he’s my fiancé. And of course I’m telling him about you. Why wouldn’t I?”

“No, Deb. I’m serious. What did you tell him?”

“Relax. All I’m telling him is that I have a sister and her name is Jo, and he’s going to meet her soon, and she’s funny and cute and a handful and a terrible dancer.”

“Deb, please. Did you tell him—”

“I’m not telling him where you are. He thinks you’re working overseas for another year or so.”

It’s not that I didn’t want her to be happy; it’s that it never occurred to me that she might be happy with someone other than me. I thought we would be happy together, just the two of us. I never thought beyond that.





They got married. She sent me photos. I tore him out of every one of them but I still kept her half, mostly because her wedding dress was amazing, and I plastered the walls of my cell with them. I found that if I gazed hard enough and long enough, I could almost pretend he didn’t exist.

Meanwhile, Deb would still call every second day, then every third day. She’d gush about how wonderful and charming and drop-dead gorgeous Roy was.

Then something strange happened. A few months into their marriage, her tone changed. By then she wasn’t calling as often, and when she did, I could tell she was missing her spark. When I asked if everything was okay, she wouldn’t reply right away. Then she’d say, “Everything is fine.” And I thought maybe she was unwell, or she was having trouble getting pregnant. But whatever it was, she didn’t want to tell me.

I was a few months away from my release when she called. “Things are…” she started, but she didn’t finish.

I waited, my pulse racing. With Deb, it was always best to give her space.

She sighed, then finally she whispered, so softly I could barely hear her. “He scares me.”

“He scares you? Why? ”

She made a sound, like a sob. “I’m so scared, Jo.”

“What’s happening, Deb? Tell me!”

But she’d hung up. I called back right away but she didn’t pick up. I called again and again but still she didn’t pick up.

And that was it. I never spoke to her again. I never even got another letter, even though I still wrote to her every day, begging her to contact me, to let me know she was okay, but she never did. And every time I’d called her cell phone, I’d get the same recorded message.

Hello, you’ve reached Deborah. Please leave a message and I’ll return your call as soon as I can.

Then one day, I got a different message: The number you have called is no longer available.