Nonetheless, on a base level I was overjoyed, the same way I’d been overjoyed to discover I was pregnant both times before. A sense of ethereal wonder filled me at the thought that a whole new life was growing inside me—I was the source of this brimming center of possibility. Deep down I’d always wanted a third baby. When women could claim themselves a mother of three, it had always struck me as some tangible measure of success. Plus, it would mean I’d surpass Libby Fontaine, mother of only two.
I worried about money, but Burke was optimistic that data entry would only be temporary, that his career path at PK Adamson would eventually lead to financial adviser.
With Garrett starting second grade and Hope pre-K, I’d begun looking into university programs with the hope of finishing my degree. But after finding out I was pregnant, applying to schools was once again tabled. It wouldn’t make sense for us to stick the baby in expensive day care while I went into debt taking out loans to pay for my education.
I didn’t mind my time alone. On days when the kids had camp or school, I relished the hours between nine and three, when I had the house to myself and could curl up on the couch with a snack and binge-watch old movies on Fox Family. Sometimes, when I felt like it, I’d go for a drive. Shortly after moving to Amity, Burke and I had purchased a used Dodge Caravan—it was impossible to exist in the suburbs without a car. He took the bus to and from work, so during the day the Dodge was mine for errands and getting the kids around.
And, unbeknownst to Burke, for long solo drives. My favorite route was down the coast to Fairfield County; without traffic I could get there in forty minutes, a breeze on I-95. I never mentioned it to Burke, but since our move to Connecticut, I’d gotten into the habit of keeping tabs on Libby.
It was easy enough to find her address in the phone book; the Starlings were indeed still in Westport, in a massive white Dutch Colonial on eight acres overlooking Long Island Sound. The property was gated, but I liked to drive by anyway, slowing to a near stop as I peered through the iron bars at the manicured green lawn, imagining what Libby might be doing inside her castle.
I’d strolled through picturesque downtown Westport enough to know that Libby volunteered at the local library; I came across her picture on a flyer by the entrance. Volunteer of the Month: Libby Fontaine, the poster read, below it a picture of Libby flashing her broad smile, still maddeningly beautiful in her forties.
But during many of my visits to Westport I found no evidence of Libby at all; I simply enjoyed driving through the winding roads, admiring the magnificent houses and immaculate, rolling golf courses. I watched groomed women in perfect clothes run errands, slinging creamy leather purses over their sculpted shoulders, their hands tied up with shopping bags from Theory and Simon Pearce. Sometimes I sat in my parked car and didn’t realize I was crying until I registered a cold wetness on my cheeks. The voice in my head was relentless: If Burke hadn’t fucked up, this is what my life could have been. This is the world I could’ve given my children.
One weekday in early October I dropped the kids off at school and drove south toward Westport with the windows down, the last gasp of Indian-summer air like velvet on my skin. I was six months pregnant and could feel the little life kicking inside me—he or she was by far my most active baby yet. It had been a busy summer with the kids, and I hadn’t made it down to Westport in a couple of months. As I approached the Starlings’ road, a tingly sensation brushed my skin the way it always did when I neared their house. I slowed the Dodge to a stop when I noticed a row of black town cars lining the street around the entrance to their driveway. One of the guys in a driver’s seat motioned for me to pass.
I stuck my oversize sunglasses on and rolled down my window. “What’s all this?” I asked, aiming for nonchalance.
“Funeral.”
My stomach dropped. “That’s awful. Who—who died?”
“Are you a friend of the Starlings, ma’am?”
“No, I—I live around the corner,” I lied, infusing my voice with an almost British quality that I associated with privilege, and hoping the man wouldn’t note my crappy car. “I’ve met them a few times. I hope everything is all right.”
“Mrs. Starling passed away over the weekend.”
I felt my blood ice over. For a second—a split second—I hoped I didn’t know what he meant. I hoped it was someone else. “Do you mean Libby? Libby Fontaine?” Libby hadn’t changed her name when she married Peter, as I knew from the checks she used to write me when she was out of cash. I guess once you have a name like that, an important name, you don’t let it go.
He nodded solemnly. “Yes, right. Ms. Fontaine.”
“Oh, God.” My voice broke. “What—what happened?”
The driver shot me a puzzled look. “She was sick for a couple years, ma’am. Cancer.”
My hand flew to my mouth, which felt like clay. “I do remember hearing that,” I lied. “I just didn’t realize it had gotten that bad.”
He nodded solemnly. “Sad news.”
“The service is today?”
“Eleven at Christ and Holy Trinity.”
“Thank you for the information.” I ducked my head and put the Dodge back in drive.
I didn’t feel much at all as I headed toward the church, where I sat in the parking lot for a long time. The sky was a cloudless, blazing blue, and birds ran over it in thin threads. It was a horrible day for a funeral.
I waited until eleven on the dot before sneaking into the church. An usher told me all the pews were full, so I stood at the back and listened to the eulogies from Libby’s mother, sister, college roommate, and, finally, Peter. All of them spoke of her kindness, her unparalleled generosity and deep maternal love. In the front row were two yellow-haired adolescents, and I watched the backs of their heads as Peter spoke. I knew they were Nate and Skye without having to see their faces; they both boasted the same ribbony pale hair as their mother—the kind of natural butter blond I’d never be able to achieve, no matter how many store-bought shades I tried. I couldn’t stop thinking about the implausible sum of money the two Starling children possessed, simply by being born. Their whole lives would be anything they wanted them to be—beautiful clothes, paid tuitions, fancy cars, club memberships, luxurious vacations—they’d never have to earn a speck of it.
The man to my right glanced at me and shook his head dolefully. “Not a dry eye in the house, huh?”
I wanted to laugh in his face; I wanted to scream from the balcony that Libby killed my baby brother, that she wasn’t the exemplary, self-sacrificing madonna they’d all placed on an eternal pedestal, but a murderer who deserved her early death. But I said nothing, a slow rage burning through me, and the man handed me a tissue as a salty tear slipped into one corner of my mouth.
Libby had been sick for two years; she’d known she was dying. She’d had ample time to tie up loose ends, to make things right, to say goodbye. Yet she hadn’t come for me. How many times had I imagined it in the tiniest, most private crook of my heart? Libby, one day, tracking me down. Her profuse apology, the tears streaming down her face as she admitted she’d never forgiven herself for Gus, never stopped carrying the weight of it after all these years, never stopped wondering if I was doing okay. That secret hope inside me, a desire so vicious it felt inevitable, was extinguished forever now that Libby was dead.