Page 70 of Little Secrets
The three of them stare at the closed casket. The framed photographs flanking the glossy wood show two very different versions of Thomas Payne. The picture on the left is one Marin’s already seen. It’s the photo Frances always shows people when she talks about her son, the same one she posts on Facebook every year on his birthday. In it, he’s fifteen, awkwardly teetering on the precipice of manhood, with good teeth and a smattering of pimples along his jawline. His red hair—the same shade his mother’s used to be—is hidden under a well-worn Mariners baseball cap, the brim curved perfectly to the contours of his face.
In the photo on the right, it’s Thomas as a man. This picture, Marin has never seen, and she has no idea where Frances got it or how recently it was taken. Thomas is fully grown, his face chiseled but hollow, his hair shaved almost to the skull. He’s leaning against the side of a brick building dressed in dirty jeans and a black T-shirt, painfully thin, skin weathered, a cigarette dangling from his dry lips. His eyes are haunted. He could easily pass for thirty-four instead of twenty-four, and while there’s some indication of the handsome man he might have been had he not spent the last nine years homeless and addicted to drugs, it’s a difficult photograph to look at. Perhaps that’s why Frances chose to display it. Marin has never met anyone more incapable of bullshit, and she can understand that Frances doesn’t want to pretend that her son died looking like the same teenage boy he was when he left.
“Can I sit with you guys?”
The voice shakes Marin out of her reverie. Jamie, the newest member from group, is standing at the end of the row. Marin almost doesn’t recognize her. She’s wearing a fitted black dress and three-inch heels, and her hair is blow-dried straight, a far cry from the stringy wet mess it was the first time they met. She didn’t contactJamie about the funeral—honestly, she’d forgotten all about her—so either Frances called her, or Jamie saw something about it on the group’s Facebook page.
“Of course.” Marin swallows her surprise, turning to Lila and Thomas. “Jamie’s here. Scooch down.”
They all move over one seat, and Jamie wedges herself in between Marin and the armrest.
“How are you?” Marin asks.
“You know, I never know how to answer that.” Jamie speaks softly, looking past Marin to give Lila and Simon a little wave. “I feel like if I say ‘good,’ people will think, why are you good? You have a missing kid. If I say ‘terrible,’ it just makes everyone feel bad and awkward, wishing they’d never asked.”
“I like to answer, ‘I’m managing,’” Marin says, and offers a small smile. She knows exactly how the other woman feels. “It reminds them that I’m going through something hard, but doesn’t imply that I’m good, or bad.”
“‘I’m managing.’” Jamie sounds out the words. “I like that.” They sit in silence for a moment, and then she says, “I almost didn’t come.”
“Frances would have understood.”
“I had to see it for myself, though.” Jamie seems to be speaking more to herself than to Marin. “There are only three possible outcomes for our children: they stay missing forever, they’re found safe, or they’re found dead. I needed to see what one of the outcomes looked like. To… prepare myself.”
The church pianist begins to play the first few bars of “Amazing Grace,” and a hush falls over the mourners. They’re all invited to open their hymn books and sing along, but Marin doesn’t need to. She knows the words.
“I hate this,” Lila whispers to Marin as the pastor steps up to thepodium. “I know it’s selfish, but this is literally the last place I would ever want to be. I don’t want to be here.”
“I know,” Marin whispers back. “But it’s Frances. It’s the least we can do.”
The reception is at Big Holes, and while the front door is unlocked, a sign on the door informs customers that the donut shop is closed for a private family event. Frances has ordered sandwiches and veggie platters that aren’t nearly as tasty as the donuts and coffee, but most everyone is eating. There’s a handful of people Marin recognizes from when she first joined group, but other than a brief greeting and some small talk, the old members don’t engage with the current participants. Regardless of why they stopped coming, theychoseto stop coming, and none of them are comfortable being here. They sit on the opposite side of the room.
Frances’s ex-husband, whom Marin’s only seen in photos when he was much younger and thinner, is now bald, bearded, and doughy. He’s huddled in a corner with his second wife and their son, a quiet boy of about twelve who looks eerily like Thomas did at fifteen, minus the red hair. The ex-husband has been crying on and off for most of the morning, his sobs gruff and heartbreaking, and his wife seems to have no idea how to console him.
Marin sits in a corner with Lila, Simon, and Jamie. She’d texted Sadie where she’d be today, but she didn’t tell Derek where she was going. He knows who Frances is, but they’ve never met. Derek’s never attended group, and there seems to be no point in sharing the terrible news with him.
They’ve only been at the reception for a half hour, and already Marin’s lost count of how many donuts Simon has had. Jamie is asking his advice about cars—she’s considering buying a Highlander—and Lila is currently Facebook-stalking the woman she believes herhusband is sleeping with. Marin still doesn’t know Jamie’s story, but maybe she’ll share it at the next meeting.
Assuming thereisa next meeting, considering why they’re here today.
“I mean, she’s not even pretty.” It’s the third time Lila has said it, and she shows Marin yet another photo of her husband’s alleged lover. Marin agrees, not that she’d say anything if she didn’t. The other woman certainly isn’t a supermodel, but in fairness, she’s not supposed to be. She’s just a regular person with horrible judgment. “I mean, come on. What does Kyle even see in her?”
He sees that she’s not you, Marin thinks, but again, doesn’t say. It isn’t what Lila needs to hear. “You’re much better looking.”
“Can you believe he still denies it?” Lila continues to stare at her phone. “‘We’re just friends, babe, relax.’ But you don’t go out drinking and dancing until the wee hours of the night with a woman you’re just friends with. Iknowhe’s screwing her. I know it. I feel it.”
“Confront her,” Simon says through a mouthful of maple bar. “If he won’t admit it, maybe she will.”
“That’s a terrible idea. What would that even accomplish?” Marin gives Simon a look, and he shrugs, as if to say,What?She turns to Lila. “You don’t need Kyle to admit it. Your gut doesn’t lie, and nobody knows him better than you do. But remember that whatever he’s doing, it’s not about her. It’s about him. Whatever you need to work out is between the two of you. She could be anybody. She doesn’t matter.”
She should have taken her own advice. What a hypocrite she is; she knows exactly how Lila feels. She stalked Derek’s mistress at her place of work, for Christ’s sake, only to end up in a diner at midnight with a strange man, discussing murder. You do batshit-crazy things when you’re drowning. When you’re underwater, you’ll grab on to whatever’s closest to you if it means you can take one more breath.Regardless of Derek’s affair, the number of terrible decisions Marin’s made from the moment she lost their son fills her with horror and shame. McKenzie Li is Thomas’s age. It could be McKenzie lying in that casket, had Marin not come to her senses.
The donut shop suddenly feels warm, and she realizes she’s sweating. She stands up so abruptly, she nearly knocks her chair over.
“Where you going?” Lila asks, prying her eyes away from her phone. “You okay?”
“I just need some air.” Marin works at sounding normal, but her temperature is rising. The walls feel like they’re closing in. If she doesn’t get outside right now, she’s going to lose it. Thomas is dead, Sebastian is still missing, McKenzie is missing, and she’s sitting with two friends—and maybe a new one—whose children are also gone. It’s all too much. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Marin makes her way through the small donut shop to the back and shoves the door open with both hands. A cold burst of morning air greets her. The chill on her damp skin is painfully revitalizing, like a much-needed slap in the face.
