The Secret Desires of a Soccer Mom Page 8

  I opened my mouth, intending to offer to clean his oven or scrub his toilets or make some other well-meaning gesture, but what came out was something quite different. “So… what did the police say about Karen’s fall?” Paul’s head snapped up and he gaped at me like I’d just offered Doug a condolence blow job. Carly shoved a muffin in her mouth and busied herself tidying the coffee tray. “I mean… the police were here, right?”

  “They were here,” Doug replied. “They said Karen’s injuries were consistent with a fall.”

  “But they’ll do an autopsy?”

  “Yes.”

  “And if it turns up anything suspicious, they’ll do a full investigation?”

  “I guess so. I-I don’t know.”

  Carly spoke. “I’m sure they won’t find anything strange, Doug. Soon, you’ll be able to find closure and start the healing process.”

  “That’s right,” my husband agreed. “It was just a terrible accident.”

  “Yeah, but isn’t it kind of weird to just, y’know, fall over—” Paul cut me off.

  “We’ve got to be going,” he said, shooting me a look. “Thanks for the coffee Carly. Doug, really, anything you need, anything at all…” And with that, he hustled me to the grand entryway.

  Out in the brisk fall afternoon, we walked side by side in silence until we were an adequate distance from Doug’s house. “What the hell was that?” Paul grumbled, not turning his head to look at me.

  “What?” I kept my eyes forward as well. This way, none of the neighbours would suspect us of fighting—a useful and quickly-learned trick when living in a small, suburban community.

  “All that stuff about the police and an autopsy! How could you be so insensitive?”

  “Come on, Paul. Don’t you think it’s a little strange that Karen just fell over, hit her head and died?”

  “It was a freak accident. They happen all the time.”

  “Well… Did you notice how Doug seemed so upset, but he wasn’t actually crying?”

  “Christ, Paige! Some people just aren’t criers. What is going on with you?”

  “Nothing,” I snapped. “It just…”

  “It just what?”

  “It just seems a little mysterious to me, that’s all.”

  “Yeah, well, before you start playing detective, you might want to consider other people’s feelings.”

  I started to respond, but stopped myself short. He had a point.

  Chapter 10

  Paul was right: I’d been horribly insensitive. God, Doug probably hated me now. Every time he saw me I was either drunk and obnoxious, or rude and tactless. I vowed to handle the situation much more delicately from now on. Yes, I still had my suspicions about the nature of Karen’s death, but I would keep them carefully hidden going forward. And if the police found nothing amiss after her autopsy, I’d let the whole thing go all together. Although, the police had been known to be wrong before…

  My first sensitive and caring gesture was to spend some time with Trudy. Armed with a box of Safeway doughnuts, I rang her front bell. There was no answer. I rang it again. Surely she wasn’t so incapacitated by grief that she couldn’t shuffle over to the door? She had now had four days to deal with the shock. I bent over and yelled through the mail slot. “Trudy! It’s Paige! Let me in!” I heard a faint rumbling of movement inside, and finally the door swung open.

  “Hi!” I said brightly, trying not to flinch at Trudy’s appearance. She didn’t look that bad, but she didn’t look that good, either. Her face was drawn and tired, her eyes red and puffy. It was obvious that her hair hadn’t been washed since she’d heard the news, and judging by the pizza, spaghetti or some other tomato-based stain on her track pants, neither had her clothes. “I brought you some doughnuts.”

  “Come in,” she said, ignoring my tasty offering and shambling back into the house. I trailed behind her until we reached the family room, where Trudy deposited herself prostrate on the couch, and pulled a yellow, floral comforter up to her neck. The piles of used tissues, dirty tea cups and empty cracker boxes made it evident that this was where Trudy had been spending the majority of her time. “So…” I took a seat in an overstuffed chair across from her. “How are you doing?”

  “I can’t… I can’t cope with this,” she said, tears instantly seeping from her eyes. “It’s too much.”

  “I know it’s a terrible tragedy,” I said gently, “but we have to go on. Karen would have wanted us to go on.”

  “Oh God,” Trudy wailed. “Karen can’t be gone. She c-can’t be!”

  “But she is… and we have to deal with it.”

  “No!” she cried, reaching for a Kleenex. “This doesn’t happen to people like Karen—so young, so sweet, so innocent… She was such a special person.”

  Trudy was talking about her like she was some sort of martyr. Maybe if I told her about the hot sex she’d been having with a certain Spanish barista, it would help her deal with the situation. But I had already decided not to besmirch my friend’s memory. “She was very, very special,” I said. “But sometimes these awful accidents happen.”

  For some reason, this set Trudy off. She lay her head down and wept like—well, like one of her best friends had just been found dead in her attached garage. I moved over to her and stroked her hair as she cried. “Let it out,” I murmured. “It’s okay.” Eventually, she managed to compose herself, and reached around me for another tissue. “Listen,” I said, “what time do your kids finish school?”

  “Two thirty.” Emily and Cameron went to a private school approximately twenty minute’s drive from Aberdeen Mists. Trudy didn’t feel that the public system could adequately foster her children’s innate creativity and cater to their unique learning styles. Theirs was an alternative school where they didn’t get graded and they made their own notebooks out of bark.

  “Chloe and Spencer aren’t finished until 3:10. I can go pick up your kids and then bring them back to our place for pizza.”

  “Okay.” She snivelled.

  “That will give you some time to… you know, take a shower, put on some fresh clothes…try to get yourself together a bit.”

  “Mmm hmm,” she mumbled, noncommittally.

  At two thirty-two, I pulled up across the street from the non-descript brick building that was home to the Foundation for Success or “FOS,” as it was commonly known. I instantly spotted Emily standing just outside the main entrance, and a few yards away, her little brother. “Yoo-hoo! Emily! Cameron! Hello!” I called, while scurrying across the road to meet them. As unlikable as I found Trudy’s children, it was imperative that I remember that they were going through a difficult time. They had undoubtedly never seen their mother in such a state before, and it would obviously be traumatic. I would have to handle them with kid gloves. “Hi guys,” I panted, jogging up to them.

  “What are you doing here?” Emily asked coldly.

  “Where’s my mom?” Cameron echoed.

  “She’s still not feeling very well, so I’m picking you up and bringing you back to our house to play with Chloe and Spencer. You can stay for dinner, too. We can order pizza. You like pizza, don’t you?”

  “Only plain cheese,” Emily remarked, but they followed me to the car.

  The drive to Rosedale was awkward. The kids sat sullenly in the backseat while I asked them a stream of inane questions about school, their favourite subjects, movies, singers, and ice cream flavours. Finally, I had collected my own offspring and made it home. As soon as I opened the front door, the children raced up the stairs and dispersed to their various rooms. Instantly, I heard the sound of a bin of LEGOs being tipped onto the floor in Spencer’s, and the strains of a rather raunchy-sounding pop song behind Chloe’s closed door. The girls were probably pretending to mud wrestle each other while wearing assless chaps, but at least it afforded me a little peace.

  I went to the kitchen and began to putter—wiping invisible spills, organizing the salt and pepper shakers and sorting through variou
s school notices left on the countertops. It was imperative that I keep busy, no matter how mundane the task. I could not allow myself to slip back into grieving mode; it wasn’t fair to the children. Nor could I let myself ponder the details of Karen’s death. My misguided curiosity had caused enough problems. Maybe Paul was right. Freak accidents happened all the time. And some people just weren’t criers; it didn’t mean they were wife killers. No, I would bury these suspicious and doubtful feelings. Instead, I would be caring and sensitive… and also very busy and productive.

  Digging in the junk drawer, I found my address book. There, nestled between the two pages allotted for “W” was my carefully folded life makeover list. This was the perfect time to focus on my self-improvement. It would distract from my musings on Karen’s demise, and perk up my general outlook on life. I unfolded the piece of paper and lay it flat on the counter before me. But what I read seemed so incredibly… shallow. Was I really such a vapid creature that I thought pectoral exercises would improve my life? Or a stimulating hobby? And did I really think giving my husband two blow jobs a month would improve our marriage? Well… it probably would, but that was the last thing on my mind at the moment. Karen was dead, for God’s sake!

  Of course, there were the kids… But in all honesty, Spencer’s potty mouth had been much improved of late, and even Chloe seemed a little less disdainful toward me. Since Karen’s murder, my daughter had actually been really sweet. She even poured her brother’s cereal this morning and … My thought process trailed off. Did I just say Karen’s murder? Oh God. I couldn’t fight what my every instinct was telling me. Karen did not just fall over and whack her head. It was too bizarre… implausible. There had to be someone else involved.

  At that moment, the front door bell rang, sending a little chill up my spine. The timing was slightly unnerving. I’d just allowed myself to acknowledge that Karen was actually murdered in her own home, and now, an unidentified person was trying to gain access into mine. Bravely, I walked to the front door and stared through the peep hole. On my front porch stood Janet Lawson, one of the neighbourhood moms, holding a heavily Saran-wrapped package.

  “Hi, Janet,” I said, opening the door.

  “Hi... I just heard about Karen Sutherland. I’m so sorry.” We hugged briefly. “I made this orange poppy seed loaf for Doug.” She thrust the package toward me. “I don’t know him very well and I don’t really feel comfortable… you know how it is. Would you mind?”

  “Of course not. “ It was a sweet and thoughtful gesture, especially since Janet and Karen would have only been passing acquaintances. I knew Janet a little better since her son was in Chloe’s grade at Rosedale. But she worked full-time as a receptionist for a gynecologist downtown, so we’d never spent a lot of time together.

  “I know I didn’t know Karen well…” She seemed to pick up my train of thought. “But I was just so devastated when I heard. Especially given her recent… success.”

  “Yeah…” I nodded, only half following her conversation. “We’ve all been really rocked by this.”

  “Oh, I know you were so close to her. I can only imagine how you feel. It’s just so sad…” Her eyes began to mist up. “She was in just over a week ago, and she was so happy, so full of joy… I mean, it was finally happening for her, after all this time”

  “…Right.”

  “In a way,” Janet sniffed. “It’s like two lives were lost.”

  Oh my God! Oh my God! I suddenly understood what the heck she was talking about! “Thanks for the loaf,” I said, hastily. “I’ll make sure Doug gets it. I’d better get back to the kids.”

  “Right. Okay. I’m sorry. Please give him our condolences. And our loaf.”

  “Will do.” I shut the door before she’d even had a chance to turn around.

  Jesus Christ! Holy shit! Oh my fucking fuck! I paced the hallway, the loaf squashed in my right hand. This changed everything—made it more complex, more suspicious, more sinister! It had taken me a moment to catch on, but now it was crystal clear. Karen had been in to see Janet’s gynaecologist boss. She had been happy and full of joy! It was all finally happening for her! Karen was pregnant, and Janet obviously thought I knew!

  I took a deep breath, intent on calming myself. I had to process this new information. I mustn’t let it send me off the deep end. Okay… stay cool. The number one cause of death in pregnant women is homicide by the father of the child. I had heard that line on CSI: Miami only a few nights earlier. Oh God, oh God. What did this mean?

  I knew Doug was desperate for a baby, so I felt pretty sure he couldn’t have done it. Unless… the baby was actually Javier’s! Doug did have that low-mobility sperm, after all. Perhaps, when Karen told Doug she was leaving him to live with Javier and raise their love child on canned ravioli and Ichiban, he freaked out and conked her on the head! Or… Karen invited Javier over to tell him the good news about their baby, but when he heard, he panicked at the thought of making such a huge commitment, and bashed her one! Or, maybe, somehow, one of Doug’s sparse sperm had made it to the egg and it was his baby! Karen and Doug were finally going to have the child they’d always wanted. She broke it off with Javier, who, in a fit of jealousy, came to her house and shoved her. She hit her head on the concrete floor and—

  “I want to go home now,” Cameron said. I jumped a little at his sudden and silent appearance.

  “Oh… hi, sweetie. It’s not time to go yet. I’m going to order us some pizza.”

  “I want to go home. It’s boring here.”

  Oh Christ. I didn’t need this right now. “Why don’t you go play with Spencer for a little while? The pizza will be here soon.”

  “Spencer’s toys are boring. I want to go home. I want to see my mom.”

  “Listen…” I leaned down so we were at eye level. “Would you like to play a game with me? We’ve got snakes and ladders.”

  “No.”

  “We could do a puzzle?”

  “I want to go.” Cameron turned and started heading toward the front door.

  “Spencer!” I shrieked, in need of reinforcements. “Get down here!” I trotted behind Cameron. “We could do some colouring?”

  “No.” He began to put his shoes on.

  “Painting?”

  Spencer appeared behind me. “What?”

  “What could we do with Cameron that would be fun?” I asked, in a voice tinged with desperation. “Just for a little while… until the pizza comes.”

  “Umm… Play-Doh?”

  “How about Play-Doh, Cameron? Do you like Play-Doh?”

  “Yeah…” he said hesitantly, dropping his shoe to the floor. “I guess.”

  “Great!” I said enthusiastically. “Let’s go play some Play-Doh!”

  I set the boys up at the kitchen table with a large bucket of clay and various kitchen tools. Thankfully, they were giggling contentedly when I took the phone into the hall and dialled Dominoes. When I returned, I sat down between the two youngsters. This couldn’t be an easy time for either of them. They were too young to really understand what was going on with the whole Karen situation, but they must sense it. And in a way, the tragedy across the street was having an enormous impact on them. It was affecting the most important people in their universe: their mothers. I took a deep breath and vowed to be patient and kind. “Nice work, Cameron,” I said encouragingly. “And yours is really cool, too, Spencer.”

  “What do you think this is?” my son asked, holding up his creation.

  “Umm…” I took in the small creature with two legs, two tiny arms, and a long blue tail. “A kangaroo?”

  “Nope. Guess again.”

  “A crocodile standing up?”

  “Nope. Guess again.”

  “I give up.”

  “It’s Dad.”

  “Ohhhh…” I said, as if suddenly seeing the similarities. “Does Dad have a tail?”

  “That’s poo hanging out of his butt.”

  I was on the verge of a reprimand when Cameron
burst out laughing. Well, at least Spencer was entertaining that sullen little monster. I decided to let it slide. “Right,” I said. “Poo… yeah, of course.”

  “Guess what this is?” Cameron asked, with a gleeful grin.

  “Uh… a boy sitting on a giant toadstool?”

  “No!” He was practically breathless with excitement.

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s my dad, with a giant fart cloud coming out of his butt!”

  Spencer squealed and soon the two of them were clutching their sides and rolling on the floor with laughter. I would have to chastise them. Trudy took a hard line on inappropriate language, and I knew, first hand, that she had an issue with the word fart. When their laughing seizure had subsided, I spoke sternly. “Okay… that’s enough of that kind of language.”

  “Fart is not a swear,” Cameron retorted.

  “Well, it’s still not a very nice or polite word.”

  “But fart is just a plain old word. What’s so bad about saying fart?”

  “You know your mom doesn’t like you using that word, Cameron.”

  “So… that’s just dumb. … Fart.”

  “Cameron…” I began.

  “Fart!” He screamed, much to Spencer’s delight. “Fart! Fart! Fart!”

  “Pass wind,” I said helplessly. “Pass wind.” The doorbell rang and I scurried to meet the pizza delivery man. If he was bothered by the chorus of poo, fart and accompanying sound effects emanating from the kitchen, he didn’t comment. Laden with two steaming pizza boxes, I made my way back to the kitchen, pausing at the bottom of the stairs to call up to Chloe’s room. “Girls! Pizza’s here!”

  Uh… uh… wanna make you sweat…

  “Chloe! Emily!”

  Uh… uh… wanna make you scream …

  “Girls! Please!” I hollered, suddenly overwhelmed by the barrage of sexual innuendo coming from my daughter’s CD player. Thankfully, it stopped. Now, if I could only turn off the sound of the boys discussing their fathers’ toilet activities.