Chapter 4 - A House of Ghosts
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When we finally arrived at Margaret and Robert’s house in Lincolnwood, the sun had already begun to set, casting long, bruised purple shadows across the snow.
Robert was out in the garage, wearing his thick flannel jacket, carefully stringing white lights around an enormous evergreen wreath. He looked up with a warm smile when he heard our footsteps on the driveway, but one look at my tear-stained face was enough to wipe it away instantly.
“What happened?” he asked, dropping the extension cord.
Margaret took off her leather gloves with terrifying precision. “We saw Daniel with Vanessa Reed.”
Robert slowly lowered the tangled strand of lights into a cardboard box. He didn't ask who Vanessa was. That meant he knew the name, too.
“With her how?” Robert’s voice dropped an octave, slipping into the authoritative tone of a former judge.
“Holding hands,” Margaret said flatly. “In the middle of the mall.”
Robert’s jaw tightened so hard I thought his teeth might crack. He looked directly at me, his eyes softening with profound sadness.
“I’m so sorry, Em.”
That simple nickname nearly brought me to my knees. Robert had called me "Em" since the very first Thanksgiving Daniel had brought me home, eleven years ago. I just nodded, unable to trust my vocal cords to form a coherent word.
We went inside. Margaret immediately moved to the kitchen and put the kettle on. “Daniel is coming at seven,” she announced to the room.
Robert stared at his wife as if she had lost her mind. “You invited him here? Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because I want to hear what lies he spins before he has time to figure out exactly how much we know.”
I sat heavily at the kitchen island. “We know what we saw, Margaret.”
“Yes, Emily,” Margaret said, pouring hot water into three mugs. “But he doesn’t know how long we watched them. He doesn’t know if we heard their conversation.”
That was my very first lesson in the art of war. A person who expects a massive confrontation prepares a massive defense. But a person who thinks he might have escaped with a slap on the wrist begins talking carelessly.
We waited.
At seven-twelve, Margaret’s phone buzzed on the counter. She read the text message out loud. Something came up at work. Reschedule for tomorrow?
Robert swore loudly under his breath, turning away in disgust. Daniel was a coward. He was hiding.
At seven-thirty, we sat down and ate a beautiful roast chicken and garlic potatoes that tasted entirely like cardboard. At nine-fifteen, having heard absolutely nothing from my husband, I stood up and pulled my coat from the hallway closet.
“You’re staying here tonight,” Margaret said, stepping into the hall.
“No. I need my things.”
“Robert can drive over tomorrow and pack a bag for you.”
“Margaret, no.” I turned to look her in the eye. I was terrified, exhausted, and heartbroken, but I was not going to be chased out of my own life. “I need to walk into my own house.”
She studied my face for a long moment, searching for any sign of hysteria. Finding none, she nodded.
Robert drove me to Evanston in silence. When we pulled into my driveway, Daniel’s car was not there. The house was completely dark, save for the colorful glow of the Christmas tree lights shining through the front bay window.
I unlocked the front door and stepped inside the entryway. The house smelled like pine needles and the cinnamon candles I had burned the night before. I stood perfectly still, looking at the ornaments we had collected over eleven years of marriage hanging on the branches.
A tiny silver bell from a trip to Savannah.
A miniature lobster trap from Boston.
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A ridiculously ugly ceramic pizza slice Daniel had bought from a street vendor in New York when we got caught in freezing rain.
Evidence of a whole life, dangling from green branches in the dark. I didn't go to our master bedroom. I walked upstairs, locked the door to the guest room, and lay down in my clothes, waiting for the ghost of my husband to come home.
