Now I spent night after night lying awake, tossing and turning.
Oh, how I wanted to escape. But there was no escape, not really. Sleep—whenever I finally managed to find it—might have brought a few blessed hours’ respite, but then I’d jerk my eyes open, panicked by the vague sense that something terrible had happened, and the realization—Bam!—that it had. It was the exact opposite of waking from a terrible nightmare to the broad daylight relief that it was just a dream. The nightmare greeted me with the dawn and haunted my every waking moment. In the end, that was worse than not sleeping at all.
It was on one of those sleepless nights that I stumbled across a cancer blog for the first time. And on another, I worked up the nerve to make a comment. Not long after that, I remember, I began to chat privately with some of you, and those sleepless nights became a little less lonely, and less scary.
I remember one online exchange I had with Meredith when she wrote, Some morning—not soon, but someday—you’re going to wake up and not have that awful feeling that something is terribly wrong.
Wake up? I wrote back. You’re implying I’m actually going to sleep again.
You will, Meredith told me. I promise.
She was right.
Eventually, I started sleeping again. Eventually, I started waking up the old way—slowly stirring to consciousness. Eventually, things were back to the way they used to be. Back to normal.
And now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s getting late. I’m going to climb into bed, close my eyes, fall asleep, and not wake up until morning.
—Excerpt from Landry’s blog, The Breast Cancer Diaries
Chapter 11
Back at the hotel, Landry returns to her room under the pretext of freshening up before Detective Burns arrives.
But the moment she closes the door behind her, she dials Rob’s cell phone. He picks up on the first ring: “How was it?”
“The funeral? It was . . . you know. Hard. Sad. Awful.”
“I’m sorry.”
She changes the subject. “Did you find the insurance cards?”
“Yeah, you were right. They were on the bulletin board. I don’t know how I missed them when I looked.”
She closes her eyes for a second, smiling. Then it’s back to the business at hand: “Listen—I just wanted to run something by you quickly.” She tells him about the conversation with the detective at the funeral home, and that the detective asked to meet them there at the hotel to discuss the case further.
“The first thing to remember,” Rob says, “is that this is routine. An interview, not an interrogation. They’re looking for information.”
“I know. It’s not like I’m a suspect.”
“No. I don’t know about your friends, though.”
“They’re not suspects, either.”
“Did the detective tell you that?”
“No, but—”
“Just remember that they’re strangers, Landry. For all we know—”
“Please don’t say it, Rob.”
“I won’t. Just be careful up there, okay? They obviously haven’t made an arrest yet.”
“Right. I’ll be careful.”
“And twenty-four hours from now you’ll be on your way home.”
Home. Where nothing bad can happen to her?
Doesn’t she know better than anyone that staying safely at home doesn’t guarantee that the bad things won’t touch you?
“I should go.”
“Okay. I love you,” Rob tells her. “I know they’re your friends and you want to trust them, but I can’t get past wanting to protect you. You’re the most precious thing in my world.”
She swallows hard, and can’t seem to find her voice.
He’s right to be worried. She’s worried, too. Didn’t she just admit to Elena and Kay that she believes Meredith was killed by someone who read her blog and knew she’d be alone in the house that night?
A lurker, most likely, but . . .
It could have been one of us. That’s what the police are thinking. That’s what Rob is thinking. It could have been someone posing as a blogger, someone we trusted, someone with a screen name . . .
Just because Elena and Kay turned out to be the real deal—and Meredith, too, of course—doesn’t mean the others are. Landry thinks back to all those comments she exchanged with other bloggers; all the private chats and e-mails that let them into her life, into her family’s lives . . .
Not to the extent that Meredith did, and yet . . .
Maybe Elena is right. Maybe it’s time to take a step back from blogging.
“I really wish I could be there with you when you talk to the detective,” Rob tells her.
“Because I need a lawyer present?”
“Just . . . be careful what you say and how you say it.”
“I don’t have anything to hide. You know that. And I want to do whatever I can to help them find Meredith’s killer. We all do.”
“You and the other bloggers? Who are they? Elena and Kay?”
“Right. They’re the only ones who came to Cincinnati.”
“That you know of.”
“Well, I’d know if there were others.”
“How?”
“Because I’m sure they would have mentioned it.”
“Don’t be so sure of anything right now, Landry. Okay? Don’t trust anyone.”
“What about you?” she asks, mostly just teasing. Mostly.
“You can always trust me. I love you.”
“I love you, too, and . . .” She looks at her watch. “I have to go. It’s time to meet the detective.”
It hadn’t occurred to Beck that people—everyone, it seems, with the exception of her own husband—would drift back to the house after the funeral.
Keith is on his way back to Lexington. To be fair, he’d asked her, as they left McGraw’s, if she’d really meant it when she told him he was free to leave.
“Yes, I meant it,” she said, and was surprised to realize that she really did. The marriage might not be over officially—legally, or financially—but emotionally she’s finished. It’s only a matter of time; she knows now that she’ll extract herself as soon as this trauma is behind her.
Mom would have been so upset had she lived to see her daughter’s marriage end in divorce . . .
Or would she? Maybe she’d have been happy to see her find her way out of a bad situation. Maybe she’d have invited her to come live at home while she gets back on her feet . . .
Maybe I can still do that, Beck found herself thinking for a split second before she remembered that home isn’t home anymore. Not without her mother.
The house that was once filled with love and laughter now represents only sorrow. Beck can’t imagine ever laughing again—here, or anywhere else. Can’t imagine ever loving again, ever being married again or having children . . .
“I’m so sorry,” Keith whispered in her ear before he drove off in the wrong direction as Beck climbed into the black limo with her family.
Sorry. So sorry . . .
Sorry for what?
For leaving? For her loss? For his extramarital indiscretions?
She still doesn’t know what he was apologizing about. She supposes she will, soon enough . . . if she even cares to.
Back at the house, she’d had every intention of going straight to her room to have a good cry, alone at last. Instead she’s been on kitchen duty ever since she walked in the door, trailed by half the neighborhood. People are bringing platters of food, and the doorbell keeps ringing with deliveries: flowers and fruit baskets, trays of pastries, hot meals ordered from local restaurants by well-meaning faraway friends and colleagues . . .