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I sense my frustration mounting. I need to get off the phone before I lose it with this woman. “Whatever, Mrs. Steele. You’re right. I’m an awful person. Just send me someone new.”
“You’ve been through three nannies in six weeks. If I had a replacement to send you, I’m not sure I would. Unfortunately, I’m fresh out.”
“Fine. I’ll find a new nanny service.”
“The problem isn’t with my service or my nannies. The problem, Mr. Darby, is you,” she says and hangs up on me before I can argue.
The second call to Betty Bleaker goes better. She’s sympathetic when I explain I’m in a bind and need to enroll my girls in the after-school program. “I understand your situation, Mr. Darby. I adored your wife, and I’d like to help. As of now, our program is filled. But that is liable to change next week. Give me a few days, and I’ll call you back.”
“Thanks, Betty. Anything you can do would be great, even if it’s only a couple of days a week.”
Pushing back from the table, I pace the kitchen floor while I finish my coffee. Getting the girls into the after-school program would take care of our immediate needs. I’ll be home with them at night, and I don’t work on weekends. I’m not a fan of having young nannies in the house anyway. They leave their long hairs in the shower drain and talk to their friends on the phone late at night. And despite what Susan Steele says, they are so overly sensitive. I refuse to turn my girls into snowflakes. I will toughen them up, so they don’t cry every time someone looks at them wrong.
The girls and I are better off going it alone for now. Unfortunately, I suspect that going alone means more disasters like the hairbrush incident.
TWO
JULIA
My husband’s trial is a bona fide media circus. Many believe Judge Guzman's decision to allow cameras in the courtroom is a strategic move to draw attention to the escalating human trafficking crisis in our country. But after watching her preside over the trial for weeks, I think she’s grandstanding, enjoying her moment in the limelight. Immediately following the jury’s guilty verdict yesterday, the judge announced the sentencing hearing for this morning. Delaying the sentencing would cause the thousands of reporters camped out in front of the courthouse to lose interest in the case.
I’m watching her closing remarks on television from the dingy apartment that has been my home for four months. She’s been going on for over two hours about the atrocities of human trafficking. I hold my breath as she announces Grady’s sentence—two hundred and forty years in prison. My emotions are mixed as she slams down her gavel and declares the court dismissed. I’m not surprised. I fully expected him to get the maximum. I’m bewildered, even though I’ve had months to come to terms with my husband’s crimes. And devastated that our beautiful life together has ended.
Eleanor comes to stand beside me with the TV remote in hand. She powers off the television. “It’s over. He’s going to prison for life.”
“It’s not fair that I got the same life sentence as him when I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“It may feel that way now, Julia, but once you get where you’re going, you will have more freedom. This chapter of your life is ending, but another one is just beginning.”
“Yeah, right.” I’m sick of her psychobabble. She’s a nice person, and she means well, but she doesn’t know what it’s like to walk in my shoes.
Eleanor sets the remote down on the coffee table. “Have you finished packing? We need to leave soon. We have a long trip ahead of us.”
“I’m ready, but I have to help Conrad get his things together.” I don’t bother asking her where we’re going. She won’t tell me.
Getting up from the sofa, I cross the living room into the adjacent kitchen where my four-year-old son is seated at the small Formica table eating a bowl of Froot Loops. I’ve lost weight these past months. My slim figure is now borderline anorexic. But the pounds I’ve lost, Conrad has gained from eating junk food and greasy takeout and not getting enough exercise. Once a week, I give Eleanor my grocery list of fresh fruits and vegetables. But she never returns from the store with any of the items I’ve requested. I don’t blame her. She does the best she can on her strict budget.
I don’t recognize my son without his mess of curls. Any more than I recognize my reflection in the mirror. With my hair now boy short and dyed the same mahogany hue as his, I could be Conrad’s much older brother.
I sit down opposite him and reach across the table for his small hand. “Are you ready to take off on our adventure?”
“Is Daddy coming with us?” His big brown eyes fill with tears. He knows the answer. But it doesn’t stop him from asking the question.
“No, son. We’ve talked about this. Daddy has to go away for a very long time.”
Conrad wrenches his hand free of mine and stuffs it in the baseball glove on the table beside him. He covets the cheap glove and wooden bat, both gifts from his father on his fourth birthday six months ago, the only items Eleanor allowed him to bring with him from our former lives. My husband was the star pitcher in high school. When his parents were killed in a car accident, he gave up his chance of playing in college to take over the family business. He often spoke about our son fulfilling his abandoned dream.
Looking past my son, I stare out the grime-smeared window at the city of Austin. Aside from my visit to the courthouse, I haven’t left this apartment since I turned my husband into the police, and we entered Witness Protection at the beginning of May. Because of the sensitive nature of the case, the prosecution pressured the judge for a speedy trial. Eager for her moment of fame, Judge Guzman eagerly complied.
Conrad strokes his baseball bat. “I don’t wanna go to Adventure, Mommy. Why can’t we go back to the farm?”
“I wish we could, sweetheart. But the farm belongs to someone else now.” I haven’t asked, and no one has told me what will become of the small farm Grady inherited from his parents. I assume someone will sell the property on Grady’s behalf and the money will go into a trust for him.
I long for the farming life, rising with the roosters and going to bed before dark. But Grady ruined everything for all of us.
“Will Adventure be cold?” Conrad asks.
I smile softly at his use of the word Adventure, as though it is a destination and not an exciting trip. “Not necessarily. Adventure may be warm year-round so we can play outside every single day.”
