The Devil You Know Read online

  He’s quiet for a second, as if remembering that one-bedroom apartment with the great view and expensive furniture. “Things change,” he says simply.

  With those words, Ryan takes off. And I am extremely glad to be wearing a seatbelt, because oh my God, he drives fast. Ben always stays a steady five miles above the speed limit when he’s got me and Leah in the car, which is as slow as you can go without people honking angrily at you—he takes absolutely no pleasure in driving nor sees it as anything other than a way to get from Point A to Point B.

  But I can tell that Ryan is really loving his Porsche. He grins as he weaves in and out of lanes, overtaking any car that dares travel within ten miles of the speed limit. Two people give us the finger before we get off the highway. I’m slightly frightened, but it’s also thrilling. I mean, if you’re in a Porsche, you may as well be going really fast.

  As we exit the highway, my purse buzzes with a text message. It’s from Ben:

  Is Lisa able to give you a ride?

  I don’t know why he’s asking. If I said no, would he drive back out and get me? No way. I’d have to wait around for a taxi. Or get murdered in an Uber.

  I text back: Yes.

  Not that I’m doing anything wrong, but… well, no sense in making trouble.

  It took us half an hour to get to Dr. Kirschstein’s house, but Ryan and I make it back to my place in under twenty minutes. I see my house coming into view, looking rather shabby compared with my boss’s mansion. We pull up in front of the driveway and Ryan puts the car in park, but he doesn’t kill the engine.

  “You know,” he says, “I bet he doesn’t expect you home for at least another hour…”

  “Ryan…”

  “Just a thought.” He smiles and shrugs. “Didn’t expect you to take me up on it.”

  “Thanks for the ride,” I mumble.

  “My pleasure, Jane.”

  I take one last look at him—at his blond hair tousled from the hat he was wearing during our walk to the car, to his blue, blue eyes, to his slightly crooked smile. He could have any woman in the entire world probably. But for some reason, he always just seems to want me.

  I get out of the car before I do something really stupid. It’s still freezing, and I make a dash to the front door, forcing myself not to look behind me. I unlock the door quickly and shove my way inside before my fingers get frostbite and require Ryan to amputate them.

  The house is completely dark and silent. Ben is probably upstairs on his computer. He’s not waiting up in the living room, watching the door to see when I’ll arrive. Not that I would have expected him to.

  That’s when I realize that Ryan’s scarf is still wrapped around my neck. I never returned it to him.

  I unravel the scarf from my neck. It’s black and silky and warm. And it smells like Ryan’s aftershave.

  Chapter 18

  Richard Garrett has some of the worst varicose veins that I’ve ever seen. They stand out on his legs like a roadmap of lumps and bumps and blue lines.

  “You should see ‘em when I stand up,” Mr. Garrett tells me. “They swell up twice as big. I can’t stand more than twenty minutes.”

  “It’s terrible,” Mrs. Garrett assures me. “They really need to be taken care of.”

  That’s my job—to clear Mr. Garrett for his varicose vein stripping. A job he hasn’t made easy for me, considering his blood pressure is through the roof.

  “I’m going to increase your metoprolol dose,” I tell him. “I want your blood pressure to come down before the surgery. Do you have any questions about that?”

  Mrs. Garrett raises her hand. “Where did you train, Dr. McGill?”

  Obviously, I meant did they have any questions about the blood pressure medications. But at least a quarter of the time, patients take this as an invitation to ask whatever they’d like to know about my personal life.

  “I did my residency at County Hospital in Manhattan,” I tell them, hoping that’s sufficient.

  “How nice,” Mrs. Garrett sighs. Actually, it was awful. “And are you married?”

  Well, at least she’s not asking me if this is my natural hair color. “Yes.”

  She smiles. “And do you have any children?”

  “I have a daughter,” I say stiffly.

  “Do you?” Mrs. Garrett seems surprised. “You look so young!”

  There was a time when that comment would have really bothered me. When I was in residency, I heard it all the time. You look so young! Like you’re still in high school! It was the standard undermining of my authority.

  But now that I’m in my late thirties? Oh man, I eat it up. I could sit here all day and have Mrs. Garrett talk about how young I look. I was getting irritated with all the personal questions, but now all is forgiven. Mr. Garrett is my favorite patient of the day.

  “Thank you!” I say happily.

  “You probably hear that all the time,” she tells me.

  “Less than I used to,” I admit. Reluctantly, I turn back to the medical reason for Mr. Garrett being here. “Anyway, do you have a date scheduled yet for the surgery?”

  “We will as soon as you clear him,” Mrs. Garrett says. “The surgeon said we could call him as soon as we were good to go. He was so nice about it.”

  Mr. Garrett jerks his thumb at his wife. “She’s got a huge crush on that surgeon.”

  Mrs. Garrett titters slightly. “I do not!”

  He rolls his eyes. “You think I can’t tell? That’s okay. He’s too young for you anyway. He’s better for Dr. McGill here.”

  It doesn’t come as any surprise when I click on the last vascular note and find that the surgeon performing the varicose vein stripping is none other than Dr. Reilly.

  Ever since Ryan drove me home from that party last week, I’ve been avoiding him. It’s not that difficult, considering he’s usually in the OR and I’m usually up here. But there have been a few times when I’ve seen him in the hallway and had to make an awkward about-face or duck into a stairwell. I’ve also ignored the half dozen text messages he’s sent since then. I realize that nothing good can come out of communicating with Ryan.

  But now I’ve got to forward this note to Ryan. I mean, that’s my job. And it’s not like my progress note on Mr. Garrett is going to give him any ideas.

  _____

  When I go to check the schedule for afternoon clinic, I see that it’s completely blank. Barbara, of course, is nowhere to be found. Maybe she’s decided her job description no longer includes keeping track of patients and only includes personal nail care. Who knows?

  I’m about to go look for Dr. Kirschstein when Lisa rushes in, shoving her wild black curls out of her face. She’s wearing a black shirt under what appears to be some sort of poncho. She’s rocking the work poncho look though.

  “Jane,” she says breathlessly. “Guess what? Barbara forgot to book a clinic this afternoon! Surprise free afternoon!”

  “Great!” What’s sad is that I’m mostly excited about all the paperwork I’m going to get to catch up on. Yay paperwork!

  “So let’s go shopping,” Lisa says.

  I shake my head. “Kirschstein won’t like that. Our tour of duty doesn’t end until four-thirty.”

  That’s verbatim what he’s told me when he saw me trying to slip out because my clinic ended early. Your tour of duty isn’t over yet, Dr. McGill! I’m a doctor, not a soldier, damn it.

  “Dr. Kirschstein isn’t here today.” Lisa’s lips curl into a mischievous smile. “So I’d say our tour of duty ends whenever we want. Come on—let’s go to the mall!” When I hesitate, she adds, “What else are you going to do? Pick Leah up early and spend the next four hours begging her to pee in the potty?”

  She’s got a point. Also, today is Ben’s usual day to pick up Leah. So there’s really no rush.

  “Come on,” she says. “We’ve got to buy you two new pieces of clothing. And also, we’ve got to do something about your eyebrows.”

  I frown at her. “My eyebrows
?”

  “Oh, Jane,” she says. “Please. Don’t play dumb.”

  “What’s wrong with my eyebrows?”

  “You know how we’re always joking about Kirschstein’s eyebrows?” She puts her hands on her hips. “Well, I hate to tell you…”

  “Oh my God!” I nearly punch her in the shoulder. “I don’t have eyebangs!”

  “Not yet,” Lisa says soberly. “But I feel like it’s my duty as your friend to save you from that fate.”

  “I think you’re being melodramatic.”

  “Friends don’t let friends have eyebangs.”

  I reach up and touch my eyebrows. Okay, so they’re not as perfect as Lisa’s. But they’re nowhere near being long enough to obscure my vision like Dr. Kirschstein’s.

  “Seriously though.” She grins at me. “They’re okay, but you could definitely use a shaping.”

  “Nobody cares about eyebrows, Lisa.”

  “Everybody cares about eyebrows.”

  I sigh. “Listen, I’ll go shopping with you, as long as you shut up about my eyebrows. Okay?”

  “Deal.”

  I think I got taken.

  Less than an hour later, Lisa and I are deep in a shopping extravaganza. Around Long Island, there are zillions of strip malls, but because it’s freezing out, we’ve decided to go to the giant mall with all the stores indoors, lined up side by side in rows that go as far as the eye can see. Also, this way we can hit up more stores with the minimal amount of walking. In the short time we’ve been here, we’ve already been inside three stores and Lisa’s lugging around two giant shopping bags. Watching Lisa shop is almost hypnotic—like watching a lava lamp.

  “What do you think of this sweater?” she asks me as she pops out of the dressing room at Ann Taylor.

  It’s a simple pink knit sweater. I reach over and grab the price tag. “It’s probably not worth sixty-four dollars and ninety-nine cents.”

  “You get what you pay for, Jane,” Lisa says ominously. “How are those pants?”

  I glance down at the straight leg black pants that Lisa picked out for me. They fall into my gray-scale wardrobe specification, but they cost eighty-seven dollars. I’m fairly sure I could get the exact same pants for thirty bucks at Target.

  “They’re a little pricy,” I say.

  “So?” Lisa rolls her eyes. “You’re a doctor.”

  “I’m a doctor at the VA,” I remind her. “And my husband works for a crappy start-up earning basically nothing. And I’ve got a mortgage.” Honestly, even thirty bucks for pants is pricy, especially since I’ll have to pay an extra fifteen dollars to get them shortened, considering all pants are made for Amazon women.

  Lisa bats her eyes at me. “Don’t you want to look nice for your man?”

  “I don’t think Ben cares if I’m wearing expensive pants.” Actually, Ben the opposite of cares if I’m dressed up. If we go out and I’m wearing something too nice, he gets all upset that I’m dressed up while he’s just wearing a T-shirt and jeans. He usually asks me in a worried voice if that means he needs to change into something “nicer.”

  “Of course Ben doesn’t care what you’re wearing.” She shakes her head. “I’m talking about Dr. Handy McHandsome.”

  “Handy McHandsome? You’re really running out of ideas for names to call him.”

  “Stop dodging the question.” She nudges me. “You think I didn’t see the two of you sneaking out of Kirschstein’s party last week?”

  A middle-aged woman clutching an aquamarine blouse gives us a scandalized look. I feel my cheeks growing warm. “He was just giving me a ride home.”

  She grins. “Hey, I wouldn’t blame you. I pointed him out to Mike, and even he said he wouldn’t blame me if I wanted to hook up with him.”

  “Oh my God…”

  “Look,” Lisa says, “let’s go to Forever 21. We’ll get you something really cute.”

  Forever 21 is Lisa’s absolute favorite store and possibly her mantra. I’ve only been inside the store a handful of times, and I always feel about twenty years too old to be shopping there. Not everyone can be forever 21.

  “Ryan doesn’t really like me,” I mumble as the middle-aged woman disappears into a dressing room, although I suspect she’s probably still listening to us. “You don’t see these gorgeous nurses who are always hitting on him.”

  “I do, actually,” she says. “And he doesn’t look at any of them the way he looks at you.”

  “Lisa, I’m married.”

  I hear my phone buzzing from within the dressing room. A text message. I bite my lip, wondering if it’s Ryan. He’s been texting me often enough lately that I changed my setting on the phone so that the texts don’t appear on the screen without my password being entered. The last thing I need is for Ben to see more texts from him.

  But the text isn’t from him. It’s from Ben.

  Really need to keep working. Can you pick up Leah?

  I grit my teeth. I’ve picked up Leah every day this week so far. It’s his turn. Back when Leah was a baby, we shared drop off and pick up duties equally, but somehow since then, he’s phased out his own duties, insisting that he’s too busy and I’m on my way home anyway. Since we moved out to the island, he practically never picks her up at all.

  But I can do it. Really, what excuse do I have? Too busy shopping?

  Okay, I write.

  He writes back: Thanks.

  I wish he’d been more effusive than that. He could have said, Thanks, Jane! You’re the best! I love you so much for doing basically all the childcare while I do crossword puzzles and eat peanut butter at home. Although it’s unlikely he would have written that.

  “Are you okay?” Lisa calls to me.

  I nod. “Yeah. I’ve got to pick up Leah though.”

  “I thought you said it was Ben’s day.”

  I shrug. “He says he can’t do it.”

  Lisa raises one perfectly shaped eyebrow that is definitely not an eyebang. “You’re being a pushover. I would never let Mike get away with that.”

  I believe it. But right now, I sense the best thing is just to give in. I don’t want to deal with the consequences if I don’t.

  _____

  When I arrive at the preschool, Mila is waiting for me like she has something very important to tell me. I wrack my brain, trying to figure out what I did wrong—Leah isn’t wearing a nightgown, I remembered to pack her lunch, and I scolded her about not writing on the wall. What am I going to get yelled at for this time?

  “Jane.” Mila points her fierce round face in my direction. “There is something that I want you to see.”

  Oh no. It’s more wall art. I know it.

  Mila stomps across the room to where Leah is playing with her friends. She reaches out her hand and says to my daughter, “Come. We show Maman what you can do.”

  Leah obediently stands up and goes with Mila to the small bathroom in the back. I watch as Leah pulls down her pull-up diaper, takes the little toilet seat and puts it on the toilet, sits down and does her business. Then when she’s done, she wipes herself and pulls up her diaper. She then takes a little stool and drags it over to the sink so that she can stand on it to wash her hands. With soap.

  I am utterly speechless.

  “You see what she is able to do, Jane?” Mila says to me.

  This is not possible. Leah did not just do that. Mila has obviously replaced my child with some sort of toilet-trained robot. That’s the only explanation for what I just saw.

  “That’s… that’s wonderful, Leah!” I explain as I hug the robot, who feels soft and squishy like she actually is my daughter. “You did such a good job!”

  “She is able to do toilet, Jane,” Mila says. “You must train her to do it at home though. She is too old for diapers.”

  “I know,” I say.

  “You say you know,” Mila sighs, “but every day she comes to school in diapers.”

  “I bought her a princess potty!” I cry. “It plays a song when she pees!
But she won’t use it.”

  “She does not need a princess potty.” Mila gestures at her little bathroom. “Does this look like princess potty? No, it is not. What she needs is for you to take the diapers away and say that she must use the toilet.”

  God. She sounds just like Ben.

  I look down at Leah in her pull-up. I fantasize about putting her in panties, but then the thought of her car seat being soaked in urine brings me back to reality.

  “It’s not a good time for that right now,” I mumble.

  Mila studies my face. At first, I think she’s going to scold me further, but she decides against it. “Maybe not. But soon.”

  “Yes,” I say. “Soon.”

  Chapter 19

  There’s nothing quite like taking a five-hour drive with a preschooler.

  We’re on hour four en route to Ben’s mother’s house for a long weekend. I was driving for the first two hours and now it’s Ben’s turn. He let me listen to pop music for half an hour before making us switch to classical. Then half an hour ago, he killed the music entirely, saying it was giving him a headache. Now he’s just staring at the passing road with the knuckles of his right hand completely bloodless, his jaw twitching slightly every few minutes.

  Leah hasn’t gotten the memo that all we’re supposed to be quiet. “The wheels on the Mommy go round and round, round and round…”

  “Leah, Daddy’s head hurts,” Ben says.

  “The Daddy on the Mommy says, ‘My head hurts, my head hurts, my head hurts…’” Leah sings. Despite everything, I have to clamp my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing.

  Ben grits his teeth. “Can’t you keep her quiet back there, Jane?”

  “Oh, sure,” I say. “Do you want me to put a gag on her?”

  Leah pauses her song to ask, “What’s a gag, Mommy?”

  He takes his eyes off the road to glare in my direction. “Just… I can’t deal with her complaining. Can’t you just…?”

  I throw my hands up in the air. “Do what, exactly?”

  “Mommy, what’s a gag?”

  “I’ve been driving for two hours with no break.” He tugs at his sweatshirt. “I’ve got a headache. Please.”