Vicious. Kevin O'Brien
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shook her head. “Get the hell out of my way,” she growled, brushing past him as she headed for the door. “I need to be alone. I need to get out of here before I hit you or something….”
Then Susan hurried out of the bedroom. She ducked out the kitchen door, so the boys didn’t see her leave. She drove to a lookout point on Fifteenth, near Lakeview Cemetery. The little park had benches and a panoramic view of Husky Stadium, Lake Washington, and Bellevue. Directly below the park was a wooded ravine with trails. It was just the kind of remote spot she wouldn’t have taken Michael during the heyday of Mama’s Boy. But that night, Susan sat there for three hours. She managed to cool off. It wouldn’t be easy forgiving Walt, but she would. And going to that Fourth of July party would be terribly uncomfortable for him.
But go they would—Walt, the boys, and her. Susan saw to it.
Driving to the O’Maras’ on July Fourth, Susan balanced the Tater Tot casserole in her lap and tried not to kick the two six-packs of Redhook India Pale Ale at her feet in the front passenger seat. Though she and Walt had pretty much made up, he’d been tense and taciturn all day. Clearly, he saw going to this party—with his college friends and Melissa in attendance—as some kind of punishment. And it was. Except for when he yelled at Michael for teasing Mattie in his car seat, Walt said nothing for the duration of the ride. Susan didn’t utter a word either.
She looked for Melissa when they got to the O’Maras’ home, but the pretty redhead yoga instructor wasn’t yet among the thirty or so guests. The O’Maras had a large wooden deck off their living room, and that was where Jim was barbecuing. Though only on the second floor, the condominium stood on a hillside, so the deck was at least four stories above the ground. They looked over the treetops at the Space Needle on the horizon. An occasional skyrocket or firework from some other private party burst against the darkening sky.
Walt opened up a Pale Ale, while she had a Coke and watched for new arrivals. After three doorbell rings and three more couples made their entrance, Melissa finally appeared—in a clingy blue and white striped halter-top dress that she’d accented—no doubt, for Independence Day—with a red belt. She had her stupid 7-Up cake with her—in a Tupperware cake container. Making her way to the kitchen to unload the cake, she smiled and waved at Susan—one of those, Hi-haven’t-got-time-to-talk-now deals. But minutes later, Susan watched her hug Walt out on the deck, kiss his cheek, and then whisper something in his ear.
“She said, ‘Why haven’t you called me?’ and ‘We really need to talk, handsome,’” Walt told Susan under his breath during dinner.
“She called you handsome?” Susan whispered. “She was flirting with you while the kids and I were right there across the room?”
She waited until after the horrid 7-Up cake was served for dessert (even the kids didn’t like it) before she approached Melissa, who, in a rare moment, stood by herself near the guest-room door. She was sipping a glass of red wine. “Melissa, can I show you something?”
“Why, sure, Susan,” she said with a big phony smile. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to you all night long. I just had a smidge, but your Tater Tot casserole was to die for!”
“Well, thank you.” Susan opened the guest-room door, then nodded toward the bed. A pretty, brunette teenager was sitting there with an open book in her lap. Two toddlers sat on one side of her, and Mattie was curled up on the other side, just starting to doze off. “I don’t think you’ve had a chance to really see my boys,” Susan whispered. “That sleepyhead is our two-year-old, Matthew….”
“Oh, he’s a darling,” Melissa said.
“Isn’t he though?” Susan replied, quietly closing the door. She pointed to Michael, out on the deck. Holding a sparkler, Michael turned and smiled at her. “And that’s our eight-year-old, Michael. He looks a lot like his dad, doesn’t he?”
“He sure does,” Melissa agreed. “And just look at those eyelashes. He’s going to be a real heartbreaker.”
“Speaking of breaking hearts,” she said, pulling Melissa to the corner of the living room. “Now that you’ve seen my children and talked a little bit with me, I hope you understand what I’m about to say, Melissa. If you come near my husband or try to call him again, I’m going to come after you. And you’ll have a very difficult time teaching your yoga class with two broken arms.”
Melissa let out a bewildered laugh. But then she must have seen the seriousness in Susan’s eyes, because the smile vanished from her face.
“Do you understand?” Susan whispered. “I know what’s been going on. Walt told me everything. I’m only going to say this to you once. Lay off.”
Melissa stared at her and nodded. “All right,” she murmured. Her hand was shaking a bit as she gulped down the rest of her wine. Her eyes avoided Susan’s. “I—I’m really sorry….”
“I’m sorry, too,” Susan said quietly. “And I’m sorry you’re going through a difficult time right now. I hope you figure out some other way to cope with it.”
Susan patted her arm and headed toward the deck to join Walt, Michael, and several others who were waving around sparklers. Walt eyed her nervously. To take the edge off, he’d consumed at least three India Pale Ales. She wasn’t sure of the exact count, but he was feeling no pain. “Is everything all right, my love?” he asked. He’d just started to slip into his fake British accent, which he took on whenever he got tipsy. That was how Susan knew he was too drunk to drive. He didn’t stagger, or slur his words, or get loud; he just got British. And it was the worst imitation of Brit she’d ever heard. His old college friends were used to it, and like Susan they knew, when Walt started referring to other guys as blokes, it was time to cut him off. He hadn’t gotten that far along just yet.
“Everything’s peachy,” she said, sliding an arm around him. “Don’t look now, but I believe Melissa is making her excuses.”
The redhead was indeed talking to their hostess and moving toward the door with an empty Tupperware cake container under her arm. She glanced over her shoulder at the two of them. Susan just smiled and nodded.
“So all is forgiven?” he whispered.
Susan just nodded.
“Any chance for a bit of makeup sex tonight?” he asked in his awful British accent.
“Don’t push your luck, Nigel,” she whispered. “And by the way, I’m driving us home tonight. I don’t want any arguments.”
“Anything you say, old girl.” He kissed her on the cheek.
Susan glanced over at Michael, with a sparkler in his hand and the darkening cityscape behind him. From across the balcony, he smiled at her and Walt. Her sweet son looked so beautiful.
That was when she heard the loud crack. Susan thought it was a firework’s pop, but it was too close. The noise seemed to come directly underneath them. Everyone was looking around for something in the sky.
Then it happened again. Susan realized the sound was wood splintering. The deck floor shook and creaked.
“Oh, my God,” she murmured, a panic sweeping through her.
People started screaming, and they tried to scramble off the faltering deck, but it was too late. Another thunderous crack rang out.
Susan saw Michael on the other side of the deck. “Mom! Dad!” he cried, reaching for them.
She broke away from Walt and tried to get to her son. He was just outside her grasp. Then all at once, the deck’s wood floor opened up beneath her feet.
Suddenly, she was falling. As she plunged toward the ground, Susan heard all these horrible screams around her. Her arms and legs flailing, she felt so helpless—and doomed.
Someone from a neighboring condominium later said that the bodies, wood beams, and broken concrete all toppled down in unison. Some of the people—along with chunks of debris—bounced