A little later I drove to the hospital where Joe works for advice on what to get Becca for Christmas. In the few minutes he could spare to chat, Joe left his office twice to deal with patient issues. As I’d hoped. He was only gone a minute or so each time, but long enough for me to find his prescription pad and rip off a sheet. On the way out of the hospital, I passed a drug cart helpfully left alone in a hallway. I swiped some random pills and hurried out. That evening, I had a copy of Becca’s house key made. Everything was falling into place.
When school let out the next afternoon, I returned to Becca’s. I knew the house would be empty, Charlie with his nanny at a Mommy and Me class, Joe at work, and Becca out playing mahjong. I wiped down her key and put it back. Then I went into her study, got on the Internet, and ordered some OxyContin using Becca’s email and credit card number (so helpful that Joe filed all the bills neatly in a desk cabinet). Then I faxed in my fake prescription. My handwriting didn’t look anything like Joe’s, but that didn’t matter. What was important was my handwriting looked like Becca’s.
Come Friday morning, I called in sick. But I was actually feeling giddy. Knowing Joe was at work and Charlie would be at the park with the nanny, I phoned Becca and told her about great Christmas sales going on at Macy’s and Lord and Taylor. She actually thanked me and raced out.
I headed over to her house, parking down the street so the neighbors wouldn’t notice my car, and let myself in. While I waited for the drugs (I paid extra for delivery by 11 a.m.), I played around in Becca’s cabinets, switching salt for sugar, that type of thing. When my package finally came, I shoved the receipt in the back of a drawer and went home, only to return a few hours later for Joe’s dinner.
I felt a little bad about ruining his celebration, but it couldn’t be helped. It was especially nice that Mom had invited one of her friends from the National Heritage Museum to dinner at Becca’s to show Joe off. Now I’d have a witness to the tension between Mom and Becca.
Priceless is the best way to describe everyone’s faces, especially Mom’s, as they tasted the supposedly sweet and sour chicken that was actually salty and bitter. Becca’s mouth hung open. She’d always prided herself on being the perfect cook and hostess.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t imagine what went wrong. Please have more of the salad and rolls.” She hurried into the kitchen to try to pull something else together. Mom followed her.
“If you didn’t have time to cook a proper dinner, Becca, you should have told me,” Mom said in her usual whisper that could be heard in the next township. “You’ve embarrassed me. I typically count on Gwen for that.”
Before Becca could defend herself, Mom emerged from the kitchen, a tight smile on her face. “Madeline.” She nodded to her friend. “Why don’t we go out for a proper meal? It’s on us, of course.”
In seconds Mom, Dad, and Madeline headed for the door, while Becca shot daggers from her eyes at Mom’s back. I was so happy, Mom’s jab at me hardly registered.
I went home soon after, singing “Jingle Bells” and feeling quite merry indeed.
* * * *
On Sunday, the first flurries of the season came. I watched them happily through the window at a cute café near my townhouse where I was having lunch with Aunt Lynn, Dad’s sister. I waited for her to mention Becca, and when she finally did, I said, “Mom’s being so hard on Becca since she put on those ten pounds.”
“What ten pounds? The girl’s a stick.”
“I know. You certainly can’t tell by looking at her. But you know Mom.”
Aunt Lynn did know Mom, very well. (It’s why she made plans with other relatives every Thanksgiving.) She shook her head, the tiny diamonds on the Jewish star around her neck sparkling in the light. “That woman. One day someone’s going to put her in her place.”
“I’m surprised Becca didn’t tell Mom off herself. I guess she’s too embarrassed about the weight gain. I don’t think she’s confided in anyone but the two of us. So don’t say anything.”
Aunt Lynn crossed her heart. I knew I could count on her keeping her word. Well, at least until the police came asking.
* * * *
Finally, Christmas Eve day came. I headed over to Becca’s shortly after breakfast. I knew she and Joe planned to take Charlie to the mall for a final chance to see Santa before the line got too long. They’d actually given their nanny a couple days off.
I also knew that this afternoon Becca would make lemon torte, Mom’s favorite, for dessert. Wearing gloves, I opened the pantry, and into each of the ingredients, I mixed some of the stolen pills and OxyContin. I didn’t know what the pills would do, but I figured the OxyContin would kill Mom, and if she suffered from the other ground-up medicines, all the better.
And—the topper—Becca would be blamed. Her inevitable refusal to eat the high-calorie dessert, coupled with the OxyContin billed to her credit card, would guarantee it, just in case the police had any doubt.
I spent the afternoon baking and watching It’s a Wonderful Life. As it ended, I became melancholy. Was I being too hard on Mom and Becca? Heading to the kitchen for brownies to help me think, I stubbed my toe on the damn treadmill. All the anger and memories flooded back. No, I wasn’t being too hard on them. Not by a long shot. They had brought this on themselves.
I arrived a little later at Becca’s, armed with presents, and happily learned Joe had to work tonight in order to get Christmas day off. It would be much better without a doctor in the house. Becca had already fed Charlie and put him to bed. So it was just Mom, Dad, Becca, and me for dinner. Our small, happy family.
The first two courses went swimmingly for Becca. Mom fawned over her shrimp puff appetizer and declared her main course of leg of lamb with roasted potatoes and steamed asparagus “simply divine.” I was so excited, I helped myself to a couple extra rolls, along with a second helping of potatoes.
Finally it was time for dessert. Becca emerged from the kitchen with a small lemon torte. Mom narrowed her eyes. “Becca, why is this dish so small? There’s hardly enough for two here, let alone four.”
“I’m on a diet,” she said. Shocking. “And Dad never eats lemon torte. I figured you and Gwen could share it. Dad and I can have cranberry yogurt.”
Mom turned to me. “Well, Gwen. I know you never pass up dessert. Hand me your plate.”
Oh, she so deserved what was coming. “Actually, I’m on a diet, too. You’ll have to enjoy the lemon torte by yourself.”
“A diet? I had no idea,” Becca said. “And here I baked you a special, extra dessert to make up for that striped monstrosity I gave you for your birthday.” She scurried into the kitchen and reappeared moments later with cranberry yogurt for her and Dad, and a large slice of fudge cake for me. My favorite.
“You made that?” I asked.
“Okay, you got me. It took a long time to bake the lemon torte, so I picked this up from that gourmet bakery down on Bedford Street. It’s still good.”
It looked better than good. “Well, since you went to all that trouble.” I smiled and dug in. Then I leaned back in my chair while I watched Mom eat her dessert with her typical small, dainty bites.
“Becca, this is wonderful,” Mom said, her face a bit flushed. “But it tastes different than it usually does. Did you change your recipe?”
“That’s weird,” she said. “I didn’t change a thing. Gwen, how’s your dessert?”
Now it was my turn to think things were weird. Becca appeared flushed, too. So did Dad. In fact everything seemed blotchy and out of focus. I shook my head, which made things worse. My stomach cramped, my head spun.
“Gwen,”