“You have a prescription for Ambien.” He turns to the officer. “Caren’s been under a lot of stress. Sometimes she has trouble sleeping—” He stops, shaking his head like he’s embarrassed for me. “Our youngest just graduated. It’s a bittersweet time.”
His indiscretion hits me like a punch to the gut. Yes, there was a time last year—when I was first downsized from work, during all the chaos with Rachel—when I couldn’t sleep and was having panic attacks. But that was last year. I’ve only taken three or four pills this year. “That’s for emergencies. I don’t take it regularly.”
“I get it.” Jankowski nods. “My nephew left for college last year and my sister fell apart. She was a mess.”
“I’m not a mess,” I say.
A knowing smile appears on his pale rubbery lips. “Ambien and alcohol, that’ll do it.”
I shake my head. “No. I didn’t take an Ambien last night. I haven’t taken one in a month.”
“You said you don’t remember last night, so you might have taken one and not remember,” Jankowski reminds me, as if he is the cleverest boy in class. “What do you recall after leaving the party?”
I try to remain calm. I know if I show any emotion, they’ll dismiss me, write me off. “I remember leaving after an hour or so because I wanted to go home and work on the neighborhood yard sale.” I gesture toward the dining room, which is crowded with boxes of donated goods. “I remember thinking I might order food. Maybe Millie’s. But I needed to walk the dog first.”
“And did you make it home? Did you walk the dog?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember anything after that.”
“Try to recall, can you remember even a tiny detail?”
I try to remember. Flashes of memory flicker in the corners of my mind: the humid air, the buzz of the alcohol, maybe a person approaching? But the more I try to focus on who that is, the more they fade, slipping away. “No,” I whisper. “I feel like I saw—” My voice breaks, and I’m suddenly overwhelmed with the feeling that something was important, something just out of reach.
“What did you see?” Miguel asks gently.
I shake my head. “Sorry, I’m not sure.”
“It’s okay, honey,” Miguel says, stepping closer to rub my back. “You don’t need to apologize. No one’s blaming you.”
Aren’t they? I can feel the officer’s eyes studying me before turning to Miguel. “Sir, where were you last night? Were you at this party, as well?”
“I was out of town. In Rehoboth. I didn’t get back until this morning.”
I use my spoon to strain the tea bag and then place it on thecounter. Miguel grabs the tea bag by its little tag and pulls out the drawer next to the sink as if to drop it in the trash. But he doesn’t. He freezes, tea bag dangling in the air, a look of shock on his face.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Did you say you ordered Millie’s last night?”
“No, I said I was thinking about it. Why?”
He reaches into the garbage and pulls out the familiar white-and-blue bag withMILLIE’Sin print on the side.
“I didn’t order that.” My body goes cold.
“You mean you don’t remember ordering it.” Jankowski reaches over and rips off the paper receipt stapled to the bag. He holds it under one of the pendant lights and squints at it. “It says one Cliff Road, no cheese.”
“That’s your favorite,” Miguel says.
Jankowski turns the receipt toward me so I can see. “Who’s CJ?” he asks.
“I use the name CJ when I order food.” I can barely get the words out.
“Why?”
I stare at him, speechless. How can I explain that I’d stopped using my real name when I ordered food onceKarenbecame synonymous with a certain kind of woman—hysterical, entitled, possibly racist. I couldn’t take the smirks when I told baristas my name, or the not-so-funny comments like “hope you don’t call my manager.” “CJ is a childhood nickname. My full name is Caren Judith.”
I don’t dare glance at Miguel to see if he’s going to bust me on this little white lie. Although Judith is my middle name, not once in my life has anyone ever called me CJ.