What the Dashcam Kept

“You’re making dinner?” I asked as I dropped my keys into the bowl beside the entrance.

“You’ve had enough to deal with this week, what with the insurance people and the car,” Mark said. He offered me a glass of wine. “The adjuster called, by the way. They’re taking the SUV to the salvage yard tomorrow. He didn’t ask for a police report. Apparently, wildlife collisions involving one vehicle happen constantly.”

“Good,” I said, and drank. The wine left a bitter, ashy taste behind.

“Mommy, see!” Lily lifted her notebook for me to look at.

She’d drawn our house, the three of us holding hands, and our old dog, gone for two years. The lines were uneven and cheerful. I felt my chest contract until a full breath seemed impossible.

Mark meant to wreck the life Lily understood. On Monday morning, he planned to leave her, settle into a townhouse bought with money taken from her mother, and begin again with a twenty-six-year-old woman. I measured the thought like a loss on a ledger, though it hurt too much to keep it there.

“It’s lovely, sweetheart,” I murmured, and kissed Lily’s hair.

When I turned toward Mark, my eyes were wet. He read the tears as tenderness.

“Claire, I love you,” he said softly. His hand reached over the counter and closed around mine. “I mean that.”

“I know,” I answered.

For the next two days, I kept two versions of myself in motion.

The one Mark could see was a happy wife getting ready to celebrate ten years of marriage. I collected my dress from the alterations shop and talked about the anniversary as if it were a pleasure to anticipate.

My parents came in from Chicago. I welcomed them at the door and hugged them while Mark took their bags upstairs. I laughed along with my mother-in-law’s jokes.

The other version of me moved through the house like a shadow, alert to every detail. I checked the mirrored iPad over and over, following the messages as they appeared.

On Thursday night, Mark slept beside me while I read the latest exchange in the glow of the home office screen.

Chloe wrote that the caterer was set and the tent crew would arrive at noon the following day. She said stress had her throwing up, and she couldn’t bear to meet my eyes.

Mark told her to breathe and insisted she was managing well. He’d visited the townhouse, he said; its keys were in his work desk. Two days remained. She only had to make it through the party.

By Friday afternoon, the act I was keeping up began to press against the facts in front of me.

I stood at the kitchen sink when rental trucks rolled along the long driveway. Men began carrying a large white tent into the yard, along with canvas and metal supports.

Not long afterward, Chloe’s silver sedan pulled in behind them.

She got out with her clipboard clutched tight. Her sunglasses were oversized, but as she passed the kitchen window, I saw the drained color of her face.

Mark had taken the afternoon off to supervise the hard work. In the backyard, he was already giving instructions to the lighting crew.

I stepped outside onto the patio and called her name in a bright voice.

“Chloe!”

She stopped on the lawn. Her fingers gripped the clipboard until her knuckles whitened. Then she faced me. “Hi, Claire.”

“It’s all coming together beautifully,” I said, walking down the stone steps toward her. I closed the distance until we were standing close enough to share the same air.

Her perfume was expensive. Beneath it, I caught the sharper trace of nerves. I looked at her forehead. Makeup covered most of the yellow bruise, but not all of it.

Mark appeared between us at once, arranging his interruption to look casual.

“Hey, honey,” he said, putting an arm around my waist. My stomach turned at the contact. I let myself lean against him anyway.

He explained that Chloe had been reviewing the table plan with him. The string quartet, he said, would go near the oak tree.

“That sounds perfect,” I replied. I gave Chloe a warm smile. “You have such a gift for arranging things. Mark and I are fortunate to have you.”

Chloe swallowed. “Thanks. I should go make sure the flowers arrived.” She hurried off toward the side gate.

Mark followed her with a tight jaw. I kept my attention on him.

Later, while Mark was inside taking a shower, the audiovisual technician arrived to prepare the projector and the broad screen for that evening’s entertainment. The plan had been to show ten minutes of photographs from our marriage during dessert.

I went over to the young technician. A headset rested around his neck. “Hello,” I said quietly, and placed a silver USB drive in his hand. “This is the finished material for tomorrow’s slideshow.”

He accepted it and said he’d transfer it to the main laptop. He asked whether I wanted him to test it.

“No,” I told him. My voice dropped. “There’s just one item on the drive: an audio track and several high-resolution PDF files. Start it as soon as my husband finishes his toast tomorrow night. Before the band plays, and before anyone else gets up to speak.”

He looked uncertain. “There aren’t any pictures? Only sound?”

“Only sound,” I said. “As it runs, put the PDFs on the screen in order, changing to the next one every fifteen seconds.”

He shrugged and slipped the drive into his pocket. “You’re in charge.”

I had arranged for the evidence to play at the party immediately after Mark’s toast.