In one of the rarest moments of my life, I hoped my mom would prove me wrong.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
AMANDA
To break the silence, I cranked the soundtrack to the most recent Pride & Prejudice movie upon returning home from work. That music still moved me despite my own fraudulent Mr. Darcy. Channeling Lizzy for the courage needed to handle the task ahead, I sat at the kitchen table and smoothed out the handwritten page of questions for Lyle’s father that I’d compiled this morning. To protect my daughter, my mother, and myself, I had to be better able to predict Lyle’s behavior, which meant I needed the facts about his entire life instead of relying on his version.
It was past time for this step, but somehow my heart hadn’t gotten the message. It fluttered violently despite my having practiced my introduction at least four times during the short drive home. With the phone held to my ear and my eyes closed, I held my breath while it rang.
“Hello?” came a gruff, bored voice.
My body stiffened. It took two heartbeats before I could answer. “Mr. Foster?”
“Take me off your list—”
“Wait, I’m not a telemarketer. I’m . . . I’m Lyle’s wife.” So much for practiced eloquence. My gaze settled on the empty space of the kitchen desk that used to house my engagement photo. After my family had left last night, I’d taken every photograph of Lyle out of their frames and cut them into pieces. It struck me then that I’d never seen a picture of Lyle’s father. My husband had never even described the man’s appearance, so I imagined a paunchier, graying version of Lyle, which didn’t calm me down. When he didn’t respond, I asked, “Mr. Foster?”
A long sigh came through the line. “Is he dead?”
Goodness, what a question. No wonder Lyle had left home.
“No!” Despite the many recent moments when I’d wanted to kill him. Maybe not literally, but pretty darn close.
“Yeah, I suppose people like him have nine lives.”
I blinked. People like him? An unkind remark, but given what little I knew of this man, I’d expected a derisive tone, not this melancholy one. Having prepared for combat, I had to shift gears and ease my way in.
“Sorry to call out of the blue. I would’ve reached out sooner, but Lyle never let me. Now I have no choice, because I need to better understand the scars his mom caused. Will you answer a few questions?”
“‘Scars his mom caused,’ eh?” He scoffed. “Sounds like he sold you the same cock-and-bull story he told his first wife.”
I slumped back on my chair as if struck by an arrow. Each breath hurt. “His first wife?”
Lyle hadn’t mentioned that on our marriage license. Not that another lie should startle me at this point. He’d had another wife. A wife! Of all his lies, the one in which he’d said he’d spent a lifetime searching for me somehow suddenly hurt the most. I’d been his second choice—my destiny, it seemed.
“Dana, or no—Deanna . . . Yeah, Deanna. Only met her once. Sweet girl. Real giving, just like his mother, who spoiled him rotten, God rest her soul.”
God rest her soul?
A chill trickled down my spine. First wives and dead mothers were not part of my script. “I’m sorry . . . I . . . Lyle told me his mom left when he was young.”
“Like I said, cock-and-bull.”
“So she didn’t leave?”
“Not on purpose. She died when he was twelve.”
Had Lyle used the word “abandoned,” or had I filled in the gap when he’d said his mother had left him? Lyle had watched me mourn my father and never once commiserated about having lost a parent. Who was the man I’d married, and how had I been so easily manipulated?
“I’m so sorry . . .” My brain chased each new surprise like a rat seeking cheese. “I’m sorry. I feel foolish. So many lies . . . I don’t know what to ask next, or what I expected . . .”
“Listen . . . er, what’s your name?” He gentled his voice.
“Amanda.”
“Okay, Amanda. I’m guessing my son’s finally turned on you, and now you’re looking for a reason why it all went wrong?”
Heat flushed through me. “Close enough.”
He clucked on the other end of the line. “He never mentioned Deanna?”
The part about his mother “leaving” might be hazy, but I’d remember a prior marriage.
“No.” I shook my head although he couldn’t see me.
“He probably told you I wasn’t a good father.”
“Well . . .” This call had been a mistake. Instead of answers there were only more questions. I fidgeted in my seat, uncomfortable and not at all sure any Foster man could be trusted. “It was obvious you were estranged, and he made it sound like you were . . . hard on him.”
“I was, but only to keep him from running off the rails. He probably kept you away from me because he knew I wouldn’t lie for him.”
Lie about what? His mother? His first wife? Was there more?
“I’m so confused. It’s not like his mother’s death or a prior marriage would’ve changed my feelings. Why would he care if you told me the truth?”
“Because he’s a narcissist. He creates his own truth to control others and feel good about himself. At this point, he probably believes his own lies.”
“That can’t be right. I mean, he’s done some awful things lately, but he can also be generous and considerate.”
“He mimics empathy and generosity, but it only lasts until he’s frustrated or disappointed. Bet in the beginning he treated you like a queen. Made you the center of everything, right?”
“Yes.” I sat straighter. An unpleasant tang filled my mouth in anticipation of more facts I might not want to know about Lyle or myself.
“Mm-hmm. He sucks people in with charm, then turns them into puppets. Gives them just enough attention to keep them dancing, and withholds affection if you cross him.”
Even when you don’t cross him. “So he never loved me.” The words fell from my lips without thought.
“Honey, you can’t look at it that way.” Mr. Foster continued. “He probably cared about you as much as he can care about anyone, but Lyle’s all about Lyle. He’ll turn on you, beat you down, and make you feel guilty if you do or say anything to challenge him. Everything he does ultimately is about propping up his ego.”
Bit by bit the images of my relationship reshuffled through this dark filter as the subtle ways Lyle had let his disapprovals and disappointments be known in order to pull my strings.
“Not sure if he was born that way or his mom created a monster, but he’s not right in the head.” Lyle’s dad coughed.
I remained reluctant to confirm that statement—whether because of what it said about Lyle or about me I couldn’t be sure.
“Even so, I never kicked my son out. He left because I saw through him. He’s got a gift for lying. Tells you ninety percent of the truth, then twists that last ten percent to change the whole context. Been getting away with that since he was six. I warned Meggie, but she didn’t see it, or didn’t want to. In her eyes, her little Lyle was perfect. That’s what she told him every day, all the while making a million excuses for his bad behavior.” He sighed. “You got kids?”