Conceal & Correct

CW: Themes and/or references to domestic violence and murder

Rebecca flinched as Alan came up from behind and wrapped his arms around her in a warm embrace.

It was Monday morning. She had been standing in front of the vanity mirror, dabbing foundation all over her face. His footsteps were always so quiet. Even after being married for nearly three years, there were moments like this when she couldn’t sense him coming.

“I hope you have an amazing day, sweetheart,” he murmured in her ear, and slowly, her tight shoulders relaxed. She sank back into the hug, letting her weight drop against his chest. “I’m so sorry about last night.” 

Rebecca closed her eyes and sighed. “It’s okay,” she murmured back. 

She had grown accustomed to saying this. “It’s okay.” It was the required response, the obligatory two-word phrase of forgiveness. It rang hollow to her now, but who was she to complain? After all, compromise is the cornerstone of any marriage, and what couple doesn’t have their fair share of disagreements? 

Besides, if she didn’t say it, she’d practically be asking for a repeat of the previous night’s shouting match. 

Alan pulled back from the embrace, put his hands on her shoulders, and met her gaze in the mirror. “I’ll make it up to you,” he said with a grin. “I promise. I’m taking you to Mario’s for dinner tonight.” 

Rebecca felt a flash of annoyance. Her longest shifts at the hospital were on Mondays. Didn’t Alan remember that? 

But she let it pass. This was him trying to set things right. She had read somewhere that partners often make little bids for connection, and it was important to honor those bids as much as possible. What Alan was doing was an honest bid for connection, and she couldn’t bring herself to turn him away. 

She forced a smile and nodded into the mirror. “Okay.”

Alan’s grin widened. “Perfect. I’ll make reservations.” 

He turned her around, lifted her chin, and pressed his lips against hers. Pulling away, he said, “Love you, baby. Text me when you get to work.” And with that, he walked out.

Rebecca turned back to the mirror. She picked up a tube of concealer, pulled out the wand, and dabbed some under her eyes, but almost nothing came out. She groaned. She couldn’t believe she’d run out already. She would have to make a quick stop at the drugstore before heading to work. Thank God for self-checkout, she thought.

Throwing on her purse and a baseball cap, she headed down the stairs of their five-story walk-up and out onto the New York streets.

She made her way to the subway station and waited only a couple of minutes before the train rolled in. As it screeched to a stop, she caught her reflection in the train windows. What she saw made her stomach sink. The swipe of concealer had helped, but it wasn’t enough to hide the bruise. And there was nothing in the world, she thought, that could erase the sheer exhaustion in her eyes. 

She felt her cheeks heat up and prayed no one would notice. She just had to make it to the store and grab a new tube of concealer. Maybe some color corrector. She could probably duck into the hospital restroom before any of her colleagues saw her. 

When the doors opened, she scurried inside before anyone had the chance to get off, earning a few irritated looks. She found a seat near the corner of the car and sat down, trying to steady herself.

In an attempt to distract herself, she pulled out her phone and opened Instagram. After scrolling for a few minutes, she realized Alan had never texted her. They always texted each other when they got to work and when they were leaving for home. She frowned and checked her messages. Nothing. 

She opened Google Maps and checked his location. That’s strange, she thought. His last location showed him a few feet from his subway stop, but not quite at the office. Maybe his phone’s GPS had glitched and stopped updating before he made it inside.

She was about to give Alan a call when the train suddenly slowed, and an announcement crackled over the intercom. 

“Apologies for the delay, folks. Looks like there’s some police activity farther up the line. Just hold tight. We’re trying to figure out what’s going on and will resume shortly.” 

A few groans reverberated throughout the car. Rebecca joined them, at least internally. She was still a small-town girl at heart, and the constant chaos of the city drained her sometimes.

Even so, she admitted the subway rarely disappointed her, and she was grateful for the relatively reliable public transit. That faith was reaffirmed when the train engine finally lurched forward, moving them along the tracks again. 

A few minutes later, they pulled into Alan’s stop. She looked outside. There seemed to be frantic activity all over the platform. She could make out a swarm of NYPD officers, bright yellow tape, and the frustrated faces of commuters trying to maneuver around the mess and onto the train. 

Rebecca panicked. What was happening? Was Alan okay? Had his train been in an accident? She pulled out her phone again to call him but realized it was just past 9:00. Alan had a meeting every morning at 9:00 and wouldn’t be too happy if she rang him in the middle of it. 

She took a deep breath in and exhaled. Breathe in. Exhale. She had read online that three seconds in and six seconds out was the key to pulling yourself out of anxiety. 

After about ten rounds, she felt her nervous system begin to settle. There was a 99.9% chance that Alan was perfectly fine. This was just her anxiety talking. She had learned somewhere that this was called catastrophizing, a type of cognitive distortion. Basically, an irrational thought pattern that could warp the way you perceive reality.

The irony wasn’t lost on her. Even after all the ways Alan had hurt her, the thought of something happening to him still terrified her. 

She hated herself for that.

Eventually, the doors slid open, and a fresh wave of riders entered the car. An older woman settled into the seat next to hers. Her bag caught Rebecca’s eye. It was a bright pink tote with some text plastered across it in a groovy, wavy sort of font: Women must serve men. Beneath the words was a drawing of a 1950s-looking housewife serving a man’s head on a dinner platter. 

Even with everything on her mind, Rebecca had to hold back a grin.

Absent-mindedly, she took off her baseball cap and opened Instagram as if on autopilot. Scrolling her feed, she came across an interesting post. A well-known and well-loved local sports commentator and Knicks fan, Daniel Mercer, had turned up dead in what the NYPD believed to be a homicide. 

Swiping through the post, she learned that just months earlier, leaked court documents and photographs had exposed his abuse of an ex-girlfriend. 

Rebecca bristled. She could swear phones were listening to thoughts now.

Flustered and overwhelmed, she locked her phone. Her gaze focused on her reflection on the black screen. She couldn’t remember when she’d taken her cap off. To her horror, the small bit of concealer she had managed to coax from the tube this morning had melted away in the sweltering summer heat. 

All of a sudden, she felt eyes on her. She glanced sideways at the older woman sitting next to her and found her staring right at Rebecca’s face. She looked… concerned. 

Rebecca hated that. Hated the pity she could feel coming off the woman in waves.

The older woman tried to meet her gaze, and Rebecca felt compelled to make eye contact.

The woman’s face crinkled. “Are you okay, my dear?” she asked.

Rebecca rolled her eyes internally. Who talks to random people on the train these days? But she knew the woman meant well and felt bad at the thought of being rude to her.

“Yeah. Intramural volleyball. Took a hit to the face.”

The older woman responded with a playful grimace. “Ouch,” she said. “Recreational sports sound so dangerous.”

Rebecca smiled back, relieved that the woman seemed willing to let it go. She pulled on her cap again and went back to her phone.

The woman glanced at Rebecca’s screen and said quietly, “That poor woman.”

Rebecca looked up, once again annoyed by this woman’s determination to keep the conversation going. Still, she responded, “Who? His girlfriend?” 

The woman nodded. “I hope she has somewhere to go.”

Rebecca shifted uncomfortably. “People online have been so quick to turn on this man. They think they know everything that happened between them. We don’t really know.”

The woman looked at her oddly. “No,” she responded slowly. “We usually don’t.”

They fell silent.

After about two minutes, the older woman spoke again. “Mine was the kitchen cabinet.” 

Rebecca looked at her. “Sorry?”

“The kitchen cabinet.” The woman gestured toward her own face. “That was my excuse.”

Rebecca froze.

The woman continued as if she hadn’t noticed. “It took me seven years to leave him, you know.”

“This was volleyball,” Rebecca retorted. “My husband does not abuse me.”

The woman didn’t argue. “Okay.” A brief pause. “I’m Sarah, by the way.” 

“Good to meet you, Sarah,” Rebecca responded coldly. She didn’t like this woman. She didn’t like the way she was studying her, prying into things that were none of her business.

Another pause. Then, as though she couldn’t help it, Rebecca found herself asking, “Why seven years?”

“I didn’t have anywhere to go. He controlled the money. I was at home with the kids. And besides, he wasn’t always like that. He’d always promise to change. That always brought me back, even when I tried to leave. I really did love him.”

Rebecca pushed back. “It’s really not what it looks like. He just gets angry sometimes. And we’re working on it.”

Sarah listened but didn’t say anything.

Annoyed by her silence, Rebecca blurted, “I can’t leave him.”

Sarah looked at her with that same sad kindness from before. “I know.” 

Rebecca's gaze abruptly caught the digital route display, and she froze. She had missed her stop. 

“Oh shit, I was supposed to get off earlier.” 

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry for distracting you,” Sarah apologized sincerely. “And please forgive me for all the unsolicited talk.”

“No, it’s fine.” Rebecca forced a tight-lipped smile. “It was good meeting you, Sarah.”

“Take care of yourself, Rebecca.”

The train pulled to a stop. The doors slid open, and Rebecca stepped out onto the platform. Moments later, it hurtled away, disappearing into the tunnel and taking Sarah’s sad, smiling face with it.

Rebecca made her way to the opposite platform to double back to her stop. Suddenly, Sarah’s words replayed in her head, as if registering for the first time.

Take care of yourself, Rebecca.

Rebecca stopped. She had never told Sarah her name.

Puzzled, Rebecca thought about it and figured Sarah must have read her name on her hospital badge. Glancing down at her chest, she realized she wasn’t wearing it. She hurriedly rummaged through her purse and found the badge still inside.

That’s strange, she thought.

Her phone suddenly rang. 

Rebecca jumped. Unknown number. She picked up.

“Hello?”

A male voice came through the line. “Am I speaking with Mrs. Rebecca Grover?”

“Yes, this is her.”

“Mrs. Grover, this is Detective Eric Morales with the NYPD. When was the last time you saw your husband?”

Rebecca’s heart began to race.

“Just this morning. He left for work before me.”

Detective Morales paused. When he spoke again, his voice was gentler. “Mrs. Grover, can I ask where you are right now?”

“I’m— I’m out right now. I’m about to catch the 1 to Smith Cancer Center— ”

“Mrs. Grover, can you please make your way to the precinct? We need to speak to you about something urgent.” 

Rebecca could hear her voice rising, her heart thundering in her ears. “Can you please tell me what this is about?”

The detective hesitated. 

“Mrs. Grover,” he said somberly, “your husband, Alan Grover, was found dead near 59th Street. The NYPD is treating his death as a homicide.”

Her vision swam. The detective kept speaking, but she barely registered the words.

“Mrs. Grover, are you still there?”

“I don’t understand— ”

“Mrs. Grover, did your husband know a Daniel Mercer?”

“The sports commentator? What? No, not personally— ” 

“What about a Thomas Bell? Was your husband ever in contact with a Thomas Bell?”

“No, I’ve never heard of him—”

The detective gently asked her again to come down to the precinct.

“We’re looking into cases that may be connected,” he explained. “Any information you can give us about your husband would be a great help.”

Rebecca looked toward the tunnel where Sarah’s train had disappeared.

I can’t leave him.

I know.

Rebecca’s train thundered into the station. She didn’t move. Her phone still pressed to her ear, she caught her bruised reflection again in the train windows. For a second, she barely recognized the woman staring back at her.

“Mrs. Grover, are you still there?” the detective asked.

The cars rushed past, and her reflection vanished.

Rebecca stared into the dark tunnel.

“Yes. I’m still here.”