Episode Transcript
[00:01:02] Speaker A: Susan Phelps peeled herself out of bed like discarded snakeskin eyes sticky with sleep, mouth dry as an old sponge, hair resembling a crime scene. Trickles of sunlight slithered through the blinds, casting jagged stripes across her unmade bed. The morning had that hazy, indifferent glow, the kind that suggested it was just before 7, or possibly the end of time. She stumbled toward the master bathroom, each step heavy, reluctant, like she was dragging around the ghost of bad decisions.
The floor tiles felt like ice, jolting her semi conscious brain into partial awareness.
She lowered herself onto the toilet seat, a cold slap of reality against bare skin.
Susan blinked at the half empty bottle of mouthwash on the counter, the toothpaste cap left open like a gaping wound.
Was Jesse awake?
She strained her ears for movement beyond the door, for the telltale sounds of life.
A coffee pot gurgling, a human voice. Instead, the house sat in eerie silence, holding its breath, waiting for something.
She sat there, frozen in limbo, staring at the faint imprint of a spiderweb in the corner of the ceiling.
A gentle creak whispered from somewhere down the hall.
Maybe Jesse was up.
Maybe not.
Maybe it was something else.
Her stomach growled, a low, feral noise.
She sighed. The day was just beginning, and already she felt like it had gotten the jump on her. Susan wiped herself clean, flushed, and washed her hands with the kind of efficiency only years of tired routine could perfect. She debated brushing her teeth but decided against it. Priorities first. She needed to make sure Jessie was actually conscious and not in some elaborate teenage coma. The girl had been late to school five times in the new year already, and it wasn't even February. That was five too many phone calls from Mrs. Feaster, whose voice had the sharp, scolding edge of someone who took attendance very, very seriously.
Susan could hear her now. Ms. Phelps, we need to have a conversation about accountability.
As if Susan weren't already drowning in it.
She flicked the bathroom light off and stepped into the hallway. The house was quiet, but not the kind of peaceful quiet, more like the kind that makes you check the locks twice.
The long, narrow hallway stretched out ahead of her, lined with family photos that hadn't been updated in years.
Jesse at 5, missing a tooth, Jesse at 10, scowling in a soccer uniform.
A picture of Susan and Jesse's father back when he was still in the picture.
Jesse's door was ajar, a sliver of darkness pressing against the dim light of the hallway. But there was a sound, low tinny music leaking from her room like a distant radio station barely clinging to a signal.
Susan wrapped her knuckles against the door frame, tap tap. Jessie, you awake? Jessie stood there fully dressed, ponytail pulled back so tight it looked like a facelift face painted with an aggressive amount of eyeliner and blush, like she was about to join an underground cabaret. Jesus, mom, jesse muttered, arms crossed. I've been up for an hour. Can't say the same about you.
Susan squinted at her, still processing the early morning snark. Good morning to you too, sunshine. Jesse rolled her eyes.
You checking to make sure I'm alive? Very original. Susan ignored the jab, though she briefly considered lecturing her on the dangers of sarcasm before 8am Instead, she tilted her head and gave her daughter's appearance a once over.
So what's the occasion? Job interview? Burlesque performance?
Jesse sighed, exasperated. It's just makeup, Mom. It's war paint, Jess. Jessie clicked her tongue, clearly deciding her mother wasn't worth engaging with at this ungodly hour.
I have to go, she said, grabbing her backpack.
Susan stepped back, allowing her daughter to pass.
If Mrs. Feaster calls me again, I'm changing my number.
Tell her I died. Susan smirked. Oh, honey, that would only make her call more Outside the Phelps home, the wheeze of a battered engine clawed its way up the street, followed by a horn honk. Short, sharp, impatient, Susan glanced out the window just in time to see Jessie stride toward the front door, disappearing outside before Susan could remind her that people who live under her roof usually say goodbye. A rust eaten Toyota sat in the driveway, coughing out an unhealthy plume of exhaust like it was hacking up its last breath. A vehicle held together by sheer spite and duct tape. Behind the wheel sat Melanie Tanger, a thorn in Susan's side, a pimple on the face of decency. One of those so called popular girls at school, all lip gloss and mean streaks. Jesse had taken a sudden, suspicious interest in her this year, which meant Susan had spent the last few months bracing for the inevitable disaster.
Susan squinted, watching as Jesse hopped into the Toyota.
Melanie didn't even acknowledge her passenger, just flicked her cigarette out the window and peeled off like she was the getaway driver in a bank heist.
Susan exhaled sharply.
Of course, Tenger.
That name still left a sour taste in her mouth. She knew Melanie's mother, Elizabeth.
Lizzie, she muttered in her head. Lizzie Tenger. But back in the day, she was Lizzie Weber. A rotten bitch to the core. Some girls in high school were simply mean. Lizzie Weber was the kind of mean that made kids change schools. The kind that left scars. Real ones. Emotional ones. Ones you don't even realize you have until you see their daughter. Pull into your driveway and suddenly the past crashes over you like cold water.
Susan had seen it before. The apple never falls far from the tree. Especially in towns like this.
She sighed, rubbing her temples.
Melanie Tanger. She had a bad feeling about this.
Susan turned back toward the bathroom, mentally mapping out the rest of her morning. A quick shower, lukewarm because the water heater was moody, followed by a slice of toast with peanut butter. Then off to work before Becky Hassler arrived. She loved Becky truly, but that woman could talk a hole into the fabric of reality itself. If she wasn't careful, Susan would get sucked into an unsolicited 20 minute saga about Becky's neighbor's mysterious packages or the latest antics of Becky's cat, Mr. Whiskerton, who allegedly had opinions about the mailman.
She was just about to step into the bathroom when something caught her eye.
The pictures in the hallway. They hung there like ghosts, moments that felt like they belonged to someone else's life. Her gaze landed on one in particular.
Jessie at 8 years old, a wide toothy grin, arms wrapped around Susan's waist like she never wanted to let go. She used to be like that, always in her orbit, always wanting to be around her. And now?
Now she was barely a presence at all. Absent. Just like her father. Hank. Fucking Hank.
The name alone made her jaw tighten, her stomach twist.
Seven years ago he left like a man walking out of a cheap novel. No long goodbye, no dramatic fight. Just a half empty closet and a deafening silence where a person used to be. No forwarding address, no new phone number. No explanation. Just gone.
Susan let out a slow breath.
Maybe Jesse had inherited more from him than just his sharp cheekbones.
Maybe absence was the one true Phelps. Family traitor. Susan stepped into the bathroom. She turned the shower handle, listening as the pipes groaned awake, spitting out a stream of lukewarm water. The best this old house could offer. She stripped off her clothes, peeling them away like layers of a life that didn't quite fit right anymore.
Before stepping inside, she caught her reflection in the mirror, a long, hard look.
55.
Not bad. Not great either. But she'd seen worse. Her eyes sagged a little at the corners, soft half moons of dark circles lingering beneath them like shadows that never quite faded. Time had left its signature on her skin, in the fine lines around her mouth, the slight looseness at her jaw. But she was still in good shape. She worked out, ate clean, hardly drank anymore.
At least not like she used to.
Gave up smoking long ago, when Jesse was still small enough to tug at her sleeve and say Mommy, those are yucky.
And yet none of it had been good enough.
Not for Hank, not for anyone else in this goddamn town.
Finding a man in Hickory Bend was like trying to find Jimmy Hoffa's body impossible. And even if you did, it probably wouldn't be in good condition.
She missed it. The touch of firm, strong hands running along her bare skin. The weight of a body pressed against hers. Rough calluses, the musky scent of sweat and work and desire.
Hank was all of that and then some. He knew what buttons to push, what levers to pull. The way he kissed her, the way he touched her, the way he looked at her.
That had been enough once, more than enough.
She was hopeless back then, already toeing the line of spinsterhood, watching 30 fade in the rearview mirror with nothing to show for it but a mortgage and a pile of maybe next times.
And then came Hank, her white knight.
No horse, just a rusted out Chevy with a busted tail light.
But still he had presence.
Had money too, or at least enough to buy her a drink and a plate of ribs at the rusted stag without checking his wallet twice. Had a steady job down at the old agricultural center on the outskirts of town.
That is, until it closed down.
Maybe that's what drove him out.
No job. Maybe it wasn't her at all.
Or maybe it was.
She swallowed hard, exhaling through her nose before stepping into the lukewarm mist of the shower.
She let the water run over her, washing away the morning, the memories, the ache that settled deep in her bones.
Seven years gone and he still lingered. She grabbed a towel, running it over her damp skin, squeezing the water from her hair, patting herself dry with the care of someone who had long mastered the art of routine. Finally she reached for her toothbrush. A dollop of minty paste, quick methodical strokes. She bared her teeth at the mirror, grinning like she was selling toothpaste in a commercial. Not bad. They were still pearly white, one of the few things she had full control over in this life.
She let the bathroom light catch her smile.
Maybe this would be the year.
New year. New possibilities, right? Jesse was graduating in the spring. Her baby was almost grown already. Talking about college, about leaving Hickory Ben behind.
And wasn't that something?
The thought of an empty nest didn't scare her the way she thought it would.
If anything, it stirred something inside her.
Hope.
Maybe she could do it too.
Pack up, Leave this godforsaken town once and for all.
Sell off the insurance agency she'd spent years building. Kiss the never ending paperwork goodbye and live off the fat of the land for a while.
What would that even feel like?
No Becky Hassler yammering in her ear. No small town gossip dragging her name through the mud. No reminders of Hank lurking in every creaky floorboard of this house.
Maybe she'd move closer to the city. Columbia maybe. Somewhere with restaurants that didn't deep fry every damn thing.
Somewhere with people who didn't know her entire life story before she even said hello.
Somewhere fresh. Maybe she'd finally meet a man. A real man, not a washed up good for nothing who disappeared when life got tough.
Someone who knew how to touch her, how to make her laugh. How to. How to remind her she was still alive.
Maybe.
She spat into the sink, rinsing her mouth, pressing her hands against the cool porcelain. A new year. A fresh start.
The sharp trill of the telephone yanked Susan out of her thoughts. She snapped her head toward the sound, eyes widening. Without thinking, she bolted across the house, completely naked, bare feet slapping against the hardwood. The hallway was a death trap, slick from lingering steam. She nearly lost her footing, flailing wildly like a cartoon character before catching herself against the door frame. By the time she reached the kitchen, she was breathless, hair dripping down her back, water leaving a trail behind her like some kind of feral mermaid. She grabbed the phone off the wall, yanking the spiral cord as far as it would go. Hello, she muttered, trying to sound composed and failing. Hey, girl, chirped the all too familiar voice on the other end.
Susan's stomach sank.
Becky Hassler.
It was too early for Becky. Too early for her stories, her mile a minute chatter, her tendency to treat small talk like an Olympic sport.
Hey, Becky, she managed, suppressing a sigh.
I just wanted to let you know I'll be a little late coming in this morning, becky announced. The mom in Eden's carpool group is feeling ill, so I gotta drop her off at school myself.
Susan exhaled through her nose. Relief. Blessed reprieve. A little extra Becky free time. No worries. Take your time, susan said smoothly. I don't think we have any appointments until the afternoon. She could hear Becky smiling through the phone. Aw, thanks, hun. You're the best. Want me to bring you anything? Coffee? A muffin? Becky offered. Susan glanced down at herself, still buck ass naked, standing in a puddle of her own making. No need, she said, pressing the receiver to her damp cheek. I'll probably just brew a pot at the office. Susan hung up with a soft click and let out a long breath, the weight of Becky's early morning energy still lingering like a perfume she never wanted to wear. She shook her head and turned back toward the bathroom. As she made her way down the hall, something else caught her eye.
[00:16:36] Speaker B: The glint of Hank's stupid, smug smirk, frozen in time.
[00:16:41] Speaker A: The photograph.
[00:16:43] Speaker B: It still hung there, just like it.
[00:16:45] Speaker A: Had for the last seven years.
[00:16:47] Speaker B: Hank standing in front of the old agricultural center, arms crossed like he was king of the goddamn county. The picture had been taken not long after they got married, back when she still thought forever meant forever, and not until shit gets hard and one of us vanishes.
Her fingers moved before she even thought about it, yanking the frame clean off the wall. She held it up, staring at his face. Why the hell had she kept this hanging around for so long?
It wasn't sentimentality.
It wasn't love.
At this point, it was just dead weight. With a sharp turn, she marched back into the kitchen, flipping open the cabinet beneath the sink. The garbage bin sat there waiting.
She hesitated for half a second, looking at the photo one last time. She let it slip from her fingers, the glass frame landing with a dull thud against coffee grounds and yesterday's eggshells. The cabinet door swung shut with a satisfying clunk.
Seven years overdue.
[00:18:15] Speaker A: Sa.
