The Second Mother

by Jenny Milchman

  Two empty bottles stood on the small table, while a third had been given the old college try. Julie felt a pang of fear. Ellie was so tiny, and she’d consumed the equivalent of a dozen glasses of wine.

  “How about we share that coffee?” Julie suggested casually. “There’s something I’d like to talk to you about. Other than my filmic life.” Asking Ellie about her pretend father would probably sober her up pretty quick.

  Ellie clapped her hands over her ears. “Not the Hempsteads again,” she pleaded, discarding both empties with disgust before taking a swig from the bottle that hadn’t been drained. “I’ve had enough of them to last a lifetime.”

  “No, not the Hempsteads,” Julie agreed. “Your father.”

  Ellie met Julie’s eyes with the bottle still clamped to her lips. She lowered it, then went and dumped some dry nuggets out, overfilling a bowl. Depot set to them hungrily while Ellie took Julie by the hand and led her out to the living room. Attempting to sit on the couch, Ellie missed and came to a rest on the floor. Julie sank down a few feet away.

  After a moment, Ellie said, “Damn pillow talk.”

  Julie winced. “We still haven’t had sex. And if it helps, I didn’t tell Callum much of what you’ve told me, as soon as I figured things out.”

  Ellie blinked blearily. “Unreal. I lie to you, and you try to make me feel better about it.” She crawled forward to give Julie a hug, squeezing her with strength her small size belied. “You are the best friend I’ve ever had.”

  Julie extricated herself as delicately as she could.

  “I’m sorry I lied,” Ellie said, sniffling in sloppily. “Mercy is so small, you know? Everyone knows everything and everybody. When you came, totally new to the place, and I had the chance to give you the island’s story, I guess it was just too tempting not to make up the place I always wished I had here.”

  “So your mother was never married to a fisherman?”

  Ellie sponged at her eyes with a fist. “Just slept with a lot of them. That’s how we came to Mercy. She followed a man she had hopes for, but he turned out to be a dub. Couldn’t pull up a legal lobster if it’d been in a tank. My mother set her sights high, she didn’t want just any fisherman. For all I know, my biological dad really was a highliner.”

  “Why did you guys stay? It had to be a tough life for both of you.”

  Ellie looked so furious that Julie instinctively scooted back.

  Ellie registered it, and forced her face to relax. “Sorry. I just knew we’d end up talking about them. I can’t get away from the Hempsteads no matter what I fucking do.”

  “What do you mean?” Julie asked. Had there been a reference to a Newcomb from the older generation in that ledger? If so, it hadn’t stood out from the army’s worth of entries. But the grandmother seemed to have most everyone on the island in her sights. She must have done something for Ellie’s mother—or to her.

  The look Ellie gave Julie was wounded, unfocused. It hurt, almost physically, to gaze back, yet Julie felt she owed at least that much to her friend.

  “Why did we stay?” Ellie said. “Because my mother got tired of chasing and moving and fucking and failing. And she had a good placement with the Hempsteads.”

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  “Remember how I said I hated the trail that goes to your house from here?”

  On the first walk the two of them had taken. Julie nodded.

  Ellie bit her bottom lip. “The Hempsteads rented us this cottage. I’m sorry, I don’t really own it, and in fact, I get a break on the rent or I’d never be able to afford a place here at all. Anyway, that path is the quickest way to the mansion. And my mother was always late. Mrs. Hempstead was such a demanding witch. She didn’t care if my mom was a single mother, no source of support or way to share the work of raising a child. She had to be at the mansion to start work by dawn, before any of the residents woke up.”

  A staff of seven, the grandmother had said.

  Ellie raced on, as if having started she wasn’t able to stop. “My mother towed me along that trail, barely awake, with those trees, those nasty trees—” She broke off with a shudder. “Maybe I was still sleeping sometimes, dreaming, because it felt like the trees were reaching for me, they came alive. We’d turn at the lane, and when we got to the mansion, my mother would hide me in the basement. Mrs. Hempstead knew I was there, she must have, she knows everything. But she wouldn’t let a servant’s kid make an appearance. That huge, awful basement, the air so thick with cobwebs, I’d choke on them.” Ellie swallowed arduously, as if her throat were cotton-packed now. “My mother would make it so she had errands to do for the mistress and master in town before the first bell rang, then walk me to school. We took the cliff trail so long as the weather was clear. That was better. I was free of the basement, for that day at least.”

  Julie frowned, holding up a hand. “I don’t get it. Weren’t you thirteen when you came here? Why didn’t you stay home in the morning and go to school by yourself?”

  But words and memories were continuing to pour out of Ellie, too fast to control. “Sometimes my mom would arrange things so she could come get me at school by the end of the day. Finish all the chores she had to get done, and there were always so many, acres of floor to sweep, every grain of sand picked from between the floorboards, the table laid, the beds turned down, these special butter biscuits that the Captain liked—”

  Andrea! Julie heard the old man call, as if the past were the present, Ellie a teenager, and her mother still alive and there to do his bidding. The Captain seemed nice enough, courtly, inclined to be kind, and yet the way he had lived, the demands he’d made, inflicted suffering whose effects lasted to this day. Julie wondered if it was possible to be the holder of such riches and authority and not do the same. Peter, in years to come, for example.

  And still Ellie’s recounting went on, hurled out like something sicked up.

  “—linens washed and hung to dry every damn day, curtains beat, fixtures shined, this intricate carving dusted with cotton twine wrapped around the tips of toothpicks. So much work that sometimes Mrs. Hempstead wouldn’t let my mom go, for hours and hours and hours, and I’d have to wait till after the teacher went home, all alone in the cove, scurrying away from the tide if it came in.” Ellie took a gulp of air. “I was scared of the tide, and the woods, and that ghastly basement, but nothing scared me as much as—” She finally skidded to a halt, clutching fistfuls of her shirt to subdue her shaking hands and staring at Julie.

  “As what?” Julie asked. She felt as if she were supposed to know.

  Ellie continued to look at her bleakly. “Being alone in this house.”

  Julie drew back, taking a paranoid glimpse around as if whatever had so terrorized Ellie might be here right now.

  “I’ve had to drink every day since my mom died,” Ellie went on, “just to get through the night on my own. For me, being alone in a house is like drowning. You know that sensation when there’s about to be no more air, and you know you’ve taken your last clear breath?”

  Julie looked at her. She knew. She and Depot both did now.

  Ellie’s small form began to rock with sobs then, and Julie gathered her friend into her arms. She shrank from the smell of alcohol rising from Ellie’s pores, but didn’t let go. How had she missed this? Ellie was so wry and in-your-face funny. But she had the saddest soul of anyone Julie had ever known. She was even sadder than Julie herself.

  Ellie continued to cry, using her shirt to stem the tide of tears.

  Julie wouldn’t tell Ellie to hush, or that she got it, or that it was okay. She wouldn’t even pose the interruption of going in search of tissues. She just held Ellie, and murmured soft sounds, as if crooning to a new baby.

  “She’s a demon,” Ellie sobbed. “That woman put me in hell every day. She puts everyone on this island exactly where she wants them.”

  All
the names and lives and listings compacted in the grandmother’s ledger. Tiny figures moved around at a whim on the playing board that was Mercy Island.

  * * *

  They hung out the rest of the day, Ellie sobering up with cup after cup of coffee. Then she and Julie took Depot on a long walk, avoiding the woods, while the dog kept a vigilant lookout, growling low in his throat as nighttime arrived to take over the island.

  “Who would you seek out, if you needed to go above the grandmother’s head?” Julie asked as they strolled. They were coming to the road that led to the Rainbow Pavilion and, by unspoken agreement, veered away. “I mean, you said she’s involved with the school board and police and town government, which doesn’t leave a whole lot.”

  “It sure doesn’t,” Ellie agreed, pointing the way to a lane that wound down to the sea.

  Julie followed. “Say I was worried about a case of abuse. Paul Scherer said he’s had reason to keep an eye on Eddie Cowry. How are social services handled on Mercy?”

  Ellie stopped on a small rise of sand. “They’re not.”

  Depot had continued loping forward, scenting the sea. Now Julie called him back.

  “Actually, that’s not true,” Ellie went on. “I remember hearing about a call someone once made. A teenage girl was involved. It was an anonymous report, and a social worker got sent all the way out here. I think they talked about foster care, but that didn’t seem ideal—move a kid off-island, and in the winter months when the ferry doesn’t run, there couldn’t even be supervised visits or whatever.”

  Julie nodded, keeping an eye out for Depot.

  Ellie’s face turned grim and shadowed. “So you know what happened?”

  Julie shook her head.

  “The Hempsteads volunteered to let the kid stay with them. No official foster parent certification through the state, wealth and resources speed paperwork along every time. The girl stayed at the mansion for a few months, then went back home, where everything started up again only worse because she’d talked.” Ellie started backing away. “And that is what happens when you try to get outside help on Mercy Island.”

  Depot came bounding up from the beach, and Julie tugged him forward, shaking her head. “It’s like the grandmother’s a queen.”

  “She is,” Ellie replied tartly. “This is a small fiefdom, but the Hempsteads rule over it like feudal lords, and Mrs. Hempstead holds the real power of the clan. They’re the wealthiest family on-island, and they’ve kept those riches here on Mercy. Peasants never realize how short their end of the stick is, do they?”

  “Well, not until there’s a revolution,” Julie replied. She was glad to see Ellie smile. “Did the grandmother hurt Peter’s father? Did she kill him, or have him killed?”

  “Whoa. Where did that come from?” Ellie’s mirth faded, a light winking out. “You really do think your life is a movie.”

  It was Ellie who’d proposed the idea, but Julie merely said, “Is that a yes or no?”

  Ellie spoke in a lilting manner. “Murder’s a bit crude for Grandmama. She doesn’t need to resort to such unpleasantries. Why would she stoop to dirty business, break any laws, when she can drive everyone to do what she wants of their own accord?”

  “She drove Peter’s father to his death? How?”

  Ellie came to a stop in the dark. “Look, all I know is that during the last several seasons, Walter Meyers was bringing in less lobster. Then for a while, the market turned ugly—there was a collective on the mainland artificially deflating the price. Walter began having trouble keeping him and Martha and Peter afloat—pun intended—let alone carrying the grandmother and the Captain and their estate.”

  The sold-off heirlooms the grandmother had mentioned.

  “A couple of times, when I was with Martha, I overheard the old woman hounding her son-in-law,” Ellie went on. “Like, hard. What was wrong with him, was he going dotty like the Captain, he’d be a dub before long.” Ellie’s tone turned shrill and commanding. “Get on the water, spend longer days out, don’t take any time off.”

  Julie cringed.

  Ellie’s voice returned to normal. “There’re only so many traps a fisherman’s allowed to drop, of course, but Walter had a great nose and the thought that he was losing it—even though there are always good years and bad, the sea is an uneven giver—made him susceptible to his mother-in-law’s demands. Old Lady Hempstead knows where a person is weakest—and that’s where she presses. She’ll do it till you crack.”

  A person’s weak spots. All compiled in a ledger.

  “Walter wanted his streak back,” Ellie went on. “He started going out, day and night in all sorts of weather. That much time at sea—a man is bound to get unlucky.”

  Nothing had actually been done. Nothing had to be done. The people did it to themselves. Because everyone had a weakness, a failing, a life loss, a need—or even just a moment when they were down. And with her ever-watchful eye, the grandmother ferreted each one out to make use of at the perfect, soul-digging, appropriate time.

  Ellie watched as Julie accepted the truth, the weight of what she’d said.

  “Come on,” she told her. “Let’s go home. It’s getting cold.” Ellie extended a hand toward Depot, who trotted over to Julie as they all walked back to the cottage.

  Julie decided to spend the night at Ellie’s. She didn’t know how she’d ever let her friend stay alone again. Maybe they should become roommates. Live at the cottage together, let Peter return to his childhood home with his mother.

  They fell into Ellie’s bed, and as sleep surged toward both of them, Ellie mumbled that it was the first night she hadn’t ended with wine since her mother had died. Julie offered up sleepy congratulations, mentally notching another square on her own calendar. She woke in the middle of the night, disturbed by Depot, whose throat thrummed as if it had a motor in it. He pulled Julie’s shirt with his teeth, tugging her out of bed.

  “What’s the matter, Deep?” Julie asked, sleep-soft and slurry, trying not to wake Ellie. She had the feeling that Depot had been trying to rouse her for some time. The emotional upheavals of the day had knocked her out better than Trask’s prescription.

  A bulbous moon had risen in the sky, visible through the windows. But though Julie looked in every room of the cozy cottage, and around outside besides, she found nobody there, certainly not a tall, slight boy, putting together the pieces of another diabolical plan. Julie slid back into the bed as quietly as possible while Depot wedged his big body into the last slice of space in the room.

  Ellie rolled over and began to mutter, gibberish at first, that slowly got clearer. “He molested me, you know.”

  “Who did?” Julie whispered.

  “Donald. The dub.” Ellie spoke in staccato stops and starts. “Guy my mother followed here. That isn’t why she ended it, though.” A short, sharp laugh that caused Depot to whine from the floor. “I think she would’ve stayed with Donald. Let him hang around this house forever, even when she was at work. If only he brought in a good haul.”

  Ellie fell asleep then as if she’d been pushed, and didn’t utter another word all night, while Julie lay awake beside her for a long, long time.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  “It was you, right?” Julie asked when glaring sunlight finally bestirred both her and Ellie the next day and they meandered into the kitchen. “Who called social services?”

  Ellie busied herself with the coffee pot. “Mrs. Hempstead worked me harder while I was living there than she ever did my mom. Fucking Cinderella, that was me. Mrs. Hempstead came off better than Donald and his wandering hands, but only just.”

  Gift for services rendered, it had said in the ledger. But the grandmother had bills she couldn’t possibly pay. She’d traumatized a young girl, all but enslaved her.

  “And the Captain was worse than useless,” Ellie added, getting down two mugs and taki
ng out milk from the fridge. “He’s supposed to have been a bro, a hero, a driver of ships?” She dumped sugar into one of the mugs. “He turned a blind eye to everything except his traps, and getting his damn biscuits at night.”

  She slid a cup across the table toward Julie, and silence fell. Everything seemed to have been said. They hugged goodbye at the door and Julie headed home with Depot.

  Her gaze went to the doormat—a traumatic recapitulation—as soon as they emerged from the woods. Julie could see something lying on it all the way from here.

  “Damn.” She spoke out loud. “What is it this time, Peter?” She glanced down at Depot, but the dog trudged along beside her, tired but apparently unbothered.

  Julie climbed the porch steps, leaning down and squinting at a bundle of sea oats and grasses, stems tied with a rough strip of twine. A note tucked under the twine read:

  Hope you’re not sick of lobster yet. Meet me after lunch for another dip in the barrel? Cal

  It was almost lunchtime already; she and Ellie had slept late. Julie had trouble taking the time to put together a sandwich, shower, change, and open a can of food for Depot, all the ordinary, mundane tasks that stood between now and the utterly not mundane get-together with Callum. She hurried Depot out of the house again without offering him a second serving. By the time they left the woods, the dog was exhausted, shambling along, his tail hanging so low, it glittered with sand. It came back to Julie, dreamlike and wavery, how much of last night Depot must have spent awake, standing guard by her side.

  He could sleep on Callum’s boat.

  But as they neared the library, Julie’s phone blew up with texts and voicemails and calls. The person trying to get in touch with her was Tim.

  * * *

  In his final message, Tim had said that he’d wanted to tell her in person, or at least its digital equivalent, rather than leave it on voicemail, but in case they didn’t get a chance to connect, he thought she should know.