by Laura Wiess
She’s not hearing me. I try again. “But, Mom—”
“So if you want to change your clothes you’d better hurry, because Grandma and Grandpa will be here soon. You know they like to get their shopping done before noon, when the store gets crowded.”
“I said I don’t want to—”
“Rowan, please,” she says, putting a hand to her forehead as if I’m giving her a giant headache. “Stop arguing and just do it, will you? I’m really not up to this today.”
“Oh, but I’m supposed to be?” I snap, and, whirling, take off up the stairs to my room. “God.” I slam the door, rip off my shorts, yank on a better pair, then grab my mascara and the makeup mirror. “You’re gonna have to go back out in public sometime, you know!” I yell, and, hand shaking, attack my eyelashes. “It’s hard for me, too! If I wanted to see people I’d just go back to work!” Swipe, swipe, swipe with the wand. There. Next eye. “This is the last time I’m doing it!”
Silence.
“Great,” I mutter, finishing and jamming the wand back into the mascara.
I hate going grocery shopping with my grandparents, the two kindest, nicest, slowest-moving people on earth. They stroll around the store like it’s a day in the park and they always run into people they know and have to stop and talk—
“They’re here,” my mother calls up the stairs. “Rowan?”
“I heard you,” I yell, and stomp back down the stairs, grab the list, the money and my cell phone, and without even saying good-bye, slam the porch door behind me and barrel down the steps to my grandparents’ car. “Okay, let’s go,” I say abruptly, slipping into the backseat and folding my arms across my chest.
“Isn’t your mother coming out?” my grandfather asks, eyeing me in the rearview mirror. “Ben and Jerry’s ice cream is on sale and I wanted to ask her if—”
“Don’t worry about it, Grandpa,” I say, staring out my window and avoiding his concerned gaze. “She’s in a mood again, so I guess we just have to do what she wants and deal with it. Like always.” The harsh words ring in the surprised silence and I immediately wish I hadn’t involved my grandparents. “Whatever,” I add with an irritated, end-it-now wave. “Let’s just go.”
“Drive, honey,” my grandmother murmurs to my grandfather, and as he puts the car in reverse and creeps back down the driveway, she says chidingly, “Now, Rowan.”
“Well, come on, you know it’s true,” I mutter, but am starting to lose steam because there’s something very little-kid comforting about sitting in the back of my grandparents’ pristine old boat of a Buick station wagon with the corded blue seat covers protecting the seats, the windows up and the air-conditioning on, shutting out the rush of the world. Even their music is from the past and one of my grandmother’s favorites—Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World”—is playing softly on the CD player. It’s the same today as it was a year ago and the year before that, except that my grandpa’s hair is thinner and grayer, and my grandma’s slower, sweeter, and has new glasses.
“We don’t mind helping out,” my grandfather says, pulling out onto the road and heading toward the grocery store on the other side of the overpass. “Gives us old-timers something to do.” He smiles at me in the rearview mirror and for a moment I could almost believe that nothing has changed and everything is fine, if it wasn’t for the sadness in his eyes. “And besides, that’s what family is for, Rowan. You need us and we’ll be there.” His voice roughens, and my grandmother glances at him and pats his arm.
“I was thinking about making chicken paprikás with nokedli for tomorrow,” she says, and then, over the embarrassing sound of my stomach growling in eager response, says, “So, tell me, Rowan. Is your mother planning on going back to work soon?”
I know what she’s doing, changing the subject to smooth over any lingering friction, and I’m willing to let it happen. “Not that I know of,” I say, gazing out the window as the field gives way to scrubby woods and, finally, the grocery store.
Eli lives somewhere farther up this road.
I wonder how he is.
Probably going out with somebody else by now.
Somebody normal. Happy.
Whole.
“She has to go back to work soon,” my grandfather says, signaling to turn into the grocery store parking lot. “Her leave of absence won’t last forever. They’ve been good, giving her this long. She can’t lose her job.”
“I know,” I say absently, scanning the half-empty parking lot for anyone I recognize. Nobody. I shrug, telling myself I’m not disappointed, grab the grocery list, and wedge my phone in my pocket. “You should ask her. We don’t really talk about it.”
“It’s such a shame. She’s worked so hard to get this far and now . . .” My grandmother points to an empty parking space up near the front of the store and my grandfather heads in that direction. “Nicky, Nicky, what were you thinking? One decision changes everything, doesn’t it? Nothing is left untouched.” She sighs, pulls a small bottle of lotion from her purse and commences rubbing it over her hands. “Hmm. Maybe I should make kolaches too. Your mother likes them.”
She goes on to debate the poppy seed–versus–walnut roll dilemma and I fade out for a moment, caught in the question my grandmother asked my father. “Hey, Gran, do you talk to Daddy a lot?” I ask, leaning forward as my grandfather maneuvers the station wagon into the parking spot.
“Of course,” she says matter-of-factly, putting the lotion back in her purse.
“What do you say?” I ask, unbuckling my seat belt.
“Well”—she takes her coupon wallet from her purse and tugs the zipper closed—“mostly I tell him that we love him and miss him, that he shouldn’t worry about you and your mother because we’re watching out for you both—”
“Okay, that’s enough,” I say, leaning back and fumbling for the door handle.
“—and that it’s all right, he should rest in peace now because we forgive him.”
“Wait,” I say, pausing with my fingers wrapped tight around the door handle. “Who’s we?”
“Well, all of us,” she says as if surprised.
A surge of heat rips through me. I thrust open the car door and scramble out. Slam it too hard and stand in the baking parking lot, caught in a flood of anger. “You can forgive him if you want to but don’t speak for me, okay?” I say without looking at her when she climbs out of the car. “I can do it myself.”
“Hey, watch your tone!” my grandfather says, giving me a sharp, astonished look from over the roof of the car. “You’re not talking to one of your friends, you know. That’s your grandmother.” He steps back, carefully shuts and locks the car door. “Have a little respect.”
The anger dies and I stare at him, dumbstruck. My grandfather never yells at me and for a moment it’s like the bottom has fallen out of the world all over again.
“Shh, it’s all right. I understand. She won’t do it again,” my grandmother says, and lays a soft, wrinkled hand on my arm. “Come on, let’s go shopping. The paprikás is going to take a while to cook.”
My grandmother takes my grandfather’s arm and together, leaning on each other, they start toward the store. I hesitate, wishing I was anyone but me, anywhere but here, wishing I could tell them there’s an emptiness in me that food will never fill . . . but instead I just surrender and trail after them.
Chapter 47
I grab a cart and follow them through the store, trying to find the stuff on my mother’s list, but my concentration sucks and all I can think about is the fact that they forgive my father.
Produce. Get lettuce.
Not that I want them to hate him or anything . . . but just forgiving him, like it’s nothing? How did that happen? What did she say? Well, we know you did a terrible thing, Nicky, and left a trail of shattered lives behind you that’ll never be healed . . . but we love you anyway, so let’s let bygones be bygones and we won’t hold it against you?
Deli. Get Swiss cheese, rolls and bar
rel pickles.
God, that makes it sound like they’re just giving in and accepting it. Like it isn’t something to mourn about or rage against anymore. Like saying I forgive you solves everything and now we can all move on. Do they really feel that way? Do they really think it’s that simple?
Get coffee. Filters. Sugar.
I don’t know but I’m not asking, especially now. Thinking about it has me teetering on the edge of some terrible, dark abyss and makes me feel wrong for not forgiving him, too.
Get Cup Noodles.
But how can I just forgive him? How can I—
“Rowan? Sweetheart, do you remember my friend Mrs. Thomas?”
I blink, startled, and return to find my grandmother and an elderly, chameleon-eyed woman stopped in the aisle and gazing expectantly at me.
“You met her at the wake,” my grandmother says, and there’s a warning in her eyes, in her careful, overly polite tone that at first I don’t understand.
And then I look at the woman, really see her, and I do understand . . .
I didn’t say anything to her at the wake, too floored to speak back then, but not now.
No, not now.
“I remember you,” I say in a flat voice, completely disregarding my grandmother’s warning and letting all the rage I feel fill my gaze. “You’re the one who told my mother that my father was going to rot in hell for all eternity because he shot himself and God would never forgive him.”
My grandmother gasps.
“Why, I . . . you don’t . . . I’m . . . ,” Mrs. Thomas babbles, turning red. “I’m sure you misunderstood—”
“No, I didn’t,” I say, holding her gaze, dimly aware that my grandfather has returned to his cart and my grandmother is talking to him in a low, urgent voice, but they’re peripheral. Only Mrs. Thomas is front and center. “You said the Catholic church shouldn’t have buried him, and you know what? Sooner or later somebody you love is going to die and—”
“Rowan!” My grandfather grabs my arm, and it’s only then I realize that I’m in Mrs. Thomas’s face now, and she’s backed up against the frozen-food case, staring in alarm.
“You’ll see,” I say coldly, letting him pull me away, and when we turn the corner I stumble to a stop, shaking, dizzy and sweating. My knees are weak, my heart racing, and I don’t know what to say, can’t even bear to look into my grandfather’s eyes.
“Give me your shopping list,” he says in a voice I’ve never heard before. “And the money.” He releases me and holds out his hand. “We’ll finish. You go wait in the car.”
“Wait, Grandpa, I . . . she . . .” But the words to explain won’t come and I give up, hand him the list and fumble the money from my pocket. He gives me the car keys and I turn, choking on the unspoken, walk straight out of the store to the car, unlock it and slide into a wall of heat, leaving the door open and slumping in the backseat. Rub my face, press my fingers to my pounding temples, stretching the skin so tight it aches . . .
Lash out and kick the back of the seat.
“It isn’t fair,” I say, and hang my head, letting my hair swing forward to shield my face, and close my burning eyes.
Nothing is fair anymore.
Nothing is left untouched.
The ripple effect.
“God, I hate that,” I mutter raggedly as my heart squeezes in my chest.
I hate it because it’s true, and I don’t want it to be.
I don’t want everything changed. I liked life the way it was.
I was happy the way it was.
A bead of sweat trickles down my forehead and plunks off the end of my nose onto my hand. Another follows.
It’s really hot in here.
I open my eyes and shove the damp hair back off of my face.
Gaze at the scuff mark on the front seat for a long moment, then lean forward and rub it off.
Shit.
I didn’t avenge us by going off on stupid Mrs. Thomas. Instead of just ignoring her and denying her the satisfaction of knowing she’d hurt us, I did the exact wrong thing: got up in her face, mortified my grandparents and gave the old bat something to really gossip about.
The old bat.
That was one of my father’s phrases.
My mouth tugs into a reluctant smile. “That’s just wrong, Dad.”
How many times did my mother snicker and tell him that nobody calls crabby senior ladies old bats anymore, and how many times did he just grin, glance pointedly at me and then say to her, “Hey, if it was good enough for my father then it’s good enough for me. Besides, it’s better than saying what I’m really thinking. Little pitchers have big ears, hon.”
And he was right again, because I was always listening, soaking up everything just like a big fat sponge, absorbing the rhythm and flow, the rights and wrongs of our lives without even consciously knowing it, watching how he and my mother treated each other, how they disagreed, laughed and loved. I absorbed it all, would wrap myself in the comforting feeling of being rooted in a life I understood and a place I belonged . . .
I made it the gospel of the Arenos, the way a happy life should be, and now I’m starving for that feeling every second of every day. I have no safe boundaries without it, no anchor to keep me from swamping, sinking or bobbing off, out of control. The strong, protective walls have fallen and there’s nothing to stop me from self-destructing now except me, and I don’t know if I can do it.
I don’t even know if I want to.
I wish I had a cigarette.
Sweating, I push myself back up in the seat and look around. “God, come on already,” I say, climbing out of the car and scowling at the front of the grocery store. No sign of my grandparents. I sigh, impatient, and glance around the rest of the mall, at the pizza place, Agway, the drugstore . . .
“Hey.” I shade my eyes, watching the short, sturdy girl with the brown hair tipped blond and the dark sunglasses come out of the pizza place, lean against the wall and light a cigarette. I can’t be positive but I’m almost sure it’s her.
Payton Well.
I bite my lip and glance back at the grocery store, then lock the car, pocket the key and take off across the parking lot.
Chapter 48
I jog halfway, sandals slapping against the steamy pavement, and then give up and slow to a walk, shade my eyes and squint in Payton’s direction.
She hasn’t moved, is still standing there against the wall smoking, her eyes hidden behind those sunglasses and her movements studiedly casual.
I cross the lane and step up onto the curb in front of her. “Um, Payton?”
She arches an eyebrow and takes a drag off her cigarette.
“You probably don’t remember me,” I say, feeling pretty stupid now. “I’m, uh, Rowan Areno. My father was—”
“Okay, yeah, you’re that cop’s daughter,” she says brusquely, and exhales a stream of sour, alcohol-scented smoke. “What’s up?”
“Well, I, uh . . .” What’s wrong with me? “You came to my father’s wake with Eli”—God, it feels so good to say his name again, and it must be obvious because she lifts her sunglasses and gives me a hard, assessing look—“and I just wanted to, uh, thank you.”
“Hey, no problem.” Her sunglasses go back down and her brittle laugh holds no humor. “That was all him, anyway. I was totally out of it. That whole time was nothing but a blur.” She shrugs and takes a drag off her cigarette. “Still is.”
“Oh.” This is not going the way I’d hoped. I wipe away the sweat trickling down the side of my face. “Well, uh, I’m really sorry about Sammy, and Corey, too.” I don’t know how she’s going to take that but Corey was more than just a murderer, he was her old boyfriend and her baby’s father, and I feel kind of sorry for him. Even my father said it was the worst depression he’d ever seen. “I wish . . .” I catch her stony expression, shake my head and look away. “I don’t know. I just wanted to tell you. I’m sorry to bother you.” I turn to leave.
“Hey,” she says grudg
ingly, and when I stop and look back she adds, “If you’re not doing anything, stop by tonight around seven. I’m on Bedford Street. It’s a brown cape with a big front porch.” She lowers her shades this time and gives me a speaking look. “You’ll know it when you see it.”
“Okay,” I say, taken by surprise. “Yeah, if I can I definitely will. Thanks.”
“Whatever,” she says as if she already knows I won’t show up, and, shrugging, drops her cigarette, steps on it, yanks open the door, and disappears into the pizza place.
And as I walk back across the parking lot, bemused, trying to figure out what just happened, where the hell Bedford Street is, what kind of story I can come up with to get out there tonight and why I even want to, I realize that for the first time in a long time my shoulders are back, my head is up and I’m thinking of something other than what’s happened.
I’m thinking I need a pair of dark sunglasses.
I veer off into the drugstore.
Chapter 49
I find a cheap but decent pair of shades and am at the counter paying for them when I hear a familiar burst of radio chatter. I go still for the instant it takes to remember that this is not my father in uniform, it’s Vinnie coming toward me.
“Eight oh two central, be advised the subject is in CVS,” he says, stopping in front of me. “Ten-four.”
“Vinnie!” I hand the cashier money and turn to him, beaming. “How have you been?”
“What’re you doing, Rowan?” Vinnie says, and he isn’t smiling.
“What do you mean?” I take the change she hands me, and my glasses.
“I mean your grandparents called headquarters bawling their brains out, saying you’d run away—”
My jaw drops. “What?” Without even thinking I step aside, letting the line progress. “Why would they think that?”
“Maybe because they got out to the car expecting to find you and it was all locked up and you weren’t there,” Vinnie says, giving me a stern look and herding me toward the door. “So they called your mom, thinking that maybe you were mad at them, and had walked home—”
