This Is Home

by Lisa Duffy

  Or maybe it was Bent’s reaction last week when she passed him in the hallway and asked if he’d heard anything. The way he’d held her eyes, his lips parted, as though he wanted to tell her something.

  “What?” she asked. “Did you hear from him?”

  He paused. “Can I ask you a favor?”

  She nodded, waited.

  “Let John take care of John right now, and you take care of you.”

  He turned and walked away, but she heard him stop on the landing, as though he wanted to return and tell her more.

  She’s lost in this thought when Nate pulls her by the hand through the door and into the bowling alley.

  The lobby is full of kids—Quinn thinks there must be thirty or more. Madeline spares no expense when it comes to the twins—although Quinn knows this isn’t the birthday party Madeline envisioned.

  Madeline had wanted to rent out the aquarium in the city. She’d said this to the boys one night before Quinn left to go home, in a breathless voice, and they’d just stared at her.

  “We want it at the bowling alley,” Nick said. “Like Suzy’s.”

  Nate nodded.

  “Suzy?” Madeline asked, with a blank look.

  “A friend from preschool,” Quinn said. “She had her birthday party at Sully’s, down on the boardwalk.”

  Madeline wrinkled her nose. “Isn’t that a bar? Boys, wouldn’t you rather have the entire aquarium? Mommy will plan the whole party.”

  “The bowling alley is our favorite place,” Nate replied.

  “But there are sharks at the aquarium. You love sharks.”

  “They have popcorn at the bowling alley,” Nick said.

  “And games,” Nate added.

  Madeline had tried to change their minds and had finally given up. She’d called Sully’s and told them to take care of all of it—from gift bags to balloons to pizza and cake.

  She told Quinn later that she’d felt like a failure on the phone—she hadn’t even known the twins had ever been to Sully’s, never mind that it was their favorite place—and to make matters worse, Madeline had been multitasking at work when she called, and when the woman at Sully’s had asked for a name for the reservation, she’d blurted Dr. Madeline Lawson, like some uppity out-of-touch professional who barely had time for her kids, which is exactly how she felt, she told Quinn.

  “I could feel her judgment just radiating through the phone,” Madeline had said, visibly upset by the memory. “I apologized, but I could tell from her voice she wanted none of it. I mean, why is it that we can’t just cut each other some slack? I mean, people these days are just so easily offended.”

  Quinn had put on a sympathetic expression, but this was a common complaint from Madeline. She often wondered if Madeline excelled in her profession because most of her interactions were with petri dishes and test tubes—inanimate objects not so easily offended.

  The party took a turn for Madeline after that. It seemed to Quinn that Madeline wanted the entire event behind them.

  And now, ever since they arrived, Madeline hasn’t put away her travel-size bottle of hand sanitizer, squirting liquid onto the twins’ palms whenever they’re in arm’s reach.

  Quinn makes small talk with some of the moms, while the kids are led to a long table set with paper plates and cups, a bouquet of brightly colored balloons in the center.

  Madeline gestures wildly at Quinn from the other end of the table and Quinn politely excuses herself and makes her way over.

  “What am I supposed to do?” Madeline whispers.

  “Do?”

  “Yes, do!” Madeline cuts her eyes at Quinn. “I don’t know how to run this party!”

  “I think you should let her do it,” Quinn says, pointing to a girl wearing a T-shirt with PARTY LEADER printed on the back. The girl pours lemonade into cups on the table while the kids take their seats, and when she turns, Quinn realizes that it’s Libby. Quinn waves, smiles at her from the other end of the table.

  Can I help? Quinn mouths, not wanting to yell over the noise, and Libby points to the full pitcher of lemonade near Quinn and nods.

  She grabs a stack of cups, lines them up and fills them halfway. Madeline is hovering over her, wrinkling her nose.

  “That’s all sugar,” she tells Quinn.

  “No, it’s not,” Quinn lies. “That’s Libby, my upstairs neighbor. She’s a health freak. I bet it’s freshly squeezed.”

  “Really?”

  “Mm-hmm. Oh, look—the twins are sitting. You should take some pictures. Hurry before they get up.” Quinn gestures to a spot at the other end of the table. She turns her back to Madeline, shielding the pitcher, the sugar swirling and pooling at the bottom like a layer of white sand.

  She doesn’t want Libby to have to deal with Madeline—she’s probably making minimum wage—not nearly enough money to listen to one of Madeline’s lectures about the evils of refined sugar.

  Quinn leans against the wall while the kids eat pizza, then cake. She mingles with some of the mothers who’ve stayed for the party, dodging Madeline as best as she can.

  There’s a tightness in her back, and a sharp twinge in her pelvis that makes her catch her breath at one point, and she’s relieved when the kids pile out of the room and run to the bowling area.

  She follows them a minute later, walks over to where Desiree is standing behind a counter, handing out bowling shoes.

  “These are sanitized. Correct?” Madeline asks, and Desiree glares at her, lifts an eyebrow.

  Quinn takes the shoes from Desiree, hands them to Madeline, and quickly grabs the shoes Nick is holding.

  “Madeline—why don’t you help Nate before he has a meltdown. I’ll take care of Nick,” she blurts.

  Madeline wanders off in the direction Quinn points, into a sea of kids milling about. Quinn has no idea where Nate is, but Desiree is busy handing out shoes again, and Madeline is on the other side of the building, where Quinn hopes she stays.

  Nick tugs on the shoes she’s holding, and she hands them to him. “Sorry, bud,” she says, and he shrugs and plops on the floor, slips on the shoes, and carries his sneakers to a cubby on the far wall.

  Little big man is what she calls him when they are alone. She can’t help feeling protective of him—the quiet, confident, calm one in a house with Madeline and Nate, his opposites. Nate requires all of Madeline’s attention, and the two are so similar—so tightly wound—they create a certain friction in the house.

  Quinn notices it on Nick’s face every Monday morning. A weariness at having been left alone with his mother and brother for two days. Some mornings, it takes her all breakfast to get Nick smiling again. And the same amount of time to calm Nate.

  She should go over to where Madeline is sitting, offer to help, but she’s not technically on the clock today, and her back is suddenly throbbing. She makes her way to the restroom. The bathroom is empty, and she locks herself in one of the stalls and sits on the toilet.

  She’s reading the graffiti on the back of the door when she sees something out of the corner of her eye. She looks down, and it takes her a minute to process what she’s looking at.

  Her shorts and underwear are around her knees, and there’s blood.

  Not a small spot of it. Or a trace.

  But a bright red circle that’s soaked through her shorts.

   9

  Libby

  I’m cleaning up the birthday table, throwing plates and cups into a large trash barrel, keeping one eye on the bowling lanes to make sure no one needs anything when Desiree calls my name.

  She’s behind the bar, and she hands the phone to me, puts her hands on her hips.

  “For you. An emergency.” She eyes me suspiciously.

  I’ve never had anyone call me at Sully’s. I’m not even sure I knew there was a phone behind the bar.

  I put the receiver to my ear and say hello.

  “Can you come in the bathroom?” a woman says. “It’s Quinn. I have sort of a . . . problem.”
>
  I look over my shoulder to the hallway. “The bathroom here? At Sully’s?”

  Desiree is still standing next to me, listening over my shoulder, and now she huffs, makes a swipe to take the phone from me while I wave her off.

  “Yes, here. I’m on my cell phone. Just come quick. But please be quiet about it.”

  The phone goes dead, and I hand it back to Desiree, who slams the receiver down.

  “Someone’s calling you from the bathroom? This bathroom?”

  “Shh—she said to be quiet about it.”

  “Don’t shush me,” Desiree snaps, and stomps out from behind the bar.

  I follow her to the bathroom, which is empty. Desiree glares at me, as though I’m pulling some sort of prank.

  “Libby? Is that you?” Quinn calls out from a stall at the end of the row.

  I lean over, looking for feet, and find her in the last stall at the far end of the bathroom.

  “I’m here. And Desiree is with—”

  “Why are you calling from the bathroom?” Desiree interrupts, her voice loud in the empty room. “Are you stuck in there?”

  “Oh, hi, Desiree. God, this is embarrassing. I’m not stuck . . . I just . . . do either of you have a tampon and something I can wrap around my waist? A sweatshirt . . . or something.”

  “Hold on, I’ll get one,” Desiree says, and rolls her eyes at me before she walks out.

  “Sorry, Libby. This is embarrassing,” she says again from the other side of the door.

  “Don’t worry.” I shrug. “It happens to my friend every month. I downloaded an app on her phone that tells her exactly when she’s getting her period, and still, it catches her by surprise every time.”

  There’s silence in the room, just the drip from the faucet and the distant sound of bowling balls rolling down the lanes.

  From the other side of the door I hear what sounds like a laugh, but it’s followed by a sniffle, and I realize Quinn’s crying.

  Before I can ask her if she’s okay, Desiree walks in with a Sully’s takeout bag and hands it under the stall to Quinn.

  “Here’s a bunch of stuff. Clothes I had in the office. You can get it back to me whenever.”

  “Thank you, Desiree,” Quinn says, followed by a gulping sob, loud and unmistakable. Desiree freezes, screws up her face at me, and holds her hands up as a question. I shrug and return the look.

  Desiree leans in close to me. “What’s her name again?” she whispers in my ear.

  Quinn, I mouth to her.

  What? she mouths back.

  “Quinn,” I say out loud by accident, and my voice echoes in the room.

  “Yes?” Quinn chokes out from behind the door, and Desiree cuts her eyes at me.

  The lock on the stall door clicks, and Desiree and I move back.

  The door opens slowly, and Quinn fills the space, leans against the partition as if she’s not sure she’s ready to come out.

  Her face is pale and tearstained, a smudge of mascara beneath each eye. She’s changed into black leggings and a long T-shirt that I recognize as one of Sully’s, and she’s clutching the bag to her middle, her arms wrapped around it, curled over it almost, as though it’s keeping her upright.

  “Are you okay?” Desiree asks, even though she’s obviously not okay.

  The question makes Quinn’s face crumple, and she lowers her head, covers her eyes with her hand.

  “Well, that’s a stupid question—you’re crying, so you’re obviously not okay,” Desiree announces to no one in particular.

  Quinn sniffles and wipes her nose with her sleeve, but she doesn’t speak. Just breathes out, a ragged wet noise.

  Desiree sighs. “Okay, so here’s the thing. I really want to just leave you alone here—like, I really do—but I feel a sense of responsibility as the manager. We have kids out there, and one of them might be coming in here soon, and the last thing I need is for some mother to complain because there’s a woman bawling in the bathroom.”

  Desiree glances at me, and I can’t help the look on my face. She raises her hands in an I give up gesture.

  I step closer to Quinn. “What she means is—we can’t leave you here like this. I was serious before, it happens to my friend all the time. I mean, I know it’s embarrassing and all, but it’s really not that big of a deal.”

  “She’s right,” Desiree adds. “We’ve all been there. Periods suck. Fact.”

  Quinn looks up, shakes her head at us.

  “It’s not that.” Her voice is shaky, broken. “I think . . . it’s possible . . . that I, um . . . it might be the baby . . .”

  “The baby?” Desiree repeats.

  The bathroom door swings open, and a girl walks in. She’s about ten or eleven, most likely the older sister of one of the kids at the party.

  Desiree snaps her fingers at her. “You need to wait outside for a second. We’re in the middle of something here.”

  The girl pauses midstep and looks behind her, as though she’s not sure if Desiree is speaking to her.

  “Go!” Desiree barks, and the girl turns on her heels and rushes out, closing the door behind her.

  “You’re pregnant?” Desiree hisses, glancing behind her, as though she’s afraid someone might hear her.

  Quinn nods, stifling a sob. “The home test was positive, but I haven’t been to the doctor yet. And now . . . well . . . this.”

  “Are you in pain?” Desiree asks. “I mean, should I call an ambulance?”

  “NO!” Quinn stands up straighter, panicked, it seems. “Nobody knows—my boss is out there, and she can’t know.”

  “You need to go to the doctor,” Desiree says in a voice that leaves no room for negotiation.

  “I know—I’d just leave, but I came with my boss. I don’t have a car.”

  Desiree looks at me, then back at Quinn. “Libby can take my car and bring you to the hospital.”

  Quinn doesn’t respond, just chews on the corner of her thumb. “There’s a walk-in clinic—I’ve been there before, so they have my chart. If you can just drop me, that would be great.”

  Desiree nods. “Libby only has her learner’s permit, and she’s the worst driver ever, but it’s a straight shot up the street, so you should be okay.”

  Quinn glances at me and doesn’t move from her spot against the partition, as though now she’s weighing her options: stay in the bathroom, bleeding, or get in a car with me—the worst driver ever.

  “You can leave through the back door so you don’t have to walk through the party. Is your boss the clueless one? The doctor?” Desiree rolls her eyes.

  “Yes. Madeline. You must have been the one she spoke with on the phone. In her defense, she did feel bad about that,” Quinn tells her. “Sometimes she just says things without thinking.”

  “I don’t know anyone like that.” I slide my eyes over to Desiree, who shoves me.

  “Move. Do something useful. Go tell Madeline that Quinn is sick, and you’re taking her home. Meet us out back.”

  They shuffle out, leaving me alone, wondering how I got the job of delivering this news instead of Desiree. But I don’t want to make Quinn wait, so I hurry out of the bathroom.

  The bowling area is crowded, but it’s not hard to find Quinn’s boss. She’s standing behind the shoe rental desk, bent over at the waist, peering at the shelves.

  “There you are,” she says, straightening when she sees me. “Aren’t you the party leader person?”

  “Yes. Sorry. I was in the bathroom.”

  She flinches at this, and looks at my hands, as though searching for some clue that I’ve washed them properly.

  “I can’t seem to find any wipes. I assumed there would be containers at every lane, but there aren’t.”

  “Wipes?”

  “Cleansing wipes . . . for the bowling balls.”

  I pause. “I’m not sure what you mean. Like wipes specifically for the balls?”

  Her forehead wrinkles. “Cleansing wipes specifically for germs. The chi
ldren are touching the balls. The balls are rolling on the floor and the children are touching them again. They should be wiped down.”

  “That’s going to make them slippery,” I tell her.

  She tilts her head at me, as though she doesn’t understand.

  “Like . . . hard to hold.”

  “I know what slippery means,” she says, and we look at each other a moment before I decide Desiree can handle this.

  “You’re Madeline, right? Quinn told me to tell you that she’s not feeling well, so I’m driving her home. I’ll tell my manager you want to talk to her about the wipes.” I turn quickly, not giving her a chance to respond, and head toward the back door.

  I’d give anything to stick around for the conversation she’s going to have with Desiree. Doubtful Quinn’s boss will come out of it with all of her limbs attached.

  Outside, Desiree meets me at the back entrance. Behind her, the car is running, and Quinn sits in the front, staring blankly at the dashboard, a vacant look in her eyes. Desiree grabs my arm and stands in front of me, blocking my view of the car.

  “Don’t get caught up in this,” Desiree warns. “Drop her and get out.”

  “I’m not going to just leave her there. She’s really upset.”

  “Tell her to call her husband. She’s wearing a wedding ring. I mean, it’s his kid.”

  “Haven’t you noticed he isn’t around? She’s been living downstairs for like . . . a couple of weeks.”

  “I don’t hang around the house all day like you. So, no, I haven’t noticed. And husband or no husband, there’s a daddy somewhere—i.e., not your problem. Let him handle it.”

  “Bent said he’s missing. He’s some army guy Bent served with. I guess he’s helping out while this guy’s gone.”

  “If it was up to your father, we’d have vagrants living with us. The more someone needs saving, the more your father comes to the rescue. Just look at your mother—” Desiree stops midsentence and looks at the ground, clears her throat.

  “Take the car home. I’ll have Lucy pick me up.” She opens the door and disappears inside.

  I hurry to the driver’s side and get in. Quinn is quiet while I buckle my seat belt. The air-conditioning blows lukewarm air at us. Quinn’s forehead is slick with sweat, but she doesn’t complain, just glances over at me, a worried look on her face.