by Erica Boyce
“No, I don’t!” Her mom would not be distracted. “I want you to keep the ring I put on your finger when we said our vows, just like I kept mine.”
“We need the money, Di,” he said even more gently. “If they’d offered more than fifty bucks, I would’ve sold it.”
“No, we don’t. We fucking don’t!” She was screaming then. It echoed around his silence, which stretched out to a whole minute, maybe longer. And then, the front door swished open and thudded shut.
Ella had lain there in the dark, counting her breaths. Had she eaten too much at dinner? Did she ask for too much for her birthday? She knew they weren’t rich—all the rich kids in town went to the private school ten miles away. Haley Buford, whose dad owned half the grocery stores in the state, had transferred there that fall, and she wouldn’t shut up about it before she left. Apparently, they had horseback riding lessons instead of gym.
She thought they were doing okay, though. Everyone said her dad was the best fisherman in town, and her mom had a good job working for the state that required her parents to go to lots of fancy parties and dinners. They’d even gone to Disney World the year before over Christmas break.
Something must’ve changed. Her dad must be in some kind of trouble, selling his wedding ring like that. He kept it on a chain around his neck, and he always touched that spot under his shirt collar absentmindedly when he stood at the wheel of the boat. She knew he wouldn’t sell it unless he really needed to. He was in trouble, and her mom refused to help.
Or maybe her mom’s screaming was too much for him, the final straw in something Ella hadn’t even noticed. Maybe he’d left her, both of them. According to Becca Larson, that was what happened to Max Dercelli’s dad. Max would never admit it, though. He just acted really angry all the time.
Either way, she knew she had to find him. Her dad was out there somewhere, and she had to get him to come home.
Chapter Nine
Maureen held her breath as she rang the Staybrooks’ doorbell. She could tell from the hard set of Lacey’s shoulders that she was holding hers, too. The fog and rain clouds had cleared overnight, and every corner of Diane’s porch shone in the aching sunlight. Maureen wondered for perhaps the thousandth time that fall how the weather could be so beautiful when everything else was going to shit.
When the door finally opened, Diane looked lost, her eyes glossy and distant. Her hair was tangled and pushed up on one side.
“Oh. Hello,” she said.
“Di, we heard about John last night. We’re so sorry.” Maureen resisted the urge to gather her into a hug. Perhaps it wouldn’t be welcome. “We just wanted to stop by and see if there was anything we could do.” She turned to Lacey, who wouldn’t look up from her feet. They should’ve brought a casserole or something. Wasn’t that what you were supposed to do for the bereaved? Wasn’t that her job, to cook for the people who needed it?
Diane opened the door wider and stepped back. The two of them crowded into the entryway, shoulders jostling. Diane stared at Lacey for a moment before her eyes flicked to her pocketbook, hanging on a hook behind Lacey’s head. Maureen felt the shame grow in her chest. She kept her own wallet in a locked drawer of the table in their front hall now. A woman in her support group had advised it, “for her own good.”
Diane rubbed her forehead, and it looked so oddly childlike. “Ella’s shut herself in her room and won’t come out. She’s refusing to talk to me. She…she thinks it’s my fault somehow. Could you maybe see if she’ll let you in?” She looked up at Lacey.
Lacey turned to Maureen, who shrugged just the tiniest bit. “Sure,” she said and slipped up the stairs to Ella’s room.
Maureen tugged on the zipper pull of her jacket, the metal teeth buzzing loudly in the silence.
“Would you like some coffee?” Diane asked. “I was just about to make a cup.”
Maureen nodded and followed her into the kitchen. They had one of those single-serving coffee machines, so there wasn’t even anything she could offer to help with as Diane moved around the kitchen. Maureen sat at the counter and braced her hands against it, counting the spots in the granite between her fingers. This was not what she’d planned. She wanted to swoop in and help her friend when she most wanted it, not sit here and let Diane serve her. Diane slid a mug toward her as she perched on a stool with her own. Maureen took a sip. Diane had used one of the strong pods and left it black, just like she liked it. She smiled a little, but Diane busied herself with folding a napkin into her lap.
“You know it’s not your fault, right?” Maureen almost whispered. “Ella’s upset, and kids say some pretty crazy things when they’re upset.” She could’ve come up with any number of examples of frenzied, hurtful things Lacey had said over the years—that they’d said to each other—and later apologized for. She bit her lip.
“I guess you’re right,” Diane said. She dropped the napkin and didn’t seem to notice when it fell on the floor. “John and I had a fight.” She gripped her mug and glanced at the door. “The night before he…left. I think Ella heard us.”
“Oh.” Maureen faltered. “Well. All couples argue every once in a while, right?” she said, but really, what did she know about it? “I’m sure Ella understands that,” she added uncertainly.
Diane shook her head. “I was angry with him. So angry. I think I may have even yelled at him. He walked out to get some air,” she continued, trancelike. “He didn’t come back until I was asleep. I can’t stop thinking about it, how it was the last—” She pressed her fingertips to her mouth as if to pinch the words back.
“Oh, honey.” Maureen hopped off her stool and pulled Diane into a hug. Diane did not cry—she never did—but she did lay her head on Maureen’s shoulder. They stayed that way for a moment, Diane’s sharp chin digging into her neck. And then Diane moved away, bending to retrieve her napkin.
“If you ever need any help with Ella,” Maureen said to the back of her head, “I’m your girl. It’s tough to raise a kid on your own, and God knows, I’ve learned some lessons along the way,” she continued, realizing too late that she’d lost any claims to authority on how to bring your child into functioning adulthood. For a second, she wanted to cry.
The faint smile vanished from Diane’s face. “Thanks,” she said. She took the handles of the two nearly full mugs into one hand. “I hate to be rude, but you might want to get on your way. Folks will probably be coming in and out of here all day to check on us, and I really don’t want to overwhelm Ella with too many people in the house at once.” She dumped the coffee into the sink. The drain gurgled.
“Sure. Okay.” Maureen pulled a stray thread from her T-shirt, stalling. “You’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do? Maybe I’ll drop by later this week with some food. We’ve always got leftovers after events.”
“Whatever you want.” Diane began to yank clean dishes out of the drying rack next to the sink and wash them again, her elbow jerking in and out while she scrubbed. She glanced over her shoulder at Maureen.
Maureen opened her mouth, then closed it. There was nothing more she could say. Their friendship had already faded. This wasn’t going to revive it. Maureen walked to the door. She paused at the base of the steps and listened to the quiet murmur of her daughter’s voice through Ella’s door, interrupted by the younger girl’s laughter. She shot Lacey a text saying she was heading home and to let her know as soon as she left the Staybrooks’, and then she was out the door and gone again.
* * *
She’d met John first. This was eight years ago. At the time, Maureen and Lacey had been in Devil’s Purse for only a year, and Lacey had already accumulated a pool of bubbly, shrieking friends. She’d recently decided she wanted to volunteer at the local animal shelter after school—“All those dogs and cats without a home, Mom,” she said, her eyes shining dangerously. “Can you even imagine?” So every Wednesday, Maureen dropped her off at t
he dank, gray building before parking in a deserted beach parking lot to plan her menus with only the restless green waves and the piping plovers to distract her.
One day, she had walked into the shelter at the end of Lacey’s shift and heard her daughter’s rapid-fire chatter coming from the cat room. She assumed one of Lacey’s friends had stopped by until she peeked in the window on the door. There her daughter crouched, holding a very disgruntled-looking tabby up to a pink-and-purple stroller. One pale, chubby forearm extended past the lip of the stroller to poke the cat, which eyed the arm warily. Lacey smiled and demonstrated the proper petting technique. “See? Nice and gentle,” she said.
Maureen opened the door.
“Oh, hi, Mom.” Lacey barely glanced up.
“You ready to go, honey?”
“In a minute. Just gotta finish helping Ella convince her dad she needs a pet.”
The baby burbled.
“Sorry about that. They’ve been shootin’ the shit for almost twenty minutes now.”
She turned to see a man standing up against the wall of cages, idly poking a finger through the bars at a rangy calico that was in no way interested in being touched.
“John Staybrook.”
“Maureen Carson.” She shook the hand he offered. It felt oddly formal in a room that smelled like kitty litter. “Looks like you’ve already met my daughter, Lacey.”
“Oh yeah.” He smiled down at them. Lacey had taken Ella’s wrist between two fingers and was running her tiny palm slowly over the cat’s back. Ella’s mouth had fallen open, and she was breathing loudly in concentration.
“She’s great with the little ones,” he said.
Maureen nodded knowingly, though it was news to her. As far as she knew, Lacey still was a little one.
“You got another one at home or something?” he asked.
“Nope, just us two.”
She waited for him to say, “That’s too bad,” or to ask about her husband. But he said, “She ever think about babysitting?”
She could practically see Lacey’s ears perk up—she’d been begging Maureen for a bigger allowance—but Lacey kept her head bowed and pretended to stay focused on the baby.
“My wife, she’s looking to go back to work in the summer,” he continued. “Part-time from home for starters, but she could use some help with this one while she does. Like a mother’s helper type thing, you know? Is that what they call it?” He chucked his chin toward Ella, who was now thrusting her cat-petting fingers directly into her mouth. “If I’m honest, I think she kinda wishes she could just stay home with the baby,” he muttered, eyes glinting a little bit. “But no way can my boat support this one’s hungry little mouth, eh?” He chuckled.
“Um,” Maureen said. She wondered how his wife would feel about him sharing all this information with a near stranger. He raised his eyebrows expectantly. She wanted to demur. Lacey was too young. There was something about his eyes, though. They were so bright and familiar somehow. She was struck with the feeling that she could trust him completely. And Maureen had always been one to listen to her gut. Besides, it wasn’t like Lacey would be left alone in the house with a baby. Hadn’t he said his wife would just be working in another room?
When she said she’d think about it, she saw Lacey do a quick little golf clap out of the corner of her eye. The relief on John’s face was profound. It occurred to her, too late, that his wife might be a difficult employer who’d already turned down a procession of mother’s helpers. As she gave him her number, part of her hoped he’d forget who she was by the time summer rolled around.
He didn’t. That June, she stood on the Staybrooks’ porch for the first time, Lacey at her side. She was going to meet with John’s wife that day while their daughters played for a bit, just to make sure everything went okay.
“Maybe I’ll even make enough to buy a 32-gig,” Lacey was saying. “Sarah told me she can fit thousands of songs on hers. Thousands!”
“You know you’re actually going to have to work before this family gives you any money, right?” Maureen said as she rang the doorbell.
“Psh, I’m not worried about that.” Lacey waved her hand. “Ella and I are simpatico.”
Before Maureen could ask her where the hell she’d learned that word, the door opened, and she had to bite the inside of her cheek, hard. In a flash, she knew why she’d recognized John. He’d been a guest at one of the weddings Maureen had worked at. She’d seen him swaying a woman on the dance floor that night, her lips at his ear, her face unpinched. The woman was a little uptight and had asked Maureen if the crabmeat in the sushi rolls was real or imitation. The woman was, obviously, his wife. Standing before Maureen now in leggings and an oversized pullover.
“You must be Maureen and Lacey.” She scanned Lacey from top to bottom. Maureen held on to her daughter’s shoulder. “I’m Diane. Come on in. I told John I didn’t really need help and would just work while Ella napped,” she said as she led them through the house and into the living room, “but he insisted. He wanted to be here to say hi to you both, but the weather was so good today, he had to go catch some scallops. Didn’t he?” she said to Ella, sitting on the floor amid the wreckage of a block tower city.
Ella held her arms up toward Diane, and Diane obliged, hoisting her onto one hip. Ella pressed her palms to her mother’s cheeks, and Diane tilted her head so their foreheads touched, puckering her lips into an exaggerated, fishy pout.
Lacey shifted from one foot to the other. Ella saw her and squealed, smacking her hands together. Diane put her down, and she toddled unsteadily over to Lacey, planting her face between Lacey’s knees.
“Wow. Your daughter must’ve made quite an impression on her at the animal shelter.” Diane smiled through closed lips as Lacey crouched down and began clapping along with Ella. “We decided not to get a cat after all. Too much work,” she explained to Lacey, who nodded without looking up. “Shall we go drink some tea while they play?”
“Sure,” Maureen said, glancing at Lacey and following Diane into the kitchen.
“So are you guys new in town? I don’t think I’ve seen you around before,” Diane said. She filled a mug with the kettle standing ready on the stove and handed it to Maureen.
Maureen took a sip and held back a grimace. Instant tea. And lukewarm, no less. Maybe Diane didn’t have her shit quite as together as it looked.
“Sort of.” She pushed the mug to the edge of her placemat. She preferred coffee anyway. “I work at a catering company, so that keeps me pretty busy. We’ve seen our next-door neighbors I think once or twice? I don’t think they were too psyched to have a single mom and a preteen move in next door. They give me the stink eye through their curtains every time I come home late from an event, like I missed my curfew.”
Diane put down her mug and laughed, one hand on her chest. “Oh, that’s just Devil’s Purse,” she said. She sat down at the counter. “It takes them a while to warm up to outsiders. When I married John, I swear I caught the mother of his ex-girlfriend stalling outside our front gate at least three times. She thought he’d made a terrible mistake. Mind you, he hasn’t seen the girl since high school, and she got out of town and is living her own life God knows where.” She laughed again, and damned if it didn’t sound a bit like a whinny.
Maureen couldn’t help but laugh along, letting loose a full-on snort. Soon, there were tears in both their eyes.
Diane sighed and sipped her tea. “Well, don’t worry. They’ll warm up soon enough.”
When John came home that night, Maureen was still there, making a sauce out of butter, an onion, and a dented can of tomatoes she’d found in the back of their cupboards. “Ladies,” he said as he sat down to drag his boots off, smiling like he was trying to catch up with whatever they were giggling at.
“Hi, honey.” Diane leaned down to peck him on the cheek. “Maureen and Lacey are having dinn
er with us.”
It went on like that for years. Even after Lacey stopped babysitting, the two of them still met up for drinks every week in a bar twenty minutes away so they could safely gripe about Devil’s Purse natives. When Diane’s mother died, Maureen made the food for the wake and called her every month on the date of her passing. When Maureen decided to open her own catering company, Diane put a stack of Maureen’s business cards in her purse in case anyone in earshot mentioned planning a party.
And when Lacey got sick, Diane was there for her, too. At least at first. She held Maureen’s hand in the hospital while they waited for Lacey to wake up. Maureen could picture it so clearly, the glossy pink ovals of Diane’s nails against the pale, ragged burn scars crossing the backs of Maureen’s hands. Diane was the one who found the rehab facility, the only residential teen program within a fifty-mile radius, and she haggled on the phone with Maureen’s insurance provider over medical necessity.
Lacey’s caseworker had referred Maureen to a support network for parents of addicts, and once, one of the mothers invited her to their home. Maureen sat in an armchair in their living room, the leather sticking to her thighs, while the mother and her husband sipped coffee and shared pained glances. The mother started leaking tears when she talked about the nasty voicemail a neighbor had left accusing her son of stealing a package from their front steps. The woman had compressed the tissue in her hand into a tight pellet, and it left little white flakes on her face when she rubbed her nose. Her husband squeezed her knee and said, “In this part of the world, you can’t twist an ankle without everyone calling you to see how you’re doing.” He glared defiantly at Maureen; she couldn’t tell if he was looking for someone to take the blame for the injustice or if he was trying to commiserate. “But addiction is a whole other story.” His voice hiccupped a little. “They’ve decided it’s one of our faults, and we should be ashamed. Or get over it. Or give up on him.”
