Live to Tell

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  “Okay, okay, but he doesn’t need me. Thanks to the Spitzer fiasco, plenty of people are going to go for the family values ticket.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  “Mom?”

  She looks up to see someone standing on the stairs leading from the house.

  For a split second, Marin isn’t sure whether it was even one of her own daughters’ voices, or which daughter it is. But only for a split second.

  “What’s wrong, Annie?”

  “You can’t believe how snotty Caroline is being.”

  I bet I can, Marin thinks wearily. No surprise. Caroline has always been spoiled. It’s her own fault, as well as Garvey’s.

  “What’s going on, Annie?”

  As she listens to the latest account of Caroline’s misdeeds, she finds herself wishing Garvey were here to handle it for a change.

  But the reality is, that wouldn’t necessarily help. Caroline is a true Daddy’s girl. And Annie—well, it’s not that Garvey is blatantly unfair to her.

  But he treats her differently. There’s no denying it.

  Perhaps the girls aren’t even aware of it, but Marin is.

  Would things be different, she often wonders, if Annie had been born under different circumstances? Would Garvey love her more? Treat her more fairly?

  Looking at her younger daughter, who looks so like Marin and nothing like a Quinn, Marin wishes he could find it in his heart to forgive her for something that isn’t her fault. Something she doesn’t even know she did.

  But she didn’t do anything. It’s not about what she did. It’s what she is.

  No.

  It’s about what she isn’t.

  The saving grace is that Annie herself doesn’t know the truth. They agreed never to tell her. What would be the point? It all worked out in the end, thanks to Garvey.

  Who can blame him for the way he indulges Caroline?

  Who can blame him for the flicker of regret Marin sees on his face every time he looks at Annie?

  Who, indeed?

  “I’ll take care of it,” Marin assures Annie, rising from the table and putting an arm around her youngest child’s shoulder.

  I’ll take care of you. No matter what.

  It’s a promise she made to Annie before she was even conceived—fiercely, fervently, perhaps suspecting the bitter disappointments that lay ahead.

  But Garvey didn’t, try as she might to warn him.

  He really believed everything was going to be okay.

  And wasn’t it, in the end?

  Didn’t he make it so?

  Garvey Quinn is nothing if not a good father. No one would argue that.

  Ryan had really been looking forward to seeing Ian today. They hung out at his house all afternoon, watching a movie in the home theater, playing tennis on the private court, swimming in the backyard pool, then soaking in the hot tub.

  Staying for dinner had seemed like a great idea when Ian’s mother invited him, but now Ryan isn’t so sure.

  “How are your parents, Ryan?” Ian’s mom asks, pretty much the second they all sit down at the big teak table on the patio.

  The way she says it—as if Mom and Dad are still a single unit—bothers him.

  “They’re good,” he replies, and cuts into the enormous slab of beef on his plate. Medium rare, just the way he likes it, served alongside grilled jumbo shrimp, baked potatoes with sour cream, corn on the cob…

  Heaven.

  “So your dad is living in the city now?”

  “Uh…no.” He puts the piece of steak into his mouth so she won’t expect him to elaborate. She’s the kind of mother who’s fussy about manners, and everyone knows it’s impolite to talk with your mouth full.

  “No? Where is he living?”

  Maybe he shouldn’t have talked Mom into letting him stay to eat. Not that he’d had to do as much begging as he’d expected. When he called, he could tell by the clattering pots and pans that Mom was in the kitchen, but she told him she wasn’t cooking—she was cleaning, obviously still caught up in her clutter-removal frenzy.

  Ryan wasn’t crazy about the idea of going home to be put to work. Besides, Mrs. Wasserman said they had plenty of steak and shrimp.

  That’s the kind of house Ian lives in, with both his parents and a little brother who never seems to bother anyone. A huge brick house in Glenhaven Crossing, one of the newer developments on the edge of town. A house where there’s steak and shrimp for dinner on a regular old night—extra steak and shrimp for unexpected guests like Ryan.

  But at least the Kraft macaroni and cheese Mom said she’d throw together for dinner back at home wouldn’t be served up with nosy questions.

  Ryan chews, swallows. “He’s living in White Plains.”

  “White Plains? Really? Hmm, did I know that?”

  Something tells Ryan she did.

  “Does he live all by himself, then?”

  “Yeah.” Who else would he be living with? Ryan wants to ask.

  But he’s afraid he knows the answer, and he definitely doesn’t want to get into all that. He hurriedly pops another piece of meat into his mouth.

  “Do you see him often?”

  Ryan chews helplessly. This time, Ian answers for him.

  “Ry was supposed to see him today, but his dad bailed.”

  “Bailed? What do you mean, bailed?”

  Thanks a lot, Ian.

  “It means he didn’t show up. Right, Ry?”

  Ryan shrugs, even though his mouth is no longer full. What is there to say to that, besides Shut up, Ian?

  That wouldn’t really be fair. After all, Ian’s right.

  Still, Ian doesn’t like to talk to his mother about his own life. Why does he have to talk to her about Ryan’s?

  “Do you mean something came up at the last minute?” Mrs. Wasserman addresses Ryan directly.

  “Janet, let him eat,” Mr. Wasserman protests.

  “He’s eating. We’re all eating. Ethan, that’s enough salt on the corn.” She grabs the shaker out of Ian’s brother’s hand. “I hope your father at least called to tell you he wasn’t coming, Ryan.”

  When someone asks you a question they have no business asking, it’s okay to lie, right?

  “Yeah,” Ryan tells Mrs. Wasserman. “He called.”

  He shoots a look at Ian, in case he feels like contradicting that.

  “He was probably too tired from his trip to hang with you today,” Ian comments.

  “What trip is that?”

  “My dad went to the beach for a few days.”

  “That’s nice. Where did he go?”

  “I’m not sure,” Ryan lies.

  “Was it Martha’s Vineyard?”

  So Mrs. Wasserman already knew that? Then why did she bother to ask?

  Probably because she knows Dad was away with his girlfriend.

  I bet the whole town knows. And I bet she was hoping I’d spill the dirt. As if.

  “I’m not sure,” Ryan reiterates.

  “Hmm.”

  At last, Mrs. Wasserman takes a bite of her own meal.

  Ryan breathes a silent sigh of relief. He’s known Ian’s mom since he was, like, five. He liked her well enough until last spring—specifically, until Mom and Dad separated.

  “I haven’t seen your mother all summer. Has she been away?”

  Ryan shakes his head, vigorously sawing at a hunk of beef.

  Mrs. Wasserman sits with her fork poised, waiting for him to say something more.

  He doesn’t.

  After a moment, she asks, “So she’s been here in town all summer?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “I wonder why I haven’t seen her.”

  “Janet,” Mr. Wasserman says.

  “Yes?”

  “Let him eat.”

  “I’m just making dinner conversation.”

  “It sounds like an interrogation.”

  “I’m concerned about Lauren. I haven’t seen her since the—” She breaks off.
<
br />   Funny that a person who has so much to say apparently doesn’t want to utter the word “separation.”

  “Why don’t you just give her a call if you want to know how she is?”

  Ian’s dad, whom Ryan has always considered a quiet, nerdy kind of guy, just became his new hero.

  “I’ll have to do that. Ryan, honey, I don’t mean to bother you. I’m just concerned. I know what it’s like. I came from a broken home, too.”

  Ethan looks up with interest. “How did your house break, Mommy?”

  “No, it didn’t break, it was…”

  “Broken,” Ian supplies, a mischievous gleam in his eye.

  “How?” Ethan persists.

  “It means my parents were divorced. Like Ryan’s. And I remember how very hard it was on me. Ryan, I want you to know that if you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here.”

  Yeah, sure. Ryan tries to imagine himself baring his soul to his new pal, Mrs. Wasserman.

  Uh, I don’t think so, dude.

  “I mean it, Ryan. If you ever feel like you want to confide in someone who’s been in your shoes…”

  “Thanks,” he murmurs.

  She looks pleased. “Good. Does anyone want some more shrimp?”

  Ryan shakes his head, having lost his appetite and wishing he was anywhere other than here—even back at his so-called broken home.

  When Garvey’s cell phone rings in the midst of a dicey cocktail hour conversation about campaign finance, he’s relieved.

  “I’m sorry, gentlemen, I’m expecting a call and this might be it.” He reaches into his pocket and checks the number.

  This is definitely it.

  He hurriedly excuses himself from the group of businessmen and ducks through the nearest archway leading out of the hotel ballroom.

  “Is it done?” he asks into the phone as he strides toward an isolated corner, keeping his voice low.

  “Yes.”

  “No mess this time, right? You made sure?”

  “No mess.”

  “And you have the file.”

  The telltale silence on the other end of the line answers the question—which wasn’t really a question, dammit, because it never occurred to him that they could possibly come this far and fail.

  It’s all Garvey can do not to cry out in sheer frustration and rage.

  But there are eyes on him, of course. Plenty of security at these dinners, and press, too—not to mention hundreds of people wanting to shake his hand.

  “I think I know where it is, though.”

  “You think?”

  “I—”

  “Perhaps we should discuss this in person,” he suggests into the phone, keeping his expression as neutral as if he were having a mundane chat with his wife or a campaign adviser.

  “Wouldn’t that be too risky?”

  “Hell, yes,” he mutters through clenched teeth. “But it’s riskier to let this drag on and on.”

  If you want something done right…

  But he doesn’t dare do this himself. All he can do is provide explicit instructions, and make it absolutely clear what’s at stake here.

  “Where do you want to meet?”

  “The usual place.”

  “And the usual time?”

  “Yes.”

  He hangs up without a good-bye, pastes a cheerful smile on his face, and makes his way back to the ballroom full of supporters.

  It’s been a year since Lauren bothered to open the secret cubby in the kitchen—which ostensibly means that anything stored inside can safely be tossed away.

  She’s been moving from closet to cupboard for a few hours now, doing her best to forget that Nick has yet to get in touch with her. Then again, maybe he’s called Ryan’s cell phone by now. Ryan’s still over at Ian’s, but any second now he should be calling for a ride. When he does, Lauren is sure, he’ll mention that his father called and is just fine.

  On her hands and knees, she empties the narrow space, which, like the hidden cupboard upstairs in Sadie’s closet, is concealed by a decorative panel and lacks a knob. The two shelves are mainly lined with a collection of old florist vases left over from the days when she had a husband who sent her flowers.

  The vases might have outlasted the husband—not to mention the flowers—but it’s definitely time to get rid of them, Lauren decides.

  Suddenly, Chauncey, asleep on the floor nearby, stirs to life. His ears prick up as if listening for something.

  Sure enough, Lauren hears footsteps on the driveway outside the open windows.

  Barking, the dog barrels toward the back door, prepared to either greet or attack the newcomer, as needed.

  “It’s okay, boy, shh,” Lauren tells him.

  She gets to her feet and turns to see a figure standing on the other side of the screen door. For a split second, relieved, she thinks it’s Nick.

  Then she remembers that Nick usually comes to the front now. She flips on the outdoor light. Ryan.

  “How did you get home?” She nudges Chauncey out of the way with her knee and unlatches the door.

  “I walked.”

  “All the way from Glenhaven Crossing? Why? I was going to pick you up!”

  Ryan shrugs and reaches for the handle.

  “Careful—don’t let anything in with you.” She eyes the moths flitting around the overhead bulb. “Why didn’t you call me for a ride?”

  “You know…’cause I knew you were busy.”

  “Ryan, it’s dark out and you’re twelve years old. You don’t go walking around town by yourself at night.”

  “I was fine.”

  “You were lucky. Remember what I told you—bad things happen everywhere, all the time.”

  Why does that phrase keep popping into her head?

  This time, it sparks renewed trepidation. She hasn’t heard from Nick yet.

  “Mom, I’m fine,” Ryan tells her.

  “Yes, and thank God for that.” Lauren can just imagine what Janet Wasserman thinks about a single mother who can’t be bothered to pick up her child. Then again… “I’m surprised Ian’s mother let you go off alone, Ry.”

  “Um, she didn’t really know. I just kind of…left.”

  “Did you have a fight with Ian or something?”

  “Nope. Can we not talk about this right now? You kind of sound like Mrs. Wasserman.”

  “Oh, God help me.”

  Ryan snorts.

  “Sorry. That just slipped out. Forget I said that. You know I like Ian’s mother a lot.”

  “Yeah, Mom, sure you do.”

  “I do,” Lauren protests—not very convincingly, it seems, because Ryan shakes his head.

  The boys have been friends since kindergarten, and Lauren was friendly enough with Janet Wasserman over the years, though never particularly close. Swapping playdates, chipping in for classmates’ birthday gifts, arranging rides to and from school activities…those were the kinds of things she was comfortable discussing with Janet.

  Not personal lives, though. Janet has long held a well-deserved reputation as a busybody. Harmless, but a busybody nonetheless.

  “Come on, Mom,” Ryan says, “she’s not your friend.”

  “No,” Lauren admits. “Not lately. Maybe I once would have considered her a friend, though.”

  “Why did you lose all your friends when you and Dad split up?”

  Startled by the question, she’s about to deny Ryan’s assumption. But why? He’s not blind, or stupid. He knows a circle of women no longer surrounds her—that Trilby is all she has left.

  “I’m not sure why, exactly, Ry. I guess when you go through hard times, you find out who your true friends are.”

  She watches him digest that and prays it’s not a lesson he’ll have to learn the hard way.

  “Do you want to make new friends?” he asks.

  “Sure. But it’s not easy.” Not wanting him to feel sorry for her, she changes the subject—sort of. “So did Mrs. Wasserman ask you a lot of questions?”


  “Pretty much.”

  “About what?”

  “You know…stuff.”

  “Me and Dad?”

  Ryan looks uncomfortable, and Lauren decides there’s no such thing as a harmless busybody.

  “What did she want to know?”

  “Everything.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Oh, Ry…” Lauren loops her arms around her son’s shoulders. He’s almost as tall as she is. Someday soon, he’ll be taller. But he’s still her little boy.

  Ryan was always so easygoing, so nurturing, so sweet. So…

  On my side.

  Not that he’s chosen sides in the divorce—they’ve been careful not to drag the kids into it. Of Lauren’s three children, though, it’s her son who has always made her feel like half of a two-man team that sticks together, win or lose. Always.

  Years ago, when Ryan was just a toddler, she stubbed her toe. She remembers hopping around in pain, trying not to curse in front of the kids. Ryan disappeared into the next room and came back with a box of SpongeBob Band-Aids and the boo-boo bunny ice pack from the freezer.

  “I fix you up, Mommy,” he said, and gently kissed her toe.

  She cried.

  She cried again when she repeated the story to Nick that night.

  “I feel like he thinks he has to be the little man of the house when you’re not home,” she told him. “Lucy, she’s in her own world. It’s not that she doesn’t care—it’s more that she doesn’t notice. But Ryan looks out for me.”

  “That’s good. When you’re old and decrepit, he can come take you out in your wheelchair to the early-bird special,” was Nick’s glib response.

  “Really? Where will you be?” she asked indignantly.

  “Dead and gone, I’m sure.”

  He was kidding around, but even at the time, she was sobered by the thought of being widowed, even in the far-off future. It was inconceivable that Nick might die and leave her alone one day—even though women statistically tend to outlive their husbands, and he was almost eight years older than Lauren in the first place.

  She didn’t like to think about it, though. They had a whole lifetime ahead of them.

  Till death do us part.