The Party

by Robyn Harding

  “I ran into Lisa outside the bank,” Debs had said, picking at her post-workout treat—a cinnamon bun with cream cheese frosting that would require at least five spin classes to burn off. “There was no way I could avoid her, so I asked how Ronni was.”

  Kim had tried for a blasé tone, but her voice came out strained. “What did she say?”

  “She said that Ronni is struggling. She’s in pain. She’s depressed.”

  “God, it’s so awful,” Sheila chimed in. Sheila was something of a bleeding heart.

  Debs continued, “We chatted about Ronni’s therapy for a bit, and then Lisa said, ‘Be thankful Morgan’s not friends with perfect little Hannah. She could end up maimed.’ ”

  Kim had winced but remained calm. A terrible tragedy had happened in her home; that much she would admit. But Jeff and Kim were not legally culpable. They were excellent parents. Their daughter was a good kid who had made a poor choice. Could the same really be said about Ronni?

  “Ronni’s always been a little big for her britches,” Debs offered, and even Sheila had to agree. Ronni had always seemed on the precipice of some kind of downfall: teen pregnancy, a drug problem, an eating disorder—what did one expect with the unconventional upbringing she’d had?

  “When the girls were little, Lisa and I used to chat over wine,” Kim volunteered, sipping her Americano misto. “She didn’t give me any specifics, but she alluded to all sorts of stuff in her past: drug problems, abusive relationships, an online-shopping addiction… . Lisa has so many issues that Ronni was destined to fall through the cracks, the poor thing.” Her companions had echoed the sentiment.

  But still, the party was a wake-up call for Kim. Despite her parenting manuals, classes, and seminars, somehow, she had dropped the motherhood ball. Her daughter was rebelling against something. Or nothing. Was her drinking simply a rite of passage? Or had Hannah picked up on the tension in her parents’ marriage? Had she somehow sensed Kim’s flirtation with adultery? When Kim thought about what could have happened had she and Tony not been intercepted by the world’s best fifth-grade teacher, she felt nauseated. Kim had to put that relationship, whatever it was, behind her. She would commit to her family with a renewed focus.

  Before her eyebrow-threading appointment, she called her sister, Corrine, mother of the drunken, pants-wetting nephew. If anyone would understand Hannah’s brush with alcohol it was Corrine. The sisters weren’t close, emotionally or geographically. Corrine had stayed in Oregon, a forty-minute drive from their parents’ home. She lived in a modest house with her second husband, a policeman. Corrine worked in administration at an old-folks’ home; she was into gardening and canning her own beans and writing angry letters to politicians about fracking. Kim had to admire her sister’s earnestness, though she didn’t quite get it.

  “It’s perfectly normal to experiment with drugs and alcohol,” Kim’s older sibling assured her. “It’s where you go from here that matters.”

  “I’ve been looking into wilderness leadership programs,” Kim said. “If we send Hannah away for the summer, she’ll develop self-reliance and self-esteem. She needs to realize how much potential she has and that it can’t be squandered with these kind of mistakes.”

  “She might view it as punishment, though. With Jeremy, we dialogued it out. There were a lot of tears and a lot of hugs … but his relationship with substances is really healthy now.”

  Trust Corrine to recommend hugs as a solution to teen drinking. A girl had lost her eye! But Corrine didn’t know this. Kim wasn’t about to admit the gravity of the situation to her free-spirit sister. “I just think that, if Hannah’s away for a while, some of these unhealthy friendships will fall away.”

  “We chose not to blame Jeremy’s friends. We wanted him to really look at his own motivations and actions.”

  “I should run. I have an appointment.”

  “Me, too. It’s zucchini-jam day.”

  Kim hung up, feeling irritated. Corrine often had this effect on her. Her sister was like an annoying bug that she wanted to swat away—a holier-than-thou mosquito or a sanctimonious wasp. She was always so content. Why? Corrine had grown up in the same shitty house, in the same shitty town that Kim had. Like Kim, Corrine had watched their father bounce from one blue-collar job to the next, until he was inevitably fired for sleeping off another hangover or sneaking out early for happy hour. And Corrine had been there when their mother started eating.

  It was just a few “treats” at first. Their mom would come home from her clerical job at a construction company with a box of ice cream and a pie. She’d hand the girls a chocolate bar as compensation, then take the desserts to her room and polish them off. By the time Kim had graduated high school, her mom had eaten her way past three hundred pounds. She couldn’t attend Kim’s graduation—her knees—but Kim didn’t want her there. She was embarrassed of her. When diabetes took her mom out at fifty-seven, Kim had experienced the appropriate sense of loss—but it was combined with a shameful feeling of relief.

  Kim had vowed she’d have a different kind of life. Her kids would want for nothing and they’d never be ashamed of their home or their parents. She’d worked hard to rise out of the muck, while Corrine seemed utterly complacent to wallow in it. Her sister’s life wasn’t that bad, but it wasn’t that great, either. She knew Corrine’s husband drank—what cop doesn’t, right?—and obviously her son had picked up his stepfather’s habit. And yet, Corrine was so happy. Despite her middling existence, she always made Kim feel inferior. It didn’t make sense.

  The doorbell distracted Kim from her musings. She moved to the door and opened it to a skinny, pierced, twentysomething with scraggly facial hair. “Kim Sanders?”

  “Yes?” The kid was too young and dirty to be a colleague of Jeff’s. And too old and druggie-looking to be a friend of Hannah’s. She hoped.

  The kid handed her an envelope. “You’ve been served.”

  She stood frozen as he jogged back to his late-nineties jalopy and drove off. When she’d collected herself, she tore open the envelope. “Jesus Christ,” she muttered, shutting the door and reaching for the phone. His voice mail picked up after three rings. “Jeff, it’s me.” Her voice was loud and shrill in the quiet house. She was grateful that the kids weren’t home—Aidan was playing soccer, and Hannah was at piano. “Lisa Monroe is suing us! We just got a summons… .” She scanned the letter, found the figure she was searching for. “She wants three million in damages. Three million!” Her voice cracked with emotion. She paused, tried to calm herself, but she was almost hoarse when she asked, “Where are you?” Jeff could have been in a meeting, he could have been with a client, but, more likely, he’d skipped out of work to go running. Or swimming. Or for a ride on his goddamned bike. As usual, her husband was sequestering himself in his training, avoiding his obligations, hiding from the people who needed him… . “Call me.” She hung up.

  Before she could talk herself out of it, she dialed the number. As she listened to it ring, she knew it was a bad idea. She should hang up. She should deal with the summons. She should call her friend, Lara, who was a lawyer—family law—but she’d be able to recommend someone to deal with this complaint. Lara would refer her to a shark, someone who would squash this childish and vindictive action in no uncertain terms. And then Kim could go get her eyebrows done. But Kim didn’t hang up. And when she heard his voice, she was flooded with comfort and relief.

  “Tony Hoyle.”

  “I need to see you.”

  THEY SAT IN his car, parked in a lot at Fort Mason. It could get busy here, tourists and locals drawn to the former army post for its galleries, food trucks, and spectacular views. But on a drizzly Wednesday in March, they had all the privacy they could want. Tony held her hand under the artifice of comfort, but even in her troubled state, she could feel the heat between them. “We don’t have that kind of money. Our homeowners’ insurance will pay only two hundred grand for personal injury. What is Lisa thinking?”

  �
��I guess she’s thinking that she’s got medical bills to pay. And her daughter’s going to need physical and emotional therapy. It’s going to add up.”

  “It’s not going to add up to three million,” Kim snapped, pulling her hand from his. “Lisa’s angry, and she wants to make someone pay.”

  Tony calmly reached for her hand again. “You’re right. She’s being vindictive.”

  Kim teared up. “We’ll have to sell the house … the cars … everything.”

  “It won’t come to that. Amanda’s worked a lot of these cases. They usually go through mediation or arbitration and end up settling.”

  For once, Kim didn’t feel an uncomfortable twinge at the sound of Amanda’s name. “Really? We could get a mediator to talk some sense into Lisa and we’ll end up paying a lot less?”

  “That’s usually how it plays out.”

  “I hope so. We’ve worked so hard for everything we have.” Even as she said it, it felt like a lie. Jeff had worked hard, of course, but since his technology strategy job at Fin-Tech was his raison d’être, it wasn’t exactly a sacrifice. And since he used it as a means to avoid intimate connections with his loved ones, it was hardly admirable. Kim had worked, too. After she left the ad agency, she had raised the kids, cooked, decorated the house, organized their social calendar … God, it sounded so meaningless.

  She was suddenly aware of Tony’s thumb rubbing over hers. It felt comforting, private, and somehow, sensual. She looked at him, and their eyes locked. He was already leaning toward her and she knew it was going to happen this time. Despite her earlier resolve, she felt almost powerless to stop it. Kim was going to cross that line, she was going to be unfaithful. It was just kissing, but in some ways, that was worse. It was more romantic and intimate, less base and instinctual than actual intercourse. She had always looked down on people who got caught screwing around on their spouses. Where was their self-control? They were weak and their moral compasses were askew. Kim had always held herself to a higher standard… .

  But with Tony’s mouth hot and wet on hers, the internal dialogue ceased and her higher standard dropped a few feet. She was in the moment, feeling not thinking for once. It was intense, passionate, exciting … and it was almost a relief. Sitting in a car, kissing a strange man was, more than anything, an escape. Desperate times, she thought, as her hand slipped down and unbuckled her seat belt, desperate times… .

  jeff

  ELEVEN DAYS AFTER

  Jeff watched the digital read out on the treadmill: 166. 167. 168… . At what point would his heart explode? He was in great shape, but he was closing in on fifty. And he was running like he was being chased by something big, something with fangs: a grizzly bear or a lion … or a money-grubbing bitch trying to profit off an accident.

  He’d been leaving a client meeting when he listened to Kim’s message. At first, he’d been stunned. He’d thought this whole mess was behind them when the police gave them the all clear. And now fucking Lisa was suing them for money they didn’t have. He’d never cared for Lisa. Even when the girls were little, practicing cartwheels on the lawn while Kim and Lisa supervised on rattan chairs with glasses of rosé, he’d thought she was a flake … but a harmless flake. Not so harmless now. Kim must be losing her mind. He should have called her back, he knew that, but he’d gone straight to the Bay Club. He needed to run it out.

  Then, suddenly, he wasn’t running anymore. His ankle turned or his knee gave out, he wasn’t even sure which. But he was falling, his feet scrambling across the moving surface like some cartoon fawn trying to ice-skate. It must have looked hilarious—he’d seen enough YouTube videos of people falling off treadmills to know it did—but it wasn’t funny. People died this way. Still, even as he went down, he felt like a fucking idiot.

  A young woman in a gym uniform hurried up to him. “Are you okay, sir?” Her concern was sincere, but he could tell she was stifling a giggle.

  “Fine.”

  “You’re bleeding.”

  He looked down at his shin. The skin had been rubbed off on the track, leaving his leg a raw, bloody mess.

  “It’s fine,” he snapped. He hobbled toward the changing room, listening for her laughter in his wake. He heard the girl cough, obviously covering up her mirth.

  When Jeff had showered and dressed, the leg still smarted, but he wasn’t about to limp. He walked out of the gym with confidence and purpose, even as the fabric of his dress pants brushed against his raw flesh. It hurt like hell, but he strode on. Hopefully, no one would recognize him as the clown who bit it on the treadmill.

  The girl, tiny and blond, was standing beside his car. He was almost upon her before he recognized her. What was her name again? “Hey, Jeff,” she said.

  “Hey.” Her presence confused and unnerved him. “Uh … Hannah’s not with me. She’s probably at home.”

  “I wanted to talk to you.” She indicated the car. “Can we sit?”

  He took a step toward the Tesla and its door handles obediently popped out. It was odd to invite this kid into his car, but it was even odder that she was there to see him. At a loss, he watched her move to the passenger side of the car and get in. He felt a swell of relief; he really didn’t want anyone to see them together. He hopped in and shut his door.

  “What’s going on”—Lauren. That was her name. He added it to the end of his question—“Lauren?”

  “I hear you’re being sued by Ronni’s mom.”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “My stepmom. She’s sort of friends with Lisa Monroe now.”

  Jeff let out a breath through his lips. “Yeah. Unfortunately, we are.”

  “My dad says that the lawyers might want to interview me. Like as a witness.”

  “Well, we’re a long way from that,” Jeff said, though he really had no idea if they were.

  “It must blow to get sued by your friend.”

  He had to chuckle. “It does.”

  A bug was splattered on the passenger side of the front windshield, something large and spindly: a crane fly maybe? Lauren reached out and touched the glass where the bug’s guts, yellow and red, smeared the other side of the pane. She scratched at it with her deep purple nails, like she’d be able to scrape the mess off from the inside. Was there something wrong with this kid? Was she high? Brain-damaged? Jeff waited. What the hell did this girl want?

  “What do you want, Lauren?”

  She looked up at him then. Her eyes were gray; her lids sparkled; her lashes were caked with navy-blue goop. When Hannah wore that much makeup, Kim sent her back to her room. But Lauren’s parents were obviously more lenient.

  “I want to know what you want me to say.”

  “To whom?”

  “To the lawyers or whoever—I don’t want to get you into any trouble.”

  His heart softened. She was a good kid underneath the cool facade. “Kim and I have been cleared by the police. We won’t be in any trouble… .” He gave her hand a friendly pat. “We’ll wait until Ronni’s mom calms down and talk about this rationally. I’m sure she’ll see sense.”

  Lauren stared at him intently for a beat. There was no denying she was a pretty kid under all that goop. “What if I told them about the champagne you gave us?”

  Jeff’s jaw clenched. Seriously? Now this teenager was trying to shake him down? “What are you getting at?”

  “Would you get into trouble? Would you have to pay Ronni’s mom tons of money?”

  There was something taunting in her tone, and Jeff wasn’t going to stand for it. “Do you want money, too?” His voice was menacing, a growl. “How much?” He dug for his wallet still in his pants pocket.

  “No!” She pressed his arm to stop him. “I don’t want your money.”

  “Then what the hell do you want?”

  She picked up one of his business cards that he’d carelessly tossed into the console of the car, and played with it. “I won’t tell anyone about the champagne,” she said, looking up at him then. “And
I’ll make sure the other girls don’t say anything, either… .”

  Was he supposed to be grateful now? He didn’t know how to respond, so he gave a slight nod.

  Lauren gave him a small smile. “Can we go get some food or something?”

  “No. We can’t.”

  She looked down at the business card again, her long hair obscuring her face as she traced his name with her finger. “I just feel really alone right now. My best friend’s in the hospital. My dad’s away on business. My mom drinks… .” When she finally looked up, her eyes were full of tears. “Can we get some ice cream at least?”

  He felt his heart twist. He knew this type of girl: conniving, manipulative, and growing up way too fast. But there was something so lonely in her gray eyes that he couldn’t help but pity her.

  “Ice cream,” he said. “And then I’m taking you home.”

  lisa

  FOURTEEN DAYS AFTER

  Lisa hovered near the kitchen counter, observing. Ronni was on the sofa, a blanket over her legs, her eyes glued to the TV. Make that her eye—Jesus. She was watching Netflix, some show about teenagers and vampires. She appeared engrossed and, if Lisa hadn’t known better, perfectly content. Hoisting the plate and bowl that rested on the Formica countertop, Lisa made her move.

  “Snack time,” she said, heading to the sofa. Ronni didn’t respond, so Lisa set the bowl of hummus and side plate of raw veggies on the coffee table. “You have to eat something, hon.”

  “I’m not hungry,” Ronni mumbled.

  “You’ve barely eaten since you got home. You need to get your strength back.”

  “Why?” For the first time, her daughter looked away from the TV. Lisa still wasn’t used to Ronni’s gaze: the left eye looked right into her soul but the right eye remained still and unseeing. The doctors had done their best to repair the socket, but part of the bottom lid had been unsalvageable. To compensate, they had pulled the skin tight, creating a thin, nearly translucent web at the corner of her eye. There was something embryonic about it, something not quite right. The eye surgeon had tried to reassure them. “Ocular prostheses have come a long way,” he’d said. “She’s lucky.” But Ronni didn’t feel lucky. And when Lisa looked at her beautiful daughter and her discomfiting stare, she didn’t feel lucky, either.