“Not the entire morning,” Allie said, “just the first part, when I get up. Breakfast: big no. Brunch: definite yes.”
Char smiled. Every morning, Bradley had sat alone at the kitchen table, eating oatmeal or cold cereal or toast before work, while Char and Allie, nauseated at the thought of food so early, stayed as far away as they could. He once called out a lament that they were missing out on a key opportunity for family bonding, and Allie texted him from the living room: If I come anywhere near your stinky breakfast I’ll barf all over the table and ruin your Norman Rockwell moment. You really want that?
After that, it became a running joke. Every morning, he would ask if anyone would care to join him for a pleasant talk about world news over the most important meal of the day, and every morning, they would respond, “No thanks, Mr. Rockwell.”
“Right,” Sydney said. “You’re so weird.” She laughed. “Anyway, look what Kate told me about Justin.”
Char adjusted her head a fraction of an inch and saw Allie peering at her friend’s phone. “Oh, yeah, I heard about that,” Allie said.
“From Kate?”
“From Justin.”
“He’s still texting you?”
Allie shrugged and looked over to see if the adults were listening. Char rolled her head dramatically, pretending she hadn’t been watching—just stretching. She put a hand on the back of her neck and swiveled her head the other way. “I must’ve slept funny,” she said to Colleen. She missed Colleen’s answer, though, because she was still listening to the girls.
“Did you text him back?” Sydney asked.
“Get real. Fake IDs, sneaking into the casino, partying at CMU? Not really my thing.”
“Then why are you blushing?”
“Shut up,” Allie said, and the girls, laughing, ran up the stairs.
Seven
Lindy arrived an hour later. Allie bounded down the stairs to answer the door, and Char, standing in the kitchen with Colleen, saw the girl glance at her watch and frown as she rounded the corner into the living room.
“It’s only four thirty,” Char called after her. “That’s late afternoon, which is what she said.”
“Why are you constantly making excuses for that woman?” Colleen whispered. “It’s four thirty, she’s been in town all day, and she’s just making her way over now?”
“It’s not constant,” Char whispered back. “And it’s not for the woman’s sake. It’s for the kid’s.” From the foyer, Char heard Lindy’s and Allie’s voices, and the stomping of boots.
“Anyway,” Char whispered to Colleen, “it worked out better this way. Brunch with just the three of us, and the time in Bradley’s office, was all really nice. Will’s so great with her. Comforting, reassuring, willing to completely focus on what she’s saying, how she’s feeling. Lindy . . . isn’t. I’m not sure more time with her is better, no matter what Allie thinks she needs.”
Char had learned from Bradley that when it came to Lindy, it was better to accept her limitations than to hold out hope she would ever overcome them. The trick was in getting Allie to see things that way. How do you guide a child into trading expectations for reality when it came to her own parent?
“Whatever,” Colleen said.
Char laughed. “You spend too much time with teenage girls.”
“We both do.” Colleen jiggled her wineglass, now empty.
Char reached for the bottle and slid it over, along with her own glass.
“A little liquid courage to face Ms. Hollywood?” Colleen asked, giving them each a generous pour.
“I admit nothing.” Char reached into the cabinet for another glass as Lindy appeared, wearing gray wool leggings and a tunic in her signature pink. Char greeted her and pointed to the bottle. “Wine? There’s this merlot, or I have a Chardonnay in the fridge.”
“Merlot would be lovely,” Lindy said. While she waited for Char to pour it, she reached a hand across the bar to Colleen. “Lindy Waters. You must be a friend of Charlotte’s.”
Colleen took Lindy’s hand and showed all her teeth as she smiled. “The name’s Portia. I just moved into town.”
Char moved her foot to the right and stepped on her friend’s.
Colleen laughed. “Joking. Colleen. And yes, I’m a friend of Char’s, for a few years now. And of Bradley’s, for . . . oh . . . four decades or so. Since I grew up here . . .” She dropped her chin and widened her eyes, waiting for Lindy to admit to the memory.
Char stepped harder on Colleen’s foot.
Lindy played with the chunky glass necklace around her neck and looked from Colleen to Char expectantly, as though waiting for the punch line. “Well, it’s nice to meet you,” she finally said.
Colleen sighed and took a long sip of wine.
“So, where’s Allie?” Char asked. The girl hadn’t returned from the foyer.
“Oh, she’s greeting the other guests,” Lindy said. “That family who was at the church yesterday—”
“What family?” Char asked, as Morgan Crew’s gravelly voice called out, “Catch me!” Seconds later, the ten-year-old bounded up the stairs, squealing.
“Slow down, Morgan!” Allie called from somewhere behind the younger girl.
She had barely gotten the last word out when Morgan slammed into Lindy, who shrieked and let go of her wineglass. It landed first on Morgan’s head, splashing its red contents over her hair, then fell to the counter where it shattered. Glass shards flew in all directions and dark liquid splattered on the kitchen tile, the light gray family room carpet, and the counter that separated the two.
“Sorry!” Morgan cried, her hands at her mouth. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” She looked frantically at the spreading red stain at her feet as Lindy and Allie bent to pick up the bits of glass from the carpet. Colleen did the same in the kitchen. Char bent to the cupboard under the sink to find carpet cleaner and a sponge.
“I’m so stupid!” Morgan said, tears running down her cheeks. “I’m such an idiot! I’m so clumsy! I ruin everything!”
“Oh, it’s not such a big thing,” Lindy said, patting Morgan’s shoulder. “A little red wine never caused a house to collapse.”
Char and Colleen murmured similar assurances while Allie ran a hand over one of Morgan’s cheeks, wiping the tears. “It’s fine, Morgan. It’s only a spill. Don’t move, though. I don’t want you to step on a piece of glass.” She put a hand on Morgan’s leg.
“Oh, Morgan, goodness, what have you done?” It was Sarah Crew, struggling to carry three large casserole dishes, her purse dangling from one elbow. At the sight of the mess her daughter had created, she seemed to lose her strength, and the stack of casseroles tilted in her arms. Colleen reached out quickly to retrieve them, and Sarah smiled gratefully before turning back to her daughter and sighing.
Char greeted Sarah. “I’m sorry you had to let yourself in. I was about to come to the door when Lindy said you were here, but . . .” She raised the container of cleaner and the sponge in explanation and made her way to the carpet. Gesturing to the casseroles now sitting on the kitchen counter, she asked, “What have you brought us?”
“Besides a terrible carpet stain and a broken wineglass?” Sarah asked. It was then that she finally looked at her daughter. Morgan was frozen in place, her body rigid, shoulders lifted practically to her ears. The only movement was the tremor in her lips. Char watched as the annoyed, straight line of Sarah’s mouth fell open.
“But,” Sarah sang, “it looks like you’re getting it all cleaned up! See, Morgan? Mrs. Hawthorn has all kinds of cleaners, and Allie and her mother are finding all the glass. Everything will be fixed up, just like that”—she snapped her fingers—“and it’ll all be fine. Okay?”
Morgan didn’t respond.
“Morgan,” Sarah said, “look at me.” Morgan did, and Sarah held her hand out, lowering it slowly i
n a “Calm down” gesture. “It was an accident. Could’ve happened to anyone. It’s no big deal. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry. It’s all going to be fine. Okay?”
Morgan nodded, and Sarah turned to walk into the kitchen. “We thought it might be helpful if we brought you some meals,” she called to Char as she walked, her voice unnaturally loud and bright. “Actually, it was Morgan’s idea. She did all the work, while I just stood by to give tips. It took her all day, from the time we got home from church until just a few minutes ago. Didn’t it, Morgan? She wanted to make three different kinds of casseroles, but I convinced her to make three lasagnas, to keep it a little simpler.”
Sarah took three squares of paper and a pen out of her purse. “I’ll just write out the heating instructions and tape them on the top of each before I set them in the freezer,” she said, to no one in particular. “And then, I need to run and get Stevie. His Sunday School class was having a party, so I left him there.”
“Wow, Morgan,” Allie said. “You’re awesome!” She reached a hand up for a high five. Morgan didn’t move.
Bending, Char kissed the little girl’s hair, tasting merlot. “You’re like a wineglass with freckles!” she said, laughing, but Morgan didn’t join in. Char patted the girl’s shoulder. “Messes, I don’t care about,” she said. “Thoughtfulness, I do. How nice of you to make those lasagnas for us. Thank you.”
The child still didn’t respond, and Char caught the worry lines around Sarah’s eyes and mouth as she watched her daughter. Char hadn’t seen Morgan overreact this way before, but her mother clearly had, and it didn’t appear to be a minor thing.
“Colleen!” Char called to her friend, who had retreated with Lindy to the family room to get out of the way. “Did I tell you that Morgan does sweet things like this for us all the time?”
Colleen and Lindy returned to the group and gave Char a questioning look. She angled her eyes down and sideways, to the potbellied girl standing like a statue, her cheeks mottled red now, and wet with tears. Lindy and Colleen jolted into action, practically racing to look over Sarah’s shoulder at the lasagnas as they marveled, at too-high decibels, over Morgan’s handiwork, her thoughtfulness, her devotion to Char and Allie. They reminded Char of two hens as they dipped their heads and craned their necks to get a better view, all the while clucking away at what the little girl had created.
“She’s made us, what, half a dozen batches of cookies, Morgan?” Char went on. “Probably more. And so many drawings and paintings. Look!”
She pointed to the fridge, where Morgan’s latest creation was fastened with magnets—a painting of Morgan and Allie standing arm in arm, each holding a giant ice cream cone. The two hens made their way to the fridge, where they bobbed and fussed some more before finally turning to Morgan.
“Such talent!” Lindy said.
“And creativity,” Colleen added.
“I cut heart shapes into the lasagna noodles,” Morgan said quietly.
“What a lovely idea,” Lindy said, and Colleen agreed.
“And you can imagine how long that took!” Sarah called, still working on her instructions. “But she insisted!”
“If I didn’t like lasagna so much,” Char said, “I might not want to eat one with hearts cut into it. It would be too special.” She reached a hand out to touch the child’s damp cheek.
“Speaking of lasagna,” Allie said from her knees on the floor, where she was still searching for stray glass fragments. She looked up at Morgan. “I once spilled some onto this same carpet. As in, an entire pan of it. Not just one plate. You should’ve seen the mess! It was way worse than this, believe me.”
Morgan’s quivering lips rose briefly at the ends before drooping again.
Sarah closed the freezer door and turned to face the others. She smoothed her sweater, which had been creased slightly by the weight of the casseroles, and then her pants, which had not been.
“All done!” she sang to Char. “Morgan’s lovely lasagnas are stacked in the freezer, instructions attached, ready for you to gobble up! And it looks like the carpet stain is about gone, and the glass is almost all picked up!”
She looked at her watch and grimaced. “I hate to drag you away before you’ve had a chance to visit, Morgan, but I’m afraid . . .” She looked from Morgan to Char. “Actually, would it be okay if I left her while I go get him? I won’t be longer than about thirty minutes. That way—”
“Of course!” Char said.
Sarah, relieved, bent to kiss her daughter on the cheek as she walked past. “I almost stuck to you!” she said. “Maybe Allie can give you a damp washcloth and you can run it over your face and neck.” Morgan nodded, and Sarah called her good-byes and left.
Allie stood and carried a handful of glass to the garbage under the kitchen sink. “Crisis averted. Come on, Morgan. Let’s go get you a washcloth, and then find something to do upstairs.” She extended a hand for Morgan to take.
But Morgan remained frozen in place. “My hair’s all sticky,” she said. “And my clothes are ruined.”
“No problem,” Char said. “You can rinse off in Allie’s bathroom. She can lend you something to wear home. We’ll put your clothes in a plastic bag, and your mom can wash them later. Wine stains will come right out. You’ll see.”
“Yeah,” Allie said, pointing to the staircase, on whose bottom step Sydney now sat. “You know where my room is, right? And my bathroom? You go clean up, and Sydney and I will look in the basement for some old clothes of mine. I’ll bring you a plastic bag, too.”
When they were gone, Char took the cleaning supplies into the kitchen, washed her hands, and stood for a moment gazing at the space where Morgan had stood. She reached into the cupboard for a new wineglass, filled it, and handed it to Lindy. She found her own glass, still sitting on the counter, and Colleen’s, which she slid to her friend.
“I’ll hang on to this one more tightly,” Lindy said.
Colleen, pointing to the almost-empty bottle, said, “I hope you’ve got more, for when Sarah comes back. If ever a person needed a drink, it’s that woman. That was a lot of mood managing. I’m exhausted from the effort, and she’s not my daughter.”
Char walked into the family room with her wineglass and a new bottle of merlot, and motioned for the others to follow. “I have a feeling the Crews don’t drink.”
“She deserves to make an exception for today,” Colleen said, sitting heavily. “I forgot how much work young kids are. And they have that younger one, too.”
“Stevie,” Char said, sitting beside Colleen on the couch to leave one armchair for Lindy, the other for Sarah. “Very sweet boy,” she said, and here she lowered her voice, leaning forward so they could both hear. “He’s got some pretty significant speech and motor issues. They just found out in the fall, and it’s been a real strain. They’ve been told that with intensive work, he might be able to catch up by kindergarten.
“So, they take him to all kinds of therapy and do all this work with him at home. That’s the exhausting thing, if you ask me. Not only the work itself, but the constant calendar-watching: is he progressing fast enough, or will he have to be in special classes? Morgan’s a piece of cake compared to that, if you ask me. Anyone can spill food and make too big a deal of it.”
She realized then that she hadn’t heard the teenagers come upstairs from the basement. Nor had she thought to ask Allie if there were clean towels and washcloths in her bathroom. “Let me go check on things,” she told the others.
She found them in the basement, doubled over with laughter, each holding up an old outfit.
“I can’t believe how much pink you wore!” Sydney shrieked. “And the frills!”
“Right,” Allie said. “Like you didn’t have the exact same dress, Fashion Police.”
Char reminded them of the girl on the second floor who needed something to wear, fast, and the
y stifled their laughter and got back to work. “We have to find her something that’s not completely embarrassing,” Sydney said. “It might take a while.”
Upstairs, Char grabbed a towel from the linen closet and walked into Allie’s room, hoping Morgan hadn’t been searching too long in the bathroom closet for a clean washcloth and towel. Given Allie’s lack of organization when it came to laundry, Morgan’s search wouldn’t likely turn up anything.
But Morgan wasn’t in Allie’s bathroom; she was bent over at the foot of Allie’s bed, rooting through a pile of clean laundry the teenager had left, as usual, on the floor. She was naked, dripping from the shower, and reaching for a towel when she noticed Char. “Oh!” she said, straightening in surprise before realizing she was exposing herself more now than she had been when doubled over. She folded over again, hugging herself, her hands moving from her legs to her arms to her torso in a frantic effort to keep Char from seeing her bare body.
Which was covered, almost entirely, in bruises.
Dime-sized, most of them, though some were larger. Many were the dark, blackish purple of a new hematoma, the blood still pooled under the skin. Some were a faded blue, older, and others were the greenish yellow of an almost-healed injury. Her torso and the tops of her thighs were covered the most densely, with more bruise than skin visible in some areas, and her upper arms were dotted significantly. Only her lower legs and forearms had been spared.
Char gasped and covered her mouth with one hand while she reached out with the other, holding the towel to Morgan. Morgan snatched it, wrapped herself in it, and ran to the bathroom. As the bathroom door closed, the sound of the teenagers’ voices and footsteps rose from the staircase. Char flew to the doorway and held a hand out to Allie, who was on the top step, a small pile of clothes in her hands.
“We brought her a few choices—” Allie started, before noticing the expression on Char’s face. “What’s wrong?”
“I’ll take those,” Char whispered. Her voice surprised her. She had meant to speak normally, so the girls wouldn’t suspect anything.
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