Untethered

by Julie Lawson Timmer

  “That will get better, too,” Char said.

  “Thanks,” Sarah said. “You know, you’re the only person I’ve told about any of this.”

  Char opened her arms and stepped forward. “You can talk to me anytime,” she said.

  Sarah allowed herself to be embraced for a split second before she pulled back, her body stiff. “I’ve already said too much.”

  In the hallway, the kids’ voices sounded.

  “Hang in there,” Char said, wishing she could think of a more profound parting message.

  “It’s not like I have a choice, right?” Sarah said, forcing a laugh, and before Char could respond, Sarah was looking over Char’s shoulder and clapping her hands.

  Char turned to see Morgan hopping on one foot, both hands on her head. Stevie was behind her, trying unsuccessfully to do the same, while Allie walked beside him, a hand out to catch him each time he lost his balance.

  “Okay, Mrs. Cat and Copy Cat!” Sarah sang out. “Let’s go make dinner!”

  Sixteen

  Remember to adjust your mirrors,” Char said from the passenger seat as she fished in the glove box for the driving log. “Wow. You’ve gotten almost all of your hours in. You’ll be able to take Segment Two in another few weeks.”

  Under Michigan’s graduated license scheme, a person could take Segment One of driver training at fourteen years and nine months. Allie was fourteen years, nine months, and one day when she started her Segment One class, which involved a number of classroom hours plus practice time behind the wheel. Only after a certain number of practice hours could she move on to Segment Two.

  She had pestered Bradley and Char to take her out driving a few times a week ever since, so she could get in all the practice she needed to move to the next segment. After she completed that, she would only have to bide her time until her sixteenth birthday, on which date she could take her driving test and get her license.

  According to Bradley, most kids fudged the practice hours, either making them up or not bothering at all. The driving school instructors rarely checked the logbooks, and if they did, they didn’t look too closely to ensure the signatures were real and not forged. Allie would brook no such sloppiness or lack of effort. She kept her training log in Char’s glove box, a pen clipped to it, and she had been diligently recording the precise length of each practice session before having Char or Bradley sign.

  Char scanned the list of dates and drive times and whistled. “No wonder you’re such a good driver.” She tossed the log back into the glove box before her eyes could rest on Bradley’s signature, repeated several times on the page.

  “Thanks,” Allie said. She put the car in reverse and looked over her shoulder. “So, Morgan says her mom’s upset about break next week.”

  Char wasn’t thrilled about the break herself. Sure, she would be fine on her own. She had lived alone for years. But that was before she had not lived alone. Before she had gotten used to the noise and mess, the breaks in her concentration and all the other wonderfully annoying aspects of having to share space with other people.

  Before she had gotten used to the rhythms of a family. The heartbeats of not only the people in the house but also the house itself. It pulsed, she swore, even when Allie was at school and Bradley at the plant. There was a hum in the walls. A quiet, peaceful anticipation.

  When the girl and her father returned each night, and the three of them were together again under one roof, the quiet hum became louder, whether they were in the kitchen making dinner or in the family room watching a movie or each in their separate spaces, doing their own thing. Not a distracting kind of loud, but a comforting kind. It was the contented thrum of a house that contained a family.

  What noise would there be, Char wondered, after she returned from dropping Allie at the airport on Friday night? Would the walls sigh once, longingly, and then go silent?

  Lindy had been making noises about spending the week decorating Allie’s bedroom in California. “Who knows,” she had told her daughter, “maybe we can get things ready sooner than we thought.” She hadn’t answered Char’s or Allie’s pleas to be more specific, of course. Did she mean Allie might move before school ended? Had she turned down the destination weddings after all, or found someone to stay with Allie while she traveled? Or was this all simply chatter? Char wasn’t sure Lindy herself knew what her plans were for her daughter. Or what she wanted them to be.

  Char didn’t dare admit out loud her house-as-living-creature theory. It would only make people worry about her, about what would become of her when (or if) Lindy finally got around to summoning Allie home for good. So, Char had spent the weeks leading up to break talking about all of the new editing projects she had taken on lately, and how great it was going to be to have an entire week to focus on them.

  This had allowed Allie to stop feeling guilty about leaving. It got Colleen to stop mentioning that her parents’ condo in Miami had enough room for Char and that, last she had checked, the flight they were taking still had empty seats. And it put an end, mostly, to Will’s daily texts:

  World-famous engineering professor seeks companionship: only siblings need apply.

  Weeklong special in Clemson, SC: utilities and riveting conversation included.

  One lumpy pullout. No waiting.

  “What is it about the break, exactly, that has Sarah upset?” Char asked. “Or did Morgan say?”

  “It’s hard to tell with Morgan,” Allie said, flicking on her indicator and pulling out of the lot. “She’s always so convinced her parents hate her.”

  “Wait. She is? Since when? ‘Hate’ is a strong word.”

  “I know,” Allie said. “And that’s why it’s hard to tell. Morgan talks in absolutes a lot.”

  “Now, there’s an expression I haven’t heard lately. ‘Talking in absolutes.’”

  “Oh, right,” Allie said. “Dad. Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I love the reminder. But if you don’t, I won’t point it out next time.”

  “I do, too.” Allie smiled.

  Char smiled back, and for a moment, she could feel the connection between them. “Look, Allie . . .” she started, and then paused. Let’s make up, she wanted to say. Let’s not let misunderstandings about boys come between us. There are already so many obstacles in our relationship. But was that the right thing? Or should she say—

  “Anyway,” Allie said. “You know Morgan. She’s always upset about the fact that she’s ‘nothing but bad’ or ‘a complete pain’ or ‘a total disappointment.’ This is just an offshoot of the same old thing. She’s a terrible kid. She’s evil. She’s hateful. And now, lately, her parents hate her, they want her gone, they can’t stand to look at her. That kind of thing.”

  Char made a fist in her lap, then opened her hand wide. She had waited too long, missed her chance. She would have to find another opening with Allie, another time. “How long has she been talking like that?” she asked.

  Allie raised a shoulder as she changed lanes. “Haven’t really been keeping track. It’s not like it’s something all that new or different. Variations on the same theme, you know? Morgan can be pretty dramatic when it comes to what other people think of her. And not always entirely honest.”

  Morgan had created unnecessary anxiety in Allie before with these kinds of statements. The Crews couldn’t stand Michigan, she told Allie once, and they were moving to Atlanta. They would be gone in a few days, and Morgan would never see Allie again. Morgan’s teacher despised her, she claimed another time, and she was going to be expelled.

  No one at the Crews’ church liked her—she was the worst of all the adopted kids in the congregation, so Sarah was going to ship her off to some foster care group home in Detroit, and try again with a different adopted child. When each of the stories had turned out to be untrue, Allie had confronted Morgan about the lies, and Morgan had merely shrugged and changed
the subject.

  “Anyway,” Allie said, “this time, she says they were all going to go on a trip for break, to some beach somewhere, but Mr. and Mrs. Crew changed their minds because they can’t take Morgan out in public, they’re embarrassed of her, and a bunch of other things like that. So they’re staying home, and it’s all her fault, and that’s why her mom’s upset with her. Well, not just upset with her, but hates her.”

  “Meanwhile, it’s likely a budgeting thing,” Char said. “Or maybe Dave can’t take time off work, or . . .” Or maybe, Char thought, Dave and Sarah really were discussing the fact that they can’t take her out in public in a bathing suit, with all of her bruises and cuts, and Morgan overheard.

  For a split second, Char considered telling Allie this. She had been debating for some time whether to raise the self-harm issue with Allie. Maybe it would be a good thing for Allie to be aware of. Maybe there was something she could say to Morgan that might help. Maybe Allie would have some insight about it that could help the Crews.

  Since discovering Morgan’s bruise-covered body in Allie’s bedroom in January, Char had done some reading about self-harm online. There were plenty of children Morgan’s age who did it, but there seemed to be even more kids Allie’s age, especially when it came to cutting, which Morgan appeared to have moved on to. Maybe Allie knew kids at school who had gone through it. Maybe she could ask them what it was that got them to finally stop. Maybe she could relay it to the Crews. Maybe it would work with Morgan.

  Char took in the teen beside her. Allie’s top teeth held down her lower lip, and Char knew the girl’s worry wasn’t about the right turn she was about to take. And that was her answer: do not mention this to Allie. She was already concerned enough about Morgan’s proclamations of self-hatred. Piling on the information that Morgan sometimes turned those words into bruises and cuts might hurt the teenager more than it would help the ten-year-old.

  “Right, or some other totally reasonable explanation,” Allie said, finishing Char’s sentence. “I know. And that’s what I told Morgan. But she’s convinced. And once that girl is convinced of something . . .” Allie shook her head. “Right now, she’s convinced she is Morgan Crew, Devil Child, hated by her mother, loathed by her father.”

  “I would give anything to hear her refer to herself as Morgan Crew, Child Superhero, loved and lauded by all,” Char said. “But I’m beginning to wonder if that’s too much to hope for with her.”

  “I’d love to hear that, too,” Allie said. “But yeah, way too much to hope for. That kind of positivity is so not the way Morgan rolls.”

  She turned into their neighborhood, and for the next few blocks, they talked about winter conditioning, Allie’s chances at making the varsity soccer team, and what was happening in each of her classes. She was doing a project on Denali for Environmental Science, she said. “We should go to Alaska sometime, you and me,” she said. “Check it out. It would be so cool.”

  “I’d love it,” Char said. She caught herself smiling too much, and turned to the window to hide it. It was so nice, this time with Allie in the car, the relaxed chatter about Morgan and school. It had been such a long time since they had had an easy conversation like this that Char had forgotten how wonderful it could be. It was the best feeling in the world to have things feel normal again, particularly now, when they had such little time together before Allie went away for break.

  “Hey,” Char said, as Allie turned onto their street. “What about going out for dinner tonight, and then seeing a movie?” A celebration, she thought, though she would never admit it to Allie. We’re talking nicely to each other again! We have pleasant things to say to each other! There’s hope for us! “Chinese buffet and giant-sized movie popcorn?”

  It was their girls-night-out menu anytime Bradley had to travel for work. Char smiled wider, imagining it. They would keep up their lively chatter over dinner, find a good rom com, and joke about which of them made a better match for whoever the hunky male lead was. The tension that had grown between them would start to melt and they would spend the rest of the week talking and laughing like they used to. Allie would offer to help with dinner for the next few nights, and after, she would spread her books out on the counter and talk to Char while she finished her homework.

  By the time they were driving to the airport on Saturday morning, things between them would be good again. After her break was over, Allie would return to Michigan determined to continue down their path to recovery. She would dump Kate and the boys. They would have Colleen and Sydney over for dinner. The house would resume its contented thrum.

  Allie inched the car into the garage, and Char waited patiently for her to respond. It was tricky, pulling into their garage. Not because of any threat to Char’s car—Bradley had meticulously organized all of their bikes and other sports gear to leave a foot of free space on either side of Char’s parking spot, virtually eliminating the risk of Allie’s scraping the side of the vehicle as she pulled in. He had hung a tennis ball from the ceiling to prevent any scrapes to the front grille: as soon as the windshield and ball made contact, Allie knew to brake, shift into park.

  No, the trick was emotional, not physical. There were three bays in the garage. One for Char. One for Bradley. One for the convertible they had splurged on after a year in which both the editing world and the automotive one had paid dividends. It had a small backseat, allowing the three of them to do day trips. Their favorite was for ice cream.

  Bradley’s bay—the one in the middle—was now empty. Which made the convertible sitting in the far left bay all the more noticeable. It was still cloaked in light brown, as it had been since the prior summer, its burlap cover a mourning veil. Allie and Char kept their gazes fixed on the tennis ball as they had done every day since the accident. Looking to the left was too difficult.

  Turning off the ignition and still staring ahead, Allie said, “Oh, uh, thanks. But I kind of made plans with Kate and the guys for tonight.”

  Char could feel heat rise from her chest to her cheeks as the corners of her eyes began to sting. She bent her head to the floor and pretended to look for her purse, to keep Allie from seeing her face. Bag in hand, she snapped her seat belt off and shoved open her door as the stinging in her eyes turned into a fullness that signaled her tears were close behind.

  She managed to bark the words “fine” and “bathroom” before diving out of the car and running into the house.

  Seventeen

  Allie left after dinner, and Char instructed herself to use the time to work. No more pacing. No more obsessing about the teenager. This was practice for spring break, when Allie would be away. It was practice for the future.

  Sitting at Bradley’s desk, Char eyed the square white envelope that had been there for the past two weeks. A sympathy card from Professor Winchester, the dean of journalism at American University and her former boss.

  I am so very sorry for your loss, the card said. Work heals the soul. There could be a position here for you—I know Ruth has mentioned this. I am hoping you will call.

  She had called him right away. Not to say she would vie for the job—she had spent months refusing to entertain Will and Ruth in their quest to get her to at least enter the race—but to thank him for thinking of her. Dean Winchester wasn’t about to let her off easy, though. He allowed for a bit of small talk (she still hated Michigan winters, she sorely missed her colleagues and her job and D.C.), he insisted on a bit of big talk (he had been horrified to hear about Bradley’s death, everyone on faculty was thinking about her and sent their best), but after a while, he would not allow her to escape the topic he wanted to discuss: her potential return to American.

  “I can’t leave Mount Pleasant,” she told him. “Not as long as Allie’s here. I can’t even consider it while there’s any chance she might stay.”

  “Oh, of course,” he said. “We have plenty of time, though. Rhiannon doesn’t officially retire
until June, and we’re not offering her classes in the summer. You could easily stay in Michigan while Allie finishes out the semester, if that’s the concern. You’d have plenty of time to move back here, get settled. You wouldn’t need to be on campus until late August. We could even have someone get to work on finding you a place to live while you’re still in Michigan.”

  “That’s the thing, though,” Char said. “I don’t know if it’s only for this semester that Allie will be staying. She may still be here in August. Or later.”

  “Ah, I see. And when will you know?”

  Char laughed. “The day she leaves. No target has ever moved as wildly and as often as this one. It depends on when her mother can take her back. And that depends on a lot of details around her mother’s business travel and decorating schedules and who knows what else. It also depends on whether her mother wants her back, and that doesn’t appear to be a foregone conclusion yet.

  “And even if we get over those two giant hurdles, it depends on Allie. I don’t think she knows where she wants to be. She has friends here, she’s on sports teams here, she’s got this cute little girl here who she’s gotten really close to through a volunteer thing she does. Even if her mother wants her to move there, Allie might lobby hard to stay, and if she does, it’s possible her mother would concede.”

  “I see,” Dean Winchester said, in the tone of someone trying to be patient with a person making no sense. “Am I correct in assuming that you feel there’s some reason why you can’t simply ask each of them what they would like to do, and in what time frame, so that you might proceed with plans of your own?”