Blue Water

by A. Manette Ansay

  “Sorry. I was filling the Jacuzzi tub, and, I don’t know, I kind of fell asleep.”

  I told Chester I’d get back to him, after Christmas, about the lease, after I’d had time to think things through. After I’d had a chance to talk with Rex—though, already, I knew what Rex would say.

  Put the house on the market.

  It was what he’d originally wanted to do.

  The landing between Toby’s apartment and Mallory’s looked exactly as I’d remembered it: abandoned. The wooden railings were rotting, riddled with holes left by carpenter bees. Dead leaves scattered in crackling ribbons, rearranging themselves with each gust of wind. But a homemade wreath hung from Toby’s door—the kind made out of pinecones, Styrofoam, glitter—and I recognized the same art project I’d been forced to do, forty years earlier, at school. Behind it, two young voices were arguing, rising and falling in a complicated counterpoint that resolved itself, abruptly, in silence. Putting my ear to the door, I could hear a television sitcom: canned laughter, tinny bursts of applause.

  “Cut it out!” someone shrieked, and there was a crash, followed by the sort of scream that means business. I tried the door, but it was locked; since when had Toby ever locked the door? The doorbell, of course, was broken. I knocked, then hammered with my fists.

  “Is everyone okay in there?” I called.

  Instantly, the wailing stopped. Someone turned off the TV. I could hear rapid footsteps, a single bleat of dismay, then nothing.

  “Is anybody bleeding?” I called. “Just tell me that.”

  Another pause. Then:

  “Yes.”

  “A lot of blood or a little?”

  The wailing began again. The first voice said, a bit impatiently, “She’s okay. She’s always hurting herself.”

  Toby had always kept a spare key—heaven knows why—at the top of the doorframe. Feeling around in the grit with my fingertips, I dislodged it. It fell with a Christmasy chime.

  “I’m letting myself in,” I said.

  “We’re not supposed to let anyone in,” the first voice said.

  “Is that Laurel?” I asked, opening the door.

  The last thing I expected was the weight of an opposing body, thrown hard against the back of the door, a reverse battering ram. The door slammed on my shoulder, bounced back; I swore, caught the kick plate against my foot, then nudged my knee through the gap. By the time I wriggled inside, both girls were running, screaming, darting around either side of a large, toppled Christmas tree, which stretched the full length of the living room. A cat—one of Cindy Ann’s Angoras—flashed past, round as a puffer fish, every hair standing on end. I could only hope that Mr. Dickens was as deaf as he’d always pretended to be whenever Toby cornered him about apartment repairs.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” I kept saying. But whose apartment was this? All of the junk and clutter was gone. Not only could you see the floor—aside from the tree, filling the room with its good, green smell—but it was carpeted, and the walls were a bright collage of artwork, prints, dozens and dozens of photographs. My mother’s photographs, in fact; Toby’s share of the framed snapshots that had always embarrassed us so. There he sat, a fat, happy baby. There he was again, holding me in his lap. There was the seemingly endless succession of family pets: the fish and rabbits, the cats and dogs, the terrible lovebird that shrieked and bit us all. Beneath this display was a fat, floral couch, a matching chair and end table. Bookshelves filled with books. Magazines in a basket. The bedroom door closed with a slam, but, before it did, I glimpsed tidy bunk beds, a pink and green rug, the second cat perched on the window ledge. I also saw a little girl, slightly older than Evan would have been, her forehead glossy with blood so red, so brilliant, it looked fake.

  Shit.

  “Does Toby keep a first aid kit?” I called, stepping into the bathroom. Here, too, everything was tidy. Scoured tiles. Clean towels hanging from the racks. Scented soap in a dish. The only thing I recognized about this place was the cold; I could see my breath with each exhalation.

  “I have a gun,” came Laurel’s voice. “You better not try anything.”

  For all I knew, this was probably true, but my shoulder hurt and I was starting to lose patience.

  “For Pete’s sake, use your head,” I said. “Would I be looking for a first aid kit if I were trying to hurt you?” I found cotton gauze, some iodine. “Now, come out of there so I can look at Monica’s forehead.”

  “Who are you? How do you know our names?”

  “I’m your aunt. Or, at least, I will be as soon as your aunt marries my brother. Are you going to open that door, or do I need to call the Cup and Cruller?”

  The bedroom door opened. Blessedly, there wasn’t any sign of a gun. Just Laurel, standing with folded arms, one hip jutting out. Unlike her sisters, her mother, she was plain: heavyset, fierce as a little bull terrier. Beside her, Monica peered at me impishly, blinking at the blood in her eyes. Both girls wore ski vests over their sweaters. Their noses were running. Their hair needed washing.

  “Mal’s not working today,” Laurel said.

  “Where is she?”

  “What happened to your face?”

  How tired I was of that question. The flesh-eating bacteria story had worked so well I considered trotting it out again. But I didn’t have the energy.

  “It’s a rash,” I said.

  “Oh. I thought that maybe, like, ugly faces just ran in your family or something.”

  She was alluding to Toby’s birthmark; it took every ounce of self-possession to keep my expression steady. “Actually, this looked much worse a week ago. Now, would one of you tell me what happened?”

  To my surprise, Monica skipped forward, hurled herself into my arms. Too late, I remembered my mother’s pale coat, but already, it was streaked like a candy cane. Evan had died without losing a single drop of blood; at the wake, he’d truly looked like he was sleeping. And now, here was Monica, this living, talking, furious child, bleeding as if she’d slit her jugular.

  “She pushed me,” she sobbed. “I was up on the chair—”

  “I didn’t push you,” Laurel said, bored. “You fell. Like I said you would.”

  “Did she hit the wall?” I asked. “The end table?”

  “She wasn’t supposed to touch the tree, okay? We’re supposed to decorate it tonight and, I don’t know, sing campfire songs.”

  “Christmas carols,” Monica howled.

  “Mum’s in a psycho ward and you’re gonna sit around singing Christmas carols? Sweet.”

  Abruptly, Monica stopped crying. “Life goes on,” she said. She sounded like a very old woman when she said it.

  “Hold still,” I said, and I parted the wet, sticky mass of her hair. There it was, a half-inch cut, just above the hairline. It didn’t seem too bad; in fact, the bleeding had nearly stopped. I pressed a clean, white square of gauze against the cut. An odd, animal look came over Laurel’s face, part fascination, part loathing. “What are you doing here, anyway?” she said. “Aren’t you supposed to hate us?”

  I decided not to risk any answer. “Go to the kitchen,” I told her, instead, “and get me some wet paper towels.”

  Instead, she turned and disappeared into the bedroom. Fine. The second cat, still on the window ledge, blinked its golden eyes.

  “You’re okay to walk, right?” I asked Monica, who nodded with her whole head—another good sign, I thought. In the kitchen, I had her hold the gauze while I mopped her face, blotted her hair as best I could. She studied me closely as I worked, her gaze moving over me, feature by feature.

  “You’re the lady from the accident,” she said.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m going to make you an ice pack, okay?”

  “I don’t remember it.”

  “The accident?” I was digging around in the freezer. “It happened very fast.”

  “No,” she said. “I mean, I don’t remember any of it.”

  There were only a few cubes of ice. I wr
apped them in a dishcloth printed with roses, settled it onto her head. My shoulder still tingled from the impact of the door; I rubbed it, thinking of Rex. “There are parts I don’t remember, either,” I said, ignoring Rex’s voice in my ear: don’t discuss the accident, don’t reveal anything. What would he say, I wondered, if he knew where I was right now?

  “But she doesn’t remember anything for, like, two weeks.” Laurel had reappeared, holding the first cat, draped over her shoulders like a stole. “And she wets the bed. What a nutcase.”

  “Shut up.”

  “She’s going to end up in a psycho ward, too.” She lowered her voice to a criminal’s hiss. “In a straitjacket. In a room with padded walls.”

  If there really had been a gun in that apartment, I would have been a dead woman. “Where’s your aunt today?” I murmured to Monica.

  “Helping Grandma move somewhere else.”

  “To another nursing home,” Laurel said. “Igor’s helping, too.”

  Monica’s pale eyes flashed. “His name is Toby,” she said. For a moment, I could actually see that they were sisters. Half sisters.

  “Eee-gore,” Laurel moaned, dropping the cat with a thud. It rocketed back to the girls’ room, shot beneath the bunk beds. I glanced at the kitchen clock. One-fifteen. I doubted my parents would arrive before two.

  “Have you girls had lunch?” I asked.

  “We’re not hungry.”

  “I’m hungry,” Monica said.

  In the refrigerator, I found only soy milk, carrot juice, a few slices of veggie cheese. “It doesn’t work,” Laurel said. “Not like we need a refrigerator in here.”

  Funny girl. There was brown rice in the cupboard, along with dried beans, lentils, a braid of garlic hanging on the wall.

  “What if we order a pizza?” I said, but at that moment, there was a noise on the landing. Footsteps. The door swung open and Toby appeared, plastic bags of groceries dangling from each fist. When he saw me, his birthmark flushed dark, the way it did, blanching the other side of his face. “What the hell?” he began, but then he saw Monica, her bloodstained sweatshirt, her matted hair. In a flash, she was crying hysterically, as hard—if not harder—than when she’d first fallen. He dropped the groceries, vaulted the tree, scooped her up into his arms.

  “What happened?” he said, glancing between Laurel and me. “What the hell did you do?”

  The question could have been aimed at either one of us. A crafty look passed across Laurel’s face, but before she could open her mouth to blame me, Monica was sobbing out the whole story: how she’d made a special decoration, how she’d tried to put it on the tree, how Laurel had pushed her and then the tree—

  “The bleeding’s stopped,” I told Toby, trying not to feel hurt that he’d suspect me, even fleetingly, of hurting this child. “I don’t think she’s going to need stitches. And the cut’s up in her hairline where it isn’t going to show.”

  “You know what happens when you get stitches?” Laurel said.

  “Laurel,” Toby said, wearily.

  “They take this huge needle and they stick it in you. Jah!”

  “Can we still have pizza?” Monica asked, sniffling.

  “We were about to order one,” I explained, picking up the groceries, setting them on the counter, “but I can make something else, if you want. Burritos?”

  I held up the box.

  “Those suck,” Laurel said. “They’re vegetarian.”

  “Pizza,” Monica said, nodding.

  I waited for Toby to agree, but instead he sank onto the couch, still holding Monica in his arms. She tucked herself tightly against him; he rested his chin on the top of her head. It struck me, then. He loved this child. For all I knew, he loved them both.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “I came for the wedding,” I said.

  “We invited you to join us aboard the Jack, not in our home.”

  “Toby.”

  “Considering the sort of litigation going on, contrary to what you told me in June—”

  “I only told you what Rex told me. I thought I was telling the truth.”

  “Funny, but your name’s on the settlement, too.”

  “Which I haven’t signed.”

  “So sign it. Get it over with. Anything’s better than having it hanging over our heads like this.”

  “I suppose you’ve seen the photographs,” I said.

  He did not look away. “If you want me to admit that you told me so, okay. You told me so. You and Rex both said that she was still—”

  Then he glanced down at Monica, who was staring up at him; suddenly, I felt ashamed.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “This isn’t what I’m here for. I’m going to order that pizza, okay? Besides, Mom and Dad will be here any minute.”

  “What?”

  “We just want to help, that’s all,” I said. “We figured out why you were hiding from us.”

  Toby closed his eyes, defeated. “You don’t know the half of it, believe me.”

  “So fill me in.”

  He made a slight, negative motion with his head.

  “He can’t talk in front of the baby,” Lauren said. “And, besides, you’re not here to help. You’re here to spy on us. You might fool him, but you can’t fool me.”

  “Should I call Pizza Haven?” I asked Toby, ignoring her, as if she were a tantruming two-year-old, kicking and screaming in the candy aisle.

  “Out of business. There’s Pizza Hut.”

  “You’re a spy,” Laurel shouted, “and he’s a pervert!”

  “Pizza Hut, then,” I said, sliding the phone book out from underneath the phone. “But can I order something with meat?”

  Toby and Monica said, together, “No meat.”

  Laurel kicked the Christmas tree. “Nobody ever listens to me! Maybe I should just run away!”

  “Well, stick around for one more day, if you can stand it,” Toby said, calmly. “Your mother’s coming home.”

  In her astonishment, Laurel looked, abruptly, like the child she was. Monica, on the other hand, was suspicious.

  “When?” she asked.

  “Tonight, actually.”

  “Is she better?”

  Toby bit his lip. “We’ll have to see.” He looked at me. “She just called Mal from the hospital. We don’t have all the details, but the long and the short of it is, the insurance denied the claim. The hospital’s kicking her out. They won’t even let her spend the night.”

  “But it’s Christmas Eve,” I said.

  “And Mal’s got her hands full, getting her mother settled—did I mention they think Lena might have had a minor stroke?—which means I’ve got to drive to Twin Lakes to pick up Cindy Ann myself. That’s three hours round-trip, and the truck doesn’t have any heat right now and the guy I hired to fill in at the store hasn’t shown up for the past week. Oh, yeah, and Mal and I are getting married in forty-eight hours.”

  “And the Christmas tree fell down,” Monica whispered, as if, once again, she might start to cry.

  “Are you ever going to call for that pizza?” Laurel said.

  I looked at her as if she were an alien. Then again, I was hungry, too. “Sure,” I said. “Why not?”

  I called from the phone in the kitchen. When I returned to the living room, Toby was hauling the tree upright, and Laurel and Monica were settling down to watch a video. “It’ll be thirty minutes,” I said, steadying the upper branches while he adjusted the stand.

  “I still can’t believe you’re here,” he said.

  “I can’t quite believe it myself. I only got the invitation last week.”

  “You said on your message. Actually, I’m surprised that it found you at all.”

  We looked at each other.

  “I really didn’t know about the suit,” I said. “I’ve been sick about this, Toby, truly.”

  He nodded toward the kitchen, and I followed him there, leaving the girls glued to the screen. I braced myself for
his questions, his anger, but as soon as we were out of their sight, he merely knelt before the oven, lit the pilot, left the door open like a gaping mouth. The first faint breaths of warmth stirred the air; I put out my hands, rubbed them together. Even the oven racks, I noticed, had been cleaned.

  “This is how we heat the place,” Toby said, leaning back against the counter. “But we can’t let the girls light the pilot unless one of us is here, and we just aren’t prepared—we’re simply not equipped—”

  “It will be easier,” I said, “once Cindy Ann is back again.”

  But Toby shook his head. “I can’t believe they’re sending her home,” he said. “She was practically catatonic, Meg. Her therapist told us about this place, it’s for women who have survived some kind of—” He glanced toward the living room. “Trauma.”

  I nodded. “I know. Mom told me.”

  “How does Mom know about any of this?”

  “We’re in Fox Harbor, remember?”

  He smiled, but only with his mouth. “The thing is,” he said, “Cindy Ann liked it there. She thought it was helping. I thought it was helping. I actually had a conversation with her, and she apologized for calling me—well, the things she calls me whenever she’s been drinking.”

  “Things like what?” I said.

  Once again, he closed his eyes. I realized, with a start, that he was fighting tears. In all the years I’d known him, I’d never seen him cry, aside from Evan’s funeral. And then, again, six months later, when Rex and I told him good-bye.

  “Toby,” I said. “Jesus. How can I help?”

  A full minute passed before he spoke. “You could open the fish store for a few hours. Check the stock, do feedings. There’s instructions on the fridge. If Mom and Dad are coming anyway, maybe they’d keep an eye on the girls so I don’t have to drag them up to Twin Lakes. Especially since I don’t know what Cindy Ann’s state of mind’s going to be when I get there.”

  But I had a better idea. “You go to the store,” I said. “I’ll stay with the girls until Mom and Dad come, and then—”

  “Mom and Dad can’t drive to Twin Lakes. It’s a long way, Meg, and it’s going to be late—”