by Beck, Jamie
“I’ll think about it.”
“Thank you.” His earnestness made my heart ache because I’d never seen my father change his mind once he’d made a decision. “I’ve got to go now.”
“Did you walk all the way over here?” It had to be two miles from Angie’s or farther.
He shook his head. “I dropped it off at the garage before walking over. Didn’t want it to wake up your neighbors.”
“Good thought.” My father’s ears were probably on constant alert for that sound.
Billy gave me a quick buss on the lips before dashing down the pier. I waved and then sauntered home slowly, elated by my first real kiss, yet worried. I might fall in love with him, and then what would I do?
Someone pats my hand, startling me from my thoughts. “It’s really nice back here, Gram. Quiet.”
When did Annie arrive?
Such a good girl. Sweet and easy, like Lonna.
She puts her arm around my shoulders and gives me a little squeeze. “Town’s a lot different from when I first stayed with you and Grandpa. Redevelopment—sort of like what I need for my life! But it must be strange to you—all the changes.”
I nod. Town is different. The world is different. I was born two generations too soon.
“What did you love most about life here?” Annie grins at me like she used to when she colored at the table while I cooked.
“The water.” My hand trembles so I clasp it with the other.
“Yeah, that’s one of the best parts.” She slides a pleasant look my way.
“But I never loved it here as much as you did.”
Annie folds her hands on the table, her head cocked. “Then why did you stay?”
I look at the water. “Once you lose your soul mate, there’s no place to escape that grief, so I stayed where I knew.”
She frowns. “But what about before Grandpa died, when you were young?”
“That’s what I’m talking about.” I snap my mouth shut, not having meant to say that.
Annie’s mouth forms a little O. She pauses, then is careful with her words. “So there was a man before Grandpa?”
She loved Martin, so I look away. It’s not loving Billy before Martin that shames me but everything that followed. Billy’s and my reckless decisions. My own weakness. My father’s rigidity and all its consequences.
Still, Annie presses. “Was that the Billy you mentioned the other week?”
My stomach rolls over. How does she know about him? “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“All right.” She looks down before gazing up at the sky. Then it’s as if she’s talking to someone else, or maybe to herself. “Teen love is so grand and tragic. At nineteen I’d believed destiny had thrown Richard and me together. If he’d left me back then, I might’ve lived out my life worshipping the man I’d thought he could’ve been because I would never have come to know the man he actually is.”
I knew the man Billy was—the best kind. If he’d had a selfish bone in his body, everything might’ve worked out differently. Painlessly. Not with me here in an institution.
My chest hurts, so I bend forward and grip my head. My muscles clench in anticipation of pain, but I keep my eyes closed.
“Are you okay?” the woman beside me asks. “Maybe we should go back inside.”
No, please!
“Don’t let them hurt me again.” I clutch her forearm. “I promise I’ll cooperate. If you let me go home, I’ll do what my daddy says. I don’t belong at Allcot.”
“Allcot?” she repeats, playing dumb. “Who’s hurting you?”
If she tells on me, that could make it worse. “No one.”
“Are you sure?” She’s staring at me so intently.
I know her . . . but I can’t remember how. Lonna’s hair is lighter. Who is she? “Is my father coming to visit soon?”
She blinks, her mouth forming a sad smile. “I hope so.”
“Good.” I’ll be demure and beg him to take me home.
Her shoulders slump as a sailboat comes into view. Seconds later, her voice cracks. “You can’t help me anymore, can you, Gram? I’m on my own now.”
She dabs a tear from her eye and sniffles.
It isn’t easy to watch someone lose her innocence, but sooner or later we all must face the harsh truth. “We’re all on our own.”
CHAPTER TEN
ANNE
By the time I surreptitiously inspect Gram for any bruises or injuries—which were absent, thankfully—get her settled in her room, and reach my car, my arms and legs are leaden. It’s not as if I haven’t noticed losing Gram bit by bit before today, yet that conversation made it more acute—made me lonelier. What was I thinking, dumping my problems on her lap when she’s burdened with her own worries? Two weeks ago I’d thought she had only the frightening truth of her dementia to wrestle. Now, with her past and present overlapping, she’s coping with old pain, too.
Who was Billy T., and what in the hell is Allcot? Her voice was laced with fear and need when she spoke of her father. Was he hurting her?
When I arrive at home, Katy’s left for soccer practice. Hard to believe my conversation with Lauren happened mere hours ago. But I’ve handled that for now, so I take my laptop and a ginger ale outside to try to dig into Gram’s latest revelation. A red-tailed hawk circles overhead while I type “Allcot” and “Maryland” into the search bar. A number of hits pop up, so I click on the first one.
Established in the late 1800s by Dr. Albert Allcot on his family’s farm southwest of Baltimore, the facility served as a sanatorium for the “care and treatment of nervous and selected cases of mental diseases in women.”
I push the laptop away. Holy hell!
That mission statement raises the hairs on my neck; 1950s mental health care isn’t exactly known for being compassionate. I can’t believe Gram spent time there, having never seen any inkling of a significant mental health disorder. She’s always been solid. A little quiet at times, but we’re all hit with bouts of melancholy.
Her memory is more sieve than anything else these days. She could be confusing something she once saw or read with her own experience. But the look in her eyes today—the panic—seemed real. My stomach gurgles.
After cracking open the soda tab, I pull the laptop back to read more. The facility closed down in 1978. I can’t find more, and none of what’s online will answer my specific questions. Gram made it sound like someone put her there. Who? Her father? Billy? And why? Is Allcot what Grandpa had been referring to that summer I overheard him? But then how would this information have helped my dad grieve my mom?
Don’t let them hurt me again. I promise I’ll cooperate. If you let me go home, I’ll do what my daddy says.
Tears form, stinging my eyes. I’m wiping them with my sleeve when Dan steps outside.
Our gazes lock. The man misses nothing, but he doesn’t press me. “Uh, we’re packing it up for the day. Just wanted to let you know that we’ve got the sink, fridge, and dishwasher hooked up.” He hitches his thumb over his shoulder. “The range and hood will be installed on Monday. I’ve put down plywood counters while we wait for the quartz. The kitchen’s not yet fully functional, but you can keep a few more things on hand now that you aren’t restricted to that mini fridge in the dining room.”
I close the laptop, pushing my questions aside for the moment. “Thanks, Dan.”
He turns to go, then stops. “I don’t mean to pry, but I hate to leave a lady in distress. I overheard some of your call earlier. Can I . . . Is there anything I can do?”
I snort because, even from a distance, Lauren is messing with my life. When I can’t take the quiet any longer, I ask, “How much of my call did you hear?”
He raises a shoulder. “Enough.”
“So you know why Katy’s been at home this week.”
He nods, but his expression remains inscrutable. What must he think of my daughter and me? I’m working up the nerve to ask when he says, “I got caught drinking
in the pit back in the nineties. Football coach made me do a lot of extra sprints during practice. Lost track of how many times I threw up during the two weeks following that bust.” His smirk tells me he enjoyed his high school high jinks. “She’ll be fine. Better she tests the boundaries now than when she’s off at college.”
My muscles slacken once I’m freed of the need to defend her or myself. It’s refreshing to talk to someone who doesn’t view every single event as a make-or-break moment. “Thank you for sharing that. Helps me feel less of a failure.”
He waves me off and takes a seat. “You’re a good mom.”
“Am I? It was selfish moving her here when there was already enough upheaval.”
Dan grunts. “It’s not the worst thing when kids learn they aren’t the center of the universe. Makes adulthood less of a shock.”
The matter-of-fact statement brings me up short. I’d always resented the way my dad never made me the center of things, but his attitude did teach me to do things for myself.
Still, my daughter’s anxiety and drug use complicate things—and now that I’ve learned Gram might’ve once had some kind of nervous breakdown, I’m more concerned. “It still seems sad to learn it so young, doesn’t it?”
“Couldn’t say. I’ve never been the center of anything.” He averts his eyes.
I suspect he’s shocked his admission slipped out. Teenage Dan always seemed to have had it all. He must’ve been the world’s best faker. Been there, done that: My Arlington neighbors thought I’d been perfectly happy. What’d it get me? Nothing but more isolation.
“Thanks for checking on me, Dan. It’s nice to reset after getting off on the wrong foot.”
His brows gather. “Why do you think we got off on a bad foot?”
“Well”—I shrug—“you seemed impatient with my changes.”
He shakes his head. “I just didn’t want arguments when my original estimates were blown.”
“I wouldn’t expect changes for free.”
“Then you’d be rare. Most folks don’t ‘see the big deal’ when they ask for this alteration or that.” He crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Then they bitch and moan on Yelp about the upcharges—which I won’t publicly rebut—and that totally sucks.”
“That does suck.”
He tips his head, wearing a lopsided smile. “To be honest, I also didn’t think you’d be able to live through this renovation so well.”
“It’s not as easy as I thought. But it’s interesting to watch the daily progress.” I sip the soda I brought out earlier. “Knowing how to build a house must be empowering. I mean, it’s quite remarkable.”
“Less remarkable than being an artist. Anyone can learn to do what I do.”
“You’re too humble, and too generous with your praise. I told you before, I’m no artist—not anymore.” I fold and refold my napkin until it’s a small triangle, recalling the sophomoric sketch I attempted earlier. I suspect he’d like me to talk more about art, but I’ve always found it difficult to put my feelings into words. Painting is a form of expression that goes beyond words, after all. “What drew you to construction work?”
“I couldn’t see myself at a desk job. This is physical, mental, and creative.” He shifts in his seat, leaning forward slightly. “My friend’s dad had a small crew and hired me during college summers to help out. Got me hooked.”
“I figured you love it from all the whistling I hear.” I grin, my long-lost passion for work momentarily rippling the surface of my consciousness.
“Do I whistle that often?”
I nod.
“I don’t even notice.” He scratches his head. Somewhere in the yard a woodpecker drums a tree, breaking the silence. “Do you mind if I ask why you moved here, of all places?”
Before meeting his gaze, I set my chin on my fist. “My summers here were happy and slow-paced. Seemed like it’d be a great change for both my daughter and me. Of course, the town has changed a lot since then.”
The west side of town, in particular, has flourished in the past decade, with new shops and restaurants spreading across the land like pachysandra.
“Yeah. Lots of change.” He screws up his face.
“You don’t like it?”
“It’s good for my business. Good for property values. But I miss the leisurely vibe and time when I knew most everyone.”
“I can still picture you on that lifeguard stand. You did know everyone back then.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “A lifetime ago.”
“Hey now. Let’s not talk like old people.” I pat the table with my palm. “Not when I’m starting my life all over again.”
Humor fades from his eyes. “Divorce is tough, but it gets easier. Give it time.”
I envy the fact that he’s passed through the grief and anger phases of this particular kind of loss. “Any tips?”
His expression screws up, likes he’s conflicted about something. “Don’t waste time being angry.”
“Easier said than done, especially given the affair,” I scoff, then regret the indiscretion.
“Trust me, I know.”
“Your wife cheated, too?” I blurt, then cover my mouth with both hands.
“Real punch to the gut.” He looks down, tugging at his earlobe. What an unfortunate set of circumstances we share. “I wasted a year being miserable instead of realizing I was free of the wrong woman. Now I know it was for the best.”
I rest my chin on my fist. “God, you sound healthy.”
“Like I said, time helps. That and throwing yourself into doing things you enjoy.” One half of his mouth turns upward. “In a backward way maybe I owe Ellen for improving my bank account, thanks to the extra hours I put in to avoid thinking about or bumping into her.”
“I can’t ever cut ties with Richard and Lauren because of Katy.” Even now, on my patio, the fact that Lauren will probably be part of our lives for years to come is a slam to my breastbone. “Somehow I have to accept that and get Katy to make the best of her blended family.”
At least that’s what a good mother would do. Does my secret longing for my daughter to hate Lauren make me a bad mother?
“That’s a tall order.” He wrinkles his nose in a show of sympathy. “I bump into Ellen only occasionally. Guess that’s another upside of town’s population boom.”
Based on nothing at all, I imagine Ellen as a buxom redhead with bright eyes and a pouty mouth. “Is Ellen remarried?”
He nods, showing no outward sign of envy that his deceitful ex got a happy ending while he remains alone.
“Wow. You’re really strong. Living far away hasn’t helped me handle my jealousy yet.”
His head tilts. “Why are you jealous?”
I raise my hands sideways like a set of scales and wiggle the right one. “Lauren’s got a good career, classic looks—petite, blonde, patrician—my husband, a brand-new house, and two young kids who probably adore her.” Then I wave the left hand. “I’m a divorced middle-aged mom who is failing at that job, and I’ve no idea what comes next.”
“A—Lauren sounds cookie-cutter. B—you’re not failing. Teens test boundaries. You’d be failing if Katy didn’t try to pull some stunts.”
I smooth my palm on the table. “You have no idea how much I want to believe that.”
Dan leans forward, dropping his voice like he’s about to share a secret. “Name one normal adult who didn’t break a few rules in their teens.”
I shake my head with a frown, unable to come up with one.
“Exactly.” He sits back again. “I’ve never seen Lauren, so I can’t comment on her looks, but you’ve got an intelligent, animated face, which is infinitely more attractive than a Barbie doll’s. Plus, you’re talented.”
“Oh, stop. Please!” I self-consciously touch my curly ponytail and try not to think about the sun damage accrued over the years. “I’m not fishing for compliments.”
“Still, I bet your husband regrets his decision soon enough.�
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I sigh. “Wouldn’t that be nice.”
“Is that what you want?” A loaded question if ever one existed.
“I don’t know. I hate having failed . . . and I’ve never been on my own.” I set my chin on my hand and look toward the trees, my mind sifting through memories, like how Richard, Katy, and I would snuggle in bed on Sunday mornings in those first years, or how he’d sneak up behind me at the stove and drop a kiss on the back of my neck while peeking at whatever I was stirring. “I liked being married. Or at least I liked parts of it. The companionship—when he was home, anyway. Being a family unit. The sense of safety and belonging. But it’s important for Katy to see me be independent and capable.”
“Happiness is the best revenge, too.” He clucks. “You’ve got a second chance to make your life whatever you want. Go for something big.”
“Something big?” I tease. “I haven’t been on my own since nineteen. It’s probably best if I start small and build from there.”
Dan nods. “I meant more in terms of dreams . . . Dream big.”
I could dream big. If I’m prudent, my assets and alimony will last long enough to let me take my time finding a rewarding new purpose or career. But it had never been a lack of money that held me back from my original dream—more like a lack of faith. Or daring, perhaps. It’s my nature to play things safe, but safety doesn’t ever translate to truly great art. People don’t get as excited about the familiar as they do the unexpected. Yet I stopped pushing myself before I ever took a truly bold step.
“I’ve been thinking about painting again, but I’m not the same girl who had all that creative optimism half a lifetime ago.”
“And here I thought tortured artists were the thing.” He chuckles. “You know, you might enjoy stopping by Trudy Miller’s gallery, Finch Street Studio. She’s terrific. Changes exhibits every month, and she’s up on the local artist scene. You two might hit it off.”
“I’ll do that.” I smile. I don’t have to create art to enjoy it. And I would like a new friend. “Well, thanks again for the chat. I appreciate it but don’t want to keep you any longer.”
He’s about to reply when Katy comes through the doors, sweaty from practice. “What’s for dinner?”
