by Nicole Baart
Nora sank to her knees on the floor and forced herself to breathe. To think. But her mind was blank and aching. She didn’t know what to do or where to turn. She had never felt so betrayed in her entire life.
Why? Where was she?
Suddenly, it hit her with the force of a lightning bolt. She knew. She knew what Tiffany had done. Nora scrambled to her feet and raced back through the house, down the stairs, and out the back door where she slipped across the wet grass on her way to the leaning detached garage. It had started to pour, thunder rumbling in the distance and promising that there was so much more to come. Nora shielded her face from the fat drops with her hand, but by the time she hit the shelter of the garage she was soaked.
Nora had left her phone in the glove compartment of her car, but she knew that there was a Maglite on the workbench. It was thick and heavy as a billy club—it had occurred to her more than once that it could be used as a weapon. But now, she just needed it for light.
The board she was looking for was beneath the workbench and half hidden by the support beam for the long counter. Tiffany had shown it to her long ago, back when she was still trying to prove that Donovan was a good man. The sort of man who could make an honest woman out of her and be a loving daddy to Everlee.
“See?” Tiffany said, wedging back the board and shining the flashlight into the depths of the recess beyond. Nora could just make out a brown paper bag folded up inside.
“What is it?”
“Money.” Tiffany sounded smug, I told you so ringing in that one simple word. “I counted it a couple days ago when I knew he would be out for hours.”
“And?”
“There’s got to be over ten thousand dollars there.”
“You said you counted it.”
Tiffany laughed. “I gave up! There were too many bills.”
Back then, Nora hadn’t asked all the questions that were burning on the tip of her tongue. Where did it come from? Why is he hiding it in the garage? Who else knows about it? She didn’t trust herself to because she knew that she’d start to yell. To tell Tiffany what to do and how far to run. Tiffany never responded well to demands. Instead, Nora just pushed herself up and walked away, swinging Everlee into her arms as she left the garage.
But now. Now Nora wished she knew the answers to all those questions. She wished that she’d screamed at Tiffany, told her to get out before it was too late.
Because all at once her every fear was justified.
I’M A FLIGHT RISK. Always have been. Things get heated and instead of sticking around to figure out if there’s going to be a hot-dog roast or a natural disaster, I assume the worst and split.
Don’t hate me for what you can’t possibly understand.
I feel like I’ve always done my level best with what I’ve been given. Or, at least, usually. But sometimes life doesn’t hand you lemons—it throws a snake in your lap. And what are you supposed to do about that? Before my grandpa died he taught me that you take its head off. Clean, with one sure chop of a sharpened hoe.
But I’ve never been good with garden tools. I prefer to run.
Usually straight into the arms of exactly the wrong man. Funny thing is, I fell for a good man once. Or someone who I thought was good. Stable, safe, familiar. But he turned out to be all soft inside, and not in a sweet way. He was rotten to the core. Nora tried to warn me, just like she has every single time. And I don’t deserve her nostrings-attached friendship, because I’m about the worst listener alive.
I traded my truck for a two-door Corolla and a quarter gram of glass. My last. Can you blame me? But then, you don’t know who he is. What he’s done.
Believe it or not, it was the things that I couldn’t put a label on, things he could never be convicted for, that seeded my imagination with violent thoughts. Those incidents made me understand with almost sickening clarity how satisfying it would be to claw his eyes out with my bare fingers. That’s an expression, you know, but it’s more than that, too. It’s the very core of each layered feeling I have for him: the lust masquerading as love, the dependence, the need. The way he made me feel wanted in a way that I had never been wanted before. As if I were air and water and light and life. As if he needed me for his very survival. Once, I believed he would die without me. But none of those things were real. And when it was all peeled back and I saw what he really was? It was too late. Almost.
We had been together for over a year when I glimpsed the truth. Of course, I’m no saint myself. Never have been, probably never will be. I met him in another man’s bedroom, and if that doesn’t tell you something, I fear you lack imagination. There were drugs and far too much alcohol. Rehab, sometimes. It didn’t do much good.
He only hit me once. We were fighting about something. Maybe rent (it was his turn to pay?). I don’t remember. But I do remember that I was, as my auntie would say, sassing. I have a sharp tongue. I use it. And why not? He wasn’t my father, my elder. I thought we respected each other.
I was wrong. Without even giving it a thought, he hauled off and smacked me across the face. It was vicious, backhanded, and the class ring he still wore on his third finger split my lip like a piece of overripe fruit. I was too shocked to react. As the blood spilled warm and quick from the corner of my mouth I just stood and stared. Of course, my mouth throbbed and a headache was sparking behind my temple like a struck match, but I barely registered those things.
It was the betrayal that hurt. No one had ever hit me before. Not even my auntie, who chased me with a wooden spoon and pretended like she’d paddle me purple. She never did. If she caught me—which was rare—she pulled me to her scrawny chest and held me so tight I wondered if she had decided to suffocate me instead of beat me.
“Good God in heaven,” she’d whisper over my dark curls. “You are ten handfuls, Tiffany Marie. And I only have two.”
But wasn’t that a good thing? An abundance. An overflow. It sounded perfect to me. I didn’t know what it was like to have too much of anything.
I thought of that as the first drop of blood hit my white blouse and ruined it. Finally. Extravagance. It wasn’t what I’d always hoped it would be. And even though I knew I could soak my pretty shirt in ice water, try to erase the dark blot with stain remover and sunshine, I’d always know that beneath the line of turquoise embroidery there was a smudge of evidence. Proof that I wasn’t the woman I believed myself to be: wanted, safe, loved.
Maybe everything would have been different if we had been alone that night. I’ve already admitted I’m prone to escape. What’s the point in fighting when you can walk away? But we must have woken her with our arguing, and when she stumbled bleary-eyed and half-asleep into the kitchen to find me bloody, she screamed.
Her fear was primal, a dark and wild thing that made her cling to me like a spider monkey. She was all arms and legs, sinew and terror wound so tight that I ended up bleeding all over her, too. The next morning I didn’t even try to wash her Dora pajamas or my flowing peasant shirt, even though they were both favorites. I just crumpled them in a ball and pushed them to the very bottom of the garbage can beneath the sink. Out of sight, out of mind.
We used the same tactic to divert her attention. A half-eaten bag of M&M’s calmed her down while I dabbed at my face with a dish towel. She rested her cheek on my shoulder and ate the candies one by one from his outstretched hand, saving the green ones for last because I had once told her they were my favorite. When the only chocolates left were green, she snagged the bag and handed it solemnly to me.
“For your owie.”
“I fell,” I told her, and had to suppress an inappropriate, crazed giggle because it was so cliché. A bad after-school special. I determined right then and there that we were gone, baby, gone. Forget the farmhouse I thought I loved and the way that he ran his calloused hands over my bare skin. Forget that strong chin and the look he gave me when he wanted me. My auntie always told me there were plenty of fish in the sea and maybe this time I would find one worth kee
ping.
But when I dared to sneak a glance at him, he was crying. Real tears on his cheeks and a line dashed across his forehead that proclaimed his guilt, his never-ending regret for what had happened.
“I’m so sorry,” he mouthed to me. And when I gave an almost imperceptible nod he made a quiet, strangled sound like a sob.
“Why are you crying?” she asked him. “Mommy’s hurt.”
“Your momma’s hurt makes my heart hurt,” he said, avoiding my eyes. “I’m just so sorry that it happened.”
“She fell,” my little girl said sagely, and though a little burr of disgust caught and held in the pit of my stomach, I let her go to him when he reached out his arms.
“We have to take good care of her, you and me,” he said, pressing her head into the crook of his neck. “You and me …”
She was asleep in no time.
And I, foolish fairy-tale-believing simpleton that I was, didn’t run.
I’m running now.
Day Three
*
Friday
LIZ
WHEN YOU LIVED in a town like Key Lake (population 6,567, give or take a few), Walmart was a necessary evil. It was the only chain store that would set up shop in such a little haven, never mind that businesses boomed during the summer as vacationers gleefully stocked up on everything from sunscreen to cases of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Always PBR. Because: small-town America.
The truth was, like it or not, Walmart was the only place in all of Key Lake where Liz could buy the essentials. Makeup and the dish soap that didn’t make her rags smell musty and cheap birdseed for her collection of feeders. And, of course, party supplies.
Liz grudgingly made a list because it was better than dwelling on the fact that her granddaughter (sweet Mary and Joseph) was asleep across the lake. She had learned long ago that sometimes getting lost in the details was better than stepping back to look at the whole, ugly picture. So rather than deal with the dull ache in her heart that made it difficult to breathe, Liz took out a pen and paper.
Napkins (the nice thick ones)
Citronella oil
Strands of white LED lights
Vodka (cheap)
Baguette
Mozzarella pearls
Prosciutto
Limes
Walmart would provide. But Liz didn’t have to like it. Thankfully, she also didn’t have to go when she risked being seen by someone she might know.
It was after midnight when Liz pulled into the oversized parking lot. She marveled at the number of cars at such a late hour and the myriad out-of-state plates. Mostly Iowa and South Dakota. But she spotted an SUV from Michigan and a motor home that hailed, impossibly, it seemed to Liz, from Florida. Why? she wanted to ask the driver. You’re surrounded by sea. Key Lake was, in comparison, an embarrassment. A dirty little mud puddle.
Liz slipped her purse strap crisscross over her chest and prepared herself for the worst. Drunk teens. Or—please God, no—drunk adults who should know better. Who would crack jokes and slur their words and flirt badly. There was nothing Liz hated so much as a bad flirt, the kind of man who damned a woman with faint praise or downright insulted her in a weak attempt to be charming. Liz had learned that even at fiftysomething she wasn’t immune to that sort of vague humiliation. But even corny pickup lines were preferable to idle chitchat over the watermelons with Agnes from the church’s Ladies Aid. Or Helen or Mira or Josephine. Liz was a good, God-fearing woman and a regular at the First Reformed Church of Key Lake, but she wasn’t the quintessential parishioner. She was fond of Jesus, not so much his people. And they seemed to love Walmart more than seemed strictly conventional.
For all her idle fears, Liz found the aisles of the store to be almost completely vacant. There was no greeter at the door at such a late (early?) hour and the customer service counter was abandoned. The gardening section echoed with her footsteps, and as she drew close to the darkened corner of the store the motion-sensor lights hummed to life in greeting. Clearly she was the first person who had wandered this far in a while.
There was a feel of apocalypse in the air, as if the Rapture had happened and Liz had been left behind. It felt inevitable, desolate, and she sank onto a gingham patio set display couch and put her head in her hands.
Grief was sudden and inescapable, a wave that engulfed her so thoroughly she felt like she was drowning in it. Where had she gone so wrong? What had she done to alienate her children so thoroughly? Liz had a granddaughter. She couldn’t get her mind around it even as her hands trembled at the thought. The child was her own flesh and blood. The earth should have moved when Lucy was born, Liz should have felt the universe shift. Instead, she had lived all these years never knowing, never even suspecting. What was she supposed to do with that?
Liz took a shuddering breath and reached to tuck her hair behind her ears. She was surprised to find her cheeks were damp with tears, the little wisps of face-framing bangs tangled instead of smooth. What a mess. She was a wreck in every way and that only added to her heartbreak.
Wiping the dampness from her cheeks, Liz straightened her spine and looked at her shopping list. There would be time to deal with the secrets and lies, the little girl who shared Nora’s stone-gray eyes. But weeping in the garden section at Walmart would accomplish nothing. Liz did the only thing she knew how to do: she powered through.
Her cart was stocked with party fare and she was just about to check out when it struck her that she wouldn’t have time for a cut and color before the soiree tomorrow night. No, tonight, she realized. Soon there would be the sound of laughter over the water, lights twinkling in the trees as the sun set, long toothpicks layered with cherry tomatoes, fresh mozzarella, and basil from her garden. Determinedly focusing on the things she could control, Liz decided she would wear that cobalt sundress she loved and the strappy sandals with the kitten heels. When she pictured her hair pulled back, her roots showed. How long had it been since she had colored her hair?
Scolding herself roundly for her oversight, Liz steered in the direction of the personal care and cosmetics section. She would never color from a box, but her stylist had once told her that she could refresh the bubbles in her champagne blond with a hair gloss. And yes, Maureen had actually said that: refresh the bubbles in your champagne blond. It had taken all Liz’s self-control not to gape. She was not a mean person, but some people should come with warning labels.
Outrageous claims notwithstanding, a gloss sounded doable.
Liz found the aisle marked Hair Color and was so busy scanning the displays for a box marked gloss that she almost bumped right into the first person, besides a half-asleep cashier, that she had seen on her midnight Walmart excursion.
“Oh!” she cried, surprised, worrying that her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. “I’m sorry! I almost ran you over.”
The girl barely flinched. Nodding slightly, she continued to study the packages of permanent color.
Well, that was rude. Not even a proper hello. They were in Walmart, but it was the Walmart Supercenter in Key Lake, Minnesota, a place where the one-finger wave reigned supreme and everyone was friendly—even out-of-towners. Often, especially out-of-towners. Vacations had a soporific effect on people. Out came the Hawaiian shirts, the laid-back attitude, the expansive friendliness that made them yak for fifteen minutes with a perfect stranger in a shopping store aisle. Apparently, the girl hadn’t read the unofficial handbook.
“You have lovely hair,” Liz told her, trying to see past the curtain of chestnut-colored waves that obscured the stranger’s face. She was determined to eke at least a smile out of her. “I hope the dye isn’t for you.”
She made a noncommittal grunt.
“I’ve always wanted to be a brunette.” Not true. But whatever. Liz was making friends here. Drowning the girl in a little Midwestern nice. Maybe she was the one with the motor home from Florida. Liz had been expecting a couple with gray hair and matching jogging suits. “So, what do you think?” she fished sham
elessly. “Could I pull off Dark Golden Mahogany Number 4?”
The girl had no choice but to glance at the box that Liz held in her outstretched hand. Her eyes flicked to Liz’s and she nodded once, a small, curt movement that seemed more like a tic than an expression of her approval. In that moment, Liz realized two things: the girl was older than she had imagined and she was no stranger.
The coltish lines of her body and the length of her thick, dark hair were reminiscent of a teenager, but the woman before Liz was fast approaching thirty. She knew that for a fact.
“Tiffany Barnes,” Liz said slowly. “It has been a very long time, honey.”
Tiffany’s head whipped around and she stared at Liz—for real this time. It was obvious she hadn’t recognized her teenage best friend’s mother. Or, at least, she hadn’t looked closely enough to peg her. And what was that emotion bubbling just below the surface? Fear? Well, that didn’t make sense at all. Liz and Jack Sr. hadn’t exactly embraced the wild child Nora attached herself to like a sister, but she had always been welcome in their home. Even if the welcome was tepid and Tiffany rarely accepted it.
“Well, now, you’re about the last person I expected to bump into tonight,” Liz said. She marched over to where Tiffany stood, cowering, it seemed, and gave her a stiff Sanford hug. The younger woman didn’t return the embrace. Her arms were pinned to her sides, hands still clutching the boxes of permanent hair dye. “How have you been, honey? I don’t think I’ve seen you in …” Liz tried to do the math and failed. “Well, it’s been a long time.”
“It has.” Tiffany seemed to have found her voice, finally.
“What have you been up to since high school?”
“Waitressing,” she said without conviction.
“That sounds nice.” It didn’t. Not at all, but then Liz couldn’t exactly cast stones. Nora was a barista, after all. And, apparently, a single mom who thought little of abandoning her child in the care of her somewhat-estranged sister. (A stranger?) Good God in heaven, how long did these girls plan to drag out their adolescence? To make bad choices and force other people to deal with them? By their age Liz had been a married mother of three. And if she hadn’t been mixing bottles of formula and potty training toddlers she would have been an administrative assistant in some respectable office. She had a two-year degree and a long list of excellent referrals to recommend her. Of course, she had never needed them. Mothering and housekeeping and husband-keeping had kept her more than busy. Liz barely had time for her garden and her fabrics and her designs.
