by Sofia Grant
“I never dream about the service. Come on, Mags, I told you that I loved flying. I loved it. Working on planes was the second-best thing to flying them.”
“But I hear you, at night—”
“Stop!” Hank bellowed. Margaret cringed, imagining Hank in the neighbors’ kitchen, as the rancher and his wife tried to pretend not to listen. After a moment he mumbled, “It’s Ralphie—all right? It’s always Ralphie.”
Ralphie, the brother they never talked about, the lost boy, the child Helene was meant to replace. Ralphie, whom Hank knew he couldn’t possibly have saved, but blamed himself nonetheless. Ralphie, whom time had gilded until he’d become as perfect in Hank’s mind as Ruby was in her parents’.
“Hank,” Margaret whispered, his pain mixing up with her own dull resentment. Wouldn’t she ever be enough, for anyone?
“Never mind. Just—never mind. Look, I’ve got to go, the Martins need to get to their supper.”
“Just promise me that you’ll be here on time on Friday, won’t you, dear?” Margaret said, trying to inject a note of cheer into her voice, reluctant to end the call on such a contentious note. “Mother’s having Lucille make a roast, and Daddy wants to take you for a ride in his new car.” When he said nothing, she plunged on. “And Georgie will be just deliriously happy. But most of all it’s me, darling. I miss you. I need you. Don’t make me wait another minute.”
Another pause, one that ended with a cough that Margaret suspected he’d faked. “Sure, baby,” Hank said. “You know I love you too. Always, and forever. Just—kiss Georgie for me. Tell her she’s my best girl. Her and you—my best girls.”
He hung up, leaving Margaret to remember that he’d said the same thing all those years ago on that sunny morning when she’d doused Helene with flour in the larder. “My best girls.” Then, she’d been an afterthought, his kid sister’s pal. And now Margaret felt like an afterthought once again—because Hank loved their daughter best of all.
The question echoed in her head. Wouldn’t she ever be enough?
THE NEXT DAY, Margaret distracted herself with a rash of cleaning that was entirely unnecessary, as Lucille had scrubbed the apartment only the day before, changing the sheets and dusting and polishing every surface. Caroline had taken Georgina to lunch at the club after promising her a taffy apple if she promised to be good.
When Lucille came hurrying up the stairs without knocking, Margaret assumed it was for some last-minute detail in preparation for Hank’s arrival: to inquire which side dishes he preferred, or to ask if he would expect breakfast or prefer to sleep in.
But when she saw the girl’s stricken face, Margaret’s heart slammed against her chest. “What?”
Then she was shaking the girl, her hands on her thin shoulders, snapping her head back and forth. “What?”
“It—it—there’s a call for you. It’s Mr. Dial. He’s—there’s been—his plane—an accident—”
Margaret released her and stumbled backward, hitting her ankle on the table leg. “Is he dead? Tell me—is he dead?”
Lucille was crying so hard that she could only nod.
Chapter Seventeen
Katie came out of the bathroom feeling like a new person.
A person who smelled like mothballs and had a synthetic-lace wedgie and the makings of a blister between her toes from the platform wedge sandals with the little plastic flower clusters on the straps.
“Thanks so much for letting me borrow all of this,” she said, wondering if she should have opted for dirty underwear over the thong Scarlett had supplied. Putting her jeans and boots back on was out of the question, given the fact that the day was turning unseasonably warm—and besides, the fringed white shorts did fit her pretty well, as she’d confirmed by checking out her ass in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door.
“That top is perfect on you!” Scarlett gasped, rushing over to tug the peekaboo shoulders a little lower, frowning with concentration. “You have got the nicest tits. I’d give my right leg for them, I really would.” She slapped a hand to her mouth. “Oh gosh, I’m sorry. That was really insensitive.”
“Um . . . I mean, thanks, Scarlett,” Katie said. “I thought it was kind of a nice compliment, actually.”
“Yeah, but—” She pointed out the window at the house next door. “You know, with Jam and all.”
“Sorry . . . I’m confused.”
“Because of his leg.” Scarlett tapped her knee for emphasis. “Oh come on, you didn’t notice?”
“Didn’t notice what?”
“That he’s missing his right leg?”
Katie thought back to the night before, to the figure of a man standing under the eaves of the back porch, arms folded on his chest, watching the mangy dog eat. She certainly hadn’t noticed anything amiss. “It was dark, and he was wearing pants, but—”
“Pants? He must have had an appointment with a new client,” Scarlett said. “That’s the only time he wears pants. And he hardly ever takes new clients, which means he must have been having a good day.”
“That was him on a good day? Could’ve fooled me,” Katie said with feeling. “He was awfully rude.”
“Oh, that don’t mean nothing. He was like that even before he went to Afghanistan.”
Oh, Katie thought.
“But check this out, you have to see what I found.” She picked up an old, threadbare scrapbook and opened it to a faded, sepia-tinted photograph. “This must have been Caroline’s. I’d swear it was you.”
Katie accepted the book, sitting down on the edge of the bed and opening it onto her lap. There, staring up at her, was . . . herself. Her unruly blond hair coming out of its bun, her wide-set pale eyes, her broad forehead and strong jaw, that nose . . . the long, lean shins and slightly chubby knees. Even the same smattering of freckles across her nose.
And in her arms: a perfect cherub of a chortling infant with darling fat little hands and feet and an eyelet romper.
Katie let out a sound, a cross between a sob and a gasp. Without thinking she reached out and touched the baby’s cheek in the photograph.
“I know, it’s amazing, isn’t it?” Scarlett said. “It’s got to be Gomma when she was a baby, with Caroline. You look so much like her.”
“It’s—it’s really remarkable,” Katie said. She took a breath and forced the thought of her own lost baby out of her mind. “Where is this taken?”
“You can’t tell? That’s the courthouse in the background—we drove right past it on the way into town.” Scarlett wrinkled her nose. “Good thing they moved the fulfillment center, it was going to completely ruin the town.”
“Wait. They moved it? Where?”
“Out of town a couple miles, halfway to Leverett’s Chapel.” She looked smug. “There’s nothing out there but dirt and cows and a few rigs, so even if they want to bulldoze it and put in some huge parking lot, at least the rest of us won’t have to look at it.”
“But . . .” Katie tried to hide her dismay. Any premium the house might have fetched by being practically next door to the fulfillment center disappeared in the blink of an eye. “Wasn’t the town worried about losing the extra revenue?”
“That’s the beauty of it! They’re still going to honor the deal they made—they’re giving money for a new middle school and fixing up the hospital, but now they won’t mess up the town with traffic and stuff. We shut down this housing development they had planned too; they finally gave up and moved it to Henderson.” She grinned. “I guess the protestors there didn’t get their shit together in time. Their loss!”
“But, Scarlett—this house would be worth a lot more money if the fulfillment center moved here.”
“Yeah, I guess. But then some Amazon employee would be living here instead of us.” She shrugged. “I mean, I know we can’t keep the world out forever. Once people see how pretty it is here, it’s just a matter of time. I guess I’m just old-fashioned.”
This coming from a girl with red monkeys tattooed across her chest and
a fake diamond in her nose.
As Scarlett set the scrapbook on the dresser, a paper fell out and fluttered to the floor. Katie picked it up: a hand-drawn invitation, with graceful floral boughs surrounding the year 1940 and the words Daisy Club First Annual Benefit Dinner. Underneath, in smaller script: Proceeds to be donated to the fund for the construction of the New London Cenotaph. And at the bottom, in the smallest letters of all: In memory of those we lost.
Inside the folded invitation, a menu was listed along with various prizes that would be raffled off. Katie turned it over; on the back was a listing of the Daisy Club members. She scanned the list and there, second from the bottom, was Caroline Pierson.
“But I thought—you said that Caroline didn’t ever want to talk about what happened,” Katie said. “Why would she join this club? It looks like the sole purpose was to raise money for the memorial.”
“Oh, no, that’s not what the club was for. It was for the replacement babies.”
“The what?”
“The babies that families had to replace the ones that died in the explosion.” Scarlett looked at her curiously. “You didn’t know that? Gomma was born like nine months after the disaster. Her birthday was December 28.”
“The same year?”
“Yup, 1937. But actually, now that I think about it, Gomma didn’t tell me that; I found out when my second-grade class went to the museum on a field trip. They had a little display of Daisy Club stuff, old photos and meeting minutes and attendance lists. There were eleven kids and their moms, and they kept meeting until the kids were in high school. I guess it started as a play group—they got together for luncheons and the maids would watch the kids, and then later when the kids were in school, it was just the moms who met.”
“So you’re saying that these women—the Daisy moms—they deliberately got pregnant after the school explosion to create replacements?” Katie repeated, fascinated. “That seems so, uh, wrong. Like a good way to really mess up a kid, knowing they only existed to make up for a dead sibling. I mean, did all the kids know? Was it like an acknowledged thing?”
“Things were a lot different then,” Scarlett said. “Gomma said her mother never even told her about sex, so I kind of doubt they had a lot of heart-to-heart talks. She said Caroline wasn’t very affectionate, that their maid did more to raise her than Caroline ever did.”
Katie thought that over for a minute. “But if she wasn’t all that into being a mother . . . why do you think she got pregnant the minute she lost her first child?”
“I don’t know if she wasn’t into being a mother, exactly,” Scarlett said slowly. “Gomma said Caroline just had a hard time showing her emotions. I mean, Gomma’s the same way. Was the same way. She kind of implied that’s what made trouble between her and your mom. I mean, I’m sorry if that’s too personal, Katie, it’s none of my business—”
“No, no, not at all, this is . . . I mean, Georgina never talks about the past; it’s like pulling teeth just to get her to tell me the most basic things.” A thought occurred to her—had Georgina known about the Daisies? Something to ask her when they were sitting on the patio with a bottle of pinot gris, perhaps. “I think Georgina just sort of wrote Margaret off because she felt like she wasn’t there for her when she got pregnant with me.”
“That’s sad.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m just realizing that we’re like the fourth generation of women in our family to have issues with their moms. It’s like it’s a genetic trait or something.” She clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh God, I’m so sorry, Scarlett, I didn’t mean—I just didn’t think. You and your mom were close, weren’t you?”
Scarlett nodded vigorously, her eyes shiny. “Yes. She was my best friend. And you’re going to be a great mom too, Katie.”
Now it was Katie’s turn to get a little teary. “Thank you, but I don’t . . . well, honestly, maybe it’s for the best that it isn’t happening. At least not now.”
“Why not? I mean, you can’t wait forever, right?”
Katie stopped herself from pointing out that she was hardly over the hill, but she’d forgotten that women had children a lot younger here than they did on the East Coast. “It’s not that. It’s just . . . things haven’t been exactly great for me and Liam lately. I mean, I’m sure we’ll work it out; it’s just that he’s incredibly busy at work, and he seems, well . . .”
Unenthusiastic. That was the word that came to mind, now that she gave it some thought. Sure, she was the one who had to track her ovulation, and consequently to initiate sex, but lately Liam seemed to anticipate their best days and be otherwise engaged: staying late at work, or taking his interns out for drinks, or playing basketball with Rex—any excuse, it sometimes seemed to Katie, would do.
But if she was really honest with herself, there were days when the app gave its encouraging chirp and she felt a sense of reluctance . . . almost dread. Not about the possibility of a baby—Katie longed for the miracle of a child growing inside her, the sweetness of an infant in her arms, more than ever. But sharing the experience with Liam—trying to convince him to go to childbirth classes, to talk to HR about paternity leave, to agree to move to a bigger place—maybe even a move to the suburbs that he scorned—would only lead to more arguments, more passive-aggressive sniping, more stony silence between them.
“Is he good to you, Katie?” Scarlett asked in a very small voice.
And suddenly Katie remembered the voice on the other end of the phone, yelling about ham and money. The fact that Scarlett couldn’t even bring her home.
“Very good,” she said. “Oh, we have problems like everyone else, but he’s great. Wow, it’s getting late—how about we get started on those errands so we make it to the attorney’s on time?”
WHILE KATIE WENT to see about getting a new debit card at the bank branch in Harrison, Scarlett went off on a mysterious errand, promising to meet her in half an hour.
Katie was glad to be alone for this encounter, since she was afraid she might have to go all-out-bitch on the poor teller, something she wouldn’t do if the situation weren’t so desperate.
She gave the teller her brightest smile. “Hi! I’ve got kind of an unusual request.” She described the mugging and trip across the country as succinctly as she could. “So what I was hoping was, since I’ve got my driver’s license to prove it’s me, that you could give me a cash advance on my Visa card account with this bank. I know I’m close to the limit, but I thought maybe you could bump me up temporarily, I mean, just until I get back home and have a chance to straighten this all out?”
“Why sure, honey, let’s give it a try,” the woman said. But after tapping on her keyboard for several agonizing minutes, she sighed. “I’m sorry, doll, it’s just not coming up.”
“Try under my husband’s name. Liam Garrett.”
More tapping. “Okay, yes, I do see a silver plus account for your husband. But unfortunately you’re not on that account.”
“What? But we’re married, we share all of our accounts. I use my card all the time. Like literally all the time.”
“Oh, I do understand, but it’s Mr. Garrett’s card. You’re just on there as an authorized user. Without speaking to Mr. Garrett directly I can’t increase the limit.”
“Let me borrow your phone. I’ll call him.” As soon as the words were out Katie regretted her tone. “Please.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t have a phone here.” The woman looked pointedly past Katie, where the line had somehow doubled behind her.
“Okay,” she said, already backing away, her face hot. “Fine. I understand. I’ll go make the call and then I’ll come back.”
“Sure thing, hon.”
Outside, Katie leaned against the unforgiving granite of the old bank building, taking deep breaths. She spotted Scarlett across the street, waiting for the light to change, hunched over her own phone, frowning. After a moment she held the phone away and looked at the screen, then slowly put it in her pocket.
Katie would bet that she’d just been hung up on. As the light changed and Scarlett started across the street, Katie slipped back into the entry to the building, then pretended to be coming out the door when Scarlett got to her side of the street.
“Oh, there you are,” she said. “Did you get what you needed?”
Scarlett held up a little brown paper bag. “Hex bolts,” she said. “Twenty-two cents each, so at least I can afford them. Only, I don’t think they’re the right ones. Merritt didn’t say what size, and there’s like six different ones.”
Above the bank, there was an old-fashioned time and temperature sign. Eighty-six degrees at 12:54—and Katie’s stomach was growling again. “Well, I didn’t have any luck either. Do you think I could borrow your phone again?”
They sat down on a bench in front of the bank, and Katie tried Liam.
“Hey, Kate.” This time Liam sounded like himself when he picked up.
“Liam,” Katie said, all the stress of the morning making her shrill. “I’ve just been at the bank. They won’t advance me any cash on your card because apparently it’s your card. Like I’m just some sort of secondary user. What the hell, Liam, you didn’t trust me to have my own goddamn card?”
“Whoa, hey, slow down,” he said. “You were there when we opened that account. You could have said something then.”
“I didn’t realize I had to say anything because I assumed that we were both adults!” This conversation wasn’t going the way she’d intended.
“Look, Katie, I don’t have time to sit here getting yelled at right now. Go check the front door. Rex said that Lolly overnighted you some cash. It was supposed to be there by three.”
Katie felt a rush of gratitude—that was exactly something Lolly would do. She made a mental note to invite Lolly and Rex for dinner, with good wine and her wedding china.
“Well, it’s not even one here, Liam. Time change, remember?” And also, why had Lolly sent it, and not him? “How much cash did she send?”
“I don’t know . . . a couple hundred? And they’re also supposed to be sending you a new debit card. It cost thirty-five bucks extra to rush it.”
