“I’m not scary.” She stamped her foot.
“Lils aren’t allowed out.” Alec had her by the arm, pulling her back.
“Oh come on,” Lyssa said. “Nobody has to know. Let her have some ice cream. She won’t talk.”
“I won’t,” Ally said. “Promise!”
Her teddy bear wanted ice cream. Two kinds. With chocolate sauce on it. And marshmallows. And sprinkles. And cherries. But no nuts. Oh, and caramel sauce. And cookie pieces. And M&M’s. And gummies. And Nerds.
Cathy was putting two huge scoops on her cone. Joshy said she couldn’t eat it all and she was saying you bet, just watch and she made her mouth big, taking big bites. Ally liked that girl. The daughters ate their ice cream slow. Jake sneaked some when Mimi wasn’t looking and she said, Jake! Everyone sat together at the blue table. The little girls on laps and big kids squished in. Danny licked his ice cream fast like a cat. He made Ally laugh and the laugh comed out of the mouth and Sharon went to wash a dish in the sink.
“Later,” Alec said. “When there’s no one around.”
“Hey,” Lyssa said. “Don’t look so sad. You’ve got Echo and the other lils and all of us. Singletons don’t have anybody. They’re all alone inside.”
They pushed her away and she slid down to the playroom. Some of the lils were playing in a tent, and others with the castle and someone was swinging but Echo was sitting on the teeter-totter, waiting for her. A wall was pink, a wall was blue, a wall was yellow and a wall was green. If she wanted paints, she could have paints, and with her fingers polka dot the walls and nobody would get mad because it was inside and it was their room. “I don’t want to play,” she said. But she did. With real playdough squished in her fingers. She could make a turtle. She could make a hat. She could put the hat on the turtle. Outside.
“You don’t like me anymore,” Echo said.
“I do so.” She got on the teeter-totter.
“Why are you mad?”
“I’m not.” She made the teeter-totter bump hard.
She liked to go everywhere with Echo. Except sometimes. If she was let outside with her outside people that she loved. She’d do that. Nina, Emmie, Joshy, Danny, Jake and Mimi. Her peoples. But she wasn’t let. She wasn’t supposed to be alive.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
Magee’s Family Restaurant, established 1931, had previously been the lunchroom for women workers at the Ford Motor Company on Hammond Street, where they’d eaten opposite the showroom with its potted trees and chandeliers and the latest Model Ts. Later the building had been taken over by Planters’ Peanuts. On the main floor, newsmen from the Evening Telegram had eaten lunch at Magee’s and bought cigars from Jake. Now where his shop had been, smartphones were sold. Debra Dawson’s pediatric practice was on the second floor, Dan’s office on the fifth. But the exterior of the building was the same, with its great arched windows and oxidized copper, built when machines and factories were made beautiful to celebrate the glories of industry.
“Do you think Dad misses the store?” Eleanor asked. It was the second Tuesday of the month, breakfast club at Magee’s, and she’d got her sister-in-law to agree to come by running with her first.
“Maybe,” Lyssa said. “I bet a part of him still remembers.” She’d dressed in leggings and leg warmers to run, an undershirt, sweater, sweatband, clothes she’d dug out of drawers that held nothing pretty. She yanked off the sweatband, pushed back her hair. “Let’s get a seat. I’m starving.”
Four tables were pushed together for the breakfast club. Some of the women were dressed for the office, others in moms’ going-out attire: makeup, earrings, the sexy top (so called because it actually fit and had no stains on it). The menu used to be on paper placemats, but was now in a book of laminated sheets with a red and gold cover. The walls were still covered with autographed pictures of famous hockey players and actors in cheap frames.
“Who’s next?” Harold Magee was asking, a gnomish man with a knobby nose and a fringe of grey hair. Only the lower part of his mouth moved when he spoke. He always took the orders himself for breakfast club.
Lyssa plunked herself in the chair that Ana—in a blue sari today—pulled out for her. In her sari and heavy gold jewellery, thick hair in a long braid, her smile modest, Ana looked deceptively traditional. But she was a chemist, and her best friend was Laura Anderson because she loved Ana’s baby. Taking the empty chair that was opposite Lyssa’s and beside Debra Dawson, Eleanor sat down to study the “Healthy Choices” section of the menu.
Debra was wearing more makeup than usual, but she was managing to keep up with her routine. Her suit was fitted at the waist. On its lapel, she had a silver and gold pin, the silver hand-beaten so nobody could mistake it for base metal. She never missed breakfast club with the moms, not even after her daughter’s death. That was the kind of person she was. Everyone said so. She lived here in Seaton Grove even though she could afford a bigger house just south of the original village.
Lyssa picked up a bun from the breadbasket, spreading it thickly with butter, ignoring the chat all around her.
I can’t decide what to have. What are you having? A cheese omelette, egg whites only. How’s your mom doing? Better thanks. Did you hear that someone bought those two boarded-up cottages near the school? It’s about time they were torn down. Where are you putting your kids this summer? I’m not sure about the others, but Rupert will go back to the boys and girls club. He’s used to it.
This last was Sofia speaking, the homeschooling mom. Her youngest kid was autistic. She wore the coolest retro cat’s eye glasses. That was what Lyssa would get if she wore glasses. She liked Sofia’s jacket, too. It was black with green lining and flared sleeves with green silk-covered buttons along a slit at the cuff.
“Your jacket is cool. Where’d you get it?” she asked as her eggs and fries arrived.
“Chinatown. You aren’t going to eat that, are you?”
“Why not?” Lyssa dipped a fry in the yolk.
“It’s loaded with cholesterol.”
“Is it?” Like she fucking cared. Eleanor had ordered fruit salad and was digging through it for something that didn’t taste like cardboard.
“You’ll give yourself a heart attack. You have to start thinking of these things when you get to a certain age.” Sofia appealed to Debra. “You’re a doctor. Talk to her. She’s killing herself.” The chatter stopped. The women looked at each other or down at their plates or anywhere that wasn’t Sofia, who gasped, “Oh. I am so sorry.”
“It’s all right,” Debra said graciously.
Coffee cups clattered, forks clinked on plates. Nobody knew how to get over the hump of awkwardness, and so they said nothing until Eleanor finally asked, “How’s the baby?”
“Doing well.” Debra’s lips were imprinted on the rim of her coffee cup; she was wearing lipstick too dark for her fair skin. “The nurse will stay until I can finalize arrangements for my practice and then I’ll take a mat leave.” Debra smiled and the other women smiled back gratefully as they slid into quiet talk, murmuring about their own children, how a cough in the kids’ rooms woke them instantly and they’d sit up until they heard steady breathing again, how they’d secretly walk behind their children their first time going to school alone, how bicycles terrified them, and cars. Now it was Debra’s turn for silence, staining the rim of the coffee cup as she drank. The west wind sheared through the parking lot, picking up loose bags and paper, ramming the branches of trees and the sky, clearing off the clouds.
Eleanor reached to pick a french fry off Lyssa’s plate. “Did you tell Debra about the sweater?”
“What?”
“The sweater.” As Lyssa continued to look blank, Eleanor added, “The green sweater. That you made for Heather.”
“Really,” Debra said, no exclamation mark in her voice, only civility. A lady, even a lady doctor, was always polite.
“She worked on it a long time. It’s beautiful. Different.” Eleanor picked up ano
ther french fry.
“Is that so?” Debra probably hadn’t had a french fry in years. Maybe never.
“She worked a pattern of flowers and leaves just by changing the stitches.”
“I’m sure somebody would appreciate that. I’ve got a bag for Goodwill and I could add the sweater.”
“That really wasn’t …” Eleanor’s face reddened, but she kicked her sister-in-law under the table, warning her to stay out of this. “I thought maybe Cathy would like to have it.”
“Of course I should repay you for the materials.” Debra touched a napkin to her lips. “How much was it?”
“The angora wool? A hundred I think,” Eleanor replied.
“Fine. I was planning to head up to Goodwill after work. Let’s see.” She tapped her BlackBerry. “My first patient isn’t until nine thirty. I could come over right now. Never put off until tomorrow what you can do today.”
While she went to the cash register to pay, Lyssa leaned forward to hiss at Eleanor. “I don’t want any money for it!”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Eleanor whispered back. “It’s not like it was ever worn. At least get your materials cost.”
Lyssa didn’t want anything to do with it, but okay. Whatever. She took a twenty out of her pocket and left it on the table. She liked the high wind and wanted to walk, but Debra insisted on driving them home in her Lexus hybrid. Naturally she found a parking spot right across from the house with the peaked roof like a witch’s hat and vines growing up the front.
“So this is the famous dining room,” Debra said. The window faced south, an arm’s length from the house next door. The dining room was crammed from end to end, a mishmash of things. No pictures on the wall. Lyssa would have liked pictures. That was the problem with being out in the world. You started wanting to make it yours.
“Famous how?” she asked, scratching an itchy bump on her shoulder. She was standing barefoot on a chair, working her way through the oak cabinet from the top shelf down. Sharon might know where everything was, but she wasn’t close and Lyssa had no idea how to find the toad-sucking sweater. She wanted to go back inside, but nobody else was coming.
“Cathy’s always going on about your house. She’s fascinated by the mess in here.” Debra sat on the edge of a chair as if she’d catch some germs if she leaned back, one leg crossed over the other, elegant in dark stockings and ankle boots. Her skirt was short and it didn’t look dumb on her. How lucky was that? “My daughter thinks it’s wonderful to have a dining room that is never used for eating.” Debra was multi-tasking, replying to her e-mail and text messages.
“I’m sure if Cathy’s interested, Sharon could teach her to knit.” Eleanor bent to pick up another bag from the floor, looking for a place to put it, then plopped it on the table beside the sewing machine.
Debra glanced up from her e-mail. “I wish I had time for a hobby. It’s hard enough to keep up with medical journals.
I expect that it’ll be better when I’m on leave from the practice and I’m just a mom for a while. It must be nice having nothing to do. I only took a couple of months off with each of my daughters. I had to have a nanny …” Under her makeup, Debra’s forehead wrinkled. “I took Heather to a top psychiatrist. Last night I found her pills stuffed into a crack along her windowsill.” The storm of words suddenly stopped as she stared at Eleanor, an ordinary mom in velveteen sweats the colour of plums, straight dark hair cut to chin length, conscious of her double chin, uncomfortable with those eyes boring into her. “Where was I?”
“You’re looking forward to some time at home.” Eleanor pulled down her sweatshirt so that when she bent forward to pick up something, no skin would show, no rolls of fat.
“We were talking about renovating after our last tenant left. At least the kitchen. Then you can be picky about who rents from you.” Debra opened her leather bag, eyes lowered as she dug through its many compartments for her chequebook. She looked up again, gazing at Eleanor with incredulity. “How did you ever convince me?”
Lyssa looked harder for the sweater now. Inside a box, she found several skeins of sparkly yarn, a jar of peculiar buttons.
“It was just supposed to be temporary. Until Ingrid and Amy were able to buy.” Eleanor busied herself moving the sewing machine to clear a space on the table. It was a forty-year-old Kenmore, all metal and heavy enough to make a thunk on the sideboard as she put it down, covering up the clink of something that fell unremarked from Debra’s bag.
“Why do people feel they have to mind everyone else’s business?” Debra asked. Her civility was fraying here in close quarters.
“Hey,” Lyssa said. “I found it.”
“Terrific.” Snapping her bag shut, Debra put her chequebook on the table, opened it, and filled out a cheque, writing with a swift efficient hand. “Here you are.” Her shoulder turned slightly to shut out Eleanor, the busybody mom and her hundred tasteless knick-knacks.
“Thanks.” Lyssa folded the cheque, stuck it in the money jar, shoved it out of sight.
“Not at all. I should be thanking you for taking care of my daughter. We’ll have to have you over soon. I’ll call.”
“Sure, okay,” Lyssa said.
“Brilliant.” Debra slung her bag over her shoulder, and turned on her heel.
After locking the door behind her, Lyssa returned to the dining room. She had a few choice words to say about Debra, but nothing came out, for the money jar stood empty on the table, the contents upended into the space her sister-in-law had cleared. The dollars sat there in a pile, quivering, wanting to be more than they were. Payment for some baby outfits. For a quilt. Bookkeeping cheques in a neat pile. “What do you think you’re doing?” she asked.
“If you cleaned up in here, you’d have a real dining room,” Eleanor said.
“Like I care.”
“It’s a pigsty.” Eleanor might be unsuccessful, she was certainly fat, but she was not messy and her mortgage was paid off and if she couldn’t say that to Debra, she could make her sister-in-law feel as bad as she did. “This cheque is five months old.”
“Bite me.” But the words didn’t come out with the right kind of zip.
“Why didn’t you deposit these? There’s about two thousand dollars right here.”
“I don’t know. I’ll get around to it.” Now would be a good time for someone else to come forward, but she couldn’t feel anyone nearby. They were busy or they didn’t care, and she was shut out.
“When the cheques are stale-dated? Let’s see how much you’ve got in cash—don’t interrupt, I’ll lose my count.” Eleanor’s lips moved. Forty-five, fifty-five, seventy-five, eighty. When she was done she wrote something down on a piece of paper. “How much have you paid for yarn and fabric?”
“I don’t know,” Lyssa said. The pile of money was making her sick. It was too small a pile. That was the point. Too small because she was a dirty, lazy …
“You need someone to straighten you out.”
“And you think you’re the boss of everybody. You’re just like your mom.”
Eleanor glared. “I’m nothing like her. If I were, you know what I’d say?”
“What?” Lyssa asked though she knew, having found the words online in numerous languages.
Eleanor was peering at her as if she’d finally seen through her sister-in-law’s nice front to the trash behind it. She stood up quickly. “Oh, crap. You look awful. Are you sick?” She put out her hand to touch Lyssa’s forehead.
“No!” Lyssa jerked away. On the table there was a crumpled twenty and a ten sticking out, a five folded in half and some bills she couldn’t identify alongside the piece of paper with its figures that she couldn’t read because her eyes were blurring.
Eleanor shoved the money back into the jar, putting it away in the oak cabinet where it had been stashed. “You’ve got to lie down. Can you make it upstairs?”
Lyssa shook her head. “Couch.” She had to get herself together to pick up Emmie from school. She’d promised Emmi
e a piggyback on the way home. She could make it to the couch without puking if she just kept her mouth shut. It was a short hobble to the living room with Dan’s leather chair in a corner, the re-covered wing chair beside it, a vase on the coffee table, the flowery couch. Lyssa flopped down and stared at the ceiling while Eleanor disappeared into the kitchen. A whistle, the kettle boiling.
“Ginger tea. Sit up,” Eleanor said, handing a mug to Lyssa.
“Thanks.” Gingery steam curled up from the cup. She blew on it and drank. Her stomach settled, her palms no longer clammy.
Sitting beside her, Eleanor cupped her mug, eyes lowered, her voice contrite. “If I hadn’t stuck my nose in … Every time I see Debra or any of them, I think it’s my fault.”
“Shut up. Listen,” Lyssa paused, gathering information. “If it wasn’t a gun it would have been something else and the baby might have died, too. That’s what Debra said herself.”
“She did?”
“Yup. She was just being a pighead.” She tried to grin.
“I guess Debra’s entitled for a while.”
Above Hammond Street, a train whistled like an echo to the kettle. If Lyssa had a camera, she would walk along the train tracks looking for every lovely thing she could see through the viewfinder. Nesting birds, wildflowers in spring, geese returning north. And her feet would run across clouds to the northern lights where she’d dance with the solar wind. But she didn’t have a camera nor anything except a body that was, for the moment, hers.
“Hey, Ellie, we should go to Hammond House soon. How long has it been since you went dancing?”
“I’ll go dancing if you come shooting with me and Ingrid.” The light had come back into Eleanor’s eyes, dimples flashing in her plump cheeks.
“You’ve got to be kidding. After what happened?”
“Yes, because of that,” Eleanor said. “Ingrid’s a good friend. I want to show some faith in her.”
As Eleanor spoke, Lyssa could feel Alec move in behind her. So now you show up, she said inside. It took a while, he said; I don’t know why, it just did. Oh sure, she said, wanting to stay mad. But on the outside Eleanor was talking about taking her shopping for new clothes, and on the inside Alec stayed close even though he rolled his eyes.
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