by Amy Stuart
“I don’t have a bathing suit,” Clare says.
“You don’t need one. You can just dip your feet in if you prefer. Or go in your undies.”
“Undies,” Raylene repeats.
The screen door swings open and Ginny skips out. “I’ll go for a swim!” she says.
“Oh, great,” Rebecca says, her smile false. “What about Helen?”
“She’s already asleep.”
“Okay, then. Shall we?”
It takes a few minutes for them to scramble for towels and reconvene on the porch, Clare following the rest of them dumbly, unable to find a reason to extract herself from this plan. They descend the porch and walk in single file along the bank of the river. Clare trails behind Raylene, trying not to trip over tree roots. If she musters enough focus, Clare thinks, this could be a chance to ask questions. Soon they reach the small eddy that juts off the river, round like a pool, its water dark and calm. Homemade, Helen told her yesterday, by her dead father. The group fans around it, four of them in a circle: Rebecca, Ginny, Raylene, Clare.
“It’ll be cold,” Rebecca says, lifting her dress over her head. Her bathing suit sags at the belly, the fabric worn to reveal the shadow of her breasts, her skin glowing pale in the dark. She sits on the edge and lowers her legs into the water, then retracts them at once. “Oh my Lord. Forget cold. It’s frigid. Come on, girls.”
Girls, Clare thinks. How it used to madden her when Jason used that term, referring to everyone—from the waitress pouring his coffee, to Clare’s mother, even to Grace, an accomplished doctor with ten years more education than he had—as a girl.
Ginny takes off her T-shirt. She wears a bikini top underneath, thin and tall, a thorny tattoo across her lower back. Clare finds herself studying Ginny’s arms for telltale signs, the tiny holes. She spots none. Ginny slaps her arms to her side, still wearing her shorts, and leaps into the water like a dropped pencil, gone.
“How deep is it again?” Raylene peers over the edge.
“Ten feet,” Rebecca says. “Maybe twelve.”
They watch the small funnel formed at the center of the pool, waiting.
“Where’d she go?” Raylene asks.
Ten seconds must pass before Ginny breaks the surface with a yelp. She hoists herself easily from the water and shakes her head, her short hair in spikes. They sit in a semicircle. Side by side the differences in their bodies are stark, Ginny stretched long and tall next to the rounder Rebecca, Raylene’s skin an olive brown next to Clare’s paleness.
Raylene nudges her. “You’re staring again.”
“How’s Willow?” Ginny asks, gazing at her fingernails before raising her eyebrows to Clare. She is making a point.
“Better,” Rebecca says. “She’s had a good week.”
“Has your daughter been sick?” Clare asks.
“She’s very sensitive,” Rebecca says. “She has a lot of environmental triggers.”
“Maybe it’s something in the water,” Ginny says. “William was sick too.”
If Ginny’s tone is edgy, Rebecca pretends not to notice.
“You never know,” Rebecca says. “This farmland. Pesticides. Children are very susceptible to these things. We’ve been thinking a lot about toxins. Markus and I.”
“Toxins,” Raylene says.
Clare thinks of Markus in the bunker, cradling the bottle of baby formula, an act of rogue parenting that should seem benign enough. A secret isn’t a secret unless it’s well kept, he’d said.
“What we put into our bodies,” Rebecca says. “Into our children’s bodies. I’ve been reading up.”
“In Latin?” Ginny says.
With a jolt Rebecca snatches her dress and fumbles to pull it over her head. She stands to shake it down over her body. Despite the stoic expression Rebecca still wears, the wrath is palpable in the way her eyes dart between them. Clare feels Raylene edge closer.
“Sit down,” Ginny says. “I’m only teasing you.”
“You’re joking about my sick child.”
“I know.” Ginny casts her eyes downward, contrite. “She’s my cousin, Rebecca. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be so gross. Sally was always talking about that stuff too. She couldn’t understand why Will was sick all the time.”
Rebecca sighs and sits again at the greatest distance from Ginny she can manage. “I’m telling you. It’s these toxins.”
“Speaking of toxins.” Ginny digs for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “Does anyone mind?”
“I don’t want—” Rebecca begins.
“That was actually a rhetorical question,” Ginny says. She takes a long drag from the first cigarette and passes it to Raylene before lighting another. Raylene inhales and coughs.
“I forgot how disgusting these things are,” Raylene says, handing it to Clare.
The smoke in her lungs makes Clare feel light-headed. She imagines Jason at the kitchen table, the depths of his inhales, the stench that permeated everything in their home, from the dish towels to the wallpaper. How sometimes, after a few drinks or a pill on her tongue, she’d beg him to give her one too, the sting of the smoke as it traveled down her airway, the look of lust on his face as he watched her. Clare takes another long drag, then mashes the lit end into a rock.
“Let’s hear all about you, Clare,” Ginny says.
“Ask me anything,” Clare says, readying.
“How’d you meet Sally?” Rebecca asks.
“We’ve known each other since we were younger. We went to school together. We weren’t friends, but we knew each other. We reconnected later.”
“She moved around a lot,” Raylene says.
“I know she did,” Clare says, thinking of the children’s services documents from the file, Sally and her sister removed from home as children and separated. Sally bouncing through foster care until her mother sobered up enough to reclaim them, how they’d jumped from county to county as her mother looked for work, Sally in a new school every fall, reports from the teachers, her coaches. “I’m not sure she had many friends back then, but she was still good at a lot of things. A star on the swim team. Everyone knew who she was. We reconnected again . . . later. As adults.”
“I thought Sally couldn’t swim,” Ginny says, dipping the butt of her cigarette into the water to extinguish it. “She would freak out any time William went near the river.”
“She would have been afraid for his life,” Clare says. “The water isn’t exactly still.”
“Are you a swimmer, Clare?” Rebecca says. “Think you’ll take a dip?”
“It’s too cold for me,” Clare says, thinking of her shoulder, the scar still red and aching around the wound, the marks on her arms Ginny noticed earlier, a living history dabbled across her skin, the chance to share some truth. “I have a shoulder injury. It’s not quite healed.”
“What kind of injury?” Ginny asks, her voice a singsong.
“A gunshot wound,” Clare says.
At this revelation Rebecca’s and Raylene’s brows shoot up in quiet surprise. Ginny slaps her hand to her face with a gasp.
“You have to show us,” Ginny says.
“You have to tell us,” Raylene says.
“I was in some trouble before I came here. I got tangled up with the wrong people. And I got shot.” Clare takes a deep breath. She will adjust the truth just enough. “It was an accident. I wasn’t the intended target.”
“Who was the target?” Rebecca asks.
“Like I said, I got tangled up. And I ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. But I got out.”
“And made your way here,” Rebecca says.
“Please can we see it?” Ginny asks.
“It must be some scar,” Raylene says.
Some scar. Clare remembers sitting in a chair facing the setting sun, a blanket draped over her legs, a constant wave of sleep, her eyes open then closed. Clare had never thought of wind as exhausting, but here it was, the ocean breeze a sedative whipping her hair, the drone of the water curling to and from he
r feet. Painless warmth. She remembers lifting her hand to her shoulder, her palm covering the wound, this gesture a tic newly formed. His voice. Where was he? Malcolm. Was he standing in the ocean? Can she see him there? Yes. He stands in front of her, blocking the sun. He is speaking. That’s some scar, he said. Don’t worry. It’ll fade.
The three women watch her expectantly. Clare uses her good arm to lift her shirt over her head, her bra loose against her frame, its cotton ragged.
“Jesus Christ,” Ginny says.
“That looks really fresh,” Rebecca says. “I hope whatever trouble you’re in doesn’t follow you here.”
This place was troubled enough before I got here, Clare thinks, hugging her T-shirt to her chest.
“I thought that was the point of this place,” Raylene says. “To help those of us in trouble?”
“Only a certain kind of trouble,” Rebecca says. “Helen’s very clear about that.”
“Shut up, Rebecca,” Ginny says. “Don’t speak on my mother’s behalf.”
“I have the right to feel safe here,” Rebecca says. “This is my home too.”
“No it isn’t,” Ginny says. “This is Helen’s home. She only lets you live here because she feels sorry for her deadbeat brother.”
“It was Sally’s home too,” Raylene says. “And now she’s gone. You know anything about that, Rebecca?”
“Jesus, no!” Rebecca cries. “And this is my home. Don’t say it isn’t. How do we know Clare isn’t making all of this up?”
The clench in her teeth makes Clare’s jaw throb. She notices that Rebecca changes the subject every time Sally’s name is mentioned, redirecting the focus. Don’t mess with her perfect little life, Ginny said on the drive home.
“Why would I lie?” Clare says.
“Why do we lie to each other about anything?” Rebecca asks.
The question hangs in the air between the women for a moment.
“We lie to protect ourselves,” Raylene says.
“No,” Rebecca says. “We lie to get what we want.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?” Clare asks.
“It depends,” Rebecca says. “What do you want, Clare? Why do you lie?”
“Give it up, Rebecca,” Ginny says. “She’s Sally’s friend. What else do you want?”
“It’s a simple question,” Rebecca says. “Sometimes we’re not even sure when we’re lying. You know? How does the saying go? There are three sides to every story? Yours, mine, and the truth?”
“Your story’s pretty clear-cut,” Ginny says to Rebecca. “Meet a cute entrepreneur online, marry him after, like, a week. He fails to mention he went bankrupt selling oceanfront condos. But your biological clock is ticking and he’s such a dashing catch that you don’t think to ask how much money he’s got in the bank.”
“I can’t imagine what it’s like to be you,” Rebecca says. “So mean-spirited for no reason at all. Taking pleasure in hurting others.”
“Yes you can,” Ginny says.
This dynamic feels impossible, Clare too tired, too ill-equipped to navigate it. Rebecca scrambles up and smooths her dress with her hands.
“It’s late. I need to make sure Willow is asleep.”
“You’re way too sensitive,” Ginny says. “I’m just a kid having some fun.”
“I’m not sensitive,” Rebecca says. “I’m tired of it. I get that it’s hard. But you don’t need to be so nasty. We should have each other’s backs in times like these. And you’re not a kid any more than the rest of us.” Rebecca pulls a small flashlight from the pocket of her dress and twists it on. “I thought this would be nice. Maybe take our mind off things. But you can’t help yourself, Ginny. You just can’t. You pounce on everyone who comes anywhere near you.”
They stay silent as Rebecca disappears into the trees, the sounds of her footsteps fading.
“She’s probably still breastfeeding,” Ginny says.
“What’s wrong with you?” Raylene asks. “You took that too far.”
“I hate her,” Ginny says. She lights another cigarette. A shimmer of tears rests on her lids as she blows the first exhale to the sky. “She’s so fake. You know what? Last week I was smoking on the porch and I saw her come out of her house. She was going crazy on Willow. Yelling at her. I couldn’t hear her across the river but her face was basically purple. The way she yanked Willow by the arm made me want to puke. Don’t talk to me about toxins when you go psycho on your two-year-old for throwing a ball in the river, you know? How two-faced can you possibly get?”
“No one said she was a good person,” Raylene says. “I’m just telling you not to bother with it. Stay out of her way.”
Ginny is careful to wipe away the tears before they breach and fall. Raylene collects a pile of pebbles and lines them up into small pyramids next to her. Clare sucks in a deep breath, then pushes off so that her body slides into the icy water. Under the surface her head throbs from the cold, and though her eyes are open she sees nothing. She pops back out, the air too warm in contrast.
“See if you can touch the bottom,” Ginny says.
“It’s freezing,” Clare says. “My body feels heavy.”
“Perfect. That’ll make it easier to sink.”
Despite the bite of her words, there is a playfulness to Ginny’s tone. Why is it that Clare feels kinship with Ginny, this caustic girl? Treading water, she thinks of Grace. The hours spent at the swimming pool in town, Grace’s gliding backstroke, Clare always lagging, her long legs like dead weights behind her. Clare dips her head back to look up to the sky, the cold water a balm on her shoulder. Raylene is watching her, Ginny too. In another life, Clare thinks, they might all be easy friends.
“If you don’t come up in five minutes,” Ginny says, “I promise I’ll come in after you. I’d never let you drown.”
Clare points her toes and propels downward. It takes three strokes until her feet hit a sandy bottom. She plugs her nose to release the pressure, then treads to maintain her depth. Clare opens her eyes to the blackness. She thinks of her dreams, someone grabbing at her legs, pulling her under, the ache of her chest as the air runs out. She thinks of Sally Proulx, grasping to hold on to her son. She thinks of Jason, unable as he was to swim, how he would take hold of her when they waded in together, as though he’d rather drown them both than die alone. Clare kicks and her left foot hits something. It moves. She presses hard into the ground and shoots herself upward, breaking the surface with a terrified gasp.
“You were under for a good minute,” Raylene says. “I was about to dive in.”
“There’s something down there,” Clare says, breathless.
“What?” Ginny says.
“I kicked something. It moved.”
“It could be anything,” Raylene says. “A deadhead. A rock.”
“It wasn’t a deadhead,” Clare says. “Or a rock.” Her limbs are numb with cold. Clare pulls her weight onto land, wincing, and accepts Raylene’s arms around her. Her teeth chatter wildly. “I swear. My foot touched something.”
They exchange glances.
“You losers,” Ginny says. “You’re such chickens. I’ll go.” She stands and steps off the edge into the water. After a minute Ginny emerges, takes a deep breath, then goes under again, this time diving, her feet kicking into the air and splashing them. Clare shudders against the warmth of Raylene. When Ginny breaks the surface again, she lifts one hand out of the water, holding the object aloft, terror on her face. Raylene raises her hand to her mouth to stifle a cry. Though it is wrapped in stringy weeds, the superhero figure on the side still glows a bright red. A child’s running shoe.
TUESDAY
In the kitchen Helen pours Clare a coffee and offers Clare a plate of fruit. They sit opposite each other at the table. A fly dives in and away, its buzz disconcerting Clare. Even overnight, the heat has not broken.
“Jordan called this morning to say the police have their warrant,” Helen says. “He’s got a friend at the precinct who tippe
d him off. The shoe. It was the shoe. That’s what got them the warrant. They’ll be in before noon.”
If Helen is anxious or distressed, she goes to great efforts to mask it.
“What does that mean for you?” Clare asks.
“You may want to remove your things before they arrive,” Helen says, evading Clare’s question. “We’ll all have to leave once they get here.”
What does Clare have to hide? There is the folder in her bag, an obvious giveaway, and then the letter from Jason, stuffed among the small collection of ill-fitting clothes Malcolm procured for her after they left Blackmore. What would that letter tell someone if read out of context? The story of a jilted husband begging his wife’s return? An ordinary enough tale. One with the worst details left out.
“Raylene is out on another walk this morning,” Helen says. “I don’t know what she thinks she’s looking for.”
“The shoe,” Clare says. “That was upsetting to her.”
Helen flinches ever so slightly. Her capacity for composure is remarkable, Clare notes as she watches her across the table.
“What about Ginny?” Clare asks.
“I’ll get her up in a minute. We can send her to campus for the night. Her room there is ready.”
“Ginny is quite something,” Clare says.
“Don’t call her a firecracker,” Helen says. “She’ll skin you for it.”
What an odd thing to say, Clare thinks. Helen sips from the juice in front of her.
“Ginny’s smart,” Clare says.
“She is,” Helen says. “She doesn’t get that from me.”
“You raised her alone?” Clare asks.
“She doesn’t know her father. He’s not on the scene.”
“That must have been hard for you. Going it alone, I mean. Especially given . . . this place. The work you do.”
“I was young when I had her,” Helen says. “It never occurred to me to adjust my life to make things easier for her. I started taking women in when she was just a baby. There was always a lot of grief around. A lot of struggle. Women at their lowest points staying in our home, eating their meals with us, crying in our living room. But it didn’t used to matter. She was this gorgeous and precocious little light of a child. The women here just wanted to take care of her. Jordan, he was always ambivalent to this place. He did his thing. Made friends, played lots of sports. School was a breeze for him. Markus was a homebody. He loved the attention he got here too. He tried college, but couldn’t manage it. Doesn’t like to be told what to do. But Ginny. She was always the light. Always. Even in her teens, she always wanted to be helpful. Now she says she resents living here. But ironically, I think having her around was the thing that helped me keep it going.”
