“It’ll work. I close on Saturdays at the rink, so I don’t have to be there until 3:00, and the dog training is in the morning. You wanna come skate?”
“Sure, I’ll come skate,” I agreed. “How about the Saturday afternoon after Thanksgiving? Speaking of which, what’s this about you and your mom going to Ohio? What’s in Ohio?”
“My great-aunt Sylvia.” At my questioning look, she added, “It’s my grandpa’s younger sister. She’s always hated my mom and talked lots of trash when Mom left me with Grandpa and Grandma to live, so my mom was all pissed and cut her off, and they haven’t talked for years. But a few weeks ago Sylvia called out of the blue. Who knows why, but she invited us to come out for Thanksgiving.”
“And your mom wanted to go?”
Nadina pulled on some threads hanging from her barn jacket sleeve. “I wanted to go. Mike and his dad would probably just sit around and have TV dinners, and I haven’t hung out with my mom for awhile, so she said she’d suck it up and go if I wanted to.”
“Wow. So have you been there before?”
She shrugged. “A couple times with my grandpa. Sylvia lives in Cleveland. We’re gonna fly out on Wednesday and come back Friday. Mom doesn’t want too much of a good thing, I guess.”
“How does Mike feel about all this?” I asked in the most casual voice I could muster. Nadina was too alert for me, however, and she shot me a sharp glance.
“You don’t like Mike, do you?”
“I don’t know Mike,” I replied carefully.
“But what you know you don’t like,” she repeated.
Cornered, I tried to pick my way through the landmines. “I only know what you tell me, Nadina. So that means I know that he’s older than you and that he likes music and—and drugs, that he…likes to spend time with you, and he likes you to do drugs with him.”
“And I know your opinion on drugs.”
“And you know my opinion on drugs,” I echoed. Turning to face her head-on, I said, “Nadina, are you trying to pick a fight with me? What do you want? Since I don’t know Mike, and I only know what you tell me, why don’t you tell me what you like about him?”
Maybe my question was too bald, but really, when Mark Henneman talked about trust-building he wasn’t using Nadina as the case study. She seemed to want to lure me into intimate conversations, only to trap me into saying something she wasn’t going to like. I had to outflank her.
“I like—I like—” she floundered, “He’s been there for me.” Her knee started jiggling nervously. “Times when no one else has been around. Grandpa’s dead; mom’s working. Friends at my old school don’t even call me anymore. He came with me when I got my abortion.”
At least he finished what he started, I thought sourly. When I could trust myself to speak I managed, “Dependable people are hard to find.”
“Yeah, they are,” she agreed. “I can depend on Mike.”
“So what does dependable Mike think of Ohio?” I asked again, drawing another suspicious look, though I hadn’t thought any sarcasm leaked out. What do you expect? I’m a video game actress.
Nadina cleared her throat a couple times and popped to her feet, her usual signal that the conversation was over. Surprisingly, she said, “He doesn’t like it. He says he doesn’t want to be alone with his dumb dad over Thanksgiving and that I should think about him more.”
“Oh!” I exclaimed lamely, amazed that she had shared this with me. “What do you think?”
“I think he’ll live.” She tugged on my arm to get me walking.
“Where are we going?” I protested. “It’s only 3:30.”
“To get a snack, Cass,” Nadina laughed. “I can hardly hear you over your stomach growling.”
• • •
Joanie came home that evening with her phone glued to her ear. “Yeah. Yeah. Uh-huh. No, no that’s okay. That’d be great,” she said unenthusiastically. “Sure—I mean, we’ll have at least one other overnight guest, but there’s plenty of room. Okay, love you. Bye.” Clicking her phone shut, she groaned and threw it on the table before pushing me along the cushioned bench and slumping down next to me.
“Don’t block me in,” I complained, wanting to make a hasty escape whenever Daniel happened to come home.
Ignoring me, she laid her red-gold head on my shoulder. “Don’t be grouchy, Cass. Can’t you see I’m in dire straits?”
“Is someone coming for Thanksgiving?” asked Phyl. Joanie nodded, her eyes shut. Phyl and I exchanged glances. “Someone you find unpleasant?” Joanie nodded again.
“Well, come on and tell us and stop being such a martyr,” I chided waspishly. “Is it one of your ex-fiancés?”
“Worse,” she moaned. “It’s my mother.” Phyl and I gasped, horrified. Although we had never met Mrs. Martin, we knew her chief pleasure in life came from criticizing Joanie and that, whatever preparatory praying and planning Joanie did, it all went up in smoke the second Mrs. Martin opened her mouth.
Repenting my hardheartedness, I put my arm around her. “That’s awful news, Joanie. How long is she coming for?”
“Wednesday, leaving Saturday,” came Joanie’s muffled voice.
“Maybe it’ll help to have us and Daniel here,” said Phyl hopefully. “And Perry, too. We can all distract her. Be a buffer.”
“Nothing will distract her from her one goal in life: torturing me,” declared Joanie.
“Does Daniel get along any better with her?” I asked.
Joanie sat up, sniffing. “Oh, Daniel’s her golden boy. She never has anything negative to say to him.”
“Well, you’re not sharing a room with her, in any case,” I decided. “We’ll put your mom in the spare room and put Perry in my room, unless Daniel offers to have your mom over in the Lean-To.”
Joanie rolled her eyes skeptically. “That’ll be the day! Although—although—he may agree if you ask him, Cass, just to be polite. He’ll be more polite to you than me.”
“I’m not asking him!” I exclaimed, feeling my cheeks get warm. “It’s your mother—besides, I have to go upstairs and work on something.” I tried unsuccessfully to push her out of the booth but froze when I heard the garage door opening. Too late.
“Please!” whispered Joanie urgently. “Please please please, for me, Cass.” I jabbed her furiously in the ribs, and she gave my hand a hard pinch. When Daniel came in the door, the three of us were sitting in unnatural silence: I was looking determinedly at the table, Joanie was goggling her eyes meaningfully at me, and Phyl was still shy and embarrassed around Daniel after her ill-fated crush. Strangely enough, Daniel was also silent, and I was on the verge of peeking at him out of curiosity when Joanie cried, “Terrible news, Daniel—Mom’s coming up for Thanksgiving!”
He didn’t respond right away, and I heard him putting down his things and starting the microwave. “Is that what you’re all so quiet about?” I did peek at him then, but finding his eyes on me, I hastily looked away. Then it occurred to me he probably thought I’d been blabbing about my adventure in the Lean-To, and I felt a surge of resentment. Of all the pots ever to call a kettle black—as if he could accuse me of being indiscreet! Shooting him a dirty look, I shook my head infinitesimally.
Joanie had sprung up and gone to hang appealingly on him. “Yes, Mom dropped the news like a bomb on me, and I dumped it on Phyl and Cass. We don’t know quite what to do because, you know, Perry is already coming to stay. And Cass has already told Perry he could have the spare room, but now with Mom—”
“Perry can stay in my room,” I said to a spot between Daniel and Joanie. “Your mom can have the spare room.”
Joanie scowled at me. “Well, but you told Perry, and he asked first. Maybe Mom can go somewhere else.”
“I could put Perry up in my spare room,” suggested Daniel. “If Cass thinks that would be okay.”
I wondered briefly if Daniel planned on more weekend antics, now that Kelly was clearly over her barfing thing—assuming that was even her I’d seen t
oday. Perry probably wouldn’t bat an eye, given how he was living with all those randoms off of Craig’s List, but did anyone really want to listen to that all night? Of course, putting Mrs. Martin out there probably would cramp Daniel’s style considerably, and I didn’t see how he’d go for it, polite or not.
“Umm,” I hesitated. “Perry likes his sleep, so I think I’d better keep him with me. We shared a room until we were in middle school,” I added irrelevantly.
“I can’t see how sleeping in my guest room is going to be less restful than sleeping on your floor, Cass,” said Daniel. Still not looking at him, I merely raised my eyebrows, and when he spoke again, his voice had a steely note in it. “And really, you do such a beautiful job cleaning my place. Why waste all that hard work on me?”
The man was unbelievable. Apparently shame was not part of his emotional lexicon. Goaded, I snapped back, “Well, actually, your shower stall might not be up to Perry’s standards because I got called away before I could finish scrubbing it today.”
“Too bad. I hope the interruption was worth it.” Daniel must have seen my hands curl into fists because he sounded like he was trying not to laugh. “Maybe if you allow a little extra time next time.”
“It wasn’t something I could have planned for,” I retorted, “because it was dirtier than I thought.”
“Well!” interjected Phyl, looking alarmed by the hostility I was putting out. “Don’t worry, Cass, I’ll take care of it next week. Maybe it just needs some of that OxyClean stuff.”
Joanie launched back into bemoaning her mother’s impending visit to Daniel while he ate, and I took the chance to steal up to my room. If Mrs. Martin harassed Joanie anywhere near as constantly as Daniel seemed to enjoy harassing me, not only did Joanie have my full sympathy, but I was beginning to think maybe spending the Thanksgiving weekend in tears at my in-laws’ might have been the wiser choice.
Chapter 18: Persona Non Grata
The turnout for the third mentor training meeting was unexpectedly good, considering it was the Monday of Thanksgiving week. I, for one, was determined never to miss one of these, given my ignorance and the continued drama of having Nadina in my life.
From the doorway of the fellowship hall I spotted James and Louella in conversation and made my way quickly over to them. “Hello, you two!” Giving Louella a hug, I asked, “Did you have a nice lunch with your daughter after church?”
“It was wonderful,” Louella beamed. “She took me to that delicious crêpe place, and we had three kinds of crêpes, including chocolate-banana, and a big pot of tea. Thank you for asking.”
“And how was your weekend?” I turned to James. To my surprise, he avoided my eyes, looking ill at ease. “Are you okay, James?” I asked uncertainly.
“Yes, great, thank you,” he replied hastily, looking over my shoulder. “Ah, there’s Mark Henneman—I had a quick question I wanted to ask him before we got started. Would you excuse me?”
Frowning in puzzlement, I stared after him. “Did I interrupt something, Louella?”
“I don’t think so,” said Louella. “Why don’t you come sit next to me? I can show you the card I want to send Sonya in Bellingham, and you can tell me if it’s too sappy.” Shrugging, I let her lead me away.
I thought James might come sit next to Louella and me for the session, but when I turned around later to look for him, I saw him at the back, next to Ray. Maybe I would chat with him afterward.
Mark Henneman spoke more on neurological changes in the addicted brain, making me wonder how much of Nadina’s erratic behavior stemmed from continued substance abuse. From there he went on to describe the basic practices of Camden School’s chosen drug rehabilitation center and to answer questions from mentors whose students were currently in rehab, wrapping up with his usual reminder: “But don’t think we expect you to solve their addiction problems or even know how to handle every situation. Please just give us a call if something comes up you’re uncertain about. Remember, all we ask of you is that you spend regular time with them. Make them feel special. Give them bragging rights with their friends. If there’s something particular you can share with them, be it your hobby or your workplace or your favorite foods, go for it. At first it may feel like you’re giving and giving and getting nothing back, but building relationship with these kids is a slow, cumulative process. Plus, they’re teenagers—they’re not always going to let you know what they’re thinking and feeling or even act in ways we would consider normal responses. Keep at it. Have that coffee with them. Ask their opinions on things. And—we can’t stress it enough—keep praying for them.”
This last bit of our pep talk made me think of the funny Free Universe coffee we had last Friday, and I looked back to see if James was thinking the same thing. I felt like I just missed catching his eye, because suddenly he was very absorbed in the handout, and when Mark finished speaking, James murmured a quick word to Ray and bolted out of his chair for the exit.
What on earth did this behavior mean? Had I done something to offend him, or why else would he avoid me? I thought back to that passing troubled expression on his face on Friday. Maybe Murray had texted him to say, “Whatever happens, we have got to fire Cass. She SUCKS.” Bewildered, and more than a little unhappy about it, I decided I would pop into the office tomorrow to see if I could unravel this mystery.
• • •
The elevator doors had barely closed behind me when Riley popped up over the cube wall. “Cass, the Big Hunk will last for eternity now. Come check it out.” To my untutored eyes the candy looked the same, but he had fashioned the wrapper into a miniature pinwheel, so I made admiring sounds.
“What I really want to know, Riley,” I said, “is where you got that awesomely rude t-shirt.”
Riley proudly thrust out his chest, on which was emblazoned, in full-on Jeopardy! lettering: “Suck it, Trebek!” It was well-known around the office that Riley had taken the online Jeopardy! test three times and still not received an audition call. “Last night was a crime,” he complained. “Can you believe that question about high explosives was a Triple Stumper?”
“Riley, I told you, I don’t watch Jeopardy!” I said for maybe the fifth time.
“I’m thinking about changing my name to Marcia—did you know it’s easier for women to get on the show than men?”
“Don’t you think, when you showed up for the audition, they’d cotton on and figure out you weren’t a woman?”
“By then it wouldn’t matter to them,” he declared. “With my winning personality, they would already love me and have me pegged as America’s Next Sweetheart.” He rocked back in his Aeron chair and held out his hand, waggling his fingers. “Okay, what do you got for me today, Cass? Have you stopped stalling on my truffle-hunting pigs?”
I pulled the flash drive out of my purse but paused before handing it to him. “Riley, do you think my work is going okay? I mean, it’s working for you all?”
“Aw, Cass,” he groaned, “Are you gonna go all girl on me? You need more pats on the back? If we don’t say it sucks, you’re doing great.”
“And no one has said it sucks?” I persisted, holding the drive out of reach.
“No one has ever said it sucks except me,” Riley said with exaggerated patience, “and when I think it sucks, I tell you to your face.” That was true enough. I relented and gave him the drive, which he leaned over and popped into his USB port.
We were watching him copy my files over when James’ head appeared over the cube wall. “Oh, hey, Ri, Lewis was wondering where—” Catching sight of me, he broke off. I gave him a tentative smile which he barely returned before continuing, “You’re busy. I’ll catch you later.”
“James, you dashed out of that mentor training before I even had a chance to talk to you,” I said in a rush to his retreating back. He paused and then turned and looked back at me questioningly. I didn’t want to be shouting this through the office, so I said as quietly as I could, “Has Murray said—did he say—was
the voiceover work I did Friday all right?”
“Cass is suffering a crisis of confidence,” put in Riley.
James took a few steps back toward me. “He hasn’t said anything, so I assume it’s fine.”
“Like I said,” muttered Riley.
“Oh, great,” I said lamely. James’ face was still shuttered, and when he was about to turn away again I added, “Did you and Murray decide whether Kyle could do some voice work?”
“Yeah. He’ll be in Wednesday, I think Murray said,” he answered shortly. “Anything else, Cass?” When I shook my head, he was gone, throwing “Happy Thanksgiving!” over his shoulder.
Well, that was enlightening, I thought sarcastically. Holding out my hand, Riley slapped the flash drive back in it, and I hopped off his desk. “Have a good holiday, Riley. I’m off to buy pie ingredients.”
“Save me a piece, Cass,” he called after me.
• • •
Clearly, James was avoiding me. I mulled this over as I rolled out my pie crust, patching the unsightly gaps in the dough. I knew Perry planned on making an apple pie when he came up, but Thanksgiving called for pumpkin and pecan as well.
If he was avoiding me, I had two options: I could give him some space and wait till he either got over whatever it was or brought it up with me; or, I could try to bring it up myself and possibly make it a bigger deal than it needed to be. It didn’t take long to decide. Thanksgiving would be a natural break, and I just wouldn’t go in to Free Universe until sometime later next week.
Crimping the edges of my homely crusts, I smiled to myself. James should consider himself lucky—it was a lot easier to avoid someone whom you only saw once in awhile than to avoid someone you lived with. Case in point, consider my past week trying to avoid Daniel.
Since the whole Lust-in-the-Lean-To incident, I had imagined I would just stay out of his way until the vivid memories had time to fade—try to avoid any one-on-one conversations—but this had proved unexpectedly tricky as he seemed to be spending an inordinate amount of time around the Palace. Whenever I heard his car pulling into the garage, if Joanie or Phyl weren’t with me I would suddenly dash upstairs to my room, even if it meant abandoning a kitchen mess till the coast was clear.
Mourning Becomes Cassandra Page 18
