The little boy marched toward the refrigerator and began tugging at the silver handle. He wasn’t strong enough to open it yet, or at least he never had been, but as Barbara looked on, she heard the suck of the seal breaking and watched the door release. Nicholas shot backward, landing on the floor halfway across the room.
Barbara waited for a yowl, but instantly the boy was on his feet again, surging forward with an intent expression on his face.
“Orange juice,” he said decidedly, then leaned his little body inside the refrigerator.
Not the refrigerator. Nicholas had accidentally opened the freezer side.
Barbara stared with a mix of admiration and disbelief. A thought seized her—what if the door swung shut right now—followed by a queasy pang. She began pulling on her son, trying to get him out, but he was fighting her, not registering the cold until his little shrimp fingers curled around the metal rim of a shelf and stuck there.
The howls started then.
Barbara left her son and ran for a cup of warm water. She poured the liquid over the frosty shelf, soaking Nicholas’ wrists through his pajamas while his screams climbed in volume. Finally his hold loosened, and she was able to drag him out.
Nicholas’ arms were as strong as cables when Barbara turned them over to check for damage. The flesh on his fingertips had pinkened, but looked intact, nothing peeling away. Something in Barbara’s stomach lurched, and she pressed her hand over her mouth.
She began stroking her son’s hot, wet cheeks, his whole body vibrating against hers as he continued to cry. Barbara got up and pawed through the trash. She found the empty orange juice carton and poured the remnants into a cup, diluting them with water from the tap.
She handed the concoction to Nicholas, who downed it thirstily.
Blessed silence filled the room.
Barbara fisted her hands on her hips and smiled down at her son. “Now. Shall we go to the store for some more?”
Nicholas looked up at her. “Orange juice? In the store?”
“Can you be good in the car?”
He nodded, three rapid jerks of his head. His curls flew. One day, she was going to have to trim them.
Love seized her, warm and glowing. She bent to scoop up the little boy in a hug.
“Why don’t you put that carton in the trash for me,” she suggested, pointing. “While I get us some clothes?”
Nicholas walked in the direction she’d indicated. For just a second, he wasn’t a toddler anymore, but a growing, competent child, completing a task. Barbara bent over, feeling herself grow short of breath, as if she were being compressed in some creature’s great fist. How had no one ever told her what it felt like to be a mother, the way it robbed you of air and light and nourishment, but you didn’t care, didn’t even notice, because in exchange you were given this one consuming focus and it was all you’d ever need again?
Barbara turned and left the room to fetch an outfit for her son and a fresh dress for herself, assuming she could find one. In addition to errands, it was hard to make time to iron and do laundry these days as well.
—
Gordon had purchased a station wagon just before Nicholas was born, which turned out to be a bit of an indulgence given how rarely Barbara ventured out. But she was grateful for the new car now, complete with air-conditioning, which she’d never used. She reached across the generous front seat and buckled Nicholas in. She slipped the shoulder strap behind his back, leaving just the lap belt.
Nicholas started to twist and churn. “No buckle.”
Barbara turned the key in the ignition, speaking lightly as the engine rumbled to life. “Then no orange juice.”
She wasn’t sure she’d have the strength to carry out this threat if Nicholas continued to protest. He could move into the back where you didn’t have to worry about seatbelts. But the little boy settled down, looking out his window.
Barbara rolled hers open. It only got good and hot for a month or so in Cold Kettle, but this was the month. A breeze fanned them both as Barbara drove along Crook Road.
The back of her dress grew clammy, sticking to the seat. Maybe she should turn on the air-conditioning. She checked the rearview mirror and saw that her face was flushed. From the fracas before? Nicholas’ response had been understandable. Barbara served him orange juice every morning and he’d come to expect it.
She checked her son, sitting there solemnly, watching meadows and pens and barns roll by outside. He looked as still and cool as stone.
Barbara wiped off her face with one of Gordon’s handkerchiefs, left behind in the glove compartment. She imagined Mr. Mackey would have the fans turned on in the grocery store. She didn’t usually react to the heat this way, and it was a little disturbing. Barbara made a turn onto Main Street, angling the wagon into a vacant parking spot.
“Come, Nicky,” she said, an idea striking her. “We’ll buy you an ice cream cone after we get our groceries. Would you like that?”
Nicholas was already pushing at the door. He tumbled out onto the sidewalk, but righted himself swiftly and took off. Barbara got out, too. She paused for a moment, placing one hand on the flank of the car and jerking back at the metallic burn. Then she noticed Nicholas looking over his shoulder at her, his little sneakered foot poised above the curb. Barbara felt too queasy to give chase. But Nicholas stepped into the street then, which did necessitate a run.
—
It took forty-five minutes to load the cart, so sluggishly was she moving. Nicholas kept seeing items and demanding that they be added. The total was going to be high, and Barbara nervously fingered the fold of bills in her purse.
“Want orange juice,” Nicholas said, twisting around in the high-up seat.
It was an unfortunate echo of this morning. Barbara gave her son a wan smile. “When we get home, okay?” she said. “You can have a nice big glass.”
Maybe she would have one, too. With ice.
Nicholas leaned over the metal lattice separating him from the groceries, and stretched out his arm. Unable to reach down far enough into the cart, he stood up on unstable legs.
Barbara wasn’t sure what to do. If she took him out, Nicholas was likely to throw another fit. But the chances of him successfully climbing into the cart were low. And what would he do even if he made it? Guzzle juice straight out of the carton?
She realized her son was likely to do exactly that, and the thought of the sticky mess he’d make caused her stomach to lift.
Nicholas stood teetering on the seat. There was a gasp from a woman standing by the pyramid of soup cans beside the cart, and the next thing Barbara knew, her son was in the woman’s arms. The woman turned toward Barbara, who was leaning against the red-and-white cardboard Campbell’s sign.
“Oh, Mrs. Burgess,” said the pastor’s wife.
Barbara felt grateful that if anybody was going to observe what was about to happen, it would be a woman of God.
“I didn’t see you there. You must keep an eye on your little boy now that he’s so mobile.”
As if on cue, Nicholas bucked against the woman. “Down! I want to go down!”
Glenda Williams cocked a brow at Barbara. “Mind your p’s and q’s, then,” she said.
But Nicholas continued to writhe in the woman’s arms until Barbara reached for him.
Glenda gave a quick shake of her head, keeping Barbara at bay. “Should I count?” she asked Nicholas. “By three you’re going to be nice and still. All right? One, two…”
Nicholas quieted, and Glenda set him down on the floor.
She aimed a smile at Barbara. “Always worked like a charm with mine,” she said. “And what a smart boy to know his numbers already.”
Barbara fingered the chain that lay in a damp hollow at her neck. She made her tone modest. “He hasn’t even begun school yet.”
As if knowing he was being talked about, Nicholas took off in the direction of the dairy section. Barbara heaved a sigh and started after him.
Glenda t
railed along behind, still murmuring. “My boys didn’t get so…willful until they were older.”
The comment was charitable. The Williams boys were shining examples of the community, one with his own farm, two studying downstate, the youngest planning one day to assume his daddy’s pulpit.
A thick, wet thud came from the rear of the store. Barbara abandoned her cart, purse slapping against her arm as she hurried forward.
Nicholas was sitting in a puddle of orange juice. A carton had fallen onto the floor. Barbara had no idea how Nicholas had gotten a hold of it; he must’ve climbed into the refrigerated case.
He was trying to scoop up a handful of liquid, slicked with gray dirt from the floor. Barbara went to Nicholas, taking care not to skid. He screamed as she stooped down beside him.
“Mama! No pick me up! Want juice!”
He beat his sticky fists against Barbara’s chest—the only clean dress she had left—and one found its way into her mouth. She tasted grit and syrupy sweet citrus and the combination was too much for her stomach, which had been so fragile all morning.
It lifted, disgorging its contents to mix with the juice, and as Barbara leaned over, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she suddenly remembered the last time she had felt this hot and nauseous and tired all at once.
It had nothing to do with the weather, or her boisterous little boy.
Glenda Williams appeared, towing Mr. Mackey alongside her, and Barbara let out a lone, solitary howl of protest that joined her son’s.
—
Glenda scooped Nicholas out of the mess on the floor, directing a hapless Mr. Mackey to unlock the washroom door, and carrying the boy inside. Nicholas’ protests didn’t abate; the little room rocked with their force.
But as Barbara leaned against the refrigerated section, fanning herself and trying to rid her mouth of its vile taste, things did begin to quiet down. Eventually Glenda emerged, plunking Nicholas on the floor with a little pat to his bottom. The boy smiled up at her. His chocolaty curls were slicked down and his face looked clean, though the bottom of his shorts was still stained orange. Laundry on a live, yelling child in a washroom was beyond even Glenda Williams.
Barbara tried to muster words.
“Mama?” said Nicholas.
Barbara gathered breath for her reply. “Yes, angel?”
“I want ice cream,” he said.
Glenda let out a rather heretical snort.
Barbara looked at her.
“Please tell me you’re not going to give this child a treat,” Glenda said.
Barbara opened her mouth to explain. “He’s stormy by nature. Sensitive, really. He takes things so hard—”
“Mama! You said ice cream!”
Glenda spoke over the cry. “Barbara Burgess, stop making excuses. For yourself and for the boy. He won’t listen because he’s not in the habit of listening.”
Barbara stared at her.
“Ma-ma! I—want—ice cream!”
But Nicholas’ heart clearly wasn’t in it anymore. His throat sounded hoarse, and his cries were croggy. The boy had tired himself out; his small body appeared to be wilting.
It was one way to end a tantrum, Barbara supposed. Just outlast it.
“I thought about spanking him myself,” Glenda said, turning briskly. “There’s nothing wrong with this child that a little discipline won’t cure.” She paused, then swiveled back, a note of portent in her voice. “Not now there isn’t. Where he’ll be in a year or two,” she added darkly, “I couldn’t say.”
She didn’t walk off, but continued standing there, quietly observing. Barbara was left with no choice but to lift Nicholas into her arms and leave the store. She got them both into the car, whose internal temperature had risen to a baking heat. It was only once she’d twisted the key in the ignition that Barbara realized she had left all her groceries back in the store.
They suddenly seemed of the utmost unimportance. Barbara couldn’t recall why she had ever thought to venture out today.
She turned to look beside her. Nicholas was fast asleep already, his small body slumped over on the seat like a dead thing.
On the way home, Barbara stopped by Dr. Benedict’s office, grateful when she entered the cool chambers. She’d left Nicholas in the car, rolling down a window to make sure the little boy would have enough air. Last time Nicholas had been here, the nasty nurse kept trying to get him to stop touching things, which had been a burden on the little boy’s creative, curious spirit.
The nurse led Barbara back to an examining room.
“You seem a little calmer today, Mrs. Burgess,” the nurse said as they walked. “No child with you?”
“No,” Barbara replied. See what all your bossing did, she added in her head. Now you don’t get to see Nicholas. “No child.”
Barbara got up on the table, paper sheet crinkling beneath her.
“Well,” the nurse said, smiling as she readied the things for the test. “I suppose we’re going to see about that.”
The double meaning hit Barbara, and the nurse recoiled a bit when Barbara lifted her gaze and met hers. The needle snagged before plunging deeply into Barbara’s arm, but Barbara refused to give the nurse the satisfaction of wincing.
She tried to read the result in the inscrutable stream of blood that rose inside the syringe.
CHAPTER FOUR
Ivy lay on her bed in her darkening room, scrolling through updates on Facebook, and madly posting comments in the hopes that someone would respond. She wanted to talk and the sad truth was that she had a better chance of doing so with somebody ten or twenty or forty miles away than with her mom or dad, who were in the same house.
She had gotten one text from Melissa—at dereks game cant talk u kno the rule—which was true, Ivy did know, though she’d forgotten that Melissa’s brother had a game tonight. After that she texted a few other people—friends who didn’t quite click or get her the way Melissa did—but two of them didn’t even reply. Which was part of what Ivy was talking about.
Darcy did text back, but when Ivy suggested she come over to work on their world history study guide, due tomorrow, or their algebra two problem set, also due, Darcy wrote: cant get the car my parents say weathers coming in
bummer Ivy typed, then dropped her phone onto the bed.
On the floor below, Mackie let out a snuffle.
Ivy extended her hand. Mac didn’t jump onto the bed—he hadn’t done that in almost a year; Ivy could remember the exact last time—but tonight he also failed to give her fingers a lick. Ivy felt a clamp in her chest that was familiar. The clamp took hold whenever she saw Mackie these days, or even thought about him. Her dog that she kind of sort of named and couldn’t remember a day of her life without. McLean was his whole name, which they’d had to keep because after they brought him home from the shelter, only hearing his name yelled really loud would make him come. But after a long, long, long time, Ivy had started to say Mac, then Mackie, until those started to work, too.
Mac thumped his tail in slumber. It didn’t have the heft it once had, when Mackie could make her floorboards shake with doggie enthusiasm.
He wasn’t the dog he used to be.
Ivy knew it, even if her mother would never admit it in a million years. Which, as with everything else bad in her life, meant that Ivy was alone.
Her mom didn’t do too well with bad.
She had called her mom a liar, but even as she said the word, Ivy knew she’d never be able to explain it. Even if her mother asked, which of course she wouldn’t. Ivy was starting to understand something about her mom, and it put so much space between them that she wondered how she would ever feel close to her again.
Ivy kicked her legs with all the vigor Mackie lacked, scattering papers at the bottom of her bed. She had been planning to do her study guide, and the problem set, too. She didn’t know why she’d said different during the fight. The non-fight. Like everything else that seemed to be happening lately, it had been an impulse that
snuck up from behind, caught her by surprise. Ivy opened her mouth and words came out that she hadn’t planned. She sat down at her desk at school and wrote answers that she knew were wrong.
Same thing now. Ivy wasn’t sure where the urge to slither onto the floor came from, except that it allowed her to bury her face in Mackie’s fur. He hardly even lifted his head, just gave another soft snort as Ivy cried and cried against him.
—
Her phone buzzed, but Ivy ignored it. Just Darcy probably, texting back to say something lame like yeah to Ivy’s equally lame bummer comment. Ivy wiped her nose, keeping her face buried in Mackie’s flank, which rose and fell at a pace as comforting as the tides. Her phone gave another insistent rotation and Ivy finally reached up to grab it off her bed. Maybe the game had finished early and Melissa was going to come over after all.
whats up read the words on the screen.
She glanced down at the number, unfamiliar at first, before realizing who it must be.
He’d given her a ride earlier, after Melissa was stuck in detention and her other friends lamed out.
Ivy’s whole face heated. She stared at the message, thumbs hovering.
not much she typed, hearing Darcy cackle in her head. Can’t you come up with anything better than that?
u? Ivy added, Darcy laughing all the harder.
same came Cory’s reply. want to do something?
i thought a storm is coming? can u get ur car?
i can always get the car
my parents might not want me to go out Ivy typed, which wasn’t a lie, although she had the scary, perilous sense that she might be able to get around the rules just by threatening another outburst, or launching a camouflaged exit strategy.
Cory’s reply appeared on her screen.
dude, did you see how slow i drove when i dropped you off? ur parents would probably let me take u to burning man if i asked
Ivy wasn’t sure what he meant, but the message sent a thrill down her shoulders. She leaned over and squeezed Mackie, muffling her squeal in his coat.
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