Unleaving

by Melissa Ostrom

  Proud of herself, she got dressed, made a fresh pot of coffee, found some leftover Boston cream doughnuts in the fridge, and ate two of them. After bundling up in her winter coat, she headed outside. The wind was fierce and cold, but the sun shone brightly. It glittered across the choppy waves and warmed the top of her head as she searched for beach glass. She carried her palmful of smooth pieces and high spirits up to the loft and checked her phone.

  The girl hadn’t written back yet, but Maggie was (guiltily) kind of relieved. The correspondence ball was in Jane’s court. Maggie had finished her part, at least for now.

  Then she called home.

  “You remembered you had a phone,” her mother said by way of hello.

  The surprise and happiness in her mother’s voice made Maggie smile. “Hi, Mom.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Good. Just beachcombing.”

  Her mother laughed. “Got any other plans for the day?”

  Did she? It was the last Saturday of October … oh! “I do. I’m meeting my book club friends in Kesley. We’re going to decide on our next read.”

  * * *

  Ran led the way into the back room and brandished a hand to present a few books in the middle of the floor. “Ta-da!” She knelt by the stack and began humming along to the music playing in the background, a song from Rent.

  Maggie looked around, confused. On top of the filing cabinet, in two corners, on the desk, on the table, under the table—books, books, books, hundreds of books, new and old, peeking out of boxes, loosely piled, and forming book versions of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. But where Ran sat, there were only four hardcover selections.

  “That’s it?” Hope stood over the short stack, hands on her hips.

  “Yeah, well, to save time, I thought I’d give you options.” Ran patted the floor on either side of her. While Maggie and the other girls joined her, she continued, “It’s not like we have forever to make a decision. These are the ones I figured we’d like the best.”

  Under her breath, Hope muttered, “Options.”

  Ran arranged her crossed legs into a lotus pose and drew the stack closer to her.

  Hope, hunching over her own loosely crossed legs, rolled her eyes. “We know, we know. You’re super flexible.”

  Ran drummed the cover of a book. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Hope thumbed the frayed end of a black bootlace and shrugged. “You’re competitive.”

  “Nonsense.” Ran sniffed.

  Maggie and Julia, sitting next to each other, shared a smile.

  Colleen suggested diplomatically, “She’s just a perfectionist.”

  Hope blew a raspberry. “She wants to win. At everything.”

  “What a flattering observation.” Ran glared at her. “Since you’re done pointing out my failings, why don’t we—”

  “Who says I’m done?” Hope held up a finger. “And you’re controlling.” Then she knitted her hands in her lap and grinned. “Okay. Now I’m done.”

  “How about you pick our next read?” Ran said through her teeth.

  “Sure.” Hope leaned forward and raked the books her way. “Then I’ll check the time”—she held up her wrist, where what looked like a genuine army multifunction watch hid part of a tattoo—“and we’ll see how many minutes pass before you tell me why I made the wrong choice.”

  Ran and Hope continued to bicker. Maggie would have found this exchange worrisome if Colleen and Julia (chatting and laughing about something Samantha Bee had said) didn’t look completely unfazed. Since Hope wasn’t paying any attention to the books, Maggie drew the stack her way.

  The first novel was by Jodi Picoult, Small Great Things. Maggie read the description. It sounded interesting. And the next one, News of the World by Paulette Jiles, sounded great, too. She picked up Jennifer Niven’s Holding Up the Universe, but as she opened it to check the synopsis, the bottommost book caught her attention—Something Else by Trinity Haskins.

  With a bittersweet pang, Maggie admired the cover’s stark illustration of two women’s silhouettes. Haskins wasn’t just her favorite contemporary writer; she was a professor and one of the reasons Maggie had decided to stay in her hometown after high school. While so many other kids had sought the escape that distant colleges promised, Maggie had chosen Carlton College partly because Trinity Haskins taught English literature there. She was a popular professor, her classes filled up quickly, and Maggie had known she’d have to wait until her junior or senior year to win a seat in the writer’s classroom. She hadn’t minded. Haskins was worth waiting for …

  “Then how about we let Marge decide? Marge. Marge.” Ran poked Maggie in the knee.

  Maggie looked up, disoriented.

  The girls were smiling at her expectantly.

  “Sheesh,” Ran said. “I was practically screaming your name.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Is that the one we should read?” Julia asked, nodding at the Haskins novel in Maggie’s lap.

  “Well…” She covered the book with her hands, suddenly feeling fiercely (if absurdly) territorial about it. She would answer “Absolutely,” if she could brag about kind of knowing Haskins personally, having seen her on campus many times and attended three of her readings, and maybe boasting a little, too, about Carlton College’s great reputation, its kick-ass English department, especially.

  But she couldn’t, not if she was sticking to her plan: to wipe away her past, surge ahead, stay focused on the future, and become more of a Marge and less of a Maggie.

  She pushed the other three novels across the floor. “Let’s do one of these.”

  11

  A RACKET WOKE Maggie. With a gasp, she jerked up and pushed out her hands, instinctively preparing to ward off an attacker. Heart pounding, scalp tight, she listened hard for a moment, then collapsed back onto the bed with a moan. The noise was coming from outside, a sound like a bucketful of gravel hurled at the windows. There was a clatter across the roof, too, heavier than the usual pings of rain. The wind roared, and the panes shook and strummed. The loft was under some strange climatic siege.

  She rolled over, got to her knees, and squinted out at the white and silver of the sky, wind, and lake. Winter had shown up early and was transforming Wren’s corner of the world. Leaning to the side, Maggie managed to get a view of the Blakes’ property. The air, thick with driving ice and snow, blurred Devil’s Tongue.

  She thought about the previous night, Hope and Ran’s arguing, the Haskins novel, Maggie’s initial thrill and pride when she’d spotted the book … and how, for the sake of anonymity, she’d kept her reaction to herself. Though not without a pang.

  Staying silent on her past—her master plan—came with costs. Hid the bad parts, yes, but it also meant giving up the good. And that sucked.

  What had Linnie said that first time they met? “You should have stayed right where you were. Why did you leave?” If Linnie found out what Maggie was up to in the book club, she’d accuse her of running scared—and doing just what the Carlton haters wanted her to do: making herself vanish.

  “She’s one to talk,” Maggie said under her breath, frowning at the weather. She scrambled out of bed, wishing she could leave the uncomfortable thoughts under the rumpled sheets. Her phone was on the floor. With a heavy sigh, she checked her emails. No reply from Jane yet.

  The storm lasted all day. While the snow flew around the cabin, Maggie marked the passing hours by visiting her email and trying to concentrate on News of the World for the book club. Why wasn’t Jane writing back? The girl’s silence made Maggie nervous.

  After the first week of November, the weather improved, but still there was nothing from Jane. Maggie was exasperated. For the longest time, this person had written without any encouragement at all. And now—after Maggie had finally replied—the girl couldn’t even muster a hey? A thanks-for-the-advice? A don’t-worry-I’m-fine? Like, what the hell? It was aggravating. Maggie checked her junk mail. She also went into her sent mai
l and reread her own message. Had she mentioned something that could have pissed off Jane? That might have hurt her feelings?

  By the following week, Maggie’s irritation had disappeared. Now she was plain scared. She sent another email, a brief just-seeing-if-you’re-okay message. That went unanswered, too.

  On Thursday, almost two weeks after she’d written her first message to Jane, Maggie reread the girl’s last email and swore. The more Maggie thought about it, the more the short paragraph sounded like a suicide note. Rattled, she stared at her phone until the screen grayed and turned black. What if Jane wasn’t writing back because she’d harmed herself … or worse?

  Maggie tossed aside her phone. She had to tell Wren.

  She found her aunt in the hallway, about to enter her studio. Before Maggie could mention the situation and ask for advice, Wren greeted her with a vague nod and said, “Oh, good, you’re up. Can you do me a favor and head over to Thomas’s to tell Sam he has the day off? He’s not answering his phone, and I—I need…” She ran a hand over her red eyes and then curled her fingers around her throat. Flatly, she finished, “I can’t have him around.”

  “Sure…” Maggie frowned. Her aunt looked sick. “Are you all right?”

  Wren shook her head. “Fine.” She must have registered the contradiction in her answer, because she smiled dimly and added, “I just need to be alone today—wrap up things in the studio without interruptions.”

  Maggie swallowed her disappointment. She couldn’t ask her aunt to help her with Jane’s situation, at least not immediately. “Finishing the sculpture?”

  Wren gazed at her bleakly. “And calling your mom.” She took a step into the studio. “My truck keys are on the kitchen counter. Thanks for telling Sam.” She shut the door behind her.

  Calling my mom? Maggie stared at the closed door.

  Frustrated and confused, she trudged into the kitchen. Maybe she should talk to Sam about Jane. He was smart. He’d probably have some good advice.

  But he didn’t. Or rather, he might have, but Maggie decided not to ask for it. He looked about as approachable as Wren had.

  The Blakes’ garage door was up. Sam stood outside, but he was facing the house and shouting something—at Kate, Maggie realized. The girl stood in the garage. Maggie rolled down the truck window and heard him say, “… and catch a cold? Jeez. Get back inside. Right now!”

  His daughter ignored him. Maggie’s arrival had caught Kate’s unhappy attention. She crossed her arms and stuck out her tongue at Maggie. Then she bared her teeth. Then she stuck out her tongue again.

  “Yikes.” Warily eyeing the girl, Maggie stayed in the aunt’s truck and waited for Sam to walk over.

  After she passed along Wren’s message, he nodded. “Dad will be relieved. I can drive Kate for a change.” He turned and shouted, “Go get your coat and backpack! I’m taking you to school.”

  “No!” Kate flew to the outer edge of the concrete floor, punched the air, and stamped her foot. “It’s a snow day.”

  “No, it’s not,” Sam growled. “Hurry up.”

  “Mom said.”

  “Your mother doesn’t decide if it’s a snow day. The superintendent does.”

  “Mom is super. She said we could make a snowman today. I am not going to school. And I hate you!”

  He turned slowly, hissing an exhalation. “Linnie decided Kate needs a mental-health day,” he told Maggie in a low mutter. “Jesus Christ, that woman’s making my life difficult.” He flared his eyes at the sky. “Thanks for driving over, Megan. Catch you later.”

  She didn’t bother correcting her name. Making his way toward the house, he looked defeated, his head lowered and back bent. In the garage, he tried to take Kate’s arm. She shook him off, her glare on Maggie. Sam waved a hand over his head, an explosive I-give-up motion, and stomped into the house. Kate stayed where she was, a belligerent sentinel.

  “I’m not trying to breach the castle walls, little girl,” Maggie said under her breath, and put the truck in reverse.

  The snowball hit the passenger window just as Maggie finished the K-turn. Alarmed, she rolled up the window on her side and stepped on the gas. In the rearview mirror, she saw the girl kick at some snow, shake her fist, and holler something after the truck. Maggie couldn’t hear what she said, but if she had to guess, it was probably something like, “You’re not my mom!”

  * * *

  Friday wasn’t an improvement over Thursday. Jane didn’t write. Wren must have given Sam another day off, because he never showed up for work. The aunt, herself, was still holed up in the studio. And here Maggie was facing a crisis—without the least bit of help from anyone! By the end of the day, she decided to send a third message to Jane:

  I’m worried that something has happened to you and wondering if I should try to find your home phone number and contact your family. Your silence is troubling. Please write back.

  First thing Saturday morning, she checked her phone.

  Nothing.

  Discouraged, she slunk back into bed with the book by Jiles. By suppertime, she’d finished it. She wasn’t hungry, so she stayed in the loft and got dressed for book club, strongly tempted not to go. It wasn’t as if she’d have anything to say about the novel. She had barely absorbed a word. Plus, she knew she was going to be lousy company.

  A familiar song jingled from under a pile of strewn clothes.

  With a jolt of hope, she flung aside a flannel shirt and seized her phone.

  Just Mom. Drooping to the edge of the bed, she answered the call with a cheerless “Hey.”

  “Oh, honey.”

  Her mother sounded weird. “Are you okay?”

  “I—I’ve been thinking about things a—a lot lately, and I’ve decided you should”—her mother drew a tremulous breath—“come home. I need to—to see you.”

  Maggie shook her head, bewildered. “But you will, like in a week and a half. Remember? You and Dad are coming for Thanksgiving.”

  “No. I need you back here.”

  “What?”

  “You would be better off with me…” Her voice trailed into a sob.

  Maggie cupped her forehead. “What’s going on?”

  In a trembling rush, her mother said, “I made a mistake sending you there. I don’t … I just don’t trust her.”

  “Who?”

  “My sister.”

  Huh? “Mom.” Maggie frowned out the window at the woods. The sun had turned the upper branches into a golden filigree. “Please tell me what happened.”

  Her mother choked out, “… can’t talk about … I’ll tell you when … after I get paid Friday, I can send you money for … love you, sweetheart.” Then she ended the call.

  Maggie stared at the screen. “Holy shit.”

  She tossed the phone onto the bed and hurried downstairs. Mom and Wren must have had a fight. Could it have been on Thursday? The aunt had mentioned needing to call Maggie’s mother and wanting privacy for the conversation …

  The hallway door to the studio was closed. Wren had made it clear she couldn’t be interrupted, but Maggie entered anyway. This was an emergency.

  Just past the threshold, however, she froze. Another person, somewhere deeper in the studio, was crying.

  Wren was not a crier, but who else could this sadness belong to? Maggie hesitated, torn between checking on her aunt and leaving her in peace and disturbed that the two women she was closest to were falling apart at the same time.

  Finally, she stepped back and softly closed the door. She’d leave the aunt alone for now and try talking to her later.

  Dissatisfied with this compromise, she wandered aimlessly and ended up in the kitchen.

  On the counter, a note was next to Wren’s keys. Recognizing the aunt’s handwriting, she picked up the square of paper. Soup’s in the fridge. Take the truck tonight. Have fun at your book club meeting. The sculpture is all but done. The hardest part’s over. I’ll see you in the morning.

  Maggie looked around the kitc
hen. “What the hell is going on?” she asked. Again. The question had become her mantra. It covered all the bases—Jane, Mom, Wren, Linnie.

  Nothing and no one were making sense.

  * * *

  “I hoped it would turn out differently.” Julia drew her feet up to the reading-nook couch and hugged her knees to her chest. “Kept wishing Johanna would get to go back to the tribe.”

  Hope nodded, glum. “The Kiowas were her family.”

  “They didn’t want her back,” Ran pointed out.

  “You’re right.” Julia sighed. “And isn’t that heartbreaking?”

  Ran tapped the cover of the book in her lap and murmured the title aloud: “News of the World.” She kicked back the rocker. “It’s pretty damn bleak.” Her chair filled the lull with a creak, crick, creak, crick …

  “What was the name the tribe gave her?” Hope asked, thumbing through the novel.

  “Oh—oh, I know this,” Julia said, and lifted her chin off her knee, her forehead wrinkled in concentration. “Let me think. It’s on the tip of my tongue…”

  “Colleen?” Ran raised an eyebrow. “Do you remember?”

  She shook her head and slipped lower into her corner of the couch.

  “Cicada!” Julia declared. Her smile wilted. She rubbed her cheek against her knee and added gloomily, “Then all those annoying white people tried to make her answer to Johanna. The poor girl didn’t even get to keep her name.”

  “Yeah. Hmm.” Hope, in the middle of the couch, leaned back and exchanged a speaking glance with Ran. Then she considered Colleen in a sidelong way. “You didn’t read the book, did you?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Colleen scowled and sat up straighter on the couch. “I did.”

  “You skimmed.” Hope shrugged. “I can tell. You usually have all sorts of things to say.”

  Ran peeled back in the rocker and mused to the ceiling in a singsong fashion, “Someone didn’t do her homework.”