Unleaving

by Melissa Ostrom

  She hadn’t told her parents about it—didn’t want them to know. What good would telling them do? It would only make them angry and scared and sad.

  Downstairs, she headed for the living room, expecting to find Mom still reading on the couch. Instead, she found her sitting cross-legged on the floor, leaning over a family album.

  Maggie shoved her hands into her hoodie pockets. “Are you hiding from me?”

  Mom rolled her eyes. “Does this look like a covert operation?” She turned a page and clucked. “We used to be so good about getting pictures developed and organized in albums. Then your dad gave me the digital camera for Christmas. When was that? Eight years ago? The next Christmas, he got me an iPhone.” She sighed. “I take more pictures than ever but just save them on the computer. A lot of good that does. I hardly ever go back to them.” She pulled the album onto her lap and bent to study a snapshot of Maggie as a baby, asleep in the high chair.

  Maggie crouched for a better look. Her round baby face was plastered with something disgusting. Mashed broccoli? Asparagus? It was a putrid shade of green. “Ick. What were you feeding me? Soylent green?”

  “Peas.” Her mom sighed again, damply this time. “You used to love peas.”

  “You don’t have to cry about it. I’ll start eating peas again, if you want.”

  A wet laugh escaped Mom. She closed the album, rubbed her eyes, and sat back, resting her shoulder blades against the seat cushion of the armchair. “Your friends are nice.” Her palm smoothed the burgundy cover, and she matched Maggie’s nod with one of her own. “Even Linnie. I guess I wasn’t prepared to think so, knowing what I did about her.”

  “But you don’t know her.” Maggie sat on the floor and picked up another album. Idly opening it, she admitted, “Neither do I.” Loving and neglectful, caring and careless, friendly and furious, brave and scared. “Linnie’s hard to understand.” What would she be like in two days, when they reached her hometown? They’d promised Sam they’d stop there to pick up the letter at Linnie’s old neighbor’s house. Or at least Caleb and Maggie had promised. Linnie hadn’t said a word about the destination. That, at least, was consistent in Linnie’s character: a steadfast resistance to looking ahead.

  “You could say that about everyone,” Mom said, and reopened the album in her lap.

  Maggie nodded. No one was ever one thing. Not even Matt Dawson. Those who’d been at the hearing for him and testified (football coach, an old teacher, his parents) had been tearful and incredulous: “Matt’s a terrific kid.” “Respectful, you know?” “He wouldn’t—couldn’t—do something like this. I just can’t believe it. I can’t picture him hurting anyone, least of all a girl.” As character witnesses, these people hadn’t been conspirators. It was just that the possibility of Matthew Dawson leading a drunken gang rape had been beyond their comprehension. And Matt Dawson had cried along with them, as if he couldn’t believe it himself. But eventually he had confessed. Then even that had been dismissed by his fans. A forced confession, they’d insisted. The result of coercion.

  She shook off these dismal thoughts and concentrated on the page she’d opened to in the album, jarred when she realized she was looking at a photograph of her grandparents, taken at Thanksgiving. Grandma Heed, smiling at Dad, sat at one end of the dining room table. Opposite her, at the other end, sat Maggie’s grandfather, his expression dour. This was not unusual. Behind his back, Mom and Dad had regularly changed his nickname from Gramps to Grumpy. And though Maggie had gotten plenty of attention from her grandmother, even as a young child, she’d sensed that Grumpy Gramps didn’t care much for kids.

  “What are you looking at?” Mom leaned forward to see the photograph. “Oh.”

  Maggie caught her lower lip in her teeth and gingerly closed the album.

  “No, no,” Mom said loudly, “get a good look at our happy memories. Better do it now. Wren’s about to obliterate them.” Her fingers went to her forehead and rested there, as if to ward off a glare from the sun.

  “You’re sure the memories were all happy?”

  “For me, yes. Sufficiently happy.” Her voice was clipped, but it cracked when she continued, “And memories are all I have left of those two.”

  “You still have Wren. Shouldn’t you try to”—Maggie raised her shoulders—“keep her?”

  Mom’s hand fell to the floor. “I see whose side you’re on.”

  “Don’t be like that. I only wish her exhibition wasn’t such a problem. After all these years, after you two are finally getting along…” She rubbed her eyes. “I hate to think of some fired clay ruining your relationship.”

  “Fabricating dirty laundry and airing it in everyone’s faces.” Mom folded her arms and added bitterly, “Family concerns, personal business—just blaring it all to the whole world.”

  Maggie flinched at the choice of the word fabricating. “Artists reveal difficult issues. That’s, like, their job.”

  “In Wren’s case,” Mom said coolly, “it’s a job that pays very well, I’m sure.”

  Maggie gazed at her mutely. Her mother’s comments—doubting the truthfulness of what her sister was exposing, wanting any hint of it kept secret, implying Wren was milking the situation to make money—were ugly. And familiar. How often had Maggie been accused of speaking up about matters “better left unsaid,” flat-out lying, ruining people’s cherished memories, and even setting out to do it for money, though she’d never filed a lawsuit or done anything that would have benefited her financially? “Wren’s not trying to make you agree with her or even participate. She’s just giving you the heads-up.”

  “So for the next month, I steer clear, keep my eyes off art magazine covers, and avoid reading the reviews?”

  “That’s an option.”

  “And cover my ears if someone stops by to discuss the show?”

  “If you have to, yeah.”

  “And turn off the radio when NPR covers Wren Heed?”

  Maggie blew an exasperated sigh. “Depending on how committed you are to avoiding the truth, then yes, I suppose you’ll have to stay away from the media, in general, for a couple of weeks.”

  “So!” Mom’s finger struck the air like a baton. “You’re convinced that what she’s putting out there is the truth.”

  “I don’t think Wren is a liar,” she answered cautiously.

  “And I am?”

  Maggie shook her head. “This is what I know: Aunt Wren has dragged her feet on this project. She’s finishing it in the nick of time. It was a hard thing for her to create, to address personally and publicly. Putting the exhibition together…” She briefly closed her eyes, remembering Wren that night in the studio, weary yet resolute. “For her, it was a necessary hell.”

  A tense moment passed, filled only with the dogged ticking of the mantel clock.

  Then Mom crumpled. “He was my dad, Maggie. I can’t—I just can’t believe it. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.” She dragged up her gaze and, through tears, stared at Maggie imploringly. “I don’t think you understand how this show is going to change everything—how it’s going to rewrite my entire life.”

  “Oh, Mom.” Maggie took her hand and squeezed it. “I do know. Last year, I listened to testimony after testimony on six guys’ behalf. I couldn’t discredit what their families and friends had to say about them. People do good things, wonderful things in their lives. Sometimes they screw up. Terribly. And sometimes their bad behavior becomes a sick habit. But please,” she exhaled. “Please keep in mind: Exonerating Gramps means you’re accusing Wren. It’s not fair to her. I know how that feels, doing the right thing by exposing a wrong, then getting labeled a liar. It feels shitty.”

  “People do lie, Margaret. You didn’t. But many do.”

  Many? No. Not in such situations. Maggie couldn’t believe that—wouldn’t even change many to some. There was little to gain by lying. Society, with all its myths and perversions and double standards, made sure of that. She prodded her temples. “Wren doesn’t want to lose
you. Are you willing to lose her?”

  Mom touched Maggie’s head and rose to her feet, slowly, staggeringly. “I’m sorry, honey.”

  After she left, Maggie, exhausted and glum, stayed on the floor, her head propped in a hand. She opened an album and dispiritedly flipped through the photos, again passing the Thanksgiving snapshot. She paused to study it before continuing.

  A dull awareness stirred. Something in these pictures seemed … off.

  More attentively, she plodded through the rest of the photographs. By the end of the album, her inkling had turned into a fully formed thought. She returned to the beginning of the album and went through the photographs again. Then, heart racing, she seized the leather-covered album and pored over its contents.

  She slapped it shut and stared straight ahead.

  “Shit,” she whispered. Why had she never realized this before?

  17

  THROUGHOUT THE NIGHT, Maggie’s discovery consumed her. It invaded her dreams, and she slept fitfully. The next morning, while her parents got ready for work and Caleb and Linnie took the dog for a walk around the neighborhood, Maggie sat the kitchen table, slouched over her coffee and an untouched piece of toast. What was she going to do?

  Mom flew into the kitchen. “I’m late.” After grabbing her purse, she planted a kiss on the top of Maggie’s head and then, wearing an expression that somehow managed both defiance and remorse, hauled her into a hug.

  Still sitting, Maggie found her face pressed against her mother’s stomach, transporting her to an earlier time when most embraces put her in this position. She fought the urge to burrow and cry.

  Mom smoothed her hair. “Listen, sweetheart. I don’t want you to confuse what happened to you with whatever’s going on with Wren. My sister”—she exhaled heavily—“has always been a handful, drinking, getting high, disrupting everyone’s life, basically sleeping around, and raising hell. There’s no other way to put this: I hate to say she’s a troublemaker, but there you have it.”

  Maggie thought about Linnie. That night she’d picked her up at the party, when Linnie had compared her history with Maggie’s, what was it she’d said? A bipolar dropout with an ugly history, an addiction or two, and a record, for good measure? I don’t qualify for justice. You, though … you painted a convincing picture, a classic picture. Maggie squeezed her eyes shut.

  “I’m sorry I ever thought having you stay at my sister’s was a bright idea.”

  “Aunt Wren’s been good to me.”

  “No. She’s manipulating you. Tonight, we’ll talk more. I’ll make the arrangements to get you settled back home.”

  Maggie sighed against her mother, remembering the previous evening’s stressful incident at the bar. Carlton wasn’t a welcoming place—not for Maggie. That was why she’d left in the first place. Mom seemed to have forgotten that.

  “… not ready to see Wren,” her mother was saying. “Really, I—I just don’t want to go there, but it might be hard for you to take the bus, lugging all your stuff, so your dad will probably have to pick you up. We’ll figure it out. I’ve—” Her voice caught. She continued huskily, “I’ve missed you like crazy. As for Wren, well, I wanted to trust her, but I can’t. I simply can’t. But please…” Her hold tightened, and Maggie felt the hand against her head tremble. “Don’t ever think I doubt you. I’ve never doubted you, Maggie dear. You’re not at all like Wren.”

  Not at all? Maggie pulled away.

  Mom glanced at the clock and started. “Shoot. Got to go. See you tonight, sweetheart.”

  After a hurried kiss, Mom left. Maggie remained at the table. Eventually she’d have to hash it out with her mother. First, there were the photographs. They warranted a discussion. Second, there was Wren. Maggie trusted and respected her aunt. She certainly didn’t suspect her of lying. But how to make this clear without Mom accusing her of taking her sister’s side?

  * * *

  After traveling all the way to the Cannons’ house in Wilson a second time, Maggie found herself in the same situation as the day before—ringing the doorbell, waiting, knocking, waiting. Fruitlessly waiting.

  She gave up and returned to the car, parked on the side of the road.

  “Nobody’s home?” Caleb asked.

  “I guess not,” she said unhappily, and fastened her seat belt.

  “Or, more likely, whoever’s home doesn’t want to see you,” Linnie said from the backseat. She patted Fluffster, curled up next to her. “Ready to give up?”

  Caleb frowned. “We’ve tried only twice.”

  “And on both occasions,” Linnie said impatiently, “not one person in the Cannon household opened the door, so maybe we should take a hint and back off. Jane wants to be left alone. We should respect that.”

  Maggie moodily gazed up at the brick house. Maybe Linnie was right. She didn’t want to harass Jane. That was the last thing she wanted. But that flicker of movement in the window the previous day might have been a cat rustling a curtain when it jumped down from the sill, and now it was midday, a time when most houses stood empty. It was perfectly reasonable to assume the same was true of this place. Plus, Jane’s failure to write back could be explained if the girl wasn’t using her school email account any longer. In other words, Jane could be oblivious to Maggie’s attempts to contact her. “If you guys don’t mind,” she said slowly, “I’d like to come back here again at suppertime. At least then there’s a chance Mr. or Mrs. Cannon will be home from work. I—I guess I want Jane to know that I truly did try to get in touch with her.”

  Linnie huffed. “Fine.”

  Caleb started the car and smiled encouragingly at Maggie. “That sounds like a good plan.”

  The next three hours, mostly spent walking the dog and looking at strangers’ houses, passed slowly. With only a little money and a lot of Fluffster on their hands, they couldn’t do much to kill time. They couldn’t even visit the village’s new dog park. Caleb’s pet, without the permit tag verifying his vaccinations, wasn’t allowed in. A police officer explained this (and indicated a posted sign that made the rule explicit) before directing them off the premises.

  Linnie took the banishment personally. She was pissed; Maggie and Caleb, just embarrassed. They tried to tease her into better spirits. It didn’t work.

  When Maggie gave her a cheering pat, Linnie wrenched her arm away and snapped, “Fuck it. I’m going back to the car. It’s freezing out, and I’m tired. You guys can explore this shitty town on your own.” She stomped down the street.

  Maggie stared after her in amazement. “What the hell?”

  “Meh.” Caleb rubbed his dog’s side. “She’s just missing her…” He shook his head, as if he were reluctant to say aloud what Linnie was missing. His smile was sad. “Try not to take her bad mood personally.”

  A couple of hours later, they found her asleep (or faking sleep) in the backseat. By then, Maggie half-wished she were doing the same. She felt sapped and discouraged.

  But when they returned to the Cannons’ place, she had reason to hope. Interior lights warmed the long windows, and the light outside the garage was on, too. A sleek Lexus sat in the driveway. At least one person was home.

  “I’ll wait here for you,” Caleb said quietly as Maggie got out of the car.

  “Thanks.” She hurried up the walkway and rang the doorbell, then stood at the front door uncertainly, patting her hair and wincing at the damage the day’s wind had wreaked. Her cheeks burned from the cold. She blew her nose on a cheap napkin she’d saved from her lunch and shivered inside her coat. She probably looked like a vagrant.

  The woman who answered the door clearly thought so as well. “May I help you?” She held the door open at an angle just past a crack. She was tall and stately, a human version of her house.

  “Hi.” Maggie straightened and lifted her chin, striving to come across as assertive and respectable. “I’m a friend of Jane’s. From Carlton. I was wondering if she was in.”

  “Oh.” The door widened, and the
woman stepped back. After Maggie entered, the woman shut the door gently, as if to avoid waking someone. “I’m not sure if…” She wrung her hands. “My daughter hasn’t been feeling great.”

  “I know. She told me.” And what did she tell you? There was a lull, during which she and Jane’s mother eyed each other. Did Mrs. Cannon know what had happened?

  The woman’s gaze seemed to indicate a similar quandary. Finally, she walked toward the swirled end of a dark bannister. “Let me see if she’s up.”

  “Oh, that would be great.” Maggie smiled in relief. “Thank you.”

  “Who should I tell her is here?”

  “Margaret Arioli.”

  The older woman’s entire bearing changed. “Oh dear.” She stepped back from the staircase. Her expression was apologetic, but her hands, half-raised, said, Halt. “We’re working hard to put that Carlton business behind her.”

  “She wrote to me, asking for help.”

  “I realize that.” She strode across the foyer and reopened the front door. “But what she needs is professional help. I’ve arranged for her to see someone starting next week, an excellent therapist in Albany. She’s not too happy about that, but I’m doing my best to convince her to go.”

  “That’s good.” Maggie edged toward the door. She didn’t have a choice. Mrs. Cannon was herding her out. “I don’t want to provide therapy. I just thought I could offer her, like, support.”

  “I see. Well, that’s … thoughtful.” Her tone suggested otherwise. “I know about you, Margaret, and what you went through. It was in the paper”—she grimaced—“on more than one occasion. You had a tough time last year. Too tough, in my opinion. I don’t want Jane…” She cleared her throat. “To face a similar ordeal.” She palmed her cheek. “I want her to forget and hopefully, someday, start over at a different college. That’s the best I can hope for.”

  Maggie stared at her bleakly. She wanted to ask: What about justice? What about confronting whoever it was who’d hurt her? What about keeping him from targeting others? But Jane’s mother looked determined. Over the woman’s shoulder, Maggie could see a bit of the hallway at the top of the staircase. She wished Jane would appear and speak for herself—and clarify whether her mom’s solution (if it could be called that) was also her own.