Unleaving

by Melissa Ostrom

  “Holy shit,” Caleb breathed.

  “That’s amazing,” Maggie said. But what about Kate? What about Linnie? What about your original plan to attend Alfred University? Belatedly, she added, “Congratulations.”

  “Want to come over?” Sam asked hopefully. “And read her email and see how the sculpture’s coming along?”

  “Hell, yeah,” Caleb said.

  After Sam gulped down his coffee, they took Caleb’s car to Sam’s house and took turns sitting in front of his computer to read the email and check out the winning portfolio. Then they followed him into the workshop to admire the sculpture still under way.

  What Maggie and Caleb didn’t do: ask about the logistics of juggling college with a young daughter or wonder aloud about Linnie.

  Sam didn’t mention these matters, either, not even when Kate arrived home from school, bounded past her grandfather, and stormed the workshop.

  She let Caleb swoop her up and, suspended in the air, squealed when Sam tickled her. As soon as Caleb returned her to the floor, she stopped laughing and glared at Maggie. “What is she doing here?”

  “We’re just hanging out, Squirt,” Sam said.

  Thomas, jangling his keys, paused in the doorway. “What’s up?” he asked, smiling curiously.

  “Nothing.” Sam’s gaze slid away from his dad’s. He stuck his hands into the back pockets of his jeans.

  Maggie and Caleb shared a glance.

  So Sam hadn’t told Thomas yet. Maggie supposed not even Wren knew. And Linnie? Not likely.

  21

  WREN DIDN’T KNOCK on the Blakes’ door. Striding right into the great room, she announced, “We’re here!” Then she tossed her messenger bag onto a deep chair and flung herself into the chair’s twin. “And I’m “hungry.”

  Thomas’s voice drifted their way from upstairs: “Hey, Hungry. Be down in a minute.”

  Maggie perched on the edge of an ottoman. Her aunt might have been hungry. But she looked wiped out.

  It was Sunday. Maggie hadn’t expected Wren home until late. She’d been surprised when the truck roared up the cabin’s driveway just a few minutes ago, kicking up clouds of snow. After dropping her small suitcase on the kitchen floor, the aunt had hauled Maggie into a tight hug and said, “Grab your coat. We’re heading next door.”

  Now Maggie frowned at Wren, limp in the armchair, her head back, eyes closed. Her aunt hadn’t said a word about the exhibition, merely mentioned Sam’s invitation to supper.

  What supper? The unlit kitchen was clean, not a pot or pan in sight. “So how did it go?” Maggie asked.

  Wren opened bleary eyes. “Good. Bad. Frankly, I don’t even know. And at this point, I don’t give a shit. I’m just so glad it’s over.” With a sigh, she sat up, dragged herself to her feet, and crossed to the windows.

  Vermilion saturated the sky. The setting sun lit up the peninsula—blurred the whole length of Devil’s Tongue in a fiery glow. “When I gaze out this way from my studio,” Wren murmured, “a sunset like this feels personal, a treat whipped up especially for me. From here, though…” She stepped back from the window and ran a hand along the side of a rocker, its cherry grain reddened by the waning light. “Everything here, inside and out, still belongs to Muriel.”

  A distant screech erupted.

  Maggie tensed. She knew that howl.

  Thomas appeared on the upper landing. “What’s going on?”

  “How the hell am I supposed to know?” Wren flapped her arms. “Sam called me on my cell when I was driving back, invited Margaret and me over for supper, said, ‘Come around six.’ Here we are.” She sent her thumb over her shoulder to indicate the kitchen. “So where’s my supper?”

  “Beats me. I was at the college, catching up on a stack of essays, when Sam called and told me the same.”

  They turned to Maggie, eyebrows raised.

  She hummed noncommittally. She could guess Sam’s objective—and also the reason for Kate’s tantrum. But it was his news to share.

  Thomas kneaded his forehead. “Want a drink?”

  “I want food, but I’ll temporarily settle for a drink.” She sat heavily at the island, smiled at Maggie, and patted the stool next to her.

  A moment later, Sam hurried down the stairs. “Sorry about that.” He shooed his father away from the pantry. “I’ve got dinner, Dad. Take a seat. I’m just a little behind schedule. I see you got drinks, that’s good, that’s g—”

  A door crashed open upstairs. “I hate you!” Kate screamed. The door slammed shut. This was followed by another slam. Then a third.

  Thomas started speaking. A fourth slam interrupted him. They waited for a fifth. When it didn’t come, Wren whistled, a soft sound of awe. “Feisty.”

  Thomas stared aghast at his son. “What happened?”

  He yanked a box of dried pasta out of the cupboard. “Kate’s a little miffed.” Olive oil, artichoke hearts, cured olives, and roasted red peppers—he transferred an armful of cans and jars to the island.

  “Hate to see what she’s like when she’s really angry,” the aunt said.

  Maggie took a shaky sip of iced tea. I’ve seen that, and it’s not pretty.

  He smiled weakly. “Check out my sculpture, Wren. Tell me what you think.”

  “Okay.” She picked up her Pepsi can and, like a person preparing to lug a heavy burden, collected herself off the stool.

  Thomas trailed her.

  In a sidelong way, Sam watched them cross the room. As soon as they disappeared into the workshop, he turned to Maggie, his eyes huge. “This isn’t going so well.”

  “Kate’s not thrilled about Chicago?”

  “I didn’t even mention Chicago at first, just sat her on my lap, opened up some websites I’d found, showed her a bunch of cool destinations—Lincoln Park Zoo, The Bean, Navy Pier, John Hancock Observatory. I figured I’d, you know, butter her up at first…”

  “Sweeten the pot?”

  He sighed. “Didn’t work. She got mulish right away, let me rave and gush on my own, then announced, ‘I’m not going.’”

  “Could she have overheard you talking about the school with someone?”

  “I don’t think so. But maybe? I’ve been careful.” He pulled a sauté pan and the stockpot out of a lower cabinet.

  “She’s smart.” An evil genius.

  “She’s pissed.” He worked silently for a moment, smashing and chopping cloves of garlic. “When I took the plunge and told her my amazing news”—his smile was sickly—“and spread a map, just to point out how reasonably close Chicago is to here, she asked about the big ponds. And I was like, ‘Ha, ha. Those aren’t ponds. They’re lakes. See? Lake Ontario, Lake Michigan.’” He shook his head. “She ran into Dad’s room and glared at the water. Then she lost it. She just…” He stopped chopping and blinked at the cutting board. “Lost it.”

  “It’s got to be hard.” Linnie left the apartment—essentially left Kate—and then Sam and his daughter left the apartment, and now, at last settled in a new home, Kate was being asked to leave again. That had to suck. Of course, Sam could arrange to keep her with Thomas. Between Sam’s dad and Wren, Kate would be well cared for. But that wasn’t the same as happy. And yet, how many students dragged their kids off to college? How many students even had kids?

  She didn’t voice her thoughts. Sam looked thoroughly miserable, as if the realities of his situation had finally caught up with him.

  Her aunt and Thomas were still in the workshop. She could hear them talking but couldn’t make out what they were saying. “Your dad and Wren don’t know yet?”

  “Nope.” His shoulders jerked up. “Should I even bother telling them?”

  Maggie chewed on the corner of her bottom lip. She didn’t have a good answer. Pushing away her empty glass, she stood. “Put me to work. What can I do?”

  They prepared dinner side by side without talking much. Sam asked Maggie only to rough-chop the artichoke hearts and slice the olives. Sam’s father and Wren returned
to the great room, breaking the moody silence with a few flattering remarks about the sculpture.

  Sam mustered a sad semblance of a smile. Wren and Thomas didn’t seem to notice his lack of enthusiasm. By the time the water reached a boil, they’d settled on the couch with some bread and cheese and were laughing easily. Wren mentioned she’d seen someone at the exhibition for the first time in seventeen years. And Thomas asked questions about people Maggie had never heard of.

  Sam poured the linguine into the boiling water and stood over the steam with a wooden spoon, tapping the stiff strands into the pot.

  There was a rattling sound at the door, then a loud rap.

  “What the heck…?” Thomas said. He shared a perplexed glance with Wren, strode across the room, and paused by a window to peer toward the front of the house. “Oh.”

  As soon as Sam’s dad unlocked the door, a wide-eyed Linnie shot into the house with a panicked, “Kate? Where’s Kate? What happened?”

  “Mom!” Kate stormed down the stairs, descending so quickly and weeping so wildly tears flew off her face. Maggie, though clear across the great room, took an automatic step back. Linnie caught the small hurricane, and Thomas and Wren closed in with pats and tuts and soothing murmurs.

  Sam gave the gathering a sour glance. With his wooden spoon, he swatted down the few remaining strands poking out of the pot.

  “Jesus, Sam,” Linnie breathed, holding Kate close. “What did you do to her?”

  Sam slapped the spoon on the counter. “What kind of question is that? What do I ever do but love her and take care of her?”

  An implied condemnation hovered in the lull that followed. Linnie, stricken, dropped her gaze. Kate, still sobbing, adhered herself to her mother’s legs. Linnie touched the small shoulders, then crouched to pull her daughter into her arms. Wren and Thomas discreetly looked away, then shuffled to the couch.

  After a moment of hesitation, Wren smoothed the cushion at her side. “Come on over here, you two. Come sit with me.”

  Sam’s dad held up a slice of bread. “Want a little snack, honey? I can get you some butter and jam…”

  “No!” Kate wailed into Linnie’s hair.

  Sam growled and slammed the pan onto the stovetop.

  Maggie felt like a pointless prop in an otherwise meaningful play. She sidled along the wall to the front door, which had been left slightly ajar, then widened the crack and let the cold touch her face. Snow was falling again, a thin weaving of it, like a net ensnaring the evening air. Veiled by the weather, the lake spread black and vast. It held a stillness, a curious quality of patient expectation. She peered around the side of the house and, in the waning twilight, made out the Saab. Kyle wasn’t sitting inside it. Linnie must have borrowed his car. Maggie shut the door.

  Over Kate’s sobbing, Linnie was saying to Thomas, “… just got back from Caleb’s when she called my cell. I could hardly make out her words, she was crying so hard, but obviously, I came right away.” She cast Sam a defensive glare.

  He made a face at the minced garlic he was stirring around the pan.

  “Daddy’s making me leave,” Kate wailed. “Two whole lakes that way!” She pointed to the towering windows overlooking the lake.

  Linnie slowly shook her head, confused. Then she, Wren, and Thomas turned to Sam with frowns.

  Sam poured a good half bottle of white wine into the pan, where it hissed, boiled, and spat, then he added the cutting board’s piles of chopped ingredients. He stirred once and finally faced the others.

  Kate sniffed loudly.

  “Does this have to do with your exciting news?” Thomas asked.

  Sam smiled bitterly, probably over his father’s choice of adjective. “School of the Art Institute of Chicago offered me a full ride.”

  Besides Wren’s surprised squawk, the announcement didn’t generate much of a response. Thomas’s and Linnie’s frowns persisted.

  Linnie pulled her pale hair away from her face. “I thought you were set on going to Alfred.”

  He shrugged. “Hard to turn down an opportunity like this.”

  “Chicago?” Thomas cupped his forehead. “I didn’t even know you applied there.”

  Wren half-raised a hand. “Does this have anything to do with Becky Min?”

  “Becky who?” Thomas asked.

  “Min”—she whisked the air his way without looking at him—“the sculptor. She teaches there.”

  Sam nodded. “She said some nice things about my portfolio, asked if she could share it and get back to me.” He set the wooden spoon on the island carefully. “The offer was what she came back with.”

  “A full ride.” Wren clucked, a satisfied sound. “Wow.”

  “So you arranged this?” Thomas asked with an edge of asperity.

  “I’d hardly say I arranged anything. I wanted Becky to see Sam’s work because I’m, you know…” She gave an embarrassed shrug. “Proud of him.”

  Linnie straightened out of her crouch, though she kept a hand on Kate’s head. “Thanks, Sam. Thanks for checking with the rest of us before hiring the movers.”

  “The movers? But I—I didn’t,” he stammered. Then, scowl restored: “Don’t be an asshole. I haven’t made a decision yet.”

  “But you go ahead and freak Kate out with the news? Thought, ‘Hey, why not traumatize her with the prospect?’ What are you—an idiot? Couldn’t you have run it by your dad first? Or me? What about me? Don’t I get a say in where you take my daughter?”

  “Two whole lakes.” Kate sniffed again.

  “Oh. I see.” He crossed his arms. “Now you want a say.”

  She shuffled her daughter behind her, a protective gesture that brought a disgusted grimace to Sam’s face. “Don’t use that tone with me,” she snapped.

  “What will you do? Call social services and demand sole custody? Huh. Would they even entertain your call when you obviously don’t know what custody means?” His hand landed on the island as a fist. “It means parenting, not just showing up every so often.”

  “Sam,” Thomas said warningly, taking a step forward.

  “Here we go again.” Linnie threw her arms out at her sides, grand master–like. “Another episode of Sam Blake’s production of Linnie the Bad Mother.” She hugged herself and glared. “You have no fucking clue what a bad mother looks like.”

  He returned the glare. “But I do know what a good mother looks like—not remotely like you!”

  Linnie’s angry flush disappeared. Her face emptied of color altogether.

  Wren shook her head. “Not cool, Sam.”

  Maggie, palms on her cheeks, shuffled closer. “Linnie’s had a rough time of it lately and maybe—”

  “Lately? How about always?” Sam’s hands swung up to pound the air. He strode across the dining area and stood in the workshop doorway. Past him, deeper in the room, Maggie could make out the dark outline of his sculpture. With his back to the others, he muttered, “She’s the only one allowed to hurt in this family. The winner of the suckiest childhood. I am so fucking tired of hearing about Linnie’s horrible past, Linnie’s awful suffering, Linnie’s night terrors, drinking problem, drug problem, cutting problem, and goddamn depression. I lost my mother. But do I get to wallow? Fuck no. Linnie’s sad situation is the only situation.” He whirled around to skewer her with some narrow-eyed rage. “You’re so selfish—so wrapped up in your own problems. Do you ever think about what I went through?”

  Linnie moaned softly. Her face was wet with tears. She gave her cheeks an absent swipe. “I was there. I know what you went through because I was dragged through it and made to pay for it.” She ran her hands down her coat and began buttoning it up. “If it hadn’t been for your mom’s passing, I wouldn’t have stuck around here at all. I wouldn’t have dropped out of high school. I wouldn’t have given up my dream to get the hell out of this shit-town and do something interesting with my life. I wouldn’t have seen my fucking future go down the drain. I gave up everything, everything—even the privilege to
do what I felt was best with my own body—because you wanted me to. You know what I think, Sam? I think you deliberately trapped me.”

  There was a piercing silence.

  Then the smoke alarm blared.

  22

  THOMAS HOLLERED. WREN screamed. Everyone made for the stove. Maggie reached it first and twisted off the burners. It was too late to save the food. Waving at the black cloud, she squinted at the pans they’d forgotten.

  Sam’s hands fell on his head. “Shit.”

  The ingredients smoldered in a blackened mess. Maggie flicked on the fan in the hood, Linnie opened the window over the sink, and Thomas climbed a stool to shut off the alarm.

  Wren, sidling over to the sink and putting her arm around Linnie, eyed Sam’s father askance. “Careful up there, old man.”

  He gave her a look but took the hand Sam raised to help balance him on his way down.

  Sam blew an explosive sigh, then turned to Linnie, his expression sad and abashed. “I’m sorry.”

  “I am, too,” Linnie said, her voice trembling.

  Sam rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I never meant—”

  “Yeah, you did,” Linnie choked out, through a strange laughed cry, “and so did I. What I said, though, it wasn’t the whole story. Sometimes I hated you, but sometimes … I didn’t. And don’t.”

  Wren patted her back.

  Acrid smoke wafted around the kitchen. Thomas coughed and then leaned over the sink to inhale the cold air blowing through the window.

  “Well, I guess we’ll…” Sam flapped a hand and finished dispiritedly, “Figure something out.” He went back to inspecting the disaster on the stovetop.

  “Should we call for a pizza?” Thomas asked.

  “Good idea,” Wren said.

  Maggie patted her hair, weirded out by the shift from murderous tension to “let’s order a pizza.” She looked around and realized something: One of them was missing. “Where’s Kate?”

  Sam stopped scraping burnt ingredients into the garbage disposal to glance over his shoulder, his eyebrows raised.