Unleaving

by Melissa Ostrom

  Maggie didn’t know how to react. This wasn’t her old mother, the soothing, church-board-treasurer-at-Saint-Luke’s, look-on-the-bright-side Minerva Arioli. Three-quarters of a year had reduced her to this: a frailer, unhappier person.

  Maggie was still learning what those months had cost her personally. But the toll wasn’t hers alone. The hurt was shared, compounded in others … in Mom and Dad, especially. She remembered something her mother had said once—years ago at the doctor’s, when they’d waited in the office for the nurse to return with the vaccinations and Maggie had been sick with dread. “I’d take them for you in a flash if I could, little Mags.” And Maggie hadn’t doubted for a second that her mother had meant it. All these years, in every hurtful situation, her mother would have shielded Maggie from the pain if she could have. But it wasn’t possible. Parents couldn’t take life’s blows and stings for their children. And that was the terrible truth.

  Mom raised her face from her hands. “Your dad and I talked about it. We’re moving.”

  Maggie stared. It took a moment for her to add a voice to her amazement. “You can’t move.”

  “Sure we can. Your dad’s a CPA. I’m a librarian. We can work anywhere.”

  “Carlton’s home.” My home.

  “It’s…” Mom gazed morosely out the window. “Poisoned.”

  Wren sighed. “You want to keep her safe.”

  “I want to try.”

  Linnie averted her face, but Maggie read the expression before she hid it: Good luck with that.

  “You’re a great mom, Min,” the aunt murmured.

  Mom swallowed. “A parent can only be so good. There’s too much danger out there.” She folded her hands together tightly. “But I can do better than our parents did.”

  There was a concession in those words. Wren had heard it, too. Pain worked over her features. She reached across the table and covered Mom’s folded hands with both of her own.

  “Don’t make any hasty decisions about Carlton,” Maggie said.

  “If we stay or move—who cares?” Mom asked sadly. “You don’t want to be there, either.”

  Maggie mumbled something about not acting rashly and lowered her gaze to her cup of coffee. But she was thinking about Jane Cannon’s email. About Jane’s future. And her own. I’ll go back if you go back.

  25

  WITH THE EXCUSE of taking a walk, Maggie and Linnie escaped the tension in the cabin. Lake Ontario sparkled under the late-morning sun. The ice fringing the shore had mostly melted, and across the east end’s crop of rocks, the snow had turned tensile, streaked with seaweed and pockmarked with the recent rain. It was almost Christmas, but the weather looked like it was gearing up for spring.

  Holding on to a bent pine by the rocks, Maggie stretched out a leg and tested a clump with her boot. The snow detached from its berth. It slapped the water and turned in a drunken reel. Maggie drew back, shoved her hands into her coat pockets, and caught up with Linnie.

  They walked into a gust. Their hair flew up, threaded together, and swirled around.

  Linnie grabbed her strands and pinned them over her shoulder. When they reached the lake’s edge, she said, “I wrote to Danielle.”

  “That’s awesome.” Maggie’s unzipped jacked fluttered open. She caught the sides and folded them over her chest like a shawl. “Did she write back yet?”

  Linnie smiled shyly. “Almost right away. She sounded … happy. We’re meeting for supper at the Dinosaur Bar-B-Que Sunday night.” She reached out a hand, and as Maggie took it, she asked, “You still willing to go with me?” After Maggie nodded, she continued, “We’ll have to leave here by quarter of six.”

  “Are you excited?”

  “Nervous.” Leaning forward, she released Maggie’s hand and narrowed her eyes on the lake.

  “What is it?” Maggie followed the direction of her gaze.

  “I’m looking for Toronto. Wren swears, on a perfectly clear day, you can make out the teeniest tiniest speck of civilization on the opposite shore.”

  She squinted at the horizon, then gave up with a “Huh.” The lake might have been an ocean. The distance made her think about Sam. “What’s going on with the art institute?”

  “Your aunt told Sam to hold off on a decision and just work on finishing his sculpture.” A smile quivered on her lips. “You know—the brain sculpture. Wren said if it comes out of the kiln looking cool, he’ll have some images to add to his portfolio. She wants him to send the portfolio to Alfred, see if what happened with Chicago might happen there, too.”

  “That’s a great idea.” Sam could commute to Alfred—which made it more doable than Chicago. “Wren went to Alfred. I wonder if she’ll pull a few strings.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised … though I suppose Sam’s plenty good enough to get into the college without her help.”

  “But he has to be able to afford it.”

  “Yeah.” Linnie exhaled. “That’s the tricky part.”

  Maggie folded her arms and peered across the lake. Sam’s future, Linnie’s, her own—all like Toronto. There, but impossible to decipher.

  Now even her parents’ future looked uncertain. Would they move?

  A seagull picked its way along the shore. Maggie observed its progress without really seeing it. She was worried about Mom.

  Her mother was not happy. She especially wasn’t happy with Carlton. And how much less happy she’d be if Maggie told her that she was considering returning to college there. Considering it. She hadn’t decided yet. Nor had she written back to Jane.

  A return had never been part of Mom’s plan. Maggie knew that. The business of a sabbatical had been her mother’s way of making an eventual transfer to another college easier. To a safer college. The Safe University. As if there were such a place.

  One thing was for sure: If she strolled into the cabin right now and mentioned a hankering for a women-only college in Alaska, Mom would be thrilled.

  Maggie shivered and smoothed down her wind-ruffled jacket so she could zip it.

  “You’re getting cold,” Linnie said. “Want to go in?”

  “Not yet.” Anxious to put off her mother for a little longer, she said, “It’s neat to think about this Danielle, like, out of the blue—boom. Family.”

  Linnie nodded once. She was gazing at the other end of the beach, where snow webbed the marshy stretch between the aunt’s property and the Blakes’. The wind battered the straggle of brittle brush there, and the brown remains of goldenrod and cattails shuddered stiffly. Across the marsh, Devil’s Tongue cut into the lake, a riot of rocks and thicket and trees. What had the mapmaker labeled it? Something about a graveyard for ships.

  Linnie finally said, “It is neat, and, of course, I hope she’s nice … but if she’s not?” Her shoulders came up. “I already have a family. Kate, Sam, Thomas.” She smiled fleetingly. “You, Wren, Caleb…” Her voice died. A frown drew two lines between her eyebrows.

  Abruptly, she continued, “I realized that there.” She indicated the wild bluff with a lift of her chin. Fear flashed across her face. “A lot of people have been rooting for me, covering for me. Helping me when I felt helpless. Fighting for me…” She looked away sharply. “Well, now I’m fighting for myself.”

  * * *

  Mom decided to stay for the weekend. When Linnie left and Maggie returned to the cabin, her mother announced the news, an unconvincing smile pasted on her face.

  Friday passed, then Saturday, and hour upon hour, Mom’s fake smile persisted. Fixing meals with Wren, setting the table, walking with Maggie on the beach—during every activity, she stayed almost maniacally cheerful.

  It was obvious, however, that she was steering clear of difficult subjects. She didn’t mention again her plan to leave Carlton. And she didn’t ask Wren about the exhibition or how the sculptures had been received. And she certainly didn’t say a word about their childhood. Her attempt to restore her and her sister’s relationship while avoiding certain topics struck Maggie as co
mparable to someone using tape to fix a shattered platter—one missing big pieces. It wasn’t going to work.

  Maggie watched her mother with concern. Artificially chipper, jumpy with nerves, Mom seemed as fragile as the snow Maggie had tested on the rocks Friday morning. How easily the white chunk had answered the merest pressure of her foot and broken free.

  Maggie’s mother, with her brittle smile, seemed just as likely to fall apart.

  * * *

  On Sunday morning, Mom stood at the sink window, fidgeted with her purse strap, and patted her hair, which was coiled into as neat a bun as an abundance of frizzy curls allowed. “I hope Wren’s not long.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to finish reading a novel for tomorrow’s meeting.”

  “You’re leading the book club discussion?” Maggie crouched by Mom’s feet, batted her aside, and reached into the cupboard.

  “I’m supposed to.”

  She grabbed the bottle of Mr. Clean and a bucket. First the kitchen, then the bathroom, then everywhere else. She wanted to finish before Linnie picked her up. They had their dinner date with Linnie’s sister tonight.

  Her mother checked her watch again. “What in the world is your aunt doing in that studio? I wish she’d hurry.” She folded her arms and scowled out the window.

  “Adam’s got Wren on the phone,” Maggie explained. “Whenever that happens, it can take a while.” At Mom’s baffled look, she explained, “I don’t really know who he is—an agent, maybe?—just that he handles her projects, conferences…” She waved a hand. “Stuff.”

  “Oh.” Mom turned quickly and went back to frowning out the window.

  Maggie sighed and settled the bucket in the sink. Her mother didn’t want to hear about the art stuff. In fact, at least in Maggie’s hearing, the only questions she’d asked Wren that related to her work had to do with a mug on the counter and the curly-handled vase on the bookshelf behind the couch. It was as if Mom had mentally recast her sister, from a ceramist to simply a potter. Pots were safe. Sculptures—not so much. As for the studio, Maggie suspected her mother would never step foot in that space again. Too afraid of what she might find.

  She poured some cleaning liquid into the bucket, turned on the spigot, and watched bubbles form under the water’s rush. “What novel are you doing this week?”

  “Carry On.”

  “Oh, I love that book.” Maggie smiled. “I’ve read it twice.” Rainbow Rowell was one of her favorite authors. “If I were heading back with you, I’d come.” She shut off the water, transferred the filled bucket to the floor, and strode to the closet outside the kitchen. From the hallway, she added, “It’d be fun to hear what others have to say about it.” She collected the mop and returned to the kitchen. “How are you liking it so far?”

  Her mother didn’t answer. She’d obviously lost the thread of their conversation. Peering out the window, she said, “Who…?”

  A small blue car was turning off Ash Drive. It crept toward the cabin. The slow speed suggested the driver was a stranger, uncertain of his surroundings. After the car door opened, a thin man emerged.

  Maggie frowned. “I have no idea.”

  He made his way around the messy drive, where rain had frozen into pearly pits. The morning sky was more silver than gray, the sun shrouded but discernible behind the clouds. The stranger’s red hair was a shout of color. His breath clouded the air around his bespectacled face.

  Mom answered the door, her expression questioning.

  His eyes lit up at the sight of her, and before she got a chance to inquire if she could help him, he burst out with a hearty “Hello!” and thrust out a hand. As Mom limply took it, he gushed, “I am so happy to meet you. Thrilled! And I appreciate your willingness to talk to me—on a Sunday, no less. I realize it isn’t at all your thing.”

  Mom took a step, retreating into the door. It banged the wall and bounced against her back. Her hand, once released, fluttered to her cheek. “No, no, I’m afraid—”

  He frowned at her tone of regret, then threw up a flat palm, like a cornered suspect proving his lack of a weapon, and said hurriedly, “I won’t steal much of your time. Promise.” He sidled to the kitchen table and opened a briefcase. Yanking out his laptop, notes, and phone, he continued swiftly, “This is a lucky break. I’m grateful and honored and want you to know I’m a big fan—”

  “But I—I’m not—” Mom stammered, just as Maggie, behind her, said, “She’s not—”

  “Huge!” he interrupted. “So much so I actually drove all the way to New York just to see your work firsthand, and I can honestly tell you it was like no exhibit I’ve attended before, which is saying something, you know, since that’s my gig, covering this sort of thing. But what struck me about your show was how, well, emotional it was. I can’t remember ever—ever—standing in a gallery where so many people were reduced to tears. The whole thing—electric! And difficult—but necessary. Truly. In particular, I want to focus on three pieces, what I consider, if you don’t mind my saying so, the real masterpieces of the collection.” He tugged a folder out of the briefcase, stepped to the side to find a clear spot on the table on which to open it, and tripped on the chair next to him. In his scramble to right himself, he dropped the folder.

  Three large photographs spilled across the floor.

  Mom stooped to gather them. Eyes wide and unblinking, she slowly rose. The photographs trembled in her hands.

  The top one captured in blown-up detail the culminating sculpture of Wren’s collection. Maggie recognized the hollowed heads and folded slabs of clay and the four subjects, threatened, threatening, blind, free.

  “Holy crap. I’m sorry about that.” One hand gripping his red hair, the journalist muttered some self-castigation under his breath and, glancing apologetically at Mom, made to relieve her of the photographs.

  She clung to them and stepped back. A whimper escaped her. She didn’t seem to notice she was crying—didn’t seem to notice anything besides the photographs, not Maggie’s hand, resting on her shoulder, not the journalist, flustered and apologetic. Mom shakily went through the photos, tears falling unchecked.

  Footsteps pounded down the hall. Wren halted in the kitchen doorway. “Michael Brady?”

  The journalist’s beleaguered expression turned purely confounded. He stared at the aunt, gaped at Mom, and glanced back at Wren with some fast blinking.

  Mom shuddered but didn’t turn at the sound of Wren’s voice.

  “That’s my sister,” the aunt explained, striding into the kitchen. “I apologize. Forgot all about the interview and—” Abreast of Mom, she cut off her own words with a squeak and moved quickly, hands out, as if to seize the photographs. But Mom pressed them against her chest and released a sob. “Jesus Christ, Min, I’m sorry.” Then, with a ferocious glare at the hapless journalist, she barked, “I wish you hadn’t shared those.” Wren didn’t seem to know where to turn or what to do. “This is harrowing stuff for my sister.”

  He flinched. “I’m sorry. I—I didn’t know. I thought she was you…”

  A high-pitched note sounded. From Mom. A laugh like the peal of a siren. “Harrowing … for me. Harrowing for me?” Tears coursed down her cheeks. “Oh, Wren, Wren…” She moaned and wavered. “I’m so—so sorr—” Her eyes rolled back. Her knees buckled. The photographs swooped to the floor again.

  Wren and Maggie yelped, lunged, and caught her. And cracked their heads together in the process.

  26

  MAGGIE RUBBED THE bump on her head and looked up from her menu.

  Linnie and her half sister had the same eyes, in shape if not shade. But Danielle Pinsky was darker than Linnie, her skin olive-toned. She was taller, too, and disconcertingly direct. Danielle didn’t look at the menu. She didn’t glance at the Genesee River, gray and rushing outside the window by their table. Maggie guessed she also wasn’t paying much attention to her or the smoky sweetness wafting through the restaurant or the gleaming wooden floors. She was entirely and warmly focused on Li
nnie.

  And Linnie was smiling back. She looked dazed.

  Since their initial handshake, Danielle had made no effort to mask her delight with Linnie. Enchanted was not too strong a word.

  Linnie and Danielle. Mom and Wren. It was turning out to be a good day for sisters. An emotional day. A hard one. But good. Maggie was glad to be out with Linnie. Her mother and aunt needed time alone. They’d have the next couple of days as well. Maggie had agreed to drive to Carlton in the morning and cover Monday’s library book club discussion in Mom’s place.

  Danielle closed the menu. “We have the same laugh. There’s something similar in how we laugh, don’t you think? The suddenness of it.” She glanced distractedly at the waitress who’d appeared to take their order. After Maggie requested her pulled barbecue chicken sandwich and fries, and Linnie said absently, “I suppose I’ll have that, too,” her sister said quickly, “Make that three, please,” and then leaned forward. “Enough about me. Tell me more about you.”

  Linnie’s clasped hands came up to her chin. “Well … hmm.” She peeked at Maggie. So far, Linnie had peppered her sister with questions. She was genuinely curious about Danielle—Maggie didn’t doubt that for a second. But she also was clearly reluctant to talk about her own life.

  Maggie nodded encouragingly, but Linnie still seemed at a loss for words. Finally, Maggie blurted, “Linnie’s one of the smartest people I know.”

  Linnie gave her a grateful smile.

  “I can tell,” Danielle said, her expression admiring. “You even look smart.”

  Linnie laughed.

  “There’s my laugh again.” She took hold of the edge of the table. “What do you like to do, Linnie?”

  “Read.”

  “You too?”

  Maggie smiled. More than one reader at the same table. Inconceivable.

  “What kinds of things?”