A Measure of Happiness

by Lorrie Thomson

“Yeah, Stoughton. Have you gotten in touch with your mother since you left?”

  “No, I have not.”

  Zach drummed again on her glove box. His way, Katherine surmised, of organizing his thoughts. “Then how do you know they don’t still live there?”

  “Oh. Hmm.” Again Katherine blushed, reduced to a small, helpless child. Or an unloved teenager.

  On the day she’d left the cottage her family rented, it was raining. The good, pounding kind of rain that worked wonders to calm her father. The good, pounding kind of rain that softened the dirt beneath the tires of his pickup. The good, pounding kind of rain that covered up a multitude of sins.

  Katherine’s pulse echoed in her stomach, the backbeat of guilt. She’d already told Zach so much—about her angry father, about the mother she’d tried to protect. Was a lie by omission still a big, fat lie if you altered the details to protect someone they might hurt, even if that someone was you?

  As if keeping the truth to herself had ever done her any good.

  Zach touched his hand to her shoulder. “Sorry, if you don’t want to talk about it.”

  Just like that day, her life pounded in her ears, loud and echoing, as she’d torn through the house and discovered her parents’ bed stripped and the kitchen cupboards bare. The driveway empty, save for mud ruts and tire tracks.

  “She left me,” Katherine said.

  “What was that?” Zach had been drumming again. He hadn’t even heard.

  Katherine laughed. Sometimes she felt as though the universe was working against her and she was a cosmic, ironic punch line. Other times, like now for instance, she felt like the universe was simply urging her to speak up. Or maybe it was merely the road trip, the experience of once again finding herself speeding down a highway, unhinged from everything she called home.

  “My mother and my father,” Katherine said. “They left me. They left my home before I did. I was nineteen years old, and I woke up one day and they were gone. After years of trying to get my mother to leave my father. After making myself stay to watch over her, she made her decision. She chose my father over me. She chose him.” Katherine shrugged, and her seat belt dug into her shoulder, a sensation she welcomed. She pressed down on the accelerator and eased into the passing lane. The image of Francesca Lamontagne made her want to aim the front end of her Subaru at the nearest November-bare tree. The thought of her mother made her grateful for the seat belt holding her together.

  Her father’s words played in her head: You’re going to be sorry.

  And people called Katherine the fortune-teller.

  “And that, Zachary Frank, is one of two secrets I’ve kept close to my heart for decades.”

  Zach dug into the pocket of his sweatshirt. He gave her a sad smile and passed her a napkin. “I think it’s, like, mostly clean.”

  Katherine laughed. “Keep it. I think I, like, mostly don’t need it.” She swiped at a renegade tear. “Mostly.”

  Zach patted her arm and left the napkin on her leg.

  Katherine checked her rearview, made out the bleached forms that were cars, and eased into the middle lane.

  Zach took a sip of coffee and drummed on the glove box. “How do you know it wasn’t your mother’s idea to take off on you?”

  Katherine glanced at Zach. He was peering into the empty bakery bag, guileless, as if he might find a sugar cookie or lemon bar he’d previously overlooked. “That’s not very nice,” Katherine said.

  “What if it was very nice? What if it was the nicest thing your mother ever did for you?” Zach asked, his voice garbled. The corner of a sugar cookie peeked out from his fist.

  She was certain he’d eaten all six.

  “Would you have hung around?” Zach asked. “Would you have stayed as long as you did, without your mother?”

  “Of course not. The plan, if you could call it a plan, was to stay until I could convince my mother to leave him. I couldn’t leave her with a monster. I couldn’t leave . . .” Katherine was the only thing keeping the full force of her father’s tirades from her mother, a barrier island preventing storms from eroding the shoreline. Katherine wasn’t blushing. There was nothing to be embarrassed about, nothing to raise shame-faced heat to her cheeks. But her underarms itched with perspiration, the sheer fabric of her blouse sticking to her body. And her chest didn’t feel right, her pulse picking up speed for no good reason.

  Zach waved a lemon bar in the air. He’d eaten all three. At least she’d thought he’d eaten all three. Had she seen him with the same lemon bar three times? “I bet your mother knew you wouldn’t leave without her.”

  “That could be true.”

  “I bet she felt like she couldn’t leave your father.”

  “Sure . . .”

  Zach gulped his coffee. He cleared his throat. “Don’t you see? Your mother didn’t just leave with your father, your mother got your father away from you.” Zach smacked his hand against his chest, and crumbs rained onto his lap, like a confetti celebration.

  “Maybe . . .” Katherine said. What if her mother had convinced her father to leave behind the house and the bills, the overdue rent and Katherine? What if, after years of Katherine holding her mother’s hand and telling her she shouldn’t put up with Katherine’s father’s drinking and yelling, his anger looking for a reason, her mother had found her voice and spoken up, not for her benefit but for Katherine’s? What if her mother had loved Katherine so much that she’d sacrificed their relationship and instead given Katherine her only chance for happiness? After all, that’s what Katherine had done for Zach.

  For twenty-seven years, Katherine had been focused on her father’s words, the supposed harbinger of doom. You’re going to be sorry. What if for the past twenty-seven years, she’d focused on the wrong thing?

  “Something’s in the road up ahead,” Zach said.

  The sun spiked off something metallic and black. “I see it.” Katherine checked the rearview. A van was coming up fast on her left, a sedan close behind. On her right, another SUV paced her.

  “Hold on.” Katherine dug her nails into the steering wheel, held to her lane, and kept her foot steady on the accelerator.

  Sometimes there was no getting around the one thing you were trying to avoid.

  Celeste made a point of avoiding the elevator.

  She’d spent the last six hours in Old Yeller. Six hours to drive through the night and across five states and then watch the sun wink between the last mottled-brown leaves clinging to the maple trees that dotted the campus of Culinary America. In the last six hours she’d made up her mind, and un–made up her mind, at least half a dozen times. Now was the time to get off her numb ass and get moving.

  She gave Old Yeller a final love pat, rebraided her hair to keep it out of the way, tucked her decision in the deep pocket of her sweatshirt, and pressed the metal shape into her belly. Then she closed the glove compartment and headed through the damp air to the back entrance of Cunningham Hall. Matt’s dorm. A student had wedged a cinder block between the heavy door and the frame. One less door for Celeste to deal with. One less crime for her to commit. She slipped into the building and took the first step.

  The stairwell stank of industrial cleaner, with a secondary note of low-pile carpeting. She breathed through her mouth and thought instead of the tall grass that had tickled her bare legs on early morning outings with her big brother Lincoln. They’d slipped behind their mother’s lilac bushes and followed the path through dense hardwoods, until it spilled out at their family’s shooting range.

  By the second floor, her ass was regaining feeling, the movement bringing her body back to life, exactly as she’d intended. Too early for the sounds of student life. No footsteps tapped across the carpeted hallways, no water shushing through pipes or pummeling the shower floors. Just the sound of her pulse and the weight of her decision.

  She wasn’t certain how this was going to end, only that it would.

  She thought of Zach and Katherine opening Lamontagne’s
without her. She even thought of Barry, who never gave up, stopping by the bakery to get an eyeful of Katherine. But mostly, Celeste’s guilt led her to Lincoln. She’d liked the way the grass smelled fresh and green in the early mornings, before the sun had dried the dew from its blades. She’d liked the stillness and the silence. Mostly, she’d liked the compliment of alone time with her favorite brother.

  At fourteen, she’d tried out the CC75B, the compact Lincoln said she “couldn’t shoot for shit.” She’d shot marginally better with the Beretta 92 7-round. But Lincoln’s .22? Celeste and that .22 had become fast friends. She hadn’t even cared that Lincoln had told her a .22 was a girl gun.

  Lincoln would shake his long hair from his eyes, give her the signal, and she’d line up her sights. She’d make the hay bale–backed bull’s-eye sit like a red ball on top of the middle sight, take a breath, and fire halfway through the exhalation. She’d hit the mark, every single time.

  Lincoln’s number one rule? Never point a gun at a person you didn’t want to kill.

  At Matt’s door, Celeste paused to catch her breath and weigh her decision. She held her hand to her pocket and thought of going back to Old Yeller and that glove box. She thought of the decision she’d made and un-made as she’d traveled the highways. No matter what roads she’d traveled, the asphalt glowed black before her headlights, and the memory of what Matt had done played on repeat.

  Celeste apologized to Lincoln for using one of his lessons to commit a crime. She flexed her hands to release the tremors. She slipped her Visa card from her back pocket and into the doorjamb behind the bolt. She pulled the card toward her and turned the handle. The door opened. She stepped into Matt’s dorm room, shut the door, and turned the doorknob so it wouldn’t click.

  In the shade-darkened room, Matt slept in the bed, curled on his side and innocent looking. The covers pulled beneath his neck, one foot poking from the end of his comforter.

  Stale laundry piled on his desk chair—jeans, socks, the jacket of his chef whites. For a second, she thought she might throw up. Nausea clogged her throat, and she swallowed, too loudly for the close space. For a second she marveled that her heartbeat, loud and hard and—to her mind—filling the room, hadn’t woken Matt. For a second she hesitated, hand on her pocket.

  Then she stepped up to the end of Matt’s bed, took a wide, even stance, slid her weapon of choice from her pocket, and hit the light.

  Temporarily blinded, Matt gave a growl of surprise and scrambled to sitting. She lowered her arm slightly, letting him blink. He stared straight at her, suddenly awake and understanding the situation.

  How the hell do you like it?

  For the first time since last night, Celeste grinned. “Start talking, douche bag.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Her hands jerked to the right. The impact didn’t sound like a gunshot, like most people would think, but a puncture. The slow, clattering release of air reminded her of needles tumbling inside a rain stick.

  “Blowout!” Zach yelled, as if Katherine hadn’t known. “Don’t hit the brakes!”

  “I’ve got this.” Katherine pressed down on the accelerator to compensate for the loss of momentum. The SUV that had been pacing her had fallen behind, so she veered in the direction of the skid and into the right-hand lane. Katherine straightened the steering wheel, careful not to overcompensate, and then tapped the hazard lights. She reminded herself to breathe and eased her foot off the gas. “We’re okay,” Katherine told Zach, although he hadn’t made a sound. “I need to wait for the car to slow down before I can pull over.”

  “You’re doing great,” Zach said.

  No vehicles were behind her, the other drivers giving her a wide berth. She flicked on the directional, tightened her grip on the steering wheel, and tapped the brake.When the vehicle jerked beneath her, she let out a whimper.

  “You can do it,” Zach said. “Keep going.”

  Katherine repeated the process three more times. Each attempt yielded a little less of a jerk and a softer whimper. Then she glided into the breakdown lane, put the car in park, and cut the engine. Her skin hummed. When she unclamped her hands from the steering wheel, her fingers did a roadside jitter. She stared in stunned silence at the traffic whooshing by, the wind from the passing motorists buffeting the Outback.

  Zach let out a whoop. “You kicked ass!”

  Katherine gave her head a shake and laughed. They could talk about her kick-ass ways later, after they’d caught up with Celeste and brought her back home, safe and sound. “Let’s change that tire.”

  “Uh, no. I’ve got this,” Zach said, and he dashed from the car, sling and all. He opened her hatchback and pulled out the rubber trunk liner. Hmm, hmm, hmm pulsed through the air.

  Katherine had no clue what song he was humming, but she smiled anyway.

  One-handed, Zach raised the floor to get to the spare tire.

  Katherine turned back around, allowed herself a deep breath, and sank into the seat.

  Zach opened the passenger door, crouched, and peered into the car. He cocked his head. His brows rose, and his forehead furrowed. “Is there something you neglected to tell me? Something you might’ve forgotten?”

  “I’ve told you everything—” Katherine stared at Zach, a memory hovering at the corners. They’d discussed Zach’s biological father and the way her parents had left her. Then the tire had blown out, testing her skills a second—“The spare tire,” Katherine said, her voice hushed with realization. “I never replaced it after the first time I had a blowout.”

  By mutual consent, Katherine and Zach agreed to freak out about Celeste.

  Celeste refused to freak out.

  When Matt’s hand shot in the air and he flicked on the overhead light, she shut off her flashlight, but she kept it pointed at Matt. If need be, she could use the heavy metal flashlight as a weapon. She’d seen the damage she could accidentally do to a guy with her fist alone, when amply motivated. She’d never had more motivation in her life.

  Not that she intended to let Matt close enough to test her theory.

  “How the hell did you get in here?” Matt asked.

  “I ask the questions, you answer them. Got it, douche bag?”

  Matt chuckled, not all haughty and derisive, as she’d expected, but normal. More like the old Matt. “I really miss that about you.”

  “What?”

  “Your cockiness.” Matt stared her down, as though daring her to flinch.

  Celeste forced herself to think of a rooster, strutting around a barnyard. She knew that wasn’t the image Matt had in mind.

  Matt stood up—bigger and stronger than her and wearing nothing but tightie-whities. His weapon of choice was bunched beneath the cotton.

  “Stay there!”

  He held up his hands. This time, his laugh was derisive. “I was gonna get my pants. But, hey, if that’s not what you want . . .”

  Celeste grabbed Matt’s jeans from the desk chair and tossed them at him.

  Matt caught the jeans in one hand. “Thank you,” he said, using his deeper, defensive voice. The voice he slipped from his back pocket and tried on whenever an instructor grilled him on his latest and greatest baking flub-up. Or, as Celeste liked to think of them, the 101 ways slacker Matt attempted to fake his way through culinary school. You could take the guy out of his job as a food stylist, but you couldn’t take the food stylist out of a cheater.

  The rasp of his zipper sent an ache down her arms. Another buried memory? Another detail of a horror story she’d yet to uncover?

  Matt took a step toward her, but his hands dangled by his sides. “Ask me anything you want, baby. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  Baby?

  Matt didn’t sound like Matt being an asshole, he sounded like Drake. Drake, who’d asked her out at the beginning of school and then dealt with her rejection by spending the better part of a week acting as though she were a lover he’d jilted.

  Matt wasn’t just a stylist and a cheater, he was a
chameleon, willing to lower himself to fit in.

  That explained why he’d bragged about having sex with her. That didn’t explain the photos. And the thing he did to her in this room—

  The floor tilted. Celeste’s hands trembled, and she tightened her grip on the flashlight. She thought of Zach’s breathing lesson. She thought of Zach, holding her through the night. She thought of Zach and the way he’d sounded as though he’d forgotten how to breathe.

  If Matt wanted to prove he had nothing to hide, he needed to get real.

  “What did you put in my drinks?” Celeste asked. “What crap did you drug me with?”

  “Ah, honey, I didn’t drug you.”

  “Stop it! Stop talking like that. I don’t know who you are. I want to talk to the Matt who used to be my friend.” Her voice echoed back to her, sounding shrill and panicked. She couldn’t let Matt hear that. She couldn’t let him get to her. She couldn’t let him know she’d once believed he was a decent person.

  With his longish hair and the way they’d joked around and spent time together, Matt had reminded Celeste of her brother Lincoln. She’d taken a few sketchy details, and then her brain had filled in the rest.

  Matt was nothing like her brother. Matt wasn’t even a good imposter.

  “Whatever.” Defiance laced Matt’s voice, but his expression softened. She’d taken the wind out of his bullshit sail.

  “What did you do to my drinks?” Celeste asked. “I shouldn’t have gotten plastered on two screwdrivers.”

  Matt turned his head, a slight movement, an opening.

  “Come on! I know you put something in my drinks.” The question had pestered her from Maine to New York. If Matt had slipped her one of those pills she’d read about in the newspapers, she might’ve never remembered the rape. Instead, the memory would’ve stayed trapped in her mind and body, along with all the other Celeste-is-crap lies she told herself.

  “Did you slip me a roofie?”

  “No,” Matt said.

  “G?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”