Just Between You and Me

by Jenny B. Jones

  “No!” She swipes at her nose, her gaze outraged. “I was alone. Like I always am. Doesn’t anybody even care?”

  Jesus, help me. “I’m here now. I love you, Riley. And between Grandpa and me, you’re not going to be alone anymore.”

  She pulls away and picks up her puppy. “I’m going inside now.”

  I reach out my hand. “Wait—please.” She stops. “We’re going to make sure you’re taken care of from now on.”

  Riley runs her hand over the dog’s amber-colored head. “How?”

  “What?” My head throbs with a dull ache.

  She looks up from the dog and pins her stare on me. “I said how are you going to make sure I’m taken care of?”

  I open my mouth. And snap it shut. I have no idea. “I—” I fumble for words. “I’m working on it. I—”

  “Forget it.” She pivots on her shoe. “I don’t need you.”

  And she walks away.

  Ready to face the world alone.

  Again.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I massage my back and consider rubbing my sore backside. Eight hours of surgery. Lots of time to consume massive amounts of second-rate coffee and stale vending machine delicacies. And I won’t even mention what I’ve eaten since I’ve been sitting in my father’s room.

  The ICU room curtains block sight of the moon, stars, and city lights outside the window. Wish there was something to block out the noise. Dad’s hooked up to so many things, it’s like a symphony of medical equipment.

  Beside me, Connor reads a Sports Illustrated.

  Dad stirs in the bed. First his hand moves. Then his eyes.

  Unfocused, he squints and slowly takes in his surroundings. I stand up and go to his side.

  “Hey, Dad,” I whisper.

  He struggles to see me. “What . . . what day is it?”

  “Tuesday. But don’t you worry about work. They’ve got it covered just fine.”

  He licks his lips. “Allison?”

  “No, I’m Maggie.” The daughter who put on five pounds just today to sit through your surgery.

  Dad closes his eyes, his face scrunched in pain. “Money in my wallet. Need you to . . .” He rests a moment, and for a second I think he’s gone back to sleep. “Put it in the shed for your sister. Be by tomorrow.”

  “What?” My voice sounds loud in the hushed stillness of the room. “You’ve seen Allison?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  I reach for his hand. “Dad?”

  Then Connor’s beside me, holding my shoulders. Pulling me back. “Maggie.”

  I turn around, sputtering. “But he said—”

  “He’s out of it. Let him sleep.”

  The nurse had given me his wallet Sunday night. His dulled gold wedding band. And I’d stuck it all in my purse. I bump out of Connor’s path and grab my purse, sitting under a chair. Pulling out his leather wallet, I flip it open and peer inside.

  “Oh my gosh.” I hold up three crisp hundred-dollar bills. “He’s been giving her money. All this time. Right under my nose.” And I had no idea. Was I ever in the house when she stopped by? Was Allison ever tempted at all to come in, ask me how her daughter was?

  “People say crazy things under anesthetic,” Connor says, watching my face.

  “Only one way to find out.” I slip the wallet back in my bag. “Has she contacted you again?”

  “Don’t you think I’d tell you if she had?”

  I don’t come up with an answer in time.

  He massages the back of his neck and shakes his head. “You’re a piece of work, Maggie Montgomery.” I steel myself for him to say more. But he only sighs. “You need to go home and get some rest. Just looking at you makes me tired.”

  “I guess I should go. Riley’s at Beth’s. Not that she’ll want to go home with me.” She’s been doing an excellent job ignoring me. And today her teacher e-mailed and said she failed her spelling test and refused to go outside at recess. But on the positive side, I called the paper yesterday and my ad for a nanny will start running tomorrow. I feel better about it already . . . I think.

  At Beth’s, Mark leads me into the living room, where Beth sits at a small foldable table with a sewing machine zipping over some material. She’s surrounded by piles of homemade costumes. Riley and the two oldest girls spin around in long, frilly dresses.

  “Beth, those are amazing.” I pick up a vest off the floor and inspect her handiwork. “You did this? On our budget?”

  She straightens from the machine and checks her baby monitor. “Yeah. I found some really cheap scrap material in Grapevine the other day.”

  I watch my niece pull her dress over her head. “Where’d you get the patterns?”

  “Who needs patterns?” She taps her head. “I got them all right here.” Holding up a sketchpad, she smiles. “And here.”

  I take it from her and flip through the pages. “This is incredible. I can’t even believe what I’m seeing. And to take it from here”—I point to the costumes—“to that. Unreal.” I keep searching the pages. “What are all these?”

  She licks some thread and sticks it in the needle. “Wedding dresses. I’ve made a few on the side. Some bridesmaid and flower girl dresses. Just a little hobby.”

  I stare at drawings that could come from a Vera Wang design studio. “It must take you hundreds of hours.”

  “It’s like therapy. I love almost every minute of it.” Beth snaps her fingers like a drill sergeant. “Josie, get your baby brother. He’s trying to eat that dog’s tail again.”

  An idea blooms in my head. “Could I borrow these drawings for tonight?”

  Her hand stills on a piece of material. “Why?”

  “I have a friend who’s been looking for a wedding dress. She wants one-of-a-kind. Very picky lady. I’d love to fax these to her.”

  Beth waves her hand and snorts. “I’m so sure.”

  “I’m serious.”

  She pulls two-year-old Dalton into her lap. Kisses his dark curls. “I guess. But I’m no designer, Maggie. I just like to play around with fabric and stuff. It’s nothing.”

  “Beth, this is definitely not nothing.” I hug the book to my chest. “I can’t wait to show her.” I glance at my niece, who now sits on the couch, her stony gaze on the TV. “Riley, let’s go home.”

  Stomping all the way to the car, Riley shuts herself in. She holds the squirming puppy in her lap in the car and stares out the window.

  “Want to tell me about school today?” I ask.

  “Nope.” And so it goes. Single word answers all the way to the house. And we had been doing so well.

  Later that night, I slip into Riley’s room and check to see if she’s sleeping. She lies on her pallet on the floor, Matilda curled in a ball beside her.

  God, help me reach her again. I can’t stand this. Is this how you see me? Hard-hearted, wounded, and too afraid to let anyone in? Just . . . heal us both. Show me what to do.

  I feel like there’s so much at stake. And so little time.

  The next morning I call Carley. “Did you get my fax?”

  “Yes. What are these dresses? They’re beautiful.”

  “My friend Beth created them.”

  “Is she a designer?”

  “A very gifted one.” She also delivers pizzas in her minivan, but no need to share that detail right now.

  “Has she done any other work?”

  “Oh, lots.” Like Riley’s costume of a horse’s butt. “Amazing craftsmanship.”

  “Does she have a Web site?”

  “Um, not yet. Very exclusive still. She usually handpicks her clients, but I told her about you, and she said she’d consider creating a dress for your wedding.”

  Carley gushes about a few of the designs in detail. “I really want to talk to this girl. Give me her number.”

  I smile and take a bite of toast. “I’ll have her call you when she can work you in. She’s a little pricey, though.” Nothing compared to what Carley’s been looking
at. “But still, cheaper than most in her caliber.”

  “Make this happen, Maggie. I want to be the first in town to wear one of her designs. My cousin Bitsy will have an envy-meltdown. It’s perfect.”

  “I’ll let you know what Beth says.”

  “Will I see you next month in Nepal for our first shooting of the season?”

  Disappointment burns in my stomach. “Yes.” Especially now that the National Geographic job is gone. “Where else would I be?”

  Deciding I’ll wait until I pick up Riley to visit Dad, I get settled in for the day. And by settled in, I mean stake out the shed in the backyard, then sit in the floor of the kitchen with my laptop, a glass of tea, and watch for my sister to show up.

  At one-thirty, my butt’s asleep, I’m sloshing with liquid, and I’m dying to stretch my legs.

  And then I see her.

  A flash of blue T-shirt. Red scraggly hair, a lopsided ponytail whipping in the wind. Worn-out jeans. She unlatches the shed door and, with a nervous glance over her shoulder, steps inside.

  I shake out the stiffness and head to the backyard.

  In the dim light of the shed, I find my sister tearing through shelves, cussing loud enough to scare the neighbors. “Where is it? Where did he put it?”

  “Looking for this?”

  As Allison whirls around, I hold up the stiff bills from my father’s wallet.

  “Give that to me. It’s mine.”

  “Actually it’s our dad’s money. So he’s funding your drug habit these days?”

  Her eyes narrow like a cobra ready to strike. “No. It’s for food.”

  “Is that what you tell him?”

  “It’s the truth.” She swipes her limp bangs out of her face.

  “Why don’t you let me take you to the treatment facility in Dallas, and I’ll give you the money.”

  “I’m not an idiot.”

  “Or maybe I’ll just give the cash to Riley. You know, your daughter?”

  “You leave her out of it.”

  “You certainly do.” The toxic words roll off my tongue, words I know I’ll later regret. “Your father’s in the hospital, by the way. He had a heart attack.” My sister gives no reaction. “Do you know what the only thing on his mind was? You. He wanted to make sure I took care of you.”

  Allison laughs, revealing a few lost teeth. “And that burns you up, doesn’t it? That he loves me more than you. He always did.”

  “It doesn’t bother me. Not anymore. What bothers me now is that your little girl is suffering every day. And you don’t even care.”

  My sister’s sneer wavers. “I want to see Riley. You’re keeping her away from me. Brainwashing her. I know you are.”

  “It doesn’t have to be this way. You need to get some help.” I step closer and try to keep the judgment out of my tone. “Let us help you. I know we’re a messed-up family, Allison, but we’re all you’ve got. We care about you. And we care about Riley. If you would take the correct medication maybe it would make things a little clearer.” I take a wild stab. “Make the pain not so bad. And that’s it, isn’t it? You like the escape of it all.”

  “You don’t know me,” she hisses. “Don’t stand there and talk to me about help and caring about me. And this high-and-mighty routine? It’s getting old, big sister. You’re the one who treaded water and clung to the leg of the pier while my mother drowned. So I’m the crazy one? I don’t think so.”

  “I never said you were crazy.”

  “But we’re all a little insane. That’s how Crazy Connie raised us.”

  “Don’t say that,” I whisper. “She loved you. I love you.” At least I’m trying to. “And Riley needs you. She misses you.”

  “Dad’s already made me sign my kid away. He won’t even let me see her until I go to rehab.”

  “Just until you get your head straight.”

  “My head’s never going to be straight!” Allison screams. “Don’t you get it? I’m cursed. Just like Crazy Connie. And you”— her eyes travel down my form like I’m sewer sludge—“you’re so perfect. You deserved this disease, not me!”

  Pieces shift into place. “What are you saying? That Mom—”

  “I have to go.” She shoves past me, her frail arms surprisingly strong. I bounce into a wall of boxes. “You can’t keep me from my kid forever.”

  “Wait!” Heaving myself upright, I run after my sister. “Allison! The money!” I call after her, but she sprints across the yard, straight for the street. I run after her, yelling her name. Following her past three houses, I stop when the yellow SUV roars toward us. The vehicle pulls over. A man throws open the passenger door, and Allison jumps in.

  They speed by, leaving me with the money.

  And a perfect view of the license plate.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  A week and a half later, I stand at the stove and make my fourth attempt at steel-cut oats. I follow the directions on the bag, but these things are just tricky.

  “Here you go.” I set a bowl down beside Riley. “Eat up and I’ll take you to school.”

  She stares at the bowl like I just scooped it up from the back end of a cow. “This is lumpy.”

  “You call them lumps. I call them clusters of whole-grain-oatey-wonders.”

  She rolls her eyes and sticks her spoon in her oatmeal. It stands straight up. On its own. “I’m sick of your cooking.”

  “Well, I’m sick of your griping.” And I miss my giggling, sassy niece. The old, miserable Riley is back with a vengeance, and it’s sucking the life out of me. “We have to eat healthy now that Grandpa is watching his diet.”

  Propping her chin on her fist, she sighs. “Can I have a Hot Pocket?”

  She finishes her breakfast, draining her milk but leaving most of the oatmeal, then tromps upstairs to get dressed. I check on Dad, who’s still sleeping, before I peek in Riley’s room.

  I take in her ratty old jeans and too-short T-shirt. The clothes she had when I first met her. “You’re not wearing that. There are plenty of things in your closet.”

  My niece folds her arms over her chest. “This is what I want to wear.”

  “Too bad.”

  “I ate your stupid oatmeal, so I should get to wear anything I want.”

  “Riley, we’re running late. Either you pick out something else or I will.”

  “Fine.” She stomps to her closet and flings it open, the door crashing against the wall.

  Anger flares like a geyser. “Do not do that again.” I move into the closet and grab a shirt and some capris. “You can wear this.”

  “I hate that outfit. It makes me look stupid.”

  I think you’re confusing the outfit with your attitude. “It makes you look cute. Put it on. And for your little temper tantrum, you can forget TV tonight.”

  “So?”

  I take a deep breath and count backward from ten. In three languages. “Riley, I know you’re mad at me—”

  “I’m not mad. I don’t care.”

  I start over with a gentler tone. “I know it’s scary—everything that’s going on in your life right now. And you’re wondering what’s going to happen to you. But I promised you I’d make sure you were taken care of. I’m not going to leave until Grandpa’s on the mend. And I’ve got some nanny possibilities lined out.”

  “A nanny?” She snorts. “What am I, two?”

  I bite my lip to keep the smart retort in check. How do parents do this stuff? “A nanny just to help. You know, someone to bake cookies and help you with your homework. And then I’ll fly in once a month to stay a few days.” I finally feel like I’ve landed on a logical solution that suits everyone.

  “Don’t bother.” Riley storms out of the closet and picks up her backpack sitting by the unused bed. Her puppy nips at her heels. “I don’t need you.”

  Bullet wounds probably hurt less than those words. “Well, you’ve got me, so too bad.”

  “My mom was right—you don’t care anything about me.”

>   With a Herculean effort, I lower my voice and speak calmly. “You know that isn’t true. I love you. I know I’m messing this up, but I’m trying. And it’s okay to be scared after Grandpa’s heart attack. But the doctor says he’s going to recover and be around to drive us nuts a long, long time.”

  She shoots me a well-practiced look of disgust, then marches downstairs.

  As Riley rockets out the front door, Mrs. Bittle, the neighbor and now part-time caregiver, walks in. Luckily I was able to talk her into helping. She’ll be coming over every day, especially when I’m not here. Or when I need a break from the crabby patient.

  I greet the woman, then follow my niece. “Did you finish that English homework last night?” I ask as I start the car.

  “No.”

  “When I left, you only had half of it to do.”

  “I got busy with something.”

  “Riley, I received an e-mail from Mrs. Ellis two days ago about your history grade sliding. This is not acceptable.” I pull out of the subdivision. “You don’t blow off your homework.”

  “I do.”

  I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. “Fine. No TV for the next week. That way you’ll have plenty of time to do all the school work you’ve opted out of.”

  She gives me the silent treatment the rest of the way, and nothing I say gets a rise out of her. When I pull up to the school, she hops out, slams the door, and storms into the building like she’s part of an elementary school S.W.A.T. team.

  I dig into my purse and pull out an address I got from Beth. I drive out to the west side of town and turn into Harbor Meadows, a neighborhood built around a meadow of trees. Two-story brick homes line either side of the streets. I wave at a woman getting her morning paper. A man walks his dog. Normal everyday life. Doesn’t resemble where I grew up at all.

  I stop the Focus at the third house on Maple Leaf Drive. Neat shrubs line the front of the yard. The grass is green as Astroturf and has the diagonal pattern of a very attentive lawn mower.

  Raising the brass knocker, I pound it twice. And wait.