Alice edges a small, flat, very dark pancake off the pan. “The nurses explained all this.”
“Not in English. Please, Al, translate?”
“It’s because of the deep vein thrombosis—kind of a clot he got. They put him in those inflatable boots for that, because they didn’t want to give him anti-coag drugs—”
“English,” Joel reiterates.
“Stuff that makes his blood thinner. Because of the head injury. They put him in the boots, but someone ignored or didn’t notice the order that they were to go on and off every two hours.”
“Can we sue this someone?” Joel asks angrily. “He was talking, getting better, now he’s worse off than ever.”
Alice chips four more skinny charcoal briquette-looking pancakes off the pan, then adds some butter. “It’s good they caught it, Joey.” She looks up, seeming to notice for the first time that I’m standing beside Jase.
“What are you doing here?”
“She belongs here,” Jase says. “Drop it, Alice.”
Andy starts to cry. “He doesn’t look like Dad anymore.”
“He does so. Look like Dad,” George insists stoutly. He hands me the computer printout. “This is our baby.”
“He’s very cute,” I tell George, scrutinizing what does, indeed, look like a hurricane off the Bahamas.
“Dad’s all skinny,” Andy continues. “He smells like the hospital. Looking at him freaks me out. It’s like he’s this old man suddenly? I don’t want an old man. I want Daddy.”
Jase winks at her. “He just needs more of Alice’s pancakes, Ands. He’ll be fine then.”
“Alice makes the worst pancakes known to humankind,” Joel observes. “These are like coasters.”
“I’m cooking,” Alice observes sharply. “You’re what? Critiquing? Doing a restaurant review? Go get takeout, if you want to be useful. Ass-hat.”
Jase glances around at his siblings, then back at me. I understand his hesitation. Though things at the Garretts’ are unbalanced—mealtimes off, everyone more cranky, it all still seems normal. Not right to detonate the bomb of some big announcement. Like barging into Mr. and Mrs. Capulet’s argument about whether they are overpaying the nurse with “We now interrupt this ordinary life with an epic tragedy.”
“Yo.” The screen door opens, letting in Tim, laden with four pizza boxes, two cartons of ice cream, and the blue-zipped bag in which the Garretts keep the contents of the till from the hardware store balanced on top.
“Hello, hot Alice. Wanna put on your uniform and check my pulse?”
“I never play games with little boys,” Alice snaps without turning around from her position at the stove, where she’s still doggedly turning out pancakes.
“You should. We’re full of energy. And mischief.”
Alice doesn’t bother to answer.
Taking the boxes, Jase begins piling them on the table, batting away his younger siblings’ questing hands. “Wait till I get plates, guys! Jeez. How was the take at the end of the day?”
“Actually, surprisingly good.” Tim hauls a wad of paper napkins out of his pocket and fans them out on the table. “We sold a wood chipper—that freaking big one in the back that was taking up all the space.”
“No way.” Jase pulls a gallon of milk out of the fridge, carefully distributing it into paper cups.
“Two-thousand-dollar way.” Tim flips slices of pizza onto plates, shoving them in front of Duff, Harry, Andy, George, and the still-scowling Joel.
“Hey, kid. Good to see you here.” Tim smiles at me. “Back where you belong, and all that crap.”
“Mines!” Patsy shouts, pointing at Tim. He goes to her, rumples her scanty hair.
“See, hot Alice? Even the very young feel the pull of my magnetism. It’s like an irresistible urge, a force like gravity, or—”
“Poop!”
“Or that.” Tim removes Patsy’s hand, which is now tugging up his shirt. Poor girl. She really hates drinking from bottles.
He grins at Alice. “So, hot Alice. Whaddya think? How about putting on that uniform and checking my reflexes?”
“Stop putting the moves on my sister in our kitchen, Tim. Jesus. Just so you know, Alice’s nurse’s uniform is a pair of green scrubs. She looks like Gumby,” Jase says, returning the gallon of milk to the fridge.
“I’m starving, but I don’t want pizza,” Duff says heavily. “That’s all we ever eat anymore. I’m sick of pizza and Cheerios, and those used to be my two favorite things on the planet.”
“I used to think it would be fun to watch TV all the time,” Harry says. “But it’s not, it’s boring.”
“I stayed up until three last night, watching Jake Gyllenhaal movies, even the R-rated ones,” Andy offers. “Nobody even noticed or told me to go to bed.”
“Are we all sharing grievances now?” Joel says. “Should I get out the talking stick?”
“Well, actually,” Jase begins, and then there’s a knock on the door.
“Joel, did you order out even though you knew I was making pancakes?” Alice asks angrily.
Joel raises his hands in self-defense. “God knows I wanted to, but I hadn’t gotten around to it. I swear.”
The knock sounds again, and Duff opens the screen door to let in…my mother.
“I wondered if my daughter was here.” Her gaze drifts over everyone at the table, Patsy with her hair smeared with butter, syrup, and tomato sauce; George without his shirt, little rivulets of syrup edging down his chest; Harry lunging for more pizza; Duff at his most truculent, the teary Andy. Jase, who freezes in his tracks.
“Hi, Mom.”
Her eyes settle on me. “I thought I’d find you here. Hi, sweetheart.”
“Yo Gracie.” Tim drags an armchair from the living room to the kitchen island. “Take a load off. Let your hair down. Have a slice.” He cuts a glance at my face, then Jase’s, eyebrows lifting.
Jase is still staring at Mom, that confused look he had in her office returning. My mother regards the boxes of pizza as though they are alien artifacts from Roswell, New Mexico. Her preferred pizza toppings, I know, are pesto, artichoke hearts, and shrimp. Nonetheless, she sinks into the chair. “Thank you.”
I look at her. This is neither the broken woman in the silk robe nor the brittle hostess offering Jase a beer. There’s something in her face I haven’t seen before. I glance over to find Jase still studying her too, his expression impassive.
“So, you’re Sailor Supergirl’s mommy.” George struggles to talk around a mouth full of pizza. “We never saw you up close before. Only on TV.”
My mother gives him a tiny smile. “What’s your name?”
I rush through introductions. She looks so stiff and uncomfortable, immaculate and out of place in the comfortable chaos of this kitchen. “Should we go home, Mom?”
She shakes her head. “No. I’d like to meet Jase’s family. Goodness. Is this all of you?”
“’Cept my daddy, cause he’s in the hostible,” George says chattily, getting up from the table and circling over to Mom. “And Mommy, cause she’s taking a nap. And our new baby, because he’s in Mommy’s belly drinking her blood.”
Mom pales.
Rolling her eyes, Alice says, “George, that’s not how it works. I explained when you asked how the new baby ate. Nutrients go through the umbilical cord, along with Mom’s blood, so—”
“I know how the baby got in there,” announces Harry. “Someone told me at sailing camp. See, the dad puts—”
“Okay, guys, enough,” Jase interrupts. “Settle down.” He looks over at Mom again, drumming his index finger on the countertop.
Silence.
A little awkward. Not to mention unusual. George, Harry, Duff, and Andy are busy eating. Joel has unzipped the cash register bag and is sorting through the bills, separating by denomination. Tim’s opened one of the cartons of ice cream and is eating directly out of it.
Which gets Alice’s attention. “Do you have any idea how unsani
tary that is?”
He drops the spoon guiltily. “Sorry. I didn’t think. I just needed sugar. All I do these days is eat sweets. I may be sober, and not smoking much, but morbid obesity is my future.”
Alice actually smiles at him. “That’s part of the withdrawal process, Tim. Completely normal. Just…get yourself a bowl, okay?”
Tim grins back at her and there’s this funny stillness there before Alice turns away, reaching into a drawer. “Here.”
“I want ice cream. I want ice cream.” George bangs his own spoon on the table.
Patsy, getting into the spirit, whacks her high chair with her hands. “Boob,” she yells. “Poop.”
Mom frowns.
“Her first words,” I explain hastily. Then shame prickles my face. Why do I feel as though I have to explain away Patsy?
“Ah.”
Jase meets my eyes. His are stormy with bafflement and pain so intense it hits me like a slap.
What is she doing here now? Jase and I were fine, we were connected, and here she is. Why?
He jerks his head toward the door. “We’d better get some more ice cream from the freezer in the garage. Come on, Sam.”
There are two full cartons on the table. Alice looks down at them, then at Jase. “But—” she starts.
He shakes his head at her. “Sam?”
I follow him out. I can see a muscle jump in his jawline; feel the tension in the set of his shoulders as though they are part of my own body.
As soon as we’ve cleared the steps, he wheels on me. “What is this? Why is she here?”
I stumble back. “I don’t know,” I say. My mom’s acting so normal, so calm, the friendly neighbor dropping by. But nothing is normal. How can she be calm?
“Is this more of Clay’s bullshit?” Jase demands. “Is he having her come over here and act all nicey-nice, before everyone else finds out?”
My eyes prickle, tears so close. “I don’t know,” I say again.
“Like maybe my family will think that this sweet lady could never do something so bad, and I’ve just lost it or something and—”
I grab his hand.
“I don’t know,” I whisper. Could this be yet another part of Clay’s game? Of course it could. I’d been thinking, somehow, that Mom was making a gesture in there…a peace offering, but maybe it is just another political tactic. My stomach coils. I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what to feel. The tears I’ve been fending off spill over. I scrub at my cheeks angrily.
“I’m sorry,” Jase says, pulling me to him so my cheek rests against his chest. “Of course you don’t. I just…seeing her sitting there in the kitchen, eating pizza as if everything’s all great, it makes me—”
“Sick,” I finish for him, shutting my eyes.
“For you too. Not just Dad. For you too, Sam.”
I want to argue, repeat again that she’s not a bad person. But if she really has come over here at Clay’s bidding to show the “softer side of Grace,” then…
“Got that ice cream?” Alice calls out the door. “I didn’t think it was possible, but we’ll actually be needing it.”
“Uh…just a sec,” Jase calls back, hastily lifting the garage door. He reaches into the Garretts’ freezer case, always loaded from Costco, and takes out a carton. “Let’s get back in before they eat the bowls.” He tries for his old, easy smile, falls short.
When we return to the kitchen, George is saying to Mom, “I like this cereal called Gorilla Munch on top of my ice cream. It’s not really made of gorillas.”
“Oh. Well. Good.”
“It’s really just peanut butter and healthy stuff.” George searches around in the box, tipping it, then heaps cereal into his bowl. “But if you buy boxes of cereal, you can save gorillas. And that’s really good, ’cause otherwise they can get instinct.”
My mother looks at me for translation. Or maybe salvation.
“Extinct,” I supply.
“That’s what I meant.” George pours milk on top of his cereal and ice cream, then stirs it vigorously. “That means they don’t mate enough and then they are dead forever.”
Silence falls again. Heavy silence. Dead forever. That phrase seems to reverberate in the air, at least for me. Mr. Garrett lying facedown in the rain, that image Jase added to the echo of that sickening thud. Does Mom see it too? She puts down her slice of pizza, her fingers tight on a paper towel as she dabs at her lips. Jase is staring at the floor.
My mother stands up so abruptly that her chair almost overturns. “Samantha, will you come outside with me for a moment?”
Dread snags at me. She’s not going to march me home to face Clay’s arm-twisting again. Please no. I glance at Jase.
Mom bends over the table so she’s eye to eye with George. “I’m sorry about your father,” she tells him. “I hope he feels better soon.” Then she rushes out the door, sure I’ll trail after her, even after everything.
Go, Jase mouths at me, lifting his chin toward the door. A look at those eyes and it’s clear; he has to know everything.
I hurry after my mom as her sandals click down the driveway. She stills, then turns slowly. It’s almost fully dark now, the streetlamp casting a shallow puddle of light on the driveway.
“Mom?” I search her face.
“Those children.”
“What about them?”
“I couldn’t stay any longer.” The words drag slowly out; then, in a rush. “Do you know Mr. Garrett’s room number? He’s at Maplewood Memorial, yes?”
Melodramatic scenarios crowd my mind. Clay will go there and put a pillow over Mr. Garrett’s face, an air bubble in his IV. Mom will…I no longer have any grasp of what she’ll do. Could she really come over and eat pizza and then do something terrible?
But she already has done something terrible, and then showed up with figurative lasagna. Here I am, your good neighbor. “Why?” I ask.
“I need to tell him what happened. What I did.” She compresses her lips, her gaze drawn back to the Garretts’ house, the light a perfect square in the screen door.
Oh thank God.
“Right now? You’re going to tell the truth?”
“Everything,” she replies in a small, soft voice. She reaches into her purse, taking out a pen and her tiny “flag this” notebook. “What’s his room number?”
“He’s in the ICU, Mom.” My voice is sharp—how can she not remember? “You can’t talk to him. They won’t let you in. You’re not family.”
She looks at me, blinks. “I’m your mother.”
I stare at her, completely confused, but then I realize. She thinks I meant she wasn’t my family. In the moment, it feels true. And I suddenly know I’m standing somewhere very far away from her. All my strength, all my will, is diverted into defending this family. My mom…What she’s done…I can’t defend her.
“They won’t let you into the room,” is all I say. “Only his immediate relatives.”
Her face twists and, with a jerk of my stomach, I interpret her expression. Some shame. Mainly relief. She won’t have to face him.
My eyes fall on the van, the driver’s-side door. I know who deserves the truth just as badly as Mr. Garrett, though.
Mom’s hand moves convulsively to smooth the skirt of her dress.
“You need to talk to Mrs. Garrett,” I say. “Tell her. She’s home. You can do it now.”
Again that snap of a gaze at the door, then a sharp turn of her head, as though the whole house is the scene of the accident. “I can’t go in there again.” Mom’s hand is rigid in mine as I pull at her, trying to urge her back up the driveway. Her palm is damp. “Not with all those children.”
“You have to.”
“I can’t.”
My eyes draw back to the door too, as though I’ll find the solution waiting there.
And I do. Jase, with Mrs. Garrett standing next to him. His shoulders are set, his arm tight around her.
The screen door opens and they come out.
> “Senator Reed, I told my mom you had something to say.”
Mom nods, her throat working. Mrs. Garrett is barefoot, her hair sleep-rumpled, her face tired but composed. Jase can’t have told her.
“Yes, I—I need to speak with you,” Mom says. “In private. Would you—care to come have some lemonade at my house?” She dabs at her upper lip with one knuckle, adding, “It’s very humid tonight.”
“You can talk here.” Jase obviously doesn’t want his mother within range of Clay’s hypnotism. She raises her eyebrows at his tone.
“You’re more than welcome to come inside, Senator,” Mrs. Garrett’s own voice is soothing and polite.
“It will be just the two of us,” Mom assures Jase. “I’m sure my other company has left.”
“Right here will be fine,” he repeats. “Sam and I will keep the kids occupied inside.”
“Jase—” Mrs. Garrett begins, her cheeks flushing at her unaccountably rude child.
“That’s fine.” Mom takes a deep breath.
Jase opens the screen door, motioning me back in. I stand for a moment, looking from my mom to Mrs. Garrett and back again. Everything about the two women profiled in the driveway is poles apart. Mom’s sunny yellow sheath, her pedicured feet, Mrs. Garrett’s rumpled sundress and unpolished toenails. Mom’s taller, Mrs. Garrett younger. But the pucker between each of their brows is nearly identical. The apprehension washing over their faces, equal.
Chapter Fifty-one
I don’t know how my mother said it, if the truth gushed or seeped from her lips. Neither Jase nor I could hear above the clatter of the kitchen, only see their silhouettes in the deepening darkness when we had a moment to steal a look as we cleaned up pizza boxes, shooed the kids into bath or bed or toward the hypnotic mumble of the television. What I know is that after about twenty minutes, Mrs. Garrett opened the screen door of the kitchen, her face giving nothing away. She told Alice and Joel she was headed to the hospital and needed them to come with her, then turned to Jase. “You’ll come too?”
When they’ve gone, and Andy, obviously still suffering from the aftereffects of her Jake Gyllenhaal marathon, falls asleep on the couch, I hear a voice call from the back porch.