You were safe in Murdoch’s arms. We watched your hands grip at him.
And we watched as our mother again took flight, feinting to the left and darting around Murdoch, running again across the rocks, but this time up, toward the top of the cliff, toward the car.
“You don’t know how to have any fun! Any of you!” she called back at us. “Losers!”
Murdoch didn’t break up with Nikki right after that. I guess he stayed confused about her several weeks longer. But that was when I knew he would. That the miracle had ended.
10
CALLIE’S DREAM
Maybe a week after that day in Gloucester, I found a piece of paper on which Callie had written out our names:murdoch mcIlvane
Nicole O’Grady Walsh mcIlvane
matthew Eamon Walsh mcIlvane
Callie Suzanne Walsh mcIlvane
Emma mary Walsh mcIlvane
I stared at the paper, and I had to force back the acid pushing at my throat. My hands shook.
She had not just written out our names, though. Beneath that, she had written her own, again and again, in variations.
Callie S.W. mcIlvane
Callie S. mcIlvane
Callie Suzanne mcIlvane
Callie mcIlvane
C.S. mcIlvane
C. mcIlvane
miss mcIlvane
ms. mcIlvane
ms. Callie mcIlvane
And finally, after a space, and in letters that were shaky with their own courage:Dr. Callie mcIlvane
It took my breath away, that final name. I had had no idea. I sat there for a while, remembering how Callie had helped me with science homework that year. My homework should have been over her head. And then, too, there was the logical, deductive way she’d located Murdoch.
Dr. Callie McIlvane.
That was when I understood that Callie dreamed bigger than I ever dared. I only wanted us to survive.
11
THE BREAKUP
Murdoch broke up with Nikki right after Labor Day weekend in September. He talked to me about it a week later, basically because I went to him and forced him to.
“Matt, try to understand. It wasn’t going to work out with her and me. She, well . . . she—” He stopped talking, groping for words that he thought wouldn’t be hurtful to me. “Things she liked to do weren’t . . . weren’t really for me.
“But I liked hanging out with you and your sisters. I like you guys. You know that. I was trying to figure out how to—how to not hurt you, too. Or at least as little as possible.”
I had shown up on his doorstep and demanded that he talk to me. My plan was to go all pathetic. Ask him why things couldn’t go back to the way they’d been. I was probably a little insane.
But in the end I couldn’t say those things to him. I knew we couldn’t turn back the clock. He knew I knew. Nobody couldn’t know, after what Nikki had done on Labor Day weekend.
The previous big holiday weekend, over the Fourth of July, we had been almost like a family, the five of us. As Labor Day approached, though, we had not seen Murdoch for many days, and our mother had been twitching with suppressed—something. Rage? Lust? Restlessness? On two nights during that week, she’d left us in the apartment alone and gone off, to see Murdoch, she said. She was gone all night. Later, Murdoch said she wasn’t with him those nights. But we thought she was. I thought, however sure they were to break up in the end, that it hadn’t happened yet. That we would have a little more time with Murdoch.
But Nikki had already fully reverted to someone we hadn’t seen since before Murdoch came into our lives. Her eyes were entirely dark, animal. She came home in the morning after one of those nights out, wrecked, dazed, tottering, red-eyed, limping slightly, and with a smile on her mouth. She threw herself into bed to sleep off the night while we crept around so as not to wake her.
I heard her leave two phone messages for Murdoch. She said the kind of things I’d heard her say many times, when she’d been with men who weren’t Murdoch. She called in those messages in front of us. She smiled at us while she said those things into the phone.
I could have tried to think it all out then, but I didn’t. I didn’t want to. I tiptoed around that week and hoped it would pass, hoped Murdoch would come over . . . and fixated on having a barbecue at his place like the one we’d had on the Fourth of July. I took you to the grocery store and we looked at hot dog buns and marshmallows and hamburger patties and talked about how delicious it had all been. There wasn’t any corn on the cob in the store. You insisted on looking in every aisle, even though I told you that if it wasn’t with the vegetables, it wasn’t there at all. Murdoch would get us sweet corn from that farm, I said. Like before, I said.
Murdoch had better not disappoint Emmy, I thought. It’s mean. It’s cruel. She expects us to have a barbecue! I told her we would do that. I told her we would have plans! The tension and fear gathered and gathered inside me, and finally, at home, Friday afternoon, I called Murdoch myself on the prepaid cell phone he had given Callie and me to share because we ought to have it in case of emergency. But he didn’t pick up and I found I couldn’t leave a message.
He would call. I knew he would call. He would call. Call, call. Call.
Call!
And that night, after nine o’clock, our mother came out of her room holding the phone in her hand. She was smiling, flushed, and she was all dressed up to go out—green sequined halter top, tight skirt, high heels. “Come on. We’re all going over to Murdoch’s.”
Callie and I exchanged glad glances. We couldn’t possibly have moved faster, even though we had to get you out of bed and dressed. We figured you could go back to sleep at Murdoch’s, you’d done it before. Everything was okay again—well, okay enough.
The light was on at Murdoch’s house, and his car was in front, so I didn’t realize that we weren’t expected until he came to the door. I saw his expression as he looked away from our mother and at Callie and you and me. There was surprise on his face, yes, but also something else.
Now, I rarely thought about our aunt Bobbie in those days. She was just the woman who lived downstairs. We said hello and good-bye and little more, since she and Nikki didn’t get along. But as I looked at Murdoch in the doorway of his home, I had a feeling of recognition. I’d seen that expression before—on Aunt Bobbie’s face, when she looked at us sometimes. I had not known what it was until I saw it on Murdoch’s face, too.
It was guilt.
The recognition hit me like a fist in the throat.
He didn’t say anything.
Our mother had snatched you up into her arms on the walk over, because you weren’t walking fast enough. Now she pushed you at Murdoch and his arms opened automatically to take you. For a second I hated him, even though I also saw, just by how he was holding you, Emmy, that he did care. Despite his intention to leave us. He looked at me and Callie, too. Just a blink. There was no expression on his face now, at all.
Nikki said, smoothly: “Look, Murdoch, I need help. I’ve had an emergency call from Rebekah. You haven’t met my friend Rebekah. Anyway, she’s been in a car accident and I have to go be with her at the hospital. You watch the kids. I don’t want to leave them home alone since I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”
He didn’t say anything. Later I asked him if he’d believed her, even for a second, and he’d shrugged. “I don’t know.” Then, seconds later, and so softly I had to strain to hear: “No.”
But that was later. Then, I didn’t know what Murdoch thought, only what I knew. And I didn’t need to look at Callie to know what she was thinking. There had been no telephone call from Rebekah—the phone hadn’t rung at our apartment all night. And as to our mother not wanting to leave us home alone, well, it had never bothered her before.
We said nothing. It was dangerous to contradict her.
Nikki was already turning away. She was practically running. We looked after her. She didn’t look back.
We watched Murdoch watch her go. One
long second passed. Two. Three.
Then: “You guys had better come in,” he said, and we did. But it wasn’t the same in his place, as we stayed there Friday night, and Saturday night, and Sunday night, and Monday night, too, with no word from our mother. This time, we had not been invited. This time, we were not wanted. And the days passed, and our mother did not come back, and did not call, and did not come back, and did not call. And Murdoch was kind to us. Even loving. But distant and detached and wary, and—and gone from us.
On Sunday morning, after Murdoch had told us he was going to call the police—he’d already called all the area hospitals and they’d all denied that our mother’s friend Rebekah was there—I told him she’d done this before. Disappeared for days. I told him that she’d just be angry if anybody made a fuss. I told him she’d be back when she was ready, and not before.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I wish she’d just left us at home. Not bothered you. We could go back there now. We’ll be fine. Aunt Bobbie’s away this weekend, but we’ve stayed alone before when she wasn’t right downstairs. Aunt Bobbie doesn’t really matter even when she’s there.”
“No,” said Murdoch, after a long moment. “You should stay here. It’s okay.”
I knew it wasn’t okay. But I couldn’t say anything else. I couldn’t even look him in the eye. I slunk away.
Ironically, we did all the things that weekend, the four of us, that I had hoped we would. Barbecued in his backyard, while waving across the fence to his neighbor, a woman called Julie. Squeezed into Murdoch’s truck and went to the beach in Duxbury. Watched movies together at night, ones Murdoch picked. Shrek. Mulan. A very old one called Swiss Family Robinson, which you, Emmy, wanted to watch twice.
Murdoch was like a robot. It was unspeakably horrible.
On Wednesday evening, Nikki came back for us. And I watched Murdoch look at her as she trotted into his kitchen wearing the exact same clothes she’d had on five days before. Her arms were covered with bruises, and the first thing she did was come up to Murdoch and throw her arms around him and kiss him, like he was her property.
And now, this will surprise you. It surprised me what I felt as I looked at Murdoch, who stood like a statue in her embrace, before he reached down and simply forced her away from himself, pried her off as if she were a piece of garbage, and stepped decisively away.
It felt as if he was treating us—you, me, and Callie—like garbage, too.
12
FUN, FUN, FUN
In the weeks after Murdoch broke up with our mother, Callie and you and I were involved in a frantic round of enforced family fun. You might remember a little of it, Emmy.
Before, there had been times when Nikki kept us going-going-going from early morning until late at night. But never had it lasted so long or been so intense. I thanked God that at least summer was over and we had the relief of school on the weekdays. Even you were in school—first grade, Emmy. Anyway, I was thinking that surely our mother’s merry-go-round would wind down soon. It always had before, when she got tired of us, when she got distracted by something new in life.
This time, though, it seemed to take forever. One crazy Sunday, I remember, we started out at seven a.m. at the pancake house. Waving away the menus, our mother announced to the waitress, “We’ll just take a big stack of every kind of pancake you make. We want buttermilk, chocolate chip, banana, blueberry, and pecan—oh, and also a plate of those little silver dollar pancakes, too, just for fun. And then we’d like separate dishes of strawberries and whipped cream—actually, a can of whipped cream if you have it that way—and butter. Oh, and do you have chocolate sauce as well as maple syrup?” She turned to us. “You guys, listen. What we’re going to do is put all this stuff in the middle of the table. We’ll get plates for all of us, and then we’ll make sort of pancake sundaes. Isn’t that a great idea? I thought of it last night. Fun, huh?”
“Yes,” Callie said, instantly. “Great idea. Wow.”
I nodded. “Lots of fun.”
There was a little silence. Our mother was now looking at you.
My stomach clenched. “Fun, Emmy,” I prompted. “Fun!”
There was a long silence.
Then: “Fun,” you said, and you were smiling for real. Despite my own tension, I realized with a shock that it was possible that this would be fun for you. After all, once upon a time, this sort of thing had been fun for me.
Callie and I exchanged a glance. Ever so slightly, she shrugged.
“I’m brilliant,” said our mother. And then, to the waitress, in a rapid stream of words, she continued: “We’ll need more maple syrup, because this little pitcher is only half full. Big glasses of milk for all my kids because I want them to grow up strong. Calcium is very important for growing bones. Oh, so is vitamin C, so we need orange juice, big glasses of that. Coffee for me, though, because I’m bad.” She giggled. “That’s all. Thanks!”
The waitress left. Nikki lifted her arms and twisted her hair up behind her head, smiling brightly at us. “Isn’t this the best idea? And this is only the beginning. Wait until you find out what else I have planned for today. You won’t believe how much fun we’re going to have.”
At the end of the next hour, we had made probably the biggest mess the pancake house had ever seen. I had eaten so much, and it had been so awful after the first two pancakes, that I felt as if I might spew. I blamed Callie. She had eaten a single pancake with only a modest amount of syrup, and simply refused to eat more, causing me to worry that we were going to have a big nasty scene. But instead, Nikki had shrugged and said lightly, “Oh well, I suppose you’re dieting. It’s not like I never do that.” And the tension had passed. But I had felt obligated to eat double to make up for Callie, and to show that I was having a good time, and that this was a great idea. Meanwhile, you, Emmy, got sticky syrup and pancake bits all over yourself, the table, and the floor, and had a simply glorious time. And that made it all better, except—
Except that the day was far from over, and next on Nikki’s agenda was picking up a rental car so that we could spend the day at Six Flags amusement park, which was a two-and-a-half-hour drive away. Fifteen minutes down the highway in our rented canvas-topped Jeep, I actually did spew—luckily, Nikki pulled the Jeep over in time—and that set the tone for the rest of my day.
Tilt-A-Whirl. Bumper cars. Three separate roller coasters. Octopus. The Giant Drop. Nikki wanted to go on them all, but most of the time I was able to sit it out with you, because you were too small to go on any of the adult rides. Callie was a trouper and went with Nikki.
“You owe me,” she whispered.
“No, you owe me, for every single pancake I ate this morning.”
Also, I was forced to “taste, you have to at least take a taste, aren’t you having fun?” cotton candy, a giant hot dog, and nachos.
And then it was necessary for all four of us to go together, as a family, on the rides that you were big enough for. Teacups. The little Ferris wheel. These little boats that went round and round on a rail. Some old-fashioned toy cars that went around a track. And, finally, the carousel, where I climbed onto a silvery blue seahorse that went up and down, up and down, while we went round and round, round and round, until I upchucked the cotton candy, hot dog, and nachos on the seahorse’s head. You laughed at me, Emmy.
The worst part of the day was still ahead, though, and it came toward the end of the drive home. It was nearly ten o’clock at night by then, and you were asleep in the backseat of the Jeep with your seat belt undone and your head on Callie’s lap. Traffic on the highway was light but steady, and thanks to my touchy stomach, I was up front with Nikki. And so I was the one to whom she said, conversationally, as we drove down the highway, “Tell me how much fun you had today, Matt.”
“It was fun.”
Even I could hear how dull my voice sounded. I hoped she would let it go. It was late, and she had to be tired, too—she’d driven for hours today in the rented Jeep.
“That
sounds convincing.”
“It was fun, Mom.”
Her voice got harsher. “I know you were sick, but that’s just the price you pay for eating like a pig.”
“Yeah, that’s right. It was my fault.”
Callie, from the backseat, said, “We did have fun, Mom.” She too sounded more exhausted than happy.
“Really?” Nikki said. “Isn’t it strange, then, that I haven’t heard a single thank you?”
“Oh—thank you—sorry—thank you—” we both sputtered.
“It’s a little late now.” Nikki was looking straight ahead as she drove. The road we were on was a major road, almost a highway, but was not divided by any kind of barrier.
Suddenly, Nikki jerked the wheel of the Jeep and took us into the next lane of traffic, the fast one.
“I go to a lot of trouble for you kids,” she said. “I love you to death, but this is one of those times when I think I’m not appreciated. Or maybe it’s that you think somebody else would be more fun?”
“No,” I said. “Of course not.”
“Oh, really?” She drew out the word in a drawl. Then, harshly: “You think I’m stupid? You think I don’t know you kids are mooning around missing Murdoch? Like he’s so special! Like he’s any fun at all! Like he could even compare to me. He knows nothing about parenting, not in the real world. He just has fantasy ideas about what it ought to be like.”
“I never said anything about him and—”
She wasn’t listening to me. “Or maybe you don’t want fun at all!” She jerked the wheel to the left again.
And all at once, we were on the wrong side of the road, heading directly into oncoming traffic. Headlights glared straight into my eyes.
“Tell me you love me best,” our mother said. Her voice was once more calm, and her hands on the wheel of the car were steady. “Convince me, Matthew.”