The Second Mother

by Jenny Milchman

  Julie took it as a sign of withdrawal. This unusually heated skirmish would pass, become one more part of an amorphous, indistinct mass of sodden days and sullen silences. Her husband let out a breath and Julie did too.

  He crouched to give Depot a pat. “It’s all right, boy. I’m sorry if I scared you.” Then he stood up again. “I think we need a break.”

  “A break?” she echoed. But we’re going to Maine. The dazzling prospect, which had yanked Julie out of the darkness, seemed suddenly absurd.

  David gave a firm shake of his head. “Not a break.”

  Thank God. Julie wasn’t sure if she’d breathed the words out loud.

  “I want a divorce,” David said. “I’m sorry. I did talk with my therapist about a trial separation first. But…”

  “You have a therapist?”

  He gave a nod. “I’ve been seeing her after I finish up work for the day.”

  Such a healthy way to process grief and trauma. Julie wondered why she hadn’t thought of the same thing herself, or why they hadn’t chosen to see someone together. Her law-enforcement family had never been big on therapy; they tended to spurn outside intervention.

  “What I realized is that asking for a separation would be for your sake. To spread out the blow, because you’ve suffered so much already.”

  “Yes, how good of you that would be,” Julie whispered.

  “Whereas what I really want is a permanent change,” David went on. “I don’t want to be married anymore. Did you know that the loss of a child ends marriages in five out of ten cases?”

  “Did your therapist tell you that?” Julie asked, snapped really.

  David regarded her. “As a matter of fact, she did.”

  “I wonder if she also explained why you’ve chosen to fall into the fifty percent that gives up instead of the other half?” Julie asked. The thin skin of shock was peeling away, revealing a cold, blunt pain that she well recognized. Depot twined between her knees and Julie sank to the floor, wrapping her arms around the dog’s thick neck.

  David stepped over the two of them with soldierly precision.

  “It’ll be better for us both this way,” he told Julie on his way out. “You’ll see.”

  Chapter Five

  Julie stayed on the deck with the dog, listening to David walk around overhead, gathering things from their bedroom. Then the front door snicked shut, David giving one firm tug to latch it, before he got into his car and backed out over the gravel drive.

  Julie trudged up the stairs trailed by Depot, and headed over to the computer. Thank God David hadn’t taken it. He had his work machine, probably figured he could allow Julie this shared one. In addition to being careful and deliberate, David was a considerate husband, treating Julie thoughtfully—from the steady supply of scotch to his support of her decision not to return to work once Hedley was gone—and Julie didn’t know how she was supposed to survive when not one soul on the planet needed her for anything, nor would be there to meet any of her needs. She felt a sob thicken her throat.

  Depot wedged himself beneath the desk, lying down heavily on her feet. It wasn’t exactly a pleasant sensation—Depot weighed a lot—but Julie accepted the discomfort as penance. It’s your fault, said a voice inside her, less accusatory than descriptive, matter-of-fact.

  Julie reached down and delivered a sudden, jerky pat to the dog, who squirmed away in protest. She jabbed the laptop to life, and the search she’d already opened appeared. Mercy Island. The words blinked like a beacon. Julie clicked and a series of pages appeared: wiki, tourism sites, boat outfitters, restaurants, an invitation to plan a trip at VisitMercy.com.

  She spent some time tabbing through the feast of links before finally pulling herself away, recalling the not yet completed form. Beginning to review the information that had been filled in, she skidded to a sudden halt. How was she going to explain being out of work? She would seem like a basket case or, at the very least, less in the run of things than someone merely looking to make a job change versus reenter the field after a year’s gap. Unless…what if Julie could use the still unanswered longer form question to demonstrate what she had begun to feel, which was that the loss she’d suffered in some way qualified her for this position at a faraway, distant outpost rather than someone who might be gainfully employed, but had never experienced what she had?

  Julie’s fingers began to move, slowly at first, then faster, lines accruing in the box. Before long, it was as if her brain weren’t doing the composing, but instead was taking dictation from some celestial source.

  You have 75 words left.

  Then 23

  8

  Finally, Julie’s hands stilled, a last dot of punctuation applied like a final dab of paint. On a whim, she tried to add a comma, but it didn’t appear in the box. Her answer had consumed every single character permitted, and not one more.

  It felt as if she’d been in a state of hypnosis. Julie began to reread her words, dimly aware that Depot must have gotten bored at some point and wandered off.

  During my decade-plus of teaching, I have experienced challenges of a professional sort, which might be typical in this field, but lately personal ones too. Being close to children, the original motivation for my career choice, became the very thing that drove me away from it for a while. During that time, I became isolated in a way I never had before, and it taught me, the teacher, something. In years past, I saw my students struggle to connect, and I struggled to assist them. I would not find it hard now. I am prepared to help a new crop of children forge connections, not only with their peers, but within themselves. I believe this will apply especially to the unusual conditions on Mercy Island with its multi-age learning environment. I know about trying, stumbling, then getting up again, lessons students need to learn to grow into resilient young adults.

  Was it too much, being so honest and open on a job application? Opportunity.com claimed to utilize a method that could look past exterior traits to identify people’s unspoken needs and desires. It had sounded a little spooky to Julie at first, intrusive anyway, but the preponderance of testimonials and five-star reviews—over seventy percent of the site’s users left feedback—changed her thinking. Whatever Opportunity.com was doing worked, resulted in lasting pairings.

  Too bad marriages couldn’t be driven by the same algorithm.

  Julie clicked the button to submit the form, then let her gaze fall from the screen. Her eyes felt hot and dry, as if she’d written the whole thing without blinking. She flexed cramped fingers and stood up, looking around for Depot.

  A yawn overtook her. Since losing Hedley, sleep seemed to exist on a distant, unreachable planet, but at least Julie had had the comfort of lying beside someone she loved. As lonely as she felt, she hadn’t been truly alone. But if she pulled back the quilt on her and David’s bed now, it would give off a whiff of cold vapor, feel as flat and unwelcoming as an Arctic plain.

  Julie went downstairs to the kitchen, which emitted an even emptier aura. David had taken two glasses, a plate and bowl, some cutlery. He’d also removed his favorite bottle opener. Where did he intend to stay? Could it be with someone else? Had David cheated on Julie as he planned their demise? She was suddenly convinced that he had, certainty a python constriction around her throat.

  The bottle from the deck stood empty. It had been drained; she wasn’t sure when.

  Julie spun around, already unsteady on her feet, as if anticipating the respite she craved. She faced the row of cupboards on the wall. She pulled one door open, leaving it ajar—a minute lapse David would’ve quickly remedied—before looking inside the next. This one was over her head, and she had to stand on tiptoes, feeling around on the shelf.

  Nudging a vessel forward, taking painstaking care not to let it fall and smash on the floor, Julie finally got hold of a fresh bottle. Amber liquid sloshed as she pulled out the stopper and breathed in th
e aroma. Filling a water goblet, she took a long, searing pull and went out to the living room to find Depot.

  He wasn’t there. On the deck? But she’d secured the door; in the wake of David’s abandonment, she hadn’t wanted to leave the house open to the outdoors.

  Julie checked anyway, taking fortifying sips of her drink.

  The deck was dark and empty. Night had enveloped everything while she’d been upstairs at the computer. How much time had passed? Enough to allow something to happen to Depot that she wouldn’t even have registered?

  It came for him too, said the knowing voice. You let it come for him.

  Julie slapped a hand against her chest, where the voice seemed to live, right beneath her beating heart. She sipped from the glass as she squinted into the corners. She refused to flick on a light, cast a vision of herself out into the penetrating night, even though the house faced only forest. Crickets could be heard, a gritty buzz through the screens, but otherwise all was quiet.

  No snuffling sound of a sleeping dog’s breaths, and Depot was too big to overlook.

  With the muffling effect of alcohol serving to stave off panic, Julie took a last swallow, draining the glass, then made her way out to the front hall.

  A piece of paper lay on the floor, white in the darkness.

  Chapter Six

  The source of the note was obvious, written in David’s fastidious hand.

  Julie, I came to get Depot. I figured you haven’t been on your own with him in a while, and I didn’t want you to get overwhelmed.

  Julie stared at the words till they blurred. She’d been so involved with filling out the application that she’d entirely missed David’s arrival, and him absconding with their dog. Julie didn’t need any voice haunting her when she had her own husband to demonstrate that she couldn’t care for anybody anymore, that no one should be allowed to depend on her ever again.

  She pressed two fingers to her eyes so hard that it hurt, then looked down again at the sheet of paper.

  Over the next few weeks, we’ll have to talk about logistics.

  Logistics. What a David word. When she’d met her husband-to-be, his organization and meticulousness had wooed her; they seemed to suggest a man who would never let their lives go awry. But over the years, those traits had lost their appeal.

  But let’s wait on that for now. I hope you have an okay night.

  We can’t wait, Julie retorted in her head. In a few weeks, I’ll have a new job and be living on Mercy Island.

  At least for the purposes of this mental argument with her guilty-of-desertion husband, Julie would declare with absolute certainty that she already had said job, even though in fact she’d only just clicked Send on an application.

  Still, it was late July. The start of the school year would vary by district, but couldn’t be more than four or five weeks off. Given the substantial move, if she were offered the position, Julie would have to get going soon.

  But not without her dog.

  She let her gaze drift downward.

  No sign-off, certainly no love, or even a warmly, which she supposed would’ve been worse: fake feeling that somehow connoted its opposite.

  Just her husband’s meticulously scripted name.

  Julie crumpled the piece of paper into a ball. At some point, she’d gone from leaning against the wall to sliding down it, and now she sat, legs splayed, on the floor. She was going to have to get up if she intended to bring Depot home. Which she did. No way was she spending the night alone in this house.

  Julie felt around for her glass before recalling that it was empty.

  Probably best not to go for a refill when she had to drive.

  She patted the pocket of her shorts, which made the series of afternoon events come back to her in a sluggish swirl. Had Tim returned her car?

  Julie pulled at the front door, finding that heat and humidity had swelled the wood. When she finally got it open, she stumbled back, coming to a rest on the floor again.

  Can’t drive from here, she thought, beginning to clamber up, first hands and knees, then onto her feet, wondering what David would say if he were to see her messy maneuvers—

  Don’t think about David right now. Focus on Depot.

  That wasn’t any voice besides her own, administering good common-sense advice. Julie peered outside, gratified to see the Ford parked in the driveway. Another unseen arrival. Tim must’ve come while she was working, or looking for Depot, or nose-deep in a glass of scotch. Julie padded out to the lawn, not realizing she’d forgotten shoes until she registered the blades of grass sticking to the soles of her feet.

  Probably just as safe as driving in flip-flops.

  She walked onto the driveway—bare feet hurting now, the gravel like a bed of broken glass—and crossed to the driver’s side door. Inside the car, she set her phone in the well between the seats. There wasn’t reliable signal between the house and… Where was she going anyway? Where was David likely to be? Julie figured she would drive into town, at which point her phone would become sentient and she could call him.

  She let her back sag against the seat of the Ford. Her fingers fell from the button that ignited the engine, or perhaps Julie lowered her hand herself.

  She couldn’t drive anywhere tonight, endanger someone on the road, or Depot if she was able to successfully fetch him. She must have filled that glass awfully high; Julie wasn’t used to pouring her own drinks. She felt past tipsy and most of the way to drunk.

  She would get Depot tomorrow. Determine where David had gone once her mental state was clearer. Then fight her husband for their dog if necessary.

  Julie’s eyelids grew heavy. Curling onto her side, she reached down to recline the seat. Outside, a cradle of moon hooked the sky. Hedley had never slept in a cradle. Just the basket, then finally her crib for a short while. Stars pierced the sheet of mirrored black. So far away, impossible to touch or reach, that Julie started crying.

  She must’ve continued to cry in her sleep, or started again as morning came on, because her face was wet when she got jolted awake by the buzzing of her phone.

  Julie felt her heart clench like a fist inside her.

  It was a notification from her Opportunity.com account.

  * * *

  We were pleased to receive your application for the position of teacher on Mercy Island. We intend to schedule calls with potential candidates before holding interviews. Please click the link to select a date and time for an initial phone call that will work for your schedule.

  Warmly,

  Laura Hutchins

  The dreaded warmly, Julie noted. It was as distant and chilly coming at the end of this note as she had been thinking of it when she’d read David’s missive. Even as she requested the first available slot for a call, Julie knew she couldn’t possibly expect to be the candidate chosen, not in her emotionally ravaged state.

  She set the phone on the dash, stretching her arms over her head until they hit the padding of the rooftop. The instant she moved, her head began to throb. The sun shone brightly, another beautiful day, and the Ford was starting to heat up.

  It wasn’t until Julie stepped outside that she became aware of just how bad her headache was, like a clamp screwed into each of her temples. The amount of scotch she’d imbibed—a full glass meant for water, for hydrating oneself, not straight booze—rolled through her gut like a wave, and Julie paused, one hand upon the flank of the car, the other on her stomach. Her mouth felt waxy, and tasted like souring milk.

  Julie bent over, throwing up a stream of liquor and bile onto the ground. She hadn’t had one bite of solid food yesterday. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then eased the car door closed, wincing at the thud it made.

  She needed to take a shower before tracking down David.

  Her phone buzzed as she stood under the spray. Julie wiped the haze off
the shower door. Unknown number. Spam, or could it already be the hoped-for call, this quickly? Julie slid the door open so fast, it rattled in its frame. Dripping and naked, she got out and grabbed her phone, still buzzing like a trapped fly.

  “Hello, yes, hi?” she gasped.

  “Ms. Mason?” a voice asked cautiously.

  “Yes,” she responded. “This is Julie Mason.” Now she sounded as somber and sonorous as James Earl Jones. The woman would think she had a split personality. “I’m sorry,” she went on in a more natural tone. “I was running for the phone and almost missed your call.”

  A pause. “How nice that you don’t have it on you at all times.”

  This had to be the pre-interview call. Julie’s headache had abated beneath the force of the shower, but her mouth still felt leathery. She turned the faucet on at a volume she hoped would be inaudible, and scooped some water from the sink.

  “I have a lot of qualms about how digitally connected we are these days,” she said, after swallowing. “Also, I live in a place where cell signal is spotty.”

  “What a coincidence,” the woman said. “We have no cell signal at all on Mercy.”

  Julie took a moment to parse the confirmation that she wasn’t in the hands of a telemarketer, then the piece of information she’d been given, the distance between intermittent and none.

  The woman spoke again. “I’m sorry, I haven’t even introduced myself yet. My name is Laura Hutchins, and I’m calling about the position you applied for.”

  “Of course,” Julie said, stooping for a towel on the floor. “Thank you for slotting me in so quickly.”

  “You’re welcome. We’re eager to fill the position, as you can imagine, with the school year nigh. At the same time, we want to make sure we find just the right person.”

  “Is the opening unexpected?” Julie asked.

  “Quite. The prior teacher found that life on an island didn’t suit her and resigned, giving us very little notice.” Her voice tightened with disapproval.