A Family of Strangers

by Emilie Richards

Of course Wendy knew the girls were safe and well cared for, and that whatever I couldn’t manage would be handled by our mother. We were her family, and we would never let anything happen to Holly and Noelle.

  So far she was right. The girls were okay, even if Holly’s lack of sleep was worrisome. Still, how did Wendy know for sure? I could only imagine the stress my sister must have been feeling not to have asked about her daughters.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I was not oblivious to the most important revelation from my sister’s telephone call. I had been transformed from a journalist who meticulously investigated details to a clueless civilian. I was supposed to dig up information on a stranger, but Wendy wouldn’t tell me why. I wasn’t allowed to know who had died or where, or what she or this Milton Kerns had to do with it.

  When looked at that way, my real job and this new one had blind alleyways and locked doors in common. Only this time I was starting with almost no information. If the call had been from anyone else, I would have turned over the burner to the police and given a statement to go with it.

  I set that aside and concentrated on searching the girls’ bedroom. I looked under beds and among the few neatly displayed dolls on a low shelf. None of them looked as if they’d been played with. No comb had ever been yanked through their gleaming hair, no dress had been stripped off repeatedly to fray at the edges. I remembered my dolls, a ragtag, half-naked assortment with dirty faces and limbs askew. They had been beside me in bathtubs and sandboxes, my companions and confessors until I was old enough to range farther afield.

  In newer condition, they’d been my best friends during the heart surgeries that had characterized the first years of my life. Decades later, when my mother had suggested we trash them because my own daughters would never want anything so vile, I’d balked. Today my dolls are carefully packed away under my bed in Delray Beach. I’m not particularly sentimental, but I am loyal to a fault.

  Which made me think about Teo again.

  When I heard the theme from Murder She Wrote, I grabbed the burner before I realized the song was coming from the master bedroom. I crossed the hall and found my cell phone, answering just in time to catch Sophie.

  “Checking in,” she said. “Anything new?”

  I debated silently, but in the end I told her about the new phone and Wendy’s call.

  “She sounds like she’s in this for the long haul,” Sophie said. “You see that, too?”

  She was right. I did see it, and it worried me.

  She didn’t wait for an answer. “You’re going to be there awhile. I can drive over. Make a list of whatever you need that you didn’t pack.”

  “This could all blow over.”

  “So give me the guy’s name. Did she spell it for you?”

  “Milton Kerns.” I stopped. Had Wendy said Kerns or Kern? And did it have a silent a in the middle? “I think that’s what she said.”

  “Hopefully it’s spelled the way it sounded to you.” Sophie quizzed me about the rest of the call, and finished with the question I was asking myself. “Think this is busywork?”

  “You mean if I spend my time looking for someone who doesn’t exist, I can’t look for her? I don’t know, but she’s a mother. She must know I’m already immersed in busywork. Showers, meals, homework. And a child who isn’t sleeping.”

  “This has to be hard on your nieces. What have you told them about their mom?”

  “Not much. They aren’t asking a lot of questions.”

  “That seems odd.”

  “Everything seems odd. It is odd. Supremely odd.”

  “I’ll see what I can find on your sister’s guy.”

  “I doubt he’s her guy. I don’t know what his connection is.”

  “Start making a list of things you need, and text me.” She hung up.

  Back in the girls’ room, I started on the dresser that belonged to Holly. Clothes were folded and stacked, although they showed signs of rummaging. I wondered if Wendy did everyone’s laundry or if her cleaning lady, due to come Thursday, did it for them. I was really hoping for the latter.

  I found the usual. After a cursory examination of the third drawer, I was about to move on, but the bottom pair of cargo shorts looked oddly lumpy. I found a small treasure trove inside the pockets.

  I emptied them on Holly’s bed. My niece doesn’t show much emotion, except anger, of course, but as I removed objects, everything she repressed was laid out on the bedspread—a Bryce Wainwright museum. There was a worn leather key chain inscribed with BW, and an expired Connecticut driver’s license with a smiling photo of her father. Bryce had brown hair and eyes like Holly’s, remarkably even features under a widow’s peak, and the physique of a man who knew he had to stay in shape, even under the ocean. There were also carefully folded and creased birthday cards he’d sent his daughter.

  Holly might not be asking questions about her mother, at least not yet, but here was the evidence that she missed her dad.

  Carefully I put everything back into the correct pockets, refolded the shorts and replaced them in the drawer. Nothing else turned up.

  I conducted the same search in Noelle’s dresser. Nothing was hidden in clothing, but under a stack of sweaters in the bottom drawer—sweaters that wouldn’t get much wear in Seabank—I found a carved wooden box, inlaid with chipped mother-of-pearl, most likely a rescue from the trash. If Holly’s pocket stash was a testament to how much she loved and missed her father, this was the same. Only the target of affection was my sister.

  On Noelle’s bed I carefully removed items, starting with a perfume bottle labeled Coach, the size a woman might travel with or buy as a trial. I removed the top and recognized the scent. The last time I’d seen my sister we had lounged by my parents’ pool, Wendy in a bikini, me in the one-piece that covered the scars on my chest. I’d refused to tell her how fabulous she smelled, for fear I would receive the entire collection of whatever it was on the next holiday.

  The pile included some outdated costume jewelry. The turquoise-and-coral necklace had a broken clasp. One sparkly earring was missing a post. I found half a silver heart on a tarnished chain, along with a metal cuff bracelet that was dented and bent out of shape.

  Along with everything else, I was surprised to find cards from Bryce to Wendy, cards with sappy, romantic messages that many women would keep forever. Had Noelle retrieved them from the trash? From Wendy’s own collection of keepsakes? I hadn’t seen much sentiment on display here, but it was possible all the real mementoes of Wendy’s marriage were still in their house in Connecticut.

  As I put everything back the way I’d found it, I wondered why my younger niece, who was living right here in the town house with her mother, needed reminders. Were these play items she incorporated into an imaginary world? Or was Wendy so often away that Noelle needed tangible evidence her mother was real?

  I thought about all the things I’d found. Neither girl was communicating in a meaningful way. I’d fed them food they didn’t want to eat, bought them ice cream, tucked them in and tried to establish a bedtime ritual. But I’d hardly scratched the surface of what they really needed.

  Obviously both were suffering from their parents’ absences. I’d spent too much time wishing I were somewhere else and hoping things would resolve quickly. Wendy was thinking ahead, in case her absence dragged on. Now it was my turn. At the moment I was the lone caretaker here, and it was my job to help them express themselves at what was clearly a difficult time.

  I just had to figure out how.

  * * *

  The afternoon was warm, but a cool wind tickled the hair on my arms and sent my curls flopping against my cheeks. After I sent Sophie a list of the few things I needed from home, I walked to the school to pick up the girls, figuring the wind wouldn’t hurt any of us. Halfway back I described the rest of the afternoon. “When we get home, we’re baking cookies for Grandpa.
Do you like baking?”

  Neither girl answered.

  “Holly?” I asked directly.

  “We’re not allowed to use the stove.”

  I felt encouraged by the sheer number of words. “Good rule, but if I’m right there, it’ll be fine. And we’re just putting cookies in the oven.”

  “Why?” Noelle asked. “They have cookies at the store.”

  “Grandpa’s on a special diet. Remember how he went to the hospital and had surgery? Well, they want him to eat certain foods that are good for him.”

  “Mommy goes on diets.”

  “Be quiet, Noelle.” Holly walked a little faster.

  “It’s okay for Noelle to talk.” I looked down at the top of my younger niece’s blond head and resolved to find a video on YouTube about braiding hair. No matter how carefully I untangled every strand in the morning, by the time I picked her up, her hair was a disaster.

  Noelle stuck out her tongue at her sister’s back. “Mommy said we have to be careful not to get fat.”

  I wondered if my sister understood the roots of eating disorders. “You aren’t fat, and neither is Holly. You can eat plenty of good food and not worry one bit.”

  Holly surprised me by tossing words over her shoulder. “Cookies aren’t good food.”

  “The ones we’re making are. They have bananas and oats and maple syrup. All kinds of good stuff.” I knew because I’d spent time on the internet coming up with recipes that were both low-fat and vegan. Edible remained to be seen.

  Now Noelle sounded interested. “Do they have chocolate chips?”

  “I found other recipes that do. We’ll try those next time.”

  At the town house I sent them to wash their hands, and while they were gone I took out fruit I’d cut up. When they came into the kitchen, I motioned to the counter where I’d laid out everything, including juice boxes and a bowl of pretzels.

  “I always get hungry when I cook. You guys ready to help? Grandpa will be so glad to get something we made.”

  “I’m tired,” Holly said. “I want to watch TV.”

  “You had trouble falling asleep last night, didn’t you?”

  She glared at me, but I ignored it. “No TV this afternoon. We’re going to finish these and take them right over to Grandpa. Who wants to grind up the flax seeds?” I’d found a little dome-shaped coffee grinder in a cupboard. We had to grind the seeds to make an egg substitute. I was learning things I didn’t want to know.

  Noelle volunteered and shrieked after she pushed start and it whirred loudly. I interpreted that as “I’m having fun.”

  “Push it again, and this time hold it down. It won’t hurt you.”

  Despite pouts and folded arms, Holly couldn’t seem to help herself. She came closer to peer through the top. The whole process took just seconds, and when the grinding stopped, I nodded to her.

  “Now we mix this with water. Holly, would you get me that little glass bowl? Then you can measure the water and mix. I’ll get the tablespoon.”

  I smiled and walked away, as if I had no doubts she’d do just that. When I came back with the spoon, the bowl was right where I wanted it. I didn’t run circles around the kitchen pumping my arm in victory. I dumped the ground flax seeds inside and thrust the measuring spoon toward her.

  “Two of these filled with water, okay?”

  “In the bowl?”

  “Yeah, and it’s supposed to swell up and act like an egg.”

  Holly met my gaze. There was a long hesitation, as if she was fighting herself. Then a shrug, but not the usual kind. A slight one, almost comical. “How does an egg act?”

  If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought my niece actually had a sense of humor. “Like a chicken in training?” I made a goofy face, curled up as much as I could while standing and flapped my arms.

  She actually giggled. I had to resist undoing all my good work. I didn’t hug her, but it was close.

  * * *

  In Gulf Sands I left my father in his courtyard with a little girl perched on each side. While the cookies weren’t going to win prizes at the county fair, my mother had judged them acceptable if Dad didn’t eat too many. So now he and each girl had a plate with two cookies, along with a tattered copy of The Velveteen Rabbit that had been Wendy’s, then mine. My mother had kept it all these years.

  We left them alone to read and went into the kitchen for tea.

  “How’s he doing?” I asked.

  “I have to remind him hourly that eating right and exercising are a lot better than the alternative.”

  I spoke without thinking. “Boy, I bet he loves that.”

  She didn’t glare exactly, but I felt the chill in her stare.

  “Sorry.” I sat at the table and reached for a cookie while she poured the iced tea. She knew how I liked it and added the sugar and lemon before she set it in front of me.

  “Your father was always your favorite.”

  I nearly choked. I swallowed and grabbed my tea for a big slug.

  “Well, he was,” she said.

  “You’re obviously exhausted.”

  “Because I’m telling the truth?”

  “Because you’re talking about feelings. That’s not like you.”

  “This is getting worse by the moment.”

  I touched her hand, which had stalled on the way to the cookies. “Isn’t the absent parent usually something of a favorite because he’s not there to be the disciplinarian? That probably happens with Bryce and Wendy. She does the majority of childcare, and he waltzes in with gifts from faraway ports.”

  I lifted my hand, since I’d probably gone past our touching limit. “The girls miss Bryce. And Dad was away so much I missed him, too. But I could always count on you to be right here when I needed you.”

  “You think I’m controlling.”

  “You aren’t?”

  She blew out a breath. “You did not receive the gift of diplomacy.”

  “Wendy got enough for both of us. I’m compelled to tell it like it is. Where did I get that, do you think?”

  I thought she was trying not to smile. “I just try to make sure things go the way they’re supposed to.”

  Maybe I’m not particularly diplomatic—after all, I’m a journalist—but I don’t say everything I think. A discussion of “supposed to” would have been fruitless. I settled on another piece of the truth.

  “Mom, you never have to worry about how invaluable you are.”

  “If I was invaluable, Wendy would have called me. Have you heard from her since we spoke?”

  I didn’t mention the burner phone. “She called this morning. But she’s still refusing to say exactly what happened. And there’s no talk of a homecoming.”

  “That’s it? That’s all she said? You didn’t try hard enough. If you had, we’d know more!”

  I drank more tea, trying hard to tamp down my anger. I finally set my glass on the table. “I know you think I don’t try hard enough, or that I don’t measure up to my sister, who always did, but this time you’re going to have to trust me. I’m taking good care of Wendy’s kids, and I’m doing absolutely everything I can to get her back home.”

  “I’ve never told you that you don’t measure up. I just wanted you to do your best. In school. In men. In sports. You never tried to win.” She’d cleverly sandwiched men in the middle.

  “Unlike you and my sister, I don’t aim for impossible standards. I don’t want to be the best at anything. I just want to be happy.”

  She grabbed my empty glass and her nearly full one, and took them to the counter. Then she rested against it.

  “Are you happy?”

  The entire conversation was astounding, but this, most of all. I couldn’t remember either of my parents ever asking so directly.

  “Sometimes.” It was the best I coul
d do.

  “Your podcast certainly measures up.”

  “I have good people to work with.” I hesitated. “No, I chose good people. Partly because I’m not doing it for the glory. I’m just trying to tell a story. We all are.”

  “And your personal life?” When I didn’t jump right in, she added, “Now that you’re living here, are you going to see Mateo?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’d tell you that you need to, but I’m already too controlling.”

  I looked up to see she was smiling, just a little. “Holly takes after you,” I said. “She has your sly sense of humor.”

  “If she does, she’s lucky. It seems to stand up under pressure.” She began to fuss, stacking our glasses in the dishwasher, wiping the counter. “You’ll tell me if you hear anything I should know from your sister?”

  “I will.”

  “Thank you.”

  I was pretty sure she meant it.

  CHAPTER TEN

  For dinner I threw caution and nutrition to our local wind gusts and took the girls to Seabank Seafood, my favorite hometown restaurant. Holly had asked for fish and chips, and I wasn’t going to settle for fish sticks and frozen French fries. I negotiated seats at an outdoor table protected by a high wall. We were just far enough away from the Jimmy Buffett cover band that I could hear the girls’ soft voices if they decided to use them. Plus if I craned my neck, I could glimpse the choppy waves of Little Mangrove Bay, which opened to the gulf.

  Our grandmotherly server arrived with crayons, place mats to color and children’s menus on the other side. “You girls like hush puppies?”

  She’d gone straight to the important people at the table. I watched Noelle look first at Holly, then at me. She gave a cute little nod. For once Holly didn’t correct her.

  “I’ll bring a basket to start you off.” The woman finally glanced at me. “You’ve been here before?”

  “My dad used to sneak me in when my mother wasn’t looking. I grew up on your fried shrimp.”

  She winked. “We never fry anything at Seabank Seafood.”