Call It What You Want

by Brigid Kemmerer

  I stare at her. “But Bill turned him in.”

  “Yes. He turned him in. And Rob, he was crafty.” Her voice turns hushed. “So very crafty. He’d planned for it. He’d been ready for it. He made sure everything pointed at your father. Everything.”

  I don’t know what to say.

  “Rob, he couldn’t take it,” she says. “Your father—he couldn’t take it. Bill was coming out looking like the savior, while your dad was the thief. And the worst part was that I had to play along. Bill said he would keep me out of it. Otherwise we’d lose everything. I would have lost you, Rob.” She puts her hand against my cheek, and I jerk away.

  That wounds her, and I don’t want to care, but I do. She presses her hand to her stomach. “I didn’t know what to do. There was no right path, Rob. Your father was going to turn on Bill, but Marjorie came here, sobbing that she would lose Connor, that we’d all be in prison. We didn’t know what to do. It was all a mess, and the press was going crazy. Everyone hated us—you remember.”

  I do remember. I don’t need to remember.

  Everyone still hates us.

  “Your father couldn’t take it,” she says. She’s stumbling over her words now. “The night—the night he tried—the night he tried—”

  “I know what night you’re talking about,” I say.

  “I didn’t realize how bad it had gotten for him,” she says. “I didn’t—I didn’t know. I wish I hadn’t stormed out. I wish I hadn’t left him. I wish I hadn’t—”

  She dissolves into tears again.

  I sit and I wait. I wish all of those things, too. I feel no pity for her.

  I’m lying to myself. I feel nothing but pity.

  My throat is tight. I put a hand on her shoulder. “Mom.”

  She reaches out and pulls me against her. She’s shaking with the force of her tears. “I never wanted to hurt you, Robbie. I love you. I couldn’t lose you. Not with everything else. I couldn’t lose you. I never would have left you alone to find that. Please know that. Please. Please don’t hate me.”

  “I don’t hate you.” I almost choke on the words.

  I hate Bill Tunstall. Now more than ever.

  She speaks into my shoulder. “Bill came the day after that. He said he would make sure I was kept out of it if I could play the role of clueless wife. If I could be devastated at my husband’s actions. If I could be—be grateful to him for being such a savior to the community.”

  “That’s why you stayed friendly with them,” I murmur. “That’s why you kept asking about Connor.”

  “Yes.” Her voice breaks. “It was so hard. You have no idea how hard. And now I’ve got this job, and every time I leave here, I see how it could be. I could have a life. I could have friends. But I can’t. I’m stuck here, because otherwise I lose what little I have left.”

  “Is that why you’ve been drinking so much?”

  “I wouldn’t classify it as so much.”

  I give her a look.

  She sighs. “I mentioned to my boss how much I liked the first bottle, so he brought me another, and then we went out to dinner—”

  “You went out to dinner?”

  “As friends! Just as friends.” She sniffs hard and mops at her face. “I’ve been so lonely, Rob. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be so lonely?”

  “Yes!” I snap. Dad jerks in his sleep, and I lower my voice. “Yes, I do.” I grit my teeth and glare at her. “Do you have any idea what my life is like?” She doesn’t answer that, and I power on. “You get to run out of here when Dad is too much for you, but I’m the one left behind. Do you know what that is like?”

  She flinches, but I keep going. “Do you have any idea how much I hate that Bill was in on this, and there’s nothing I can do about it? He’s probably still doing it, but if I turn him in, I’m turning in my own mother. Do you have any idea?” I yell.

  Dad jerks and moans. He’s waking up. He’s reacting to the yelling.

  I don’t care.

  Mom looks at him and then back at me. “Please,” she says. “Please stop. Please understand.”

  Dad’s moaning is rising in volume.

  I ignore him. It takes everything I have, but I ignore him.

  “You didn’t want to lose me, Mom? Well, too bad. You’ve lost me.”

  “Rob—”

  I don’t listen to what she says.

  For once, I’m the one who gets to walk out.

  It’s after ten, but I know Wegmans will be open. I dig for change in the center console of my car and buy a cup of coffee, then dump a ton of cream and sugar into it.

  When I turn from the counter to head for the shadowed alcove under the stairs, I discover one chair is occupied.

  Maegan stares up at me in surprise. “Rob.”

  I’m so thrown that I stand there like an idiot, holding my coffee. “Maegan.”

  We’re trapped in this space, staring at each other. She looks small and hidden, all curled up in the chair in jeans and a green sweater, her hair in a loose braid down over her shoulder.

  I shake myself and look away. “Sorry. I’ll go sit somewhere else.”

  “No!” She half rises from her chair. “No. Wait.”

  I turn back, ready to sit, and I’m surprised when she wraps her arms around me. “I’ve been so worried about you.”

  The words are more surprising than the hug, and it takes me a moment to figure out why: I’m not used to anyone worrying about me.

  I wrap my arms around her, careful of the coffee, glad to have someone to hold on to. We stand there for a minute or an hour or an eternity.

  “I’m sorry I’ve been such a mess,” I say quietly.

  “Me too,” she says.

  “You aren’t a mess.”

  “I have been.” She looks up at me, and tears are sparkling on her lashes.

  I didn’t expect that. “You’re crying?” I lift a hand to brush them away.

  She makes a sound that’s half laugh, half sob. “Yeah. I guess. I haven’t been home.”

  “You snuck out to Wegmans again?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Me too.”

  Now her eyes widen in surprise. “Want to sit?”

  We do. I drop into an armchair, and just like Saturday night, she drops into the microscopic space beside me, half sitting in my lap.

  I don’t know what’s happened to erase all the tension between us, but after the day I’ve had, I don’t mind at all.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t understand what you and Owen were doing. I thought—”

  “I know what you thought,” I say. “And we were wrong.”

  “Owen doesn’t think so.”

  I turn my head to look at her. Her eyes are so close. We could share breath. “You talked to Owen?”

  She blushes. “I couldn’t talk to you. He was worried when you didn’t show up for school, so I told him what happened. I went to his house, and his mom overheard us talking.”

  Great. “So, I guess I’m not going to be best friends with Mrs. Goettler anytime soon.”

  “She’s not your biggest fan. But I think she feels sorry for you.”

  Double great. I grimace, then frown.

  “She’s going to make Owen figure out a way to pay for another pair of shoes, and she’s going to return them to replace the ones you guys ordered.” She hesitates. “She spent a lot of time talking about how stealing is wrong, but she doesn’t want to turn Owen in. Or you.”

  This is all so complicated. Just like the story Mom told me about Dad. Does it make him better in my eyes? Or worse? He was still stealing. He just didn’t get the chance to pull the plug.

  “Dad said you were arrested.” Maegan’s eyes are warm and intent on mine. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.” I’m nodding, but this feels like the last few months, when I kept my head down and faked living.

  I remember how it felt to finally let loose in Mr. London’s office, and I take a deep breath.

  “No,”
I say to Maegan. “No, I’m not okay.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” she says.

  I’m so sick of secrets and drama and everyone hating me.

  She finds my hand and squeezes it. “It’s okay,” she says. “You don’t have to.”

  “No.” I squeeze her hand back. “I want to. I want to tell you everything.”

  So I do.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Maegan

  As usual, I have more secrets in my head than I know what to do with.

  Somehow, it’s different this time. Owen’s mother was right—doing the right thing really does mean different things to different people. Nothing is clear-cut, and maybe that’s okay.

  Rob says he has no proof about what Mr. Tunstall is doing, but even if he did, he doesn’t want to turn him in. He doesn’t want to destroy his mother. He doesn’t want to destroy Connor.

  I’ve been turning it over in my head all night, and I still don’t know.

  I do know that Rob shouldn’t be the one paying the price for all of it. But if I tell someone everything he told me, am I throwing Connor under the bus? What would happen to Rob if his mother went to prison? What would happen to his father? Would his life be better than it is now? Or would it be worse?

  There’s a soft knock at my door before I’ve turned off my light. It must be Samantha, because my parents’ door was closed when I came in, no light shining from under it.

  “Come in,” I call softly.

  The door swings open silently. My father.

  I sit bolt upright in bed. “Dad.”

  “I wanted to talk to you,” he says.

  I can’t read anything from his voice, but I’d rather face him like this, in an old T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, than how he was this morning.

  He seems to be waiting for some kind of response, instead of barreling in here, which I appreciate. I clear my throat. “Come in.”

  He sits on the edge of my bed and smooths his hand over the coverlet. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you this morning. You didn’t steal anything. You still should have said something.” He stares at me, and his voice takes on a firm note. “But I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I didn’t want you to be caught up in something else that could damage your future.” He pauses. “You’re old enough to pick your friends, too. Though I hope you’ve learned the truth about Rob Lachlan.”

  I’ve learned that Rob is loyal and kind. That his moral compass works better than most.

  I don’t know what to say to my father. This doesn’t quite feel like an apology. Then again, maybe it’s not supposed to be. Maybe I don’t need one.

  Dad looks at me. “Sometimes when we’re trying to protect the people closest to us, doing the right thing doesn’t always look so clear.”

  I swallow and think about how I kept Samantha’s secret. How I’m keeping Rob’s.

  I consider how Rachel and Drew acted at the dinner table when Rob was there. They were wrong, for sure, but at the same time, was Rachel trying to protect me from someone she saw as a danger? Did that make her behavior more acceptable?

  “I know,” I say softly.

  “Well, maybe you know,” Dad says, “but I’m still learning.” He pauses. “Samantha told us how you stood up for her in front of that … that …” His voice tightens. “That horrible man.”

  It sounds like he wants to call DavidLitMan something entirely different. “Someone had to,” I say.

  “I know. I’m glad it was you. He’s lucky it wasn’t me.” He gives my shoulder a squeeze. “I’m proud of you.”

  The words bring a swell of tears to my eyes. “Thanks, Daddy.”

  He looks at me with a kind of wonder. “Why the tears?”

  I sniff and swipe at my face. “I’ve always thought you were disappointed in me.”

  “Never,” he says, and pulls me into his arms. “Never.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Rob

  Wegmans closed at midnight, but I’ve been sitting in my car for a while. I can’t go home. Not yet.

  Eventually, I realize I’m going to burn through a tank of gas trying to stay warm. I don’t have a heavy coat with me, and it’s dropped well below freezing. I can sit here in judgment of my mother and the role she played, but it’s not going to keep me warm.

  Or fed, now that I think about it. I drive home.

  It’s after two a.m., but she’s still awake. I want to blow past her and storm up to my room, but it’s clear she’s been crying for a while, and I can’t turn off my heart.

  I stop in the doorway to the family room. Dad is asleep in his chair. She couldn’t get him upstairs alone, either.

  “You came back,” she says.

  “I came back.”

  “I was worried.”

  “Yeah. Well.” I look away. “I have nowhere to go.”

  “Rob, please know that none of this was easy for me. Everything I did—after—was to keep you safe. Please know that.”

  It’s tempting to shrug off this statement, but I can hear the emotion in her voice. We’ve been trapped here together. None of this has been easy for her. I should hate her, but I can’t.

  “I know,” I say quietly.

  “Please don’t hate me,” she whispers.

  “I don’t hate you.” I glance at my father and wish again that I could rewind time. “I don’t hate him.”

  I drop onto the couch beside her and put my face in my hands. “I hate that Bill started it all, and he’s the one who’s getting away with it.”

  She rubs my shoulder. “I never wanted this, Rob.”

  I don’t pull away. “I know.”

  My cell phone vibrates in my pocket, making me jump. No one ever calls me, especially not in the middle of the night, so I jerk it free.

  The display is lit up with Connor Tunstall.

  I stare at the screen for a moment too long, then swipe the bar to answer.

  The phone nearly explodes with noise, and I have to hold it away from my ear.

  “Connor?” I say.

  “Rob.” He sounds like someone is choking him. A man is speaking in the background. There’s a lot of yelling. “Rob.”

  “Connor? What—what’s going on?”

  “Rob, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t—I had to—”

  “Slow down.” I’m standing now. I put a hand over my other ear as if that will somehow block all the background noise. “What’s going on?”

  “I turned him in.” He makes another choking sound. “I didn’t—I didn’t believe you. When the cops arrested you. But when he was gone this morning, I went through his office. I found the proof. I confronted him about it, and he—he—I can’t. I called—I called—I don’t know—they’re arresting them both. I don’t know what to do.”

  Holy shit.

  A man says, “You’re going to need to hang up that phone, son.”

  “Please come, Rob. I know I don’t deserve it. But please—”

  The line goes dead.

  Mom is staring at me, her hands over her mouth. Her fingers are trembling. She must have heard most of what he said.

  “It’ll be okay,” I say, though I have no idea whether that’s true. “It’ll be okay.” My heart is rocketing along so fast that I’m almost dizzy.

  Please come. I know I don’t deserve it.

  My keys are still in my pocket. I thread my fingers through the loop and stand up.

  Mom catches my arm. “What are you doing?”

  I’m doing what Connor should have done last February. I give Mom’s hand a squeeze and then pull free. “I’m going over there.”

  Half a dozen cop cars line the Tunstall driveway, along with a few unmarked vehicles that I know from experience are probably FBI. All the lights in the house are on.

  I don’t have to go far to find Connor. He’s sitting on the front step, wearing an unzipped parka, his arms wrapped around his midsection.

  He barely looks up when I approach.

  “I’m so stupid,” he s
ays. His voice is rough and dull. A shaky hand pushes the hair back from his face.

  He’s either shivering from cold or shock or both. I reach out and give the lapel of his jacket a tug. “Zip up,” I say, like he’s five years old. “How long have you been sitting out here?”

  He doesn’t obey. “Since they started searching the house.”

  I sit down next to him. I don’t know what to say, but he doesn’t seem to mind. We sit in silence, until his breathing slows.

  Eventually he shivers, and I punch him in the arm. “Zip up your coat, you idiot.”

  He sniffs and does it.

  “I didn’t know,” he says. “I realize how stupid that sounds now, but I know you get it.”

  “Yeah. I get it.”

  “I should have known.”

  “So should I.” I shrug. “Hell, I was working for my dad, and I didn’t know.”

  He lifts a shaking hand to his face, and I realize he’s crying.

  I don’t say anything. I get that, too.

  A tight band has a grip on my chest. I don’t know what this is going to mean for my mother.

  “I thought he was going to kill me,” says Connor.

  He drops this statement without any preamble, and my head whips around. “What?”

  “I thought he was going to kill me.” Another sniff. “My father. I found—I found his files. I don’t know what I was going to do with them, but he started—he started fighting me for them, and then he was choking me, and Mom was fighting to get him off me …” He presses his hands to his eyes.

  I hate his father.

  “What’s going to happen?” I say softly.

  The question seems to stabilize him. “They called my aunt. Mom’s sister. She’s flying in from Portland.”

  That’s not quite what I meant, but he doesn’t have the answers I need anyway.

  I shift my weight, and Connor looks up in alarm.

  “I’m not leaving,” I say.

  The panic bleeds out of his eyes. “Thanks.”