The Secrets We Keep

by Nikki Lee Taylor

  When my phone lights up with a call from school my heart, flip-flops in my chest. “This is Madelyn-May. Is everything alright? Is one of the twins hurt?”

  The school principal reassures me they are fine, but asks if I come and pick up Harlow. Bastian is not answering, and my daughter has been suspended for fighting on school grounds.

  “Could you repeat that?” I say. “Did you say ‘fighting’?”

  According to the teacher on playground duty, one moment Harlow was sitting on the seats by the school’s community garden, and the next she had classmate Lola Rifkin down on the ground, and was “wailing on her with both fists, in a sight that was quite disturbing, to say the least.”

  I try Bastian’s cell phone. When he doesn’t pick up, I call his office. “I’m looking for my husband,” I tell his receptionist who answers. “Is he there?”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs Marozzi, he stepped out for a lunch meeting with one of the editors. Is there anything I can help you with?”

  I glance at my watch. 12.45pm. Harlow’s fight must have happened on her lunch break. “No, it’s fine. Have him call me when he gets back.”

  Untangling the jumble of questions, and trying to figure out what I’m going to say to my daughter, is no easy feat. What do you say to a twelve-year-old girl who carries a Prada school bag and beats on her friends?

  “Mrs Marozzi, thank you for coming in,” Principal Laura Waters says when I sit down. “I appreciate your time. I know you must be very busy.”

  Before I can respond, the door opens, and a teacher I am not familiar with escorts Harlow into the seat beside me. There are grass stains on her sleeve, and one of her braids has come undone. I immediately want to scold her, but can see in her eyes she is struggling to keep it together.

  “As you know, Mrs Marozzi, Harlow was involved in an incident at lunchtime that included physical contact with another student,” the principal says. “I don’t need to tell you that we have a strict policy around physical contact that results in instant suspension. So, while we understand your family is a friend of the school, and we greatly appreciate your ongoing support, our policy requires Harlow be suspended as an consequence of what she did today.”

  Instead of scolding my daughter, I instantly scold myself for wondering how Bastian and I are supposed to go to work with a suspended twelve-year-old at home.

  Next to me, Harlow mumbles something I can’t quite understand, and I snap back into the room. “What’s that, sweetheart?”

  “I said, she started it, and don’t call me that. You hate me, and you think Dad is—”

  “Harlow,” I cut in, “don’t be silly. I don’t hate you.” But it’s too late. The principal and the teacher have already exchanged glances, and now they’re both staring at me.

  “Harlow, why would you think your mom hates you?” Principal Laura asks. “I’m sure she loves you very much.”

  “Because she won’t let me have Instagram. No Snapchat or TikTok either. And the shit she writes makes other kids hassle me.”

  “You see,” I say to the principal. “It’s nothing more than typical antics. And we’ll address the language when we get home.”

  “And last night she burst into my bedroom and accused my Dad of touching my—”

  “Harlow!” I gasp.

  “Well you did….”

  Principal Laura and the teacher exchange another glance, and I want to disappear beneath the desk. “That’s… That was a misunderstanding.”

  “Mrs Marozzi, I didn’t introduce our school counselor earlier. This is Heather Jenkins.”

  “Mrs Marozzi,” the counselor says, “I’ve been noticing for some time that your daughter seems… troubled.”

  She has mousy brown hair cut into a bob that falls over her eyes in a way that is annoying, to say the least. “You think my daughter is troubled?”

  “She has been exhibiting what we call ‘signature warning signs’. At times, she is withdrawn, and not a moment later she verbally lashes out at other students. Her grades are suffering, and her friendships are strained – as we witnessed today.” She takes a moment, and then adds, “If there is an issue in the relationship with her father, then perhaps—”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She ignores me, and redirects her attention to Harlow. “If there’s something you need to share about your dad, this is a safe space. We’re here to listen, and your mom will believe you. Isn’t that right, Mrs Marozzi?”

  In one sweeping motion I pick up my bag and get to my feet. “Come on, Harlow, we’re leaving.”

  “Mrs Marozzi, I think it’s best if we let Harlow tell us what’s on her mind,” Principal Laura says in a well-rehearsed, calming tone. “I understand you have a great deal of parenting experience, which women the world over read on your blog, but I would appreciate it if you could take a seat and give your daughter that opportunity.”

  “Fine. Harlow, go ahead and tell the principal and your counselor what’s troubling you.”

  But in true Harlow fashion, she just shrugs and tips back in her chair. “Like you care….”

  The metallic tang of blood drips onto my tongue as I bite my lip in an effort not to shout at her. “Harlow, sweetheart, your principal and therapist are concerned you might be troubled, so if there’s something bothering you here at school or at home, now is the time to tell us about it.”

  They exchange another glance, and I force myself to envision a beach somewhere, water lapping gently against the sand.

  “Harlow is there anything you want to tell us about your dad that makes you uncomfortable?” the counselor pushes. “This is a safe space.”

  I look at my daughter, willing her to tell them what a good man Bastian is, that he would never do something like that.

  “No,” Harlow says eventually, “my dad is fine. It’s her.”

  “And what is it about your mom that’s making you upset?” the curtain of hair asks.

  I want to roar that it’s all about my refusal to buy her a leopard-print bikini to wear on Instagram, but instead I keep quiet, and bite even harder on my lip.

  “I told you already,” Harlow says. “She makes me look stupid, and my friends make fun of me. All their moms think her blog is a load of shit. Everyone knows my dad is the one who takes care of us.”

  “And your dad, has he ever touched you—”

  “No, gross.”

  I sigh, and get to my feet. “Like I said, this is all just normal rebellious behavior. I’ll talk to her about what she did today, but for now I’m taking her home.”

  “Well, it’s not quite that simple,” Principal Laura tells me. “There’s still the matter of her physical contact breach.”

  “Look, you got me, alright? Things aren’t perfect at home. My husband and I have been arguing more than we should, and that’s on us, but don’t punish her for that. Harlow is a good girl, and sometimes even good kids act out. I believe my daughter when she says the other girl’s moms say derogatory things about me and my business, I mean… have you met some of these women?”

  “Mrs Morozzi, that’s all well and good, but we believe in our policies here at school, and Harlow will have to be suspended.”

  I lean in, and look at them, one to the other, and right in the eye. “Well, since this is such a safe space, let me open up to you both about what’s troubling me. I believe what took place in this room, the way you tried to push my daughter into saying her father touches her inappropriately, is a disgrace. The only reason I didn’t interject is because I wanted you to hear her say, in no uncertain terms, that it’s not true. My daughter might be spoiled, and I’ll take that on the chin, but she’s a good girl, who gets good grades, and loves her father. She was upset today, because last night I had a verbal argument with my husband that got out of hand, and there’s every chance it upset her. Now, I apologize for that, and I will talk to my daughter, we both will, but you will not punish her with something as severe as suspension for acting out because of my mistakes. Am I
making myself clear?”

  “Mrs Marozzi, I’m sorry, but rules are rules.”

  “Then my rule is that I no longer contribute to this school’s annual fundraising,” I tell her. “Perhaps I’ll pledge my support to an animal charity, or donate it to the public school system. The options are endless. So, if that’s all, I’ll have my lawyers draw up the paperwork to cease my ongoing financial commitment. Harlow, get your bag – we’re leaving.”

  Principal Laura stands up from her seat, her fingers splayed out across the desk. “Okay, let’s call this a warning, and I trust both you and Mr Marozzi will speak to your daughter to ensure this never happens again.”

  “Wise decision, Principal. And if either of you ever speak about my husband that way again, my lawyers will be drawing up more than financial documents. I trust we understand each other?”

  When we walk out to the car, Harlow surprises me by climbing into the front. Any other time she barricades herself in the back, her headphones silencing any chance of a conversation.

  “OMG, that was incredible!” she gushes the minute we close the door. “You owned them back there.”

  “I did, huh?”

  “They’re such bitches.”

  “Hey, no cursing,” I tell her. “And by the way, you’re not off the hook yet. We still need to talk about this with Dad, tonight. What you did today is not okay, you get that, right?”

  “Yeah, I know. Sorry, Mom,” she whispers. “For all of it, yesterday too. But you know Dad would never do that, you know… what you thought last night in my room.”

  “Oh Harlow, I know,” I gush. “Of course he wouldn’t, and I’m sorry for what I said. When I was your age, something bad like that happened to a friend of mine, and I got carried away. It’s not an excuse for what I did, but I want to make sure you’re always safe – and you are safe with Dad. You always are. I was being stupid.”

  “I know, Mom.”

  We share a smile, and my heart swells. “How about we go home and watch a movie, maybe make some popcorn?”

  “Can we make brownies?”

  “Sure, but you might have to take the lead on that one.”

  She smiles, and for the first time I dare to hope we might finally begin to bridge the divide.

  A message alert sounds on her phone, and she reaches into her blazer pocket.

  “Is that Dad?” I ask. “They tried calling him earlier to come get you.”

  As I wait for her to respond, my phone rings, and seeing that it’s Bastian, I let my question go and answer the call.answer.

  “What the hell is going on?” he demands, the moment I pick up.

  “Nothing, it’s fine. Harlow got into a fight at school, but it’s over now. They tried calling you. I did too. Who were you meeting with?”

  “What?”

  “Val on the desk said you were in a meeting with one of the editors.”

  “Oh… just a freelancer. You’re sure everything’s okay with Harlow?”

  “We’re heading back to the house to have a girl’s afternoon. We’ll talk when you get home.”

  “Is she suspended?”

  “No, I took care of it. Didn’t she just text you back?”

  “Harlow? No.”

  I glance over at my daughter. She’s finished typing, and slips the phone back into her pocket, turns and stares innocently out the window.

  Chapter Thirty

  Madelyn-May, 1997

  Mary was the first person I ever felt like I could trust. The relationship was short, lasting only a few hours, and yet she changed my life forever.

  After I cleaned myself up in her bathroom, she asked me to stay, but I refused. She was lovely, the kind of woman I wished my mother could have been, but it wasn’t safe to stay so close to the trailer park. Instead, I thanked her, and asked for a ride to the Greyhound terminal at Santa Rosa. When she asked where I would go, I told her truthfully that I had no idea. The east coast, far from California, was where I wanted to be, but exactly where was still an unknown. Thankfully, Mary had been kind enough to call a friend in Philadelphia, a woman she had known since college, who would give me a place to stay until I got on my feet.

  Seven hours and thirteen minutes after the fire tore through our trailer, the bus to Philly pulled out of the station at Santa Rosa carrying me and my sins across country. True to her word, when I arrived three days later, tired and more than a little disheveled, Margery’s friend was at the station to meet me.

  Anna was a sturdy woman with a generous smile. She wore a bright blue dress, and when she stepped forward to greet me it was with open arms and the warmth of an old friend. Just like Mary, Anna had an affinity for finding things that were lost, and when she took me to her home, I realized I was not the first wayward teen to take shelter beneath her roof.

  To anyone else, the tumbling brownstone in Fairhill might not have felt like home sweet home, but to me it was everything. My bedroom was pink and flowery, and the bright yellow kitchen felt like sunshine. The fridge was full, the rooms smelled like vanilla, and warm morning light shone in through the windows. Outside, festive murals brightened buildings that had seen better days, and I loved the way people congregated on their front stoops, sharing food and laughing out loud. I had never lived in a suburb with store fronts and homes and streets so long that they melted into the horizon. I’d only ever lived in the trailer, so Anna’s narrow brownstone was the first place that ever felt like solid ground.

  Over the years, other girls came and went. They fought with Anna, and sometimes tried to steal from her. They lit glass pipes that smelled strange, and scratched at things that weren’t there. I didn’t like any of them, and for the most part I kept to myself. The only issue Anna and I ever had happened six weeks after I arrived.

  When I missed my period and took a pregnancy test from the pharmacy, I discovered that, just like Melody, I too had fallen pregnant. Terrified Anna would kick me out, I searched online for the nearest clinic willing to perform a termination on a minor without parental consent. When I’d crossed off almost every option on my list, I finally found a nurse who agreed to perform the procedure at her home for $150.

  She lived two blocks away, and after moving a stack of books and lying out a sheet of plastic, the woman ordered me to climb up onto her kitchen table. Three minutes later, I passed out from the pain. The only thing I remember is waking up to see Anna’s face looking down on me, and the feeling of being lifted. I found out that the nurse had discovered Anna’s emergency contact in my purse, and called her to come and get me. Anna carried me the two blocks home in her arms. She also called a doctor who examined me, and immediately called an ambulance. It was the only time Anna ever spoke crossly to me. She also used words like trust and faith and other things I didn’t understand. She told me I could count on her, and that I was safe. I stayed with Anna until I was twenty. Then, just one day after my birthday, a massive stroke stole her away.

  When Anna died, I took the money I saved working at the local supermarket and rented a room in a share house in North Philly. I kept to myself, and attended classes at the local night school. I learned to use computers, and how to keep records, and soon enough I got a job working as a secretary at an accounting firm in the city. Mario Marozzi was a smart accountant, known for his fairness, and for giving the downtrodden a hand up through small, no-interest loans. As fortune would have it, Bastion took after his father when it came to taking chances on people, and on his third unnecessary visit to the office, he asked me out to dinner. Three months later, we were married.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Lacy

  Beyond the dirty curtains of the hotel room stretches a vast sea of grey concrete, a few scattered dumpster bins, and the shape of a Wawa convenience store to break the horizon. But it won’t be long now. Soon we will have ourselves a mighty fine view, one that is a damn sight better than this.

  I move away from the window, and balance myself on the edge of the bed. The map I brought is so worn that t
he folds are starting to fray, but it doesn’t matter. I know the route we need to take by heart. Maryland, Virginia, Alabama, Louisiana, Texas, over the border, and then south into Mexico.

  When I was a girl, I dreamed of being a movie star, of seeing my name up on the big screen. In those days I imagined travelling in style. Private jets, limousines, and an entourage catering to my every whim. I was going places. Going to be somebody. Somebody who mattered.

  All those years stuck in that God-forsaken trailer, I always figured somehow, someway, I would eventually make it out. I never gave up. I fooled myself there was still time to make my dreams come true. But that all went up in flames the night of the fire, when those girls left me there to die alongside that piece of shit. If only they knew that I’d been dragged out of purgatory and into a whole new kind of hell.

  The fire left me with fourth degree burns to the lower half of my body, which was traumatic enough, but worse was the infection. Despite the hospital’s best attempts to treat my legs with antibiotics, sepsis took hold in the left, and eventually they had no choice but to amputate. You could say I was lucky – I escaped any severe injury to my upper body and face, but I can’t say luck comes to mind when I look at that stump.

  It had taken me a while to come to after my daughter tried to bash my skull in, and by then fire had spread from the bedrooms out across the floor of the trailer. It was the smell of my own flesh burning that pulled me back to consciousness; when I looked down my legs were already on fire. I screamed, and screamed. Flames engulfed the doorway, and my only option was to try and pull myself up off the floor. The curtains over the sink were already ablaze, so I had to use the kitchen table. Despite the pain, I climbed to the center of the table, and was forced to watch as flames quickly licked their way up the wooden legs toward me. It was Salem, and those girls had sentenced me to burn at the stake.