by Kris Ripper
She wanted to touch his hair. The thought invaded, twisted, sinking into her guts.
Praise for Anthony Grace. Anthony. With his wild Jesus locks and his mischievous eyes that were always a little sharper than Lisa expected them to be. Anthony was love, love was Anthony, but Anthony (like God) was always watching.
What was she doing standing here drinking coffee? They could be back any minute. All those people, filling the spaces, their voices far too loud.
Lisa, hands shaking, set the mug back on the counter and turned to get out her bread.
Six sandwiches. Three bananas taken from a six-banana bunch. Would they mind? No. Singer had offered her food. What else? No secondary jar of peanut butter, but she did find a crummy old can opener. If she brought beans to the bedroom, she’d also need a spoon. Eating them cold didn’t sound terrible, but it didn’t sound good. And what would she do with the liquid? She could rinse them in the bathroom, but that was almost as tricky as coming out to the kitchen to do it.
“There’s leftover soup and cupcakes in the fridge.”
It took a full minute for Lisa to realize the woman was talking to her. She turned just enough to look up. “What?”
“Leftovers. Soup, cupcakes, maybe lasagna. If there’s lasagna, you should have some. Cathy picked it up from Genova’s.” The woman crossed the room, never coming too close, and checked in the refrigerator. “God, Lisa, let me reheat this for you. It’ll only take a minute. Do you eat meat?”
Lasagna? Lisa’s mouth watered. “Yes.”
“I’m cutting you some. Give me like two minutes in the microwave. You keep doing what you’re doing.”
She hadn’t even thought about how she might look to them, with her twelve slices of bread, her production line of peanut butter and jelly. Lisa hastily wrapped everything up and took it back to the bedroom, adding two apples at the last minute. Apples weren’t her favorite food, but they were better than nothing.
She contemplated hiding. But the microwave went off and drew her back to the kitchen (after a check out the window; still no one in sight).
And the smell. The melted cheese, the sauce, the meat.
“Here. Try it. If you don’t want it, Emery will eat it. Won’t you, Em?”
“It’s not Mrs. Murphy’s, but it’s good.”
“Here, here. No lasagna can be as good as Mrs. Murphy’s. I think because she poured all of her passion and suffering into making it.” The plate, too, was placed on the counter.
Lisa wished she remembered the woman’s name. “Thank you.”
“No problem. You want anything to drink? Heavy cream, maybe?”
“Alice, quit it.” Emery sighed. “I love how you’ll gut anyone who polices your body, but you feel free to police everyone else’s.”
“What? Listen, not everyone can be as healthily round as myself, but I’m saying I can see bones.”
“Excuse Alice. She has no manners.”
“I have tons of manners.”
Alice was the woman’s name. And Emery’s dimples drew Lisa’s attention like headlights on a dark night. She focused on her lasagna.
Anthony never had to warn them about lust for other men, because the women all tried to outdo one another’s devotion to him. There had been no question that they all wanted him. At least, almost all. She fought a sudden memory of Abigail’s eyes, imploring her to please take her place, and please, please, don’t tell anyone. Anthony had never seemed to notice who arrived, and maybe she should have made more of that at the time. Were they all interchangeable to him?
Stop it. Eat your lasagna and stop thinking about him.
The reheating was spotty, still cold in some places, fiery hot in others. It didn’t matter. Lisa devoured the lasagna, mixing the flavors in her mouth, trying to chew it until it had no structure so she could better taste it. They’d had good, clean food at the farm, but they hadn’t had anything indulgent.
This lasagna, with its stringy melted cheeses, its intensely delicious tomato sauce, was indulgent. No one needed to eat like this, but oh god, Lisa couldn’t stop herself. No flickers, no numbness; food this heavy tied her to the world.
In the background Emery and Alice continued to argue about Emery’s job, their voices a pleasant static soundtrack.
As Lisa was scraping the last of the cheese off her plate she heard a low bell sound.
“And that’s Care. Fair warning, Lisa, the hikers are returning.”
That was to her address. Oh, right. The hikers. The people. Singer’s people.
She moved to wash the plate, but the woman, Alice, waved her off.
“Oh, let me. I’m the one shoving food at you. I guess you aren’t coming out for fireworks tonight?”
“Fireworks?”
“Fourth of July.” When Lisa shook her head, Alice laughed. “Yeah, didn’t think so. Singer and Jake and Miles are supposed to pick us up at seven, so you’ll have the place to yourself for a while, at least.”
She could shower. She might even be able to shower without thinking someone had been in her room while she was gone. But how could this strange woman know she was desperate to be alone? Telepathy wasn’t real, was it?
Lisa, suddenly overwhelmed, mumbled, “Thanks again,” and got back to her room before the front door opened.
Her heart didn’t stop pounding until the side table was once more pushed up against the door and the blinds were pulled all the way down and tightened until almost no light got through.
The bed looked safe, like the absolute only place in the world she could be. She tumbled into it, a little too warm in her hoodie after the lasagna, and curled into a ball.
No snakes. No ropes. No niggling feelings she couldn’t explain. It felt good to be full. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt sated, and she wanted to keep the feeling as long as she could, wrapping her arms around her legs like she could hold it inside.
6
Singer
8 days with Miles
Miles’s mom did not show up for the visit. His grandmother did, instead.
“You don’t have to go through with it.” Brandi’s forehead was creased in irritation, aging her at least five years. “I should have known Mom wasn’t gonna show. She does this every time. Anyway, you only have to have visits with Mom, not Grandma.”
“But his grandmother is here?” Singer looked at Jake, who was batting Miles’s hand away from his nose.
“Yes, but like I said, you only have to let him visit with Mom, since that was our agreement.” She glanced at her watch. “I need the room in twenty minutes, so…”
Jake just slightly raised his eyebrows. They had driven all the way to Richmond. And Miles looked cute and not covered in food yet.
“Miles can see his grandmother,” Singer said. Jake’s smile was all he needed to know they agreed.
“Well, then.” Brandi didn’t exactly flip her hair, but Singer felt it was implied. “Follow me.”
They waited, standing in the small room (two-seater sofa, upholstered in some kind of plastic; cheap round table; three mismatched chairs).
“I’m nervous.” Jake shifted Miles to his other arm.
“I’m sweating through my clothes. You can’t smell me, can you?”
“No, Singer—”
Brandi reentered, followed by a short, slightly stooped woman with skin every bit as dark as Miles’s. Singer had expected an old woman, but Marie couldn’t have been older than midforties. Younger than either his or Jake’s parents.
“Jake, Singer, this is Marie, Miles’s grandmother. Marie, Jake and Singer. I need the room back in fifteen minutes.” Without waiting to see how the introduction went over, or to acknowledge the enormity of it (“This is half of your potential son’s biological family”), she was gone.
“Good to meet you,” Jake said awkwardly, trying to hold o
ut a hand. At that moment Miles dove, and Jake pulled back to catch him right as Marie was reaching out.
Singer winced.
“Sorry,” Jake murmured.
“Give that baby to me. You come see your nana, boy.” She made an air sound with her teeth. “Which one are you?”
“I’m Jake. This is Singer.” They’d agreed, before they ever started the process, to never refer to each other with any of those dreadful nonspecific terms people used: lover, partner, significant other. Even though they could choose to get married now, those words still felt like cheap imitations of “husband.”
“Huh.” Which was all the response they got. Miles began to whimper, and Marie shushed him, turning away, bouncing him and speaking quietly. She went to the small sofa and took a seat, turning him so he faced her.
Singer thought he could see stiffness in the way she moved, but he might simply have seen what he expected to see. And they could hardly ask, So, exactly how debilitated are you? How likely is it you’ll spontaneously recover and want Miles back?
It felt wrong to be standing there. Intrusive. Unwelcome. Singer frowned, and Jake offered the barest hint of a shrug. What else could they do? Miles put his head down on his grandmother’s shoulder and sighed, as if he was smelling her, soothed by her.
He had never put his head down on Singer’s shoulder like that, but it had only been eight days. It wouldn’t even be healthy attachment if he felt that comforted yet. He’d known his grandmother his entire life. Could he really smell her? Probably. They—someone scientific, Singer forgot who—said scent was the strongest human sense, and the one most tied in to memory.
“His mama’s a real chatterbox.” Marie’s hand rubbed up and down his back, occasionally pausing to pull his onesie straight again. “Last time she came for him she never stopped talking. Probably hurt his ears, listening to her go on and on like that.”
“He’s been, uh, trying to crawl, some,” Jake offered.
“I know that,” Marie snapped. Her jaw tightened, and when she spoke again, she was clearly making an effort to control her tone. “She never wanted to put him down, either. I told her he needed to strengthen his muscles, but did she listen? Huh. Does she ever?”
The last question was directed down at Miles, who now watched his grandmother’s face with intensity, one hand waving around, the other winding in her sweater.
Jake swallowed and tried again. “My mom—she’s an ER nurse—says he’s right on target. She said most people pressure babies into crawling and walking too soon, anyway.”
“Hm.” Marie’s tone was tense and tight. “So you two trying to take him for good?”
“We’d like to adopt him.” Jake shot Singer a look. Before Miles, it had all been Singer’s area: he’d filled out the forms, made the phone calls, set the appointments. But now he was tongue-tied, vocal cords paralyzed.
“He has family. You’re not his family.” She bent her head, pressing her face against Miles, eyes shut hard.
To see your grandchild, your blood, and know you couldn’t keep him—it must be like someone giving you visitation for a limb, how unnatural. Like you weren’t whole without it.
Singer bit down on his lip and Jake moved closer, their hands brushing, neither saying a word.
Brandi showed up in the doorway a few minutes later, sticking her head in.
“Almost ready to wrap it up?”
“I want to take my grandson home.” Marie looked up at Brandi with her face set once again in an angry, desperate glare.
Neither of them moved, but Singer could feel his heart start racing like the one and only time he’d tried ecstasy and the world tumbled over and over again until it was unrecognizable, all the edges blurred, all the colors too loud.
“Marie, we’ve been over this. I can’t place him with you again. It’s not gonna happen.”
“My health is improving.”
“We tried, Marie, but it’s too much for your back. Between the bed rest and the meds, you know you can’t be hauling him around all over the place. And look at this boy, he’s only getting bigger, aren’t you, Miles?”
“We could try it again,” Marie said, and the urgency in her voice turned Singer cold. What did he think? That they’d adopt a kid whose family waved cheerfully as they drove away?
“This visit is over. You have Regina contact me, Marie. You know I’m supposed to make sure she’s here when she says she’ll be here.” Brandi glanced at her ever-present watch. “Miles is going home with Jake and Singer. He’s safe with them.”
“They’re not his family.” Marie held Miles a little tighter.
“I know.” Brandi’s voice softened, and she came into the room, standing right inside the door. “I know you wish you could take him, and god knows I wish I could place him with you, but this is what we got, Marie. Let Miles go home. Then you get his mom to call me to set up the next visit, okay?”
“None of this is okay. It can’t be right, taking a baby from his family, giving him to strangers.” She kissed Miles, and her tears fell on his head. “You be good, boy, you hear me? You listen to your nana and be a good boy.”
Jake stepped forward, like a pale ogre, stealing away Miles from his grandmother’s arms, and they followed Brandi back out of the maze of rooms and cubicles.
“You won’t need to deal with her once the adoption is finalized,” Brandi assured them in an undertone as they reached the door. “I’m sure she won’t try to get visitation. Regina wants Miles to go to a good, stable home. Marie knows she can’t provide that for him, she’s just having trouble accepting it.”
God, it was all so casual. And what did I’m sure she won’t try to get visitation mean?
“Sorry about how hectic it was today.” She opened the door and called, “I’ll be in touch.”
And then, just like that, the visit was over.
“I’m gonna cry,” Jake murmured. “That was awful.”
“Do you get the feeling what she tells us and what she tells Marie are very different things?”
“He’s falling asleep. Maybe he’ll sleep in the car.” Jake looked over, troubled. “Singer … are we doing the right thing?”
Singer unlocked the doors and didn’t answer right away, stowing the diaper bag while Jake plugged Miles into his seat. But the extra time to think didn’t help much. Was there even a “right thing” here? Maybe Marie couldn’t take care of Miles by herself, but was this the best the system could do? Take him away? Hand him over to two white men with money, who could send him to the best schools and love him like their own, but who could never replace his grandmother? You won’t have to deal with her after the adoption. How many children disappeared into wonderful homes after assurances just like that one? If this was the “right thing” to do, Singer only knew it made him feel ill.
“That was awful,” he finally agreed. “It must get better from here. Right?”
“God, I hope so. We need coffee.”
“We really do. Drive-through?”
“Add shots all around.”
Singer put the car in gear and pointed them in the direction of caffeine and clear-headedness, trying to forget the way Marie’s voice broke when she said, You aren’t his family. What if they never were? Or worse, what if Jake and Miles became a family, and he was forever on the outside, looking in?
7
Frankie
40 days until coming clean
Frankie had lived in the guesthouse out back for almost two years. She’d seen Jake and Singer in every permutation of their relationship, from harmony to what passed for a raging fight. Singer went dark when he was upset; Jake removed himself before he could say things he didn’t mean. She thought she’d seen every flavor of their occasional angst, but this was new.
In the past it was usually Jake who went off the deep end and had to be reeled back in. But this time
? This time Singer was the one she watched, waiting for him to do or say something that would clarify what the fuck was happening. Because something was up, and even though she couldn’t point to any specifics, she could feel it.
Aunt Cathy had dropped off more cupcakes, Alice had brought over more lasagna—which Frankie was currently availing herself of—and Carey and Jake were now sitting with Miles on the floor, where he was delighting in an avocado. He seemed under the impression that avocado was an artistic medium instead of a food, and Frankie didn’t like kids much, but Miles squeezing avocado between his fingers was pretty hilarious.
Singer wasn’t laughing. He was washing dishes. When he was done with the stuff in the sink, he went to the refrigerator and found a few more dishes he could clean, scraping old leftovers into the trash.
Yeah, no, this wasn’t even gonna fly. Frankie finished off her lasagna and dutifully carried her plate to the sink.
He reached for it. “I’ll get that.”
She held it a little too far away. “Not until you tell me what the fuck is wrong with you right now.”
“What are you talking about? Nothing’s wrong.” He stretched farther and took the plate out of her hand.
“You’re a fucking bad liar, Singer.”
“I’m not lying.”
She backed against the counter so she could shamelessly stare at his face, waiting for some hint. He avoided looking at her, but he was out of dishes again. Laughter erupted from the avocado section of the kitchen, and Singer’s jaw tightened.
What the hell? For real.
She nudged him and kept her voice low. “Something’s up with you. I can always tell.”
“Nothing is up with me. Are you especially bored for some reason?” Now he looked over. “How’s the new apartment?”
“Well, it’s not boring. It’s a fucking nightmare. Every second I spend there fills me with rage. My roommates are meatheads, and I’m pretty sure they only accepted my application to move in because they thought they’d score with me.” Her body tensed in anticipatory disgust, but she thought she hid it all right. “Anyway, my shoddy living situation aside, is there anything I can do to help?”