by Kris Ripper
Dad was in the house. Lisa wasn’t. And he had an indeterminate date with Jake to talk.
And he’d called Miles their son without even trying, without thinking about it, without calculating his risk. Singer turned into the spray and stood there until he could face his parents without flinching.
I have a son.
40
Viv
44 days until starting over
Viv retreated to the soothing comfort of Neiman Marcus and wandered its wide aisles aimlessly.
She wasn’t ready to see Drew. Oh, she looked forward to his presence. If anyone could speak to Singer, it would be Drew, who shared his detachment, his ability to simply remain indifferent to anything that made him uncomfortable.
But in another sense, she wasn’t prepared to greet Drew after all these weeks. There were gaps between them, spaces where they no longer met in the middle. It didn’t make any sense. Her expectations hadn’t changed. Drew was a creature of habit; he could no more alter his understanding of their life than he could his hairline.
Neiman Marcus always smelled the same. She passed the cosmetics counter, with its lights and mirrors and smiling young women. Viv had loved watching her mother get ready in the morning, using her brushes and pencils, sure hands applying layers, smoothing out any imperfections she could see in her round mirror. “The trick is not to use too much,” she’d said, words of wisdom Viv had passed down to Lisa standing right here in Neiman Marcus, letting a salesgirl show them the right shades for Lisa’s skin.
Lisa, smiling, vivacious, ready for anything.
“Can I help you?”
Viv blinked away memory. “No. Thank you. I’m just looking around.”
“That’s fine. Let me know if you need anything.”
“I will.”
She kept moving through the different departments, each of them exactly where she expected them to be, comforting in their predictability. Purses, shoes, then upstairs, through the clothes marketed directly to Viv and her contemporaries.
Of course none of them were the same as those days when she’d come here with Lisa, but in a sense all of it was the same. The same faceless mannequins and tasteful displays. The same draw at the edges of her interest—this particular shade of turquoise, the cut of that blouse. She pulled out a hanger here or there to better see a skirt, a sweater, and each of them made sense to her. Yes, she could imagine wearing this on a crisp day when the weather began to feel more like winter than autumn. She could imagine how she’d feel in it, the way it would fit her mood, how she’d stand.
She put each piece back, moving deeper into the store.
How could each item of clothing change so much and yet the store itself look exactly the same? Everything in place, if interchangeable. The tiled walkways coaxed her along the same paths she’d always walked. A detour to look at a vest seemed preplanned, as if somehow no deviation was truly out of place.
Viv ended up in the powder room on the second level. She sank down on the padded bench and settled her purse beside her. Small and contained, the powder room was slightly separated from the restroom. It felt safe.
She’d sat here during one of those shopping trips—for prom, maybe, or grad night. Some event for which Lisa absolutely needed a new dress, though she’d preferred Nordstrom to Neiman Marcus. After trying on the minimum number Viv would accept before going to another store, they’d retired to the powder room.
Lisa had fixed her hair, straightened her clothes, checked her teeth. She must have been seventeen by then. It was the first time Viv had looked at her daughter and seen a grown woman, even as the woman in question kept up a constant monologue about boys and finals and some coach she never stopped talking about that year.
Self-assured and ready to take on the world. That’s how she’d seemed to Viv, watching from behind her. Surely she would have known if that were not the case. There just hadn’t been any signs indicating Lisa was anything other than what she seemed to be.
The door opened, and Viv made a show of looking for something in her purse. She slipped out of the powder room after a careful “discovery” of her phone, which informed her that Drew was now at the house.
Words on a screen. That’s what they were reduced to. Words without tone, without expression. I’m here. Where are you? I don’t think Lisa is here. Why is Singer suddenly going to church?
She felt a twinge of conscience as she made her way back through the store. She would have told Drew about the child, and Jake, if she’d thought they seemed permanent. There hadn’t been a point once they moved out. Now it would look as if she’d intentionally kept him in the dark,
which was hardly fair; if he wanted to be up to date about his children’s lives, he could certainly contact them himself.
Viv located her car and headed home.
41
Singer
75 days and 21 hours with Miles
“You want to lock her up. After she’s just escaped from a fucking cult?” Singer leaned forward on the sofa, fighting a wave of anger.
“Please don’t use that kind of language, Singer.”
“I think it’s appropriate to the sentiment. You can’t lock her up, she’s thirty-four years old.”
“If we had reason to believe she was a danger to herself—”
“A danger to herself? She’s fine. She hangs out in her room, she hangs out with me, how can she possibly be a danger to herself? I’m actually not considered dangerous, unpredictable company. By anyone.”
“You brought that man into our house, Singer!”
“Really?”
“Viv, hold on. Singer, please explain to me about this person your sister’s seeing.”
God, there was no way out of this. I am so sorry, Lisa.
“Emery’s a tattoo artist and a photographer. And a friend of ours.”
“He takes naked pictures of men.”
“And women, to be clear. He also takes pictures of weddings and bar mitzvahs. Not that I see how his profession has anything to do with either of you.”
“We’re worried about her well-being.”
“In that case, Emery has a reliable income, is trustworthy, has a good sense of humor, and is maybe the only person I’ve seen her actually relax around without first getting drunk—ever. So I hope that satisfies your incredibly sudden parental interest in Lisa’s love life.”
And that hit scored, on both of them. It should have felt at least a little bit wrong, hurting his parents, but at the moment Singer just felt validated.
“You can’t lock her up. You’re both completely insane if you think that’s a good idea.”
“It’s not ‘locking her up,’ it’s getting her help. Do you really think she’s adjusting well?” Dad spread his hands. “I know it may be hard to understand, Singer, but we’ve always been invested in your lives—”
“Lisa’s, maybe.”
“Not only Lisa’s,” Dad said, while Mother said, “That’s not fair.”
Singer ran his hand through his hair and stood up, moved away from the sofa, vaguely in search of more coffee. Or something to clean. Or, okay, just to be anywhere that wasn’t right there with them. “Listen, it doesn’t bother me anymore. But you aren’t invested in my life even now. I’m adopting a son, Dad. With Jake. And you’ve been here two hours and you haven’t even asked me about them.”
“You—adopting— Viv?”
So she really hadn’t mentioned it. He thought that made it a little bit better. At least her words hadn’t had Dad’s seal of approval.
“It didn’t seem like it was a permanent situation. They haven’t been here in a month.”
“Two and a half weeks, Mother. And that’s because of you.” Don’t think about Jake right now, don’t think about Jake right now.
“Blame me all you want, Singer, if that’s what it tak
es. If it was something you wanted, you wouldn’t let me stop you. You never have before.”
Oh god. Was that what Jake was thinking?
Singer stopped walking. He should drop everything. He should get in his car and drive to Carey’s and beg. Because it wasn’t that—it definitely wasn’t that he didn’t want Jake, Miles, their family—but Mother had a point. When had he let her or anyone else stop him from doing anything?
“I want to hear about your partner and your son, Singer, but I also want to get your sister settled.”
“In a hospital somewhere? Where would she be more settled than here?” His brain clicked over, and he felt stupidly relieved. He’d deal with Jake. Later. After making sure they couldn’t get to Lisa.
“It’s more of resort.”
“Look.” Mother handed him papers. “I love her. I love both of you. I don’t know why I can’t—why it’s so hard for us to connect—”
He was glad she didn’t say more than that. To hear Mother lament having failed to connect with her children, when all he remembered was her congratulations when things went especially well—grades, games, his high school performances—it was all so ludicrous.
He’d asked Jake once, and Jake said his parents were busy, they’d hardly ever made it to games or anything like that. “But if I needed them to go yell at some dick teacher for something, they were on it.” Singer wouldn’t have ever told his parents about a teacher, dick or not.
“It’s a lot like a resort,” Dad agreed. “But with an emphasis on group and individual therapy.”
“And you’re going to pay for it,” Singer muttered, reading over the very glossy, very colorful brochure, which featured a lot of smiling people involved in activities like volleyball and swimming. “You’ll pay for what I can only imagine is an incredibly expensive retreat, where she’ll be off healing on her own and you’ll never have to see her until she returns, magically better. How long is she supposed to stay at this ‘resort’?”
“I resent the hell out of you talking like that, Singer. Your mother and I—”
“Haven’t seen each other in two months, so don’t even start with me. I’m making some food. You’re welcome to eat some, but please stay out of the kitchen.”
The doors swung shut, and he breathed, deeply, until he could think again. Thank god Lisa wasn’t here. How far would they go? It wasn’t like they could actually kidnap her. Still, she was right out of a cult. She already felt terrible about her judgment; how long could she listen to their parents go on about how good it would be for her before she just folded in self-defense? He sent a quick recap by text, then a second text immediately after when he realized the first was probably alarmist: We’ll take care of it. Don’t worry.
The slider opened, very slowly. Frankie’s head, not the rest of her. She must have snuck around back.
“What the fuck is happening in here?” she whispered. “Christ, it’s goddamn World War III. I could hear it from the porch, so I got scared and decided to come in this way.”
“They want to send Lisa to some private cult rehab in the desert somewhere, with volleyball and group therapy.”
Frankie’s face contorted. “God, she’d fucking hate that. Is she home yet?”
“Not that I know of. She hasn’t called for a ride?”
“Nope. Figured she’d call one of you guys anyway. Maybe Jake’s heard from her.”
Very distant warning bells went off in Singer’s head. He’d assumed that Lisa was at the bookstore. “Is Logan working today?”
Frankie blinked. “Yeah.”
“Can you ask him if Lisa’s there?”
“Well, I could, but he said she left like an hour ago.”
“Ask again. Please.” She could be walking home. Maybe. “Did she have anything with her?”
“Just her backpack, like usual.”
The warning bells were louder now, but Singer couldn’t quite place the origin of his sudden deep concern. “How long does it take to walk here from the store? An hour, right?”
“Nah, more like forty-five minutes, remember when I walked to work all the time? Never more than forty-five minutes, and I could make it faster when I wanted to. Singer? Why are we worried about her? She’s fine. Right?”
He shook his head, slowly, still thinking it through. “I’m sure she is.”
“Yeah, you’re so not convincing. Let me call the store and see if she came back.”
Lisa hadn’t gone back to the store. And Jake hadn’t heard from her, either.
She was probably fine. She was a grown woman. She was also outside the house for what couldn’t be more than the sixth time since she moved in. Damn. He shouldn’t have sent that text.
“I’m calling for backup,” Frankie said.
Backup. Derries to the rescue. Singer put on a pot of water for pasta and started working on sauce. Where the hell would she go? He had literally no idea.
42
Lisa
100 days since leaving Grace
Lisa couldn’t figure out where she was now. Except that her shoes were starting to feel painful, which meant she’d been walking for a while.
She pulled out her phone to check the time, then remembered she’d turned it off to save the battery.
She’d started through the neighborhoods, with the vague notion that there was a back way out, that if she walked these roads long enough they would lead to another road, and that one was dark and wound around a creek and would eventually take her to the Central Valley. Though it was beginning to look like she wouldn’t be able to keep walking without finding a new pair of shoes.
The first surge of terror and betrayal after Singer’s text (sending me back, sending me back, oh god, oh please, I can’t, I must) had eventually bled away to a dull burn of resignation. Mother and Dad weren’t trying to send her back to the farm. They were trying to send her back in time. They wanted to dangle that life in front of her like a dress four sizes too small, force her to put it on again.
She couldn’t. Even if she wanted to, she couldn’t, and it didn’t matter. She wasn’t that girl anymore, no matter what they thought.
So there was only this. The road beneath her feet. She’d walk until she collapsed somewhere. She didn’t care where. At least it was movement, and she was free.
But her feet. Her feet were seriously starting to hurt. She hadn’t thought about her feet.
*
The worst part of walking was how easy it was to get lost in her head, especially as it got darker. She’d forgotten her mind could do these sorts of tricks, lulling her into memory, making it so real she could smell the lingering shampoo of her friends on Anthony’s pillow, feel the slide of sheets over her legs. And then headlights would blind her and she’d remember, no, not there. Both a relief and a loss, a gaping hole where no one would ever touch her like that again. As no one really had before.
Oh, sex, but sex wasn’t the same. You could have sex with a sofa in the shape of a person, a person who didn’t care or know your name, but what Anthony did was like flying, like being the only two people in the world for a little while, and god, Lisa wanted that feeling back. That feeling of being special, of being everything, she’d wanted it so badly she’d let herself believe it was true right up until he gently kissed her and said good night. Which really meant: go away now.
What would it be like to have all that and fall asleep where you fell, wherever you fell? You might touch his hand, rest against his arm, tangle your legs in his.
Lisa felt like moaning with desire, but bit her tongue instead. Desire, of course, was no good. Desire should be fought, they’d said, because you can’t control desire, desire controls you. Desire for food, desire for drink, desire for one person above another person. That was what Anthony did: demonstrate control over his desire. And it allowed every woman at the farm to imagine that he might secretly
desire her most, but he had to rigidly control it so as not to hurt the others. Or himself.
What would it feel like to let desire take over? She shivered with wicked excitement at the thought.
A horn honked, just over her shoulder, and the wind from the car passing nearly pushed her off the road. When did she lose the sidewalk? She didn’t remember. And ow, the way she’d caught herself from falling awoke a few sleeping blisters. Ow, ow, ow.
Well, there was no place to rest now. Keep going. It was very dark here. She must have lost the streetlights with the sidewalk. Very dark, and she could hear cars approach from a distance, sounds echoing off trees and the utter nothing/everything black on the right side of the road. Maybe it was the creek, though she didn’t hear water.
And she was cold. She’d been shivering for a while, but her muscles were starting to lock up. Very cold now. Beyond the tree branches overhead, the night sky was deep, endless blue, so dark it turned purple in places. There might have been stars, but Lisa couldn’t look straight up for long enough to find them without falling.
So damn cold, and so damn tired. She kept walking.
43
Singer
76 days with Miles
The living room was full of people. Most had coffee mugs in hand, the rest had vodka, and a few were mixing the two. Derrie drink of crisis; nearly everyone was related to Jake by blood.
(“Who are all these people?” Singer had heard Dad ask, standing defensively in a corner of the dining room.
“This is what I’ve been saying. How could she recover in this chaos?”
But Dad had only said, “They seem to really like her, Viv.”)
“Stop.” Cathy’s sharp tone cut through the babble.
The assorted masses (his parents no longer among them) stopped.
“Lisa is a healthy young woman at the prime of her physical strength. If she’s outside, she will be cold. She will not die of hypothermia, Frankie, so stop saying that.”