by Susan Wiggs
“Neither,” Caroline said. “I’m illuminating the route from the kids’ room to mine.” She looked over at Addie and Flick, freshly bathed and wearing their jammies. “You want to tell Grammy Dot the reason for this?”
“So we can find her in the night,” said Flick.
Her mother rocked back on her heels. “That seems like a very good idea. I’d hate to lose my daughter in the night.”
That drew a smile from Addie. Caroline took a few moments to show them how to follow the lights from their room, down the hall and to hers. “I’m not saying you should come and find me, but if you really, really need to, then the lights will show you the way.”
“I have a request,” said her mother. “While Caroline is finishing up, I would like to tuck you in. Would that be all right?”
The kids exchanged a glance. Caroline could tell they were drawn to her mother, but still unsure. They had tagged along with her all day as she went about her chores. Now they regarded her with sober, measuring expressions.
“She’s a good tucker-inner,” Caroline said.
“Okay,” Flick said, “we’ll give her a shot.”
Chapter 9
On Sunday night, Caroline had a special treat for the children. “I’m going to read you another one of my oldest and best books,” she announced. “My mom read it aloud to us, one chapter every night, and it became my favorite story. So I’m excited to share it with you.”
She lay down on Addie’s bed and the kids snuggled close. “It’s a story about a boy and his dog,” she said. “A classic.”
“The pictures aren’t in color,” Addie observed.
“You can color them in your mind while I read.” Caroline opened to chapter 1. She didn’t remember the story so much as the feeling of being gathered with her siblings around their mother. Safety and comfort. That was what she wanted to give Addie and Flick. She didn’t know how, and she didn’t even know if it was possible, but snuggling together in the warm glow of a reading lamp seemed like a good place to start.
“‘We called him Old Yeller,’” she read. “‘The name had a sort of double meaning. One part meant that his short hair was a dingy yellow, a color that we called yeller in those days . . .’”
“Somebody scribbled in the book,” Flick said.
“Yeah, that’s weird.” There was a thick black line through a sentence or two, as if the text had been redacted by a censor. “People shouldn’t make marks in books. Anyway, let’s keep going. We won’t miss a few words.”
By the time she got to the end of the chapter, the kids were thoroughly invested in Travis and Yeller, who had to look after Travis’s mom and little brother while their father hit the trail to drive the cattle to market. Flick and Addie begged for more of the story, but she held firm at one chapter per night.
When she tried to tuck them in, Flick was restless, kicking at the covers, staring out the window, worrying the corner of his pillow.
“What’s going on, buddy?” asked Caroline, setting down the book.
“I can’t go to school tomorrow.”
Oh, boy. “We’ve been talking all day about how much fun you’re going to have with your new friends and teachers,” she said.
“I don’t feel good,” he said. “I’m getting sick.”
“I don’t feel good, either,” Addie piped up, patting her stomach.
She felt both their foreheads. “Cool as a cucumber,” she said. “I think maybe you might be feeling nervous about starting school in the morning. You think that could be it?”
“Duh,” Flick said softly.
“We won’t know anybody,” Addie said.
“It’s always a bit scary to start something new,” Caroline said, her own stomach twisting with nerves. “But once you start, you get over the new really quick.”
“Nuh-uh,” Addie objected.
“Fern goes to your school, and you know her.” Caroline’s niece, outgoing and guileless, had instantly embraced the elder cousin role.
“She’s in third grade,” Flick said.
“So will you be one day.”
“Not tomorrow.”
“True. Tomorrow, the teachers are going to make sure you settle right in,” Caroline said. During the trip from New York, she had called ahead to explain the situation to the school principal and faculty. The school staff had sounded reassuring. “I’ve already talked to your teachers,” she reminded them. “They’re excited to meet you.”
“Teachers have to like us,” Flick pointed out. “Kids don’t.”
“Why wouldn’t they like you?” Caroline asked. “You’re awesome.”
“They won’t like us ’cause we’re brown.”
Caroline was taken aback. “What makes you say that?”
“’Cause they’re white.”
“I’m white and I like you,” Caroline said. She didn’t want to be one of those white people who pretended to be color-blind, knowing full well the world didn’t work that way. “And some of the kids at your school are brown, too. And Asian and Latino and maybe even Kreyòl like you and your mama. You’re going to make a lot of new friends. I know it seems hard. It is hard.”
Addie’s lower lip poked out. She grabbed her Wonder Woman doll and made her soar up and over the mound formed by her knees. “I wish I could fly away and never come back.”
“You can’t do that,” Caroline said. “We need you here with us.”
“Then I wish I had a superpower,” she said.
“I think you do,” Caroline pointed out. “Both of you do. You’re super nice and super strong and super smart.”
Flick sniffed. “All parents say that to their kids.”
I’m not your parent.
“I don’t know about that, and I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it. I just know you’re both going to be super in your new school.”
Addie adjusted the doll’s spangled top and carefully straightened the wispy cape. “How? How do you know?”
“I’m smart, too. I know stuff.” She got up and went to the closet. “Tell you what. We can pick out your clothes for tomorrow and lay them out, so you can be super quick in the morning. What would you like to wear?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Flick said glumly. He chose a plain blue T-shirt, slightly worn but clean.
“Good choice,” Caroline said. “Navy is a classic.”
Addie selected a yellow one. “This is my favorite color.”
“Then you should wear it, because it matches your personality—sunny and bright.”
“Mama always got us new clothes for the first day of school.”
Caroline’s heart sank. She hadn’t thought about getting them something new to wear. The list of things she didn’t know about parenting was getting longer by the moment. “Tell you what. I’ll iron your shirts and pants so they look brand-new, okay?”
This did not appear to impress them. Addie yawned and snuggled under the covers with her doll. Caroline tucked her in, then Flick.
“You’re going to do all right,” she said. “Get some rest and I’ll see about blueberry pancakes in the morning.” She gave them each a kiss, a gesture that was, day by day, starting to feel more natural. On her way out, she took the kids’ shirts with her. She stood outside in the hallway, trying to force away the knot of anxiety in her gut. What would it be like for these kids to walk into their classrooms tomorrow, midyear, without seeing a single familiar face? Caroline really did wish she could give them a superpower—confidence to face all the changes in their lives. Maybe . . . She held out the T-shirts, feeling a tingle of inspiration as an idea formed.
Downstairs, her parents were cuddled together on the sofa, binge-watching some violent series or other. Caroline rolled back her shoulders, feeling a crick in her neck. “Kids are exhausting,” she said.
“Gosh, we wouldn’t know,” her mother said.
“Hey, you had five kids by choice.”
“Only because I couldn’t talk her into six,” her father said.
&
nbsp; God.
“I need to sew something,” she said.
“Now?”
“I’m going to repurpose some shirts so the kids have something special to wear to school tomorrow. Is there an old windbreaker I can cut up?”
Her mom got up. “I’m sure we can find whatever you need in the giveaway bin. Let me give you a hand.”
“I don’t want to interrupt your evening—”
“No worries. The zombie apocalypse will wait.” She patted Dad on the shoulder. “Come find me if it gets too scary.”
They went to the spare room off the kitchen. From Caroline’s earliest memory, it had been a repository for their mother’s many unfinished craft projects—printmaking, scrapbooking, crochet, painting on fabric, wood carving. Mom was irrepressibly creative, always starting something or other, but with five kids and the restaurant, she’d been too busy to finish anything.
Caroline had already set up her own sewing machine in the room. It was a prized possession, an industrial workhorse she’d gone into debt to acquire while in design school. Back in New York, she’d had to pay a moving company union wages just to get it from her apartment into Angelique’s car, because the thing weighed a ton. Her father and brother had helped her haul it into the house.
“What are we making?” asked her mother.
“The kids just told me their mom buys them new clothes for the first day of school. So I’m going to make them something to wear tomorrow.”
Mom gave her a hug. “Ah, Caroline. What a nice idea.”
“They’re worried about starting school in a strange new place.”
“Of course they are.” Mom rummaged in a box labeled donations. “What did you have in mind?”
“Something red that’s light and slippery, like a windbreaker or some kind of lining.”
“Will this work?” Mom held up a windbreaker with the Sustainable Seafoods logo—Jackson’s company.
Caroline shook out the thin red ripstop garment. “It’s perfect,” she said.
“Great. Put me to work.”
“Can you stencil a slogan on these shirts?”
“You bet. I can use the kit I got to make personalized workwear for the restaurant. Never finished that project, but I still have all the supplies.”
As Caroline made a pattern and cut out the windbreaker fabric, she felt herself unbending, bit by bit. “This is my happy place,” she said. “When I’m making something. Anything.”
“You’ve always been that way,” said Mom. “Remember Grammy’s old treadle machine? You were about six years old when you learned how to use it.”
“I loved that machine,” Caroline said. “Everybody else was in the kitchen or garden, and I was in here making outfits for the dog.”
“You were on your own path.”
“I suppose. I always got the feeling I was doing something wrong.”
“And I always thought you were the most creative of the lot. Look at you now. A designer from New York.”
“From being the operative word. I can’t go back.”
“You will one day if you want,” Mom said. “You’ll return the conquering hero.”
“Right.” She focused on the task at hand, not wanting to think about her ruined career on top of everything else. Their silence was companionable. She caught her mother studying her. “What?”
“You’re so passionate. It’s inspiring to watch. Did you ever think of creating a sewing workshop, or . . . I’m not sure what you’d call it—an atelier?”
“That sounds a bit grand.” Caroline brought up something she couldn’t stop thinking of. “I heard there’s an outfit down in Astoria that used to make garments for the military. They’re going out of business. A woman I met at Lindy’s said they’re auctioning off machines and fixtures and so forth. The problem is, machines don’t fabricate. People do. I’m only one person. One person with two kids, in fact.” She sighed. “Suddenly my options seem to be very limited.”
“I have a suggestion.”
“You always do.”
“Instead of regarding the children as a hindrance, why not see them as inspiration? Look what we’re making right now.” Mom held up the shirt. “Not bad, eh? Those kids are lucky to have you.”
“Those kids are lost souls.” They were the most innocent of victims, swept up in the hidden turmoil of their mother’s life. “I failed Angelique. When I think of all the ways I could have helped and didn’t, I want to throw up. What if I screw up her kids?”
“Listen, they are not meant to be your redemption, Caroline. Don’t cast them in that role—it’s not fair to Addie and Flick. They’re meant to be children, and they have no other job than that.”
Caroline flinched. “Ouch. And you’re right. I’m just scared I’ll miss the signals with them the way I did with Angelique. I don’t know what they’ve seen or experienced. When I ask, they seem clueless. Flick says he never saw anyone being mean to his mom. And I believe him, because that’s his truth. But what I’ve learned about domestic violence is that the secrecy and the shame are almost universal. The isolation and lack of support. I wish I’d done better by Angelique. I’m afraid I’m not the right person to look after her kids. I lie awake every night trying to figure out the right thing to do. I haven’t slept soundly since the moment they landed with a thud in my life. There are times when I feel sure I can take care of them. That I can keep them safe and happy. Then there are other times when I have no idea what I’m doing, and I’m absolutely certain I’ll ruin those poor kids. And it’s not like ruining a design or a garment or a dinner entrée. These are two human beings. The stakes are too high for me to screw up.” She carefully folded the new shirts. “Maybe I should contact social services. See if there’s a family for them, one that would give them a better life. I mean, there might be a couple somewhere with the right skills. With job security.” Could she do that? Surrender the children to a more qualified family? What would that look like?
Mom studied the neatly folded shirts. “What is your heart telling you?”
Caroline felt defensive even though her mother didn’t seem to be criticizing her. “That I’m falling in love with these kids. But that’s not going to put a roof over their heads or give them a secure future.”
“You don’t need to decide right now,” said her mother. “Give yourself some time.”
Caroline nodded. She needed to stop thinking about it for a bit. “I had a nice visit with Lindy Bloom and a woman named Echo who works at her shop. Did you know they’re both domestic violence survivors?”
“Surv—what? Lindy?”
“I was shocked, too. Apparently she suffered for years and no one knew.”
“Good lord. Quentin Bloom?”
“Is that his name—Quentin? I never knew. Always thought of him as Mr. Bloom. That’s what Lindy called him, too—Mr. Bloom.”
“Goodness. I did business at his bank for decades. I’d heard they split up, and he left the peninsula, but . . . Good lord,” she said again.
“I’m learning that this syndrome is rampant. It crosses all boundaries—the fine upstanding banker and the trashy guy Echo was with. I need to learn more. Help more. I need a lot of things. I wish I could reach out to women who have been where Angelique was. Listen to them. Learn from them.”
“Maybe you can. See if there’s a local group.”
“There’s not. At least, none that I could find online.”
“What about finding them in person? I think we’re discovering that this problem is everywhere, even in our cozy little town. Even . . .”
“Mom, what are you saying? Do you know someone?”
Her mother hesitated, then said, “There’s a young woman at the restaurant—Nadine. Georgia hired her last year when she showed up looking for work. She had a broken cheekbone and a restraining order against her boyfriend, and not much else. Zero job skills. Georgia started her in the back, washing dishes and sweeping.”
“Do you think she’d be open to a conversat
ion?” Caroline didn’t know much about support groups. She’d always assumed they were meant for needy, distraught individuals who couldn’t cope on their own. Now she realized just being able to speak openly in a safe place could make a world of difference.
“You never know until you ask,” said her mother.
Caroline felt a spark of inspiration. That gut feeling when she knew something was right. She glanced over at her mother, and their gazes held as an idea took shape. “What if I started a group? A support group, right here in town? Do you think people would come?”
“Caroline, you’ve always been so full of ideas, it must be exhausting to be in your head.”
“I just keep thinking about Angelique. Maybe if she’d had a safe place to talk, friends who were supportive, who listened and understood . . .” She saw her mother stifle a yawn. “Anyway, maybe it’s crazy, but I’m going to look into it.”
“It’s a wonderful notion.”
“Thanks for listening, Mom. You’re the best.”
A fleeting smile. “The older you get, the smarter I get, right?”
Chapter 10
Will finished off Monday morning practice with time sprints around the track that circled the football field. One of the athletes, a senior named Beau Cannon, showed major promise, and he was currently being recruited by several Division I colleges. Will had high hopes for the kid. Beau’s single mom probably wouldn’t be able to pay for college without a scholarship.
“Good work today,” he said as they left the field together. “You’re right at thirty-six seconds on the three hundred.”
“I need to be under.” Beau wiped his brow with the tail of his jersey.
“At the risk of sounding like a broken record—it’s your start. You need to explode off the blocks. Run the first twenty meters like you’re a scalded dog. That’ll shave your time down to where it needs to be. Keep practicing your start and you’ll get there.”
Beau nodded. “Thanks, Coach. Will do.”
The hunger in the boy’s eyes looked familiar to Will. He remembered his own days as an athlete, attending DoD schools wherever his father happened to be stationed. He could still summon up the almost-painful feeling of striving, wanting to be the best, pushing himself to the limit. Despite the pain, it was also a kind of high that had filled him up, almost obliterating the sense that he didn’t belong anywhere.