The tears she’s been holding back leak from her eyes, and she blots them away. Her grandmother was right. Grace is a fool. Look what believing in people got her—a snake-in-the-grass boss like Frank, and a sweet-talking loser husband like Jimmy.
Another thought strikes, and she looks down at Miles, then at the cabinets that hold no food, and a shiver runs down her spine. Come Tuesday, she is going to be out of a job. Sure as the sun will rise, Frank is going to fire her. All her life she’s dealt with men like Frank Torelli, and men like him don’t keep people like her around. He’ll blame it on something other than Jerry’s contract, but it won’t change the fact that that’s the reason, the reflection he sees when he looks at her discomfiting and creating an undertow of distrust.
Her hollow stomach growls.
No money. And come Tuesday, no job.
She feels her grandmother watching. Only person you can count on, Spud, is you.
She looks again at her son, still wailing, then juts her jaw out, hoists the diaper bag from the floor to her shoulder, slides the photo of her and her grandmother into it, and pivots for the door.
7
HADLEY
Hadley stands in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom frowning. Gone are her comfortable skirt, soft cotton tank, and ballet flats. In their place: linen slacks, a silk blouse, and beige Jimmy Choos. Beneath it all, her pair of thigh-to-waist Spanx digs into her flesh.
Even with the added four inches from the shoes and the supergirdle, she looks fat. She smooths the pooch of her belly and sucks it in, then, with a resigned sigh, releases it and turns from the mirror to brush out her hair. She pins it into a loose chignon at the base of her neck with a gold clip, a style Frank likes because he thinks it makes her look like Sophia Loren, a comparison Hadley finds flattering, though she herself has never seen the resemblance.
First off, Sophia is Italian, while Hadley is French and German. Sophia has soft chocolate eyes set over a long nose and plump lips, whereas Hadley’s most defining feature is her green eyes, and her nose is small and her lips wide, like Julia Roberts.
But, Hadley supposes, if you only compare her and Sophia from the chin down, the heights and curves are similar. Of course, Sophia was young in a time when curves were appreciated, while Hadley lives in the era of Jillian Michaels and Heidi Klum.
She glances at the clock, and her irritation grows along with her hunger. Having dinner as a family is one of Frank’s rules, a sentiment she used to believe was sweet, naively thinking it showed Frank’s commitment to the family spending time together. But over the years, she’s learned to see it for what it is: another way for him to control them, making them wait to eat and rarely showing the consideration of telling them when he’ll be home.
She looks forlornly at her bedside table, where she keeps a stash of peanut M&M’S and, stomach growling, chooses the less caloric option of sneaking a cigarette on the balcony instead.
Lighting up, she takes a deep drag and closes her eyes as the heady buzz of nicotine seeps into her blood. She ignores the niggle of guilt that accompanies it. Frank hates when she smokes, and she gave it up for the sixth time four weeks ago. But she supposes today is a day for breaking promises.
The breeze is light and warm, a hint of summer in its breath, and she watches as it carries the smoke away and thinks about tomorrow. Frank has planned their trip to her sister’s down to the smallest detail. It will take them three days to get to Wichita, three days to get Skipper settled, and three days to drive back. The hotels are reserved, and he’s listed all the places along the way where they can stop for meals and gas.
Everything is all set.
Or it was.
Until three days ago, when Vanessa called wanting to know if Hadley could bring Skipper to Tom’s hometown of Omaha instead of Wichita so she and Tom could extend their honeymoon in Belize. Tom wanted to get scuba certified, and that required them staying a few extra days.
Hadley never told Frank about the call, and her heart has been beating out of rhythm ever since, the smallest window of opportunity opening at the exact moment she most desperately needed it.
Her phone rings, causing her to jump.
“Yoda-lay-ee-hoo,” her sister says when Hadley answers.
“That’s how you greet people?” Hadley says, returning to the role of well-adjusted wife and mother, an act perfected for everyone except Mattie, Skipper, and Frank.
“Sometimes,” Vanessa says.
“What if I was someone important?”
“You’re not. You’re you.”
Hadley nods and, despite the current state of her life, smiles at her sister. Though Vanessa is twenty-six, it’s hard for Hadley to imagine her older than six, the age she was when she and Hadley last lived together.
“You were supposed to call yesterday,” Hadley says.
“Yeah, sorry about that. Tom and I got distracted.” Giggle. “If you know what I mean.” Hee, hee, hee.
Wisely, Hadley didn’t tell Skipper about his mom’s promise to call. This isn’t the first time Vanessa hasn’t followed through on a promised call, promised gift, or promised visit. “Ness, when Skipper is living with you, you can’t get distracted.”
Hadley feels Vanessa rolling her eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I know. Blah, blah, blah. Skipper needs to be watched. Skipper can’t be left on his own. I’ve got it. You’ve repeated it like ten billion times. Stop worrying.”
But Hadley can’t stop worrying. As much as Hadley loves her sister, responsible and reliable are not Vanessa’s strong suits, and taking care of Skipper isn’t easy. It requires constant vigilance and care. Handing him over to Vanessa feels a little like handing a live grenade to a known sufferer of seizures. It is a very bad idea, and Hadley very badly wishes she could somehow stop it from happening.
“I’m calling because I forgot to tell you Skipper’s passport came the day before we left, so we’re all set,” Vanessa goes on. “He’s so cute. Looks just like me.”
“Modest,” Hadley says.
“Modest is for people who don’t know how great they are.”
The statement is pure Vanessa. Hadley’s dad used to say Vanessa was 50 percent spunk and 50 percent sass, a combination that suited her well until around high school, when spunk and sass were no longer cute and lovable and instead came off as ditzy and spoiled and landed her in a crowd of wealthy losers, one of whom got her pregnant and never even knew it.
“I still don’t understand why you need to go to London,” Hadley says. “You’re already honeymooning in Belize, and this much change is going to be a lot for Skipper.”
“He’ll be fine. Skipper loves sports. It will give him and Tom something to bond over. Tom’s been going to Wimbledon since he was a boy. He says it’s a total blast and that there are tons of kids running around.”
Hadley grits her teeth to stop herself from screaming at her sister that Skipper doesn’t “run around,” that he can’t “run around,” and that if she lets him “run around,” he will end up lost, or worse, duct-taped to a tree by some kids who think it’s great fun to torture a defenseless, guileless kid like Skipper.
“Listen, Had, Tom’s here. I’ve got to go. I just called to tell you I got the passport.”
“Ness . . . ,” Hadley says, but the phone’s already gone dead.
She squeezes her eyes shut but then pops them open at the sound of tires turning onto the road. A second later, the silhouette of Frank’s brother’s car comes into view, the windows on Tony’s muscle car tinted so dark that, even in broad daylight, you can’t see through them. Hadley snuffs the cigarette into the planter beside the door, then hurries inside to tell the kids Frank’s home and that it’s time for dinner.
The sign on Mattie’s door reads, MOVE ON. Hadley ignores it and steps inside. Mattie is on her bed, a pair of headphones strapped to her ears, noxious music that sounds like dying cats caught in a rotor squeaking from the speakers. On her lap is a book, the cover maroon and old, like one of those bo
oks you would see in a lawyer’s office or in a library at Harvard.
Strewed on every surface are other books. It’s the one thing Mattie really cares about, and every minute she’s not in school is spent buried in the pages of a story. Dozing on the bed beside her is Prince Charles. Mattie must have lifted the old dog onto the bed, Prince Charles’s jumping days long over.
Mattie is so engrossed in the music and her book she doesn’t realize Hadley is there until Hadley is standing right in front of her. When she notices, she startles, then stiffens, her hate like a fist that knocks the wind from Hadley’s lungs.
Prince Charles lifts his head and thumps his tail three times.
Hadley hasn’t told Mattie the plan, terrified that either Frank will pick up on his daughter lying to him, or worse, that Hadley will chicken out and her daughter will hate her even more than she already does.
Mattie continues to glare through her kohl-lined eyes, her white-blonde hair draped across her face.
It’s still difficult for Hadley to get used to her daughter’s new look. When the school year started, Mattie’s hair was natural dark auburn and hung in long layers to the middle of her back. Now, eight months later, she is albino blonde, her hair cut severely to the middle of her neck, and the tips painted pink, blue, or green, depending on her mood. And she has a dozen piercings in her ears. The latest addition, a custom-designed silver serpent, winds in and out of several of the holes as if slithering through her skin.
Hadley has to admit the earring is bizarrely mesmerizing, though she can’t understand it. What girl wants to have a snake worming through her ear?
Mattie narrows her eyes, waiting for Hadley to say something, and Hadley is about to tell her Frank is home when something creepy-crawly moves beneath one of Mattie’s notebooks on the floor.
Hadley falls back, and Mattie leans sideways to see what’s caused the reaction. Then she goes on her knees and, using the edge of her book, scoots the notebook aside. Mother and daughter recoil together as the spider scuttles beneath the bed.
“Well, do something,” Mattie says, the most words she’s spoken to Hadley in a week.
Right. Do something. The problem is Hadley hates creepy-crawly things. Tentatively, she steps forward, then kneels on the carpet and lifts the bed skirt. The spider—shiny, black, and bloated like an overripe olive—stands frozen a few inches away.
“Here,” Mattie says, holding out a magazine she has rolled into a spider-smashing club.
“I don’t want to kill it,” Hadley says.
“Well, I don’t want it living under my bed.”
Hadley peeks again beneath the bed skirt, where the spider remains frozen with fear. She takes the magazine and sneaks it beneath the fabric. Squeezing her eyes shut, she clenches her grip . . .
“I can’t. You do it,” she says, pulling away and sitting up. She holds the magazine back toward Mattie.
Mattie’s eyes grow wide, her bluster dissolved into an expression that exactly mirrors Hadley’s. Then it hardens, and her brow furrows into a deep V. “You’re the mom.”
“And you’re the one who doesn’t want a spider living under her bed.”
They glare at each other, a standoff of cowards. Then the door opens and Skipper walks in. “Coach is home,” he says. “Time to load the bases.” The phrase he uses for having a meal.
Stepping closer, he tilts his head. “What you doing?”
“There’s a spider,” Mattie says. “Under the bed. And Blue doesn’t want to kill it.”
“And First Base doesn’t want to kill it either,” Hadley shoots back.
Skipper’s head angles a little more, then straightens. He walks to Mattie’s nightstand, takes an empty Starbucks cup that’s there, carries it to where Hadley is, kneels on the ground, and lifts the bed skirt; then, with extraordinary care, he coaxes the spider onto a magazine-subscription card he found on the floor. He puts the cup over it, then slides both from beneath the bed.
“Where’d you learn to do that?” Hadley asks, amazed.
“Mrs. Baxter doesn’t like to kill spiders either.”
Mattie has joined them on the floor, the three of them looking at the upside-down cup. Her daughter wears fuzzy Cookie Monster pajama bottoms and a Maroon 5 T-shirt from a concert she went to two years ago, when she was twelve.
“I’ll take it outside,” Mattie says, patting Skipper on the head as if petting a dog. And if Skipper were a dog, he would be wagging his tail, his face lit up with pride.
Mattie slides the notebook beneath the card to give it extra support, then carries it out the door.
“Time to load the bases,” Skipper repeats.
“Go on down, Champ,” Hadley says. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
Skipper ambles away, and Hadley falls to her butt and drops her face in her hands. She can’t even deal with a spider. How is she going to do this?
Prince Charles grunts as he climbs from the bed to flop beside her. He sets his heavy head on her lap, and she strokes his neck.
“What am I going to do?” she says quietly.
He rolls his chocolate eyes up at her.
Her whole life, Hadley has been taken care of, first by her father, then by Frank—all life’s difficult choices made for her. And now, here she is, thirty-eight, facing the most important crossroads of her life, and she is terrified.
At the sound of Mattie’s footsteps returning, she takes a deep breath and pushes to her feet.
One foot in front of the other, she tells herself as she heads down the stairs. Repeat as often as necessary to finish. Someone famous said that. She can’t remember who.
Frank is at the table showing Skipper the new pack of baseball cards he’s brought home. At least three times a week, Frank stops by Target to buy a new pack. He’s been doing it since Skipper was a toddler, and their collection is now in the thousands.
She leans down and kisses his cheek.
“Hey,” he says, taking her hand and looking up with concern. “How you holding up?”
“Okay,” she says.
“Hang in there.” He turns to smile warmly at Skipper, then reaches out and tousles his hair. “Blue and I are going to miss you, Champ.”
Skipper nods, then returns to studying the cards. It’s been this way since Hadley explained to him that he was going to live with his mom: an unsettling avoidance of the topic that concerns her, unsure how he’s going to handle it once he realizes it’s real.
Hadley gathers the ingredients for the salad and, when she’s sure Frank’s attention is fully back on the cards, carefully moves the pizzas from the bottom oven to the top.
Safely back at the island and chopping the lettuce, she says, “How was work?”
“Home run day,” Frank says brightly, then high-fives Skipper, who coined the phrase. “Finally got that old bastard Jerry Koch to sublet his lot to me.”
She offers a supportive smile. “Jerry? The man we met last year at the fundraiser for the Boys & Girls Club?”
“Yeah. The old geezer with the bag for a wife.”
Hadley nods as if agreeing. Frank doesn’t like unattractive women. She remembers liking the couple. Jerry’s love for his wife, Sandra, radiated as he talked about her many achievements. He bragged about her as if she were the most accomplished woman in the world and gazed at her like she was still the prettiest girl in the room.
Frank pushes from the table and walks to where Hadley is. He wraps his arms around her waist, and his wide gut presses against her ribs as he pulls her to him. Instinctively, she sucks in her stomach, causing the Spanx to contract and dig into her flesh.
“I saw the Mercedes was delivered,” he whispers.
She nods as she continues to chop the vegetables.
He leans in closer so his lips are against her ear. “All day, I couldn’t stop thinking about you driving my truck.” He rubs his groin up and down against her. “God, how it was driving me wild.”
She turns and smiles as if she likes it.
/> “Mmmm,” he says with another rub, then pulls away to pour himself a glass of wine.
When he returns to the table, he says, “By the way, I think I need to get rid of the new girl.”
“Really? I thought you liked her,” Hadley says.
“Turns out she’s useless. That’s what I get for doing someone a favor.”
“Didn’t you say she was the first assistant you’ve had with half a brain?”
Frank doesn’t respond. He does that a lot: offers up what seems like a conversation, only to ignore her when she takes part.
She returns to tossing the salad.
Half a minute later, he says, “Jesus fucking Christ!”
Hadley’s head snaps up. Mattie is in the archway, Prince Charles beside her.
“Wipe that shit off your face,” Frank says. “You look like a goddamn whore. And what the fuck is that in your ear?”
Every fiber in Hadley’s body tenses, and she watches as Mattie’s face darkens; then she turns to Hadley, her glare challenging her to say something. When Hadley remains mute, she storms away.
“What the hell?” Frank says. “Why do you let her go around like that?”
Hadley says nothing, her blood pumping wildly. She always reminds Mattie to remove her makeup and earrings before her dad sees her. But tonight she was distracted: first by her daughter’s hate, then by the spider, then by Skipper. She always remembers. “Mattie, your dad’s home. Make sure you wash your face and take off your jewelry.” Jewelry being a polite euphemism for her bizarre piercings.
Frank went nuts when Mattie dyed her hair. He raged, grabbed a pair of scissors, threatened to shave her head as punishment. The only thing that stopped him was Hadley begging him not to. She was literally in their bedroom on her knees blocking the door, and then her mouth was on his cock, and because of that, he let it be. The memory sickens her. That is how she protects her daughter. She feels the pain in her scalp as she remembers him yanking her hair as she went about it, the searing pain of having her hair wrenched from its roots and the deeper hurt of the cruel things Frank said, words she prayed Mattie would never hear.
Hadley & Grace Page 3