by Susan Wilson
Okay, time to fish or cut bait. I crack the windows and give my dog a kiss on the nose. “I won’t be long.” He doesn’t look like he’s worried.
I have some money to spend, given that I have been paid biweekly and have virtually no expenses except those of my phone and food. And Shadow, of course. I can visit the better stores, or I can go to my old standbys from the days prior to my conversion as a fashion plate. I choose the latter, skipping Nordstrom and Michael Kors. Macy’s is more my speed these days, or the Gap if necessary.
It really doesn’t take that long to pick out a skirt suit, navy blue, white piping, above the knee, and a simple silk blouse to go under the jacket. Blah. But it makes the point that I am a reliable, rational, unemotional woman. No frills, no fakery. I look like an airline hostess or whatever it is that they call them these days. I put them back. I move on to the dresses. I’ve lost the prison weight and I like what I see, but these dresses are meant for happy occasions, dinners out or going to a show, not depositions. I really don’t want to invest in a dress that I will associate only with unhappiness and probably never wear again. In the end, I select two pairs of nice tailored trousers and three pretty, but not too pretty, blouses to go with them. I add a black blazer and there you go. Done. Except that I need footwear.
All in all, it takes an hour and a half to shop. It feels like a lot longer, and I worry about the dog in my car. I pass Cinnabon as I head toward the exit, but I do not want to jeopardize my body, newly restored to its original shape, with an ill-considered fling with sticky dough.
“Rosie? Rosie Collins?”
My hand is on the exit door, but I turn toward a very familiar voice. “Brenda!”
It takes a few moments, but soon enough the surprise falls away and we are once again two girls on a bench in the mall.
Of all the people I should have called upon my unforeseen release, Brenda was, except for my family, at the top of the list; but I hadn’t. I had gotten so stuck on my mother’s silence and my brothers—all of them—ignoring me that I assumed everyone from my former life would do the same. It was a surfeit of embarrassment and the fear of further rejection that kept me from calling Brenda Brathwaite. And that’s what I babble to her now.
To her credit, Brenda doesn’t seem insulted. “So, you’re in Gloucester to regroup?”
“Essentially, yes.” It would be a much longer conversation to explain about the Advocacy and the Homestead Trust and Meghan and the rest of it. I’ve condensed it down into a flat miracle. “I got out and they gave me this odd little job and here I am. At least for a while.”
“Gosh, your mother must be so happy.”
What do I say to that? Brenda has known me a long time, has known about my estrangement, so I can give her an honest answer. “No. She still won’t talk to me. I haven’t seen or heard from her since I was released. She wouldn’t let me visit her.”
“That’s just crazy talk.”
“Well, I think so.” I crack a smile. Brenda has never been one to mince words. I suggest lunch, anything to prolong this unexpected reunion.
She shakes her head. “I’m meeting some, um, colleagues for lunch at the Cheesecake Factory. Practically a business lunch.”
I get it. How would she ever explain me to a nice group of friends? I give her my blessing. “Yeah, and, really, I don’t have time. My dog is in the car.”
“It’s so good to see you.”
“I’m so glad to see you, too.” I get up. “I should go.”
“Rosie?” Brenda Brathwaite, the boon companion of my youth, has changed. She’s a grown-up woman. While I lingered in the rarified atmosphere of my gilded cage, and then lived out the monotony of prison, I failed to mature. I feel stunted. “Give me your number.”
I give it to her, momentarily cheered by her request, the suggestion that she will stay in touch with me.
We hug.
“Rosie, you should go see your mother.”
“She doesn’t want to see me.”
“And that stops you, how?” As I said, Brenda never minces words.
Rosie
Go see your mother. But how can I? The dog puts his head over the seat back and pokes my neck. It’s as if he’s saying, Put the key in the ignition, point the car south on 95, and just go. So I do. I tell myself that if traffic is bad, I’ll get off and turn around. But it’s Saturday afternoon and for some reason only a reasonable amount of highway traffic is heading toward Boston.
There is a point on the highway when the road turns just so and the skyline of Boston is revealed. I feel the urge to sing the Boston anthem, “Muddy Water.” It’s either that or “Sweet Caroline.” Or both. I’ve missed that view. I get off before the Zakim Bridge and wend my way through the familiar streets until I am in Charlestown. In my Bunker Hill neighborhood, I notice that my family home is still intact. Having carefully set the hand brake against gravity on this steep street, I get out of the car. The dog follows. He sniffs a telephone pole and promptly leaves a canine calling card against it. From somewhere up the street, a little dog barks. Shadow cocks his head but doesn’t attempt to leave my side, despite the fact that I haven’t leashed him. He thrusts his head under my hand, and I press on him to maintain my equilibrium. I realize that I am shaking as hard as I did that long-ago day when I was escorted into the Mid-State Women’s Correctional Facility.
I have not laid eyes on my only parent since before that day. She never came to Connecticut to be by my side during the lead-up to my plea bargain. She said she couldn’t leave Teddy. At the time, I felt as if she’d chosen him over me, that her physically wounded son was more fragile than her emotionally crippled daughter. I called her. I begged her to please just come be with me, let one of the others take care of Teddy for a day or so. I was so afraid. I had no one.
I stand on the sidewalk where I once chalked hopscotch frames. Where Brenda and I met up for our walk to school. Where I waited for boys to pick me up for dates. I look up at the house and notice for the first time that the windows are without curtains, that there is a blankness to the face of the house; no one is home. No one is living there. I don’t know why I’ve fetched up here. Of course they wouldn’t be here.
“Is that you, Rosie?” I hear a familiar voice and turn to see my old crush from junior high school, Ryan Dean.
“Oh my God, Ryan. How are you?” I rein in my gush. He’s still cute, even with his ring finger adorned with a wide gold band. I wonder if he’s married a Charlestown girl or ventured farther afield.
We chat, not exactly catching up—that would be too hard—but certainly tossing out a nice array of pleasantries: “You look great.” “How’ve you been?” “What’re you up to?” This last from my mouth, not his. He certainly has to know what I’ve been up to. And, as if he just remembered this, he takes a step back. At first, I think he’s suddenly shy of chatting up an ex-con on his street, but then I realize that Shadow has approached him, and, let’s face it, Shadow can look a little malevolent with those bushy eyebrows and his height. “That’s just my dog. He’s friendly.”
“He’s kind of unusual, isn’t he?”
“You have no idea.” I rub the dog’s ears. “Maybe you can shed some light on this.” I gesture toward the empty house. “Do you know where they’ve moved?”
As if he’s not surprised that a daughter might not know where her parent lives, Ryan simply shrugs. “I don’t actually live in the neighborhood anymore. My mom still does, though. She’ll know.” He takes out his phone. I prefer to assume this is more efficient than his taking me to his family home half a block away. I am not going to let myself get paranoid at this late date.
A moment later, he hands me his phone. “Mrs. Dean, how are you?” I’m not sure I can do much more chitchat. My impulse to confront my mother is waning. I’m hungry and I want to flee back to my Dogtown bolt-hole.
“They’ve been gone for years. Why don’t you know where?” Unlike her son, Mrs. Dean is bluntly curious.
I’ll be blu
nt, too. “We’re estranged. But I want to see her. And Teddy.”
“Well, she’s living with one of your brothers, I think.”
“And Teddy? Is he there, too?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I think he’s in some kind of facility.”
“Wait, Teddy’s in a nursing home, you mean?”
“I guess so. Something like that. I really don’t know.”
“Do you remember which brother my mother’s with? Paulie? Patrick? Frankie?” I enumerate the brothers, but she can’t remember which one. Bobby? But, of course, I don’t list Teddy.
I am on a fool’s errand.
The dog sits at my side, his head at my waist, and I keep a hand on his head. Ryan says good-bye and good luck and I am left standing alone in front of my abandoned childhood home. Abandoned because the firm of my erstwhile and deceased boyfriend bought them out and then, in cosmic irony, never built the project. I begin to see the neglect, the peeling paint and the cracked front window. The screen door is leaning on its hinges. The shrubs are out of control, and the euonymus vine has climbed to the roof. I go up the steps and straighten the screen door. I lift a chip of paint off the trim and wish that I had a scraper. I tug at the vine, but it refuses to let go of the siding. I could fix this. I’ve learned a great deal from watching the various workmen who have inhabited my world for the past months. If the roof is good and the foundation solid, this old place could be rehabbed. I almost call Tucker Bellingham.
Then it hits me: Brenda will know where they are.
Thinking she might still be with her friends, um, colleagues, I text the question to her. I get a ding almost immediately. Mom’s with Paulie’s family in Stoughton. Teddy is in Randolph. She’s kindly added the address of Teddy’s place. It sounds benign, High View Estates. It doesn’t have the ring of a “facility,” but then these places sometimes go out of their way to seem homey. I’ll go see him first. I open the back door of the car and Shadow jumps in, taking his position in the dead center of the seat. “Let’s go introduce you to Teddy.” Shadow hun-hunns his approval. Firing up my trusty Waze, I work my way back to the highway and keep tracking south.
At about the Braintree split, my phone sings out. I punch the Bluetooth without looking to see who it is.
“Rosie Collins? This is Shelley Brown, at the Sawyer Library.”
Ruh-roh. I haven’t gotten back to her yet on the family’s decision about the journal pages.
“I have some really extraordinary news.”
I wish that I wasn’t on my way to a date with destiny—I mean my surprise call on my estranged brother—but Shelley’s excitement is enough to distract me from my growing dread.
“I found the rest of the journal.”
This is unbelievable, and I hear my voice pitch up to preteen level. “Oh my God, where?”
“In the historical society’s archives. I stopped in this morning, just on a whim, and, lo and behold, there it was. They are really interested in what the family wants to do with those pages you have. Do you know yet what they plan on doing with them?”
“I told them about it, but I haven’t heard yet what they want to do with them.” Close enough. “Except that they might want a copy.”
“As I’m sure they don’t mean running these fragile pages through a copier, you have to know that digitizing is expensive and probably not in the budget.”
“Let me talk to them. See if we can work something out.”
“Good. I’ll hear from you soon.” A statement, not a question.
This is unbelievable. There’s more to Susannah’s story. I am so freaking excited! Maybe this is how fans of Twin Peaks felt when they announced that the series would continue. I know that I am conflating my renewed friendship with Meghan with learning that there is more to Susannah’s story, but it feels remarkably the same—like I am about to be reunited with an old friend. Just as I am about to be reunited with my brother. I am either going to be made whole or shattered utterly.
I take my exit. I’m not going to call the Trust—Meghan or Carol—just yet. That will have to wait. Right now, I’m listening to my Waze voice direct me to where I will see the brother I have always considered my friend, my ally, my competitor. I haven’t seen Teddy since my father’s funeral, when he sat in his chair, a borrowed black overcoat awkwardly tucked behind him. I had offered to push him back to the waiting limousine, but he’d rejected my help. “I don’t need your help, Rosie. Not anymore.”
Stung, I reached out to take Charles’s hand. He gripped mine and drew me close to his side. I felt the soft merino of his overcoat against my cheek. Among the mourners, a wide-ranging group of family, friends, neighbors, and coworkers, we stood out. Not because I was the only daughter of the deceased, but because we looked like peacocks in a gathering of pigeons. Even in black, the cut and material of our clothes defined us as other. I might have come from here, but I had been transformed. My clothes, my accent, my cross-fit body proclaimed me to be capable of selling out my family. Everyone by this time knew that Wright, Melrose & Foster had bought out the neighborhood. And that I had done nothing to prevent it. Little could anyone, even my family, know there was nothing I could do to dissuade Charles from anything he set his sights on. I was not an influence on him; he was an influence on me. But there we were, his arm through mine, holding me close. I stumbled a bit on my six-inch Louboutins and worried that the hard ground of the cemetery would wreck them.
Your destination is on the right says my AI companion. It’s a boxy apartment building making up the short end in a rectangle of buildings just like it. According to Brenda’s text, Teddy’s building is number 4, and it only briefly crosses my mind to wonder how she knows this. Could my dear friend have been keeping track of my family in their diaspora from Bunker Hill?
I pull into the only parking space not designated HANDICAP. There are two other vehicles, both the kind of vans that easily transport wheelchairs. I shut off the car. Shadow nuzzles my ear, telling me that he’s got my back. But I don’t get out of the car. Not just yet. I watch as very ordinary sorts of people, men and women, pretty much all twentysomethings, all attached to their devices, come and go from the other buildings. It must be that number 4 is a group residence and the rest of the apartment buildings are habitation for the millennial population of Corolla-driving postcollege residents dreaming bigger dreams.
Good for Teddy. He’s no longer stuck in the narrow confines of our family home, watching as everyone else of his generation moved on. Then I think of Meghan and how she broke out of her dependence with Shark, and I decide right then and there a group home is okay, but I want to get Teddy independent. And I know exactly how to do that.
I suck in a big breath of air. Shadow breathes it in as I exhale. “Let’s go.”
I should have brought a present, I think as I enter the small lobby of the building. I’m dropping in empty-handed. A six-pack. A pizza. I almost turn around and bolt for the nearest Dunkin’ Donuts for a box of twelve.
“Can I help you?” A woman is seated behind a small desk tucked into an alcove to the left of me. She smiles, but it is the smile of a prison guard, more a warning than a measure of good intentions. She has a mane of reddish blond hair loosely braided. She’s one of those women who don’t use eye makeup correctly, ending with a squinty look instead of enhancement. I dislike her on sight.
“I’m looking for Teddy Collins? I believe that he lives here?” I’m nervous and the uptalk reveals it. “I’m his sister.” And then I wonder if that is a stupid admission. If this guard—I mean receptionist—knows anything meaningful about Teddy, maybe she knows about me, too. And what of it? I think. So what? I’m a free woman. I have to keep reminding myself of that. I do not wear a sandwich board announcing my former status as inmate. And yet, as this redheaded guardian of the gate to my brother’s abode stares me down, that’s exactly how I feel.
Shadow is standing precisely at my side. He lifts his nose and points it directly at her. She stares
right back at him, then looks up at me. “Only service dogs are allowed here.”
“Yes. That’s right. A service dog.” Shadow is performing a service right now—I can feel his rough fur under the tips of my fingers where they graze his skull.
“Then where’s his vest?”
“At the dry cleaner’s. Now, which is my brother’s apartment?”
“Is he expecting you?”
I almost go Monty Python on her—“No one expects the Spanish Inquisition”—but I don’t, pretty certain she wouldn’t get it. I almost lie and say yes. In the end, I go with the truth. “No. I’m surprising him.” Understate much?
She gives me that guardish smile, but I no longer feel intimidated. Enough of being a wimp. “Which apartment is his?”
“First floor, four-oh-one. On your right.”
There is one of those decorative wreathes hanging on a picture hook on the door, encircling the apartment number, complete with a cutesy plaque that says WIPE YOUR FEET. Indeed, there is a thin doormat, also requesting that I wipe my feet. I do. Clearly, my mother is still in charge. Shadow sits, but I can see his nostrils pulse with an investigative intake. His tail moves, but it’s not quite wagging.
Shadow
This is new for him, being in a building like this. The ride here has been long and he’s been alert for Rosie’s distress, but she exudes only a sense of determination, which is new for her. There are nerves, yes, but there is something else that keeps them in check. That, and his sturdy presence at her side.
The sounds from behind the door are different, too. He doesn’t know why Rosie doesn’t just open the door, but people have odd customs. He thinks he might bark, as he would to be let into their house, but something tells him not to. He, like Rosie, waits outside the closed door. Unlike Rosie, he can hear the carpet-dulled approach of rubber wheels.