But if she had, then no wonder Belle resented Taylor now. Belle was capable, responsible, thoughtful even. She didn’t need Taylor there to take care of them. All they needed Taylor for was to run Flour Sax, like her mom.
“We’d better head to the store.” Grandpa stood.
“No rush, Grandpa. It’s only seven-thirty.”
“Lots of work to do before it opens. You got stock coming in today at nine, and you have to film, don’t you? You always film at eight-thirty unless there’s stock, so you have to go in now and film.”
“Film?”
“Your show. You always film at eight-thirty, but you have stock coming at nine so you have to do it earlier. For heaven’s sake, Laura, you’d forget your own name if it wasn’t on your name tag.”
Laura. Her mom.
What would Belle do? Roll with it? That seemed weird. “I’m, um, taking the day off.”
He shook his head. “I told you, you’d never stick with this.” He took a long drink of his coffee, then looked at Taylor with a new light in his eyes. “Internet shows. What was your mother thinking?”
And like that, he seemed to remember who he was talking to.
“Grandpa, did Mom have a YouTube show?”
“A boob tube show’s more like it. Who wants to watch your mom make a blanket? And it was never on TV, so I don’t know what she thought she was doing.”
“She never told me….” Taylor pulled her phone to her and searched for Laura Quinn and Flour Sax on YouTube. The show popped right up. She found a channel with a year’s worth of daily ten minute videos filmed in their little shop. Taylor started to watch one, but when her mother’s voice came through the little phone speaker, it hurt. She tapped pause quickly. “Thanks Grandpa,” Taylor said it quietly, not really for him to hear.
“You’re welcome. And don’t be lazy. Just because your store doesn’t open till eleven doesn’t mean there’s not work to do.”
“Yessir.” Taylor left her phone open to the show but got up and filled her coffee. She wanted to watch the videos, but she also didn’t want to watch them. Not quite yet.
* * *
Taylor was at the shop in time to get the new stock. Tulip Festival was opening soon, and they had a big order ready for the tourist season. She worked in the quiet of their little shop till she couldn’t take it anymore. Her mom had always played music. Every store played music. Clearly, she was off her game.
But…Taylor didn’t want music.
Flour Sax’s speaker system was remarkably up to date for a shop that catered to those who loved pre-war printed cotton and hand stitching. Taylor plugged her phone into an aux cord and found the show on YouTube. Laura Quinn’s voice descended from the carefully placed speakers like a ghost, or an angel, filling the room. Taylor’s heart leapt to her throat. She spun, looking for her mom, though she knew it was just the phone, just the speakers. It wasn’t really her. She quickly unplugged it and sat down.
The video had paused on a shot of her mom smiling behind the worktable, a delicious spread of candy colored story book prints spilled before her. Had she gotten sponsorships for this? She ought to have. Taylor couldn’t bring herself to press play again.
Had her mom really not told her about the YouTube show, or had Taylor been so caught up in her own life that she hadn’t remembered?
Taylor wasn’t up for watching her mom or hearing her over the loudspeakers. It was just too much, too soon. Instead, she set the laptop in the corner by a display of quilting notions with her mom’s show playing continuously.
Through the day customers stopped to watch it and murmur sadly to themselves. It was good for them, healing, to get to see her. Taylor knew because they all said so as she rang them up. It would likely be good for her too.
Belle, however, was nowhere to be seen all day.
Taylor didn’t get out of the shop till eight. Tulip festival season was the start of their tourist season, and the shop was a disaster. When she finally got home, Belle wasn’t there either, but her backpack was.
Taylor’s new found and deeply felt sense of mama bear protectiveness told her she was not only right, but good and kind to dig through it.
Belle’s huge black canvas backpack was heavy and likely to give her lifelong chiropractic bills. As Taylor unzipped it, she realized she’d have to connect better with Belle’s teachers, make sure she had lunch money, and find out how to see her grades. That was her job now.
The bag was packed tightly, so it wasn’t easy to rifle through. Taylor tugged folders up one at a time, glanced in, then maneuvered them back down. A dozen or so crumpled papers were shoved in the bag like packing material. She grabbed a handful and smoothed them out. Nothing but class notes, in careful handwriting, with astounding marginalia. Almost Book of Kell’s quality. Taylor folded one and stuffed it in her pocket for later. Belle had always had a gift for art, though she and her mom had never talked about it. Taylor rocked back on her heels. The last time she and her mom had talked about Belle’s future had been when she quit ballet at the beginning of middle school. They had both been disappointed. Taylor hadn’t been to a recital in a few years, but Belle had been such a cute little elementary school dancer.
There were no notes from friends in the bag, not hidden in notebooks or in the pockets. Probably because everyone had phones and sent texts or snaps or whatever. Taylor swallowed hard, thinking about the kinds of things teens sent each other on their phones, and wondered if she had a strong enough stomach to check.
There were two cards in envelopes, though. One of them was from a teacher, Mrs. Vincent, expressing sympathy. Mrs. Vincent had been the fine arts teacher for at least thirty years. The other card was from her mom’s old friend Colleen Kirby. A tremor of grief passed over Taylor. Colleen had been on the weekend away with her mom.
Her eyes burned and her hands shook as she slid the card out of the envelope. Nobody hurt as badly as family did. Grandpa, her, Belle. They were the ones who this was really hard on, but her mom’s friends Colleen, Amara, and Melinda had been with her when she died, and it had to be awful for them too.
A folded piece of paper was tucked inside the generic sympathy card. One more step before she had to face someone else’s deep grief. She unfolded it slowly, holding her breath.
Baby Girl,
Laura was the best friend I ever had in all my life. She did an act of kindness for me 16 years ago that was more than any friend could ask. When I was sick, alone, and pregnant, she came to me, and helped me, and took you home so you could have a better life than I could give you.
While you were growing up, I was able to get off the streets, get a job, get a home, find love, and start a family. All things I never thought I could do before Laura allowed me to start my life over.
I owe her everything, and so I owe you, our baby girl, everything as well. I know we don’t know each other well, but I have never stopped loving you or praying for you. My home is open to you forever and always. I don’t know what your grandfather has planned for you for the last years of your high school, but I would be honored if you chose to move here with me, Dave, and your little brothers. Please consider it and please know I love you with my whole heart.
Sincerely, Colleen
Taylor stared and didn’t breathe and didn’t hear the front door open.
She didn’t see or hear or understand anything until Belle’s little white hand grabbed the card from hers and she hissed, “How dare you?”
Her feet thundered up the stairs to her room. Her door slammed. And Taylor stared into the distance.
It wasn’t a shock that Belle had a birth mom.
It wasn’t a shock that Colleen Kirby had lived a hard life.
Taylor knew all of that.
And if Taylor thought hard enough, the fact that Colleen was Belle’s birth mom wasn’t a surprise, either.
That she dared—dared—to take Belle away?
That was unforgivable.
And yet, the most natural thing in the w
orld.
Why would Belle want to stay here with Taylor, when she could live in the mansion with Colleen and her software engineer husband in Portland?
Taylor put her head in her hand, but she didn’t cry. She supposed it was shock. And despair. Her family, getting taken away piece by piece, till she was all alone. It was so inevitable that she should have seen it coming.
Belle’s footsteps echoed overhead.
She wasn’t gone yet.
Grandpa coughed from his bedroom, then adjusted the volume on his TV.
Taylor wasn’t all alone yet.
They still had each other.
She sat up, stretching her back, breathing deeply.
In this house, Taylor was the adult, and Belle needed her. If this card had been painful for Taylor to read, it must have been misery for Belle.
Taylor took one more deep breath, pressed her hands to the floor and stood. She needed to see her sister.
When she got to Belle’s room, the door was ajar. She knocked lightly. “Can we talk?”
Belle pulled the door open.
“I’m sorry.” Taylor figured if she started pretty much all of their conversations with that, she couldn’t lose.
Black lines of melted eyeliner and mascara traced down Belle’s face.
“I didn’t know.” Taylor sat on the edge of Belle’s bed.
Belle held out a very thin flat iPhone. “Colleen and Dave sent me this for Christmas.” She waved her hand at a MacBook on her desk. “That was the year before.”
“Did you know?”
“I wondered.” Her words were calm but did nothing to stop the flow of tears. “Mom didn’t want Colleen to come on the weekend trip. They fought about it—Mom and Amara, I mean. I could hear them all the way up here. All of them knew. All of Mom’s girls.”
“I guess they would, huh?”
Belle dragged the back of her hand across her cheek. “It’s my fault.”
“No.”
“I hated the yelling, so I went downstairs and reminded Mom how nice Colleen had always been and told her she should let her come. Amara just said ‘See?’ and then Mom gave in.”
“It’s still not your fault. Mom fell. She hit her head…” Taylor was trying to describe how her mom had drowned after one too many margaritas with the girls, but she couldn’t get it out. The words stuck in her throat.
Belle stared at a spot on the floor. “Colleen wanted me back.”
“Who wouldn’t?” Taylor fiercely wanted her to stay.
“I think she killed Mom so she could get me back.” Belle’s words were hoarse and came out slowly.
What a nightmare of a burden for a child to carry. Taylor cursed Colleen for sending that card. How dare she do that to her baby sister? “Belle…it was just an accident. A tragic accident.”
Belle exhaled. “That’s what the police said, but I overheard Amara and Melinda at the funeral. They thought they were alone, but I was around the corner. They were talking about that night and how mom and Colleen had argued.”
“No…” Taylor’s stomach turned. “No. If that were true the police…”
Belle wrapped the sleeves of her thin black sweatshirt around her fingers. “That’s what Melinda said too. The police would have figured it out if something bad had happened.”
“Did they say what Mom and Colleen were fighting about?”
Belle shook her head. “But I can guess.” She peeled back one of her sleeves and stared at the black smear of mascara on the back of her hand.
“Belle, can I give you a hug?”
Belle shuffled slowly toward her sister.
When she was close enough, Taylor wrapped Belle in her arms, and they both cried, really hard, for a really long time.
“I’m sorry.” Taylor whispered it over and over again.
Chapter Three
After school on Monday, they both sat in Maddie Carpenter’s little counseling room, their stiff, awkward, scared body posture exactly the same—two copies of their mother.
Maddie sat across from them on a roomy, sage green, velvet armchair. Her legs, in a pair of vivid paisley leggings, were crossed and she had a yellow legal pad on her knee.
“This is a safe space to say whatever you need,” Maddie said. “The only time I could, or would, ever share what is said is if I found evidence of abuse or of self-harm that endangered your life. I hope you understand. I only want to help.”
Taylor exhaled.
Belle gritted her teeth.
“It’s okay.” Taylor patted Belle’s knee. “Maddie is good. She’s safe.”
“Ok.” Belle hadn’t shifted from her touch. “Mom was murdered. It was my fault, and I have to fix it.”
Each word was a little punch in Taylor’s stomach. She knew Belle was going to talk about this, but she hadn’t expected it to be the first thing out of her mouth.
Maddie rested her pen on her notepad, tilted her head thoughtfully, and spoke without a hint of patronization. “You are not responsible for the actions of anyone but yourself. Every individual has the same opportunity to make their own decisions. I know we’re having our first conversation together, but I’d like to give you an assignment, and a quiet place to do it in. Would that be all right?”
Belle was looking at her feet and didn’t say anything. Her body had sagged, matching the slouchy knitted cardigan she wore that had been their mom’s in the ‘90s. The momentary adrenaline rush of admitting her greatest fear had been deflated by the common sense of Maddie’s words.
“There’s a big comfy chair in the waiting area. I have a pen and paper for you. Can you go snuggle up in there and write fifty things you love about your mom?”
Belle looked up, her face contorted in confusion.
“I know it doesn’t sound like it’s related to what you just said, but I promise, it is. Are you willing to do that while I talk to your sister a little bit?” Maddie ripped the top page from her legal pad, folded it and placed it onto her side table. Then she held out the pad and pen to Belle.
Belle accepted it.
Taylor walked with her to the waiting room. “I’m sure we won’t be long.”
“I don’t need much time. I could list a thousand things to love about Mom in thirty seconds.”
“I know.” Taylor kissed Belle’s temple and rejoined Maddie.
“She is 100% right.” Maddie folded her hands and rested them on her knees.
Her professional calm was unnerving. This woman, this expert, had replaced the giddy girl Taylor remembered from their childhood.
Taylor flinched. “Excuse me?” Her sister was by no means responsible for their mother’s death, and she would excommunicate anyone who claimed it was so.
“Belle is riddled with grief, confusion, and guilt. Obviously she isn’t responsible for her mother’s death.” Maddie waved one hand to dismiss the mere thought. “It was an accident, pure and simple. Her mom slipped, hit her head, and drowned. But at her age and emotional development, Belle’s brain just won’t accept that.”
“Yeah, I know.” A sigh of relief escaped Taylor. She hadn’t realized how on the edge she had been until Maddie echoed what she had already believed.
“Belle needs two things right now, more than anything else. First, she needs an active project to give her a reason to wake up every morning.”
The hint that suicide was even possible hit her like a sneaker wave. Taylor hadn’t considered this.
“And second, she needs to know, to truly know, that this wasn’t her fault. You could tell her. Her grandparents could tell her. Her friends could tell her. I could, cops could. Whoever. But what we know about adolescent brain development is that Belle will not believe it until she tells herself it is true.”
“Um….” Taylor was still struggling to find her way out from under Maddie’s casual suggestion of suicide. Whatever project she was imagining was as far away as the shoreline.
“The only way Belle will ever tell herself she isn’t at fault, is if she learns f
or herself exactly what happened.”
Taylor shook her head, like you do when your ears are full of water. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“Belle needs to play detective. She needs a list of witnesses to interview. She needs to go to the scene and see it for herself. If she can hear it, see it, touch it…then it will be concrete, and she will believe.”
Taylor exhaled in a short, sharp breath. Maybe this play-pretend worked with Maddie’s young clients, but Belle was basically grown. She’d never buy it. Besides, just because they looked for witnesses didn’t mean they’d find any. If they tried this, they might just end up worse off than they already were. “But what if…”
Maddie nodded as though to acknowledge that Taylor had spoken. “You probably think this was your fault too, but haven’t acknowledged it yet.” She looked her up and down, assessing her weaknesses. “How I wish I had been your counselor when you lost your dad.”
Taylor hadn’t had a counselor. There hadn’t been any child psychologists in Comfort, Oregon back then, and her mom hadn’t had time to drive her to the city.
Taylor closed her eyes and tipped her head, resting it on the back of the chair. Would she have wanted a counselor back then? If so, would she also have wanted to play detective?
“Belle is a lot older than you were when your dad passed. What she is going through right now is actually more similar to what you are going through this time. It’s her second loss.”
“How so?” Taylor didn’t open her eyes.
“Adoption was a gain for you and your mom. It was healing and wonderful. Your home was an ideal place for Belle, I don’t deny that. But as she grew and learned about how your family was created, she has had to process the loss that comes with knowing she was released for adoption. No matter how right the reasons were, it’s still a loss for both her and her biological family.”
“Ah.” The words were logical but impossible for Taylor to understand. The Quinn family was ideal, in almost every way, and even if it hadn’t been perfect, it had been full of love.
Assault and Batting Page 3