by Rea Frey
Nothing.
She inspected her arms. There were three sets of fresh tracks, tiny pinpricks of purple flesh that looked like nothing more than a spider bite. How could something so small destroy her? The sad truth swirled through her chest, and Lee collapsed once more on top of her friend. It was like her mother’s death all over again. The dread. The horrific scene. That moment from wondering to knowing. The indescribable grief. Was she responsible for this death too? She’d seen Shirley going downhill these last four weeks. She’d tried to help her but had selfishly given up. She was the reason Shirley had slipped in the first place. Harry wasn’t enough to keep her clean.
She dropped Shirley’s arm. Her entire body trembled. She felt sick. How would she tell her father? He couldn’t take another loss. Not like this. She turned her attention to him. His snores had stopped. She searched for the rise and fall of his chest. Was he dead too? She climbed over to his side of the bed and ransacked the nightstand: the same ashtray he’d had since she was a child, the baggie filled with white crystals that looked like sachets of sugar. His own needle, doll-sized and unused, tipped by the crumpled package of cigarettes. A prescription bottle lay cocked and empty. She palmed it and cleared the cigarette smoke with her hands. Sleeping pills. How many had he taken?
She needed to wake him, to make him finally understand all the ways he’d let her down, let her mother down, let Shirley down, let Harry down, and that this time, he’d gone too far. This time, there was a baby. This time—like last time—someone was dead. Anger slithered inside of her. Screw him. Screw him for everything.
Her whole life flashed before her. Her father before her mother’s death, and her father after. All of the abandonment, the neglect, and laziness. And then Shirley. Shirley, who had been the only real friend she’d ever had. Shirley, who had disappeared into her father’s sick web and couldn’t find her way out again. She thought about Harry in the next room and what would happen to him, what was best.
The pillow rested at an angle above Shirley’s head. She grabbed it and stared down at her father.
It would be so easy.
Her fingers shook, but she gripped the pillow tighter. With a full breath, she began to lower the pillow over her father’s face.
present
64
grace
Grace stares out the window. The children run laps around each other in a game of tag. Mason stands in the middle with a paper hat he made earlier that morning from a menu. He holds his wooden airplane, which all of the other kids want turns with, but he refuses. Every time their tiny bodies lunge for it, he holds it high, wagging it like a bone. Mason wields commands as the children sprint and scream around him, and Grace knows, in that moment, with all of his quirks, losses, and complex thoughts, Mason will find his way.
So much has happened. Just six weeks ago, Lee was here. Now, she’s not. She is still processing, still working out the next steps with Noah. He’s worried about the baby, especially when she kept him from coming to her last doctor’s appointment.
“Whatcha thinking?” Alice slides an arm around her shoulders.
“I’m thinking I’m utterly exhausted.”
“I know what you mean,” Alice says.
She doesn’t know. She can’t possibly. The fatigue is in her bones. She wakes up tired, she goes to bed tired. She doesn’t want to eat. She lies awake at night, heart racing, unable to believe all that has transpired in less than two months. Though Mason has his regular therapy sessions, she realizes she might need therapy too.
“Mason looks like he’s having fun.”
Grace smiles. “He is.” Cheryl and Carol bicker outside, the sliding glass of the patio door unable to block the audible sounds of their heated conversation. Cheryl is doing well with her treatment. Charlie and Fred are busy drinking beer, laughing, and watching the kids play. Alice is lost in a balloon of new business ideas and one-track thoughts as she chats beside her. It is good to be around so much normalcy, but she doesn’t belong. She has never needed her friends more, but there is a new distance between them. They can’t understand all that she’s been through.
Summer is approaching, and Grace craves routine. Mason will start at the Waldorf school in August. It will be his first school experience, but after interviewing and initial assessments with the staff, she’s confident he’s going to thrive.
Alice transitions outside to the deck and Grace follows, the intense sun signifying the start of summer.
“How are you?” Carol asks.
“Fine.” She is so sick of everyone asking her that. She isn’t fine.
“Oh, before I forget. Here.” Carol reaches over to the slatted side table and plucks Lee’s journal from the wood. “Thank you for letting me read this. I know it was private, but … it helped me understand her so much more.”
“No problem.” Grace slips the book into her sweater, holding it tightly against her chest.
“Her childhood and the stuff about her dad … man. What a tragic life he had.”
“Who, Harold?” Cheryl asks as she hands Grace an iced tea. Grace glares at Carol’s inability to keep anything from her mother.
“Harold is a stupid name. It sounds like hairy, which makes one think of fur.” Mason pounds up the steps. He has removed his hat, his cheeks flaming, and sets his plane by the edge of the deck.
Alice laughs. “It does sound like hairy.”
“Do you even know what the name Harold means?” Mason probes.
“I don’t. Do you?”
“Yes, of course I do, or I wouldn’t have brought it up. Harold comes from the Latin Herald, meaning a king. A man to lead a nation. A man with a perfectly round head. A man who has many thoughts but says very few words. That’s a Harold. I need to go to the bathroom.”
He pushes past Grace and the women, yanks open the sliding glass door, and lets himself in. No one follows him anymore. They let Mason breathe, explore, wander, and make mistakes, and because of it, he is thriving.
Alice looks at Grace. “How could he possibly know what that name means?”
She smiles. “Noah did a lesson on names last week. He’s become pretty obsessed.”
“Where is Noah?”
“With some of his other students.” This is a lie. She didn’t tell him about the get-together, didn’t want him to come. She hasn’t yet confided in her friends about Noah and Shirley. Not until she figures out how the two of them will end up.
“I wonder if Lee ever told Mason about her dad? I’m sure she had to talk about her parents at some point, right?” Alice asks.
“If he read her journal, he knows he wasn’t really there for Lee,” Carol says.
“Can a seven-year-old really understand all that though?” Alice takes a dainty sip of iced tea.
“Probably not.” Grace closes her eyes. What’s not in that journal is the truth. “Does anyone else need like a yearlong vacation?”
“Yes,” the women chime in.
More like a lifetime, Grace thinks. And she means it. She leans her head against her own chair as they listen to the rustle of leaves and the kids chattering at the edge of the yard. The women talk among themselves; Fred and Charlie are still lost in their own conversation. She remembers when Noah was here the day of the barbecue, and Lee was so excited by the prospect of their budding romance, the trip, her life, everything.
Grace swallows the sorrow and takes a sip of tea. The sweet, cold brew coats her throat but settles in a wash of sugar and nerves. She closes her eyes and clutches the journal closer to her chest. The chorus of voices soothes her as Mason comes back outside, dashes past all of them, and charges straight to the backyard to play with the other kids.
past
65
lee
The baby stirred in Lee’s room. It was just an adjustment cry, probably him transitioning between dreams, but it was enough to bring her back to the present. She paused with the pillow mere inches from her father’s face and then lowered it to the nightstand with
an uneven exhale. She couldn’t do this. She wasn’t a murderer.
She climbed off the bed. Something was tumbling out of her father’s right pocket. She moved closer and peered at the roll of money with the red hair tie around it. She grabbed the cash and walked back to her room. She rummaged in her closet for her motorcycle boots and tipped them over. First one, then the other. Nothing. She thought she was so clever, stashing her money here.
She tossed the boots to the back of the closet. Her father had stolen from her. He’d stolen the money she’d worked so tirelessly for, to pay for the baby, his formula, his diapers, the mortgage, the food, everything.
Her entire body ignited with rage. Why had she allowed this type of abuse for so long? What did that say about her? Instead of standing up to him and changing her life, she’d started to drink. So she could numb herself to all the pain he’d caused all these years. So she could pretend he hadn’t taken away the only real friend she’d ever had.
She checked on Harry and walked to the living room. Despite all of her efforts, this place was a disaster. It would never be anything else. Her whole life had taken place here, and she’d held on to it, because her mother had been part of it. But there hadn’t been a trace of her mother in a long time.
She was a fool.
She marched back to her father’s room, where her best friend lay, nothing but a corpse now. She should just let her father wake up on his own and see the woman he loved like that—reduced to decomposing flesh. The second woman he’d loved and lost.
Agony festered. Frustration. Worry. Anger. Disappointment. Hate. All of the things she’d had to teach herself, do for herself, do for the both of them.
Suddenly a whoosh lit the air, and she screamed. The pillow she’d dropped on the nightstand had ignited from the candle, and angry red flames seized the fabric and licked the curtains. She moved back and yelled to her father, but he didn’t move. She needed to get him out of here before the whole house burned down. Could she even drag him? The flames caught and spread. She watched the fire, knowing she didn’t have a lot of time. She made a quick decision, then retreated from the room. The baby. She had to get Harry.
She scooped him from the bassinet and curled his warm body close to her chest. He knew her smell. He trusted her. The realization dawned on her: Harry was hers now. Not Shirley’s. Not her father’s.
Hers.
She ran out the back door, tucked him into his infant seat, and started the car. She tilted the vents to blast the heat, as it was exceptionally cold for November. She made sure he was buckled and ducked back inside. The driveway wrapped to the rear of the house. No one could see her. No neighbors were out. The house wasn’t obviously burning, no black reams of smoke edging out of the fireplace just yet. Shirley had removed the batteries from the smoke alarm months ago when it kept beeping. It constantly went off from their smoking. There would be no audible warning that the house was being seized by such wicked flames.
She scurried to her desk to grab Harry’s birth certificate. She pocketed Shirley’s ID, both social security cards, and the guardianship papers that were in the filing cabinet.
She tossed Harry’s formula, clothes, and anything she could get her hands on into her suitcase. The hallway was pregnant with smoke, and she kicked open the hot door to look at her father’s bed. It was engulfed in flames; his body was nothing but a wave of heat. The stench seeped into the hall. She looked at Shirley’s side of the bed and choked on a sob. She escaped the house, gasping and sputtering, jumped in the car, and reversed out of the drive as fast as she could.
She was done with this house, this life. All these years spent in agony. And in minutes, it was all going to be destroyed. She pulled over a block away, unbuckled her belt, and twisted around in the back to stroke Harry’s soft head, the downy fur sprouting in a semicircle around the top. Smoke clung to her skin, and she rolled down her window to suck in fresh air.
“You’re safe,” she whispered. “We’re safe, Harry.” She turned around again to study him, his round face, his shocking blue eyes, his pink lips. The thought of calling this baby by her father’s name, of being reminded of this life and them every single day—no. Harry had her last name luckily—Chambers. She could pass for his mom. She would be his mom. Shirley had made her Harry’s legal guardian when he was born, in the event that something ever happened to her. She had the papers to prove it.
Lee knocked away a sob and gripped the wheel. Had Shirley known, somewhere deep down, that this would happen?
She thought briefly of Shirley’s family. Though she knew nothing about them, she wondered if they could possibly gain parental rights to Harry even though she had the guardianship papers. Would they fight her for custody once they learned of Shirley’s death? The thought of losing him was terrifying. But she had been in his life from day one. There was no way a court would argue with that.
She readjusted his buckles, kissed his forehead, and put on the lullaby CD she’d bought on sale at Target. She circled the block again and paused to look at her small, brick house—the flames still hadn’t started to curl from the windows, but in moments, the fire would win. Glass would crack and explode. Inky smoke would launch into the sky, and the overpowering flames would cause the entire structure to crumble and turn to ash.
She passed the house for the last time—the house of her childhood, the house of her nightmares—and then let it fade into the distance as she drove. She ignored the fear of the fire possibly spreading to other houses. It was a risk she had to take. She adjusted the rearview mirror to check on Harry. Names shuffled through her head: Grant, Stewart, Phil, Matt, James, Patrick, Colt.
She turned right to loop onto the highway, buying into the details of her backstory with all its layers, complications, and skewed facts. Where did she go now? She’d have to get a new house. She needed to start a new life.
“What about Asher?” she asked. No, not right. “Louie?” No. “Mason?” she asked. Of course. Mason was his middle name. Harry cooed from the back and revealed a gummy half smile. She nodded in affirmation. “Mason. Mason is perfect.” His birth certificate said Harry Mason Chambers. Mason would simply become his legal name.
She nodded again, the new name clicking into place. She thought of Shirley—his real mother, her best friend—and tears spilled onto her cheeks. Her crisped body. Those lifeless eyes. The waxen skin. All of that lost potential. What an incredible mother she could have been.
Lee would have to concoct her own story about how she became a single mother … unless she just wanted to tell everyone the truth. No, she’d never tell anyone the truth.
The night of the party flashed through her mind. That black hole of remembrance would serve as the perfect backdrop to how she got pregnant, if she wanted to play the single mother card. It would ensure she’d never have to talk about it, that her backstory was as painful as that night, that she’d had to fight hard for Mason, and that she didn’t want to remember. It would feed into the lie so she could close down that area of her past and not think about what she’d done to get him. And it would keep her bonded to Shirley, keep the reason she was doing this fresh in her mind. It was her fault Shirley had gone to that party. It was her fault Shirley had ever met Harold. It was her fault she’d relapsed. So it didn’t matter if the origin of where Mason came from was a lie. It was her lie, but Shirley’s truth.
She was doing this for the both of them.
She shook her head, pressed harder on the gas pedal, and focused on getting away from the house. She adjusted the vent so it blew back onto Mason’s soft cheeks. The streets were drenched by late-season rain, which would soon turn to snow.
The baby squeezed his plump fists together and stuffed one meaty palm into his mouth. “It’s a new beginning, Mason,” she said to him. “You’ll see.” Her heart slashed against her ribs. Though she ached for Shirley, the rest was a release: from her father, from the walls of that damn house, from the anguished, tangled memories of a happy childhood ripped away
by murder and drink.
Even the thought of giving up alcohol made her pause. But she didn’t have a choice. She wouldn’t be like Shirley. She wouldn’t disappoint Mason. She had to be here for him. She made a mental note to find the nearest AA chapter. She’d go on Monday. She’d go every single day if she had to. No more wine. No more drinking.
They bumped over a pothole and Mason laughed. “Is that funny?” she asked. She bounced in her seat, and he laughed again.
She reveled in the sweet, raspy sound of his laugh and kept driving, the town fading to blurred dots of trees and clusters of houses in the crooked rearview mirror. A few homes were already decorated for Thanksgiving, with inflatable turkeys, cornucopias, and oversized pumpkins on doorsteps. The thought of cooking a holiday meal in her own kitchen with Mason strapped to her chest excited her. She would soon forget about her father, the smell of death, and all the sins. And sweet Shirley. His mother. Her best friend. She cleared her throat and swatted away tears.
An hour later, racing on I-24E, she decided to drive to Chattanooga. She’d check them into a hotel and stay there until she got the call about the house. She’d prepare herself for how to take the news, how to fake it. There would be insurance money. She’d have enough to start over.
With miles eaten beneath the soft rubber of her ancient tires, she looked back at Shirley’s sweet little boy, asleep in his seat. A swell of love, real and thriving, pulsed behind her lids. The real question—could she be his mother—clung like static to her skin. The uncertainty broke apart and dispersed across the earth. She had Mason now. That was all that mattered. She had to pull this off. She didn’t have a choice.
She’d done what she had to do.
sacrifice
penance
atonement
devotion
loyalty
I am a loyal person. I have sacrificed almost everything for a child who is not technically mine, but I love him anyway.