by Lisa McMann
For the second time today, Janie’s not laughing.
Cabel continues over the noise. “I mean, the flip was one thing, but the drag, that was something entirely out of control. Your legs were flying. Remember rule number one of water skiing?”
“I know. Sheesh. When you fall, let go of the rope, I know. There’s just a lot of shit to remember when you’re out there.”
Cabel snorts. “A lot . . . yeah, a whole lot of shit to remember.” He laughs long and hard, wipes his eyes and tries to get control of himself. “Shouldn’t ‘let go of the rope if it’s drowning you’ be sort of an automatic response, though? Basic survival technique?”
She glares at him.
He stops laughing and gives her a helpless, innocent look. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” he says.
“Go suck a mean one,” Janie says. She turns away and squints through her glasses, locating the sleeping woman on the trampoline, now a tiny island in the distance. You still don’t catch it all, do you, Cabe?
He probably never will.
“Get over yourself, Hannagan,” she mutters. “You’re on vacation, damn it. You’re relaxing and having fun.” It sounds wooden.
“What’s that, sweets?” He slides over to her on the bench seat.
“I said, it was kinda funny, wasn’t it?” Janie looks into Cabel’s eyes. Smiles sheepishly.
With his finger, he catches a drip of water from her chin. Smiles. He brings his finger to his lips and licks the water. “Mmm,” he says, nuzzling her neck. “Carp shit.”
1:53 p.m.
Cabel nods off on a blanket under a shady oak.
Janie sits, chin on her knees, staring at her toes. Listening to the rhythm of the soft waves washing up on shore. After a while, she gets up. “I’m going for a walk,” she whispers. Cabel doesn’t move.
She slips a long T-shirt over her swimsuit, shoves her toes in her flips, grabs her cell phone, and walks behind the cabin and through the little parking lot, up the steep driveway to the main road. Across the road there’s a field and a railroad track. The rails glint in the late afternoon sunshine. Janie walks along the track and thinks, glad to have a quiet place where she can let her dream guard down.
After a while, she stops walking. Sits on the track, feeling the hot metal against the backs of her thighs through the thin cover-up. Opens her phone and dials memory #2.
“Janie—what’s going on? Everything all right?”
Janie gently waves a bumblebee away. “Hi. Yeah. I’m just doing a lot of thinking. About what we talked about . . . you know? Lots of time to think on vacation,” she says, and laughs nervously.
“And?”
“And . . . you’re sure you are okay with whatever I decide?”
“Of course. You know that. Did you make up your mind, then?
“Not really. I’m—I’m still deciding.”
“Have you talked to Cabel about it?”
Janie winces. “No. Not yet.”
“Well, I don’t blame you for wanting—and needing—to consider all of your options.”
Janie’s throat grows tight. “Thank you, sir.”
“You know the drill. Call me anytime. Let me know what you choose.”
“I will.” Janie closes the phone and stares at it.
There’s nothing more to say.
On the way back, she picks up a train-flattened penny from the track and wonders if one of the vacationers down the hill placed it there. Wonders if some excited little kid will come back for it. She sets it on the railroad tie so whoever it is will be sure to see it. Walks slowly back to the cabin to drop off her stuff. And then it’s back outside, under the tree.
She watches Cabe sleep. Later, she dozes too, whenever she can get a chance while she wearily dodges Cabel’s dreams, and the dreams of a sleeping child somewhere, probably in the cabin next door.
There is no getting away from it all here. Or anywhere.
No escape for her.
5:49 p.m.
A whistle blasts and the train rushes past up at the top of the hill. Everyone who was sleeping awakes.
“Another busy day at the lake,” Cabel murmurs. “My stomach’s growling.” He rolls over on the blanket. Janie can’t resist. She snuggles up to his warm body.
“I can hear it,” she says. “And I smell the charcoal grill.”
“We should really get up now.”
“I know.”
They remain still, Janie’s head on Cabel’s chest, a nice breeze coming off the lake. She squinches her eyes shut and holds him, takes in the scent of him, feels the warmth of his chest on her cheek. Loves him.
Breaks a little more inside.
6:25 p.m.
Janie hears the click of the cabin’s screen door and sits up guiltily as Megan walks over to them. “I’m sorry, Megan—we should be helping you get dinner.”
“Nah,” Megan grins. “You needed a nap after all that skiing and drowning. But your cell phone is beeping inside the cabin. I don’t know what to do with it.”
“Thanks. I’ll check it.”
Cabel sits up too. “Everything okay? Where’s Charlie, anyway?”
“In town picking up some groceries. It’s all good. Relax,” Megan says. “Seriously. It’s been a tough time for you guys—you need the rest.”
Obediently, Cabel sinks back down on the blanket as Janie gets to her feet. “Be right back,” she says. “It better not be Captain with an assignment or I’m quitting.”
Cabel laughs. “You wouldn’t.”
6:29 p.m.
Voice mails.
From Carrie. Five of them.
And they’re bad.
Janie listens, incredulous. Listens again, stunned.
“Hey, Janers, dammit, where are you? Call me.” Click.
“Janie, seriously. There’s something wrong with your mom. Call me.” Click.
“Janie, seriously! Your mom is stumbling around your front yard yelling for you. Didn’t you tell her you were going to Fremont? She’s totally drunk, Janie—she’s wailing and—oh, shit. She’s in the road.” Click.
“Hey. I’m taking your mom to County Hospital. If she blows in Ethel, you are so dead. Call me. Jesus. Also? Shit. My phone battery is dying, so maybe try the hospital or something . . . don’t know what to tell you. I’ll try you again when I have a chance.” Click.
“Oh, my God.” Janie stares at her phone, not really seeing it. Then she calls Carrie.
Gets Carrie’s voice mail. “Carrie! What happened? Call me. I’ve got my phone now. I’m so sorry. I was—taking a nap.” It sounds hollow. Careless. Frivolous, even, when Janie says it aloud. What was I thinking, leaving my mother alone for a week? “God. Just call me.”
Janie stands there, all the breath being sucked out of her, replaced by fear. What if something’s really wrong?
And then anger.
I will never have a life as long as that woman is alive, she thinks.
Squeezes her eyes shut and takes it back, immediately.
Can’t believe she would be such a horrible person, think such a horrible thing.
Charlie walks into the tiny cabin kitchen with a brown bag of groceries and stops short when he sees the look on Janie’s face. “Are you okay?” he asks.
Janie blinks, unsure. “No, I don’t think so,” she says quietly. “I think . . . I think I have to go.”
Charlie sets the groceries down hard on the counter. “Cabe!” he shouts through the screen door. “Come ’ere.”
Janie sets her phone down and pulls her suitcase from the wardrobe. Starts throwing her clothes in her suitcase. She looks at her disheveled self in the mirror and rakes her fingers through her dark blond tangles. “Oh, my God,” she says to herself. “What the hell is wrong with my mother?”
And then it hits.
What if her mother really is dying? Or dead?
It’s both fascinating and horrifying. Janie imagines the scene.
“What is it?” Cabel says, coming into the cabin. �
�What’s going on?”
“Here,” she says. She dials voice mail and hands the phone to Cabel. “Listen to all the messages.”
As Cabel listens, Janie, in a daze, continues to pack.
After all her things are crammed inside, she realizes that she needs something to change into—she can’t drive all the way to Fieldridge in her swimsuit.
She can’t drive at all.
Cue major detail.
“Fuck,” Janie mutters. She watches as Cabel listens to the messages. Watches his expression intensify.
“Holy shit,” he says. He looks at Janie. Takes her hand. “Holy shit, Janie. What can I do?”
Janie just buries her face in his neck. Trying not to think.
Endless.
7:03 p.m.
It’s a three-hour drive home. Cabel’s at the wheel of the Beemer that Captain Komisky lets him drive. A Grand Rapids radio station deejay cracks a lame joke and then plays Danny Reyes’s “Bleecker Street” in his all-request hour, and Janie stares at her phone, willing Carrie to call. But it’s silent.
Janie calls the hospital. They have no record of a Dorothea Hannagan being admitted.
“Maybe she’s fine and they didn’t have to admit her,” Cabel says.
“Or maybe she’s in the morgue.”
“They’d have called you by now.”
Janie’s silent, trying to think of reasons why the hospital hasn’t called, much less Carrie with an update.
“We can call Captain,” Cabel says.
“What good will that do?”
“The police chief? She can get info from anybody she wants.”
“True. But . . . ” Janie sighs. “I don’t . . . my mother . . . never mind. No. I don’t want to call Captain.”
“Why? It would put your mind at ease.”
“Cabe . . . ”
“Janie, seriously. You should call her—get the scoop. She’d totally do it for you if you’re worried about imposing.”
“No thanks.”
“You want me to call her?”
“No. Okay? I don’t want her to know.”
Cabel sighs, exasperated. “I don’t get it.”
Janie clenches her jaw. Looks out the window. Feels the heat in her cheeks, the tears stinging. The shame. Says softly, “It’s embarrassing, all right? My mom’s a freaking drunk. Stumbling around in the front yard, yelling? My God. I just don’t need Captain seeing that. Or knowing about that—that part of my life. It’s personal. There are things I talk about with Captain, and things that are private. Just drop it.”
Cabel is silent. After a few minutes of radio deejay babble, he plugs his iPod into the car stereo. Josh Schicker’s “Feels Like Rain” washes through the car. When the song ends and the first notes of the next song begin, he stiffens and then hastily flips it off. Knows what’s next. Knows it’s “Good Mothers, Don’t Leave!”
An hour passes as they travel eastward across Michigan, leaving the sun setting orange and bright in their wake. Traffic is light. Janie leans her head against the window, watching the blur of deep green trees and yellow fields pass by. There’s a deer in a grassy area as darkness approaches—or maybe it’s just that burned-out tree stump that fools her every time.
She wonders how many more times she’ll witness scenes like this. Trying to remember everything she sees now, for later. When all she has is darkness and dreams.
She tries the hospital again. Still no record of Dorothea Hannagan. It’s a good sign, Janie thinks . . . except that Carrie still isn’t calling. “Where is she?” Janie bounces her head against the headrest.
Cabel glances sidelong at Janie. “Carrie? Didn’t she say her phone’s dead?”
“She said her battery was low. But there are other phones . . . . ”
Cabel taps his chin thoughtfully. “Does she actually know your cell number or are you on her speed dial?”
“Ahh. Good point. Speed dial.”
“So that’s why she hasn’t called. She doesn’t know your number, it’s in her dead phone and she can’t get to it.”
Janie smiles. Lets go of a worried breath. “Yeah . . . you’re probably right.”
“Did you try calling your house to see if your mom is there?”
“Yeah, I did that, too. No answer.”
“Do you have Stu’s number? Or Carrie’s home phone?”
“I tried her home. No answer. And I don’t have Stu’s. I should. I’ve always meant to . . . . ”
“What about Melinda?”
“Yeah, right.” Janie snorts. “Just what I need—the knobs from the Hill spreading this story around.” She turns back to the window. “I’m sorry I was snippy. You know—earlier.”
Cabel smiles in the darkness. “S’okay.” He reaches for Janie’s hand. Snakes his fingers between hers. “I wasn’t thinking. My bad.” He pauses. “You know nobody thinks badly of you for things you can’t control, like what your mother does.”
“Nobody?” Janie scowls. “Right. They all have their opinion on the Durbin mess.”
“Nobody who matters.”
Janie tilts her head. “Yanno, Cabe, maybe neighbors, the entire town of Fieldridge . . . maybe what they think actually does matter to me. I mean, God. Forget it. I’m just so tired of all of this. Sheesh, what next?”
After a pause, Cabel says, “Straight to the hospital, then, right?”
“Yeah, I figure that’s the best thing we can do. She could just be sitting, waiting in the ER. We’ll try that first . . . you think?”
“Yeah.”
9:57 p.m.
Janie and Cabel stand in the ER, unsure of what to do. No sign of Carrie or Janie’s mother anywhere among the assortment of ill and injured. No one at the desk has any record of her either.
Cabel taps his fingers against his lips, thinking. “Is Hannagan your mom’s married name?”
Janie squinches her eyes shut and sighs. “No.” She’s never told Cabel much about her mother, and he’s never asked. Which was just the way Janie liked it. Until now.
“Um . . . ?” Cabel prompts. “How do I put this PC. Let’s see. Okay, has your mom ever gone by any other name besides Hannagan?”
“No. Her name’s Dorothea Hannagan, and that’s the only name she’s ever had. I’m a bastard. Okay?”
“Janie, seriously. Nobody cares about that.”
“Yeah, well, I care. At least you know who both your parents are.”
Cabel stares at Janie. “Fat lot of good that did me.”
“Oh, jeez, Cabe.” Janie grimaces. “I’m sorry. Major verbal typo. I’m stressed—I don’t know what I’m saying.”
Cabel looks like he’s about to say something, but he holds back. Looks around again, futilely. “Come on,” he says, grabbing Janie’s hand. “Elevator. We’ll walk around, check waiting rooms. Ten minutes, tops, and if we don’t find Carrie, we head back to your house and wait. I don’t know what else to do.”
A shiver crawls over Janie’s skin. Her mother, the drunk, is missing.
10:02 p.m.
There, in the third-floor waiting room.
ICU.
Elbows on her knees and face in her hands, fingers threaded through her long dark curls. Leaning forward. Like she’s ready to jump to her feet at any second and run like hell.
“Carrie!” Janie says.
Carrie pops up. “Oh, good, you got my note.”
“Where’s . . . Is my mother . . . ?”
“She’s in the room with him.”
“What? Who?”
“Didn’t you get my note?”
“What note? All I know is what you left on my voice mail.”
“I left a note on Ethel—in the parking lot. Figured you’re a detective now, or whatever. You oughta think to look for my car. Anyways, how the hell did you find me, then? Never mind. Your mom—she’s fine. I mean, she’s still drunk but I think she’s coming down now . . . like way down. She’s all weepy and shaky. But—”
“Carrie,” Janie says firmly. “
Focus. Tell me what’s wrong with my mother and where I can find her.”
Carrie sighs. She looks tired. “Your mom is fine. Just drunk.”
Janie glances nervously through the open door to the hallway as a nurse walks by. Her voice is low and urgent. “Okay, okay, I get that she’s drunk. She’s always drunk. Can we stop shouting that please? And if she’s fine, why the fuck are we all in Intensive Care?”
“Oh, man,” Carrie says. She shakes her head. “Where to start?”
Cabel nudges Janie and Carrie toward the chairs and sits down with them. “Who’s ‘him’, Carrie? Who is she with?” he says gently.
Janie nods, echoing the question.
But she already knows.
There’s only one “him” it could possibly be. There is no one else in the world. No one else that would make Janie’s mother react this way. No one else Janie’s mother dreams about.
Carrie, whose normally dancing eyes are dulled from the weariness of the unusual day, looks at Janie. “Apparently, it’s your father, Janers. He’s, like, really sick.”
Janie just looks at Carrie. “My father?”
“They don’t think he’s going to make it.”
10:06 p.m.
Janie falls back into the chair. Numb. No idea how she’s supposed to feel about this news. No. Freaking. Clue.
Cabel lifts his hand to pause the conversation. The three sit in the waiting room in silence for a moment, Janie looking blank, Carrie working a piece of gum, Cabel closing his eyes and shaking his head ever so slightly. “Start from the beginning,” he says.
Carrie nods. Thinks. “Yeah, so, this afternoon, probably around three o’clock, I heard somebody hollering outside. I ignored it ’cause there’s always somebody yelling around our neighborhood, right? And I’m folding laundry on the bed and then through my window I see Janie’s mom, which is so weird, because she, like, never goes outside unless she’s walking to the gas station or the bus stop to get booze, right? But today she’s in her nightgown wandering around the yard—”
Janie flushes and puts her hands to her face. “Oh, God,” she says.
“—and, uh, she’s calling ‘Janie! Janie!’ and then she sort of stumbles and I go running outside to see what’s wrong with her. And Dorothea, she’s crying and says, ‘The phone! I gotta go to the hospital,’ over and over about twenty times, and I’m calling you and leaving you messages and finally I just drive her here ’cause I don’t know what else to do. And it takes us like an hour of sitting in the ER and talking to the receptionist before she’s . . . um . . . calmed down and able to explain that she’s not sick—that she got a phone call and she needs to see Henry.”