by Deborah Reed
“Weird,” Quincy said.
“Yeah. It is. What do you say we go now?”
“Our dad’s name is Neal,” Quincy said.
Elin stopped. “I know.”
“Do you know him?”
“Yes,” Elin said. “Do you?”
“No,” they answered together.
“How do you know him?” Averlee asked.
“We used to be friends, a long time ago.”
“And now you’re not?” Quincy said.
“Oh, I suppose we are. With him being your dad that certainly makes him a friend of mine, don’t you think?”
“Will he come down from the mountain now?” Quincy asked.
“What mountain?”
“Our mom told us he was mountain climbing and it was really big and would take a long time to come down.”
“Mountain climbing? What mountain?”
Averlee shrugged.
“Do you think he would come down if we sent him a letter about our mom?” Quincy asked.
“Who would take a letter up a mountain?” Averlee asked her.
“He might.” Elin stood. “Let’s head across the street. I’m tired of sitting.”
They gathered their books and pencils off the table, finished a glass of juice, used the bathroom, and tied a shoe before they were finally out the door. It was exhausting to watch and wrangle. She did not understand how mothers did this all day, every day.
The bookstore smelled of old paper and ink and coffee. It was a large, single room with mahogany bookshelves and a waxy red concrete floor. A collection of art and design books on a center table immediately caught Elin’s eye. As did a hefty collection on the works by Louis Comfort Tiffany. She flipped through the pages.
The woman behind the counter wore a sleek jade blouse, a black skirt, and black heels, attire more suited to working at an art gallery than a bookstore. She approached Elin, told her that not only was the book a beautiful collection of glass in pictures, but the Charles Hosmer Morse Museum of American Art was just up the street, holding the largest real collection of Tiffany glass in the world.
She had forgotten. Or at least put it out of her mind. Her mother had taken her and Kate when they were young. The visit was really for Elin, for her interest in color and art. Kate had done nothing but complain.
“Are you just visiting?” the woman asked.
Elin set the book down. A chill ran through her shoulders and she shivered. “Yes,” she said.
“Have you girls been to Disney World?” the woman asked.
Good question. Elin had no idea, and not being privy to this information caused a sudden jerk in the back of her throat. This was a conversation she would never have with her sister, would have never had anyway if she’d lived, and this thought was becoming as difficult to manage as the fact that her sister was dead.
Averlee shook her head no. Of course Kate had never taken them there. But could she have even if she’d wanted to? Probably not. She lived like a monk. They didn’t even have a TV, and the computer given to her by “the center” was at least twelve years old.
“We’ve got plans for Disney,” Elin said, and her nieces stared at her with puckered, puzzled expressions as she ushered them toward the children’s books along the back wall. An hour later Elin had purchased five hundred dollars’ worth of a children’s library. An investment in them, she told herself. A contribution toward their future.
THIRTY-FIVE
“IT’S NEAL RHODES,” HE’D SAID.
Vivvie nearly dropped the phone. She’d just come in from playing Ping-Pong, her cheeks warmly flushed, her mind out of sorts, emotions like birds taking flight in too many directions. And here was Wink across the room with a glass of water, his back to her, swallowing, pretending not to listen.
“I’m on my way into town,” Neal said. “I’m so sorry about Kate.”
Whatever he said after that didn’t stick, and Vivvie hung up, walked into the spare room, and sat in the middle of the floor. Three weeks ago she’d cleaned this room for the girls, already thinking of the space as theirs, of getting a second bed and buying colorful drapes and linens, of making it feel like a girl’s room, and now it was in worse shape than before—boxes lining walls, stacked on the bed, and blocking the closet door. Worse still was the fact that when she did finally get it cleaned out it might very well be because she was sending every bit of it with Neal.
Wink stood in the doorway. Vivvie wasn’t sure for how long.
“He’s coming for his daughters,” she said.
“I kind of gathered that from your call. You went white in the face.” He sat across from her on the floor. “What did he say?”
“Only that he was coming. Least that’s all I heard. He said we’d talk more when he got here.”
“I know it’s none of my business. But what did Kate intend for them? I mean, she must have planned something. Did she leave a will?”
Vivvie nodded, said nothing, and then stood and began ripping open a box. “She wanted Elin to have her daughters,” she said. “I haven’t told her. I haven’t told anyone. It’s in her will. They and everything she owned were supposed to go to her sister.”
Vivvie leaned forward, rested her head on her arm, and breathed. She could feel Wink moving behind her, and then his hand on her back.
“That didn’t really take into account that they still had a father,” he said.
“No. It did not.”
“I’m no lawyer but it seems to me that a living parent overrides the wishes of a will.”
“It does. It will.”
“Why haven’t you told Elin?”
It wasn’t until the words were fully formed that Vivvie realized they were true. “I don’t think she wants them. She doesn’t want them. And she doesn’t want me to have them either.”
Wink rubbed a circle at the center of her back. Vivvie closed her eyes. He let go a loud, heavy sigh. “What’s in the box?” he asked.
“Kate’s notebooks.”
“Like journals or something?”
“Could be. She used to write poems and stuff like that. I have no idea what’s written here. I didn’t want to know. But now I do. Maybe there’s stuff about Neal.”
“Incriminating stuff?”
Vivvie shrugged.
Wink dropped his hand. “I can leave you alone—”
Vivvie faced him, so close she could see the elaborate, cross-stitched lines at the corners of his eyes, the grey stubble on his chin. She could see his eyes were more grey than blue. “Stay,” she said. “If you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind at all.” He reached around her and lifted the box. “Where do you want it?”
Vivvie studied the room. The only free space was where they stood, a pocket of air in a cave. “Right here is just fine.”
They sat cross-legged, facing one another, the box between them as Vivvie began removing the notebooks and asked Wink to do the same. He found a small box at the bottom, filled with what they quickly understood were Neal’s letters to Averlee and Quincy. They’d never been opened. So they read those first, out loud to each other, page after page as tender as any poem.
THIRTY-SIX
ELIN DIDN’T BELIEVE IN GHOSTS or spirits, but a knock on the door of her room at the B and B sent Fluke into a barking, snarling frenzy, the likes of which she’d never seen, and when Elin jumped to her feet and demanded he stop, he would not back down. And this, more than anything, frightened her—how hard it was for him to restrain himself, as if he knew more than she did, as if he sensed something beyond the knuckles on the door.
Elin clapped her hands in his face and finally he sat back and licked the stiff hairs around his mouth, his front legs shivering with tension. “Stay,” she said, and he did what he was told.
No ghosts, no spirits, only Shug handing Elin a piece of stationery with decorative paisley trim through the crack in the door. “I’m so sorry about Fluke,” Elin said, afraid to open it all the way, afraid he might
bite now, too. “He’s never done this. He’s always so well behaved.”
“Oh, sweetheart. Don’t apologize. He’s been through so much. You all have. He’s just a dog. Not nearly as good at hiding his emotions.”
And what was that supposed to mean? Elin looked down at the stationery in her hands.
“Your mother called,” Shug said.
This was written on the paper.
“She said you weren’t answering your cell phone,” Shug said.
This was written there, too. As was, Call me. He’s on his way.
“She said you’d know what it means.”
At the bottom was written one more line: There’s something I haven’t told you about the will.
THIRTY-SEVEN
ELIN DECIDED IT WASN’T A good idea to deliver the news before bed so she waited until morning and then woke the girls extra early by pulling back the drapes, the wooden curtain rings clacking all the way down the wooden rod, and after the racket came the sharp, blinding sun in their eyes.
Before today she’d let them sleep as long as they wished, and here she was on the bed next to Quincy. They pulled away from her, raw nerves and frightened, suspicious eyes. “It’s all right,” Elin said, feeling differently toward them, more protective, more responsible, more watchful of her own behavior after the puzzling news her mother had shared with her about the will. “We’ve got a visitor coming. You need to get dressed, brush your hair, and hurry up for breakfast.”
“Who is it?” Averlee asked, bolting upright against her pillows.
Quincy was still trying to sit up.
“Your father,” Elin said, and their heads shot up as if by the physical force of her words.
“He came off the mountain?” Quincy asked.
“Apparently,” Elin said.
Averlee appeared terrified.
“It’s all right,” Elin said, patting Averlee’s knee. “Shug is making breakfast a little early for you. We’ve got a big day ahead of us. It’s going to be fine.”
As if on cue the smell of bacon drifted up the stairs and into the room.
“Pick out something you like to wear. Something comfortable.”
“Is he taking us?” Averlee said.
“Oh. No, Averlee. He’s just coming to see you.” Elin averted her eyes, looking around the room. Maybe he could take them and there wasn’t a thing she could do. Maybe that was the truth. Temporary custody was just that, temporary, until a better solution was found.
In the dining room the early sun cast different shadows than it did later in the morning, making the room, the mood, stranger than it already was. Everyone ate their pancakes in silence. Even Shug, whose friendly, energetic nature never failed to infuse whole rooms, was subdued. She cleared the table and repeatedly wiped her hands down her apron.
Averlee pushed her half-eaten pancake away. “I’m full,” she said, dressed in her old shorts and T-shirt.
Quincy was still eating. Elin had never seen her eat so much. The excitement buzzed off her skin. She was wearing the outfit Elin had bought her, white cotton with a pink, crew neck collar, brown leather sandals that still crunched with newness when she walked.
“Why don’t you head upstairs and brush your teeth?” Elin said to Averlee. “I’ll wait here until your sister is finished.”
Averlee hesitated. They’d always gone up together after every meal.
“It’s all right. Take Fluke with you. Go on, boy, follow Averlee.” Elin pointed and Fluke stood at Averlee’s feet, and Elin understood that the anticipation of seeing her father was making the loss of her mother all the more real. Such a monumental moment, and who else would she want to tell but her mother?
Elin took Averlee’s hand inside both of hers. “It’ll be okay,” she said. “It will.”
Averlee gently pulled away.
Half an hour later the three of them waited on the front-porch bench. Neal had called and left a message with Shug that he’d be there at ten o’clock. It was nine forty-five.
Elin fanned her hair off the back of her neck. It didn’t seem that hot, not yet, but sweat was a viscous oil coating her nape and she caught herself sighing repeatedly, forced herself to stop. She was dressed in capris instead of shorts, and her white blouse instead of the tank top that would have kept her slightly cooler. She fanned and fidgeted with nervous anticipation. All three of their lives were about to be altered in ways Elin wouldn’t allow herself to imagine. Change was the only certainty.
Quincy swung her legs beneath the bench and strained to see up the street. Averlee looked as if she were traveling alone on a bus, staring off to the side, hands in her lap, her face a study in the forsaken. More than once Elin had to stop herself from promising that they wouldn’t have to leave with him, that he wasn’t coming to take them away.
A tan sedan appeared in the distance. It drove slowly down the street, and then paused at the driveway before turning in.
Elin wiped her palms on her thighs. She cleared her throat, and flashed a forced smile down onto Averlee and Quincy as she stood.
It felt like a full five minutes before the car door opened and he stepped out, a man in aviator sunglasses, a black T-shirt and jeans, leather shoes, blond hair in waves around his ears.
Son of a bitch, she thought, and may have even said it. She looked at the girls, then Neal, then the girls, and finally only at Neal.
Quincy stood and grabbed Elin’s hand.
Neal touched his heart and Elin did the same before quickly shoving her hand in her pocket. He removed his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes. He put the glasses back on, opened the rear car door, and pulled out a suitcase.
“What’s that?” Elin said.
He closed the door and began walking toward them. “A suitcase.”
“What are you doing with it?”
He stopped nearly ten feet from the porch and removed his sunglasses again. His tan skin had aged around the eyes and mouth, thin lines that did not detract in any way from his looks, at least not from there. “Wow,” he whispered, and let go of the suitcase and opened his arms. Quincy rushed toward him. He kneeled and held her against him, eyes clenched in a bliss that Elin could not bear to see.
Averlee looked up at her, sighed, and slowly walked toward Neal. “Sweetheart,” he said. “Do you remember me?” He embraced both girls at once.
Elin crossed her arms and looked off into the grove. She wished she could go inside the house but what if the girls turned around and she wasn’t there? Would they think she’d abandoned them? Would they even care? She did not want to see that they didn’t care.
Neal let go and stood, smiling so hard he laughed. “Wow,” he said. “Just wow.”
“What are you doing with the suitcase?” Elin asked.
His smile grew faint when he looked up at her. “Checking in,” he said.
THIRTY-EIGHT
LAST NIGHT VIVVIE AND WINK had begun reading Kate’s oldest notebooks first. Neither of them knew much about poetry but both agreed that as the years progressed so had Kate’s writing, even as her penmanship began to fail. There were pages of scraps, too, words in margins, phrases that made no sense. A freckled hand, frosted lips, west wind, broken feather, angry eel. The word mother appeared often, sometimes circled, sometimes in a square, often by itself, and Vivvie had no way of knowing if Kate had been thinking of herself or Vivvie or of some consummate mother who lived exclusively inside Kate’s own head.
Kate wrote about yellow birds and waxy plants, about twisty trees and daughters beneath the leaves. She wrote about busted hearts and the pleasures of sex, until finally, just before midnight, Vivvie and Wink discovered poems she had written about death, about endings, about the heartache of leaving others behind.
“I think that’s enough for one day,” Vivvie had said. “Maybe we can go through more over breakfast.”
“My place or yours?” he asked with a smirk.
“Mine. You already made lunch today. I’ll make you breakfast.”
&nb
sp; “I had to make lunch. You won fair and square. I owed you.”
“You’ve been a big help around here. I owe you, too.”
“The pleasure’s mine,” he said, and she walked him to the door, watched him disappear into the yard, listened for the ache of screen door hinges, and then the close of the front door after that. She watched until the light came on in his kitchen, and from the cover of dark, she watched until the light disappeared and there was nothing but night sounds, frogs and crickets, her company for years, and still she did not want to go back inside.
Now here they were, the morning after what had felt like a date, finishing their eggs and biscuits at Vivvie’s kitchen table, the mood as intimate and awkward as if they’d spent the night together. They drank their coffee in silence, smiling every now and then above their mugs.
“It’s kind of stuffy in that back room,” Vivvie said. “How about we lug what’s left out here to the table?”
And so they did, still smiling meekly as they crossed into each other’s space, clearing the dishes, settling back into their chairs.
Half an hour later, while lost inside a poem about icy cold springs and a daughter’s wet curls, Vivvie was jerked back into the room by a feeling, as if the sun had been extinguished, and with it, every living thing on earth. She raised her eyes. Wink’s jaw had fallen open, his hand cupping his chin and cheek, eyes rounded on the notebook where his other hand lay at the top of the page.
She knew before she asked. Knew it like he’d said it, like he’d pointed a finger and accused her, sick with understanding, outraged in disbelief.
What in God’s name had she been thinking, allowing him to snoop through the personal writings of her daughter?
Wink swallowed. His eyes rolled up to meet hers.
“Go ahead,” Vivvie said. “Tell me.”
He turned the notebook around and slid it across the table.
A poem called “On the Night She Killed My Father.” The first two lines read:
On the night she killed my father
She made casualties of us all.
Vivvie snapped the notebook shut, shoved her chair back, and turned her back to the table. She held her head between her knees. No need to read the rest. She already knew what was written there.