We all file out—Garrett, Dennis, Trudy, France, and I—and gather in the living room, where I catch snippets of Chief Kent’s stern voice. “It’s dangerous to hike in the woods alone, especially in snow and cold, without telling an adult,” he says. “You gave the whole town a scare.”
I hear Ingrid say, “Sorry, Mr. Chief,” very quietly.
The police chief leaves, and Chief Kent escorts Ingrid from the kitchen. He picks her up, puts her on the couch, and bundles her in a knitted afghan so that only her eyes and nose show.
Garrett gives Chief a one-armed guy hug–handshake; they thump each other on the back, and neither of them speaks.
ONE BY ONE, after the hot chocolate turns cold, we disband. I follow Garrett to his truck and think of asking him for a ride but decide to give him and Ingrid their time together.
“See you later?” I say, as he buckles Ingrid, still bundled in the afghan, into the backseat of his pickup.
He shuts the passenger door. He looks even more tired than he did earlier this morning, when he picked me up. “Thanks, Zell,” he says, extending his hand. When I shake it, he pulls me in for a quick hug.
“You bet,” I say. “Drive safe.”
Pastor Sheila putt-putts away in her teal sedan, France takes the “croo-za” back to the station, and Dennis returns to the Wippamunker Building.
It’s just me and Father Chet, so he offers to drive me home. Sitting in the passenger seat, I realize I still feel shaky. Like I had too much coffee or something. At first we don’t really say much, Father Chet and I. He turns onto the road, flicks the windshield wipers to hyperspeed, and accelerates just a little. The snow thickens and flies toward us.
Eventually we make small talk about the weather forecast, and the rumored mountain lion, and how lucky Garrett was to find Ingrid. And finally, I ask whether Nick ever told Father Chet about a present for me.
“A present?” Father Chet says. “Nooo, Row-sel-len. No present.”
We drive a ways, not speaking. He stops at the Main Street intersection, and the turn signal ticks and ticks. I look around at the gas station and the cemetery, the almost-three-hundred-year-old town hall and the Congregational church’s cross-topped steeple, barely discernable against steel-colored clouds.
Father Chet hums. The light turns green. He takes the corner slowly, saying the same thing in French that he said that day in the Muffinry, when I was there with Gail a while back. “Noose um blah blah blah.”
“You said that before, Father.”
“Ouai.”
“I still don’t know what it means.”
He pulls into my driveway. I grasp the car door handle, waiting for an explanation.
Finally he stops humming. He rolls his bald head against the headrest and winks. “I think you’ll figure it out when you’re ready to hear it.”
I FLOP ONTO THE COUCH—still in my coat and boots—and drift to sleep almost immediately. I don’t wake up until after the sun’s gone down. I wander around the first floor of my house, turning on lights, feeling lonely, before I decide to make Scrumpy Delight and bring it next door. A small offering of sweetness and warmth might be just the right thing to make everybody feel better.
“Ingrid’s asleep,” says Garrett, leading me to the bright yellow kitchen. “She had a big, long bubble bath, and she’s been asleep since four thirty.”
We sit opposite each other. Garrett eats nearly half of the Scrumpy Delight, thanking me between bites. “This is freakishly tasty,” he says.
“I know,” I say. “Pretty weird, right?”
He laughs and pushes away the plate. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m sort of shocked that you’re a finalist. I mean, what are the chances?”
“A few thousand to one, apparently.”
“It’s almost like fate.”
“I’d like to believe that,” I say.
“I can’t believe I’m letting Ingrid go on Pinch of Love Live. But how can I not let her go, at this point?” Garrett shrugs. “I mean, I promised. I pinkie swore.”
“Maybe she’ll get the Polly Pinch stuff out of her system. Like you said.”
“Somehow I doubt that.”
I smile.
Garrett shakes his head, loads his fork with limey goat cheese and peppery, chocolaty grilled pineapple, and offers it to me. It’s about to slide right off the tines, onto the table. I hesitate, unsure if I should take the fork or let him feed me.
“Quick,” he says. “Eat it.”
So I lean forward and open my mouth, and he giggles and pops the fork in. Chewing, I catch a few crumbs of crust in my cupped hand.
It’s the first time I’ve tried the finished product, I realize. And it’s delicious. It really is.
He pulls two beers from the fridge, pops the tops with a bottle opener, and offers me one. “I’m torn between grounding her until she turns eighteen,” he says, sitting back down, “and giving her anything and everything she wants. I mean, really, what’s the responsible parent’s reaction, here? After your daughter runs away in a blizzard?”
I take a swig of beer. “I think she learned her lesson.”
“When am I gonna learn mine?” He laughs, and I try to laugh along with him, even though I don’t really understand what he means.
An awkward silence follows, and neither of us knows where to look. I sip my beer. Garrett clears his throat and fingers a groove in the wood table.
Finally I gesture to the plate, where the remaining Scrumpy Delight forms a crescent shape. “Well, maybe we should save the rest for Ingrid,” I say.
“Definitely,” he says, stifling a yawn. “She’d like that.”
HOURS LATER, I can’t sleep. I switch on the lamp over my drafting table, but the glare hurts my eyes, and the pituitary gland I start sketching looks too square, too flat. And then . . . knock-knock-knock, pause. Knock-knock-knock, pause.
I head downstairs, into the powder room. “Ing?” I say to the Ahab wall.
“No,” says Garrett from the other side.
“Oh. Hi.”
“Were you asleep?” he asks.
“I was drawing.”
“I’m sorry I snapped at you. You know. Earlier. In the woods.”
“I’m sorry about the hat,” I say.
“Why are you sorry about the hat?”
“Because that day, when it got stuck in the tree, I told Ingrid she could get it later.”
“It’s not your fault, Zell. I told her the same thing. Believe me. I don’t blame you for a thing.”
“Good night,” I say.
“Love ya ’n’ like ya,” he says, chuckling.
“Love ya ’n’ like ya,” I say, and smile.
April 18, 2008
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Hey.
Ingrid went missing in a snowstorm (we found her) and I feel responsible. Never mind; it’s a long story. Point is, I can’t seem to do anything right since you died.
Except one thing: I’m a finalist in an extremely high-profile international baking contest (laugh here) and I’m going on Pinch of Love Live, the new live version of Polly Pinch’s original show. And if I win, I’m going to donate the prize money to the people of New Orleans. Because that’s what you would have wanted.
What should I wear for my debut television appearance? I tried on a few nice tops hanging in my closet, including the black scoop-neck I paired with black slacks for your memorial service. But no tops fit me; they seem just squeeze-y enough to make me feel uncomfortable and self-conscious. Or maybe I’m just not used to wearing nice clothes, because for the past year and a half, I’ve sort of let myself go, as the saying goes.
Spike Miller, Polly Pinch’s assistant, whom I called in response to my notification letter, said “wardrobe specialists” will dress me if they’re unhappy with my own outfit. He recommended I wear red, because red is a universally flattering color, especially on camera. But I have not
hing red except an old Red Sox sweatshirt and, of course, your T-shirt from The Trip, which I am actually considering wearing.
It’s rather random, how I came to possess the shirt. The day you died, I was painting Gail’s g.d. guest bathroom. I was mixing colors and testing them on my arms, because I’d run out of room on the wall. The mountains, trees, granite, and snow were all painted, and I was about to incorporate new colors, for clothing and skin. I wanted to get them right. Plus, I was feeling loopy, probably from reading all your e-mails, especially your last one, about how inspired you felt, about how you couldn’t wait to get home and show me the slideshow of your photographs, and make plans for the soccer team. I was really looking forward to meeting the new you and entering a new phase in our life, a new phase in our love.
There is something sensual about stroking the bristles of a wet paintbrush across your forearm. Using your own body as a palette, a testing ground. Both my forearms were striped with different colors when my mom knocked on the door.
“There’s someone here,” she said. “They’re calling for you. In the driveway.”
“What?”
“Come outside.” She sounded a bit frantic. “I think there might be a problem or something. Come now.”
I lifted a corner of the drop cloth, found my cell phone, turned it on. Ten missed calls from Kent Powers—Chief Kent. Four missed calls from Chester Claude Mbo—Father Chet. Three missed calls from Sheila White. I never did listen to those messages.
Mom, Dad, Terry, Gail holding Tasha, they all followed me and gathered on the deck. Pastor Sheila and Father Chet were in the driveway. They stood in front of Sheila’s teal sedan. I ran to them.
It’s weird the details you remember. Pastor Sheila wore a tunic-length patchwork shirt. She came right up to me. In one hand she held the T-shirt. With the other hand she gripped my arm.
“We’ve been trying to reach you,” she said. “The Ludlow police offered to come, but we wanted to tell you ourselves. We tracked you down, tracked down your sister’s address, and drove—”
“Tell me what?” I said.
“There’s been an accident.” Pastor Sheila’s voice quavered. She pressed the shirt into my hand.
That’s how I found out you were dead.
I sank my face into the shirt. I wanted it to smell like you. But it didn’t. It didn’t smell like anything at all.
And it still doesn’t really smell like anything, even though I’ve worn it so much since that day. To bed, to the grocery store.
Sheila said later that the shirt got mixed up in the wash somehow; an old lady from a church down there offered to do everyone’s laundry, and Sheila found your shirt in her suitcase when she got home.
Anyway, at least the “Wippamunk Loves New Orleans” message is a good cause to advertise on Pinch of Love Live.
And, it will be appropriate for the tribute afterward.
What tribute, you ask? See the e-mail from EJ, pasted below. . . .
Hi, Zell. EJ here.
I’ve been meaning to tell you about something. I was hoping you would hear it through the grapevine by now, or see it in The Wippamunker, and I wouldn’t have to tell you, but neither of those things happened, and the time is approaching, so.
I don’t know why I haven’t told you face-to-face. We didn’t talk for so long, and then it just seemed like a difficult thing to bring up with you. And then Ahab. Anyway, e-mail is easier. So here goes.
We’re planning a tribute to Nick. France came up with the idea. So we can have closure, she says. A lot of people are involved. There are going to be some nice surprises. It’s really important that you come.
Problem is, the tribute is the same day as the Pinch of Love Live show: May 5. You see, Russ was there when you found out you were a winner, and he realized the show and the tribute were scheduled for the same day. But we couldn’t reschedule the tribute, because we’d advertised for weeks in The Wippamunker , and we’re expecting a lot of people.
So anyway, I talked to Garrett and he will take you back to the town common right after Pinch of Love Live. (Or if it rains, the town hall.)
If you want to come, that is.
Please come. We want you there. Invite your family, too.
Okay.
Love,
EJ
10
Zell
IT’S A RAINY, RAW MAY 5. By the time I hop into Garrett’s pickup, Ingrid’s already air drumming and belting along to Hannah Montana tunes. The plan is that Garrett will drop us off at Scrump Studios and park, and then join the Pinch of Love Live audience; Spike Miller was nice enough to send him a ticket.
We drive to Boston. Garrett seems to glance at Ingrid in the rearview more often than usual. When he catches her eye, he winks at her.
“Nervous?” he asks me, as we cruise along the Mass Pike.
“Yeah,” I say. “I have to admit, I kind of am.”
“Me, too,” he says.
When we reach Boston, we pull over to the Scrump Studios building, near Quincy Market. “Remember, Ingrid,” Garrett says to the rearview mirror. “Not a word to Polly about her being your mother.”
Ingrid salutes him.
Outside, a slight, spiky-haired man hurries to the truck. He clutches a clipboard to his chest. A Bluetooth earpiece hugs his ear.
I roll down my window. “I’m Rose-Ellen Roy. Am I in the right spot for—“
“I’ve been waiting for you. You’re late,” he says. He jabs his hand inside the truck to shake my hand. “Spike Miller. Let’s go.”
Ingrid hops out the back. “Bye, Dad!”
“Don’t I get a kiss?” Garrett says.
“We’re late.” She stands next to Spike and grasps his hand.
“Break a leg,” Garrett says. I’m about to hop out when he says, “Wait. Shut the door? I think I should tell you something. Roll up the window, too.”
“What?” I say. “What’s wrong?”
Garrett sighs. “Fact is, you’ve been a better mother to her, Zell. You.” He opens the glove compartment and extracts an envelope decorated with stickers. I recognize it: the letter Ingrid wrote to Polly Pinch, which he intercepted.
“Give this to her?” he says. “Make sure she gets it, okay? I’ll explain it all to you later. I promise.”
“Give it to who?”
He grips the steering wheel and stares at it.
“Oh no,” I say. “Don’t do this to me now, Garrett. You’ve got to be kidding me.” I glance at the sidewalk, where Ingrid is telling Spike some animated story. He nods absently and examines his clipboard, looking mildly dyspeptic.
I lower my voice. “Is Polly Pinch Ingrid’s—”
“I’m not kidding you,” Garrett says. “That story I told you before, about the look-alike? It was—just don’t tell her anything, okay? Just let it unfold.”
“Don’t tell who what-ything?” I want to ask more; I feel like I might bubble over with questions. “Let what unfold?”
Spike taps my window. “Let’s go, people!”
“You’ll be great, Zell,” Garrett says. He looks at me, his eyes a mix of anxiousness, regret, and need. “I’ll be watching. You’ll be great. You’ll both be great.” He squeezes my thigh.
“Why?” I say. “What are you hoping to accomplish by letting this happen?”
He shrugs. “It’s time Anita saw her daughter.”
“Anita?”
“Polly. Her real name’s Anita.”
“You drop this on me now?” I stare at him; my mouth hangs open. Not only do I have to worry about appearing on live television, and making it back to Wippamunk on time for this mysterious tribute to my dead husband that apparently the whole town knew about before I did, but I also have to worry about a celebrity chef’s unrehearsed reaction to meeting the daughter she apparently gave up on almost nine years ago.
“Don’t worry,” says Garrett. “I’m sure it will all go smoothly.”
“Right. I’m sure it will all be super simp.” I tuc
k the envelope in my bag—a huge fairy-patterned bag, courtesy of Trudy.
“I’m sorry I lied,” he says. “This is all so complicated, and I guess I just wasn’t ready to face the truth. But Ingrid is ready. I think she’s been ready for a long time.”
I take a deep breath. “I understand,” I say. And it’s true; I understand what it’s like to lie, in order to get through just one day; what it’s like to not want to face the truth.
“I didn’t expect things would get this far, Zell. Television and everything.”
“It’s okay. Neither did I.” I squeeze his hand. I get out of the truck, and he pulls away from the curb.
Balls.
“NICE TO MEET YOU,” I say to Spike.
He forces a tight smile. “Follow me.”
He leads Ingrid and me into the lobby of the skyscraper, through a shiny hall where the hard-soled shoes of serious women and men echo off tiled walls and floors. No one looks at us. We pass a big gleaming reception/security desk and ride an elevator. Spike’s beady eyes rove my outfit—“Wippamunk Loves New Orleans” shirt, jeans, big shoulder bag. The beady eyes move to Ingrid, whose red hat swallows her forehead.
Ingrid offers Spike a wide grin. “If Zell here wins the contest,” she says, “she’s going to donate all the money to New Orleans so they can rebuild the city.”
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