by Zoe Carter
“They all look so happy,” I observed quietly. They did. Ellie Sue had a dreamy, happy look on her face, and the kids—well, at least they were all looking at the camera this time.
I brushed a speck of unknown something from the plastic shield that protected the man’s image from aging, and from whatever else was inside Agnes’s handbag.
“That’s Chris,” Agnes said quietly, her teeth catching her lip.
“Their father?” I asked, curious at the change in her demeanour.
Agnes shook her head, and my eyes widened slightly when I saw her eyes swell with the suspicion of tears.
“No, Scott—Scott, uh, died.” She cleared her throat. “Scott was in the Air Force, and was killed in a training mission when Ellie Sue was pregnant with Dakota. It’s been rough, for Ellie Sue—and the kids.”
My jaw slackened as I turned my gaze back to the photo. They’d looked like such a picture-perfect, happy family. Why hadn’t I noticed the lack of father in the previous images? I swallowed, my eyes trained on Matthew, Chloe and Dakota. They’d lost their father.
I knew what that felt like—although I was a little older when Dad died.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered sincerely. Agnes blinked, then smiled tremulously. “Well, it definitely rocked us. I felt so helpless, living all the way over in Florida. I wanted to move in with them, but Ellie Sue said she’d be fine. She was very lucky. She had a great group of friends. A lot of their husbands were also in the Air Force, so they kind of just gathered around her and gave her any support she needed.”
I chewed the inside of my cheek, then nodded. “I can see that would make such a difference,” I said quietly, “having a good friend network there to help out. Especially with the kids.”
Because when there wasn’t a big friend network, it sucked. Without a friend network, home felt like the loneliest place on the planet. Without a friend network, moms drank.
I blinked, then smiled as I looked down at the image. “But Ellie Sue looks so happy now,” I said. “Chris is certainly a handsome guy—I can see why she fell for him.” Totally. The guy was good-looking, in a suburban accountant kind of way. His arm was around Ellie Sue’s waist, one hand resting on Matthew’s shoulders. He was showing affection to children not his own—and I knew how important kind, loving physical contact was for a kid who’d lost a parent. Okay, so maybe I knew the importance because I knew what it felt like without the kind, loving physical contact... God, I hoped that was genuine affection, and not something else. Then I wondered how screwed up I was that I immediately jumped to that suspicion. Blame it on my nursing experience, I guess. I’d seen too many horror stories.
Agnes nodded, her beaded earrings clunking, her expression so serious for one so...colorful. “I worry about them, though.”
“Why?” A faint alarm bell rang inside my head.
“The kids are so little. Chris has been great, don’t get me wrong. He’s very patient with them. He’s very respectful of Scott’s memory, and insists on keeping his photo around... And he’s so good to them. He works hard, he pays for so much...”
“But?” I asked, waiting for the clanger.
“But they’re not his kids.” Agnes’s expression clearly showed her worry. “They’re beautiful children—polite, so loving and so caring. I hear so many bad stories about stepdads—well, stepparents in general, I should say. You know, as soon as the child shows resistance or rebellion—Chris wasn’t there from birth. He doesn’t have that father-child bond. These kids—these kids have gone through so much pain. There are bound to be times when they act out, especially as they get older.” A tear rolled down Agnes’s cheek, and she brushed it away quickly. “You know, divorce is so common these days. I can’t imagine what losing another father would do to my darlings.”
I frowned. “Has Ellie Sue said something to make you think things aren’t going well?”
Agnes shook her head. “Oh, no. My daughter is beyond happy. I just—I just worry that it won’t last. What if Chris doesn’t love Matthew, Chloe and Dakota like his own children? What if, every time he looks at them, he’s reminded that he’s not actually their father, and starts to resent that? I need to see them, need to reassure myself that everything is okay, and will be okay.”
I stared down at the photo and heard the soft gulp as Agnes swallowed. She genuinely wanted the best for her family. I blinked. It was strange, it was weird, it was so damn beautiful. This woman went from kooky, colorful granny to the most awesome warrior woman in the world.
I wished, right then, that Agnes was my grandmother, too. How different things would have been.
I lifted my gaze to the woman next to me. She stared at that photo as though she could cosmically send warm waves of love and protection to those trapped in that image. The picture-perfect family in front of the picture-perfect house looked picture-perfect, genuinely happy. I sure hoped to hell it would last.
“My father died when I was kid,” I said softly, responding to her raw honesty with a dash of my own. “I loved him so much it was like our whole world was ripped away.” God, I never spoke like this to anyone. My eyes began to itch. Thinking about it, talking about it...it still hurt too much. Focus on something else. I smiled brightly at her. “But my sister and I, we were lucky. Just like Ellie Sue, my mother found another man to love.”
Agnes’s eyebrows rose, and she looked at me with fresh awareness, as though trying to picture her grandkids in my skin in twenty years’ time. “And, uh, how did—how did that work out, if you don’t mind me asking?” Her voice was soft and high, pitched with concern, anticipation and just the slightest hint of hope.
I could build that hope for her. I knew I could do that. I smiled. “It was wonderful.” I shook my head, a dazed, goofy smile on my face. “Mom married Peter. He was an architect, and he was so lovely. I remember drawing on his funny little tilted table, and he’d say I’d make a fine architect one day.” I chuckled. “He lied. I don’t have an artistic bone in my body, but he was being very sweet.”
“He sounds nice.”
“Oh, he was that, all right. Life wasn’t the same after my father died—it was just a different kind of normal. Peter loved my mother, and my mother loved Peter very much. We had no doubt that my mother and Peter would be together forever.”
“We?” Agnes asked, curious.
I nodded. “My sister, Sarah, and I. That’s one thing your little munchkins have—each other. That’s important. I think if I had to go through that whole experience by myself, moving to a new place, a new school, a new dad—it would have been very frightening, but having Sarah there was really helpful. We told each other everything. I knew that I could go to my big sister with whatever I was worried about or scared about, and she would make things better.”
I hesitated. Wow. It took a conversation with a stranger to ram home just how much Sarah had looked after me, how much I’d depended on her to make things okay.
“And you didn’t mind moving into a new house, with a new father figure?” Agnes asked, tilting her head. “If you don’t mind me asking,” she said in a rush.
I grinned and waved a casual hand. “No, I don’t mind at all. I must admit, it was a little daunting, moving into the new house.” Even now, the memories of those dark, uncertain days haunted me. Don’t worry, I’ve got this. The voice inside my head was reassuring, stronger than I could be whenever I thought of my childhood. “But wow,” I said, doing my best impression of jazz hands as I let Lucy take over, “what a house. There was a pool, and Sarah and I had our own rooms. Nice clothes... Peter was very good at his job. He was a good provider.” I rested my head against the back of the seat. “He used to throw these parties—nothing too wild, of course, but he’d hang these fairy lights from the tree, and along the deck, and it was like walking into a wonderland.”
I rolled my head to look at Agnes, lettin
g my eyes shine with warmth. “He had this cute little vintage sports car—I couldn’t tell you what kind...” I laughed. “Cars aren’t my thing, but they were Peter’s. He loved to take us for long drives... Mom would pack a picnic lunch, and we’d drive, and then pull over somewhere—usually with a fantastic view or a play area—and eat until we couldn’t move.”
Agnes’s smile broadened. “It sounds lovely.”
“It was,” I said, nodding. “And the best thing about the whole situation was that we got a brother!” I managed to hide my pain as I rambled on about my family. I couldn’t help but notice I only spoke of one brother... “Peter was married before, and he had Caleb from his first marriage.” I sighed as I thought about my stepbrother. I hadn’t thought of him in years, either.
“Caleb was so nice to us. He was older...” I giggled. “I used to think he was the most wonderful guy. Good-looking, funny, friendly. The best big brother a girl could ever wish for.” I twisted in my seat to face Agnes, crossing my legs so that I could huddle in to share my idyllic experiences and put this dear woman’s fears to rest. Lucy was so much better at instilling confidence than I was. “The funniest part was Caleb was older than both Sarah and me, and I always thought it would be sooooo nice if my sister and my stepbrother would get married, and then we would really be related.” I tapped Agnes gently on the back of the hand. “Honestly, isn’t that the funniest thing? It’s so silly, the funny little daydreams we have as kids.” I shook my head, as though marveling at the absurdity of it.
“It sounds wonderful,” Agnes said, and I noticed the worry lines around her eyes and mouth had relaxed. “You don’t get to hear too much about the positive stories, do you? I always hear the negative ones, where the stepparent is cruel or mean with the new stepkids, and then they grow up dysfunctional.” Agnes took a deep, calming breath, her eyes closing briefly, before she opened them and pinned me with their gaze. “It’s reassuring, hearing that there are some success stories out there, that the kids can grow up healthy, and happy, and whole and normal. That’s all I want for my munchkins.”
I smiled broadly, slipping into Lucy’s memories, like donning the veil I thought my sister would wear with Caleb. Lucy had had a great childhood, and Lucy knew just what to say to ease this woman’s fears. “Peter was great. He always came to our school events—he was genuinely interested in what we were doing. He wanted to know who we hung out with, where we went—he wasn’t one of these disengaged dads whose kids hang out at the mall at all hours. No, he made us feel like he really cared, and wanted to make sure we were safe.”
“I’m so glad to hear it,” Agnes said, placing her hand on her chest. “It’s a relief to hear that you had such a good relationship with your stepdad.”
I nodded. “Oh, it was very clear that my stepfather loved my sister and me. A lot.” I watched Agnes. She was now much more relaxed, smiling with a true warmth and confidence.
I wondered what Agnes’s expression would be like if I told her about the time Peter had dragged both my sister and me by the hair, kicking and crying, and thrown us into our separate bedrooms and locked the doors, ignoring our cries and pleas for forgiveness. We went without dinner that night. I remember the fear, the panic, that made my heart pound painfully in my chest, the burn of the follicles ripped from my scalp, the tight coil in my gut from both tension and hunger, the tremors that shook my body in reaction to the shock of the violence. The loneliness as I listened to my sister sob on the other side of the bedroom wall, unable to reach out and comfort her, unable to be comforted by her.
Don’t think about it, the voice whispered inside me. It’s done. It can’t hurt you, anymore.
I’d accidentally spilled apple juice on Peter’s pristine carpet. Forget about it.
Would Agnes’s smile falter? Would horror creep into her eyes? Would she look at me like some little monster, an ugly, flawed and dysfunctional creation of a second marriage? Dysfunctional. I’d grown to hate that word. That was the word the self-righteous, normal, functional people called those of us who were fundamentally fucked up. But I could function. See? I made Agnes forget her fears. I functioned. Yep, and you’re so good at it.
Right now, Agnes was asking the smiling flight attendant for a lemonade, her gaze flitting back to the pint-size album on her lap, where her daughter was playing happy friggin’ families with a man who could be the perfect dream he appeared in the happy family photo, or the worst nightmare.
I wondered whether she’d be so calm, so relieved, so happy for her daughter and beloved munchkins, if I told her about the night Peter had dragged my mother by her hair—he had a thing for that, as though he knew how damn much it hurt—across the floor of the kitchen. He’d slammed her head against the oven door handle, over and over again, until her tears mingled with blood, and we heard the crack of her cheekbone in the otherwise silent room...and then she didn’t struggle anymore. He let her slump to the floor, unconscious, the side of her face sunken and misshapen, her eyes swollen shut and blood dripping on the floor that she later had to clean up.
I couldn’t remember what my mother had done to deserve that reaction. It must have been pretty bad. I could just remember Sarah and me sitting at the table as though carved from stone, afraid to breathe, afraid to cry. Wanting to rush to our mother’s side, to see if she was still alive, but too scared to even blink. That image was seared into my brain forever. That was back when I still absorbed everything around me like a sponge, when I dwelled on everything that was said and done, trying to make sense of it all. I hadn’t yet learned to evade those situations. No, that came...later.
I looked up at the flight attendant, realizing she’d asked me a question. She gazed at me expectantly, her hand resting on the top of the drinks cart, the plastic cups stacked in such neat towers. So straight, so organized. It reminded me of Peter. I smiled. “I’d like a Scotch, please.”
Sarah
The shrieks coming from the Ferris wheel ring in my ears, making my headache worse. Elliot whimpers, so I gather him to me again, bouncing him on my hip. My face hurts from smiling.
Where is that man? Warwick was supposed to relieve us hours ago. I’ve tried my best to shade Elliot from the sun, but I can’t protect him from the heat. His skin sticks to my neck. He whines again, aiming a kick in my direction. It connects with my solar plexus, sending my breath out of me in a whoosh. He’s hungry, but I’ve already gone through the bottles I’d brought for him, and never thought to pack the pump. We weren’t supposed to stay this long. Even if I thought he’d latch on, I don’t dare attempt to nurse him here. These women may pay a lot of lip service to the benefits of breastfeeding, but it’s nothing they actually want to witness.
My stomach growls at the scent of pie filling congealing in the heat, and only the presence of my son stops me from inhaling everything left on the table.
Where are you, Warwick? Andrea’s man had at least managed to bring her some fried chicken and potato salad, which she’d offered to share with me. But with my luck, I’d have one taste before Jessica and her fellow fiends would appear. Or worse yet, Genny with her popcorn and rolls of toilet paper. I’d rather starve.
“No sign of that husband of yours?” Andrea calls to me, but her voice is sympathetic, without a hint of judgment. I shake my head, not bothering to pretend I’m okay with it. I’m tired, my breasts are close to bursting and my feet ache. It’s tempting to leave the stall unattended and go home—to hell with Eleanor if she has a problem with it. She hasn’t dropped by since returning Elliot, anyway. I would never have agreed to volunteer if I’d known I was expected to stand here the entire day.
“You poor thing. I would kill my husband if he abandoned me like that.”
“Believe me, it’s crossed my mind,” I mutter through gritted teeth. I can’t help thinking that I haven’t seen Jessica in hours, either. Tessie and Gretchen had collected their empty pans quite a w
hile ago.
Elliot fires another kick, but this time I catch his tiny foot. He rewards me with a howl of outrage that I’m sure can be heard clear across the fair. There’s only one thing to do—I have to leave the stall and find Warwick myself. Eleanor will just need to get herself a replacement.
As I shift Elliot to my other hip, the pocket of my dress makes a beeping sound. Sliding my hand into my pocket, I withdraw my phone. Smoothing my son’s damp hair out of his eyes and replacing his sun hat, I lower him into the stroller. More shrieks of outrage, and I can’t say I blame him.
“Hang on, sweetheart. We’re going to find Daddy. Won’t that be fun? Then we can go home.”
The screen is already lit up—apparently Elliot had connected with a button during his fit, hence the beeping. Oh, just an email.
Accessing my Gmail account, I see the email has been sent from someone called Truth Seeker. Great, more spam. But I click on it, anyway, just in case.
My brain takes a second to process what I’m reading, but the moment it does, a flurry of black spots cloud my vision. Elliot wails from a thousand miles away. My head swims and I stumble against the table, grasping its edge to keep from falling.
It can’t be. This has to be a joke.
“Sarah?”
I recognize the voice, but it also seems miles away, like it’s coming from the other end of a long dark tunnel.
“Sarah!” Then Warwick is at my side, stroking my arm, giving me strength. The concern on his face confirms he didn’t send that terrible email. “What’s wrong?”
Quickly I tuck my phone back in my pocket before he can see it. He must never see that email. If he does, it will destroy everything—everything I’ve worked so hard for.
“I’m not feeling well.” It’s the truth. Nausea sweeps over me, though I haven’t eaten anything since my baked-goods binge. “It’s probably the heat.”
“I’m sorry I’m late, darling. I got talking with the boys and—you know how is—time just flew. Plus, I was winning this for Elliot.” Warwick places an adorable stuffed bear in my arms. “And this for you.” It’s clearly the biggest prize at the fair, a fluffy white teddy bear that is nearly life-size. It clutches a red fabric rose in its paws.