The Wrong Family

by Tarryn Fisher

  “I...well...I didn’t want to. You remember that Bible story about Hannah you learned in religious studies a few years ago?”

  “Yeah, the one where she begs God for a baby because she’s barren and his other wife is having all the kids.”

  Barren, Winnie thought. What a word. “Yeah, that one. I felt like Hannah, I guess. I’d been waiting for a baby for so long, praying for one, and then I got you.” Her own simplistic answer irritated her, like things were ever that easy; but Samuel seemed to accept it.

  “You could go back,” he said.

  Winnie managed a thin smile. She hated talking about Illuminations. She had no feelings of nostalgia when it came to her former workplace. It had been full on relief when she left, and not just because of what had gone down. Counselors at mental health facilities were overworked and underpaid. The thought of taking Samuel’s suggestion made her want to throw up. She remembered running into one of the other case workers, Dan Repper, shortly after she quit. She’d been browsing the stands at the farmers’ market when she’d seen him approach her out the corner of her eye. Winnie had immediately tried to extract herself from the berry-buying, shoving a twenty into the seller’s hand just as Dan’s nasal voice called out to her.

  They started speaking just as Winnie propped the crate of blueberries on her hip, and she felt like she moved it from right hip to left at least a dozen times before the conversation was over. Dan told her he’d taken over half of her caseload when she left, split it with Dee since Illuminations was short on counselors. He’d sounded accusatory so Winnie had apologized immediately; she would have sung the apology if it meant getting out of there. But Dan had more to say.

  “There’s a woman coming around the office asking for you. She says you were her counselor but won’t give us her name.”

  “What does she want?” Winnie tried to keep her voice neutral, smiling at a golden retriever as it paused to sniff the crate she was balancing.

  “Your home address.” Dan’s words sank into her brain with cold teeth. Winnie was so shaken she felt like she was shivering in the mid-August heat, and he was going to notice.

  “Anyway, Beula at the desk—you remember Beula?” He didn’t wait for her to reply. “She told her that under no circumstances could we give out counselors’ home addresses. The woman said she’d find you herself and walked out.”

  Now, Winnie mentally shook herself before answering Samuel’s question. “I have a job, silly—being a mom.”

  Samuel shrugged. “It would be cool to help people.”

  “Well, I help them now,” she said quickly. “Just in a different way.” She hated the defensiveness in her voice, hated that Samuel heard it, too.

  “Chill out, Mom, I get it. You plan parties now, right? To raise money for the homeless.”

  “Well, no,” Winnie said tightly. “I sometimes help with the charity events, but now I manage the people who...manage the people. If that makes sense.”

  The server unloaded five plates onto the table in quick succession, and in the face of imminent sugar, Samuel stopped asking questions. He was still a kid and she could control some situations, but how long would it be before he started asking questions about why his dad never really looked his wife in the eye?

  6

  JUNO

  For one brief and awful year, Juno and Kregger had lived in Alaska. It was the seventies, and in America, lust was on the menu for the decade. Juno and Kregger were wet for adventure, hard for travel. They sold everything in their little studio apartment, gave their parrots and cacti away to friends, and bought two one-way tickets to Anchorage. The pull was the Wild West, and they were young enough to still want to play. When Juno remembered the cold and isolation she experienced that year, she would shiver. But back then, back in grand ol’ 1977 when they arrived at the meager airport, the Trans-Alaska Pipeline had just been completed and oil was flowing. Kregger planned to work the oil, and Juno planned on getting a job wherever they’d have her. She was working on her thesis, and Anchorage had seemed like the place to buckle down and get it done. So while Kregger worked those grueling hours, Juno shriveled in the Alaskan winter like a cock in the cold. It wasn’t at all what she’d pictured; Anchorage was a muddy little place with gambling dens, drug houses, and street walkers, as Juno’s nan called them. Half wild and half civilized. Late at night, men would shoot guns into the sky to blow off steam. She’d be so afraid on the nights Kregger was gone that she’d carry her blanket and pillow to the closet and sleep on the floor under the sweeping hems of their clothes. When summer came, things got moderately better. She was able to walk to the city center without fear of losing her nose to the cold and got a part-time job at the Piggly Wiggly.

  The tired little grocery store was on Spenard Road where massage parlors lined the street all in a row like little duckies. Juno had suspected Kregger stopped by once or twice, but she never asked and felt better not knowing. Other than getting your wang wanked, there was little to do. Squalid little bars, adult bookstores, and houses of worship all shared a street just like Jesus would have preferred. There was a drive-in theater, they’d been excited to discover. They went twice in that year: the first time it had been winter and the exhaust fumes from the cars rose into the air until it was impossible to make out the actors’ faces on the screen. And they’d gone in the summer when the days were endless and night never fully arrived and found they couldn’t see a damn thing on the screen because it was too bright. They’d laughed all the way home that time.

  The memories would often come with a strong mixture of revulsion and nostalgia. The Fancy Moose on Friday nights, and Club Paris for special occasions, lying alone on a ratty brown sofa for days while the snow caked itself around the tin box they called a house. Juno had begged Kregger to take her home, home to civilization and chain fast food. Home to the glamorous hot squalor of New Mexico. They’d stuck it out for the year—due process, as Kregger called it. The last time she had felt truly claustrophobic was in Anchorage, Alaska, from 1977 to 1978.

  And then there was now.

  The brother being in the house was bad—bad for everyone, but mostly bad for Juno, who had taken to hiding. She didn’t like him; she could agree with Nigel on that. For one thing, he never left the house—lurking in the family room and downstairs in Nigel’s den until late, keeping Juno up with his drunk laughter. He pretended to leave the house in the mornings under the guise of “beating the pavement to look for work” but he really snuck back in shortly after the family left. Since Dakota had arrived, they’d taken to leaving the alarm off during the day, which was less of a hassle for her to come and go, she supposed.

  Dakota only cried now when he got off the phone with his wife. And with tears like that, she was fairly certain Manda wasn’t taking him back. She’d seen him passed out on the sofa once, a dozen mini bottles scattered around the remote like confetti. He must have cleaned it all up by the time Nigel got home because she didn’t hear explosive yelling. He was taking advantage of their charity and making no attempt at all to find a job, despite what he told his sister and brother-in-law. And Juno found herself claustrophobic, desperate to get away and breathe fresh air. He was imposing but stupid. A giant, looming dummy. When Winnie conversed with him she crooned, and when Nigel spoke to him he bit down and spoke through his teeth. Sam avoided his uncle altogether. From what Juno pieced together, there’d been a fight a couple years ago, well before she’d moved in. Sam had witnessed the whole thing. Nigel had taken flak from the family, being that Dakota was a guest in his house at the time, though an unwelcome one even then, and Winnie had sided with them, staying with her sister for a week and taking Sam with her.

  Juno found it a bit maddening—why marry a man and then serve loyalty to the family you’d left for that man? As far as Juno was concerned, when you got married you started a new family with the person of your choosing: leave and cleave. You had to fight it out toget
her, figure it out as a team. And when the extended family tried to get involved, as they usually did, you were to tell them to mind their stinking business. Either way, she was forced to share a house with the big buffoon, and she wasn’t happy about it.

  She was lying with her head nestled on her favorite blanket and eating stale Cheez-Its when she heard a familiar suction of air followed by the boom of the front door closing. Sitting up in bed, Juno listen for any further noises but heard none. Good, he was gone. Maybe today he’d actually find that job. First things first, she thought, winding her hair into a bun—she had to pee.

  After relieving herself, she stood at the sink, brushing her teeth vigorously for several minutes. Juno could still remember the days of her own deep depression, when she would go for days without bathing or eating a thing. She’d lost near a hundred pounds and never put it back. If only Kregger could see her now, thin and lithe. She let out a little whoop of laughter, looking at her body in the mirror. Kregger had never been attracted to thin women; he’d probably tell her to eat a stick of butter.

  It was when she looked at her face that the laughter was snatched from her throat. The right stuff was all there: nose, eyes, chin, mouth—but the way her skin hung was unfamiliar. She regretted looking in the mirror; she always managed to avoid it; what happened this time? As she headed down to the kitchen, she made a vow never to look in the mirror again.

  Dakota had at least stocked the fridge with lunch meat and bread, so she made herself a giant sandwich. She did something really risky in fishing the last pickle from the jar and setting it on her plate with a decided, vinegary plop; then she emptied the pickle juice down the drain and put the jar in the recycling before going to eat her lunch at the dinette. The meat was slimy and cloyingly sweet as it stuck to the roof of her mouth with the foamy bread. She took a long sip of Dr Pepper, enjoying lunch on Dakota’s dime, though it wouldn’t be long until it was on Nigel and Winnie’s dime. Juno felt bad for Nigel about the whole Dakota thing.

  Throughout the entirety of her lunch, she stared at the rogue hangnail on her thumb. Time for a clipping, she thought as she cleaned up after her meal. She’d seen a pair of nail clippers lying around, but she knew how it went—things were never around when you wanted them. So she began her hunt for the nail clippers.

  Juno stepped into Winnie and Nigel’s bedroom. The rattan fan whirred soundlessly above the bed, stirring the smells of the room. She was tempted to turn it off, but she knew better. Instead, she walked on the balls of her feet toward the nightstand. She’d start there first. Juno slid the first drawer open. Everything was unbearably tidy: three squat jars of lotion stood in a neat line. Next to them was a woman’s devotional, a tube of Carmex, three unused notebooks with floral covers, and a tampon. But no nail clippers.

  The next drawer had much of the same, the organized clutter of an uninteresting woman: a box of truffles, two expensive-looking pens, more floral notebooks, these with Winnie’s handwriting on the inside. Juno sat lightly on the edge of the bed and flipped open the cover of the first one. Was it a diary of some sort? She squinted down at Winnie’s spiky handwriting, trying to make out the words. They were...thoughts. Dated, and one per page. That it wasn’t necessarily a diary made Juno feel less guilty about reading it. Pacifying her conscience with that, she looked to the first one. It read: Day after day it eats me. I am tired, but not tired enough to kill myself.

  Juno frowned. Had she read that right? Little Miss Perfect Winnie Crouch had days where she just didn’t want to live?

  She turned the page, thinking she’d opened it to a bad day—even people like Winnie had those once in a while, she supposed, but the next entry was similar: I tore the pages out of my favorite book, one by one...

  Juno was more than shocked. Winnie wasn’t a darkness and gloom girl; she had subscriptions to Harper’s Bazaar, Esquire, Food & Family, and Marie Claire, the kind of person who considered herself an artist because of her beautifully curated Instagram account. Juno wasn’t making fun; it was just a fact—Winnie wasn’t drinking from a deep pool. Or at least Juno had thought so, until now. Abruptly she flipped the notebook closed and put it back where she found it. She really needed nail clippers.

  She checked Nigel’s side of the bed and the bathroom drawers. She pushed junk around the junk drawer. The Crouches had an endless supply of matches; Juno pocketed several boxes and moved to a different drawer where she found an unopened package of LED tap lights. She held them for several minutes, considering. Winnie had probably forgotten they were there. She stuck the package in the waistband of her pants. Then she decided to check Sam’s room for the clippers.

  She didn’t like snooping in Sam’s room, and she didn’t do it often, being that Sam was the person she liked the most in the house. Sometimes, when she had extra time, she’d wander up there to see what he was reading or what little project he was working on. Without turning on the light, her eyes scanned the silhouettes of furniture. She found everything tidy and put away. No pieces of metal lay scattered across his desk, either.

  Generally, tiny remnants were strewn about his room as he built model airplanes or put together a tiny wooden T. rex with parts so small Juno could barely pick them up with her fingers. But today, something was off. Looking around, she noticed an absence of the usual stuffed animals that sat on his bed. The posters of superheroes were gone, too, fresh navy paint on his walls to replace the light blue wallpaper. Juno harrumphed. He’d gone and grown himself up overnight.

  She remembered their conversations in the park, and suddenly the nail clippers were forgotten. She found herself nudging the mouse to his desktop, and the screen sprang to life. Having raised two sons, Juno knew the types of things boys got up to online; for that reason, she avoided his open internet browser and looked beyond that, at his desktop. He was working on something; it looked like the back end of a website. Sam-Side.

  She slumped into his chair, not taking her eyes from the screen. Had he designed this? She’d hired people to do this for her when the internet became a thing, for the business. Kregger had reassured her when she was intimidated by all the buttons and screens—and then when all the buttons disappeared, and it was just screens. Her website had been amateur compared to this, and it had cost her a whopping twelve hundred dollars in the early 2000s. But here he was, a thirteen-year-old boy building his first website. They made them different nowadays, and she suspected he was tired of building toys—at least the ones they made for boys. She tried to understand what she was reading. It was a blog. She could see several blog titles in the box that said DRAFTS, all of them yet to be published.

  “You’ve been busy,” she heard herself say out loud. Snooping was wrong, but what was the harm in taking a little peek—it wasn’t like she was some stranger off the street. Once upon a time, she’d been a bona fide psychologist, for God’s sake. She felt a wave of excitement that didn’t have anything to do with being a psychologist. It was a familiar feeling; she’d spent thirty years digging and plowing through people’s brains—learning their secrets and hearing the ugliest desires of their hearts. She may be retired, but her lust for knowledge had never gone away.

  The first draft Juno clicked on was titled: Pretty Sure I’m Adopted.

  Sam had said this to her in the park, too, and she’d responded lightly. In a clinical setting, Juno would brush this off, too; adolescents went through a period where they felt disconnected from everything, even the people who loved them most. Juno compared it to a young lion learning to roar, picking fights, feeling insecure but acting volatile.

  But this particular blog entry had never made it past one sentence. Sam, new to adult words, had described his feelings in one staggering fritz of emotion: Wolves know when they’re being raised by bears.

  She stared at the words. Rolled them around in her head, where they gelled together with his cryptic phrases at the park, the words in Winnie’s journal. “Day after day, it eats
me.”

  7

  WINNIE

  The dinner was tradition. Last year it was at Don and Malay’s, the year before that it was at the Parklands’, and this year it was the Crouches’ turn. Vicky Parkland called to confirm on Monday evening just as Winnie was getting home from work.

  “Friendsgiving. You didn’t forget, did you? You did.”

  “I didn’t,” Winnie said confidently. “This is me we’re talking about.”

  She had forgotten.

  “Yeah, you do live for a party,” Vicky agreed. “I just hadn’t heard anything and—”

  Winnie rolled her eyes. Vicky was calling because she heard about Dakota. Today, Winnie was the tea.

  “Things have just been...there’s been drama...”

  She could hear Vicky walking into her bedroom and closing the door. Mack must be home, she thought. Vicky never gossiped in front of Mack, who thought it was crass. Winnie walked into her own bedroom; Nigel wasn’t home yet. She loved the way the room smelled: a mixture of wood polish, orange blossom, and her and Nigel. But today, as she stepped inside, she smelled something else—something she wasn’t used to smelling in their space. She hesitated on the threshold, looking around uncertainly. She’d made their bed this morning, arranging the throw pillows the way she liked them; now one of them was lying on the floor next to the nightstand. She walked over and picked it up. Could it have just fallen off?

  And then she smelled that smell again. Yes, she definitely smelled something...musky. That was it, the distinct smell of sour body. Had Dakota come up here for something before he left? She clutched the pillow to her chest, sniffing the air like a beagle on the hunt. Winnie would ask him later; in the meantime, she opened one of her drawers, pulling out a dainty glass bottle, and squirted it four times into the air. The sweaty smell was gone, replaced by orange blossom. The cheap stuff never lingered in the air like the good stuff did. Call her a snob, everyone else did. The same went for this house. Nigel had wanted one of those crappy, cheaply built model homes, but Winnie had put her foot down; it was her money, after all. Now she lived in her dream home with her dream man.