She followed on his heels, refusing to be so easily dismissed this time. He was back in the kitchen, opening the fridge and bending down to see inside. Winnie watched him pull out a Gatorade, snapping off the lid and taking a long drink. She had time to wonder when he’d shaved and if his Adam’s apple had always been that pronounced before he replaced the lid and headed for the door, the bottle held loosely in his hand. He was still acting like she wasn’t there, so she stepped into his path, blocking his way.
“We need to talk.” She folded her arms across her chest and immediately felt childish. To make matters worse, Nigel acknowledged the action with a little raise of his eyebrows. He tucked his bottom lip under his teeth and stared at her through half narrowed eyes. If Winnie had wondered if he was drunk, she had her answer.
“I don’t know what I did to deserve—”
“No, you never do know, do you?”
Her lips were still curled around her last word when he cut in, and they stayed that way as her eyes narrowed in disbelief.
“Know what, Nigel? How am I supposed to know if you don’t tell me?”
His eyes rolled toward the ceiling like he was searching for something in the skylights.
“I did... I have... Winnie!” He ran his hands through his hair, yanking on it in frustration. Winnie frowned at all of this, pushing air loudly through her nose.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but if this is about my brother—I stood up for you ton—”
Again he cut her off. “I didn’t want your brother to move in, I didn’t want to have this fucking dinner party, and if we talk about this right now I’m going to say things I regret. So do you really want to do this, Winnie, right now?”
She heard herself say “yes,” but it was all smoke; she was afraid. Her husband had never spoken to her like this, and after all this time, after everything that they endured together, it could only mean one thing: he was over it. It meaning her and their marriage, the fascination he’d once held for her—gone.
That’s when the shouting began, and true to his word, he said things he couldn’t take back. Winnie pressed her lips together, the hurt rocking around in her chest like a wild horse. Didn’t he know that once words were out, they stuck in people’s minds like barbs? She only ever brought up that night when she absolutely needed to—why couldn’t he do the same? For the most part it was around anniversaries that the grief woke up in her chest like a hibernating thing. She’d found that even if she didn’t consciously remember that it was that time of year, an unexplained sadness would creep up on her. She didn’t always know what was wrong; sometimes it took a few days of depression to figure it out. It was as if her entire body grieved on a sort of rhythm. Nigel shouting those ugly words at her had woken her grief, and now it would follow her around like a shadow.
8
JUNO
They were fighting tonight. Juno could hear them through the floor, their voices drifting to where she lay curled up in her bed. Her feet were cold; that’s what she’d been thinking when the fighting started. With Sam gone, his parents fought like they were releasing all the fizz that had been bottled up and shaken. She supposed that was better than the alternative: a young boy hearing firsthand all the things his parents hated about each other. She knew from experience that what was good for the kids wasn’t necessarily good for the marriage; if you were wizards you could balance everything, but for the rest of the nonmagical population, children put a strain on marriage while simultaneously keeping it together. It’s what Juno called a good ol’ damned if you do, damned if you don’t situation.
Winnie’s voice rose an octave; she was really working herself up. Juno lay still, eyes closed and trying to sleep, but their voices were invading her space. She felt the budding of panic in her chest, its petals unfolding. She was tired tonight, a little depressed, and she just wanted the day to be over. She could hear Nigel trying to reason with Winnie, who wasn’t having it.
“You’re dismissing my feelings again,” she shouted. “I can’t move on, you know that—”
“Winnie, you don’t have a choice. We go over this year after year. I’m tired of it.” Nigel’s voice, which initially sounded calm, was curling around the words like he was struggling to pronounce each one. He’s fed up, Juno thought—any minute he’s going to blow.
“You’re tired of it? Oh my God, Nigel. It was the worst night of my life and you’re tired of it?”
She couldn’t hear what Nigel said. Juno found herself leaning away from her pillow, trying to—
“It wasn’t you! You can’t know how this feels!”
Juno rolled on her back as Winnie dissolved into noisy tears.
“No. You’re right. I don’t know what it’s like to steal someone’s infant—”
The whole of Washington State could have shaken just then, and Juno wouldn’t have noticed. She was frozen in shock as reality wobbled around her; then there was a very loud clap that she assumed was Winnie’s hand meeting her husband’s face, followed by a much louder eruption of words. They continued to shout for a while longer before Winnie stormed off to the bedroom, her footsteps pounding up the stairs dramatically.
Juno lay very still, Nigel’s words playing over and over in her mind. Steal someone’s infant...? What had Nigel meant? Surely not Sam. Juno had gleaned that Winnie had worked as a mental health counselor for some years before shifting to a management position in a similar field. Perhaps she’d reported someone to child protective services, and they’d had their baby taken away unfairly. But Nigel wouldn’t have said those words with such bitterness if that were the case—if Winnie had just been doing her job.
She rolled onto her back, staring up at the ceiling. Could that be the secret Winnie had been harboring? The reason behind the depression she wrote about in her journal? That Sam wasn’t hers and Nigel’s—that she had stolen him? But Sam looked like his mother. Juno had always thought that—that he looked like his mother. They shared the same high forehead and wide-set eyes. Her son’s hair was darker than Winnie’s, though Juno suspected she was a bottle blonde—but so what? Kids didn’t always precisely resemble their parents. But what bothered her was Nigel and Winnie’s wariness around him, like they were tiptoeing over everything. Sam knew it, too, didn’t he? Wolves know when they’re being raised by bears.
Yes, that was it, Juno thought. Sam was the minefield they were tiptoeing around. But how had it happened?
9
WINNIE
When Winnie woke up the next morning, Nigel’s side of the bed was undisturbed. It made her feel empty to see the space so untouched. Last night, when Nigel didn’t come to bed, she’d found him sleeping in his den...sleeping. Winnie had never understood how men could fall asleep in times of emotional crisis. How could he sleep when he knew she was upstairs crying? She wanted to wake him up, yell at him for not being more upset; in the end she’d wandered back upstairs and climbed into bed, still in her dress from the dinner party. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing the little stabs he made were stinging.
She rolled out of the tangle of blankets, wobbling on her feet when she stood. She was a wreck, a hot mess—makeup was swirled across her face in streaks of color that reminded her of Dalí’s distorted art. She heard Nigel’s voice in the back of her mind telling her that it was very generous to compare herself to a Dalí—especially if it concerned her cry face. Or, as her mother would say—she had the face of a whore who’d been out whoring. Her pillow agreed, though she hated that she was using her mother’s voice to slut-shame herself. Winnie most definitely did not want to be judged for the number of men she’d slept with.
She washed her Dalí face off during a quick shower, after which she threw on her sweats, parted her hair and pulled it into a low bun, and applied some mascara. She had to be Samuel’s mom today, not Nigel’s angry wife. To at least look a little angry, she wore large gold hoop
s in her ears. Nigel would understand what they meant. Then with a confidence she most definitely wasn’t feeling, she marched down the stairs looking fresh out of a nineties music video. Pausing to grab an apple from the bowl in the kitchen, she flicked her eyes upward and found her husband dressed and drinking coffee at the dinette. She kept her cool, grabbing the keys from the hook as she stepped through the door. Her descent was halted.
“Sam’s already home,” Nigel called. He’d waited until she was down the last step. Winnie had to walk back up, which was cherry-on-top humiliating.
“Subomi’s mom dropped him off. She said she texted you...”
Maybe. Probably. She hadn’t checked her phone since last night. Where was it even? Winnie tried to move with indifference, but Nigel had that knowing look—you’re wearing your face, slim.
She refused—refused—to speak to him. Marching straight upstairs, she went to Samuel’s door and knocked. He called out a lazy “Come in,” and Winnie did just that.
“Hey,” she said. Samuel looked up from his book for a second before his eyes found the page again.
“How was it?”
“Fine,” he said. “They think I’m weird.”
“They do not. You’re not weird.” Winnie frowned at her son. She’d have to text Subomi’s mother and get to the bottom of this.
“You are weird,” Nigel said. Where had he come from? He was standing in the doorway, scratching the back of his head. Why was he saying this?
“I’d beat you up. Possibly shove your head in the urinal till—”
Samuel was cracking up, his face broken of its usually stony boredom, spread into a rare, crooked laughter. Winnie took a moment to appreciate it.
“Dude, weird is better than boring. Every time, man, every time.”
Samuel shrugged but Winnie could tell he was pleased.
“I guess so,” he said. “But I think they’re weird. Just to get that straight.”
“My man,” Nigel said, walking over to fist-bump their son. He strolled back out of the room and she blinked after him. The smell of his cologne on the air was overpowering; she cleared her throat once, twice.
“Did you need something, Mom?” Samuel was no longer smiling but staring at her like her presence was an intrusion.
Her mother’s heart wilted. “Nope. No—just checking on you...and I guess I wanted to talk to you about last night and Uncle Dakota...”
“Dad and I already had a talk. I get it.”
“Oh,” Winnie said. She bit back the rest of her questions, not wanting Samuel to know she was clueless. Thanks, Nigel.
“Well, if you need to talk about anything.”
“Thanks.”
She wanted to hug him—that’s what they always did after they resolved a conflict together—but as Winnie leaned toward her son, he’d already gone back to his book. And nothing had been resolved. Not that included her anyway. Winnie had never had fewer friends in her own home.
And then, as she left the room, a thought seized her so aggressively she took a little step back, away from them. What if Nigel told Samuel? What if he told him what I did? Winnie felt light-headed. There was nothing to steady herself on, so she just swayed on the spot, one hand reaching for a wall that wasn’t there. If Nigel had told Samuel, she’d lose her son forever.
Sometimes Winnie wondered if she’d taken the job at Illuminations Mental Health to prove something to Nigel. Once, when they were dating, he’d made a joke about her not being athletic; within a week she’d registered for indoor soccer and got a gym membership. It didn’t end there, no—Winnie actually became what she wanted. She began to like soccer, enjoy playing it. Can’t say I’m not athletic anymore, can you?
No, he really couldn’t. And since he’d called her spoiled within the first year of their marriage, she’d gotten to work, hadn’t she? He’d laughed at her when she spoke about the occasional dollar she passed to the homeless, had mocked her in one of his crueler moments. “You don’t care about homeless people,” he’d said. “You just have upper-middle-class shame you feel compelled to atone for!”
It was as if he’d issued some silent challenge to his wife. And so Winnie found herself working at Illuminations for two years. Two years of dedication to people less fortunate than she both in spirit and in bank. Two solid years. Before the incident.
He would have believed in her commitment to the cause, too, had she not done what she’d done. “The incident” was the name Nigel gave to it, but it was a weak word for what happened that night. It wasn’t an incident; it was a crime. One Winnie had committed.
10
JUNO
The autumn rain tapped incessantly against the windows in Winnie’s book nook. Juno settled into a chair with the book she’d started the day she fell. She’d bent the spine, and she regretted that; she had a deep respect for books. That entire day was a bit hazy in her memory. She hadn’t fallen since, but she knew that all it would take was falling the wrong way and her bones would snap like peanut brittle. She settled herself more firmly in her seat. No! There would be none of that. Juno was sick, sick as hell, and if she were careful, she could finish out her days without breaking a hip, or a leg, or whatever old people broke when they fell. As if on cue, Juno’s hip began to ache.
She was trying not to think about what she’d heard the night before as she lay in her own bed. You misheard, she’d told herself a hundred times since that morning. But she hadn’t misheard, and now those words were repeating themselves in her head like a goddamn two-year-old whining in a toy store. She rubbed little circles at her temples and tried to read the words on the page. But she wasn’t thinking about the story; it wasn’t fiction in which she wanted to immerse herself. It was the truth.
Juno got up from the chair with some difficulty and walked over to the family computer. The screen was dark, but she knew that if she gave the mouse a little nudge it would spring to life, revealing the family vacation screen saver. She hadn’t touched a computer in years—well, except when she’d nudged Sam’s mouse much the same way the other day—but her life before had held all of those things: computers and jobs and credit cards. She didn’t miss it. She had very little and having very little yielded fewer complications. It had taken Juno time to adjust to a life without—stuff—but once she had, she found that she preferred it.
She sat down in the chair facing the computer, flexing her fingers. It was no big deal; Juno knew how to work a damn computer. She wasn’t one of those timed-out old people who poked at an iPhone screen with a shaking index finger. She just didn’t want to be part of that world anymore. She almost got up right then and there, but Nigel’s words played again in her head. Call it human curiosity.
There they are! Juno thought as the photo of the Crouches appeared on the beach. She tried not to look at them as she pulled up the internet browser, but she could see them out of the corner of her eye, staring at her with their sunburned faces. Her fingers found the keys easily. Slipping right back into it, she thought, sitting up a little straighter. Not bad for a sixty-seven-year-old, not bad at all. She typed missing children Seattle Washington, and then, as an afterthought, added the year into the search box. Sam was thirteen years old. That would have made him an infant in 2008.
The Center for Missing and Exploited Children was the first site to appear, and Juno clicked on it. She was given the option to search for a missing child by name, but since Juno didn’t know what Sam’s real name was, she scrolled past that and saw there was a section where she could search by the city and state from which a child had gone missing. She typed in Seattle Washington and entered the year 2008 into the missing date option. Then Juno hit the return key and waited.
There weren’t many. She scanned through the single page of results in less than five seconds. There were no infants reported missing in Washington in 2008, but that didn’t mean anything. If the Crouches had kidnapped S
am, they could have taken him from anywhere. And maybe he wasn’t an infant infant; Nigel could have used that word “infant” and meant it broadly. She widened the search to all fifty states, which yielded a considerable number of results.
She leaned back in the chair—think, Juno. She knew that of the nearly 800,000 children under age eighteen who went missing each year, more than 58,000 were nonfamily abductions and only about 115 were stranger kidnappings. That was almost two stranger-danger kidnappings to a state every year. That calmed Juno’s nerves. Her previous thoughts sounded kooky, even to herself. A kidnapper’s emotional motive was desperation, and Winnie and Nigel were hardly desperate—selfish, mostly, with a side of entitlement.
Just because she was already on the web page, she copied down a list of names on the notepad Winnie kept next to the computer—names of children who went missing in the US and were never recovered. Recovered was the word the website used. Juno thought that was a silly police word; no parent whose child had been kidnapped would use such gentle words as “never recovered” to describe the lack of closure to their personal tragedy. What she did know was that if a baby had gone missing in 2008 from a perfect little family, it would have been national news, she was sure of it—especially if it were a white baby. That was how the world worked. But there was something else not sitting right with Juno. She tapped the desk with her index finger, lips pursed and eyes narrowed. It was a little like staring at shadows in the dark: she could make out the shapes but the full picture of what was there was missing. “You’re getting old, girlfriend,” she said, exiting out of the internet windows. “But you still have time to expose the truth.”
The Wrong Family Page 7