It’s so quiet in the house, and strange to be alone. When she first started traveling for work, she loved the time to herself. Walking the threshold from the jet bridge onto a plane felt like pressing pause, suspending her reality. Her life then was a daily series of crossing things off lists: wake up, make lunches, get Birdie off to school, work-work-work, get Birdie home from school, tennis practice, monitor homework, dinner, more work, bed. At a conference in Philly or St. Paul or wherever, though, she could bow out of a reception early and order a burger from room service, eating it in bed by herself with a glass of wine while watching HGTV makeover shows. Once, she woke up in a pitch-black hotel room after a talk, the shades pulled tight over the windows. She sat up in bed, assuming that she’d awoken in the middle of the night, but it was actually nine-thirty in the morning. She’d slept for twelve hours straight, something that hadn’t happened since before she became a mother.
Now, looking around the house, she is lonesome and on edge. She picks up a paperweight that Amanda gave her a few years ago, when she got into that “cozy quote” decor trend. Amanda has enough money to buy anything she wants, but instead of cashmere throws and fine art, her weakness is a fifteen-dollar “This house runs on love, hugs, and strong coffee” sign from Michaels, a “Kiss Me Good Night” placard over her bed. The paperweight is a smooth stone, etched with “These are the good old days.” Charlotte turns it in her hand, that sinking feeling returning to her, and puts it back on the table, facedown.
She gets herself another glass of wine, ignoring her conscience as she fills it nearly to the rim. She hasn’t had a drink since Montana, but it’s her first night alone in the house and not the time to deny herself. She heads upstairs and sits on the floor of Birdie’s room, in the center of the mess, and starts snooping. There is a lip gloss she didn’t know about (Buxom, it’s called), a silly note from Hannah with abbreviations that Charlotte doesn’t understand stuffed into the back of her sock drawer, and a romance novel that Charlotte didn’t know she was reading, but otherwise, nothing incriminating. She thinks of Birdie’s secret Instagram account, which she watched Birdie delete the other night. The good news is that aside from that one photo, the rest of it was pretty tame. Pictures of her and Hannah making funny faces, moody black-and-white photos of her dirty tennis shoes, a shot of Sylvie with a tennis ball in her mouth, a few of Tucker, including one of their hands, pinkies linked, with a caption that made Charlotte’s breath catch when she read it, because it had been lifted directly from the conclusion of her TED talk: “Small moments make up a life. Make sure yours count.”
Thinking of those words now, in this empty house, Jason doing who-knows-what at his parents’ house or wherever he is, she’s never felt like more of a fraud. Then again, she’s not the one who took off. That’s on him.
She turns on the television and has a couple more glasses of wine, knowing all the while that she’s numbing herself, waiting for Reese’s call, like she did so many years ago. They haven’t spoken since she poured out her heart to him over email the other night, telling him how unhappy she was, and that was before Jason broke the news that he was leaving, before Birdie overheard and ran screaming from them, a vision Charlotte can’t shake. She thought for sure he would write back right away, and it troubles her a little; she feels embarrassed, knowing that she has been so vulnerable with him and he hasn’t acknowledged it. She’d hoped he would at least mention the email in his text earlier today.
Finally, when she can’t take another minute of Chip and Joanna Gaines, Reese calls, at nine o’clock on the dot. She opens a second bottle for the occasion.
“Cheers to Saturday night,” he says, reciting something they used to say way back when.
“How is your weekend going?” she says.
“It’s okay,” he says. “Saw patients at the clinic this morning.”
“Let me guess: boob job, boob job, tummy tuck?” she teases.
“No.” He laughs. “Actually a cleft palate surgery that I’m doing for free, on a four-year-old, and then reconstruction—yes, a boob job—on a woman who had a double mastectomy after eight rounds of chemo.”
“Oof, I’m sorry. I stand corrected.”
“But then I managed to get outside for a little bit. Played nine holes with my cousin.”
“That sounds nice,” she says, feeling the tension she’s been holding all day fall away, a fist unclenching.
“It was,” he says. “Hot as blazes, though.”
She laughs.
“What?”
“‘Hot as blazes.’ You sound like my grandfather.”
“Hey!” He laughs.
“I just haven’t heard that expression in a long time.”
“Maybe you’ve been gone too long.”
“Maybe you sound like my mother,” she jokes, though his words hit her hard. She takes a sip of her wine. It’s cool and sharp. She takes another sip.
“You there?” he says, his voice gentle.
“Yeah, I’m here,” she says.
“You holding up okay?”
“Mm,” she says. “Yeah. But . . . I have to ask . . .”
“What is it?”
“Did you see my email? From last week?”
“Of course,” he says immediately. “I wrote back right away.”
“You did?” she says.
“You didn’t get it?”
“No,” she says. “I thought—”
“Oh, Charlotte,” he says. “You didn’t get it? I’m so sorry.”
“No, I just—I felt kind of stupid, laying it all out there like that.”
“But I did—Hold on, let me check.” He pauses. “Yes, I sent it.”
“Strange,” she says. “I never got anything.”
“I’ll send it again, but the gist of it was . . .” he says, letting the words roll out slowly. “I said that I’m here for you. I’m here to help.”
“Thank you,” she says. “The thing is—”
“What is it?”
“Well, the shit’s kind of hit the fan since then.”
“Oh no.”
“Jason. He . . .” She hesitates. “I guess there’s no nice way to say it. He left.”
“What do you mean he left?”
“He says he needs a break. From me.”
“Oh, come on.”
“And our daughter overheard us fighting and hates us both.”
He’s silent for a moment, and she wonders what he’s thinking, whether he’s judging her. “Well, being optimistic here, but maybe it is the best thing for you to take some time and think things through,” he says. “Though it’s obvious I’m not an expert on any of this.”
She thinks of how many times the description has been attributed to her—happiness expert—and how proud she was of it once, how awful it makes her feel now.
“Where is Birdie tonight?”
“Sleepover,” she says. “I’m hoping they won’t sneak out again, like they did the last time.”
He laughs. “You know they’re probably going to try.”
“Reese, come on.” She smiles despite herself. There’s something about the playful way he says it.
“How old is she again? Fourteen?”
“Yes.”
“We were fourteen once, too, if I recall . . .” He chuckles a little under his breath, and the memories come racing back. She’d spend the night at Amanda’s house, where her mother hardly noticed they were there, and they’d walk down to the waterfront on Reese’s family’s property and pair off with Reese and whichever friend of his Amanda was dating at the time. Sometimes it was just the four of them, sometimes dozens of kids, but for Charlotte, all that mattered was the two of them.
“Thanks.” She laughs. “Now I’m worried.”
“Oh, don’t be,” he says. “It’s all good memories, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she admits, remembering the thrill of their first kiss, after they finally admitted that they both wanted more than friendship. All of her early milest
ones, every last formative moment of her teens, were with him, and she never doubted whether that was exactly the way it was supposed to be. Memories like gifts, rare and precious, she knows now.
She hears ice clinking. “Still a bourbon drinker?” she asks, reaching for her own glass.
“Mm-hmm,” he says, chewing an ice cube. “One a day, doctor’s orders.”
“I wish—” She feels a hitch in her chest and stops herself before she says it.
“What’s that?” he says, his voice soft and gentle.
“Never mind,” she says.
“I wish we were together right now, too,” he says. “Is that what you were—?”
“Yes.” She closes her eyes tight, a feeling rising up through her body that she knows she should have only about her husband. “I can’t . . .” she starts.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry, Charlotte. I don’t mean to complicate things for you. It’s just been so nice, reuniting with you like this. Maybe not the healthiest thing, I’ll admit, given the timing, but please don’t confuse my intentions. Just old friends, right?”
“That’s right. Just old friends.” She feels the looseness of the words in her mouth, the slight slur. “You know . . .” she starts, weighing whether to say it. But they’re just old friends, so . . .
“What is it?”
“I’m going to be in Savannah in a couple of weeks.”
“You are?” he says.
“I am,” she says, leaving it at that. She wants him to say it first, but he doesn’t, so she continues. “Would you like to . . .”
“I would love to see you,” he says.
“I would, too,” she says, knowing that it’s wrong. She thinks of Jason, who walked out on her, who’s . . . where? “I would love to see you.”
“It’s a date,” he says, and she cringes, wishing he hadn’t worded it that way. “Or it’s . . .”
“Old friends,” she says, the phrase somehow absolving her. “Just old friends.”
Eighteen
It’s 11:45 when Charlotte’s phone rings next to her bed, waking her. Sylvie’s curled up against her legs, and the television across the dark bedroom is playing yet another episode in the Law & Order: SVU marathon she’d settled on before promptly passing out. As she fumbles for the phone on the nightstand, she nearly knocks over the half-empty glass of chardonnay and the pile of crumpled tissues she put there when she got into bed.
She sits up and squints at the name on the screen, the photo of her beautiful, beautiful girl, five years old, holding hands with Jason as they walked along the National Mall. Her beautiful—Mesmerized by the photo, she doesn’t register who’s calling until it’s almost too late.
“Hello!” she yelps, wiping her face. “Birdie? It’s Mom!” she says, nonsensically, since Birdie’s the one who called her.
“Mom!”
Immediately, Charlotte hears the panic in her daughter’s voice, a sound that tears through her. “Birdie, what is it?” she says, jumping out of bed, reaching for the edge of the nightstand when she stumbles, shoving her feet into her slippers. “Where are you? Who are you with?”
“Mom!” she says, still urgent but more calmly now, like she’s catching her breath. “We’re at . . . me and Hannah . . . we’re at Tucker’s house.”
Tucker’s house?
“That pool party, Mom,” she says tentatively. “I mentioned it a while ago? Mom, I’m sorry,” she moans. “I’m so sorry. But you always said . . . if I ever needed anything . . . if people were drinking or something and I got stuck . . . We need you to pick us up, Mom. I’m so sorry! I know we shouldn’t have snuck out, but this junior girl drove us. We can’t find her anywhere.”
“Okay,” Charlotte says. She fumbles down the steps, holding on to the wall on one side. Am I okay to drive? she thinks, and then she hears Birdie’s pleas in her head again.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” she says, lifting her keys off the hook by the back door. “It’s okay,” she says, her heart pounding. “I’m on my way.”
She isn’t out of the garage before she knows.
Backing out, she almost rams the passenger-side mirror into the side of the garage, jerking the steering wheel just in time. She reverses down the driveway slowly (too slowly? she’s not sure) and even though it’s wide enough for two cars to park side by side, she has trouble staying straight. The steering wheel feels unsteady in her hands, like she’s in one of those motorcycle-ride arcade games careening from side to side.
But Birdie . . .
She puts her foot on the gas. Shit! Too hard. The car rears back into the street, and when she slams on the brakes her head bounces against the back of the headrest. The Browns across the street have family visiting and there are cars parked in front of their house, making the space to navigate even narrower. She puts the car in drive and presses the gas again, slowly. It’s just two miles, not even, she tells herself, beginning to ease down the street. BirdieBirdieBirdie.
She takes a deep breath and turns up the fan. The street is dark—too dark. Wait. She forgot to turn on her headlights. She fumbles, reaching for the dial, and in the process, hits the gas, again with too much force. As soon as she realizes it, her foot leaps off the pedal and she jams on the brake, turns the wheel too hard. Shit! The car fishtails like it’s on ice. What did Jason tell me, when he taught me how to drive in the snow? Turn in to the skid? Or is it turn out?
She stops mere centimeters from the Marchettos’ mailbox. I can’t do this. The realization comes at her with a punch. I’m too—She reaches for her phone, squinting against the fuzziness that comes in waves.
He answers after two rings. “Jason?” she cries. “Jason! I need—”
“What’s wrong?” he says. “Charlotte, are you okay? Where are you?”
“I’m okay,” she says. “I’m . . . I’m at home. Jason, go get Birdie. Can you go get Birdie? At the Cunninghams’.”
“What?”
“She just called me, she’s with Hannah, she has her phone. She’s at Tucker’s and she wants to come home, Jason. Go get her!” The words come out slick, thick with tears and phlegm.
“Okay!” he says. “I’ve got it, okay.” She can hear him moving, the muffled hustle, banging the door open. “Charlotte, are you—Why aren’t you—?”
They both know. He must know.
“Jason, I . . .” The humiliation falls over her, heavy. “Jason,” she says. “I can’t.”
Several minutes later, she manages to get back into the garage, pulling dead in the middle of the empty space meant for two cars, hitting the garage door button as quickly as she can, hopeful that the door will close before anybody sees her. When she gets in the house, she moves quickly back upstairs, where she runs a cold washcloth over her face and smooths her hair and gargles from Jason’s big bottle of Listerine, and then hurries back down to the kitchen, where she puts her wineglass in the dishwasher and tosses the empty bottle into the recycling bin under the sink. She walks to the front of the house, bracing herself against the sill of one of the family room windows, and she waits.
Minutes later, the front door opens. “Go, go, go!” Jason screams. The girls tumble into the hallway ahead of him, and then Hannah hunches over, her arms splayed out to her sides, and retches all over the area rug in the foyer. Charlotte’s first thought is how grateful she is that it’s not Birdie, but then she looks up and sees the dead-eyed stare her daughter is giving her, the way she’s leaning into the wall, and she realizes that Birdie’s drunk, too. Jason is the only sober one among them.
She hurries to the kitchen for a roll of paper towels and cleaning spray. “I’ll do that,” Jason says, grabbing them from her hands, looking at her a beat too long. “You go with the girls.”
She starts after the two of them, who are now halfway up the stairs, and he stops her, putting a hand on her shoulder as if to steady her. “You okay?” he asks, but his tone is almost businesslike.
“Yes,” she says, brushing past him. Her f
uzziness has faded, the intensity of the moment making her feel focused and clear.
When she gets upstairs, she sees that Birdie isn’t as bad as she thought. Hannah’s another story. Birdie helps her friend out of her dress and gets her into the shower. She sits her down into the tub, and hands her a spray nozzle to rinse her hair and then closes the curtain, kneeling on the pale yellow bath mat on the other side, telling Hannah she’s right there, to let her know if she needs anything, and Charlotte is reminded of a time, just last year, when Birdie had a stomach bug and she did the very same thing.
“What did you girls drink?” Charlotte asks quietly, handing Birdie an extra towel from the linen closet.
“They had some kind of punch,” Birdie says, her eyes not meeting her mother’s. “I didn’t have any of that, but Hannah—”
“Right,” Charlotte says. “Do you know what was in it?”
Birdie shakes her head, staring down at the floor.
“But . . .” she begins. “Somebody had Jell-O shots. I had two of those. And Asher gave me a beer. I only had a few sips, though.”
“Asher? Who’s . . . Never mind,” Charlotte says. “I’ll leave you two. I’ll be just outside if you need help.”
“Mom, I’m so—” Birdie starts to cry.
“We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” She pulls her phone from the waistband of her pajama pants and goes out to the hallway to call Stephanie, but she doesn’t answer. Charlotte shoots off a quick text, part of her relieved that she won’t have to see her friend tonight: Girls are here, she types. Everything’s fine but they snuck off to the Cunninghams’ pool party and had too much to drink. Everything is okay. Have it covered. Call in the morning.
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