by Nancy Star
The girls nodded.
“About that other thing, forget it. That’s the best idea. Just forget it. I’ve already forgotten it. Remind me why you’re here?”
“Sorry,” Ginger said, and she and Mimi fled to the uneasy sanctuary of their room.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Richard followed her up the stairs. “Her room’s a mess,” Ginger warned him. “I want to get it ready.”
“For what? Julia’s not coming home for the funeral.”
“It’s a scattering,” she reminded him. “And we don’t know that for sure. I didn’t think Callie would ever come home and now here she is.” They stopped in front of Julia’s door. She’d shut the door months ago when she realized no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t help but look in every time she passed by.
Richard opened the door and peered into the chaos. “Her rug is soaked.” He stepped inside, careful not to trample the minefield of clothes which lay on the floor exactly where Julia had dropped them. He shut the windows. “Why are these open?”
Ginger didn’t share the reason, that the windows had been open since the day Julia left, since that night, when Ginger got out of bed at three, or maybe it was four in the morning and, without intention, walked into Julia’s room, climbed into Julia’s bed, lifted up the comforter, and pulled it over her head, breathing in the scent of her daughter’s raspberry Herbal Essence shampoo. She didn’t tell him then and she didn’t tell him now, how the smell of the bedclothes had made her jump, how she’d pushed off the blanket and leapt out, how she’d raced to open those very windows, first one and then the other, taking in deep open-mouthed breaths, trying as hard as she could—and for reasons she still could not explain—to get her daughter’s smell out of her nose.
That night, when Richard woke up, he thought it was the sound of water filling the bathtub that disturbed his sleep, not the sound of windows opening and of Julia’s track medals, hanging on ribbons from curtain rods, clanging together like broken glass.
When he found Ginger that night, standing in the bathtub filled with water, still wearing her robe, he’d asked if she was all right. The question seemed so ridiculous, she didn’t bother answering. Wasn’t it clear she was not all right? He’d struggled for a moment, trying to figure out what was called for. Then he rolled up his pajama bottoms, stepped into the tub, and embraced her. That was Richard. In the end, he always did the right thing. He got in the tub and embraced her. But he rolled up his pajama bottoms first. As far as she could tell, in the weeks that followed Julia’s departure, he hadn’t lost a moment’s sleep.
Ginger brought in a stack of bath towels from the linen cabinet and they got to work, laying the towels on the soaking carpet. Her glance flicked to the medals still hanging from the curtain rod, to the collage on the wall beside the bed—superhero women in poses of power—to the clock radio that flashed the wrong time—collateral damage from a recent storm—and to the photograph of Julia on her desk. She looks so happy, Ginger thought, and then, with a start, realized who’d taken that picture, that the rapturous smile on her daughter’s face was there because she was looking at Nick.
Richard spread out the last of the towels, and when he was done he put his hand on top of hers. Together, they pressed down, tamping hard to absorb the moisture. When the towels were soaked, they gathered them up and dumped them in the tub. Then they went to their room and undressed without speaking. Silently slipping under the blanket, they curled toward each other, tender and gentle, two twisted spoons, moving closer at the same moment to make love.
In the morning there was the usual moment of confusion, followed by dread. Something happened. What? She opened her eyes and took inventory. Julia was gone. Glory was dead. Callie was back. Someone was breathing into her neck. Richard.
“You okay?” He pulled her closer. She nodded and he slipped out of bed.
The day proceeded, dreamlike. She made the necessary calls: first to her friend, Cheryl, who agreed to sub for her; then to the principal to let him know her mother had died and she needed time off.
Richard made breakfast, eggs perfectly poached. While they ate, he offered to stay with her; he could get someone to cover for him at work. Ginger told him no. “You should go in. You might want to save your favors in case you want to come for the scattering.”
“Of course I’m going to come.”
Their good-bye was tender, but promised nothing.
When Ginger and Mimi got to Glory’s house to pick up Callie, they found she’d already left. A note on the kitchen table told them she was taking the noon ferry out of Woods Hole. Another note gave them her cell number and the address of the Vineyard house, in case they forgot.
Mimi was mad. “It’s not right. She swoops in, tells us what to do, and then leaves the mess for us to clean up.” She tried Callie’s cell, to vent. When Callie didn’t answer, Ginger felt relieved. Having Mimi yell at Callie would not make anything better.
“We don’t have that much to do,” Ginger said. “The main thing is we’ll be together for the scattering. That’s what’s important, right? The three of us together?”
“What’s important is selling the house. I googled last night. Real estate there is crazy. I wish I could remember more about the place. Distance from water is everything.” She left serial messages on Callie’s voice mail. How far is the house from water? Does it have a deck or porch? Is there a view from the roof? But Callie did not pick up.
At the bank, Mimi signed to gain entry to Glory’s safety deposit box without mentioning her mother had died. “Easier this way,” she whispered to Ginger, who’d had no clue Mimi had become cosigner for Glory’s accounts right before the move to the Meadows. Now they huddled in a small privacy booth and examined the loot: six silver Kennedy half dollars in a beaded change purse. The financial news didn’t improve when they learned the balance of the savings account. “Fifty dollars and change,” Mimi muttered as she drove to the Cremation Society.
Ginger concentrated on ignoring both Mimi’s disappointment in Glory’s bankbook and her obsession with the prospect of selling their surprise inheritance home. She knew anything she said might start Mimi on her usual tirade about the impossibly high cost of private school for three kids, or the exorbitant price of sleepaway camp these days, or the fast-approaching combined total of three college tuitions. By now Ginger knew, almost to the dollar, the outrageous cost of upkeep on their pool, the fees at their tennis club, the yearly total of the not-so-secret support she and Neil gave to multiple Popkins in various degrees of need.
She stayed silent as they drove, letting the questions Mimi shouted into Callie’s voice mail turn into a hum. Hummm—Is the road paved or is it dirt? Hummm—Are the toilets regular or compost? Hummm—Are the homes of the nearest neighbors within view?
At the Cremation Society, Ginger signed the authorization form while Mimi grumbled her way through the urn catalogue. After much deliberation she settled on a faux clamshell that the cremation staffer, worn down by Mimi’s inquiries as to durability versus dissolvability, concurred was the most perfect of all of the urns, the definite best choice for a scattering at sea. The same staffer then broke the news that it would take three days for the filled urn to be returned to them. When Mimi balked, the woman interrupted her. “Okay. Okay. We’ll aim for two.”
At the end of the day, when Mimi wondered aloud whether they should both wait for the urn or whether one of them should go ahead to join Callie, Ginger quickly volunteered to go. Driving alone to Woods Hole seemed a far better choice than spending four hours in a car with a put-upon Mimi.
“It makes sense for me to go ahead,” Ginger told her, and Mimi seemed happy to agree.
The next day, when Ginger reached the ferry terminal, she found a chaotic scene. One of the ferry slips was closed for construction. Two ferries had been canceled due to mechanical problems, and the next boat due in had been delayed by fog. Because now there wouldn’t be room for all the cars that had reservations, Gin
ger followed directions and parked at a satellite lot and then called Callie to let her know she was going on the boat as a walk-on. This time Callie picked up her phone and promised to meet her on the other side.
It was only as Ginger reached the gangplank that she realized how much she did not want to go on board. She did not like to travel over water and she did not want to step on the sandy shore on the other side. But, of course, she got on anyway because that’s what was called for and Ginger always did what was called for.
The boat was crowded and by the time she boarded, there were no more seats. She found a space against a wall in the lower cabin and turned away from the window so she wouldn’t see the water. As the ferry began its slow departure from the dock, her knees buckled slightly. She pinched her ear hard so she wouldn’t faint.
“Poor thing.” The woman standing next to her looked concerned. “The color just drained from your face. You want a Dramamine? I can ask the purser if he’s got a Dramamine. Or you can try going up a deck. Higher you go, better you’ll feel.”
Ginger thanked her and headed for the stairs. But the next deck had the snack bar and reeked of soggy hamburger rolls and scorched soup. The sea got choppy and the snack bar staff began to put away anything that could slide, but passengers at the tables still popped open Tupperware containers filled with pungent food from home. If Ginger stood there, she would surely get sick. She hurried to a narrow stairway leading to the upper deck. She didn’t realize till she reached the top step that this deck was outside, everywhere open to the sea.
The wind howled, sending her hair snapping over her face. Someone called, “Mom?”
Sweeping her hair away out of her eyes, Ginger whipped around and saw a girl. Tall, gangly, long hair, same age as Julia, same kind of T-shirt, cutoffs, worn-out sneakers. But she wasn’t Julia. Behind the girl, a woman, her mother, replied to her call with a sharp, “What?”
“Never mind,” the girl said, and they both disappeared down the stairs.
It happened several times a week now, Ginger saw Julia, and then realized she was wrong. Sometimes these girls looked like Julia but just as often they didn’t. Apparently looking like Julia wasn’t necessary. As long as there was some tiny similarity, her brain would make the leap. So if, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a girl with hair that was long and wavy but not dark red, she’d still think Julia, and if the girl had dark red hair cut into a matronly bob, Julia. Recently, a tall girl in a puffy orange vest turned around and Ginger thought, Julia, until she realized this Julia was a man.
The first few times it happened she would calm herself by listing the differences—too tall, thin hair, wrong color eyes, brown skin—but that reminded her of how Glory used to sort people, heart-shaped face, fairy-broom eyelashes, Shirley Temple dimples, so she stopped. The habit was hard to break. Too many freckles, she thought now.
As the wind whipped up, Ginger slipped on the rain slicker she’d brought along in case the weather turned foul. She pulled the hood up over her head, but a strong gust, like a practical joker, pulled it back down. Around her, the few remaining passengers, tired of having their bodies battered by the sudden gale, retreated indoors. Crab-like, she moved, one hand over the other, down the narrow steps.
Back inside, the flat-screen TVs on opposite walls played on. Café smells hung heavy in the air. Greasy fries, a Tupperware of curry, the burnt clam bits at the bottom of the chowder pot. Ginger found the bathroom and got sick as quietly as she could. When she was finished cleaning her face, she cleaned the sink and then wiped the mirror with a paper towel because she’d noticed spots that might or might not have been from her. She returned to her place at the wall as the chains clanged, the ropes got tossed, the boat bumped into the dock.
Still feeling unsteady, she slowly rolled her bag down the ramp, and blinked in the sudden and surprising sun. There they were, Callie and Echo standing against the primary colors of a perfect Vineyard day.
“What a trip,” she reported. “Terrible traffic to Woods Hole. Two ferries were canceled. The water was so choppy they shut down the snack bar.”
“It’s sunny here,” Callie said. “I’m parked a few blocks away.” Echo tugged at his leash. “Okay,” Callie told him. “Let’s go.” She set off at a slow jog. Ginger, hurrying alongside, struggled to keep up as she pulled her luggage along behind her. When they got to the car, Echo jumped into the front seat, but Callie made a quick gesture so he moved to the back.
Minutes later they were out of town, tourist shops replaced by a landscape of rolling hills and stone walls.
“I need to make a quick stop.” The car lurched as Callie turned down a dirt road.
Ginger caught a glimpse of a sign, the word, “Parking,” carved into wood, letters painted red. Her stomach dipped. “Here?”
Callie nodded as she pulled into a spot and turned off the car. “Echo can’t come with me. Dogs aren’t allowed on Charlie’s beach. Will you stay with him?”
Charlie’s beach. “Where are you going?”
Callie got out, slammed the door, and leaned through the open window. “It’s not far to the shortcut. I’m a fast runner.”
“Shortcut to where?”
Callie commanded Echo to lie down and then motioned for him to stay and the dog obeyed. “I won’t be long.”
“Wait,” Ginger called out, but her sister had taken off at a sprint and was gone. She sat for a moment, unsure of what to do.
When her phone rang, she quickly checked to see who it was. Richard. “Hey—everything all right?”
The line was thick with static. She had to strain to listen as Richard explained that Julia had just called his cell.
“She’s okay,” he quickly added. “Anne-Marie tracked her down and told her about Glory. She’s sad but she’s okay.”
Ginger let out a soft noise. Of course this was good news. It was a relief to know Julia was okay. That was the important part. Not that it was her father who she’d chosen to call. “Did she cry? Is she coming for the scattering?”
“Didn’t cry. Isn’t coming.”
“Okay.” Ginger took this in. “What did she say when you told her Callie was here?”
“I didn’t.”
“Why not? You should have. You need to. She’ll come home if she knows Callie’s here. I’m sure of it. You have to call her back and tell her.”
“Gingie, no. She doesn’t want me to call back. She told me she borrowed some random person’s phone. Look, this is hard for both of us. But you should know, Julia told me she’s grateful we sent her the message through Nick’s mom. We’re doing the right thing.”
How Ginger had come to be surrounded by so many people who thought there was a right thing, she had no idea. Something nagged at her. “Then why did she call? Did something happen? Is she sick? She’s not pregnant, is she?”
Richard groaned into the phone. “She called because she’s worried”—the phone started to break up—“you.”
“Me? What about me?”
“She’s worried about you. She called to make sure you’re okay.” The line went dead.
Ginger put down her phone. Echo sprung up and nuzzled her neck. She turned and pet the dog, and as she did she said out loud, “I have to find a way to make this right. For Julia and for me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
By the time they approached the second anniversary of the accident—this would be the last year Ginger kept track of time that way—Glory was working six days a week and had a loyal customer base of well-heeled women who refused to let any other personal shopper help them. This left Solly, his work hours shrinking, to field the calls from school. Callie’s wandering had taken a turn for the worse when she made the discovery that the front door of her school was open and unattended all day long. This meant she could leave whenever she liked.
Through a combination of geography and luck, the first time it happened, Ginger caught her. The geography was that Callie’s school was at one end of the same long block as Gin
ger’s. The luck was that Ginger was in Earth Science, where gazing out the window was normal, when she saw her sister Callie skipping by.
Feigning a bathroom emergency, Ginger left through the rear classroom door and kept going, right out the side exit of the building. She caught up with her sister a block away. When she explained to Callie that she had to stay in school all day like everyone else, her sister didn’t protest, and when she returned her to her third-grade classroom, her teacher seemed relieved. As for Earth Science, Mr. Michaels, droning on about the cooling of magma when she walked out of his class, had only progressed to droning on about the solidification of magma when she returned, and his granite face showed no sign that he found her extended bathroom break concerning.
Both assessments, however—that the third-grade teacher was relieved and that Mr. Michaels hadn’t noticed she was missing for most of his class—were wrong. Mr. Michaels was livid, and beneath the third-grade teacher’s facade of relief was rage.
Solly was mad as well. “Two principals I got to see because Callie went to get fresh air?”
To help smooth things over with the principals, Glory brought each one an extra-large fruit basket, with cherries and chocolate bars hidden among the apples and pears. It seemed to do the trick. But the next time they got called for Callie leaving in the middle of the day, the mandatory meeting was with Miss Mackeral, a guidance counselor who did not succumb to Glory’s charms.
“School’s a lunatic asylum,” Glory said when they got home. “That Miss Mackeral looks like a prison guard. That’s where she should work. Jail.”
“The school is jail,” Solly piped up. “The problem is they don’t give Callie what’s interesting to do. No wonder she wants to fly the coop. If I went there, I’d fly the coop too.”