For All She Knows

by Beck, Jamie

  “Even if you’re right, how does it help to dwell on it? Carter has no interest in pressing charges. And I, for one, am grateful that Mimi organized these meals for us. Isn’t it nice to come home to a home-cooked dinner without having to do the work or go to the store? Doesn’t that earn her some compassion?”

  “Maybe she’s looking for ways to ease her guilty conscience,” I snapped, giving no ground regardless of how right he might be.

  Sam dragged a hand through his hair, his mouth drooping. “You always talk about her big heart, yet suddenly you’re a cynic. Why are you ascribing the worst motives to your best friend?”

  I stammered as if he’d dumped ice water on my head. In another context it might be a fair question, but in this case, the answer was so obvious I scoffed. “Because our son is currently living fifty miles away, in constant pain, and having to relearn how to walk.”

  We remained several feet apart, each ensconced in our righteousness. The temperature in the kitchen dropped fifteen degrees, and our home felt unsafe for the first time in our marriage.

  Sam brought his hands to his face before dropping back onto his seat and staring at me in utter disappointment. “What will it take to satisfy you, Grace?”

  “I want everyone responsible for this situation to pay,” I said flatly.

  Sam visibly withdrew, then his posture sagged as he tilted his head. “You realize that also means me . . . and you. We let him go to a party where we knew there’d be beer.”

  “You think we aren’t already paying for our mistake? My God, it’ll be months before I can sleep soundly. Months or years of disruption while Carter recovers—if he recovers. We still have very little idea what he’s in for now or way down the road. Trust me, Sam, I will never forgive myself for giving in about the party.”

  “It sounds like you’ll never forgive me, either.” His voice was soft and aching.

  I glared at him, unable to answer. I’d loved my husband for two decades. We were a team—or at least we’d always been one. Being at odds was foreign and devastatingly lonely.

  He continued talking in the absence of my reply. “Is this what it will be like from now on—you giving me the cold shoulder and acting like your regrets are the only ones that count? If you felt that strongly about the party, why didn’t you refuse?”

  He knew better than anyone that I’d been conditioned from birth not to cause ripples. Plus, he’d broken our pattern of mutual decision-making. “How can you ask that when you not only blindsided me that morning but also ganged up on me with Carter despite all my objections? After Carter pulled the guilt card by bringing up the whole budget fallout, I had no choice.”

  “Oh, okay. Got it.” He held up his hands, shaking his head.

  He was judging me—another new facet in our relationship. One that frightened me because this was how marriages began to crumble. “What?”

  “You’re allowed to be human—to make a mistake based on whatever justification you think is okay—but Mimi and I are not.” His caustic tone—another surprising trait—made every hair on my body tingle.

  “It’s not at all the same thing.” Was it, though? I found myself confused, whether because he’d made a valid point or scared me with his attitude, I couldn’t decide.

  Rather than finish our discussion, he stood and rinsed his bowl before setting it in the dishwasher, then wiped his hands on a dishcloth and folded it over the sink’s edge. “This has been a devastating, stressful week for our family, so I’ve tried to be patient. And I know you think rules can prevent the kinds of tragedies in your past from recurring. But no one controls the world, and hating everyone when things go wrong doesn’t solve anything. If you can’t find a way to forgive me, yourself, Mimi, and others, how can we move forward? This distance between us is unnerving, to say the least. You’ve got to meet me partway, Grace. For our sake, and especially for Carter’s. We don’t want him to pick up on this tension.”

  I knotted my fingers together, tight with discomfort while I tried talking myself down from all the indignation that festered whenever I recalled Saturday morning’s discussion. How could my own husband not see that I hated myself as much as or more than I resented him and Mimi? Watching Carter struggle for each infinitesimal improvement hardly put me in mind to forgive anyone.

  When I didn’t reply, Sam sighed. “I’ll see if Kim wants some ice cream and to watch a movie. I know she didn’t eat her dinner, but she’s had a rough week, and I’m not going to enforce the punishment now—especially when I said it in frustration. I’m sure you have opinions about that, too, but she needs some fun. I’d love it if you would set aside your anger long enough to join us, but if not, I’ll make up an excuse.”

  I blinked, my heart pumping its way up into my throat because I’d never been good at faking my feelings. He’d opened the door to this conversation, and when I’d trusted him with my darkest pain and fear, he’d turned on me. Part of me wanted to toss my chair on its side and scream at him for making me the bad guy. I’d assumed that blame all week—suffering until it made me sick. “Go on for ice cream without me. Tell her I have a headache. I’ll work on my mood so we can all watch a movie when you return.”

  Without looking at him—because the disappointment in his eyes would be too much to bear—I turned and went up the back stairs.

  I stopped in front of Carter’s room before stepping inside and closing the door behind me. His tabletop telescope sat on his desk, where the picture of him with his Sandy Hill Camp friends sat askew. Having those at the rehab center might make him feel more at home.

  I pressed my thumbs and forefingers to my eyes to stanch fresh tears. How stupid, as if objects would make him feel normal. Even when standing in the middle of my home, I felt completely separated from my normal life.

  Hugging myself, I sank to the ground and cried in silence, missing my baby, missing my husband, missing my friend. Missing life as I’d known it. I wasn’t functioning well in this new world, but if I didn’t figure something out soon, everything I’d ever cared about might be destroyed.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  MIMI

  Saturday afternoon, January 16

  A Cut Above

  At 3:05, I peered out the window of my shop to the parking lot, looking for Linda, who hadn’t called to cancel her 3:00 cut-and-color appointment. Normally butterflies wouldn’t go to war in my stomach when a client ran late, but I’d had a few no-shows this week.

  Having been a hairstylist for two decades, I’d lost my fair share of clients over the years. Sometimes they left because they moved out of town. Those ones told you in advance, often moaning about it and begging for referrals. Other clients went in search of cheaper prices or because a friend told them about a “new” stylist in town. Those folks skulked away, never to be heard from again. But no-shows were a new phenomenon.

  I pretended to rearrange the display of shampoos, hair masks, and conditioners so Vicki, my other stylist, and her client didn’t ask questions. By 3:10, I called Linda, but it went to voice mail. “Hey, Linda. It’s Mimi. I’m checking to make sure nothing bad happened. Maybe you’re on your way. Give me a call if something came up and you need to reschedule.”

  I hung up, keeping my back to Vicki and her client. This did not bode well. With my hand against my stomach, I opened the Facebook app to check on the status of the Meal Train.

  When people feel powerless in the face of another’s suffering, doing something to ease that person’s burden helps, so it hadn’t been hard to get people to volunteer. I didn’t regret organizing it despite the personal downside. And there certainly had been one. While twenty-two folks had signed up so far, at least half had thrown a little shade my way.

  Like this new volunteer—Katrina Wellesley.

  Does it seem a little weird to y’all that Mimi Gillette is organizing this? I mean, does she think it’ll make people forget this is sorta her fault?

  I’d never met this woman, but she’d already decided she knew all about
me and my alleged “real goal” of making myself the hero of this story. Ha! Never in my life had I tried to be anyone’s hero, let alone considered myself one. Heroes didn’t end up divorced. They didn’t get so overwhelmed by their kid that they bent over backward to please him and still felt like they’d lost control. They didn’t have a hard time making or keeping friends, either.

  This past week’s gut check made me admit to some questionable choices, but that didn’t make the nasty comments easier to slough off. Even when I tried to do the right thing, people cut me down. This incident had whipped folks into a heightened frenzy. Now I was the devil, and no one would let me forget my mistakes.

  Sure, I knew other parents who allowed their kids to drink, but I kept my mouth shut out of respect for Grace, Sam, and Carter.

  I closed the app and checked the clock: 3:17. Linda wasn’t coming.

  While I doubted Grace had asked anyone to blow off appointments this week, it seemed pretty clear that her friends were showing their loyalty and sending me a message.

  Vicki rang up Gweneth Templeman while I stared through the window at the parking lot as if I could will Linda’s car into pulling up. Gweneth, a stylish woman in her late fifties, had moved to town only months ago, so she didn’t know Grace, nor did she care about the budget debate.

  “It’s awfully quiet in here for a Saturday,” she remarked while handing Vicki her credit card.

  “Yeah. Been a strange week,” Vicki replied, averting her gaze.

  Gweneth slid a look my way and wrinkled her nose apologetically. “I read about the party and arrests in the paper. People can be small-minded, but luckily most have short memories, too. Hope things turn around for you soon.”

  Most residents relied on the weekly local paper to keep up with the comings and goings in Potomac Point, so her comment didn’t stun me as much as her compassion did. My splintered heart absorbed her kindness, but I shrugged because nothing would change the facts, and I didn’t want to talk about it anyway.

  Gweneth didn’t take my hint. “Most parents are probably shaking in their boots, thanking God this didn’t happen in their house, because we all know that this wasn’t the first teen drinking party in town. Dollars to doughnuts, in six months they’ll be back to the same behavior and turn a blind eye to their kids’ behavior, like this never happened.” Gweneth tucked her credit card into her wallet.

  Would they?

  “I don’t know, Gweneth.” I sure wouldn’t be as careless in the future. Every time I remembered seeing Carter in that hospital bed, I wanted to throw up. Sam hadn’t texted any updates, either. Did that mean there hadn’t been any improvements? It was too awful to consider.

  “Truth is, half the people in town wagging their finger at you right now have probably left their kids alone in a house with alcohol, or just given it to them.” She slung her purse over her shoulder and casually checked her hair one last time in the mirror to her left.

  Gweneth was right about the hypocrisy. Even John’s and Deshaun’s mothers—Roni and Jordan, fellow booster club volunteers I’d considered friends—had turned on me, acting like I’d force-fed their boys alcohol and then made them give Carter a hard time.

  Roni had been so eager to distance herself and her son from this that she’d posted in the Facebook moms’ group:

  We never gave Mimi Gillette permission to let John drink at her house, and if we’d known about it, we wouldn’t have allowed him to hang out there.

  Naturally, plenty of people piled on. I’d itched to type back BIG FAT LIAR because she let John drink in her home and her opinions about teen drinking had mirrored mine. Posting the picture I had of her and John drinking Bud at her pool this past summer would only make me feel worse about myself, though.

  Aside from my shame was the bigger worry that these posts gave Dirk ammunition to make good on his recent threats. Hopefully, they’d die down quickly if I ignored them, but the criminal hearings, which were sure to stir up more conversation and accusations, were still ahead of us.

  It seemed unfair that after I’d raised Rowan on my own all this time, Dirk could swoop in and take him away. Maybe that’s what I deserved, though. And scary as that worry was, it seemed small in comparison with Grace’s.

  “Actually, the truth is, Carter’s recovery is more important than my reputation.” I pretended to clean up my station to keep my hands busy but felt close to tears.

  “You’re good people, Mimi. Hang in there, and I’ll see you both next month.” She flashed a sympathetic smile.

  “Thanks, Gweneth.” I waved goodbye, blinking back my tears as she waltzed out the door.

  Once she’d gone, Vicki sighed. “Well, boss, what do you think? Should we pack it in for the day? There’s no one else on my appointment book, and I doubt Linda will show up for you.”

  I nodded, knowing that was true.

  Not to brag, but I was the best stylist in town. From the get-go, I’d had a knack for understanding hair—which styles would work for which textures, and which ones would look best on different people. Luckily for me, most women’s vanity had always overcome whatever judgments they had about me for how I looked or acted.

  That might not hold true now. If we continued to lose clients each week, we’d be in trouble by March. I looked around my shop—its buttercup-yellow walls aglow with the late-afternoon sun shining through the window. I’d gone all out and bought the fancy Colombina chairs and RIO backwash shampoo stations. Grace had helped me pick the live-edge floating display shelves and hardwood flooring.

  I’d poured everything into this business, and now it, too, could be at risk. I might’ve broken down on the spot if it weren’t for Vicki. “You go ahead, Vic. I’m going to take inventory and do some bookkeeping.”

  I’d fight to keep my doors open. And who knew, maybe today a new-to-town walk-in would show up.

  “I can stick around if you want.” Vicki’s earnest young face offered enough unity to make me feel better.

  “No, no. Take advantage of the free time. I’ll see you on Tuesday.”

  “Thanks.” She smiled and ducked into our workroom to gather her things. When she returned with her purse and jacket, she wore a frown. “Mimi, should I be worried about my job?”

  Fair question. She had bills like everyone else. I didn’t want to lie, but if she walked out on me, she’d take more business out the door. Hiding my doubts, I tapped into the can-do spirit that usually got me through tough spots. “We should probably expect a few lean weeks. We might even lose a handful of clients permanently. But new people move to town, and customers like Gweneth will stick it out. If we have to run some price specials for a while to retain clients, we can do that. But don’t worry about it. I’ll figure it out.” I hoped my confident smile would fool her long enough to give me time to make a game plan.

  “Okay. See you Tuesday.” She left with her phone at her ear.

  When I was her age, I’d been pregnant and working for Kathleen over at Divaz. I’d made good money there and built up a loyal following when I struck out on my own. Kathleen and I enjoyed a friendly rivalry, but there were more than enough customers in town to support us both, so it’d never caused a problem.

  But the truth was that if Carter didn’t get better, things would go further south for me. That’d be a boon for Divaz’s employees, and I couldn’t blame them if they were happy. I supposed I could cut hair anywhere, but losing my own place—something so much mine—hurt to consider. Besides, starting over somewhere new would mean yanking Rowan from a team where he shone. Then again, I might not be happy living in Potomac Point if Grace never forgave me.

  The very possibility brought me low. And it was a possibility. She’d cut me out so fast, despite all we’d shared. Even here in my shop we’d made lots of memories, like on its one-year anniversary, when she’d helped to celebrate by organizing a Locks of Love haircutting party complete with delectable petit fours. She’d even asked Sam to teach me basic bookkeeping so I didn’t have to spend as mu
ch on accountants.

  She’d always been there with a sympathetic shoulder anytime Dirk had let me down. She’d encouraged me to join her on the middle school PTC and on another committee she’d set up as a board member for SilverRide, the senior ride-sharing nonprofit where she’d volunteered. I knew she’d done so to help me make more friends. It hadn’t ever worked as well as she’d believed it would, but all those women had been more polite to me thanks to Grace—until now.

  Life without my friend was bad enough, but the idea of life as the object of her hatred shattered me.

  I swiped my runny nose and dried my eyes, then shook that thought off like a dog does fleas. Sam had told me to be patient, so the best thing I could do today was get to work.

  An hour later, I drove home, my stomach still a tangle of nerves. When I walked through the door, Rowan was lounging on the sofa, staring at his phone. Although he’d had a rough week at school, I’d awakened him at nine before I left for work and given him a list of Saturday chores. As I looked around at the unfolded laundry, the lunch dishes on the table, and the garbage bag by the door, it appeared he’d either ignored them or given them short shrift.

  “Hey, what gives?” When he didn’t reply, I shoved his leg.

  He removed his earbuds. “What?”

  “You didn’t do your chores.”

  “I will later.”

  “No, Rowan. I asked you to do them before I got home.”

  “What’s the difference when I do them?”

  I stuck out my hand. “Hand me the phone.”

  “Why?”

  I wiggled my fingers and uttered the words Uncle Tommy had always used that I’d sworn would never pass my lips. “Because I said so. The phone, now.”

  He tossed the phone on the table. “Fine.”

  “Hey, cut the attitude. When I ask you for help, you should do it happily. I work my butt off to keep this roof over our heads, and I don’t ask much in return.”