The Accidental Book Club

by Jennifer Scott

  She stood awkwardly between the counter and the bed, staring at her mom, willing her to open her eyes and be normal again. Willing her to stop this nonsense and care about things and be a mom. She stared so long, her eyes ached and tears streamed down her cheeks. But the longer she looked on, the more her mom slept, the more Bailey realized that this was real and her mom wouldn’t change, not for a messed-up wrist and a little embarrassment of a hospital visit. It would take more.

  She heard a shuffle in the hallway and a woman’s voice. “Mr. Butler?”

  “Hold on, Ted,” she heard her dad say, and then, “Yes.”

  “I’ve got the phone number for the rehab center for you . . .”

  Bailey looked up. Rehab? They were sending her mother to rehab? Nobody had said anything to her about that. What would happen to her if her mom was locked up? Would she have to go with . . . him—her dad? The deserter? No way. Never.

  She wanted nothing more than to go home, grab her book, sink into the beautiful Prince Edward Island farmland where drunk moms and ghost dads and embarrassment didn’t exist. She wanted nothing more than to escape this messed-up family, and the fact that she wanted to made the anger that had been percolating inside of her burst to a boil.

  Bailey wiped her cheeks on the back of one arm and turned to the counter. In one swift motion she picked up the jar of cotton balls, held it high over her head, and threw it to the ground with an ear-shattering crash.

  She’d dashed out of the room, out of the ward, laughing and crying until her belly hurt.

  Her father hadn’t been amused. Not in the least. And after they cleaned up the glass, he’d yelled at her for, like, a million hours, but somehow it had kind of been worth it. Even if her mother didn’t remember any of it this morning.

  And now her mother was in rehab, and her father was looking for Runaway Bailey, and she was behind the chair with a book—There’s such a lot of different Annes in me. I sometimes think that is why I’m such a troublesome person—listening to the hum of the refrigerator and the whoosh of the air conditioner kicking on and off, and underneath all of that, a faint buzzing of flies in the kitchen. Or maybe she wasn’t really hearing those. Maybe she only thought she was hearing them because she knew they were down there, swarming the trash.

  Three times the phone rang. If she closed her eyes and imagined it, she could hear the pounding of her mom’s feet toward the phone, the beep of the TALK button being pressed, her mom’s voice starting low and steady and ending high and shrieky as she took on yet another battle. Who would it be this time? Work? The mortgage company? Maybe it was the phone company, and the ringing would at last be turned off for good. Peace. Peace would be good. She once knew peace. She once knew what it felt like to curl into her mom’s chest, touch picture book illustrations, mouth memorized stories along with her mom. That was peace. But it was so long ago, it didn’t even seem like a real memory anymore. Like that girl was a fictional character Bailey had once read about and loved.

  She wondered where her dad was now, if he was still looking for her. Or maybe he’d gone off to the rehab to make sure her mother didn’t detour into some bar along the way. Had it really gotten that far? Was her mother frequenting bars now, begging for brews, belching and tipping sideways off barstools, only to fall into the waiting arms of some trench-mouthed troll? She doubted it. Laura Butler was a lot of things, but tacky wasn’t one of them. Laura Butler would rather be dead than be tacky.

  Still, her mother hadn’t exactly been excited about going to rehab—was anyone, ever?—and he probably was rushing to her, rushing to make sure she got checked in, to exert his will on her or maybe to fight with her some more or to do . . . God knew what.

  But whatever it was he was so hot to do, it was not to find Bailey. Not really. Because she’d been just above him the whole time and he’d never bothered to look up.

  She’d stayed after he’d left. Had wrapped herself up into a tighter ball and watched the dust motes swing around on the air. After a while, her mind wandered and she saw herself get up and climb onto the rocking chair, then step over the loft rail and just float there in the sun with the dust. Just twist and turn and ride the invisible breezes of life shifting around her. Weightless. Beautiful. In her daydream, her hair even turned red and floated out behind her in plaits.

  She was snapped out of her daydream by the front door opening a second time. She blinked, rubbed her eyes (had she fallen asleep?). She’d lost track of the time, but from the way the shadows had shifted—the swimming dust particles were no longer in her direct line of sight—and the stiffness in her legs, she guessed it had been hours. Her knees now ached from being pulled up against her; her cheek felt hot and bruised from resting against the denim of her jeans; her book had fallen out of her lap and lay beside her now.

  The door pushed open farther and her father stepped in again, but then stood to the side and waited, letting her grandmother in after him.

  She couldn’t even really remember her grandmother. Their visits had been few and far between. They’d almost never driven to Kansas City to see them (her mother called it “That Godforsaken Town”), and her grandparents had only slightly more often come to St. Louis to visit. Her mother had gone to her grandfather’s funeral alone. Until this morning at the hospital, she hadn’t seen her grandmother in what seemed like forever. She looked smaller than she remembered. And older.

  So what was she doing here now? Was this curiosity? Voyeurism? Some misplaced sense of needing to take care of Laura after all these years? Was that what she had waiting for her in the future—a life so messed up, her mother might finally take an interest in it?

  Her grandmother stepped in and made a face, and she could see the woman making an effort to not cover her nose.

  “It’s trash,” her father mumbled, leading the way into the living room and reaching over to snap on the light. “I guess she stopped paying the bill. There’s loads of it stacked in the garage too. As bad as it is in here, it smells even worse in there.”

  The grandmother looked dazed, following him at a gait that didn’t seem entirely even.

  “Besides, there are dishes. Piled up to my chest. Stuff caked on them for weeks. I don’t know what . . . Usually Bailey is really good at doing those,” her father added.

  Usually Bailey is really good at doing everything, she wanted to correct him. If Bailey doesn’t do it, usually it doesn’t get done.

  “I had no idea,” the grandmother said. “I wouldn’t have guessed Laura would let her house go like this.”

  Trust me, Sober Laura wouldn’t, Bailey wanted to cry. Sober Laura would die if she knew there was somebody in this disgusting house right now. But Sober Laura left the building a long time ago. Gosh, could it have been the night that Ghost Curt suddenly discovered he wanted nothing to do with this life anymore? Why, yes, yes, I think it was.

  And would that also be the night that they had the not-so-sober knock-down-drag-out about who had to take Bailey in this mess?

  Why, yes. It was that night too.

  Her eyes burned and she blinked hard, savoring the pain beneath her eyelids as they moistened her eyes.

  “So let me just get a few of Laura’s things, so I can take them over to the clinic,” her father said, heading toward the bedroom. His voiced trailed down the hall as he moved. “Make yourself at home.”

  “Okay,” her grandmother said, meekly, and Bailey watched as she moved to the middle of the living room and turned in slow circles. She could hear the grind and thud of her mother’s dresser drawers opening and closing, the thunk of the suitcase being dragged out of their closet, the whine of a zipper being drawn back. Usually, the whine of that zipper heralded the beginning of a mirthless vacation to a trendy destination, everyone squinting balefully into the sun until Laura found the mini bar, Curt found the right cable channels, and Bailey found herself curled around a paperback, lonely.

/>   The grandmother stood, arms crossed, for a few more minutes, then leaned over and began stacking papers on the coffee table. As if that would do any good. She picked up a handful of empty soda cans and carried them into the kitchen. After a moment, there came the loud rattle of them dropping into the recycle bin. She came back, brushing her hands, and bent to pick up something in front of the couch. And then something else. And a third thing. She straightened, setting them all on the couch, then shrugged out of her cardigan and balled it up in one hand, used it to edge some dust off the table, and then the fireplace mantel.

  Finally, with a shrug, the grandmother sat down on the couch, crossing and then uncrossing her arms uncomfortably, taking it all in, the disaster that the house had become.

  And that was when her gaze drifted upward.

  They locked eyes.

  Bailey jolted, hugged her screaming knees tighter, lifted her head up straight, pushed her back harder against the wall. But there was no hiding up here, not where she was sitting. And that had been what she’d wanted, hadn’t it? To be so easily found, if only someone had been interested enough to look?

  Neither of them spoke. For what seemed like ages, they just stared, each daring the other to be the first to say or do something, anything. Her breathing seemed loud in her ears. Her heart beat like drums in her chest. But she felt still, so very, very still.

  Finally, noises tumbled down the hallway as her father came back, carrying a stuffed suitcase in one hand and a canvas bag in the other.

  “I think I got it all,” he said. “Whatever’s not in here, she’ll just have to do without until she’s sober. Not like she’s going to any formals or anything.”

  The grandmother stood. She grabbed her wadded-up, filthy cardigan, and faced him.

  Bailey waited for it.

  Waited for her grandmother to out her.

  Squinched her eyes shut for the firestorm that would erupt from her father. Her fingers wrapped themselves around her book, a talisman against the storm.

  “I picked up a bit,” was all the grandmother said, though. “It needs some real cleaning, but I didn’t think I’d have time to run the vacuum or anything like that. I can stay on a day . . .”

  Her father shook his head. “What? Oh, that. No, no. I’ll take care of it. Soon as everyone gets settled.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure. You ready?”

  Again, Bailey braced herself, and again there was nothing. The grandmother nodded her consent, and the two of them headed back out the front door, her father going out first in his typical chivalrous manner.

  But aside from another quick glance up just before pulling the door closed behind her, the grandmother again did nothing.

  Which was confusing.

  And maddening.

  She finally gets someone to notice her, and they don’t bother to say a word.

  Why? Why was she so difficult to notice? Why couldn’t she be seen? Why did she have to resort to ridiculous tantrums? Why did she care so much?

  Bailey turned and scooted backward on her butt, edging out from behind the rocker, straightening her legs out toward the loft rail. Her knees crackled as she straightened them, and she winced.

  And then she scooted forward until her legs were bent, and with a rush of breath, kicked her feet forward with all her might. All too easily, a spindle cracked in half, the bottom of it coming loose from its nails and plunging to the coffee table below.

  She grinned, scooted down to the other side of the rocking chair, and did it again. And again. And again. Until all the spindles were trashed.

  She could hear him, her father, in her head, ranting and raving, practically foaming at the mouth. Why in God’s name, Bailey, would you do this?

  “Because,” she said aloud, breathing heavily as she gazed down at the splintered mess below. She dropped her worn paperback, which fluttered to a landing on top of it. “Because you never looked up.”

  FIVE

  “Knock, knock!” Jean heard from the entryway just as she pulled a bubbling rosemary chicken potpie out of the oven.

  “In the kitchen,” she called, shutting the oven door with her knee. She carried the potpie to the counter, which she’d already arranged for the book club meeting. There were potholders scattered about, serving spoons laid out, even a set of salad tongs, just in case. She knew it was supposed to be a quickie do-over meeting, to replace the one she’d cut short when Curt had called. But she also knew the ladies well enough to know that “do-over” did not mean to skimp on the cuisine. She set the pie on a potholder.

  “What do I smell?” Loretta said, scuffing through the kitchen in her house shoes, her arms full of a cheese tray. “My nose is doing backflips.”

  “Cheese?” Jean said, incredulous. “You know Mitzi’s going to say it’s cheating to just cut up a block of cheese.”

  “Well, Mitzi can just keep her man hands off it, then.”

  Jean chuckled, waved at Loretta with a towel. “Stop it. She does not have man hands.”

  “And cheese is not cheating. See? We’re both right.” Loretta leaned over the potpie and took a deep breath. “I do believe you are becoming quite the chef, Miss Jeanie. This smells amazing. I can’t wait to get my man hands on it.”

  “Thank you, I’m proud of it,” Jean said. “If it tastes as good as it smells, anyway. Did you bring the books?”

  “Chuck is pulling ’em over in Wendy’s old red wagon as we speak. I told him to leave them on the porch, and everyone can pick one up as they come in. I’m excited to read it. I hear it’s causing quite a stir.”

  Jean picked at the crust, nibbled it. “Doesn’t Thackeray always? I thought that’s why we read him.”

  Loretta stole a cheese cube from the tray and popped it in her mouth. “Maybe that’s why you read him. I read him because I think he’s sexy. Where’s the wine?”

  “At the table, breathing.” Jean sauntered toward the dining room, Loretta following close behind and palming another cheese cube on the way. Jean didn’t know any more about wine than she did about cooking, but she thought letting the wine breathe was something wine-knowledgeable people did. Sort of the oenophilic equivalent of stirring roasted red peppers into macaroni and cheese. “Sexy? Really? He’s kind of . . . loose skinned, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, honey, at our age who isn’t? Loose skin is the new black—haven’t you heard?” Loretta saw the bottle, made a noise. “Pour it, Jeanie. It’s not the wine that should be breathing. It’s me. I should be inhaling a glass right now. Maybe if I drink enough, Chuck will get some ideas.”

  Poor Loretta. Her marriage to Chuck had once been vibrant and exciting. They were one of those couples everyone envied—a couple with such chemistry, it radiated off them. But after Chuck retired, things changed. He bought a new recliner, and that chair became his mistress. Loretta could barely get him out of it to come to the Sunday dinner table, much less the bedroom. Jean knew Loretta was all talk when it came to men like Thackeray—she loved Chuck dearly and would never lay a hand on anyone but him. But that was the problem—Chuck wasn’t laying his hands on anything but the remote, and it drove Loretta crazy. Loretta’s way of dealing with it was sexy novels, inappropriate crushes, wine, and lots and lots of jokes.

  Jean poured Loretta’s wine, and they sat next to each other. “You’re full of it today,” she said, tipping her glass to clink against Loretta’s.

  “Aw, what the hell, I’m full of it every day. You’re just noticing it today.”

  “Oh, trust me, I notice it every day,” Jean said.

  The doorbell rang, followed by the sound of footsteps on the entryway tile. As always, Mitzi and Dorothy arrived together, Dorothy complaining about her sons and Mitzi offering tough-love advice that would make most people wince.

  “Hello,” Jean called out, moving into the kitchen to help them u
nload their food.

  “You’re back,” Dorothy exclaimed, wrapping Jean in a quick hug. “How is she?”

  Jean shrugged. “I haven’t heard a thing. I can only guess no news is good news.”

  “How odd,” Mitzi said, leaning against the counter and eating a piece of cheese. Loretta had been right—not a word about cheating. “Laura of all people. I never would have guessed. She always seemed to have it all together.”

  Jean nodded. “I never would have guessed it, either.” Jean hadn’t told them about Curt’s leaving Laura, or about Bailey’s misbehaving. She’d wanted to let Laura have some semblance of dignity. Or had she been too embarrassed herself? Was she that shallow, that she wouldn’t tell her friends about her own troubles, while they told about theirs? No, surely not. It was just about privacy.

  As they unpacked, the house began to warm up with heavenly smells—a rich tomato basil bisque, steaming in a Crock-Pot, something sweet and cinnamony in a foil-covered dish by the sink. May, and then Janet, arrived, each clutching a casserole dish in one hand and a book in the other.

  “Santa left us goodies on the doorstep, I see,” May said, setting down her cheesecakes and waving around the new book. She turned it over and read a blurb from the back. “Provocative and timely . . . you will never look at your mother the same again. Oooh, sounds . . .”

  “Provocative,” Loretta supplied, holding her wineglass in the air.

  “And timely,” Mitzi added, and she and Loretta giggled.

  Dorothy leaned over May’s shoulder to read more. “Thackeray pulls the rug out from under the outdated American family model of Mother Knows Best. Ugh, who wrote that?” she said.

  “My mother would die if she knew I was reading a Thackeray book,” Mitzi said. “He’s such a liberal, always saving this or that downtrodden somebody or other and going on about war. He’s gay too, isn’t he?”

  “Well, I don’t see why that should matter,” Dorothy said.