Violet shook her head in denial even as a thrill raced through her entire body. It felt like the time she was on a roller coaster with her dad: the dropping sensation and the rising sensation all happening in tandem.
“He doesn’t like me,” she said. Because to think anything else was crazy. Violet was a lot of things—smart, sarcastic, uncoordinated, a procrastinator—but crazy wasn’t one of them.
Polly only smirked in response.
“What?” Violet wanted to know what the smirk meant. Especially if Polly was going to say that she was wrong. She wanted to be wrong about Micah’s feelings for her. She wanted to be wrong about that more than anything.
Polly gave her the side-eye. “Now we’re getting close,” she said. “I’ve got to concentrate on where we’re going. These city streets can be confusing.”
Violet slid closer to the passenger-side window and rested her head on the glass, turned cool from the air-conditioning inside the car. Her grandmother wasn’t going to play. She wasn’t going to make another encouraging speech about how Violet was going to be beautiful someday, that men were going to chase her down the street the way they did her mother. She wasn’t going to give her something to look forward to. It was not the time for that, she scolded herself. It was time to see her mother. That’s what she should want more than anything.
“Except,” Polly said.
Violet picked her head up, looked over at Polly’s profile. She loved the word except.
Polly gave her a smile before turning her attention back to navigating. Still, she spoke. “Except I think he does like you. I just don’t think he’s ready for it. Something’s going on with him?”
She wondered if Bess had told Polly about Micah, if she’d believed the worst about him without bothering to get the full story. Of course, no one knew the full story. Except Micah. And Violet.
She nodded her assent but didn’t give any more details. Maybe later she’d tell her grandmother the whole whole story. Maybe Polly would be the first person she’d tell. She was starting to think she’d be the best person to tell. She felt a momentary pang of betrayal at the thought, as though she were cheating on her mother. But hadn’t her mother cheated on her? Wasn’t that why they were going to a jail to visit her?
To Polly’s credit, she didn’t press for more. She just went on. “But he does like you, as much as he can like anyone right now.”
Violet sighed and banged her head on the headrest. “No offense, Polly, but I think you might have this one wrong. He keeps telling me I’m a funny girl. Like, funny odd. That’s hardly the stuff of great romances.”
Polly laughed out loud as she made a left turn, then drove a few more feet, concentrating on the directions with her mouth pinched and her eyes squinted. She made one more turn, and Violet saw that they were entering a parking deck designated for the jail. Her stomach twisted inside her.
Polly drove past several parking spaces that Violet thought looked just fine till she found one she liked and pulled the car in, killing the engine. She turned to Violet. “He calls you funny because he doesn’t know how to describe you. He doesn’t know where to put you, because you’re different from other girls. But once he figures it out . . .” Polly’s voice faded away, and she looked out the driver’s side for a moment. Violet thought she was trying not to cry.
“What happens once he figures it out?” Violet prodded.
She heard Polly sniff. Then she looked back at Violet. “He’ll have a hard time letting go.” Polly opened her door, signaling that the conversation was over, at least for now.
Violet tried to imagine a world where Micah Berg had a hard time letting her go. It was a nice thought, albeit unlikely, a distraction from what she was about to go do. She was glad her grandmother had talked about Micah because it was fun to talk about him. It was fun to get someone else’s opinion about whatever this thing was between them. Whether Polly’s opinion was right or wrong, it was fun to speculate. Mostly the conversation had been good to pass the time as they rode to the jail, helping her forget where they were going, and why.
Violet kept her seat and watched Polly climb out of the car, realizing her grandmother had probably known that, and that was exactly why she had done it. Polly leaned back in the car, a concerned look on her face. “You coming?” she asked.
Violet nodded yes, tugged her own door open, and followed her grandmother’s lead.
Polly
After all the rigmarole of getting into the jail, they were ushered into a small, windowless private room and left to wait. They took seats at the lone table in the room and sat silently. Polly stared straight ahead at a glass wall. She’d seen enough cop shows to know someone likely stood on the other side, observing them, listening, hoping they’d say something incriminating. Polly shifted under the perceived person’s gaze. She didn’t want to say anything to Violet lest she say something wrong. Though the room was cool—she wished she’d thought to bring a sweater for both of them—she felt beads of sweat forming on her skin underneath her clothes.
She glanced at Violet, who gave her a brave smile in return. This is for you, kid, she thought. She didn’t want Violet to feel guilty for wanting to see her mother. But if it’d been up to Polly, she’d have put off seeing Norah indefinitely. She relished the time with Violet, but the thought of seeing Norah rattled her. And she was rattled enough already. The threat of Calvin was plenty to be rattled about. She had thought she saw his truck drive down their street just that morning, but it hadn’t been the right make after all.
Calvin had gone silent recently, and his silence scared her more than his incessant phone calls and texts. She didn’t dare think the silence meant he’d given up. No, the silence meant he was devoting his efforts in a new direction, with the same intended outcome: getting at the money he felt he was entitled to. She’d changed its hiding place again just before they left to come to the jail, as if moving the money around Norah’s house would render it invisible. Mostly she just wanted to do something to make herself feel safe, like she was at least trying to protect herself. Still, she felt Calvin out there somewhere.
The door opened and a man walked in. She’d seen his picture in the news articles about Norah, but they’d not had occasion to meet. It was Norah’s attorney. He thrust his hand at Polly. “I’m Jim Sheridan,” he said. “Norah’s attorney.”
Polly shook his hand. “I’m Polly Ca—” She stopped short of giving her last name, which was Calvin’s last name. She waved her hand in the air like it just plain ole didn’t matter who she was. “I’m Norah’s mother.”
“Good to meet you, Norah’s mother,” the attorney said. He turned to Violet and greeted her with a wide, genuine smile. “Hey, Violet,” he said, and squeezed her shoulder. “You OK?”
Violet nodded even as she looked stricken. “Is my mom coming?” she squeaked out.
“Oh yes. She’s about to come in. Just wanted to go over the ground rules before she does.” He pointed at the glass wall. “This meeting will be monitored, and Norah’s been instructed not to say anything pertaining to the case, as it could be held against her later, and, depending on what you guys say, you could be subpoenaed to testify about this conversation in court if it comes to that.” He clapped his hands together, the loud sound resounding in the small room. “So, what I’m saying is, it’s best if we avoid any and all mention of the case. Use your twenty minutes together to catch up on other things.” He looked from Polly’s face to Violet’s and back again. “Capiche?”
They both nodded in unison. Jim Sheridan looked at them both again and smiled. “Man, the family resemblance is uncanny. It’s like I’m looking at different versions of the same person.”
“Thank you,” said Polly, though she didn’t know why, especially since, in his scenario, she was the old version.
He clapped his hands together again. “OK, let’s go get your mommy,” he said to Violet and gave her shoulder one more squeeze before darting out of the room.
Violet look
ed at Polly. “Mommy?” she said.
Polly laughed. Under the table, she reached for Violet’s hand, resting on her lap, and gave it a squeeze. She waited for Violet to let go, but she didn’t. So Polly didn’t, either. And so it was that Norah shuffled in, the chains on her wrists and feet making a jangling noise not unlike Barney’s collar. Startled by the noise, they let go of each other in an instant, as if they’d been caught doing something wrong. She wondered if Norah had even realized that her mother and her daughter had been holding hands. And if she did, if she cared. There was that litany running through Polly’s brain lately: the one that said Norah should be grateful to her for coming to stay with Violet. Just grateful, and nothing else. But it was never that simple with Norah.
She took the seat across from them, and Polly was struck by two things: One, that Norah’s bottom lip was trembling, which meant she was holding back tears upon either the sight of her daughter or the emotion of being reunited with her mother in this way, or some combo thereof. And two, that she looked awful. A far cry from the glamorous photos shown in all the news articles. In those photos, taken at various society events and fundraisers through the years, Norah had looked beautiful, radiant, expensive. But now she looked wan, drawn, and cheap. Her roots were showing. Her eyes had bags under them big enough for an overseas flight. Her complexion verged on a yellow-green color.
“Are you sick?” she heard herself ask, the first one to speak. Because once a mother, always a mother, she guessed.
Norah forced a smile. “Hello, Mother.” She looked over at Violet, “Hi, Vi.”
Beside her, she felt Violet relax at the sound of her mother’s voice. Had her voice ever done that for Norah? She hoped so.
“And yes,” Norah added, turning back to Polly. “I am sick.” She looked over at Violet. “Sick of being in here.” She gave a little laugh, intended to put her daughter at ease. She was probably thinking, If I can still joke around, then I must be OK, no matter how things appear.
“Are you coming home soon?” Violet asked, sounding much younger than Polly had ever heard her sound.
“We’re working on that,” Norah said.
“No you’re not.” Violet’s response was wounded and automatic.
Across the table, Norah inhaled sharply. “Violet, yes, we are. Mr. Sheridan and I are doing everything we can to get me out of here.”
Violet had a response at the ready. “I’ve read the articles just like everyone else. I know you’re not telling them where your client list is. I know that if you did, they’d let you out. So, no, you’re not doing everything you can. Because you could turn that list over.” She crossed her arms and glared at Norah, daring her to disagree. The thing was, the child was right. Except she didn’t totally understand. Not like an adult would. Not like Polly did. To Violet it was cut and dried. Turn over the client list and come home.
But Polly understood that to Norah it was more complex than that. Turn over the client list and make some very dangerous enemies, expose some people who would go to great lengths to avoid exposure. Mostly because a charge of this kind would open them up to further investigation. And if there was one thing Polly had learned, it was that men who were involved in a nefarious activity usually didn’t limit it to just the one thing. There would be repercussions for that kind of exposure. To give up the client list was to potentially put Violet in harm’s way. She and Norah looked at each other, and Polly understood: by staying in jail she wasn’t protecting just herself; she was protecting those she loved.
She spoke up. “Your mother has her reasons. She’s getting good counsel from wise folks about all of this. And this wasn’t what we came here for anyway.”
Violet, cool as a cucumber, turned to look at her. “This is exactly why I came here,” she said. “To tell her to tell me where the list is. Is it on a drive? Or is it a printout? Is it, like, in a spiral notebook, old-school style? What?” Violet rose from her chair and leaned across the table. She lowered her voice to a whisper, and Polly wondered if the microphones in the room could pick up sound at that level. “Tell me and I’ll go find it. I’ll be the one to turn it in, and then those men can’t blame you.”
Polly watched as Norah flinched like she’d been slapped. She began to cry. “No, honey, it’s not about who gets blamed. It’s about doing the right thing. For everyone involved. It’s not just me, honey. There are other people—”
“What about me?” Violet’s raised voice made them both jump. She pounded her fists on the table, and Polly couldn’t help but think of when she had been a baby in a high chair doing the same thing. “I thought I was the only other person who mattered to you. That’s what you used to say. Remember? You said you’d never let anything come between us. You said you’d take care of me. But you didn’t!”
“I know I did, baby. I know I did. I was wrong, OK? I was wrong to tell you that. I made promises to you that were impossible to keep.” Norah looked over at Polly, desperation and something else that Polly couldn’t read on her face. “That’s what mothers do.” And then she knew what it was she saw on her daughter’s face: absolution. Somehow, in that jail cell, Norah had found it in her heart to forgive her. In the face of her failings as a mother, Norah had found the room to forgive her own mother. “The best I can hope for is that someday you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me. For letting you down. For not being honest with you. For making mistakes.”
Polly spoke up. “It’s unavoidable.”
Norah looked at her, her face impassive. But then she nodded, one quick dip of her chin.
Violet glanced over at the two of them, taking in what was happening. “You should thank Polly,” she said. “I’m not sure what I’d have done without her.”
Norah ducked her head, chastised. “I am thankful to her,” she said to the table.
“She’s a good grandmother,” Violet said, and in her voice was a challenge, a bit of the defiance Polly wanted to see in the girl. That was the one thing she hadn’t seen to remind her of Norah or herself. But Violet’s life had been different from both of theirs. She’d been cared for, even coddled, by a doting mother, never lacking for anything. It had created a passive complacency that said less about her personality and more about her situation. Without the coddling, Polly could see that Violet would find the pluck she needed to survive. She looked at her granddaughter and, once again, was reminded of herself. Usually she didn’t like what she saw when she saw herself. But when she saw herself through Violet, she felt proud and pleased. She felt hopeful for all of them.
Jim Sheridan stuck his head in the door, startling all three of them. He made a pained expression. “We should probably be wrapping things up. Saying any final words.”
“Could I have a moment with my daughter alone?” Norah asked, looking from Jim to Polly, asking for permission from them both.
Polly rose in answer to Norah’s question. “Yes, but make it quick,” said Jim. Together, the two of them left the room. They stood outside the door awkwardly. Jim Sheridan looked at a door just down the hall. She knew what he was thinking.
“Do you want to get back in there so you can listen in on them? Make sure she doesn’t say anything to hurt her own case? You don’t have to stand here with me.”
He looked at her gratefully. “Do you mind?” he asked.
“Not at all,” she said. She gestured in the direction of the door, like a maître d’ saying “Right this way.”
“I hope this was beneficial,” he said. “Seeing her.”
“It was. For Violet.”
And because he was a defense attorney and was used to being lied to, he nodded along, then gave her shoulder a squeeze just as he’d done to Violet. He walked away and disappeared behind the door into a room where he would listen in on Polly’s daughter and granddaughter in their last few minutes together till who knew when.
Violet
When the door closed behind them, her mother wasted no time leaning forward, talking rapidly in an urgent tone. “Are you r
eally OK with her? Tell me the truth.”
“With Polly?” Violet asked, as if there could be another her.
“Yes, with Polly. Is that what you’re calling her?”
Violet raised her eyebrows. “It’s her name.” She was being insolent on purpose. She wasn’t going to hand over the keys to her kingdom to a woman who’d betrayed her, even if she was still hoping her mother would give up the client list and she’d have a chance to help Micah, or Norah, or both.
Norah ducked her head again, but the penitent look didn’t suit her. Violet missed her strong, confident mother. This one scared her. It was like someone else pretending to be her mother. She looked like her, but she wasn’t her. “I don’t like you with her,” Norah said to the table, her voice low. “That’s the worst part of all this, that your flake of a father called her instead of doing his part.”
Violet thought about all the things she’d wanted to tell her mother about being at her dad’s, about her ridiculous stepmother and spoiled half siblings. She recalled how, when this had all begun, she’d truly believed that her mother would come home and they’d laugh—laugh!—about all of it. It would just be another amusing family anecdote. But of course, when this had all begun, Violet had believed they were a real family. She didn’t believe that anymore. But if they weren’t a family, then what were they?
“How come you never told me about the Beaucatchers?” she challenged, sensing that her mother wouldn’t like it and wanting to punish her for staying in jail to protect other people instead of coming home to care for her.
She saw Norah bristle in response and felt the little thrill of hitting her mark. Their relationship hadn’t been like that before, but, as Violet was coming to understand, their relationship had changed forever. She wondered if she’d ever trust her mother again, or if she was fated to feel about Norah the way Norah felt about Polly. If losing trust in your mother was part of the legacy just as much as attracting men.
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