The emergency room doctor had confirmed what Grace had suspected: Jessica was not taking her insulin on schedule, was not eating as she should. That, coupled with the drunkenness and the pot, had spurred Grace to action. She was the parent, and this was her child. She had to take control.
There were tear stains on Jessica’s cheeks. The faint silvery tracks were only visible when Grace leaned down to pull the blankets closer about Jessica’s shoulders. The sight of them stabbed Grace clear through to the heart. She ached with the need to wrap her arms around her daughter and hold her tight, to promise her that everything would be all right and reassure her that Mommy loved her still.
But she couldn’t. This time, under this provocation, she had to hang tough. The disciplinary measures she had imposed had to stand. She could not weaken.
For Jessica’s sake.
Grace’s mouth quirked wryly. For Jessica’s sake: was that not the story of her life?
A glance around the room assured her that all was well. The curtains were drawn. The door to the connecting bathroom was closed. Jessica’s backpack waited beside the bed, unzipped but loaded with binders and books for the morning. Her sneakers had been placed near the backpack; of course, on Wednesdays she had gym.
Nothing was out of place, nothing was extraordinary at all. Yet something did not feel quite right.
Grace couldn’t put her finger on what it was.
Her gaze swept the room more slowly. Computer off, backpack ready, shoes out. Godzilla busy in his exercise wheel. Alarm clock set: from where she stood, Grace could see the glowing red button that meant it had been turned on.
Her gaze lit on Mr. Bear, plump bottom planted as always on the bedside table next to the clock. In the place of honor, where he could look out for Jessica as she slept. The hall light just touched him, glinting off his shiny black eyes so that they seemed almost alive in the dark.
Grace shivered. Then she realized that of course Pat had taken him from the living room couch and returned him to his usual spot. Nothing strange or sinister about that.
She realized, too, what felt wrong about Jessica’s room. The night before, it had been invaded. A stranger had walked across the carpet, touched her daughter’s belongings, left his imprint in the air. He—or she—had stolen nothing. Nothing but Jessica’s beloved teddy bear, which had been dropped like trash beside the road.
Although Grace seemed to be the only one who was prepared to believe that this was what had happened.
The police had found no evidence of a break-in, they’d said when she had called them before coming home. Officer Gelinsky, and then his superior, had listened to her patiently, but it had been obvious that they weren’t going to pursue a crime that they didn’t even believe had taken place, especially when the only thing that she alleged had been stolen was a teddy bear—which had been recovered.
Grace had not told Jessica about the intruder. There was no point in frightening her for no real reason, after all. Instead, she had mentioned finding Mr. Bear outside and asked Jess if she had carried him out or knew how he had gotten there. Jessica had professed no knowledge of Mr. Bear’s nighttime ramblings. He had been sitting where he always did when she left the house, she said.
So the facts behind Mr. Bear’s journey remained unclear. Grace had already reconciled herself to the notion that they were likely to remain so. No one—except herself—seemed particularly concerned; no harm had been done, after all.
But Grace looked at Mr. Bear now and felt uneasy. Moving on impulse, she rounded the bed and picked him up from his customary spot. He felt soft and furry and squishy in her hand, just as he always did. How many times, over the course of Jessica’s life, had she picked him up? Grace wondered. The number had to be in the thousands.
His black eyes shone up at her through the darkness. Staring down at him, Grace gave an involuntary shiver, then chided herself for her idiocy. Still, she took him with her as she left the room and tucked him high up on the top shelf of her own closet before she went to bed.
She had the strangest feeling that Mr. Bear was not the same as he had been before. That he had been changed, no, tainted by the touch of something—someone—evil.
It was a long time before she finally fell asleep.
Chapter
11
CAROLINE HAD BLACK HAIR, blue eyes, a pair of dimples that twinkled like stars on a cloudy night, and a killer body. In short, she was hot. He looked at his brother’s girlfriend sitting on the couch with her bare legs tucked beneath her cheerleader’s miniskirt and felt himself harden to the point of painfulness. It was all he could do not to look down at the front of his jeans to see if she could see. How humiliating if she could!
She was giggling at some stupid sitcom playing on the big-screen TV that was the focal point of the living room. One hand was clapped to her mouth and she rocked slightly back and forth, shoulders shaking with laughter.
She looked good enough to eat. He wanted to eat her, to gobble her up like his favorite rice pudding.
“Yo, bro, you want me to bring you something back? I can stop by Mickey Dee’s on the way home.” Donny breezed into the room, fresh from a shower, his blond hair still damp, his skin glowing from the force of the water. Donny was tall, a good four inches taller than he was himself, and built like the athlete he was. It was ten-thirty at night, Donny had just finished basketball practice—Caroline had watched and cheered—and he had come home to shower before taking her home.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out why Donny thought he needed to take a shower just to drive his girlfriend home.
The pictures his mind conjured up out of that just made him get harder.
“Uh . . .” he began, but before he could formulate an answer—admittedly it was taking longer than usual because Caroline had stood up, and the upward movement of her body had caused her breasts to thrust against her sweater—his mother butted in.
“Your brother’s had supper. He doesn’t need anything else to eat,” she said to Donny. At this reference to his weight in front of Caroline, he felt his body go cold all over. His burgeoning penis deflated like a stuck balloon.
“Geez, Mom,” Donny said. His brother’s blue eyes met his, and he could read the compassion there. God, he hated Donny when he felt sorry for him. He hated everybody who felt sorry for him. And everybody did. Except his mom. And her he hated most of all.
“Go on and take Caroline home,” his mother said to Donny, standing up. She hadn’t undressed for bed yet because she had expected Donny to bring Caroline back to the house. Donny always did after basketball practice. The nylon sweatsuit she’d put on after work was white with a big pink stripe across the front of the zip-up jacket. In it she looked like the Goodyear Blimp. A real ugly Goodyear Blimp.
He often wondered if she made such a big deal over his weight because he looked so much like her.
Ugly as trolls, both of them. She said it herself, all the time.
“Okay, then,” Donny said.
“Night,” Caroline said to his mother. She walked to Donny’s side, and he put his arm around her. Then she looked past Donny’s shoulder straight at him and smiled so that her dimples danced. “Night, Little Brother.”
That’s all he was to her, Donny’s little brother. Although she was in his class, a junior, not a senior like Donny. Although he had loved her from eighth grade on. Although Donny treated her like an accessory, something to hang on his arm, while he—he would treat her like a queen if she would just give him the chance.
She only had eyes for Donny, though. Just like everybody else.
“Night, Caroline,” he said hoarsely, and watched her leave the house with his golden brother’s arm around her slender waist. He stared into the dark front hall until he heard the slam of the car doors and then the sound of the car starting and reversing down the driveway toward the street.
Only then did he recollect himself and glance around. His mother was watching him from her seat in the recliner, a know
ing gleam in her eyes.
She knew, he realized in a panic. She knew how he felt about Caroline.
“If you’d lose some weight, and do something about your skin—have you tried one of those benzoyl peroxide creams? I hear they work real well—you might be able to get your own girlfriend instead of ogling after your brother’s,” she said.
“You’re nuttier than a Snickers bar,” he told her, and stood up. He hadn’t meant to go out tonight, but he was suddenly claustrophobic. In his mother’s presence, in Donny’s wake, in Caroline’s afterglow, he couldn’t breathe.
“You’re not going out,” she said, standing too. She knew him well, well enough to anticipate what he intended without him having to spell it out for her. “It’s a school night.”
“What difference does it make? I won’t make the honor roll whether I get enough sleep or not. You know it, I know it. I’m not like Donny.”
“No,” she said sadly, “you’re not like Donny.”
That was it. The final straw. The nail in his coffin. The epitaph one day, without a doubt, on his grave.
You’re not like Donny.
He turned away from his mother, ignoring her bitching, and walked out of the house, slamming the door behind him to cut off the sound of her voice.
Outside, he stopped in front of the garage and just stood for a minute, trying to calm himself, to chill out. It was cooler tonight, and darker, with a thick canopy of clouds rolling across the sky, and the moon and stars peeping out now and then, like they were shy.
The dark wrapped itself around him like comforting arms, enfolding him into the bosom of the night. Gradually the painful knot inside of him loosened, and he could breathe.
Then he turned and walked into the garage. When he emerged, he was feeling better, energized by the power of the engine between his legs.
He, not Donny, owned the night.
Chapter
12
THE PRIVET HEDGE made an effective screen, blocking the view of all but the upper story of her house from the street, as Grace realized the next evening seconds after pulling through the open iron gates into her driveway. She hit the brakes of her gray Volvo sedan almost at once. Another car, a black Honda Accord, was already parked halfway up the drive. Beyond it, an unlikely pair were playing basketball in front of the garage, which was connected to the house by a covered walkway—Jessica and Tony Marino, the cop.
It was a sunny evening, windy and warm, with a good two hours of daylight left. Golden oak and beech and elm leaves floated lazily earthward all around. A trio of burning bushes on the left side of the double garage blazed crimson. Acorns and buckeyes littered the ground. The smell of grilling meat and charcoal wafted through the open window of Grace’s car; one of the neighbors must be enjoying a late-season cookout.
They were playing one-on-one. As Grace watched, Jessica, her long hair flying, her too-long jeans puddling dangerously around her sneakers, dribbled around Marino, whirled, and made a layup. Her waist-length yellow sweater went up with her arms, baring her midriff. Grace was struck again by how very thin she was.
“Yes! Two points!” Jess pumped her fist in the air in a trademark gesture that brought a faint softening to Grace’s face. Her daughter was nothing if not competitive. And she loved basketball.
Grace parked behind the Accord, turned off the ignition, and got out.
“Hi, Mom!” Jessica called, barely glancing up. She was guarding her man for all she was worth as he drove toward the basket. He shot, a textbook one-handed jumper—and the ball hit the rim and bounced off. Jessica crowed with triumph.
“She’s good.” Marino broke off the game by the simple expedient of catching and holding the ball, and turned toward Grace. He was wearing a short-sleeved navy T-shirt and jeans, she saw, with the same black basketball shoes he’d had on the other night. The casual attire showed off broad shoulders, bronzed, muscular arms, narrow hips, and long legs. His black hair was tousled, and a broad grin revealed even white teeth. Grace registered once again, unwillingly, that he was an attractive man—if one liked the type, which she did not.
“She was on the basketball team in middle school. She’s hoping to make it onto Hebron’s team this year.” If there was a slightly sour note to her voice, Grace couldn’t help it. What did he want? was the question. The obvious answer was: nothing good.
Briefcase and purse in hand, clad in her standard work attire of a knee-length skirted suit—today it was charcoal gray—a white blouse, and heels, Grace walked unsmilingly toward the other two. It was five-thirty, she’d had a long day, and she was tired. She did not feel like dealing with Tony Marino.
“What are you doing here?” she asked ungraciously as she reached him.
“I came by for my jacket. I’m assuming you have it. I left it at the hospital the other night.” His smile was engaging. His brown eyes were all warm and twinkly as they met hers.
“Oh, yes, I do.” As a matter of fact, she did have his jacket, the leather bomber jacket he’d given her to wrap around Jessica on the ride to the hospital. It was hanging in the front hall closet. She’d put it there upon arriving home from the hospital and forgotten about it until now. But she mistrusted that smile, with its accompanying twinkle. He wanted something besides his jacket. She would bet the mortgage payment on it. “Let me change my clothes and I’ll bring it out to you.”
“Thanks,” he said. Jessica reached in just then, whooping as she succeeded in knocking the ball from his hands, and the play resumed. Grace walked into the house to the beat of a basketball bouncing over pavement, with accompanying yells and the sound of pounding feet.
Usually she entered through the kitchen door, which was accessed via the passage that opened off the garage. Today, since she couldn’t pull her car into the garage due to the basketball game in progress, she went through the front, picking up the mail as she went. Pat, whom she had asked to come in for the after-school hours only, looked surprised as she entered the kitchen.
“I didn’t hear you come in.”
“It’s all the noise.” It was a dry reference to the now slightly muffled sounds of the ongoing game.
“Is Jessica okay out there?” Pat sounded slightly anxious. As always, she looked worried. “A couple of her friends came by, but I told them she was grounded so they left. Then she went out on the porch to do her homework on the swing. I thought that would be all right, since it’s such a beautiful day—but the next thing I knew that man was here, and they were playing basketball. I didn’t know whether to call her inside or not. I stayed out on the porch for a while and watched them, but she seemed okay with him. If he’d been a kid I would have called her in or sent him away, but . . .”
“That’s fine, Pat. He’s a . . . friend.” Busy writing out Pat’s check, Grace hesitated only slightly over the lie. What could she say, that he was a cop who had fortunately chosen not to bust Jessica for drug possession? Not possibly. Pat also worked for several other local families, and that story would flash around Bexley with the speed of a grass fire.
“You’ve got some messages,” Pat said, accepting the check that Grace passed over. She pulled a piece of paper from beneath the magnet that held it to the refrigerator and looked down at it. “Let’s see, there were three. Mrs. Gillespie called to tell you that basketball tryouts have been moved to next Saturday at nine. Ruth Ann called to see if you want to start walking in the evenings again. And your ex-husband called. He didn’t say what he wanted, but he talked to Jessica. All the numbers are written down here. And there were a couple of hang-ups.”
“Thanks, Pat.” Grace took the paper, glanced down at it, and set it on the counter. So Craig had called to talk to Jessica, had he? She wondered what about. Jessica wasn’t scheduled to visit him again until Thanksgiving break. “Did you think of anyone for me?”
Not wanting to leave Jessica home alone after school in future, Grace had asked Pat if she knew of anyone who might be available to work from three until six or six-thirty on week
days.
Pat shook her head. “But I’ll keep thinking.”
“Thanks.” Grace smiled. “And thanks for coming. I’m just going to run upstairs and change clothes.”
“Have a good night.” Pat waved and started for the back door as Grace headed for the stairs. Seeing which way the woman was going, Grace called over her shoulder: “I’d go out the front if I were you. Otherwise you’re liable to get beaned by a stray basketball.”
“Good advice.” Pat changed directions with a chuckle. Grace headed up the stairs. Her room was directly opposite Jessica’s, overlooking the spacious backyard. It was decorated in restful shades of green, with a rose-and-green bedspread covering the queen-size bed and celery-striped curtains with sheers beneath shading the windows. A white-tiled bathroom and a walk-in closet completed the bedroom suite. The first thing Grace had done upon buying the house six years before was reconfigure the upstairs, reducing four bedrooms to three, one of which now served as Grace’s study, and providing herself and Jessica with abundant closet space and a private bathroom each.
That was when she had still been making pots of money as a hotshot young attorney with Madison, Graham and Loew, the city’s premier law firm. She’d had the world by the tail then, or thought she’d had, she reflected with a wry smile as she took off her work clothes and hung them in her closet. Jessica had been an adorable nine-year-old who still thought her mommy was perfect. She herself had been well over the trauma of her divorce, and Jessica seemed to be handling it just fine. She’d been so proud of herself, then, for making it through law school and getting hired by such a great law firm and doing so well in her chosen profession and being able to provide such a good life for Jessica.
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