“Dad,” I whisper. “Dad!” I hiss, giving his shoulder a light shake. He lifts his head and rubs his neck, making groaning noises.
“What time is it?” he asks, his voice groggy from sleep.
“Almost two o’clock. I’m so sorry.”
“Is George okay?” he whispers.
“Yeah, he should be just fine.”
“Oh good!” Dad calls Louisa, who actually agrees to pick him up at this crazy hour, instead of telling him to stop being a cheap bastard and call a cab, like I would have said. He gathers Riley from the bed and wraps him in a blanket, saying he doesn’t want to wake him. I’m glad Dad can’t see my face as I roll my eyes at the insanity of it all.
When they’re gone, I crawl into bed where Riley was and try to ignore that there’s an actual warm spot in the bed from Riley’s body. Okay, that’s just so incredibly creepy!
Though I haven’t said my prayers in, well, probably years, I find myself saying a little prayer for George, and then for my girls, so sweet and dear, and for Dad, who finally seems happy, for Mom, who I’d like to think is watching down on me, and for Micky, who is out there somewhere. My Micky.
The blaring alarm clock assaults my deep sleep, and I lift my head in dismay. Bloody school! I roll onto my side and slam my fist on the snooze button. Too late though; my mind has jumped into action for what we need to do today.
I have to get an update on George.
Billy and I have to meet to discuss the business.
I need more groceries.
I need to do laundry.
What day is it anyway? Friday? No—only Thursday.
Rory starts to squirm behind me, so I roll over and nuzzle her face with my nose. She smiles at me and takes my face in her hands.
“Hi, baby,” I whisper.
“Iiiii.”
“Come on; let’s let your sister sleep,” I say, hopping out of bed. Margo has been moody lately. She needs to catch up on her sleep—she can go to school late today. I change Rory’s diaper and set her on the floor with some toy cars. I fill the kettle with water for coffee, and join Rory on the floor while I wait for the kettle to boil.
In the silence of the attic, I can make out faint but deliberate meows. It’s that bloody cat of George’s again. The meows sound frantic, and I wonder if Piper somehow locked herself in a room or closet.
“Let’s go investigate,” I whisper to Rory. I shut the stove off, pick up Rory, and slip my feet into my slippers. Margo is still in dreamland, so I let her be and carry Rory downstairs to find the cat.
On the second level, the meows are louder, but it’s hard to distinguish which direction they’re coming from. I push a door open and flick the light. This must be a spare bedroom. In it, there’s an old brass bed, a floral curtain, and generic Monet prints on the walls. There are three more similar spare rooms and a bathroom, but still no cat.
I push the last door open to find a very different room. An impressive, king-sized four-poster bed is positioned in the center of the room. The blankets are worn but made of fine materials in delicate patterns. There’s another fireplace in this room, with a cozy sitting area beside it. Beautiful antiques are displayed throughout; it’s the kind of inviting space you want to curl up in.
But the most intriguing features of this room have nothing to do with crown molding or ornate light fixtures: it’s the enlarged and handsomely framed photographs adorning the walls that captivate and awe me. I switch Rory to my other hip and take a few steps closer to peer at the photos. A lovely lady with shoulder-length, wavy brown hair and Ralph Lauren-esque clothes is the star. This must be George’s late wife. She’s smiling, alive and vibrant. There are photos of her with a young, good-looking guy—oh no way—that’s George! He was actually semi-hot in his day—who would have known? In the photos, George and his wife are smiling: there’s his wife holding a baby (must be their son); and them fly fishing together in a river; and both of them seated in a flashy antique convertible in front of this very house, which at the time was pristine and boasted a gorgeous french country garden; and finally the family posing in front of an enormous Christmas tree in some grand, lovely ballroom. I peer closer, taking in the details of the breathtaking room. I wonder if—
“MOM!”
I hear Margo’s voice calling me. She sounds panicked, and I realize she must have been freaked, waking to find herself alone. I reluctantly peel my eyes from this other life that I feel I’ve been privy to, and call out to her. “Over here!”
We meet on the landing, and Margo rushes to me and buries her face in my housecoat. “Mommy, I was so scared!”
“I’m sorry, I heard George’s cat meowing and needed to make sure she was okay.”
“Where was she?” Margo asks, peering around for the cat.
“I haven’t found her yet, but she must be downstairs.”
We take the next flight of stairs down to the main level where Piper’s meows are louder. They’re coming from the west side of the house, away from the kitchen and living room. We wander down an impressive corridor, which has decorative moldings and a ceiling painted alfresco, all blue with dusted clouds that seem to go on forever. We follow the sound of meows until we reach double doors with brass handles. Margo and I exchange a look of anticipation, and I reach forward to turn the handle and swing the door open.
Margo and I gasp in unison. All we can say is “Wow!” I realize this is the very room where that Christmas photo was taken. Piper is sitting in the middle of the room facing us, her tail flicking back and forth. Her presence is overshadowed by this magnificent space. It really is a grand ballroom, right here in George’s house. The ceiling must be twenty feet high; in fact, the second floor must be only half the house to make room for these massive ceilings.
“Our attic must be above the ceiling,” I say, pointing upward.
“Mommy!” Margo squeals. “Look at the diamonds!”
I smile in awe as I take in the grand chandelier, which could rival any five-star hotel’s. Floor-to-ceiling windows span the west and north walls. The hardwood floors are worn—probably from much dancing—and there’s a massive fireplace that’s taller than me along the south wall. I pad across the ballroom to the fireplace to get a better look. It looks like the tiles are turquoise. Real turquoise tiles—unbelievable.
Margo is giggling and singing, and I turn around to see her dancing her heart out, twirling and whirling around. I join her with Rory in my arms, and we waltz from one end of the room to the next. Who would have known this jewel of a ballroom was right here all along?
“Mommy?”
“Uh-huh?” I stop to catch my breath, panting.
“I love you.” Margo looks at me through lowered lashes, nuzzling her chin into her shoulder. I feel myself melt as I crouch beside her and pull her onto my lap beside Rory. I lose my balance and we all topple over onto the floor, giggling. Margo wraps her arms around my neck, and then Rory does too.
“Oh, I’m so lucky,” I say, feeling my heart swell with adoration. We sit in one big hug pretzel for a couple of minutes, and then Rory squirms and I pat Margo on the back. “Okay, Margo. We should get back upstairs,” I say, not wanting this moment to end but knowing we’ve got to get on with the day. First, I need to call the hospital to see how George is doing.
“Please can we stay?”
“How about we visit this ballroom again very soon?”
“Wait till I tell my friends I have a ballroom in my house!” Margo says, a proud smile spreading across her face.
We leave the ballroom and close the double doors behind us; but not before we make sure that cat is out. We approach the main stairwell that leads to the attic and are starting to ascend when the doorbell rings.
I raise my eyebrows in surprise at Margo.
“Who is it Mommy?”
“How should I know?” Maybe it’s a flower delivery or something for George.
I turn back downstairs, unlock the front door, and pull it open to find some homely
-looking middle-aged woman with a sour face, wearing a too-tight, cheap polyester navy skirt suit.
“Yes?” I ask, shifting Rory to my other hip. Man, she’s getting heavy.
“I’m looking for a Mrs. Lane Carson.”
Oh!
“And you are…?” I notice a clipboard in her hands and raise my eyebrow.
“My name is Beth Tomlinson. I’m with the Ministry of Children and Family Services. We’ve received a complaint against you from a Mrs. Elsa Capello, who fears for the safety of her grandchildren.”
20
WHAT? A cold feeling runs down the back of my neck and I cradle Rory closer.
What the fuck is Children’s Aid doing here? I feel the breath seeping out of me, and I’m left staring at this woman in disbelief. The woman asks to come in, so as if on auto-pilot, I step aside.
“We’re also going to have to question your eldest daughter,” she says.
But, I didn’t do anything! I find myself leading her up the stairs to the attic, though my legs are numb. Could they take my children from me, just like that? Could this woman with the sour face take them away today? This morning?
Upstairs, this Ms. Tomlinson enters our attic, violating our privacy and sanctuary. She prowls her way around, inspecting things, lifting our belongings like they’re articles in a crime scene. She checks the bathroom, the kitchen appliances, drawers—everything. She pauses at our bed, then looks around.
“Where do the children sleep?” she asks, her voice rising.
“With me,” I say, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. “Is that a problem?”
Sour Face makes a disapproving click with her tongue and writes this down on the damn clipboard. “The children really should have their own beds.”
“Well, the playpen is here; however, it’s hard as a rock, and I wouldn’t wish my worst enemy to sleep on this.”
“I like cuddling Mommy at night,” Margo says. Then she whispers, “Mommy, why is this stranger in our house?” Margo’s instincts are bang-on, and I feel fear grip me like never before in my life. Just hearing about the horrors of some of those foster-care nightmares…to imagine my own babies living— NO! Enough!
I shake away the fear, absolutely determined to fight this. I’m fighting for my children’s lives, and I’m going to smooth this over, God help me.
“May I offer you a cup of tea?” I ask, my voice sounding calm despite my fury of nerves.
“Please,” Ms. Tomlinson says, to my surprise. Maybe this is a good sign! She must trust me on some level if she’ll drink my tea.
“Can you please go over what this matter is all about?” I ask.
“Could we discuss this in private?” she asks. I turn to Margo who is watching the stranger with unblinking eyes.
“Honey,” I say in a calm, upbeat voice. “Why don’t you put on a play with your Barbies for Rory.”
Margo meets my gaze, and I give a little smile and nod.
“Okay,” she says and darts for her toys like a scared rabbit. I carry Rory over and set her down with her sister.
Back at the kitchen nook, I prepare the tea cups, milk, and sugar, while Sour Face makes notes at the fire escape.
“This looks like it’s built to code,” she says under her breath.
“It was just re-done,” I say.
“I learned there was a fire here recently. And that you started it.”
I don’t believe this! I take a deep quivering breath and lead the woman to the fireplace. “As you can see, this is a very old house. There ended up being a small hole in the tiles of the fireplace, and some embers fell through to the bathroom below. I did not intentionally start any fire; I simply lit a self-burning log.”
“I also discovered the fire was started the very evening you left the troubling voicemail.”
I exhale trying to stay calm, though I want to ring her stinking neck. “GET OUT OF HERE!” I want to scream, but then I’d lose the kids for sure.
“Ms. Tomlinson, you can check the records from the fire marshal. The fire originated from embers falling through the missing tiles in this fireplace. This was a proven, unavoidable accident and certainly not a case of arson!”
“Mrs. Elsa Capello sent us an audio recording of a troubling voice message she claims you left for her.”
Bloody CruElsa!
“And do you have the said recording with you today?” I ask, as though I’m inquiring about something inconsequential, not the very evidence that could rip my kids away from me forever.
“I do,” she says, pulling out a digital recorder with a pair of ear buds.
The kettle whistles, and I pour the steaming water onto the tea bags as Sour Face fiddles with the recorder.
“Here, you can listen for yourself.” She thrusts the ear buds at me, which I take with apprehension.
What exactly did I say on the voicemail? For the millionth time, I ask myself why I called Elsa.
“Elsa…it’s Lane. Micky left…and I have the kids…but I can’t do this…”
My heart sinks as I listen to the slurred recording. This is not good! Nonetheless, I keep my expression blank. I remove the buds from my ears and hand them back to Sour Face.
I turn back to the tea so she can’t see my panic or the shaky breath I sneak in, in an effort to regain composure. I pass her the tea—resisting the urge to “accidentally” splash some on her hand—and grab my own soothing cup. The girls are playing as instructed, but Margo’s eyes dart back to us every few seconds.
“Can you confirm if that was your voice on the recording?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember leaving that voice message?”
“Of course.” Not really.
She nods and writes something else on her clipboard.
“But I would like a chance to clarify the situation.”
Sour Face nods to go ahead, pen ready.
“I lived a fairy-tale life,” I explain, with a small, wistful smile. “Or so it seemed.” My smile fades. “My husband lost our family fortune from some bad investments; and he left me to ‘find himself.’ I haven’t heard from him since. It’s been three and a half months.
“Before losing the money, we had a full staff. We had around-the-clock nannies for our daughters. I must admit, the shock of losing everything—the lifestyle, the support from staff, and of course my husband—in addition to now having to care for my children (something I had never done on my own before), along with having very little money, no job, no support and an unknown future…it was very overwhelming to say the least.
“I left that message for my mother-in-law the very day we left our home. I was distraught.” I grab the tea and take a sip before continuing. Sour Face continues to take notes. I can’t read from her expression if she sympathizes or not.
“Ms. Tomlinson,” I say, putting my hand on hers for a brief second. She glances up at me, and whips her hand away. “Do you have children?”
The woman hesitates. “This isn’t about me, Mrs. Carson.”
“No, it’s not. This is universal.”
Sour Face frowns and leans forward slightly. “How so?”
“Because, show me one parent who hasn’t turned to a grandparent before and asked for help. Show me one parent out there who has never been overwhelmed, or even desperate for some support. Show me one parent who has never lost their cool, lost their composure in the quiet hours of the night, questioning their abilities, even if their concerns are irrational or unfounded.”
Sour Face’s eyes are locked on mine, and probably unbeknownst to her, she is nodding her head ever so slightly. I’ve reached her! I’ve penetrated beyond the clipboard, beyond protocol, and am making my voice heard.
“If I’m being investigated because I had a moment of self-doubt, then every other parent on the planet should be investigated right alongside me. I was overwhelmed. I was all those things. But,” I lift my chin and flash a genuine, proud smile, “I’m not anymore. I’ve gotten to really know my girls. I realize t
he joy now of being a mom, and it’s the best thing in my life. I love my girls, and am making a better life for them. A different life. I’m starting a design consulting business and—”
A knock at the door interrupts us. Who has a key to come through the front door? It can’t be George!
“Come in!” I call. The door swings open, and Liam waltzes in, wearing a V-neck tee and sexy jeans, and looking as gorgeous as ever.
“Hello ladies.” He saunters over and Margo runs over to join him, jumping into his arms.
“Oh, hello, little love,” he says, putting her down and patting her head. Sour Face has fallen under Liam’s spell; her eyes haven’t left his beautiful face.
“Oh, um, Liam, this is Ms. Tomlinson from Children’s Aid.”
“Oh.” Liam looks taken aback and mutters under his breath. “Blimey.”
Yep.
“Liam here is giving me private cooking lessons.”
“That’s right!” Liam says, springing into action. He comes to my side and flashes Sour Face a breathtaking smile. “Today,” he says, pulling ingredients out of his grocery bag, “we’re making homemade Mediterranean Cannelloni.”
“I love Mediterranean food,” Sour Face murmurs, leaning forward and eyeing Liam’s ingredients.
“Do you? Have you been?” he asks, looking genuinely interested. Liam shares a quality the best politicians possess—making you feel like you’re the only person in the room once they focus their undivided attention on you.
“No, not yet. Always meant to travel…”
I could swear the ol’ Sour Face is blushing. She seems completely oblivious to all things related to me, my kids, or the stupid investigation. I drift away from the counter and go off in search of something to wear today. I’m still in my housecoat, how embarrassing.
Riches & Rags: Things are seldom as they seem. Page 17