Unthinkable

by Nancy Werlin

  It would be like Bronagh, all over again.

  Dawn was suddenly at Lucy’s knee, asking for attention. Fenella jerked her gaze away, to her lap, so she would not have to see the child. She must not fail. That was all there was to it. Whatever it took, she must not fail.

  She forced herself to focus on the conversation.

  “I think we could manage there,” Leo said. “It’ll be crowded but fine. The rent is within the range the insurance company will reimburse. It’s near the bus.”

  The apartment was in a wooden three-story house located down the street from the veterinary clinic where Walker worked. There were three bedrooms, one bath, a big kitchen, and a living room. There was parking for Leo’s van. Cats were allowed. Dogs were not, but Sarah had confirmed that she would indeed take Pierre.

  “That seems hard,” Fenella managed to say. She needed to participate. She needed to appear engaged and caring. She needed her family’s trust. She needed it so that she could betray them, and so save them.

  Thank God she would die when she was done.

  “A place for Ryland, but none for Pierre,” she nattered on madly, forcing herself to look directly at Lucy.

  Lucy turned her face away to bounce Dawn in her arms.

  “It’s only temporary,” Leo said. “Just for a few months while we figure things out with the insurance company. Eventually we’ll find a house of our own again, with more space and a yard for Pierre.”

  “But Pierre is old.” Having started, Fenella simply could not stop. “What if the new house doesn’t happen for a while? How will that feel? Will everybody be okay without him? Lucy? Will you? Could Pierre at least visit?” She knew why she wanted the dog near.

  “Shut up, Fenella,” said Miranda. “Don’t bother Lucy. Don’t bother anybody. You’re not helping. You never help. You make things worse.”

  There was silence.

  “I’m fine,” said Lucy brightly. “Miranda, don’t worry. Fenella, it’s nice of you to ask.”

  Soledad added, “One good thing: The downstairs neighbor won’t complain if there’s noise, like Dawn shrieking. Walker even said he’d be willing to share the Internet bill.”

  “Walker lives downstairs?” Fenella said.

  Lucy slanted the quickest of under-the-lashes looks at Fenella. Her smile peeped out, small but definite. “Didn’t you realize?”

  “No.” But a second later, Fenella remembered; Walker had told her this himself. How could she have forgotten? On the other hand, it was no wonder she had forgotten.

  Despair rocked her again. How could she complete her tasks with Walker there?

  And what if Ryland was correct and she could not satisfy the second task with the dog? What if she had to do . . . something else?

  So far, she had not even looked at Zach. She still didn’t want to look at him, but she forced herself to do it. He stood behind Lucy with his phone out. He was scanning its surface with a thumb. He wore jeans that fit his hips and legs tightly, and a T-shirt that was loose, hanging from broad shoulders. His hair fell into his face. Feeling Fenella’s gaze, he looked up, shaking his hair back. He smiled briefly, compassionately, before returning attention to his phone.

  Fenella looked down for Ryland. For once the cat was not underfoot, or indeed, anywhere visible. She reached out, hand shaking, for the cup of tea that Soledad had given her earlier. But then she was afraid that she would spill it, so she retracted her hand.

  “We could move in quickly,” said Soledad. “Maybe this weekend. It’s not like we have much stuff.”

  “We’d have to get some things,” said Zach. “Furniture. A computer.”

  “I’m making a list.” Lucy affectionately butted her foster mother’s shoulder with her head. “I put yarn on it, Mom.”

  “Check online, on Freecycle,” Leo directed. “Look for anything and everything we need. It’s amazing what people give away. I got a French horn last year.”

  “Which you don’t know how to play,” said Soledad.

  “I was learning.” A shade passed over Leo’s face.

  Fenella sat like a lump, hands clenched in her lap. The French horn too was gone.

  “I’ll send my list to everybody.” Lucy pulled out her phone and worked it with one hand while balancing Dawn on her lap.

  Zach said, “They have piles of clothing set aside here for a church sale that they said we could look at. Tonight after work? Anybody?”

  “I can’t,” Leo said apologetically. “The next few days I have gigs booked solid. Soledad is working too.”

  “I can help you, Zach.” Fenella’s mouth had opened of its own accord, and the words popped out. They were too loud.

  “Good,” said Zach, simply, easily. “It’s a date.”

  A date, Fenella thought. A date, a date, a date. Even though her hands were still shaking, she managed to grab the cup of tea and bring it to her lips.

  The tea was cold. She drank it all down anyway.

  Miranda stood up. “Fenella? Why don’t you and I walk over to Moody Street to the thrift shop? See what we can find on Lucy’s list.” Miranda’s voice was high and thin.

  Fenella leaped to her feet so quickly, she almost overset her empty teacup. “All right.”

  “Can you look for kitchen stuff?” asked Lucy. “Dishes, pots and pans, silverware. I put it all on the list.”

  “Yes,” said Fenella, when Miranda didn’t answer. She was breathing easier, now that she knew she was leaving the apartment for a while.

  Nothing was definite, she told herself. She had some time. She would think. She would think and think.

  Love. How could she destroy love?

  Leo pulled cash from his wallet. Miranda took it silently.

  “Call if you need anything,” Leo said, and Fenella felt that this was directed toward her, and was about Miranda. She met Leo’s kind eyes and managed to nod. The least she could do was take care of Miranda.

  As they walked to town, Miranda didn’t speak, and so neither did Fenella. She watched Miranda, who stayed half a step ahead. Twice she jerked her whole body to the left, to keep well away from men who passed near. When they arrived at the door of the thrift shop and Miranda reached to open it, Fenella impulsively slipped her oak leaf into the back pocket of Miranda’s jeans.

  Having done this, though, she felt remorse and uncertainty. Without her leaf, the weight of the second task seemed to descend even more heavily on her shoulders. What was she going to do, and how was she going to do it?

  She stepped closer to Miranda, hoping the leaf could somehow help them both at once.

  The thrift store was a large open space filled with mismatched tables, bookcases, and clothing racks. The various departments were marked by handmade cardboard signs. Children’s Clothing. Men’s. Furniture. Books. Fenella put a gentle hand on Miranda’s arm and pointed to a sign toward the back that said Kitchen.

  They spent some minutes silently sorting through piles. Eventually Miranda held up a plate. It was white with a tiny border of green leaves and belonged to a large matched set. “Service for twelve, twenty bucks. They’re microwave safe.”

  Fenella nodded, even though some of the plates were scratched, and two of the bowls were missing. She liked the leaf pattern. She also liked the color in Miranda’s cheeks, and the fact that she spoke without a tremble in her voice. “Let’s get it,” she said. “But what do you think of these little spoons? Aren’t they lovely?”

  “They’re demitasse spoons,” said Miranda dismissively. “Too small to be useful. We’ll need some child-sized spoons, but those won’t do.”

  “Oh.” Fenella put the little spoons down. She slanted a glance at Miranda, who had begun to pick out forks randomly from a large bin crammed full of silverware. Ten pieces for $1, said the sign.

  “Let’s at least try to match them,” Fenella said. She winced at the false cheeriness in her voice.

  Miranda shrugged.

  Working side by side, they put together seven matching forks, e
ight matching spoons, and three matching knives before Fenella realized that Miranda was crying, tears dribbling silently down her face.

  She put down the spoons she held and slipped an arm around Miranda’s waist. “Miranda,” she whispered. “What is it?”

  Miranda ducked her head down. “I’m afraid,” she said, simply, quietly. “I’ve tried to be happy that you’re here. But I’m not. I’m afraid.”

  The choking feeling returned to Fenella’s throat. She managed to say, “The fire . . . ?”

  “That didn’t help. But—oh, I know it’s me. I’m not well, emotionally. I understand that. But at the same time, I still feel what I feel. Every day you’re here, it gets worse.”

  Fenella could say nothing.

  “Last night, when you started talking about Padraig? I tried to listen. But every time you said his name, I could feel him. Like he’s still out there, waiting. Like you’ve brought him back.”

  Miranda swiveled. Her gaze was level and her voice calm, even as she gripped Fenella’s wrists. “Padraig’s not dead. I can still feel him out there. I know he wants Lucy and Dawn. I know it.”

  Abruptly, she turned away, dropping Fenella’s wrists. “But nobody will believe me. Not even you. I mean, look at you. Holding hands with Walker, learning how to fix cars, talking out your memories. Meanwhile, look at me. Crazy Miranda. Always, crazy Miranda.”

  Fenella could barely breathe.

  “Let’s not discuss it anymore,” said Miranda evenly. “It’s not worth words. It’s just the way it is.”

  “But you can’t live in terror.” Fenella forced the words out; she hardly even knew what she was saying.

  “Of course I can,” said Miranda. “And I will too, until I’m dead. Or until everything I fear happens again.” She wiped her face matter-of-factly with the back of her hand. “But I’d appreciate one thing.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t talk about Padraig in front of me anymore. Don’t tell your story. I don’t want to hear it. I can’t.”

  “All right,” said Fenella uncertainly.

  “Thank you,” said Miranda. “I mean that.” She turned back to the task of matching forks.

  Fenella looked down at her own pile of silverware. So—Miranda knew.

  Miranda knew, even if she didn’t yet understand that she knew. Traumatized or not, at some point she would speak, and the others, already suspicious of Fenella, would listen.

  Which meant Fenella had to act quickly. She would not have the rest of the three months.

  Chapter 30

  “The car show opens at ten,” Walker said, in answer to Zach’s question. “But I like to get places early.”

  Zach looked up from fastening Dawn into her car seat. “Whereas Lucy likes to get places late. Just saying.” He laughed.

  “Five minutes late,” Lucy protested. “Five minutes late is always perfect!” She turned to Fenella. “I’ll squeeze into the middle next to Dawn, so you get the window, okay?”

  The day was not shaping up into the desperately needed one-day vacation with Walker Dobrez that Fenella had hoped for. She pasted on a smile, relieved that at least she would not have to sit next to Dawn in the car.

  It was Saturday morning, and they were all going to the auto show. From the backseat of the Markowitz family car, Fenella could see the rubber band that clumped Walker’s thick brown ponytail together. If she glanced to the left, she’d have a view of Zach’s profile as he drove. Zach looked ready to enjoy a break from all the recent worries too. But seeing him only evoked Ryland’s most recent advice.

  What a great chance, Fenella. Zach and Lucy coming with you to the car show! Brush up against Zach casually while you walk. Bend over in front of him where he can’t help seeing down your shirt. Do you need help to make perfume?

  Fenella had promptly changed into a high-necked shirt. She had certainly not concocted the perfume. It was an earthy scent that involved a particular type of lichen. She would go to the auto show smelling of soap. And also slightly of motor oil, because she had not liked how the car engine idled yesterday and had adjusted its timing belt this morning.

  It had relieved Fenella when Miranda decided not to come.

  Fenella longed to tell Miranda that she wasn’t crazy. That Padraig was indeed lurking; that Lucy and Dawn were indeed at risk.

  That it was all Fenella’s fault.

  For hours last night she had lain in bed, still as death, thinking about how Lucy had solved the original tasks. Lucy had talked to her family. She had involved them, and they had worked out solutions together. Could Fenella do that? It had not been forbidden; if Ryland could advise her, why couldn’t someone else too? Miranda would not even be surprised. But when Fenella imagined telling them, she quailed.

  Not yet, she thought. Not unless she knew she couldn’t figure it out herself. Maybe there would still be a way to maneuver cleverly, painlessly. She reminded herself of how easily she might have solved the first task, had she but recognized Miranda’s fear in time.

  Fenella was beginning to despair about her dog plan. It would seem odd for Fenella to visit Pierre at Sarah’s. What would she do then anyway? Poison him? What if, at the last moment, she looked into Pierre’s single distrustful eye and couldn’t hurt him? Or, worse, suppose Ryland was correct and Pierre’s death didn’t solve the task?

  She was afraid that she couldn’t risk it.

  She leaned closer to the car window, so that her forehead rested against its coolness. Outside, the wind whipped dead brown leaves along ruthlessly. A few drops of rain spattered against the car window as black clouds moved in overheard.

  She reached into her pocket and fingered her oak leaf, which she had quietly reclaimed from Miranda’s pocket. She needed it herself. A third of Fenella’s time was gone, her family was beginning to figure things out even if they didn’t realize they were, and the stakes were higher than ever. What if Fenella—oh, God. What if she were to kill Miranda? Miranda, who defined maternal love.

  No mother in all the history of the Scarborough girls had worked harder to protect her daughter than Miranda. Would this be better—more merciful—than seducing Zach? More practical than killing Pierre? It was even possible Miranda herself would agree, if Fenella could tell her what was going on. Miranda was so unhappy. But then again, Miranda, unlike Fenella, had never declared that she wanted death.

  Her thoughts caused bile to press up against the back of Fenella’s throat. A vision of Robert’s crumpled body came to her, and she slumped in her seat. She could not kill Miranda, or anyone.

  Except maybe the dog, because she had to do something. And she seemed not to be able to think of an idea that was— what was the queen’s word?—metaphysical.

  Fenella pulled her hand away from her leaf. She didn’t deserve its comfort. She thought of the demand she had thrown so impetuously at Ryland, for creative destruction. Her lower lip curled. She was the worst kind of arrogant, selfish, stupid fool.

  Music poured from Lucy’s cell phone. “Yes!” Lucy said as she read a text message. “Jim Pearce can help with the move tomorrow. He’ll do that furniture pickup in Acton.”

  Zach asked, “What’s in Acton?”

  “A queen mattress and headboard. It was from a Freecycle ad. I hope they’ll be okay.”

  “They’ll be fine. They’re free. Walker, are you coming tomorrow too?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” said Walker. “I’m bringing my truck.” He turned to glance toward the backseat. Fenella couldn’t resist meeting his gaze. He smiled. She knew he was imagining the two of them together in his truck tomorrow, working the move as a team. Maybe it would be so.

  But if it was, Fenella would be doing the wrong thing. Leading Walker on. Another destructive act. If only she could get credit for it. Her lips moved in a mirthless smile.

  They pulled into a parking garage with walls that were high and thick and gray and hard. They piled out of the car. Lucy unfolded the stroller and set Dawn into it. She pushed the stroller
as they walked in a group to a large building by the ocean. An enormous banner hung above the entrance: New England Auto Show. The banner shuddered in the wind above throngs of people.

  Fenella felt Walker’s warm, broad hand on the small of her back. With his other hand, he offered a piece of paper. “Floor map. What are you interested in? Trucks, right? Anything else?”

  Fenella shrugged.

  Just ahead, Zach handed over their tickets, and they passed through a set of doors and into the main display space.

  Fenella blinked. It was a room so wide and tall and long that it was impossible to see the walls or ceiling. It was filled with vehicles, arranged attractively as far as the eye could see, and beyond.

  Right in front of them was a sleek red two-seater convertible on a platform. Both of its doors were open, revealing a white leather interior. A smiling woman dressed in silver gave Dawn a balloon with Aston Martin printed on it. Dawn pulled the balloon’s ribbon to make it bob. She chortled.

  Lucy smiled at the woman but barely glanced at the little red car. “I’m interested in the electric vehicles. And maybe the concept cars.”

  But Zach was not listening. “Bond,” Zach said. “James Bond.” He moved dreamily toward the red convertible.

  “Should we split up?” Walker said. “Fenella and I can go see the trucks. We’ll meet you guys maybe later?”

  Lucy flicked a quick glance at Fenella, hesitating, and Fenella understood that Lucy had thought the auto show would be a friendly, casual, non-confrontational place in which to ask the long-overdue questions about the fire. But in the next second—how transparent people were sometimes—Fenella saw Lucy decide that it could wait.

  She knew then. Lucy didn’t want to ask; Lucy was afraid to ask. She would force herself, and soon, because she was the kind of person who did what she had to do. But it would not be today.