“I wish you wouldn’t have brought that up in front of her, Chase. You should’ve asked me privately.”
“I thought we were a family. Families discuss things, last I checked.”
“Not things that could upset the child in the family.” She had to keep from raising her voice. It was hard to disagree while whispering. How was it that minutes ago she had been happy, content, hopeful? “You have to ask me things that concern her out of her earshot. Then, after we’ve made a decision, we can tell her.” She felt like she was teaching a class in remedial parenting.
“You mean your decision,” Chase corrected. “When we’ve made your decision, we tell her. You have no intention of letting me come on this trip. A discussion isn’t necessary.”
“It’s not my trip or my beach house. My mom arranged this trip and has covered all the expenses. And my mom reserved the house—a house that has no extra bedrooms.”
He raised his eyebrows. “So I sleep with you. That’s what families do. The mommy and the daddy sleep together.”
She narrowed her eyes at him and collected her and Emma’s plates. “The mommy and the daddy are preferably married when they do that. Especially if the mommy’s mom is right across the hall.”
She stood up and crossed over to the sink with the dirty dishes, watching as the overdone chicken and uneaten asparagus slipped into the garbage disposal. She’d lost her appetite. It seemed they all had.
She thought back to the conversation she and Brenda had had the day before when she and Chase had dropped off Emma so they could go on a date. Some date. They’d ended up at a pool hall instead of at the chick flick she’d asked to see.
“I hope you’re being careful,” Brenda had said while Chase waited in the car, still doing his best to avoid her disapproving looks.
“Mom, my whole life is about being careful,” she’d shot back, immediately feeling bad. Brenda was only trying to protect her from more heartbreak. She didn’t trust Chase, and with good reason.
Macy felt Chase’s hands on her shoulders, bringing her back to the running water that was washing away the mess that had been dinner.
“I don’t want to fight about this. If you don’t want me to go, I won’t go. I just thought it would be fun. And Emma wanted me to go.”
She sighed and shut off the water, but didn’t turn to face him. He started to massage her shoulders, easing away the tension she felt. “There’s a part of me that wants you to go too. The part that knows Emma would love having you there. But it’s too soon. It’s just not time yet, especially where my family’s concerned.”
He was quiet for a moment. “Do you remember that time I took you to Sunset Beach?”
She smiled, remembering not only their time together, but also the crazy thing she’d done while Chase napped that one afternoon. She brushed away thoughts of the guest book. It had been weighing on her mind more and more as the trip got closer. “Yeah. Of course.”
“I thought we could—you know—get back to being those people again. The people we were before we became so serious. Before we became parents.”
“Chase, I became a parent. You disappeared.”
In her mind she could go back to that time, swaying with her crying infant in front of the window of their apartment as she watched for headlights that never appeared. But she refused to revisit the past. It was useless to live there. Her thoughts returned to the guest book, and she wondered if that was the same type of thing.
Chase stopped rubbing her shoulders. “So when will it be time for us to stop mentioning the stupid decision I made five years ago?” He walked to the door and yanked it open, not bothering to hide his anger. “I’m going to clean the grill.”
Macy stood between the dirty dishes and the droning television and watched from the kitchen window as he vigorously attacked the grill grates, scrubbing for all he was worth.
She wondered about all those times she’d wished for Chase to come back. Was this what she’d been wishing for? Was this even what she wanted anymore? So much had changed while he’d been gone that they might never be those people he wanted to find — the ones before everything changed. Because everything had changed, and neither of them could do anything about it.
Later that night, after everyone had fallen asleep, the phone rang. In the silence of the house, it shocked Macy into an instant state of wakefulness. It wasn’t a first-time occurrence, but it was the first time it happened with Chase in the house. Chase had taken to sleeping on the couch at night as a persistent reminder that he was there if she changed her mind about letting him into her bed. She reached for the phone and whispered an impatient, “What?”
She didn’t need to ask who it was. Max had been calling her for help in the wee hours since she was old enough to come to his rescue. Sometimes Macy had to pull a sleeping Emma from her warm bed so they could fetch him from a bar, a jail, or a questionable house in a scary neighborhood, fearful of what social services would say about a woman who did such things. Would they say she was neglectful or loyal? Was it possible to be both?
“I’ve gotten myself into a bit of a situation,” Max began, as he always did. He didn’t slur his words, but she could hear the alcohol in his voice.
She sat up in bed and drew her knees up to her chest, hoping the ringing phone hadn’t woken Chase. She gripped the phone so tightly her hands hurt. “What’s wrong?” she whispered, even though the bedroom door was closed and she felt sure that Chase was asleep.
“I’m in jail.”
She heard muffled voices behind him, could almost see the fluorescent lights that bathed the jail in a green tint she equated with the color of nausea, the faces of the despondent people she would pass as she walked into the station to bail him out. Again.
“Kinda got caught in the cross fire between two angry guys.” She eyed the closed bedroom door and thought about how good it was that this time someone was here to stay with Emma. Odd that Chase was slowly offering her a sense of stability she hadn’t felt in a long time, the chance to stop doing things alone. This month, he’d even given her money to put toward the rent payment and had paid for the groceries several times. Tonight Emma could stay in her nice warm bed and not have her sleep interrupted while Macy bailed out Max.
The last time Max had called in the middle of the night, Avis asked her, “Why don’t you have your mom go get him when he pulls this stuff?”
“It’s part of our little game we play,” Macy had responded. “She pretends like she doesn’t know about Max, and we pretend we’re keeping it a secret from her.”
The truth was, Macy just couldn’t bear to see the hurt in her mother’s eyes. She would do just about anything to protect her from that. So she dragged her daughter out of bed with promises of a midnight donut run just as soon as they picked up Uncle Max. Emma thought it was a grand adventure, that Macy was “the funnest mommy ever.” After all, no one else in her class got to go get donuts in the middle of the night. Emma never noticed that Macy never ate a donut, that she found it impossible to eat when her stomach was tied up in knots. Yet Max always said he was starving and ordered two cream-filled donuts before going back to her house to pass out on her couch, a ring of chocolate lining his lips like a child’s as he slept.
“Are they letting you out?” she asked Max, finger combing her hair as she spoke, her fingers catching in the snarls created by Chase’s hands and her too-brief bit of sleep.
“Yeah. Just need a ride. And money. You know the pin number.” One of the more depressing parts of their arrangement was that Macy had her own copy of Max’s bank card and was adept at making midnight withdrawals to retrieve the money he needed to get out. She always told Emma it was for the donuts they were buying. Max was one of the only people she’d ever heard of who actually earmarked money for what he called “legal matters.” Macy had told him he should just call it what it was: bail money.
She sighed. “Okay. I’m on my way.”
“Is what’s-his-face there or are you goi
ng to bring Little Bit?”
“He’s here, so I don’t have to wake her. She’s got school in the morning, you know.”
“Didn’t you learn anything the first time?” he chided.
She started to inform him that Chase was sleeping on the couch, but decided to go the indignant route instead. “That’s a funny question to ask me, Max. You’re not exactly in a position to judge.”
“Nope. Guess I’m not.”
When the dial tone buzzed in her ear, she told herself that it was because the call had timed out, not that he had hung up on the one person he was counting on to rescue him.
five
She made her way through the darkened streets, her headlights shining on the empty road ahead of her, thinking of the other times she’d gone to get Max in the dead of night. There were the numerous times he’d called because he was too drunk to drive. The time he’d been picked up in a sting at a drug house where —thankfully —he’d been one of the few people on the premises who was not involved with illegal drugs (give the man a medal), but he’d still needed a ride back to the drug house to retrieve his car. Then there was the especially scary time one of his girlfriends —stellar human being that she was —had flipped out and pulled a knife on him. That time he’d called Macy from behind a locked door. She could hear the woman screaming outside the door, threatening to kill him. “Why aren’t you calling the police, Max?” she’d asked, wondering what in the world he expected her to do to subdue the woman.
“Well, I don’t exactly want the police coming here,” he’d replied. Macy hadn’t asked any more questions, just driven as fast as she could to the address he’d spit out. By the time she got there, he’d somehow gotten away from the crazy girlfriend and was sitting on the curb waiting for her like everything was fine. Later, in her kitchen, he’d made coffee for them and laughed as if nothing had happened. He’d told Emma stories about their shared childhood, never once mentioning their dad in any of the stories, as if he’d never existed.
As she drove to pick up Max, Macy thought about the summer she’d drawn the first picture in the guest book at the beach house, choosing to think about something happy rather than the sad situation her brother was in. Macy’s dad had bought her special pastel pencils — the first of many sets — so she could draw a picture in the guest book of the butterfly shells she’d found. She had been pouting about losing the shell contest to Max, so he’d suggested she draw something in the guest book to cheer her up.
“A real artist needs real supplies,” he’d told her as they drove to the store.
And that had been the beginning.
She thought about the artist with whom she had exchanged pictures all those years ago. The images of their annual offerings spun through her head: the seascapes and landscapes and — later — more personal pictures of the things that mattered to them. Though other eyes surely saw the pictures in the guest book, none of those eyes ever mattered. It was always about the artist and Macy, the pictures in the guest book existing just for the two of them.
Looking back, she had her dad to thank for it, and — in a strange way —Max. Had her feelings not been hurt over that shell contest, she wouldn’t have been pouting, and her dad never would’ve suggested she draw pictures of her shells in the book. She rolled her eyes, knowing Max would think that was rich — that their sibling rivalry had inadvertently led her to an exchange that would last far beyond the fifth summer of her life, had stayed with her to this day, still filling her thoughts and her heart. Especially now that their mother was taking them back to Sunset Beach, back to the house where maybe— just maybe — the guest book waited.
She guided the car into the surprisingly full parking lot of the police station and parked next to a pickup truck with rolled-down windows. She yawned loudly and opened her car door. One last thought crossed her mind as she got out of her car, a thought that made her heart quicken: she might finally see the last picture he ever drew for her. She hoped he had left it, in spite of everything.
six
The clock that hung over the door of Ward’s Grocery seemed to have stopped, the hand barely moving past where it had been the last time Macy checked. She shook her head and looked at the watch on her wrist. It bore the same time as the clock on the wall. She scratched her forehead, leaving a smudge of red paint. She could feel it there and reached for a rag to wipe it off. Then she re-focused on the window she was painting.
“Ready to get out of here?”
She glanced back to find Avis, arms crossed, checking out the scene she was painting.
“Every time I think your scenes can’t get any better, I’m proved wrong,” Avis said. “Your pictures tell stories, Macy. They capture people’s imaginations, draw them in. Which is why all that mess about letting you go if you don’t come back at his bidding is just Hank blowing steam. You know that, right?”
“Don’t be so sure, Avis. Hank makes it clear every chance he gets that he didn’t hire me to paint windows. That he lets me do them as a creative outlet. For me.”
According to Hank, he could take or leave her artwork. Macy had come to believe most people felt that way about it.
“Hank’s full of it,” Avis snorted. “Don’t listen to that fool.”
Macy sometimes wondered about this life of hers, how at twenty-six years old she had ended up with a woman twenty years older than her as a best friend. And yet, she would never trade Avis for a friend her own age. Avis’s perspective and wisecracks had gotten Macy through many challenges.
Avis had been the one to train Macy her first day on the job, when Macy was still in a state of shock over being left by Chase. Even before she had spoken, Avis’s wide, kind smile had told Macy that this was a person who saw the best in people. It was Avis who discovered Macy’s artistic bent and begged her to start painting signs and, eventually, the large front window of the store. Sometimes when Macy was painting or when a customer stopped to remark on her work, she wanted to hug Avis for making her paint again. She’d all but stopped painting after that last vacation, that last picture she’d left in the guest book.
“One of these days,” Avis said, “you’re going to waltz in here and tell me you’re quitting because you’ve finally decided to go to art school.” She cracked her illegal bubble gum. “And no one’s going to be happier for you than me.”
“Don’t I wish.” Macy rolled her eyes like she always did, dismissing the idea of pursuing a dream that seemed to get further away with each passing year. There was Emma to think about and keeping a roof over their heads to worry about and other realities of being a single parent that concerned Macy. More and more, she knew her pipe dream of being a “real” artist was about as likely as Chase sticking around long term. She had resigned herself to the fact that painting the windows of the grocery store and making fancy signs to delight customers was going to be as close as she came to that dream. Instead of her own show in a gallery, she would have the unveiling of the seasonal windows she painted. Instead of reviews from art critics, she would have kind comments from the regulars.
She put the finishing touches on the beach umbrella she was painting. In the painting, a little girl was digging in the sand by the ocean while two parents rested under the umbrella. She found herself painting what she wished were true. In Macy’s art, her life was perfect. She could draw what she wanted, and there it would stay until the picture got changed because Hank grew tired of it.
Macy glanced at the clock again. She had been at work for hours, but the time hadn’t flown like she’d hoped.
Avis sidled up to her. “You leaving in the morning?”
“Yep. Mom and Max and Emma are packing the car today, getting all the last-minute stuff done. By the time I get home, they’re supposed to have the car ready to pull out of the drive first thing in the morning.”
Avis smiled at her. “I hope you guys have a blast.” The older woman rested her hand on Macy’s back and looked over her own shoulder for Hank. “Lord knows you’ve got it
coming to you.” Avis paused before speaking again. “He’s not going to be there, right?”
“Are you kidding?” Macy said. “My mom and Max wouldn’t stand for it.”
“Good. I just didn’t want you caving. I know how persuasive he can be,” Avis said, rising up to her full stature of five feet two inches and putting up her fists like a prize fighter. “Remember —you’ll answer to me if you do.” She winked at Macy. “Just don’t waste this time obsessing about him.”
Avis wouldn’t say Chase’s name, but she could say the pronouns referring to him with enough venom that they sounded like curse words. She remembered all too well those early days after he’d left, the days Macy moved through a fog trying to balance a baby and a new job. Sometimes Macy thought Avis considered it her job to remember for her, standing sentry at the door to Macy’s heart. And Avis had been none too happy when Chase showed back up. None too pleased when she realized he’d basically moved back in, despite Macy’s continued justification that he was still relegated to the couch.
“Will you promise me something?” Avis asked.
Macy rolled her eyes at her friend. “Wow, if that’s not a loaded question.”
“This one’s an easy one.”
Macy shook her head and grinned. Avis and easy were never synonymous, but she went along with it. “Shoot.”
“Will you try to be open to whatever comes along while you’re there? Take a risk, let someone in? You know —easy stuff like that.”
Macy laughed. “I knew it wouldn’t be simple coming from you.”
“No, I’m serious. I have a feeling — and you know me and my feelings. They’re usually right on. These two weeks are going to be about change for you. Good change. Necessary change. But you’re going to have to open yourself up to it. And I know that’s not your style.”
The Guest Book Page 4