The Mud Sisters

by Edie Claire

  Physically, anyway. The last, unspoken words left a bitter taste in Teagan’s mouth. She rose and picked up her tea.

  The front door opened and closed, and a swirling blast of cold air made its way from the hall into the kitchen. The old house was drafty, but Teagan couldn’t complain. Eric’s Arizona-bound grandparents had given it to them as a wedding gift, which had eased their heavy student-debt woes considerably. Every time she looked at the avocado-green toilet in the half bath, she forced herself to remember that.

  Sheryl straightened instantly, all trace of interest in the conversation gone. “There he is,” she said warmly, setting her cup on the table. “My favorite son-in-law. How are you?”

  “Just fine,” came the smooth, familiar baritone. “How are you, Sheryl?”

  Teagan watched as her mother enfolded her husband in an effusive, slightly-too-lengthy hug. Teagan took a sip of tea, half smiling behind her cup. She could hardly blame her mother for admiring Eric, as she was thoroughly besotted herself. Cold and wind-blown, his Scandinavian good looks and cherry-red hair gave him even more of a “Viking-marauder” look than usual, a mirage which—though completely inconsistent with his personality—never failed to appeal to women like Sheryl. What had first attracted Teagan, conversely, was his smile, which betrayed both good humor and a tender heart. From the moment he had first fixed it on her, she had been lost.

  Not that she didn’t appreciate the rest of the package. Sheryl might fit an entire matrimonial arc inside of ninety days, but for Teagan, the sixth month of marriage was still honeymoon.

  Eric returned his mother-in-law’s embrace with reserve, sliding his eyes over to Teagan with a pained look. She chuckled and rose.

  “I’m wretched, thank you,” Sheryl responded, stepping back with obvious reluctance. “But I’ll get over it. I always do, don’t I?”

  Eric smiled charitably. “Always.” He sidled past his mother-in-law and greeted his wife with a kiss.

  It was not the kiss that Teagan would have received had her mother not been in the room. But despite both its brevity and the cold that clung to Eric’s wind-whipped face, it warmed Teagan to the bone.

  Marriage was good. Growing up with Sheryl would have left most daughters skeptical of the institution, but for the ultra competitive Teagan, her mother’s repeated failures had only increased her determination that she, like her grandparents, would do the marriage thing right.

  Step one, clearly, was finding good material.

  Eric released his bride only halfway, keeping one arm possessively—or defensively—around her waist as he turned back toward Sheryl. Teagan wasn’t the least concerned with her mother’s flirtation, knowing full well that Sheryl, for all her apparent lack of depth, would never hurt her only daughter. Sheryl’s failure to apply the brakes on her naturally seductive behavior was, ironically, a direct result of the women’s mutual understanding of this fact.

  But it bugged the hell out of Eric. “So, Sheryl,” he began, his tone slightly stiffer than it would be with a friend. “How’s business? Sold any mansions lately?”

  Sheryl harrumphed with disgust. “In this weather? No. All the agents starve in January. But I’ve got a little put away. In two weeks, I’m off to the Bahamas.”

  She sat down at the table and began to describe the vacation in detail, and as Teagan pretended to listen, Eric drifted out of the conversation and searched the kitchen. “What’s for dinner?” he asked Teagan when Sheryl had finished.

  She eyed him wryly. “Whatever you’re fixing. It’s your night.”

  He frowned. “Pizza?”

  Teagan shook her head. “We agreed no more than twice a week, remember?”

  He breathed out with a sigh. “All right then, Hamburger Helper it is.” His eyes turned to Sheryl, and only Teagan noticed the twitching in his jaw muscles as he asked politely, “Would you like to join us? There’ll be plenty.”

  “Oh, I’d love to, but I have a showing in a half hour,” Sheryl said with genuine regret. “I just wanted to check in with my baby girl, first.” She took a sip of tea, looking thoughtful. “But tomorrow night would be perfect! How about that? I’ll make dessert.”

  Teagan and Eric exchanged a rapid glance, searching their brains for a legitimate excuse to decline. His eyes told her he had come up empty. So, unfortunately, had she. She loved her mother, but Friday night was date night.

  “Well, actually, Mom—” she began.

  “That’ll be fine,” Eric interrupted, his voice amiable. “We haven’t had one of your gourmet desserts in a while now, have we? Why don’t you surprise us—try a new recipe?”

  Sheryl beamed. She dipped her chin and replied coquettishly. “Anything for you, kid.” She then started in mid flirt, spilling a drop from her tea cup onto the table. She sprang up and made a grab for her coat, which she had thrown over a chair. “Oh! I almost forgot. I brought some decorating articles for you, Teagan. The ones on restoring colonials. I left them in the car—I’ll go get them.”

  Sheryl hurried out, and Teagan turned to her husband. “You didn’t have to do that,” she said appreciatively. “But thanks.”

  “No problem. I know how she gets when she’s lonely. Better dinner with us than drinks at some singles bar, right? Besides, you said you have to work Saturday anyway.” His gaze turned intent. “Just don’t leave me alone with her.”

  Teagan offered a mock salute. “I’ll protect you with my life. Promise.”

  Eric put down the box of Hamburger Helper he was holding and pulled her into his arms, but just as she was really beginning to enjoy herself, the front door opened again.

  Eric rumbled a low growl in her ear. “Teagan,” he whispered. “Do you love me?”

  “Desperately.”

  “Then find that woman another boyfriend. Soon.”

  ***

  Teagan stared at the clock on her nightstand. It was 2:56 AM. She itched to turn onto her other side, but Eric’s arm was around her waist, and she didn’t want to wake him again.

  Given the preceding pleasantness, she knew she should be sleeping like a baby. But instead she had been tossing and turning, unable to rid herself of the mental image of Jamie, unconscious and bleeding, being rolled up in a blanket and dumped out of a car.

  What could have happened to her? What series of events could possibly have transpired, between that long-ago summer and now, to bring Jamie to such a place?

  Both girls had grown up with disadvantages, true. Neither had ever had money to spare, and both had been forced to move frequently, enduring the repeated trauma of being “the new kid.” But they had also had loving, if not perfect, mothers; and there was no question they had smarts. They had mused about becoming businesswomen, lawyers, entrepreneurs. Had Jamie ever been adopted, or had she spent the rest of her teenage years floundering in foster care?

  Eric stirred. He withdrew his arm and turned over onto his back, and Teagan turned with him and settled in again, her head nestled in the warm, smooth curve of his shoulder.

  Somebody beat Jamie up, she speculated, her teeth clenching at the thought. But could it really have been a boyfriend? Or a husband?

  Teagan’s professional training told her yes, absolutely. But her gut instinct said no.

  She knew full well that victims of domestic violence could be found at every level of the socioeconomic ladder, and that they were not all meek, simpering women who lacked self-esteem. Still, she had a difficult time picturing the Jamie she knew falling into the typical abuser’s trap. That girl had been fiercely independent. Proud. Street wise. She was not one to take any kind of mistreatment without a fight.

  How could smart, savvy Jamie get involved with a person capable of such callousness? Whoever had abandoned her in the bitter cold must have known that she could die—must almost certainly have intended it. Unless, perhaps, they believed when they left her that she was already dead. An accidental blow to the head could have rendered Jamie unconscious; a faint pulse could be missed. But even if her in
juries were an accident, what excuse could anyone have had for dumping her body in the snow and walking away?

  There was no excuse.

  It was murder.

  Eric shifted position again, and Teagan drew back to prop herself up with an elbow.

  She was never going to sleep. Not until she came up with a reasonable plan of action. She might as well get on with it.

  She stroked her husband gently on the cheek. “Are you asleep?” she whispered.

  “Yes,” he answered, eyes closed.

  “I need to ask you something. About Jamie.” She had given him a rundown of the situation over dinner, including a recap of her “long-lost friend from the lake” story, which he had already heard and, touchingly, claimed to remember. When it came to stories of his own childhood, Eric wasn’t much of a talker. But he didn’t seem to mind listening to hers.

  His response now, however, was a grumble.

  “Medically, she’ll be ready for discharge in a day or two,” Teagan began. “But even if the police do figure out where she’s been living, it may not be safe for her to go back there. And if they can’t find out anything… if no family or friends come forward and she still can’t remember either where she lives or who assaulted her, the hospital will have no choice but to discharge her to a women’s shelter.”

  She paused. Eric remained motionless. “The problem is that shelters aren’t equipped to deal with clients with memory deficits. They can’t make her stay if she decides to leave, and she’s got to have help—for her own safety. That’s why, if it’s all right with you, I’d like to offer her the garage apartment. Just for a few days, until her head clears. She’ll be safe there. And besides… it would be good to spend some time with her again.”

  Eric’s eyes opened. He studied his wife between blinks. “Are you sure that’s what you want? You’re not just feeling guilty because she saved your life that time?”

  Teagan tensed. Of all her babbled tidbits of childhood lore, why did he have to remember that one? Saved your life sounded so melodramatic. She certainly hadn’t put it that way.

  “It has nothing to do with that,” she said shortly. “I just want to help her. I don’t intend to make a habit of dragging my work home with me, but she was a good friend once, and I’m worried that, as independent as she is, she’ll—”

  Eric’s eyes closed again, and he raised a finger to Teagan’s lips. “It’s fine. Whatever you want to do.” After a moment he added, hopefully, “Can she cook?”

  Teagan grinned. So far, the only downside to setting up house as a married couple was that they were equally inept in the kitchen. Neither could fry ground beef without burning it, and both had, unfortunately, hoped to solve the problem by marrying a chef.

  “I don’t know,” she chuckled. “I’ll ask her.” She bent and kissed him softly on the lips, then settled into his shoulder again. “Thank you.”

  He responded with another grumble.

  Teagan closed her eyes. Her mind was more at ease now, and a pleasant heaviness began to creep over her. She was so comfortable. No feeling in the world was better than sleeping close to the man she loved. Warm. Happy. Secure.

  Knowing how many people spent their entire lives without experiencing such contentment, she sometimes felt as if her own situation were too good to be true—as if she might wake up tomorrow and discover that meeting and marrying Eric had all been nothing but a wonderfully pleasant dream.

  Chapter Five

  Jamie stared into the hand mirror. The turban of gauze was gone now, revealing short, naturally blond hair in desperate need of a wash. But she knew better than to touch her head, which had brought itself to her attention with a screaming fury around four o’clock in the morning when her happy pills had worn off. Her arm also ached abominably, leaving her only too content to be put under anesthesia soon.

  She had been staring at herself for almost an hour, trying to make sense of the disjointed images now dancing before her eyes. First fleeting, then more concrete; all strangely antiquated. She didn’t know the woman in the mirror, at least not by sight. The images in her head were those of a child.

  She could remember her mother. Blond and pretty, but pathetically thin. Smoking like a chimney. Working like a dog. What was her name? Jamie wasn’t sure. But to her daughter, she had been the whole world. A single young mother, striking out on her own. She had worked in childcare centers until Jamie was old enough to go to school; then she had turned to waiting tables, clerking, medical assisting. Once Jamie had a clear picture of her mother in mind, the uniforms had followed, one after another, as if she were watching a career-day fashion show. How many jobs? How many moves? How many friends had Jamie made, only to lose them again?

  She could see their hatchback car, packed to the brim for another change of venue. Her three beloved Barbie dolls, complete with horse and car, in a bag at her feet. Julie Bear. Alice the Tiger. Her mother had always made sure Jamie had her things about her, safe, something to hang onto amidst the chaos that was their ordinary life.

  She had not been an unhappy child. The abnormal was her normal; each hardship, another adventure. That she could remember it so was a tribute to her mother. The mother who had been hers and hers alone, who had always loved her, always been there for her.

  Until she died.

  Jamie felt a twinge in her middle, an uncomfortable burning.

  She could remember the funeral, too.

  She had stood by her mother’s casket, silent and unmoving. The graveside service was short; the adornments, nonexistent. The absence of flowers had bothered her, and she had made the minister wait while she scoured the carefully groomed hillside, collected a handful of renegade dandelions, and strewed them over the flat wooden lid. Before the talking had even ended, the yellow blossoms had wilted in the sun.

  Only a handful of people had been present. The minister and maybe four or five others. Two in particular she would never forget.

  Her mother’s parents. The grandparents she had never met before—or at least couldn’t remember meeting. Jamie’s mother had not gotten along with them, had always said that she and Jamie were better off without them. Jamie had wondered why. But her questions were never answered.

  The woman who introduced herself at the funeral as Jamie’s grandmother was in her fifties or so, her short hair dyed an unnatural shade of auburn. She wore thick glasses and had a lumpy mole on her neck, neither of which would have bothered Jamie if the introduction had been accompanied by a smile. The man with her was older and potbellied, with white hair, red cheeks, and bright blue eyes. He hadn’t smiled either.

  “You look lovely, Jamie,” the woman had said, not meeting her eyes. “Your mother would be proud. She would do anything for you, you know that.”

  Jamie had no response. The words seemed complimentary on their face but had come out sounding like a reproof.

  The man laid a hand on top of Jamie’s head, tousling her hair. But he, also, avoided looking into her eyes. “I hope they find you a good place,” he said stiffly. “I’m sorry we can’t—” he broke off with discomfort. “But you know, we’re getting old. It’s just too hard, now.” He looked away altogether, talking more to himself than to her. “They’ll find you a place.”

  The couple did not linger after the ceremony. Without another word to Jamie, they had gotten into a car and driven away.

  She had not understood, then. But she could remember quite plainly the moment, several days later, when she finally did.

  “Your grandparents aren’t able to take you, Jamie,” caseworker number one had told her gently. Number one had been a middle-aged, heavyset African American woman whose eyeglass frames were patched along their bridge with duct tape. She had been kind enough.

  But kind wasn’t enough.

  “They love you very much, but they just can’t raise another child right now,” she explained with a smile. “So we’re going to see if we can’t find you a new family. All right?”

  Jamie had gotte
n it, then. She had understood that it was, in fact, the cryptic circumstances surrounding her own birth which had caused the rift between her mother and her grandparents. Whether the couple had ever loved their own daughter, she didn’t know. But they did not, nor would they ever, love her.

  They sure as hell didn’t want to raise her.

  Nor, apparently, did her biological father—a specter about whom she knew exactly nothing. When she was very young, she was told she didn’t have a father. Once she learned enough about the mechanics of the process to question that claim, her mother had switched to a convoluted tale about an anonymous sperm donor. But Jamie, who could easily calculate that her mother had become pregnant while still a teenager, had never been naive enough to believe that one. All she could assume was that the man had either been married, a criminal, or both. She had taken some comfort in believing that he wasn’t a rapist—because, after all, her grandparents couldn’t possibly have blamed their daughter for that, could they?

  Looking back now, Jamie wasn’t so sure. They had known that their twelve-year-old granddaughter was both alone in the world and innocent of her mother’s supposed wrongdoing. Yet they had washed their hands of her anyway.

  She looked into the mirror again and realized that her hand was shaking. Her golden eyes were red-rimmed.

  Another image. Standing outside a door, listening. A man’s voice, soft, but serious. “She seems like a nice enough girl. But I can’t take those eyes. They give me the willies. There’s something just not right about her. Let’s keep looking, okay?”

  Jamie laid down the mirror. She didn’t know where that memory had come from; she couldn’t place it. But the theme had been the same.

  No one had wanted her. Her and her damned yellow eyes.

  A knock on the door sounded. She looked up, heart pounding.

  A woman stood smiling at her: the friendly, potentially useful social worker she had spoken with yesterday.

  “Hello,” Jamie said hoarsely. Her voice sounded close to tears, and she struggled to correct it. “It’s Teagan, right?”