“Is that your ring?” I asked. “That chirpy sound?”
“It’s a text,” she said.
“Oh,” I said. “I’ve never texted.”
She looked at me like she couldn’t believe I was for real. “You’ve never sent a text?”
I shook my head. “I don’t even know how.”
“Give me your phone,” she said.
I handed her my phone and watched as she deftly tapped a few keys. She handed it back to me, then pulled out her own phone and tapped another few keys. My phone chirped.
“Now look at your phone and hit that icon that says ‘Messages.’”
I obeyed her directions and saw a message from her. U need an iPhone, she’d written, and I laughed.
“Send me a message back,” she commanded.
I looked at my little keyboard. I love you would be inappropriate, of course, so I settled for Today was fun.
Her phone chirped and she looked at the screen. “Awesome,” she said, then added matter-of-factly, “Now you know how to text.” Turning, she climbed the circular staircase with me close on her heels.
The second level of the tree house was simply an open space filled with windows and a pitched ceiling. No furniture. We sat down cross-legged on the floor to look out the window toward the house, where lights shone from the kitchen.
“What do you use this space for?” I asked.
“Sleepovers, mostly.”
We watched a silver car pull into the driveway, making a U-turn to face the garage, where it stopped.
“Daddy’s home,” she said.
I watched a man get out of the car and head toward the rear of the house. He was too far away and too blocked by the branches of the tree for me to make out his features. Brandon, the software-engineering, golf-playing man. I felt hurt all over again that this strange man got to be called “Daddy.”
“Two people can sleep in the beds downstairs”—Joanna continued her conversation about sleepovers—“but we all usually stay up here in our sleeping bags so we can be together.” She touched the window with her fingertip, idly tracing a line I couldn’t see on the glass. “I’m having a sleepover tomorrow night, actually, since Monday’s a school holiday.” She folded her hands in her lap.
“With friends from your new school?” I asked hopefully. I wanted her to be happy.
She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t have any friends at my new school,” she said. “They’re all totally weird.”
“How are they weird?”
She shrugged. “They just are.”
“Sometimes people seem weird until we really get to know them,” I counseled.
“And sometimes they’re even weirder when we really get to know them,” she shot back, but she was smiling. She wasn’t going to buy into my insipid platitudes. I liked her feistiness.
“True,” I agreed. I looked down at the smooth expanse of wooden floor between us. “This is the perfect spot for playing jacks or Scrabble or cards,” I said.
“What’s jacks?” she asked.
“You’ve never played jacks?”
Her phone chirped again and she pulled it from her pocket. “Mom says it’s dinnertime,” she said, hopping quickly to her feet. She was so agile. So healthy.
We descended the circular staircase and then I followed her down the steep steps to the ground, where Poppy and Jobs waited for us. Joanna and the dogs ran ahead of me. Watching them—watching Joanna—I felt overwhelmed by loss. She was a beautiful girl. An amazing girl. But I had missed twelve years of her life. Twelve years! All those firsts I’d looked forward to. First steps. First words. First tooth. First day of school. I’d missed everything.
I followed her across the lush grass of the darkening backyard, once again blinking back tears.
I didn’t want to miss anything else.
47
Brandon Van Dyke didn’t seem pleased to find a stranger at his dinner table. I met him in the dining room as the four of us sat down to eat. He was a tall, angular man who had to be twice my age, and I felt very young in his presence. He had handsome, serious features and the sort of pale hair that may have been either gray or blond. His eyes were a steely blue, but in spite of his eye color, I thought he could easily pass as Joanna’s father. Or more likely, as her grandfather.
“Caroline, this is Brandon,” Michelle said rather formally as she began dishing out the aromatic cacciatore from the serving bowl on the table. “Brandon, this is Caroline.”
“Carly,” Joanna piped in. She smiled at me and my heart melted.
“Hi.” I smiled at Brandon, and he nodded to me as he sipped red wine from his glass. I sensed suspicion and distrust in his reserved greeting … or maybe it was only my guilty conscience at work. Joanna and I sat across the table from each other. Did he see the resemblance between us? I wasn’t sure how anyone could miss it.
“Jobs actually likes her dog Poppy,” Joanna said. “And she’s helping me train him,” Joanna said. “We did recalls in the yard.”
“Good luck with that,” Brandon said dryly, setting down his glass.
“He’s a good dog,” I said. “Just still has a lot of puppy in him.” At that moment, both Jobs and Poppy were—I hoped—sprawled out on the deck, exhausted from their time in the yard.
As uncurious about me as Michelle had seemed, Brandon was the opposite.
“Michelle said you work at the Sleeping Dog Inn,” he prompted as he cut his chicken.
“Yes,” I said. “Do you know Winnie Corman, too?”
“I’ve referred a few people to her inn over the years.” He lifted a piece of chicken from his plate with his fork. “Clearly you’re not from around here,” he said, referring to my accent, I supposed. “How did you end up at the inn?”
“I’m from North Carolina,” I said. “I needed a change, and a friend once lived up here and she told me how nice Summit was, so I thought I’d come see what it was like for myself.”
“You say ‘ah’ instead of ‘I,’” Joanna said. “It sounds so funny.”
“Joanna, that’s rude,” Michelle scolded.
“Sorry,” Joanna said, but she was smiling to herself.
“No problem.” I winked at her, thinking that if things had gone the way they were supposed to, she, too, would be saying “ah” instead of “I.”
“Your friend’s not still living here?” Brandon asked.
“No,” I said.
“Do you know anyone in the area?”
“Actually, not a soul.” I smiled, but his questions were putting me on edge. “Sometimes you need a complete change of scenery.” There I went with that stupid “change of scenery” again.
“What are you running away from?” he asked, throwing me completely off guard.
“Brandon!” Michelle said. “What kind of question is that?”
“I hope I’m not running away from anything,” I said, trying not to bristle. “I like to think I’m running to something. I have a degree in physical therapy and hope to eventually get a job at the Kessler Institute up here.”
He stared at me, fork halfway to his mouth, and I knew I’d surprised him.
“Good place,” he admitted. “You’re not married?”
“Widowed,” I said.
“Oh, no.” Michelle set down her own wineglass. “I’m so sorry.”
“Does that mean your husband died?” Joanna asked.
I looked across the table at her. Oh, sweetie, I thought. It’s your daddy I’m talking about. You would have loved him so much. “Yes,” I said. “It’s been a while now.” As in forty-four years or ten months, depending on how you counted. It felt like only yesterday to me, though, and once again I bit back tears. I was acutely aware that a little bit of Joe sat across the table from me.
“Accident?” Brandon asked.
“Drunk driver.” I nodded.
“How tragic,” Michelle said.
“So,” I said, looking directly into Brandon’s piercing blue eyes, “if I ran away from any
thing, it was from a lot of sadness. I needed to get away from the reminders for a while, and I knew about Summit and—”
“No children?” he asked.
Damn. This man was not going to let me off the hook.
I shook my head. “I wish,” I said.
“How about some more chicken?” Michelle asked me, although I still had plenty on my plate. I was grateful for her awkward attempt to take the heat off me.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Thanks.”
“Carly said we should play cards and checkers and things on the second story of the tree house,” Joanna said, and Brandon laughed.
“Honey,” he said to Joanna, “the day you actually play cards with a real deck instead of on a computer screen is the day I’ll eat my hat.” He leaned over to brush a lock of hair from her cheek and I saw his affection for her. Real affection. His voice was completely different from the voice he’d used to interrogate me.
“And what was the other thing?” Joanna ignored his teasing as she looked across the table at me. “Janks?”
“Jacks,” I said. “You have the perfect floor space for a good game of jacks up there.”
“Jacks!” Michelle laughed. “That brings back some memories.”
“How do you play?” Joanna asked.
Michelle and I tried to explain the game to her. “It’s easy,” I said, “but it takes coordination.”
“You know,” Michelle said, “I’m pretty sure I have some jacks in the attic. My mother gave me a box of my old things when I got married and I stuck them up there.”
“We should look,” Joanna said.
“All right.” Michelle sounded pleased. “We’ll look after dinner.”
* * *
Michelle and I did the dishes, while Brandon and Joanna took the dogs for a walk.
“You have the magic touch with Joanna,” Michelle said as she slid a plate into the dishwasher. “If I’d been the one to tell her about jacks, she would have rolled her eyes at me, thinking, ‘boring old mom.’” She laughed.
“Well, when she sees the actual game, she’ll probably roll her eyes at me,” I said, but I loved what she said about my magic touch. I wanted that. I wanted that so much.
When Joanna returned to the house, and the kitchen was back in order, she and Michelle and I climbed the stairs to the neatest, most orderly attic I’d ever seen. Still, we had to move aside at least a dozen plastic tubs of Christmas decorations to get to a cardboard box marked simply Michelle.
Michelle dug through high school yearbooks, an old teddy bear, a faded pom-pom—I should have guessed she’d been a cheerleader—and ancient photograph albums, and there in the bottom of the box was a small brown paper bag containing a set of jacks. Joanna peered inside the bag, clearly unimpressed.
“That’s it?” she asked, disappointment in her voice.
“That’s it,” Michelle said. “Come on,” she added, getting to her feet. “Hours of fun await.” Suddenly her gaze lit on a large white plastic bag near the top of the stairs. “Joanna, when are we going to take that bag to the shelter?” she asked.
Joanna gnawed her lip as she eyed the bag. She glanced up at me. “That’s my dolls and stuffed animals and things,” she said. “I’m going to donate them.” She walked over to the bag, opened the top, and pulled out a small stuffed cat and I watched as she smoothed the faux fur on the cat’s head.
“Why are you giving them away?” I asked.
“Because I’m practically thirteen and nobody thirteen still plays with stuffed animals,” she said simply, but I could see the ambivalence in her eyes as she tenderly returned the cat to the white bag. It made me smile.
I love you so much, I thought. I love you so damn much.
* * *
Joanna’s room was very girly and very purple. The walls were lavender, the spread on her big bed a deep plum. On the wall above the bed was a giant wooden purple J. In spite of the donation bag of toys in the attic upstairs, there were still a few stuffed animals in front of the mountain of pillows on the neatly made bed. This was a child’s room, I thought. Joanna was still more little girl than teen.
Michelle pushed aside one of the furry white throw rugs to make room on the hardwood floor for our game of jacks, and the three of us sat down to play. Michelle and I were more into the game than Joanna, but I saw a competitive side to her that I liked. She was terrible at first while Michelle and I seemed to have muscle memory for the game, but she studied our techniques and slowly improved. She seemed determined not to let us show her up.
“I’ll practice,” she said to me, “and next time I see you, I’ll beat you.”
“You think so, huh?” I teased.
Brandon poked his head in the room and leveled his blue eyes at me. “I need to run to the store, so why don’t I take you home now?” he asked.
“No!” Joanna said. “Not yet, Daddy. I’m finally almost winning.”
“Let us finish this game, hon,” Michelle said as she scooped up seven jacks. “Just a few minutes.”
He looked at his watch and I thought he was going to protest, but he nodded. “Okay,” he said. “I’m in my study.”
We wrapped up the final game, which Joanna came close to winning, and the three of us got to our feet. Michelle returned the throw rug to its rightful place on the floor. “This might be a weird question to ask a grown woman, but while you’re waiting to find a PT job, would you ever consider babysitting?” she asked as she straightened a corner of the rug.
“Yes!” Joanna said. “Say yes.”
I laughed, touched that she wanted more time with me. “I’d love to,” I said.
“Tuesday night when you go to New York?” Joanna asked her mother.
“Well,” Michelle hedged, “we have Deanna lined up for Tuesday night.” She looked at me. “Brandon and I have tickets for Kinky Boots,” she said.
I guessed I should have known what Kinky Boots was. “That should be fun,” I said, hoping that was the appropriate response.
“Could we cancel Deanna and make it Carly?” Joanna asked.
Michelle seemed to think it over. “Does Tuesday night work for you?” she asked me.
I was a little appalled at Joanna’s power. At the same time, I was thrilled at the thought of spending an evening with her, just the two of us.
“That should be fine,” I said.
“Awesome!” Joanna said.
We left Joanna in her room and Michelle and I walked downstairs, Michelle telling me about the woes of finding decent babysitters in the neighborhood. “Once they’re old enough to be responsible, they’re old enough to want to spend Saturday night with their friends,” she lamented. “I’ll tell Brandon you’re ready,” she said when we reached the kitchen. “You can get Poppy and meet him in the driveway.”
I thanked her for dinner, then walked out the back door. Although the deck was well lit, the yard had grown dark and I couldn’t see the dogs. Poppy came running when I called her, though. By the dirt on her muzzle, I guessed Jobs had taught her the joys of digging. I was brushing the dirt from her face when I heard voices coming from the garage. I held on to Poppy’s collar as I straightened up to listen.
“We don’t even know her,” Brandon was saying.
“You’re being ridiculous,” Michelle said. “She works for Winnie Corman, for heaven’s sake. She’s very nice, and I think she’ll be a healthier, more mature influence on Joanna than Deanna Gladstone. When Deanna babysits, she spends the whole night on her phone while Joanna’s on hers. Carly didn’t even glance at her phone while she’s been here. Not once. Did you notice that?”
“On our walk, Joanna told me she uses a prepaid cell phone,” Brandon said. “Who uses prepaid phones these days? Only transients or people without the means to sign a contract.”
I bit my lip, listening, afraid Michelle would give into him and I might never be able to see my daughter again.
“I’ll call Winnie and see what she has to say, all right?” Michelle said. �
�Just to put your mind at ease? Winnie would never hire someone who wasn’t trustworthy.”
“There’s something strange about the whole…” Brandon lowered his voice and the rest of their conversation was lost on me. Poppy, most likely tired of me standing there frozen with my fingers around her collar, let out an impatient bark.
“Ready!” I called out as I clipped Poppy’s leash to her collar. I crossed the deck, heading for the driveway. A light mounted on the outside corner of the garage illuminated Brandon and his car. Michelle must have slipped inside the house through the garage and Brandon was laying a blanket across the backseat of the car by the time Poppy and I reached him. He opened the back door wide.
“For your dog,” he said.
Poppy hopped into the car and I shut the door behind her before getting into the front seat. The car smelled new.
“Thanks for doing this,” I said, as Brandon pulled out of the driveway onto the road. I wished I could find a way to win him over.
“No problem.” He adjusted the rearview mirror while I tried to think of something I could say that would put his mind at ease about me. But he spoke up first.
“What’s your last name again?” he asked.
“Sears,” I said. I watched his handsome profile, waiting for a reaction. Did he know the name of Joanna’s mother? Could he have known it and kept it from Michelle? Or maybe Michelle had simply forgotten it.
“What nationality is Sears?” he asked. I let out my breath. He didn’t know who I was.
“Irish,” I said, “but that was actually my husband’s name. My surname was Grant. It’s Scottish.” Was he going to try to Google me? He’d never find me. Not the twenty-seven-year-old me, at any rate. “I guess Van Dyke is Dutch?”
“Right. It was the name given to people who lived near dikes in the Netherlands, which I suppose was just about everyone.” He glanced at me. “How long before you can get a PT job?” he asked.
“Well, first I need to get licensed in New Jersey,” I said. “I’m licensed in North Carolina, but there’s no reciprocity. Then, of course, I’ll need to find an opening.”
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