Chapter 8
Had Julian been sifting through their medicine basket?
Amy couldn’t shake the thought. She tried to convince herself it was Bruce or Sherrie. Bruce had complained a lot recently about his knee. And she distinctly remembered Julian reminding her that he knew where the upstairs hall bathroom was. There was no reason for him to use the master bathroom. Unless he was looking for painkillers.
Was he looking for painkillers?
He wouldn’t have found any. Rob and Amy were very boring in that respect. They only had the basics: Tylenol, Advil, Aleve. The few times they’d been prescribed something stronger like Percocet (Amy after her C-section, Rob after an ankle operation), they’d thrown the pills out after a few days. Narcotic drugs nauseated both of them something terrible, and neither of them saw the appeal. After living through her brother’s downward spiral, Amy saw their aversion as something of a blessing. She also felt a little guilty. If Tim had felt as awful as she and Rob did on prescription painkillers, his life would have gone a lot differently.
But Julian wasn’t her brother. He was the smart, successful founder of a respectable nonprofit, and he had an intelligent and attractive wife and an adorable, fun-loving son. Maybe Tim could have been that person or that would possibly still be that person someday, but he wasn’t that person now, and when he’d started down this path at eighteen, he was naïve enough to think he didn’t have anything to lose. Julian had everything to lose—his family, his job, his reputation. Grace said he was clean now, that he was throwing all of his energy back into his nonprofit. If that were the case it wouldn’t make sense for him to be snooping through their closets and drawers. Unless—
No. Amy told herself to stop letting her imagination get the best of her. She had no proof that Julian had done anything wrong, and he was the father of her kid’s best friend. She owed him the benefit of the doubt.
Whatever meager amount of sleep she was able to get was cut even shorter when early the next morning, she heard Noah whimpering in his room again. She stumbled in, only half awake, and took his temperature: 100.1. He definitely wouldn’t be going to camp today.
She gave him a little more Tylenol and encouraged him to go back to sleep, in the hopes that she could carve out another hour of sleep for herself, but Noah wasn’t having it.
“I want to watch Ready Jet Go! downstairs,” he said.
“You need to rest, sweetie.”
“I can rest in front of the TV.”
“It’s only six o’clock. Maybe close your eyes for a little bit longer, and then you watch a show. Or a movie—whatever you want.”
“What movies do we have?”
“Finding Nemo, Finding Dory, Toy Story—the usual. And I think Daddy might have recorded Despicable Me the other day.”
Noah’s sleepy eyes widened. She never should have mentioned Despicable Me. Now he definitely wouldn’t go back to sleep.
“I want to watch Aspicable Me,” he said, crawling out of bed.
“How about in a few—”
“Mommyyyyyyy,” he whined.
Amy heaved a sigh. “Fine. Let’s go.”
She and Noah trudged down the stairs, and she queued up Despicable Me. Noah curled up on the couch with his blanket, a blue-and-white crocheted one that her mother had made for him. Amy could hear Rob thumping around above her, getting ready for work. He usually made the coffee, but since she was up and in desperate need of caffeine, she started the pot going and poured Noah a glass of apple juice.
“You should drink something,” she said, holding out the cup as she nudged him to sit up. He shook his head. “Noah, you have to—it’s important when you’re sick.”
He propped himself up a little and took an infinitesimal sip. “It’s cold,” he said as he handed the cup back to Amy.
“Juice usually is.”
“It’s too cold.”
Amy tried not to lose her patience, but she was exhausted. “Want me to warm it up in the microwave?”
“Yeah. I mean no. I’m not thirsty.”
“You have to drink.”
“I don’t want to.”
Amy closed her eyes and took a long, deep breath. For all of Noah’s intellectual strengths, he was still four, and negotiating with him was as enjoyable as stabbing herself repeatedly in the leg.
“Let me warm it up for you,” she said, in as calm a voice as she could muster, which at the moment was somewhere between annoyance and exasperation.
She stuck the cup in the microwave just as Rob came downstairs.
“Hey, the gang’s all here!” he said. Amy usually appreciated Rob’s optimism and cheerfulness in the morning, but today she was jealous that he could muster any enthusiasm at all.
Rob came over and gave Amy a kiss on the head. “How are you?”
“Tired.”
He peered from the kitchen into the family room. “Take a nap while he naps.”
“He isn’t napping. He’s watching Despicable Me.”
“He’ll fall asleep at some point.”
“By which time I will need to do some work. I’m almost finished with that grant proposal and planned to finish it today.”
Rob shrugged. “There’s always coffee.”
“Helpful.”
“I’m just saying. Hey, by the way, I’ve been meaning to ask: What are we doing about school for Noah in the fall? I looked at the calendar and realized it’s almost August.”
“I’ve been meaning to call the place Julian and Grace send Ethan, but I haven’t yet. Grace says the director is very chill, so it shouldn’t be a problem. I can try to call today.”
“Keeping that connection with the Durants alive, huh?”
“What am I supposed to do? Noah is obsessed with Ethan. Wherever we send him, it’ll be a new school in a new city. Why not make it someplace he already has a friend?”
“I’m not arguing. It’s probably the best move for Noah. I just feel like . . . I don’t know. We’ve established that they seem a little shady. Do we really want to keep our families so closely intertwined?”
Amy hadn’t told Rob about Julian’s history of addiction, and now she wasn’t sure she wanted to. Aside from the fact that Grace had told her about Julian’s problems in confidence, she worried if she disclosed Julian’s history, Rob would be even less likely to want Noah and Ethan to socialize. She knew she probably wasn’t giving Rob enough credit. After all, recovering from drug addiction was infinitely better than selling drugs or doing something shady like laundering money or credit card fraud. Rob had watched Tim struggle for the entirety of their relationship. Surely he would have sympathy for the Durants’ situation.
But something in Amy’s gut told her that although Rob would sympathize with the Durants, he also wouldn’t want to knit their lives too tightly together. He’d been great with her brother—patient, generous, kind—but she suspected that was partly because Tim was an extension of her. Julian Durant was just some guy who owned the house they now lived in. Amy knew Rob was as happy as she was that Noah had finally found a friend—a best friend—but Rob was also very protective of his only son. He wouldn’t want Noah to get sucked into another family’s drama. Amy didn’t want that either, but she didn’t want to break Noah’s heart. She also liked Grace and didn’t want Rob to start dictating whom she could befriend.
“I’m not saying we have to start vacationing together,” said Amy, as she poured herself a cup of coffee. “It’s preschool. They’ll play together during the day, maybe have a few playdates on the weekends, and then they’ll go off to kindergarten and will probably barely see each other again.”
“Unless they end up at the same school.”
Amy sighed. “In which case, who cares if they spend the next year together in pre-K?”
“I don’t. Sorry. I didn’t mean to start something.”
“Well, you did. Congratulations.”
Amy knew she was being bitchy, but she was so tired that she couldn’t help herself. In he
r mind, Rob had already said Noah and Ethan couldn’t be friends, and neither could she and Grace. He hadn’t, of course, but that’s where Amy saw the conversation heading, at least in her sleep-deprived head.
Rob came over and squeezed Amy’s hand. “Hey. Can we start over, please?”
Amy squeezed back. “Yes, sorry for snapping. I’m just wiped, and now my day is pretty much shot.”
“It isn’t necessarily shot. You can—”
“Mommyyyyyy. . . .”
Rob frowned. “Okay, so it’s probably shot. But I’ll see if I can leave early to free up a few hours for you this afternoon.”
“Really?”
“I have to talk to my boss, but I’ll try.”
“Thank you.”
“Mommyyyyyy, where ARE you? . . . I want my JUICE. . . .”
Rob poured his coffee into a travel mug and kissed Amy on the cheek. “Gotta run. Good luck.”
Amy watched him head out the door, thinking what she really needed was a break.
* * *
Later that afternoon, Amy got a text from Grace:
Ethan said Noah wasn’t at camp today. Everything ok?
Amy was sitting in front of her computer, working on the grant proposal she’d hoped to finish that day. Rob had, indeed, been able to leave work early, so he was currently playing Scrabble Junior in the family room with Noah, who seemed to have improved in the last few hours.
Noah had a slight temp this AM, so we kept him home. He’ll be there tomorrow, though!
She added the exclamation point to express certainty and enthusiasm, when really she knew there was a slight chance Noah could take a turn later that evening. But she was trying to think positive. Tomorrow would be a great day! She would be productive!
Oh good—was worried! Ethan missed his buddy. :)
Amy smiled. Someone thought of her son as a buddy. That made her happier than she ever could have imagined.
Noah’s bubbly giggles filled the hallway, and Amy smiled. She shot Grace another quick text:
Btw, I’m planning to call Beth Israel today. Totally dropped the ball on that. You think they still have openings?
Moments later, Amy’s phone rang. It was Grace.
“I figured it was easier just to call you instead of texting back and forth a million times,” she said as soon as Amy picked up.
“I know, what are we, millennials?”
Grace laughed. “Anyway, yes, I’m sure there are still spots at Beth Israel. If I were you, I’d give a call and arrange to go over in person to make sure you like it.”
“If you guys recommend it, I’m sure it’s great.”
“It is—it really is—but that said, Ethan isn’t Noah. Noah is clearly a genius. You may want to check it out to be sure it’s up to your standards.”
“We have no standards. Or I guess our standards are, ‘Is this a welcoming place where he will make friends?’”
“In that case, I think you’ll love it. But still. I’d check it out if I were you.”
“Will do. How was your picnic last night, by the way?”
“What picnic?”
“The one last night. With you, Julian, and Ethan.”
“Who said anything about a picnic?”
“Julian did.”
Grace hesitated. “When?”
“Last night. When he came to pick up the mail.”
There was a long pause on the other end. Amy suddenly felt as if she’d outed Julian, even though she still didn’t know whether he’d done anything wrong. Or rather, she now knew he’d done something wrong, which was that he hadn’t told his wife he’d stopped by 120 Sycamore.
“I didn’t realize he’d been by,” Grace said.
“He was only here for, like, three minutes,” Amy said quickly. She’d meant to assuage Grace’s fears, when in fact she realized it probably sounded as if she were covering up the fact that Julian had stayed longer.
“What time?”
“I don’t know . . . sixish?”
Grace let out a sigh. “Ohhhh, okay. I see what happened. We’d talked about doing a picnic this Friday, but he mixed up the days. He called me from his car last night when he was on his way, and I was, like, ‘No, stupid, the picnic is Friday.’ I swear, it’s amazing to me that the guy runs a nonprofit. He can’t even keep his days straight.”
Amy relaxed. Julian hadn’t lied about the picnic. What a relief.
“Rob is like that, too,” Amy offered. “I go over our schedule a million times, and then he’ll come to me and ask, ‘We’re not doing anything Sunday, right?’ when I’ve told him at least six times that I promised Noah we’d go to the zoo or something. It’s infuriating.”
“Tell me about it.”
Amy sat back in her chair. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to create any problems by mentioning he’d stopped by.”
“Not at all. He told me he was planning to, but he made it sound like he’d do it later in the week. As we’ve established, he isn’t so good with keeping to a schedule.”
“There wasn’t much mail. It seems to be trickling off. Whatever he’s done to change your address is working.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Grace said. “Working would imply the mail was actually coming to us at my parents’ house.”
“It isn’t?”
“I guess technically it is, but we’ll get, like, two pieces of mail one day and then nothing for four. We used to get a fat bundle every day.”
“Most of it was probably junk, though, right? Because we still get plenty of that for you.”
“This is what I mean about the system not working. We’re burdening you with our junk, as well as the occasional extremely important document.”
This was the first reference Grace had made to the threatening notices Amy had passed along week after week.
“It’s not a big deal. We recycle all the junk anyway.”
“I will apologize for the hundredth time anyway. I’m annoyed with Julian all over again every time I think of it.”
“How’s he doing?” Amy asked gently. “With . . . you know. Everything.”
“Good. Really good. He has one of his meetings tonight. The people have been a really good support network for him. We told my parents he plays poker with friends on Wednesdays, just to keep the whole thing quiet, so of course now they think he has a gambling problem. Guess we didn’t really think our cover story through.”
Amy thought it was sad that the Durants needed a cover story, but she understood. The Sterlings were Grace’s parents, not his, and they probably didn’t know anything about addiction, other than what they’d seen on TV or read in books or newspapers. They’d obviously been generous with Julian, and they’d never look at him the same way again if they knew. Still, Amy thought they deserved to know a recovering addict was living under their roof. How would they react if they discovered the truth? No one liked being lied to.
“I’m glad he’s doing well,” Amy said. “If you ever need help, or just someone to talk to, you know where to find me. I’m not an expert, but I’ve been through enough with my brother to know more than your average bear.”
“Thanks. That means a lot.”
Part of Amy wanted to mention the disorganized medicine basket, but she didn’t want to stir up trouble. She didn’t know Julian was the one who’d rifled through the drugs, and anyway, even if it had been him, he wouldn’t have found anything because there was nothing to find. Telling Grace would have no benefit other than easing Amy’s own conscience, over a scenario she had entirely concocted in her own head. So instead she let the matter slide and wrapped up their conversation, hoping the issue didn’t come back later to bite her in the behind.
* * *
To Amy’s relief, Noah was better the next day. She dropped him at camp and set off for a day of editing. She was nearly finished the project she’d been working on and had set up a call with a new nonprofit for the afternoon. The group focused on college prep for kids from disadvantaged backgrounds,
and it needed someone to help draft and edit materials for their big fall conference in Washington. Amy had corresponded with the director of operations a few times, and she felt fairly confident their conversation would lead to work for her. She didn’t know how much it would pay (from experience, her guess was probably not much), but it was something.
Amy settled in at a cute café she’d found about fifteen minutes from home. Despite its location in the suburbs, it had a distinctly urban feel—brushed concrete floors, ceilings with exposed ducts, a juice bar behind which sat wire baskets filled with fresh pineapples, bananas, carrots, and apples. The pastry case heaved with crackly topped muffins and thickly frosted layer cakes, and Amy knew working from here more than a few times a month would be risky for her waistline. As it was, she’d already ordered a frothy caffè latte and a softball-size blackberry-apple muffin.
As she got to work on the proposal, she saw, out of the corner of her eye, someone approaching her table. She tried to focus on her work. The pastry case was enough of a distraction—she didn’t want to look up every time another customer passed by. But soon it became impossible for her not to look up because the figure—whoever it was—stopped right in front of her.
Amy tore her eyes from her computer screen. A woman in multicolor neon Lycra pants and a hot pink Lycra top stood beside the table. Her honey-hued hair sat in a bun atop her head, and she smiled as Amy’s eyes landed on hers.
“Hi,” she said. “I don’t mean to bother you. You just looked familiar, and I realized . . . are you Noah’s mom?”
“I am. How did you . . . have we met?”
“No, no—I just recognized you from . . . sorry. Let me start over.” She took a deep breath and extended her hand. “I’m Emily. Jake’s mom. From camp? I’ve seen you drop off and pick up your son a few times, and I know Noah and Jake play together sometimes at camp.”
“Oh, right, Jake—of course.” The truth was, Amy didn’t recognize Emily at all, which was odd because Emily seemed like the kind of woman you would notice. To begin with, she was wearing neon from head to toe. Amy realized the attire was specific to this particular day and time, but she strongly suspected this wasn’t the only neon outfit Emily owned. Emily appeared to be in great shape—elegant but defined biceps, no mom-paunch to speak off—and so it followed that she probably exercised a lot. And if she exercised a lot, she probably wore neon because all of the activewear these days seemed to be “statement” activewear. Also, Emily was tan and pretty and tall. How could Amy have missed her?
The Last House on Sycamore Street Page 10