Unleaving

by Melissa Ostrom

  “That’s okay. I just have to drop something off. I’ll be back in under an hour.”

  * * *

  Maggie stood in the doorway and looked around, disoriented. The bookstore was packed.

  “Excuse us,” a gangly man said. He was herding a small boy in front of him so they could depart single file.

  “Oh. Sorry.” She shuffled to the side.

  Adults milled around, nodding at one another, smiling politely. Their expressions matched: the cautious friendliness that people wore around others they’d met before but still didn’t know. Children outnumbered the adults and traipsed around the long table, sometimes under it, too.

  Maggie was in the way. She hurried toward the magazines and dug the wrinkled check out of her cardigan pocket.

  The nosy girl was working again. Standing beside the antique cash register, she handed a customer a bag, then leaned forward so that her hair, this time worn in sleek braids, dangled over the counter. She grinned at the two girls hugging the customer’s legs. “Bye, bye. Be good to your mom.”

  “Watch what I can do,” the smaller child said. She stuck out her tongue and touched her chin with it.

  “Cool. Can you do this?” The clerk rolled her tongue.

  The girls proved they could.

  “Excellent. Now, for next Friday, I want you to practice bringing your tongue to your nose.”

  The children started practicing right away.

  “Try harder,” the clerk murmured.

  The mother laughed, raised her bag in a clumsy wave—“See you, Ran”—and nudged the girls toward the door.

  Maggie watched them leave. She was sorry to see them go. An absurd reaction, she realized. She didn’t know these people. But for a minute, they’d distracted her from Jane Cannon’s email. I know something similar happened to you, I know something similar happened to you, I know something similar happened to you …

  “Hey!”

  Maggie jerked around.

  The young woman behind the counter was beaming at her. “It’s you.”

  Maggie headed in her direction and bumped into another customer. She mumbled an apology and sidestepped past two women talking by the table. Books, cookies, and pretzels were everywhere.

  When Maggie reached the desk, she shook her hair away from her face and held out the wrinkled check.

  “How’s it going?”

  Maggie nodded.

  The girl laughed. “Me too,” she said, imitating Maggie with a frown and a bob of her head.

  A customer brushed against Maggie’s shoulder. She flinched. “You’re busy.”

  “Because it’s Fun Fiction Friday,” the clerk explained. She took hold of her braids and tied them under her chin. With a covert scan of the crowd, she slouched sideways and said softly, “This is the weekly gig that keeps my family’s shop going. We try to make it entertaining—story time, snacks, author signings, giveaways, costume parties, discounts—and it’s become a Friday tradition for a lot of locals. Sometimes I think they show up and shop just because they’re worried we’ll tank.” She sighed. “Like tons of other Kesley businesses have.” With a slap on the counter, she straightened. “What’s that?”

  “Hmm? Oh.” Maggie frowned at the wrinkled check in her hand and thrust it toward the girl. “I found this in one of the used books I bought from you.”

  “Carina.” She accepted it with a cluck. “Not surprised. She works for us part-time. Smart woman but a total flake.” She slipped the check under the counter. “I’ll give her a call. Thanks for bringing it by, ah…”

  Maggie stared at her dumbly.

  The girl laughed again. “I’m Ran Kita. And you are…?”

  Maggie opened her mouth, then closed it. Margaret Arioli, Maggie Arioli—both had been in the news and not only in Carlton. She didn’t want to ring a bell. “Marge,” she blurted.

  “Marge. You don’t hear that one very often.”

  Maggie shrugged. Unless you’re hanging out in a nursing home.

  “Just Marge?”

  She nodded and took a step toward the door.

  “Like Rihanna. Or Madonna. Cool. Well, don’t forget Saturday, Marge. Not tomorrow Saturday, but two weeks from tomorrow. Here. Seven o’clock. Bring your questions. Bring your epiphanies.”

  She stared at her, confused.

  “Our book club meeting?” the clerk prodded. “Bring the novel, too. You need a copy?”

  Maggie shook her head. She honestly didn’t. Mom had bought her the book in Allenport—not that Maggie had any intention of reading it for this girl’s club. She’d just been wanting to read it, period. For myself, by myself, without anyone bothering me. And then with a pang: So I’m sorry, Jane Cannon. But no.

  A silver-haired gentleman creaked up to the counter. Ran grinned at him. “Hello, Mr. Holley. Be with you in a second.” To Maggie, she said, “Thanks for dropping off Carina’s check, Marge.” She dismissed her with a waggle of fingers. “See you in a couple of weeks.”

  Maggie murmured something vague and hurried for the door. Behind her, she heard the older man say, “Marge. Now that’s a pretty name.”

  “Are you saying Ran isn’t pretty, Mr. Holley?” the clerk teased.

  “Oh, heavens, no. Ran’s very nice. A good name for a quick girl like you.”

  5

  MAGGIE FELL ASLEEP late Friday night, slept poorly, and woke to the sound of rain and the agonizing thought, Why the hell did Jane Cannon have to contact me?

  She rolled onto her back and rubbed her eyes. If only that girl had reached out to a friend, family member, professor … I’m a perfect stranger, for Christ’s sake.

  She crawled out of bed, went downstairs, and slogged into the kitchen. Aunt Wren was there, pouring a cup of coffee. She must have been up for a while. Clay streaked her clothes.

  “Morning, Margaret.” She took a hasty sip and smiled apologetically. “I’ll be MIA today. Have to catch up on an order, then head out for a one o’clock guild meeting.” She patted Maggie’s arm and crossed the kitchen, taking her coffee with her. “Just pop in the studio if you need me.”

  “Okay.” After her aunt left, Maggie drank her coffee in front of the rain-smeared window and worried about the email. It was two weeks old. Probably by now, Jane had gone to someone else for help, like her RA. Yeah, her RA. That makes much better sense. I’m getting myself worked up over nothing. Maggie set down the mug and looked around the empty kitchen. A distraction. She needed a distraction. Maybe the aunt had something in the studio she could do, a chore to keep her busy. She almost went to ask Wren but decided against it. The studio was the aunt’s workplace. She didn’t need her niece hanging out in there.

  After eating some toast, Maggie trudged upstairs. Besides, it’s not like I’m a social worker or a counselor. Jane needs a professional. I can’t help her. I wouldn’t even know how to help her. Christ!

  Before slipping back into bed, she shed her cardigan and strategically tossed it. It landed directly on top of her phone. She stayed in the loft for most of the sodden Saturday and Sunday. While the rain pinged overhead, she frowned at the first page of Middlemarch and tried not to think about Jane Cannon’s email.

  Monday brought back the sunshine. Relieved, Maggie escaped the cabin. And who knows if the email’s legit? she thought as she crossed the beach. She kicked at a clump of seaweed. It’s probably from some jerky Tigers fan out to trick me into responding, so she can use my words against me, like a—a sting operation!

  The cool wind felt bracing. She walked up and down and up and down the shore until she realized she was ambling to the rhythm of I know something similar happened to you, I know something similar happened to you, I know something similar happened to you. She halted and scowled at her feet, then turned on her heel and stomped inside.

  While she was pouring a glass of iced tea, Thomas Blake showed up at the back door with Kate. Sam strode into the kitchen to greet them.

  “I have a department meeting,” Thomas explained quickly.
“Forgot all about it. Sorry, buddy. Got to go.” He kissed the top of his granddaughter’s head, nudged her into the house, and waved good-bye as he jogged to his car.

  Aunt Wren was in Rochester for the afternoon, and Sam, coated in clay, was obviously in the middle of a job. He stood in the kitchen, filthy hands raised, probably to remind himself not to touch anything, and frowned at his daughter as if he didn’t know what to do with her.

  Uh-oh. Maggie inched toward the back door.

  Sam turned.

  She froze.

  “Do you mind keeping an eye on Kate?” he asked. Begged.

  His daughter stamped her foot.

  Maggie did mind. So did his kid.

  “Please?” he added.

  He looked desperate, and Maggie didn’t have a good excuse (or even a bad one) to avoid helping out. “Sure.” She sighed.

  Kate wrinkled her nose.

  “Great.” Sam strode out of the kitchen and called from the hallway, “Be good!”

  Kate fell into a chair and folded her arms. “You are not my mother. And I don’t like you.”

  “Gee. Thanks.” Where was this kid’s mother, anyway?

  There was no television in the cabin—or toys or coloring books or crayons. No tablet. No 3DS. Maggie found a deck of cards in a drawer by the fridge, but Kate couldn’t stand War and thought Old Maid was stupid and Go Fish “stupider.” Shuffling the cards at the table, Maggie said, mostly to herself, “I wonder if I remember how to play rummy.”

  “I know how,” Kate said, “and I hate that game, too.” Then she shot out of the kitchen.

  Maggie caught up with her in the studio. Sam looked up from the slab roller, where he was flattening a great ball of clay into a slender brown sheet. “Just a few more minutes,” he promised impatiently, “and I’ll be done.”

  The few minutes stretched into more than an hour, sixty-plus minutes of Kate disdaining tic-tac-toe and hangman. When Maggie went back to the drawer where she’d found the cards to search for something else to do with the kid (or the little shit, as she was starting to think of her), Kate scrambled out of her chair and raced into the hallway.

  Not again. Maggie briefly closed her eyes in exasperation, then wearily followed her, calling, “How about my beach glass? Want to see my beach glass collection?”

  “I hate your beach glass!” Kate screeched. “I want to stomp on it! I want to throw it in the lake! Take your beach glass and stick it up your—”

  “Whoa.” Sam opened the studio door and caught his daughter. “That’s not nice. Say you’re sorry.”

  “I’m not sorry.”

  “You are sorry. Because if you aren’t, there’s no way I’m taking you to the movies tomorrow.”

  She spat an apology and ran back to the kitchen.

  “Sorry about that.” Sam shook his head. “One of her friends is having a rough time because her dad got remarried. Kate comes home from school with stories about Kennedy’s evil stepmother. I think the situation has her freaking out, wondering if, well, with Linnie gone … if you might—that is, if you and I…” Embarrassed, he shrugged.

  “Oh no,” Maggie said, her eyes wide. Oh my God, no. She wasn’t interested in Sam. In any guy. For the rest of her life. That sort of thing was impossible—inconceivable—now.

  He smiled ruefully and pulled the studio door shut behind him. “I won’t dump on you again,” he murmured, digging his keys out of his pocket.

  Maggie nodded. She didn’t dredge up an “I don’t mind” or a “That’s okay.” It wasn’t okay. Maggie wasn’t up for handling Kate’s misery, fear, issues. She couldn’t even handle her own.

  * * *

  Sam turned onto Redman Road. “Want to listen to anything?” He reached for the radio.

  Maggie pressed her back against the seat. “That’s okay.”

  He let his hand fall, palm down, on his thigh. “All right.”

  “I mean”—she turned to stare out the window, caught her expression in the side-view mirror, and ironed her features—“unless you want to.”

  “Nah.”

  They passed a thin woods, a hunting shack, an orchard. The yellow foliage held a dull shine in the October haze. The orchard gave way to a plowed field, then a farmhouse with a long porch, then a barn, big enough to house the house. Up ahead was a stop sign. On either side of the road stretched fields of cabbage. Inside Sam’s truck stretched silence.

  She should have said yes to music. This silence was like another presence in the truck, a goading one that pointed out Maggie’s discomfort.

  What the hell was she thinking? First it was Kesley with its Tree Hollow Books and that prying clerk, and now there was this, a drive to Allenport to help Sam pack up his apartment. Maggie was supposed to stay at the aunt’s—the end of the earth, hidden, not interesting to outsiders, a nowhere place for someone with no plans for an impossible future.

  She’d mapped a tiny world for herself, but between Kesley and Allenport and the email from Jane (dragging Maggie’s mind back to Carlton, to pain and fear, and burdening her with an unbearable sense of responsibility), her new world was expanding to include the foreign and the old, losing its manageable perimeters, growing unwieldy, dangerous …

  She scowled at the field they were passing and, to drown her thoughts, searched for something to say, finally coming up with, “Cabbage plants are cute.” Her face burned. Well, that was stupid.

  Sam grunted a laugh. “Kate said the same thing last week.” He sighed. “Strange to think we won’t be going this way anymore.” He sped through an intersection and cleared his throat. “Tons of cabbage grown in these parts. The fields will stink to high heaven after harvest.”

  “Yeah.” Rotting cabbage reeked. Maggie knew that from the farms around Carlton.

  They continued for some minutes without talking, but when he turned onto Ridge Road, he said, “Almost there.” And then abruptly: “Thanks for offering to help. It shouldn’t be that bad. We don’t have a lot.”

  “Sure.” Helping him clear out his apartment beat the alternative—watching Kate.

  According to Wren, Sam’s landlord had called him first thing that morning, complaining about the “characters hanging around the place” and how Sam was late on the rent again. In short, he wanted Sam out, preferably immediately.

  This wouldn’t leave Sam homeless. Twice, just in Maggie’s hearing, Thomas had brought up Sam and Kate’s moving in with him. Wren told Maggie that Thomas had even offered to lend a hand with the move. But the local elementary was holding an in-service Friday, which meant the kids were off, and since the aunt had to work in Buffalo for the day, there was no one to watch Kate.

  Wren had mentioned this dilemma to Maggie over their morning coffee. “Told Thomas I’d call him back if I came up with a solution,” she said. “Wish I could help, but I can’t miss the gallery opening. Otherwise, I’d babysit Kate. Do you think maybe you could…?”

  Maggie set down her mug with a thud. “Just because I have a uterus doesn’t mean I like watching kids.” Especially that kid.

  The aunt’s mouth quivered, then she burst out laughing.

  Maggie frowned. I am dead serious.

  “Point taken,” Wren finally said, then started laughing again, brokenly acknowledging through her mirth, “Kate’s a handful, isn’t she?”

  “That’s putting it mildly,” she muttered. Then, in a kinder tone: “But I’m happy to help Sam with the move.”

  Well, maybe not happy, but she’d much rather heave furniture than play nanny. Thomas could watch Kate. Maggie was done babysitting that kid.

  Still, this going-somewhere business left Maggie feeling discombobulated, misplaced. She frowned at the passing houses. The whole week had sucked, and not just because Jane’s email kept needling Maggie, making her feel miserable and guilty.

  First, she’d faced the Tortured-by-Kate Monday.

  Then a weird Tuesday. She’d spent it polishing and scrubbing everything in the cabin, whether it needed it or not.
But when she’d entered the hallway and crouched to gather the cleaning supplies, she’d heard her aunt talking on the phone: “Well, duh, Adam. Of course I’d like to finish it by December. It’s not like I’m trying to go slow, and I need the money. Fuck it then. We’ll do the show without it. Okay. Fine.” And Maggie had hurried past the doorway, wondering who Adam was and what project had him harping on her aunt.

  Then Wednesday and Thursday, though moderately encouraging on the reading front (she’d managed to finish My Name Is Lucy Barton but gave up on Middlemarch) and brilliant with sunshine, had suffered from squalls of a different kind. Almost all the rumblings related to Linnie. On Wednesday, after a nearly two-week absence, Linnie suddenly reappeared, not at her and Sam’s place but at Kate’s elementary school. Without warning anyone, she picked up her daughter, took her on a trip—to Darien Lake Theme Park, Sam discovered from Linnie’s breezy text—and dropped her off at Thomas’s house the next day. For those twenty-four hours, the aunt’s house teemed with angry calls and worry.

  And the returned Kate, exuberant about her mother’s brief reappearance, soon after plunged into the dismals. She answered Sam’s questions in a sullen way: No, it wasn’t just her and Mom. Kyle came, too. He went on some of the rides but got sick. Maybe from the rides—how was she supposed to know? Then he took his medicine and went to the motel. Mom got her cotton candy for supper. And pop. Mom lets her drink pop. A cab to the motel? What’s a cab? Oh. No. A man gave them a ride. She didn’t know who. He was nice. He shared his fried dough.

  Sam took this in with astonishment. Only when she finished had he closed his eyes for a spell and exhaled. Then he’d met his father’s somber gaze and, with a shake of his head, said, “That’s it. I’m done.”

  Now Sam turned right at an intersection. On either side of the street stood rambling mansions with fancy brickwork and old maples. The traffic increased, and the estates gave way to modest houses, then gas stations and plazas. “Our place is just off Main,” he said. A minute later, they crossed the lift-bridge, the truck sounding a clanking strum over the Erie Canal, drove slowly past shops and cafés, and turned left at an old movie theater.