The Last Secret

by Mary McGarry Morris

  “Well, he's not staying up too late, I know that,” Nora says. She is disappointed. Having closely tracked his grades, she expected a glowing report.

  “It's a boy thing.” Ken shrugs. “They can fall asleep at the drop of a hat. I used to do the same thing. Even fell asleep once during a soccer game. On the bench! They all left me, they thought it was so—”

  “Excuse me,” Mr. Carteil interrupts. “But the next class is coming in and I'd rather say this privately. Do you think Drew might be depressed? I'm no doctor, of course, but that's what I keep thinking.”

  She and Ken barely make it to Chloe's class on time. American Literature. The teacher is Mrs. Klein, a petite young woman in a long black skirt. Instead of taking parents' questions, she delivers an abbreviated lecture, similar to the one their children heard today. The Scarlet Letter. The irony is not lost on Nora, though she barely listens. All she can think about is Drew. Mr. Carteil is right. Her son is depressed, and she's been too blindsided by her own problems to recognize it. She knows by Ken's drawn face that he's feeling the mess he's made of everything. When the bell rings, Mrs. Klein stations herself at the door and hands each parent a note, telling how their child is doing.

  I am pleased with Chloe's effort and know she will continue to do better. She is a lovely girl and always a delightful student to have in class.

  Chloe is waiting in the corridor. She promised Nora at dinner that she was going to be very pleased by her teachers' comments. Her expectant smile fades. “What's wrong? What'd she say?”

  Nothing's wrong, Nora assures her. See? She holds out the note. It's Drew, that's all. Just something Mr. Carteil said. What? Chloe asks. What did he say? Nothing they'll talk about here, Nora says as quietly as possible with the passing din. Is he in trouble, Chloe asks, and in her daughter's persistence Nora hears more of the dread that comes when a child's sense of well-being has been compromised. First, her father. Who next? Her brother? The third period bell rings. Biology, Ken says, leaning close and peering at the schedule. Room 202, where's that? In this wing? Yes, Chloe tells him, but he seems confused. He points to the schedule and asks again.

  With Robin's mother heading their way, Ken is desperate to avoid eye contact.

  “Hello, Chloe,” Emily Shawcross says, adding with the briefest of regal nods, “Nora … Ken.” His face reddens. She is a silver-haired version of her daughter, beautiful, vibrant, yet somehow managing in her tight-lipped anger to be if not gracious, then civilized. Before anyone can (or would) ask, she explains that she is here tonight in place of Robin, because Lyra is still very sick. In the strained silence each hopes the other will speak.

  “With what?” Nora asks, as if their meeting is all so perfectly normal, cordial as ever. There is the need not only to shield her family from these curious glances, however real or imagined, but out of respect for Emily. After Nora's mother died, Robin announced she would be sharing her mother with Nora. Delighted with her new role, Emily always remembered Nora on birthdays and at Christmas. Comparing gifts with accusations of maternal favoritism was a running joke between the younger women. If Emily made cookies for Robin's family, then Nora would pretend to be hurt until she got a batch. And the truth is, Nora often felt closer to Emily than she ever had to her own mother. Even in this awkward moment, affection stirs, however tempered by regret now, and sadness. Emily was colorful and warm, always forgiving. But that was then, Nora thinks, seeing her eyes lock on Ken's as she answers.

  “Dehydration,” Emily says, almost bitterly, as if this might somehow be his fault. “The hospital wants to keep her another day, poor baby.”

  “Oh, no!” Chloe says, her concern reminding Nora that Chloe is Lyra's godmother.

  “They've all had the flu, but it took its toll on the little one.” Emily's glance shoots to Ken. “The way things do.” The lines deepen around her red lips.

  “Poor thing,” Chloe says with an empathetic pout that the older woman looks away from. “I hope she feels better.”

  “Yes,” Nora says. “That's so …” For a moment, her thoughts blur guiltily. In just a few months she has forgotten so much about the pretty child they were all so fond of “So young to be in the hospital.”

  “It certainly is,” Emily declares.

  “I'm sure she'll be fine,” Ken assures the child's grandmother who can no longer hide her disgust.

  “You think so?” she hisses, clutching her grandson's class schedule against her chest. “Do you?”

  With the loudspeaker's announcement, Mrs. Shawcross turns, hurries toward the stairs. I loved her, Nora thinks. And loved Robin, too. I did.

  “Tell her I said hi,” Chloe calls weakly.

  With that, the pain he has caused registers on Ken's face. Nora knows what he's thinking, first his son's longest friendship, and now, even this ruined, his daughter's relationship with her godchild. The christening party, typical of Robin's gatherings. More people than her house could hold so there was an enormous white tent in the backyard. Catered by Molo's, with a three-piece band and one hundred pink balloons, the party had been great fun but a bewildering extravagance. Bob had been out of work through much of Robin's difficult pregnancy, the last three weeks of which she had spent in bed. Their finances had become so strained that Bob's retired parents had even lent them money. But Nora couldn't help admiring Robin's determination that Lyra's birth be a celebration of beauty and joy. It had been a true epiphany, Robin confided once. Just when her life with Bob had gotten as hopeless as a marriage gets, she had turned to God. Send me a sign, she said she pleaded in every prayer. Show me the way. And then Lyra was conceived. Her new beginning. Pregnant, and embarking on her affair.

  “How many more classes?” Ken asks, loosening his tie, on their way into Chloe's physics lab. The room is cold, but sweat runs down his face. Almost panting, he seems short of breath.

  “Two more after this.” She asks if he's all right.

  He nods stiffly as he sits down. His lips are gray.

  “You don't look good. Maybe you should go home.”

  “I'm okay,” he whispers across the aisle.

  The teacher, young and frazzled, rushes into the room with an armload of notebooks and loose papers. Apologizing for being late, he begins scribbling formulas on the board. This is what his students are learning now.

  “I need some water,” Ken whispers. “I'll be right back.”

  Nora watches him gesture weakly to the teacher on his way out the door. For the first time, she pities him. Now he knows, she thinks with a quick wave at Deb Brioni who cranes her neck, trying to see back from the front row. Nora smiles, letting her know, We're going to be fine. We'll get through this.

  The frantic cartoon voices grind away at Eddie's nerves. The hospital television is mounted overhead. He slouches in the corner, watching, waiting for the little bitch's eyes to close. A moment ago when he reached for the remote on the bed her cunning eyes shot open. Robin is down at the hospitality shop buying another frozen yogurt. The kid rarely eats a meal, lives on sweets and snacks. Robin has slept here the last two nights. In order to see her he must sit here hour after hour kowtowing to this brat. She enjoys her power, especially over him. A whimper and her mother comes running. Down the hall a child is screaming. It feels like a knife cutting through him. He gets up and closes the door. His unappreciated purple Mylar balloon bobs against the ceiling. Waste of money that was. Five bucks, and she ignores it. On purpose. To put him in his place. Because her mother made such a big thing of him buying it for her. Knowing they'll talk of other things when she sleeps, she struggles to stay awake, to be the center of her mother's attention. The hell with it, he snatches the remote.

  “How about a movie?” he asks, aiming it.

  “No!” She holds up her hand. “I like this.”

  “You shouldn't be watching crap all the time. Your brain'll rot.” He changes the channel. CNN. A car bomb has exploded in an open-air market in Baghdad. Mangled bodies strewn everywhere.

  “
No it won't,” she gasps, staring up at the gruesome scene. The camera zooms in on a small, dead thing. On her back, limbs splayed, lies a little, dark-haired girl surrounded by tumbled fruit.

  “Yes it will. See, that's why you're sick, it's already started. Pretty soon pieces of your brain'll start leaking out your eyes and your nose.” The old storm of rage and absurdity surges through him. He doesn't even care, so why bother trying to reason with this brat. But it's her fear, her cowering, that exhilarates him. He leans over her, his hard-on rubbing against the bed. “Little by little, then it starts coming out your mouth and you choke.” Holding his throat, he pretends to gag.

  “Where's Mommy?” She cringes into the pillows.

  “I don't know.” He looks around and laughs. “You keep making her get things for you. Maybe she got sick of it and left.”

  “Where? Where'd she go?”

  “On a trip maybe, someplace far away. Maybe there, that place.” He points to the television, to the close-up of a grief-stricken old woman in black. Kneeling, arms beseechingly wide, she wails into the camera. He turns the volume up high, higher, until her eerie keening fills the room.

  Limp again. This time it's her. He can't stand the kid, it's reached that point. Too demanding. Whining and spoiled. Pampered little princess with ribbons in her hair, propped against the pillows, surrounded by her new stuffed animals and books. Barely looked at his get-well balloon, only thanked him with Robin's coaxing. When's my Daddy coming, she keeps asking her mother and, every time she says it, stares at him. Shut up little bitch, he wants to yell. She knows how to push her mother's buttons. All he wants is to be alone with Robin, impossible with two kids and her mother always nosing around. And the husband, he keeps calling. Every night, bawling, begging her forgiveness. He's coming home soon and everything'll be different, she'll see. Yeah, right, Bob. Real different; she won't even be here, asshole, he wants to grab the phone and say. Meanwhile, he's running out of time. He knows what she'll say so he can't ask. A vacation, he keeps telling her. Money's not a problem. She needs to get away. Someplace warm. Just the two of them. She thinks he means her and the brat.

  Her pillows fall on the floor. Inconsolable, Lyra is curled on her side with the blanket over her head. Her shoulders convulse with her sobs.

  “Don't cry.” He picks up a pillow and stands by the bed. Wouldn't take long for a kid. Not as long as Bevvie, drugged-out whore but strong as a man. Strangling finally did the trick. Made him sick to his stomach, though, all the gagging and gurgling. Lisa, now that was quick, surprising with such a meaty gullet.

  “Excuse me,” comes a voice from behind. “Is this room three twenty-four? I'm looking for … oh! I remember you.” Ken Hammond looks confused.

  “Hey! Sure!” Eddie holds out his hand, says his name. “Robin'll be right back.”

  “Uncle Ken!” Lyra cries, throwing back the blanket.

  “Lyrrie.” Ken Hammond sits on the edge of the bed and hugs her. “Poor sweet baby,” he croons into her hair. “I didn't know you were sick. I just found out. Your granana told me.”

  “I got the flu,” the child whimpers, staring up at Eddie now, triumphantly, taunting him, he knows, as he tries to tamp down his fury. At her. At this preppie asshole Hammond in his open-neck blue shirt and brass-buttoned blazer. “I kept throwing up. On the couch and Mommy's bed,” Lyra is telling him.

  “I know. But I bet you feel better now, right?” Hammond holds her at arm's length to look at her. With her solemn nod, he pulls her back into his embrace. Her eyes dart between the two men.

  “It got in my hair and Clay called me barf head,” she complains, pouting.

  “Well, that's not very nice, but then again, if it got in your hair, maybe you kinda were?”

  “No!” she protests, giggling when he tickles her. “Did you bring me a present?” she asks.

  “No,” he says regretfully. “I was in too much of a hurry. I wanted to see you. But I will,” he promises and she grins up at him.

  He might as well not even be here, so taken are they with one another. He hates this, hates being reduced to insignificance. Especially by self-centered losers like them.

  “Tell me what to get,” Hammond says. “Something you really, really want.”

  “My Pony. One with pink hair.”

  “Oh, honey,” Hammond groans. “I don't think so. Where would Mummy put a horse?”

  “Not a real one,” she laughs. “A little toy horse.” She holds her hands together to show the size.

  “Oh boy!” Hammond smacks the side of his head. “You had me worried for a minute there. I was trying to figure out how I was ever going to sneak a real horse not only into the hospital, but onto the elevator, then down the hallway, past all the doctors and nurses, and into this little room.”

  Giggling helplessly through Hammond's scenario, she keeps trying to pry open his fist. When she does, she finds four quarters inside.

  “So, what're you doing here?” Hammond asks, holding up his other fist now, which she grabs. “I didn't know you and Robin even knew each other.”

  “We didn't. Not then, anyway. But now we do.” Eddie smiles knowingly.

  Hammond's gaze flickers. “Well, yeah. Small city, one way or another you end up knowing everybody.” He opens his fist and Lyra seizes the five-dollar bill crumpled in it.

  “Yeah. She's great. She's … great.”

  “Oh, Ken!” Robin squeals through the opening door. She is carrying three frozen yogurt cones in a cardboard box. “What're you doing here?” she asks, pleased, but Hammond, Eddie enjoys seeing, is offended.

  “What am I doing here? What do you think?” His smile is strained.

  “Oh, I know, but …”

  “Your mother told me.”

  “I know, but you said not to—”

  “Obviously not when it's something like this.” His eyes dart to Lyra who sits cross-legged against her pillows. She reaches for the cone from which Robin is distractedly peeling the paper wrapper.

  “Here, baby.” Robin hands it to her.

  “Eddie scared me,” Lyra says, licking it.

  “What?” Eddie does a double-take, but only the brat is looking at him.

  “He said you weren't coming back. Never.”

  Nora is waiting in the study when Ken gets home. Nothing wrong at FairWinds, but he looks terrible. They were leaving the high school when he checked his phone messages. Oliver's alarm had gone off earlier. Everything seemed to be secure, the security company said, but Ken said he'd better check the house, just to be sure. She offered to go with him, but he thought she should go home, particularly in light of what Mr. Carteil had said. Ironically enough, Drew had the History Channel on when she came in. She sat down next to him and put her hand over his.

  Together they watched the bombing of London. She found the old footage hypnotic and eerily calming, high-pitched air raid sirens, terrified people running through the streets as searchlights crisscrossed the night sky, for a moment putting her own troubles into perspective.

  “Is everything all right?” she finally asked.

  “Yeah,” he said with a shrug, staring at the screen. He slipped his hand out from under hers. “Some lady called. Alice something. She left her number.” He dug the slip of paper from his pocket, but Nora just put it on the table. Her son was her first priority.

  She told him she was concerned, that it was perfectly understandable for him to feel depressed about what had happened between his parents, but it was vital that he talk about it.

  “Okay.” Another shrug.

  “You're not happy, are you?”

  “I'm okay.”

  “No, you're not, Drew. It's so obvious. You're holding it all in, and that's not right.”

  “Why? What am I supposed to do?” he growled, thumping the cushion with his fist.

  She was relieved by his anger. “Just tell me what's going on, what you're thinking, what you're feeling.” Bombs dropping from the sky, explosions of light and dust. She
turned off the television.

  He was chewing the side of his thumbnail.

  “Like right now, what're you thinking about? Please, Drew, tell me.” She moved closer and tried to put her arm around him, but he leaned forward, almost cringing from her. “It's me, isn't it? The way I've been lately. My moods … I know … It can't be easy not knowing who you're waking up to in the morning, Attila the Hun or this strange lady who looks like your mother but doesn't act like her anymore.”

  “You're not strange.” His voice cracked.

  “Oh, Drew. Honey. I love you so much. Please don't worry. Everything's going to be all right. Really. It is.” Realizing that he was crying, she tried again to hug him, but he pulled away. “Sometimes it's hard to talk about your problems. I know. I was the same way. I still am. But I try, and that's all I'm asking you to do. Please, Drew?”

  “I'm going up now,” he said, quickly standing.

  “Drew! I'll make an appointment. Someone you can talk to. At least that—”

  “No, don't!”

  Trying to get every word right, she has been recounting this conversation for Ken, but he seems distracted, impatient for her to finish. “But I'm going to anyway.” She means finding a therapist for Drew. “He's all bottled up inside. He needs to get it out.”

  “He'll be all right.” Ken checks his watch for the third time.

  “No, I can tell. He needs to talk to someone.”

  “He's a kid. He's moody. He'll get over it.”

  “I don't know. I'm worried. I think we should call someone.”

  “Let's not go down that route yet,” Ken says, opening the study door. “We don't need another Stephen in the family, do we?”

  “That's a strange thing to say,” she calls after him, “when you're seeing someone yourself every week.”

  He turns back, glaring, then seems to realize what she means. “I'll talk to him. Okay?” he adds, his coldness a deft and sudden scalpel. She can't do this anymore.

  “No! It's not okay! We need more than that.”