Rhetta let out another sigh. “I thought she’d stop seeing him when she realized he didn’t actually have much say about who got to be in the movies, but she didn’t. Maybe it was the money. He bought her nice things, took her nice places. It turned her head. I guess it would any girl’s. At least any girl from Riddlesville. She got all that with Stephen, along with a nice car and a fancy apartment somewhere. Pretty soon, she didn’t even look like Honey—with those store-bought boobs and all the designer clothes. She’d disappear for a while then come back just long enough to rub her new life in everyone’s face. Especially the old crowd down at the IGA where she used to cashier. She’d spend a little time with Iris, but mostly it was about showing off. And then off she’d go again.”
Christy-Lynn was still digesting the fact that Stephen had set his mistress up in an apartment when she remembered the autodrafts she had discovered on his bank statements. Star Properties LTD. Not a publicity firm then; a property management company. And what about the $4,000 transfers each month?
“Was my husband paying child support?”
She had put the question a bit bluntly, and for a moment, Rhetta seemed genuinely surprised. “I don’t know if you’d call it that. At least I never did. It was more like an allowance. He would put money in Honey’s account every month. Quite a lot of money. It made me ashamed that she took it—there are names for women who take money from men—but then Iris came along, and I couldn’t afford to be all high-and-mighty. Children need things. Lots of things. And a government check only goes so far.”
Christy-Lynn felt a sharp stab of remorse. She’d never stopped to consider that Stephen’s death might spell disaster for Iris and her great-grandmother. “Is she . . . are you all right? Money wise, I mean?”
Rhetta stepped away, sliding the pot back onto the burner. “We’ll manage,” she said firmly. “We’ll have to.”
“You mentioned a grandson.”
“Ray,” she said, suddenly looking very tired. “He never thought much of Honey. Very pious, my Ray. Reverend of the Living Water Tabernacle. His wife, Ellen, plays the organ on Sundays. And oh, wasn’t she green with envy when Honey started popping up in church with all her fancy clothes. And Honey loved every minute. I know that sounds petty. And it is. I’m not making excuses for the girl. What she did was wrong, but I’m guessing you have no idea what it’s like to grow up in a town like this, to see how the rest of the world lives and know there’s no chance you’ll ever have that kind of life—or much of any life, really, unless you count raising a passel of kids in a double-wide. But Honey knew it. So did her mother. Which is why I suppose they both got out the first chance they got.”
For one terrible instant, Christy-Lynn flashed back to the night she had been ushered into a hospital room to find her mother lying there with her face sewn up, promising that when she got out of jail things would go back to the way they were. In her whole life, she’d never been more afraid than the night her mother made that promise. Yes, she did have an idea what it was like. Much more than an idea. In that, at least, she and Honey had had something in common.
Rhetta was back in her chair now, stirring sugar into her freshened mug, her eyes clouded and far away. Christy-Lynn watched her for what felt like a long time, trying to figure out the best way to frame her next question.
“Did they ever talk about getting married?” she said finally, because there was no best way.
“You mean was Stephen planning to ask you for a divorce?”
Christy-Lynn looked down at her hands, wrapped a little too tightly around her mug. “Yes.”
“Not that I ever heard. And I’m not sure Honey really cared about a ring. I think she liked having all the benefits of being married to a rich man without any of the responsibility. That’s why Iris coming along knocked her for such a loop.”
Christy-Lynn gnawed at her lip, weighing another awkward question. “You don’t think she got pregnant so Stephen would marry her?”
Rhetta’s eyes widened. “You mean to trap him? Good grief, no. It was Honey who ended up getting trapped with that baby. Stupid girl. She talked about, you know . . . not having it. It was Stephen who talked her out of that.”
Christy-Lynn let the words sink in. The question reared its head again. Was it possible Stephen hadn’t been as okay with her choice to remain childless as he had pretended? It was a haunting question, one she’d never have an answer to.
“How often did he see Iris?”
“Not very often near the end. But you know what his schedule was like. Always jetting off somewhere. And he was living two lives, wasn’t he? It couldn’t have been easy, keeping it a secret from the whole world—and you.” Rhetta set down her mug and looked Christy-Lynn in the eye. “You never suspected even a little?”
“Not even a little,” she answered flatly, pretending the old woman’s gaze didn’t unsettle her. “Did he seem . . . fond of Iris?”
Rhetta lifted her shoulders then dropped them with a sigh. “It’s hard to say. He treated her more like a doll than a daughter, something pretty he could pet and hold on his lap. He used to call her his best girl. I don’t think Honey liked that too well. She didn’t like sharing him, even with Iris. It’s terrible to say, but I think she would have eventually stopped coming to see Iris altogether. And in time things would have gone south with Stephen. Honey always did have a short attention span.”
“Four years isn’t that short,” Christy-Lynn pointed out drily.
“I suspect Iris was the reason for that. Your husband could have lived without Honey. And she could have lived without him. But children have a way of changing things. They turn your life inside out—your heart too. Honey was just too young and selfish to know it. My fault I guess, since I brought her up.”
Christy-Lynn considered Rhetta’s words as she pushed away her mug. She’d been nothing but forthcoming, neither defensive nor secretive, though not quite apologetic either.
“You’re very blunt about all this.”
Rhetta seemed surprised by the observation. “What else can I be? This was only ever going to end badly, but when you’ve been around as long as I have, you realize people have to make their own mistakes—sometimes big ones—before they figure out they’re getting it wrong. Trouble is, they usually figure it out too late, and someone else is left holding the bag. All Honey cared about was having fun. She knew I’d take care of Iris—and I will for as long as I can.”
On cue, Iris toddled into the kitchen clutching her teddy bear. “Juice.”
“All right. I’ll get you some juice.”
Rhetta clutched the edge of the table as she shoved herself out of her chair, her slippers scuffing the worn vinyl as she went to the refrigerator. Her hand trembled as she filled a plastic sippy cup, then snapped on the lid. “There you go, sweetie.”
But Iris had lost interest in juice. She was too busy staring at the stranger in her kitchen, her wide violet eyes full of questions.
Rhetta took the forgotten sippy cup from Iris’s hand and set it on the table, then took hold of her shoulders. “This is Christy-Lynn, honey. She’s a friend . . . was a friend . . . of your daddy’s.”
Iris cocked her head to one side, a tiny V of confusion forming between her pale brows. Rhetta caught Christy-Lynn’s eye as she grabbed a rumpled pack of cigarettes from the counter. “Come on then,” she said, taking Iris by the hand and nodding toward the door. “Let’s get you outside in the sunshine for a bit.”
Christy-Lynn recognized Rhetta’s words for what they were, code for Nonny needs a cigarette. She followed reluctantly as Rhetta herded the child onto the porch and then down the front steps, unearthing a plastic bucket and shovel from somewhere and putting them in Iris’s hands.
“We’ll be right up here,” she promised, lumbering back up the porch steps. “Right here where you can see us.”
“Is Mama coming?”
Rhetta pressed a hand to her chest, her eyes closing briefly. “No, baby. Mama isn’t coming. S
he had to go away, remember?”
Iris’s chin began to quiver, her little face threatening to crumple. “Want Mama.”
“I know you do, little one. So do I. But she’s watching us.” Rhetta squinted up at the sky, pointing to a tuft of white cloud. “From up in heaven, remember? And she loves to watch you play. Can you do that for Mama? Can you play?”
Iris nodded, but her face was a dejected blank as she turned away with her plastic shovel. Rhetta reached into her housecoat pocket, cellophane crinkling as she fished out her cigarettes. She fumbled one out of the pack then eased into the chair beside Christy-Lynn’s. “It’s hard looking at her, isn’t it?” she asked when she’d lit her cigarette and taken the first pull.
“Very.”
“It’s hard for me too.” Her voice crackled. She took another long drag, blowing out the smoke on a long sigh. “She barely talks anymore. Just a word here and there when she wants something. Poor thing. She’s so confused. She’s started having nightmares since Honey . . . since the accident.”
Christy-Lynn nodded but said nothing.
“I’m tired, Mrs. Ludlow. And I’m not . . . equipped. I didn’t expect to be raising another child at my age, and my doctors aren’t exactly full of good news these days. I don’t know how much longer . . .”
Christy-Lynn cut her off before she could finish. “Surely Ray and his wife—”
“They’ve already said no. And I suppose I can’t blame them. They can barely keep body and soul together as it is, and there’s another mouth coming in the fall. I don’t know how Ellen will manage. She can’t keep up with the four she has, let alone five. There just isn’t room for Iris.”
“What will happen if . . . ?”
“When,” Rhetta corrected, squinting at Christy-Lynn through a freshly exhaled haze of smoke. “There’s no if. Only when.”
“And Iris . . . ?”
“Social services, I suppose, unless Ray backs down. And I don’t see that happening.”
Christy-Lynn felt her chest squeeze, as if her rib cage was suddenly filled with stones. “You mean foster care?”
Rhetta’s breath shuddered as she looked away. “I know it’s a hard thing, but there’s nothing else . . . no other way.”
Christy-Lynn remained quiet, partly because she didn’t trust her own voice. She was sixteen when she entered the foster care system. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like for a child Iris’s age, especially when that child was already showing signs of coping issues.
“You can’t mean Ray would actually let his own niece go to foster care. If it comes down to it, if something happens, they’d take her, wouldn’t they, rather than let her end up with strangers?”
Rhetta’s eyes were moist now, her face full of misery. “He told me I had better take care of myself because there was no way he was having Honey’s brat in his house. As if it was Iris’s fault her parents weren’t married.”
Christy-Lynn was stunned. “What about Christian charity? About suffer the little children? Isn’t that what he’s supposed to believe?”
Rhetta shook her grizzled head, as if bewildered. “I gave up trying to figure out what that boy believes a long time ago. But you can ask him yourself if you want. That’s him coming up the road, and it looks like he’s brought the whole brood. I forgot they were coming by to pick up some muffins I made for the church bake sale.”
Christy-Lynn looked up in time to see a faded maroon van coming down the road in a cloud of dun-colored dust. “I’ll go,” she said, instantly on her feet. She didn’t want Rhetta to have to explain her presence. “Oh, my purse and keys are inside on the kitchen table.”
Rhetta pushed to her feet with startling swiftness. “I’ll bring them out.”
To her dismay, Christy-Lynn found herself alone on the porch, watching as the van pulled up and the doors swung open. The children tumbled out first, rawboned and pale, whooping like wild things as they scrambled in all directions. Ray appeared next, coming around to open the passenger side door for his wife. She was matchstick-thin but for her swollen middle, carrying a foil-covered casserole dish as she waddled toward the house a few paces behind her husband.
Christy-Lynn averted her gaze, wishing Rhetta would reappear so she could leave before things got any more awkward than they already were. In light of Rhetta’s revelations, she didn’t trust herself to hold her tongue.
Iris had been playing with her shovel in the dirt. She looked up, shrinking visibly as her uncle moved past without so much as a glance in her direction. The cousins came next, swarming across the yard. Iris ducked as the oldest, a boy with stained jeans and greasy blond hair, stepped over her as if she were a puppy.
Ray stared up at Christy-Lynn from the bottom step of the porch, a slight man with sharp shoulders and long, stringy limbs. Beside him, Ellen Rawlings ran her gaze over Christy-Lynn in one long, dismissive pass.
“Afternoon,” Ray said coolly. “You here to see Rhetta?”
Before Christy-Lynn could respond, Rhetta reappeared, her purse in one hand and a plate of cling-film-covered muffins in the other. She handed the purse over, her eyes full of apology.
“This is Mrs. Ludlow, Ray. We’ve just been chatting about your sister—and your niece.”
Ray snorted, a blend of disgust and dismissal. He closed one eye, as if drawing a bead on Christy-Lynn. “That so? You come all the way from Maine to talk about my sister?”
“I live in Virginia now, and I’m here—”
“I know why you’re here,” he shot back. “And I’ll tell you the same thing I told the police when they came sniffing around. I see my family’s name in the papers, I’ll sue everyone from here to kingdom come. We’re good, decent people, Mrs. Ludlow, just trying to raise our kids and live our lives. Your beef was with my sister, and since she’s dead, I’d say you’re all done here.”
Christy-Lynn lifted her chin, meeting his gaze squarely. She would probably have disliked Ray Rawlings on sight, but knowing he was capable of turning his back on a child cemented her revulsion. “You mentioned raising your kids. Does that include Iris?”
“She’s not my kid.”
“She’s your flesh and blood, a part of your family.”
“She’s an abomination is what she is. Born in sin, and no part of my family.”
Christy-Lynn stared back at him, dumbfounded. “So that’s it? You’d let your own niece end up in foster care because of something her parents did?” She knew she was overstepping her bounds but couldn’t seem to help herself. It was impossible to look at Iris and not see herself. She might have been sixteen when she entered the foster care system instead of three, but that was just math.
“The wages of sin, Mrs. Ludlow. Right there in the good book. The Lord shall visit the inequities of the father on the children.”
“Praise His name,” Ellen murmured coldly as she pushed past Christy-Lynn and disappeared inside the house with her casserole dish.
Rhetta glared at her grandson. “For God’s sake, Ray, the child’s right there. And Mrs. Ludlow is company.”
Ray shrugged. “Not my company.”
As if sensing she’d become the topic of conversation, Iris dropped her shovel and raised her eyes to Christy-Lynn. Christy-Lynn looked away quickly, tormented by the silent plea in the child’s violet gaze.
“I need to get back,” she told Rhetta. “Thank you for the coffee and . . . everything. I came for answers, and now I have them—or as close as I’ll ever get. That couldn’t have been easy for you.”
Rhetta nodded, her eyes suddenly awash with tears. “It’s only what you deserved, though I’m not sure I’ve done you any favors with the truth.”
Christy-Lynn wasn’t sure either but reached for Rhetta’s hand just the same, giving it a squeeze before she turned to descend the steps. Ray made no move to get out of her way, forcing her to sidle past. She was heading for the driveway when she heard footsteps behind her. Before she knew what was happening, Iris had launched herself full force,
arms locked tight around her knees, clinging like a limpet.
Rhetta scurried down the steps after her. “I’m sorry,” she said uncomfortably. “She doesn’t like it when people leave. She never knows who’s coming back and who’s not.”
Christy-Lynn nodded, an ache suddenly clawing at her throat. What kind of future would this child ever have? With a caregiver in decline and an uncle who wanted nothing to do with her. One day Rhetta would fall ill, or worse, and the county would come for her. A woman with sensible shoes and a vague, practiced smile. And Iris would disappear, swallowed up by a system too flawed to protect her. It was too terrible to contemplate. But as Christy-Lynn backed out of Rhetta’s driveway, it was all she could contemplate.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Goose Creek, South Carolina
June 27, 1998
Christy-Lynn turns off the water and steps from the shower. Her reflection stares back at her from the steam-mottled mirror, dripping wet and unnaturally still. Her eyes are enormous in her face, great pools of bewilderment.
It’s been eight weeks.
Eight weeks since Charlene Parker was arrested. Eight weeks since the caseworker drove her back to the apartment she shared with her mother and told her to pack her things. Eight weeks since she had been shuffled off to a suitable foster home.
It isn’t a bad place, a two-story colonial out in the cookie-cutter suburbs, the kind of house she always wanted to go home to after school. The furniture is new, the phone works, and there’s plenty of food in the fridge. But it isn’t home. At least it’s not her home.
They call it a receiving home, a temporary place to stick new kids until they decide where to park them long term. The people who run the receiving home, Jean and Dennis Hawley, like to brag that they specialize in teens, but Christy-Lynn isn’t so sure.
There are two others kids living with the Hawleys now. There were three until last week, when the girl who shared Christy-Lynn’s room—a thirteen-year-old named Dana whose entire left arm was crisscrossed with a web of fine white scars—got hold of a razor blade and nearly bled out on the bathroom floor.
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