“You think I have the money to print up business cards?”
“You never heard of Kinko’s?” The Jake smile. The one she’d seen on the hemorrhoid cream commercial ten years earlier. He’d sold his soul to advertise ass wipes. Hardly the leading man roles he was chasing when he left for LA. Left right after their wedding and didn’t come back until Maisie’s christening four years later.
Jake was a fine one to talk about running away.
TWELVE
KATIE
Income, it seemed to Katie, dictated choice in the treatment of both death and mental illness. Trowel in hand, she stared at the headstone her sister chose and her ex-husband financed. Apparently Delaney had requested a plot under the shade of one of the crepe myrtles currently glowing crimson, but their mother’s remains lay here, baking in the sun.
In a plot no one else wanted.
Pigeons cooed, and sweat trickled along her spine. As she leaned forward, OCD ran the endless repeat episode that had started on the drive to Greensboro. What if I hit that car? Go back and check, go back and check. Maybe she should stretch out here on the clipped grass between graves, close her eyes, and admit defeat. Except then she would get chiggers. And at least one tick. And Lyme disease. Or Rocky Mountain spotted fever. Could you get both? Both would definitely be fatal, and while Cal and Jake might be happy if she really were to die, how would that help Maisie?
She ran a finger over the engraved dates. Fall 2007 was blank in her personal timeline—a season lost to tent living. Ma Sullivan’s death had been one of many facts absorbed during recovery: my daughter is lost to me; my husband doesn’t want me back; my mother is dead.
Katie finished digging up the dandelions and crabgrass, and sank back on her haunches. The lantana she’d planted two years ago, a hardy Miss Huff that could navigate winters and drought, glowed with tight balls of fire. The greenish bronze carex underneath seemed happy in the red clay.
“Am I like you, Mom?” she said. “Please tell me I’m not.”
Finally she needed something from her mother. If only she could have realized that before Ma Sullivan had died—crushed by a tree falling on her car during an ice storm. Delaney’s theory was the most plausible, since the accident happened a block from the local convenience center: their mother was heading out for a six-pack and a carton of Marlboro Lights. The real tragedy was that the convenience store had been closed that day. As any sane person would have figured out. And every idiot knew trees fell under the weight of ice.
Katie tossed her trowel aside. I will be a better mom. Even if Maisie never knows who I am, I will be a better mom. I’ll makes sure Cal understands what he’s up against.
A mob of crows rose, cawing and flapping, into the Carolina-blue sky, and several plots over, a family gathered around a fresh grave. A woman held hands with a little girl and a little boy. The children were squirming to break free, and the OCD hurled fresh images. Since bumping into Jake, new images had started amassing for an offensive. Once again, her mind was under siege. Katie closed her eyes and focused.
A thought is just a thought; it has no power.
When she opened her eyes, Delaney was strolling across the grass with hair, attitude, and confidence all bright and shiny in the sun. No wonder Patrick had fallen hard.
Delaney nodded at Katie’s phone on the ground. “Never thought I’d see the day when you’d be waiting for a call from Jake.”
Katie stood up and dusted red dirt from her knees, along with something small and black. A tick? Was she itchy? She was definitely itchy. Katie felt through her hair, checking for tiny lumps that might be ticks. When she lowered her hand, she accidentally brushed the side of her mother’s headstone. And then she touched the other side, which didn’t feel right, so she tapped the left side, and then the right. Four taps in total. Four, a number as soothing as the scent of lemon verbena or the sound of August rain.
“You just tapped Mom’s grave four times,” Delaney said.
“I know.” Humidity reached down Katie’s throat and coiled around her lungs. “I’m hunting for a new therapist.”
“You might want to speed up the search.”
Katie tapped once more. Five.
Live with it, Katie. Live with the prickliness of an odd number.
“Don’t let Jake mess with your mind,” Delaney said. “Trust me, he’s not worth it.”
“I’m not, and he’ll call because in some dark recess of that egotistical brain, he knows I’m right.”
“Did you forget his long history of losing women’s phone numbers?”
“Projecting, are we?”
“Damn. No punches withheld today.”
“By the way,” Katie said. “I’ve had a revelation about Jake. I think his sluttish behavior is rooted in a deep hatred of women.”
Delaney gave a “Sheesh” and rolled her eyes. For a flicker of a moment, Katie saw the resemblance to Maisie. “I can assure you that man doesn’t hate women. Au contraire, he’s something of an expert when it comes to fitting thing A into thing B.”
“Oh, that’s disgusting.” Katie failed to spit out the image of Delaney’s legs wrapped around Jake. “You ever wonder what makes him tick? He’s forty-two years old, single, and runs a moviemaking school for kids.”
“You checked him out?”
“Know thy enemy.”
“Don’t overthink Jake. He’s a good actor who enjoys sex and being single. The end.” Delaney flicked at something in the air. “How does he look?”
“Dangerous.”
Delaney’s smile belonged in another time and place.
“You’re not going to gate-crash my next meeting with Jake, are you?”
“Are you questioning my devotion to Patrick? Because if you are, we’re about to have a knock-down, drag-out fight like we haven’t had since middle school. And I always won those.”
Katie glanced at the phone again.
He’s never going to call. What if he never calls? What if he’s reported me to the police? What if he called Whitmore? What if there’s a warrant out, even now, for my arrest? What if he told Whitmore I’m a pedophile? What if I am and I never realized?
“You okay, Sis?” Delaney touched her shoulder.
“The heat’s making me sick to my stomach.”
“You skipped lunch again, didn’t you?”
“It’s hard to eat right now. My stomach’s too fluttery.”
“I’m taking you out for lunch before we head back to Durham. Burger and fries.” Cicadas buzzed, and Delaney stared at their mother’s grave. “You ever wonder what would have happened if we’d stayed in Boston? The move down here really threw her off.”
“Honey, she was always off, and what if is never a good path to follow. What matters are the concrete facts of family history: Dad was a loser, Mom needed a good psychiatrist and rehab, and somehow we survived. Although you did a better job than me.”
“I survived because you set curfews and saved me from stupid decisions.”
“Except for Jake.”
“Yeah, well. I was old enough to own my screwups by the time our paths crossed. Besides, it was lust at first sight for me. When he finally noticed your baby sister and turned on that full-wattage charm, it was impossible to resist. Although you’ve never had that problem.”
“Jake’s never set his sights on me. Besides, I don’t find physical beauty that appealing. I prefer a few nicks and dents in my guys.”
“I’m calling BS on that one. Callum used to be eye candy.” Delaney paused to examine a chip in her otherwise flawless turquoise nail polish. “And Ben’s a total hottie.”
“Not going there and you know it. I love him as a friend, and that means more.”
“Your loss.” Delaney nodded at the headstone. “Think Mom’s eavesdropping?”
“If she is, she should be grateful that despite everything, we still have each other, and at least one of us found a good man, which is something she failed to do.”
Behind them a
mower started up, followed by a Weedwacker, even though the only weeds in the well-maintained cemetery grew on their mother’s grave, one of the few with real plantings.
“Do me a favor,” Katie said. “Never stick plastic flowers on top of my bones.”
“Ditto.” Delaney laughed, but stopped. “Do you ever wonder if we failed her?”
“How? We weren’t equipped to take on insanity. We were kids.”
“Yeah, but we didn’t make it easy on her after Dad left, did we?”
“You mean I didn’t. And you looked after her while I was off going psycho, which earned you karmic gold bullion.”
“But I never forced her to change.” Delaney splayed her fingers and appraised her amber ring. “Stereotypical enabler, that’s me.”
“We can’t take responsibility for her failures. She chose to not seek help. Her choice, not ours, and if she’d been a better mother, she would have at least tried.” Katie stared up at the heat haze shimmering over the downtown skyline. “But I’m a fine one to talk about seeking help. What a hypocrite.”
“You did seek help—from the wrong person.”
For the first time, Katie didn’t defend Cal. Instead she made popping sounds with her lips, sounds not unlike welding. “I’ve been rethinking Mom and some of her habits. Remember how she used to flick light switches on and off multiple times?”
“Wow. I’d forgotten that. You think she had OCD?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I’m grasping for connections. Or maybe I’m going around in circles. I’ve been rethinking myself, too. How when I used to play school with Dolly, secondhand Barbie, and that old sock puppet, they had to sit in a certain order. I keep wondering if OCD was building even then.”
“Let it go, Sis. Wherever it came from, or why Maisie has it—if she does—is irrelevant.” Delaney tugged a hairband off her wrist, grabbed her hair, and secured it in a messy ponytail. “So, other than the fact that you’ve started tapping inanimate objects again and you’re micromanaging childhood memories, how’s the anxiety?”
The two children Katie had watched earlier ran by, giggling.
What if I trip them up by mistake, and they fall and—
“Knocking around. But I intend to stay strong for Maisie.”
“That didn’t work out so well nine years ago, Sis.”
“Because I didn’t understand what I was dealing with. Now I do.”
“And Callum and Jake?”
“Nine years ago I made the mistake of caring what they thought. That’s no longer an issue.”
“I admire the heck out of you.” Delaney pulled up her fuchsia bra strap. “You know that. But this is a horribly gray area, and OCD doesn’t do gray. Are you sure seeing Maisie again is a good idea?”
“Of course I’m not sure. I’m the world’s most delinquent mother, and I have a screwed-up thought process. But if there’s a chance, no matter how slim, that I can make a difference in her life, I don’t care if I end up back in hell.”
“You might not, but I do.”
Katie’s phone rang with her Dead Sara ringtone. Jake.
THIRTEEN
KATIE
“This dilapidated warehouse is living the dream?” Jake said.
As per her instructions, both he and Maisie were wearing safety glasses, jeans, and leather boots, and Maisie’s long hair was restrained in Pippi Longstocking braids. But his snigger burst the bubble of joy that had kept Katie afloat since five o’clock that morning. Did Maisie hate the studio, too? Until today it had never mattered what anyone thought about the dank smell from roof leaks, the piles of rusty metal and fabricated steel, the jerry-rigged machines built by artists-turned-engineers, the growl of overused power tools past their prime. Past their prime. Was it time for Ben to call the fire marshal for another walk-through? Did the fire extinguishers need replacing? And that extension cord plugged into live electricity and raised off the ground in case of another flood, was it safe? Safe enough for Maisie?
Jake slung an arm across Maisie’s shoulders in a proprietorial way, and Katie led them toward the back corner of the studio, away from her shearer, a machine designed to cut through sheets of metal. A machine that came with the warning sign hanging over Maisie’s head: “Danger. Authorized personnel only.”
Katie glanced from one artist’s space to another. Was anyone welding? Was anyone using fire? There was a lull in studio noise, but how long before someone started using a grinder, with a head that could fly off and hit Maisie?
Maisie shouldn’t be here. This is dangerous, too dangerous. I stayed out of her life for a reason. What if, just by being around me, she’s at risk? What if I was wrong to bring her here? She’s too close to the chop saw. What if I put her hand underneath, lowered the blade, and . . . An image. A bloody image.
A thought is just a thought, not an action. Katie kept walking. It has no power.
“Welcome to my office!” She swung around with an overly bright smile. At least her space was jammed into a corner. If she stayed here, with her back to the rest of the warehouse, she could act as a human shield against stray sparks.
“Oh, I love that poster, Ms. Katie.” Maisie pointed at Rosie the Riveter. “Is she a cartoon character?”
“No, she’s my inspiration. Rosie’s a cultural icon. She represents all the women who worked in factories and shipyards during World War II.”
“Awesome.” Maisie wriggled out from under Jake’s arm and dug through her backpack to retrieve a notebook and a pencil with a troll pencil topper. “I hope you don’t mind if I make notes, but I’m on special assignment to write about the show for the school newsletter. The principal and all the staff are super excited about opening night. Everyone’s coming.”
“Including her daddy and her mama,” Jake said.
Despite the large rusty fan attempting to cool down her work area, Katie’s sweat glands were stuck on overdrive. Jake, however, wasn’t sweating. He looked at home in her private space, but Jake seemed to belong wherever he landed. She reached up to twist her hair, and he watched. On the edge of her vision, Ben appeared.
“You must be Maisie.” He held out his hand, and Maisie shook it. “I’ve heard a great deal about you.”
“Really,” Jake said.
Ben had a streak of dirt across his forehead from his helmet. Stretching up on tiptoe, Katie wiped it away with a finger, and he dipped down to kiss her cheek. Something he normally did only on her birthday. “And now for your annual kiss,” he would say. Ben’s familiar scent of fire, sweat, and Moroccan oil shampoo had always calmed her. Today it hypnotized. She beamed, he winked, and she turned around for the introductions.
“This is Jake Vaughan,” Katie said. “Maisie’s godfather, I believe?”
Jake gave a tight-lipped smile.
“Ben Holt.” Ben and Jake shook hands.
“Let me guess,” Jake said, “the boyfriend.”
Ben’s shrug seemed to say, A gentleman never tells.
“Wait a cotton-picking moment!” Maisie squealed. “You’re the Ben Holt?”
Grinning, Ben flicked back his hair. “Last time I checked.”
“Gosh, I am such a fan of your sculpture at CAM. I love the way the top part spins.” Maisie twirled her pencil. “And those two sculptures outside must be yours. You have a very distinctive style.”
“Why, thank you.” Ben bowed.
“Would you mind very much if I interviewed you for the school newsletter?”
“I’d be honored.” Stepping over Katie’s drop cord without even looking, Ben pulled out her stool, wiped it off with his hand, and offered it to Maisie. She glanced at the seat before easing herself onto the edge. With her back ramrod straight, Maisie cracked open her notebook, placed it on her lap, and smoothed out a blank page. Then she raised her hand to her safety glasses and stopped. “Can I take these off to write?” She looked at Katie.
“I think your own glasses are big enough to protect your eyes. Ben, do you agree? I mean, if she puts them back on
the moment she leaves my space?”
“I think it’s fine, Katie.” He touched her arm, then turned back to Maisie. “You know, Katie’s way cooler than I am. She works with lots of different metals.”
“You don’t?”
“No. I’m strictly a steel guy. Steel makes sense to me.” Ben stood with legs braced and arms crossed. He arched his back, and the movement accentuated his biceps. “I used to experiment with interesting metal shapes from the scrapyard. Collage them together and weld, cut, and invent on the fly, but then I decided nothing worked for me quite like steel. Steel’s durable, yet malleable. Do you know what that means?”
“Actually, yes, I do. I am ten, you know.” Maisie peered through her huge black glasses.
“And top of her class in everything,” Jake said.
“Except for math,” Maisie added.
“I hated math in school,” Katie said.
“Gosh, me too,” Maisie said, and Jake cleared his throat loudly.
“The rotation that spoke to you in my CAM piece?” Ben drew a circle in the air with his index finger. “That’s what I’m searching for in my art. Artists have their own signatures. Katie, for example, has a unique ability to focus on flaws she discovers as she goes. And me? I’m focused on movement. Steel might be tough and heavy, but I want to make it dance in the wind.” Ben’s lips quivered in a barely suppressed smile. “That’s how I met Katie. She asked me to teach her how to make steel dance.”
“Is that so?” Jake said.
“Steel represents endless possibilities,” Ben continued as if he were alone with Maisie. “It can be dark and earthy or polished to a radiant shine. I enjoy the conversations I have with steel. Working with it, however, can push me to the limits of sanity. Welding is intensely frustrating.”
So’s dealing with me. The only time Ben swears is when he’s welding or dealing with me. What if I annoy him? What if he hates me? Does he—hate me?
A thought is just a thought. It has no power.
“Ms. Katie says welding calms her.” Maisie frowned.
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