It’s there in black and white. Lark Bienvenue. Who would have thought I’d be so relieved to see his name there instead of someone else’s? I show Nina the screen.
Her breath rushes out of her, and she sways slightly.
“It’s okay,” I say, to myself as much as to her. “You’re safe here.”
She swipes the heel of her hand across her brow that is now glistening with sweat.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
She shakes her head and visibly swallows. “I need a lock on my door. Can I have a lock on my door?”
When she says it, I want to kick myself. The only door up here that actually locks is the bathroom. Most of the doorknobs in the house are fluted crystal with brass plates. No locks. They’re beautiful, but that’s pretty much it.
“I should have thought of that. Of course you can. It’s such an old house. Nothing’s been touched in years,” I babble. “I’ll call a locksmith first thing in the morning, and we’ll get your knob replaced with something else.”
Nina shakes her head. “I don’t want to mess up your house. A chain lock or a sliding latch would be fine.” She meets my eyes again. “Just so that when I’m in there I know no one can get to me.”
I’m speechless. The fear and exhaustion in her eyes might just tear my heart out. “Tomorrow. It’ll be installed tomorrow.”
She nods and turns back toward her door.
“Nina?” She doesn’t want help, but how can I not offer her something?
She looks back at me, caution in her eyes.
I tilt my head toward the bathroom. “That tub is pretty deep, and the hot water tank is huge. I’m pretty sure my grandmother kept some Epsom salts in the cabinet,” I say, making my voice and posture as casual as possible. “Hot baths are on the house.”
A faint smile softens her mouth. The sight of it makes me smile huge.
She bows her head. “Thank you.” Her words are timid and soft, but the appreciation in them is clear. She turns again, and this time I let her go.
When I make my way back to the kitchen, I feel lighter. At peace.
“Everything all right?” Pen asks, tilting her head in the direction of the stairs.
“Yeah.” I pick up Maisy’s and my empty plates and carry them to the sink. “I’m going to hire a locksmith to put a lock on her door.”
Pen shrugs in a makes sense kinda way. Tyler turns around in his chair. His face is angled to me, but his gaze is on the ground, his brow furrowed.
He looks like he’s trying to find his words. I shut off the water at the sink and wait.
“Lo... ck?” Tyler lifts his gaze to mine, still frowning.
“Yeah, the bedrooms upstairs don’t have locks.” I study his face and worry my bottom lip between my teeth. “Remember?”
Asking if Tyler remembers something is always a gamble. But the older the memory is, the safer the bet. When we were really little, before Mom and Dad split up, we used to sleep downstairs with Nanna when we spent the night. But we had our own rooms when we moved in that summer of their divorce. Even when we got older and stayed for the weekend when Mom went to Orange Beach with her girlfriends or needed a night off, we’d claim rooms upstairs and even invite over our friends.
Not having a locking door on those rooms was both a liability and an opportunity. Tyler and his friends always wanted to mess with me and mine. Putting earthworms in our shoes. Digging through our purses to understand the mysteries of a tampon. Hiding in the closet in hopes of hearing us talk about them.
I confess that Pen and I hid in a couple of closets to see if they were talking about us. In our defense, Tyler’s high school friend Patrick was really cute.
When a slow-dawning smile takes over Tyler’s face, I know my brother and I are touching a shared past. He nods.
But then his grin dissolves, and he’s back to now.
“Sh… She… nee...ds… a…. lo...ck,” he manages. “I… ca… n… do… i...t.”
Everyone at the table looks at Tyler. Even Maisy. My Dad stares at him like he’s a stranger. I hide my shock as best I can.
“What’s that, son?” Dad asks, frowning.
I see the instant Tyler realizes we’re all staring. His posture turtles, but then his brow sets.
“I… ca… n.”
“Yes,” I say quickly. Tyler’s occupational therapist has stressed that he needs to be encouraged to do tasks he used to do whenever possible. Tyler wasn’t a locksmith. Before the accident, he was an electrician.
He worked with his hands all day. His tools—screwdriver, wirestripper, drill—were practically extensions of his body.
But all of those require a hell of a lot of fine motor control, and he just doesn’t have that anymore. Yeah, practice improves everything, but when you’re an electrician with the hand-eye coordination of a two-year-old, your whole universe becomes frustration.
Since the accident, Tyler hasn’t even once picked up a utility knife or a set of pliers. Not as far as I know. But I’m not about to second-guess him now.
“We’ll go to the hardware store tomorrow,” I say with a nod.
Tyler’s stare pins me. “To...nigh...t.”
Before the accident, Tyler wanted everything when he wanted it. These days, he hardly asks for anything. Except for pancakes for dinner and to go see the latest Marvel movie.
I’ll be the first to admit, the old Tyler’s sense of entitlement wasn’t something I cherished about him before the accident. I resented it if I’m being honest. But when it was gone, along with so much else, I missed it. If he’s demanding to go to Home Depot tonight for a lock, that’s what we’re going to do.
“Sure,” I say, never taking my gaze from his. “Right after I cut Dad’s hair.”
Chapter Eight
LARK
“Don’t go blaming Margaret for this,” Mom harps over the phone.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” I pull up outside of my old apartment and kill the Jeep’s engine. Zoe’s Hyundai is nowhere to be seen, and I’m so grateful, I might actually go to church on Sunday to thank God.
“It’s not her fault you’re in hot water.” Mom carries on like I haven’t even spoken. She’s good at that.
“It’ll grow back. Jeez.”
When I went back to Bear and Maggie’s to get my things, Maggie stormed out of the kitchen and slammed the door of her bedroom like I’d given her son a tattoo. Across his forehead. At least Bear let me know that Mom had called to check in that afternoon and caught Maggie in her crying jag. My sister-in-law spilled everything about me crashing there the last two weeks and the bit about the haircut disaster. Bear’s warning let me know Mom would be calling to bawl me out.
“I’m not talking about my grandbaby’s hair—though I could tan your hide for that one, Lark St. Paul Bienvenue.”
Oh, here we go.
Like most mothers, when Mom invokes the middle name, it’s serious. But unlike most mothers, Mom gave us all Catholic saints as our middle names. So when she’s enacting a come-to-Jesus injunction, it truly is sanctified. If Judgement Day ever comes in my lifetime, I think it’s safe to say I’ve been well prepared.
“I am talking about you running amok with your eternal soul. What are you doing breaking up with Zoe? You two should be married by now.”
In the last three years, I don’t think I’ve had a conversation with my mother that didn’t include the m-word.
“Ma. We’ve been through this. You know—”
“I know that you’ve got a head made of stone and a heart made of wax,” she scolds. “Things get a little hot and it dribbles away.”
I stifle a groan.
“Your heart needs to be strong. Strong enough to be nailed to the Cross.”
I roll my eyes at her metaphor. When she’s really riled up like this, she gets a little theatrical. “Mom, that doesn’t make any—”
“You need to go to confession. First thing in the morning.” She practically spits into the pho
ne. “You need to confess your fornication, your infidelity, your deception, and your faithl—”
“Hold on a minute,” I clap back. “I never cheated on Zoe and I never deceived her.” I’m not about to tell her that I haven’t gone to confession since high school. I’ve only let her think I have. I’m a terrible Catholic. I know it. Bear knows it. Mom knows it.
And she doesn’t let me forget it.
“You have committed adultery in the eyes of the Church for living in sin outside of the sacred vows of marriage, and you cannot tell me that Zoe didn’t believe you would one day propose to her.”
She doesn’t like hearing it—in fact, she often pretends not to hear it—but my mother has heard me say many times how I feel. I say it again.
“I told Zoe a hundred times I’d never get married—just like I’ve told you. I just don’t believe in marriage.”
When she speaks, I can picture the look on her face, her crow’s feet deepening around her eyes as she scowls at me. “That’s nonsense. That’s like saying you don’t believe in blue.”
“Mmm, no it’s not.”
“Of course it is. Your father and I have been married for twenty-five years. You were born and raised in our marriage. Just like you were born and raised in our house. How can you say you don’t believe in marriage?
“It’s a social construct, not a physical one,” I argue, knowing it will do absolutely no good.
“It’s a sacrament is what it is.”
“It’s a patriarchal construct that inherently restricts people—mostly women—and ends in divorce half the time.”
She’s been hearing me say this since I was a teenager, and it always gives her fits. When I confessed once to Bear that I wasn’t even sure I believed in monogamy, he made me swear I’d never say as much to Mom.
But it’s true. Monogamy isn’t a biological or moral imperative. It’s a social standard, and not even a universal one.
That doesn’t mean I sleep around or I can’t be faithful. Despite what Bear or Maggie or Mom thinks. Fidelity is about respect and agreement. If the woman I’m with wants to be exclusive—and all of the women I’ve ever dated have—I can be exclusive.
Full disclosure, I cheated on Adele Andrepont in eighth grade when I kissed Madison Werner at the Christmas dance, but that was the extent of my infidelity.
So I can be monogamous. For as long as the relationship is mutually satisfying and beneficial. But as soon as it’s not, two people should be able to acknowledge that and move on with minimal drama and difficulty.
What about children? What about property?
My way of thinking is that neither of those issues is a surprise in a relationship. Make the decisions about what would happen should you split up ahead of time. Sure, you can have an unplanned pregnancy that might take two people off-guard, but babies still give you several months to iron out custody agreements long before they are born.
Property can be liquidated and the assets divided. But even before you go in with someone on buying a house or signing a lease, you should have a contingency plan for how things will go down when it ends.
Because it always ends, and half the time, it ends before somebody dies.
And if the process of coming to an agreement about how all of this is going to shake out—should things end before somebody dies—is impossible to negotiate, then you’re probably dodging a bullet. It’d be way worse to marry them and find out later that you can’t agree on child custody with this person you once thought was your soulmate.
“Don’t quote statistics at me,” Mom scolds. “When a marriage fails, it’s because one or both of them lost faith. Faith in the will of God. Faith in his Word.”
“Good thing I’ll never have to go through that,” I mutter.
“Then you should take Holy Orders.”
I don’t think my mother will be satisfied until one of her seven children becomes a nun or a priest. She must have brought it up every Sunday to me and Bear when we were kids. Sunday dinner wasn’t Sunday dinner if she didn’t trot out the idea of one of us going to seminary.
It’s a miracle I didn’t go on a hunger strike.
“Mom, I love you, but you know that’s not going to work on me.”
She’s quiet, like I’ve surprised her, and it makes me wonder how things are going at home for my five younger brothers and sisters. Fawn has just as much steel in her spine as Mom, so when they go at it, sparks fly, but my brother Pony is the sensitive one. I wonder if she’s already bought him a white collar.
She huffs. I know it’s not a concession of defeat, but what can she really do to me anymore?
“Go to confession. Please, Lark. I won’t be able to rest if you don’t.” She changes tactics from shame to guilt. If she goes for fear, we’ll have the Catholic Triple Crown. “If you died suddenly and spent eternity in the fires of hell, I’d never have any peace.”
Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner.
I should just lie to her, tell her I’ll go to confession, and let us both off the hook. But I can’t pull the punch. “If you’d never have any peace, then how would it be Heaven?”
“Don’t you try me, Lark.”
God forbid anyone challenge dogma with logic.
I chuckle, but I do feel a little bad about harassing her. “Guess what, though,” I say, wanting to throw her a bone.
She gives me the silent treatment for a solid ten seconds before her curiosity gets the better of her. “What?”
I grin. Despite her questionable sanity, her fanaticism, and her tendency to manipulate, I really do love my mother. Heaven and Hell are her favorite topics, but that doesn’t mean she did us wrong growing up. We may not have had much, but she made sure we had what mattered. Food on the table. Good food, too. A decent education—sending the seven of us to Catholic High has taken all the extra she and Dad must have—and free rein of Bayou Teche from Loreauville to Jeanerette. Bear and I used to raise hell in our jon boat.
“I’m renting a new place on St. John Street.” My grin stretches when I hear her soft gasp. “I’m about a block from the Cathedral.”
Her voice goes all breathy. “You can walk to church.”
“I could,” I hedge.
“And attend the Parish Rosary.” She’s practically swooning.
“Um… maybe.”
“And commit to a Novena.” She gasps. “Lark, son, you don’t know how nine days of prayer would transform you.”
“You’re right,” I say, feeling a little sick now. “I don’t.”
“Every time you hear those cathedral bells, you must remember that I’m counting on you.”
I swallow another groan, knowing that she’s cursed me with this one. I will hear those bells and every hour remember I am a liar. And a disappointment. I’ve always been a disappointment.
Dammit, Ma.
“You are my prodigal son,” she says sweetly. “I’m dreaming of the day when I can slaughter the fatted calf.”
I wonder for a moment what it would be like if she just accepted me as I am. Her second son who is smart, and accomplished, and independent, and questioning, and, sure, a little rebellious. Who is passionate about rocks, just not the rock of the church. I think about asking her, Mom, would you still love me if I renounced Catholicism?
But my throat goes tight at the thought because I know she doesn’t have the capacity for that. I am the prodigal son. I have been since I started questioning the concept of papal infallibility in fourth grade.
The pope doesn’t make a mistake? Give me a fucking break.
But I let my mom dream of slaughtering the fatted calf on my behalf. And I make a joke instead.
“Mom, don’t talk about Drake like that.”
Her startled laugh untwists my guts a little. “You little hellion. That’s just baby fat,” she says, rushing to my youngest brother’s defense. “He’ll outgrow it.”
“Just kidding, Ma.” Judging that she feels like she’s fulfilled her maternal duties of correction
and coercion, I take my chance. “But I gotta go. Got a lot to do tonight.” I know better than to tell her where I am and what needs doing. She’ll just get fired up all over again.
“Well, while you’re doin’ it, I want you to do some thinking.”
I cringe. “About what?”
Her sigh comes over the line. “You know I was never happy that you and Zoe decided to live together.”
That’s an understatement. I grunt an acknowledgement.
“But I was fond of Zoe, and I know in my heart she loved you even if she allowed you to taint your soul with a mortal sin.”
“Ma—”
“Listen, now, Lark,” she admonishes gently. “I want you to promise me that you won’t set up another girl for heartbreak and humiliation like that.”
“Mom. I didn’t set Zoe up.” I bite out the words. But even though my spine has turned to steel, my stomach twists. No matter what I said or did, I still feel guilty.
I am still guilty.
“Can you promise me?”
I pull the phone away from my ear and scowl at it. “I don’t even know what you want me to promise. Not to fall in love? Not to get serious with somebody? Because that’s—”
“Don’t live like man and wife until you’re ready to be man and wife.”
I scoff. I can’t help it. “Don’t worry, Ma. I’m not planning on moving in with a girlfriend anytime soon.”
“That’s not a promise, Lark.”
Jesus Christ. The woman is relentless.
“Mom, I think what you’re missing here is that I’m not the kind of person to make promises like that.”
She sighs, and this time, I hear defeat and disgust. I’m not crazy about either, but at least she’s giving up. For now.
“You’ll come home for Sunday dinner? After Mass?”
My lungs shrink. I probably owe it to her, but damn, I’d rather not relive all of this over a pot roast with the full audience of my brothers and sisters.
“You haven’t seen your father in a couple of weeks,” she tacks on.
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