“Hi, my daughter did a trial run at your hockey camp last Wednesday and mentioned a coach who was very good, someone who also does one-on-one coaching. She thinks the name was Greta, but she wanted to check for sure? Last Wednesday morning?”
Maeve is alert now.What is Susan up to?Is she trying to help clear Greta’s name for the thing with Nika? The tinny sound of someone else’s voice on the other end of the line is just about audible, but the words are not. Maeve waits.
“Oh, you’re sure Greta wasn’t there last Wednesday morning?”
Another wait.
“Ah, OK. My daughter probably mixed up the names. I’ll check again. Thanks, bye now.”
Maeve is perplexed. Why the sudden interest in what Greta was doing last Wednesday morning? She casts her mind back. The morning after Susan sent her message. The morning everything came tumbling down.
Suddenly, more than anything, Maeve needs her mother. She’s the only one who still makes sense, who hasn’t changed. She’s just as annoying and safe and stable and warm and frustrating and cloying and comforting as she’s always been. Maeve swings her legs out of bed, pulls on a hoodie and heads downstairs.
Leesa is in her office, at her desk, headset on. Maeve slips in behind her and sits on her mother’s reading chair. Forest green with a teal cushion, it’s Maeve’s favorite spot in the house, at least if shemustleave her bedroom. Her mother turns, eyebrows raised in an “All OK?” question.
Maeve nods, and her mother indicates with a rotating finger that her call is about to wrap up. Maeve stares out the window as she waits, at the poplars swaying against the backdrop of a cloudless sky. She can’t imaginegoing out there. Seeing people. People staring, talking, pointing. The girl with a crush on Ariana Webb. She can never go back to that school. She can never see those people. She can never leave the house again.
Her mother has finished her call and swivels in her huge office chair.
“Hey!” Leesa says. Maeve can tell she wants to add “good to see you out of your room” but holds herself back.
“Hi.” Silence.
“Can I get you something to eat?”
“No, thanks. Mum, is everything OK with Susan and Jon and Greta?”
Her mother tilts her head, confused, and Maeve can see immediately that it’s real. She’s not covering anything up.
“You mean because Susan is staying with us? She’s worried someone tried to break in.” Leesa grimaces. “And what do you mean about Greta—the whole thing with Nika?”
“Yeah. But also because Susan just called the hockey camp about a made-up daughter who was supposedly there last Wednesday, basically so she could find out if Greta was there, I think.”
Leesa frowns. “OK, that’s odd—could you have misheard?”
“Nope.”
“Maybe she’s trying to help fix this thing with Nika…”
“How would her fake daughter help?”
“I have no idea. But I do need to get on another call. It’s good to see you looking brighter. You won’t forget babysitting tonight, will you?”
“What?”
“For Moira Fitzpatrick. I won’t be able to collect you after—I’ll be at the Oakpark party too, but you’ll be OK to walk home, won’t you?”
“Oh god, Mum, I can’t babysit. I’m not leaving the house.”
“You can’t let Moira down, love. That’s not fair. She’s part of the organizing committee. I saw on her Instagram earlier she’s got fireworks and wine and about five thousand burger buns ready to go.”
“Can’t Aoife do it?”
A wry look. “Remember what happened when the Fitzpatricks had a fourteen-year-old babysit? I don’t think they’re ready for a thirteen-year-old.”
“Can’t you tell her I’m sick?”
Leesa slides off the chair and hunkers down by Maeve.
