“You would have said no.”
“Becausenowas the responsible thing to say,” I argue. “Listen to yourself. It’s great that you’re an optimist, but there’s a difference between optimism and naiveté. Optimism is the hope that things will work out well. Naiveté is the refusal to be realistic when they don’t. Being naïve doesn’t work now, and trust me it won’t work in seven months—” I trip at the words and quickly add, “or twelve months or twenty months.” But the damage is done.
Anne’s face changes into something I’ve never seen. “You’re right about not being my sister,” she seethes with a venom that the rain can’t dilute. “Whoever your father is, he must be a rat. You’re not Dad’s. You havenoneof his good in you. You’re the bastard daughter, Mallory,” she spits, “thebastard.” When she pushes past me, I’m stunned enough to do nothing.
She doesn’t run, simply stalks back down the rain-coated dock to the beach as we watch in shock.
“What was that about?” Margo says into her wake, then to me, “What wasthatabout?”
I push wet hair back from my face. “Anger,” I reply, but I’m trembling harder than ever. When Joy’s cold fingers slip between mine, it’s a lifeline. Pulling her close, I tuck her hand against my churning middle. “I’m sorry you had to see that.” Suddenly, brutally aware that I’m the mother, she the child, and we’re standing in the rain, I wrap an arm around her and start us down the dock. “I didn’t think it would get so bad.”
“What was she talking about, Mom?”
“Whatwasthat about?” Margo repeats from my other side. I pick up the pace, but she stays close. “‘Whoever your father is’? What in the hell did she mean by that? And seven months? That’s a magic number. Is shepregnant?”
Joy might have missed that part had Margo not pointed it out, but I’m too devastated to do more than mutter, “She’ll have to tell you herself,” and hurry across the sand. The night is too dark, too wet, too empty at the edges for me to be here another minute.
“Sheis,” Margo declares as we hit the stairs. “Is it Billy’s?”
“You’ll have to ask her,” I say, not trusting myself with another word. Having botched this whole thing, I’m numb. I can’t possibly imagine the awful scene to come inside.
Even before we reach the top of the stairs, though, headlights slice through the rain. With the angry crunch of tires on wet gravel, Anne whips the Volvo around. By the time we’ve fully crested the bluff, red taillights have shrunk and, seconds later, are gone.
“Good,” Margo states as we head for the house, but the declaration does nothing to relieve me. Like the gun that is gone but remains larger than ever, so is Anne. Here, though, there isn’t a tiny bullet hole but a big gaping wound.
Hurting, I pass through the mudroom and, ignoring the half-cleaned kitchen, release Joy’s hand and head for the stairs.
Joy runs to catch up. “Are you okay, Mom?”
“Just need a shower.”
We all do. I go first, then Joy, then Margo. None of us linger. Soap and hot water can’t wash away the damage. Then we’re all three in my room, sitting cross-legged on the plaid quilt wearing dry shorts and shirts and in various stages of towel-drying our hair.
Margo is the first to set her towel aside. “Speak,” she orders.
And I do try. But words won’t come. This trip has become a nightmare, making clear thought impossible. I don’t know what she wants to hear, don’t know whatJoyshould hear. I’ve been the decision-maker all these years, but I can’t pick words now. I want to call Anne a liar but can’t. I want to tear into myself for giving her secret away but can’t. I want tovomitor in lieu of that, lie down in this bed, turn off the lights, pull the covers up to my ears, and blot out the world. But I can’t do that either, with my sister and daughter waiting.
“Mom?” Joy whispers in concern. She’s never seen me like this.
I’ve never seen me like this, either. Helplessness is a luxury I could never afford. I’m so unpracticed at it that the onrush of emotion is paralyzing.
The best I can do is to wave a hand.Not ready,it says, and they accept that.
“Papa,” Joy murmurs to Margo, who nods.
Climbing off the bed, she goes downstairs to check. I’m rocking gently, doing everything in my power to put my mind in a different place. Except, the gray fringe of my nightmares is closing in, made sharp by fragments of Anne, Mom and Dad, Margo and Joy. Jack is in the muddle, but he is no fragment. He is my safe place. He always knows what I’m feeling, always understands, always fills the void.
I need to reconnect with that safe place. But I can’t leave Joy now. Or Margo. Margo has to be hurting, too.
“Anne will be back,” she whispers.
I don’t want her back. That’s the thing. I’m not up for another confrontation, any more than I can talk about the one we just had. Even after Joy reports that Dad is asleep in his chair, I continue to rock.
Margo slips out only when Joy is beside me again, as if by silent agreement they won’t leave me alone. Likewise, they ask nothing. Margo returns with three mugs of hot chocolate topped with globs of whipped cream, and though the gesture is the sweetest, I can’t drink. Hot chocolate, here, in this house, is so thick with memory that it would clog my throat.
My phone chimes. Grabbing it from the desk, Joy sets it in front of me on the quilt. It settles into a fold that obscures the screen, and for a minute, I don’t right it. If Anne is telling me to go back to New York, I’ll have a problem. If she is calling me a bastard in print, I’ll have a problem. If she is saying that she won’t be back for two weeks, I’ll have a problem.
Margo angles the phone, reads the screen, and turns it to me.
