“Jesus H. Christ,” said Lee. She hauled her bags out of the car with no help from the driver, who watched her struggle as he smoked, his elbow on his open windowsill. Two wheelie bags behind her and a purse hanging across her chest, Lee hobbled downRegan’s street, Dionysiou Aeropagitou. She located her sister’s address, a weathered but charming building.
In the front garden, a sleek cat lounged in a patch of sunlight between terra-cotta planters overflowing with jasmine. On a second-story balcony, two teenagers stared at their phones. Lee swallowed as it dawned on her that the teenagers were her nieces. “Isabelle? Flora?” called Lee.
They looked up from their glowing devices. Isabelle wore a crop top that was way too cropped, bare feet, and loose pajama pants that belonged to her mother—Lee recognized them from a Christmas long ago when Charlotte had given her adult children matching pajamas. Her hair was parted in the middle like Marcia in that old TV showThe Brady Bunch. Lee saw herself in Isabelle’s calculated dishevelment—the way she held her shoulders back a bit, the tilt of her chin that said,I know I’m beautiful and I know you’re looking.
Sixteen-year-old Flora was pudgy, as her mom had been. Her too-small shorts cut into her thighs, and she wore Doc Martens boots. Both girls gazed at Lee vacantly, and Lee felt the familiar sting of the girls’ careful remove, the way her younger niece, especially, always seemed to be bracing herself whenever Lee appeared. What was it about Lee that made Flora reticent? Lee flushed with middle school vulnerability:Why don’t they like me?
“Girls,” said Lee. Their wary expressions cracked, and they rushed down the stairs to Lee, claiming her with powerful hugs.
“Mom’s still not home,” whispered Isabelle. “Flora’s really scared.”
These poor pandemic children,thought Lee.Thank God I’m here to rescue them.
13
Lee
Lee and the girls broughther luggage upstairs. Isabelle fumbled with keys to three different locks and shoved open the door. As Lee stepped inside, she was struck by the appealing apartment.
How was it possible that in this unknown city, Regan had made a home that smelled so similar to her old house in Savannah? A fragrance that was difficult to parse, combining Regan’s strawberry shampoo, Lubriderm lotion, vanilla candles, and the glue sticks she used in her collages. Her chicken noodle soup and the mac and cheese she made with spaghetti and way, way too much cheddar. The scent was Regan herself: homey and loving.
And Lee’s little sister had taken such care in designing this space! In the center of the living room was a mid-century modern couch newly upholstered in a mint-green fabric and a dinged-up-but-recently-polished coffee table. Two mismatched end tables held lamps with new shades. A large desk in the corner of the room was a neatly organized workstation for Regan’s collage art—there were the glue sticks, X-Acto knives, scissors, tape in various colors, and a row of flat boxes that must have held works in progress. A small radio anchored a pile of clippings.
The walls were wood-paneled, very “late-eighties party basement.” Above the couch, Lee saw a giant, bad painting of theAcropolis in a rococo frame. In the corner was a signature:Dennis Royale.
Around the painting, Regan had hung her own creations. Lee walked over to peer at one collage, which featured an old Willingham Christmas card. Both Regan and Matt had been excised from the card, leaving Isabelle and Flora in the center, smiling stiltedly. Regan had surrounded her girls with images of birds and waves, and covered the Christmas tree with cutouts of pink-and-purple blossoms, leaving the impression of unmoored children surrounded by fragile flowers—a jarring image, but piercingly beautiful and somehow suffused with hope. Lee was heartened that Regan had returned to her art—she was really talented.
The coffee table was covered with art and photography books—Collage: The Making of Modern Art; Collage by Women: 50 Essential Contemporary Artists; Greece: History and Treasures of an Ancient Civilization;andAegean: The Invention of the Sea.
Lee recognized a framed poster of a painting that had once hung in Regan’s teenaged bedroom: Degas’sThe Star. Lee stared at the ballerina in the image, a young girl in a pale tutu, her arms extended gracefully, eyes lifted toward the spotlight. Lee remembered lying on Regan’s carpeted bedroom floor, reading or pretending to read as their father’s drunken voice thundered below them. Regan and Cord would snuggle in Regan’s bed, Lee hoping that her presence made them feel safe, or at least safer. Teenaged Lee would stare at Degas’s ballerina and wish for her siblings the vulnerability and radiance on the dancer’s face. With Lee as constant sentinel, she hoped her brother and sister, at least, could have a childhood.
Flora and Isabelle looked at her expectantly. The fog of despair that had enveloped Lee in Savannah thinned—just a tiny bit—as Lee felt that old tug: the need to fix, to be the watchman.She put her hands on her hips. She had not flown all night to wallow in childhood memories.
“Tell me everything,” she said, sitting in a caramel-colored chair. “From the beginning.”
Lee noticed Flora’s careful posture, the way she sat with her hands folded, waiting for permission to speak. It was very different from the chatty, enthusiastic child Flora had been before Lee’s first hospitalization. “You can relax, Flora,” Lee said gently.
Flora’s eyes widened slightly. Nervously, she said, “Mom went to a collage retreat on Santorini on Tuesday. She left this.” As Lee looked over Regan’s note, Flora continued, “But she didn’t text me back that night, and when I checked Find My, her phone was disabled!”
“There’s no way Mom disabled Find My on her own,” noted Isabelle.
“And I searched for the Santorini retreat online. It doesn’t exist,” said Flora.
“The truth is, Mom’s been different for months,” said Isabelle, quietly.
“Different how?” Lee leaned forward.
“She started renting out one of our rooms on Airbnb. She said we’d be able to afford NYU, my dream school, even though we’re broke. And she…she spends all day on her computer, like, texting with her boyfriend, François.”
“She’s never seen him in person,” added Flora. “Not even on a video chat.”
The pieces clicked into place with sickening clarity. Lee had seen enoughDatelineepisodes to know where this was heading.
“Flora,” Lee said carefully, “you mentioned you know about online scams?”
“I’m doing a school report aboutpig butchering,” said Flora.“They make you fall in love, then steal your money. And Mom’s been acting exactly like the victims I’ve been researching.”
“Mom’s not stupid, though,” said Isabelle.
