Mother (41 page)

She closed Joe’s file and opened her email, scanning for anything interesting. There were charities begging for money, a couple of psychiatric journal newsletters, some notifications from Facebook - then she saw an email from Paul Schuyler and her stomach did an excited little flip. Her memories of Snapdragon were overwhelmingly sad because of Tim Martin, her lost love, but Paul was a bright spot; she’d known him as long as she’d known Tim.

Paul had been such a sweet guy, Tim’s best friend, and they’d all hung around together from second grade until high school graduation. If not for Tim, she might have gone with Paul. But Tim Martin had needed her to listen, to tell his secrets to, to understand his problems, all the way to the end. Tim was the reason, she knew in her heart of hearts, that she’d taken up psychiatry. She had tried to help him and ultimately failed. Though she knew his death hadn’t been her fault, she never wanted to face that kind of failure again. Between that and a driving need to be helpful, she had taken to psychiatry, studying hard, and working harder. She loved her job.

Unlike herself and most of the gang she’d grown up with, Paul Schuyler had always had direction. He was smart, too, and he’d gone off to get a business degree when she’d moved to Brimstone with no real aspirations but to get away from Snapdragon and be a free spirit. Paul, who’d had a pilot’s license before a driver’s license, had been a straight-A student who made it seem effortless. He’d been destined for big things. She liked that. She liked him.
 

But then there was Timothy Martin. A gentle soul, Tim loved music and art and could have made a living here in Brimstone. He’d planned on it. He was talented and was learning jewelry technique from one of the best artisans in town. He was especially good with copper, marcasite, and azurite, the minerals that put Brimstone on the map - he was a natural.
 

But then he’d had the accident and his mother had come and torn him away. She’d never seen him again. Not alive, at least. Priscilla had seen to that. Stephanie recalled the day she’d returned from work to find the apartment empty - and knew Priscilla Martin had made true on her many promises to keep Tim away from her. All Steffie had was a printed note from Tim - which she was certain Priscilla had written - saying he was going home with his mother, that things weren’t working out. And that if anything changed, he’d be in touch. But he’d never called or written. Her eyes welled at the memory.

Stop with the dark thoughts!
she told herself.
Enough already!
She opened Paul’s email and began reading.

Dear Steffie,

How have you been? I realize it’s been some time since we’ve talked, even on Facebook
 
- so sorry you couldn’t make it to the high school reunion. Believe me when I say you didn’t miss a thing. Mark Cox is still a dick, though now he has a drinking problem to enhance his douchebaggery. Valerie Swenson, whose Facebook picture is at least a decade old, has been married and divorced four times since she and Tyler Rogers eloped - and no one’s heard a word from him since he ran off with a stripper several years back. And that’s as exciting as life has gotten for anyone from our graduating class. But I do have some interesting news, and that’s the real reason I’m writing.
 

I’m sure you remember Tim’s little sister, Carlene. We called her Tag Along - at least I did. She was kind of our mascot? Well, she goes by Claire now - had it legally changed - and she and her husband, Jason, have temporarily moved back to Snapdragon to live with Priscilla until they can get back on their feet. Claire came across some of Tim’s old journals and has asked me to contact you. She’s been tight-lipped about the contents, but there are some things she says she would like to ask you about. She wasn’t comfortable contacting you herself, for fear you might not want any involvement (my contacting you is her way of giving you an easy out, I suspect). When I told her you and I still spoke (though not nearly often enough these days!) she asked me to have you contact her - but only if you’re interested.

All that aside, it’s been too long since we had a chat. I’ve expanded Schuyler Flight School and it’s doing very well. (At the urging of Priscilla Martin, I gave Claire’s husband a job and he’s one of the best I’ve had. They’re pregnant, by the way.) I’m still single, still eating TV dinners that are way too high in cholesterol, and still pretty happy.

What about you? When you get the chance, I’d love to hear all about what’s going on in your world. How is the psychiatric business treating you? Are you married? Kids? Do tell!

Write back when you can, and let’s have a real-life phone conversation one of these days. If you’re interested in contacting Claire, I’ve included her email below, along with my phone number, and my Skype address, if you’re into that.

Stephanie stared at the screen and blinked. She hadn’t thought of little Carlene -
Claire now
- in a while, and as she remembered her, she found herself smiling. Of course, she’d email her. She was dying to know what kind of woman she’d grown up to be. Changing her name gave her hope that Priscilla Martin hadn’t broken her spirit. It concerned her a bit that Claire and her husband were staying with the woman, but she was glad to hear Tim’s little sister had married a good guy and was expecting a child. Little Carlene was pregnant.
God, that makes me feel old!
She was also happy to hear from Paul Schuyler. He was right: It had been too long since they’d spoken. She’d always had a soft spot for Paul, probably because he was the only person she’d ever known who could make her smile - no matter what misery might be going on around her.

Who’s Crazy Now?

Claire flushed the toilet, washed her hands, then stared at her reflection in the mirror. Despite the vitamins, her face was the color of wet ash and dark purple crescents hung below her eyes. She didn’t look like herself.
I need some sun.
She also needed to put on a little more weight - what she had gained before the accident had dropped off, and then some.
 

When she heard Jason reenter the bedroom, she grabbed her crutches and stumped from the bathroom, then sat on the bed.

The stricken look on his face said it all. Claire felt a surge of relief. “Well, did I tell you she was crazy, or did I tell you she was crazy?”

His eyes searched her face, and he gave a small, uncertain shrug. “Claire,” he said. “I don’t know what I was supposed to be looking for, but nothing was out of the ordinary.”

An anvil dropped into the pit of her stomach, cold and steely. “Did you look at my father?”

“He was sleeping like a baby.”

“But did you
look
at him?” Rage bubbled within her.

Jason’s jaw flexed and his eyes went hard. “Yes. I looked right at him. Up close. Like I said, he was sleeping.”

Hot tears pricked Claire’s eyes but she held them back. “You didn’t see anything out of the ordinary?
Nothing
?”

Jason’s gaze bored into her, his concern apparent.
His concern for
me. “Not a thing, sweetie.” He sat on the bed carefully, as if any sudden movement might trigger a bomb.

She stared at him, then to her own surprise, laughed. And laughed. “Of course, you didn’t!” she said. “Of course!” She realized that Mother would have had plenty of time to clean up while Jason was on the wild goose chase.

Jason moved toward her. “Tell me what you saw, Claire. Talk to me.”

She’d heard the hysterical edge in her laughter and knew Jason heard it, too. She waved his question away. “Nothing. I didn’t see a thing. Don’t worry about it. Just pretend it never happened.” Her breath hitched as she suppressed a sob.

“Damn it, Claire.” Jason’s voice was hard. “Talk to me. What the hell is going
on
with you? Tell me how I can
help
you!” He moved to touch her and she turned away.

“Just don’t worry about it, Jason. I must have had … some sort of reaction to the vitamins or something.” She wasn’t about to explain what she’d seen - not the defiled teddy bear, not her father - not when her husband was already looking at her like she’d lost her grip. “I’m okay, Jase. I really am.”

“Do you want me to make an appointment with Dr. Hopper-”

“No. Dr. Putnam’s back and she already said it’s just hormones and I need to rest.”

“I’ll leave you to it, then. If you need me, just holler. I’m going to take a shower.” He looked at her a long moment. “What would you like for dinner?”

She stared at her hands. “I don’t care. Pizza maybe? Take-out?”

He paused. “Claire?”

“Yes?”

“I don’t think you should read any more of those journals. They’re upsetting you.”

Claire knew there was some truth to his words, but was unwilling to agree. “I can handle it.”
 

Jason sighed. “All right. I’ll call for pizza when I get out of the shower. Decide what kind you want.”
 

“Sounds great.”

“You said your phone was missing?” Jason’s eyes flickered toward the nightstand.
 

At her phone.

There it sat, right where she’d left it.

She opened her mouth to say it hadn’t been there before - she
knew
it hadn’t, she’d checked - but what was the point? It would only make her look crazier. Instead, she shrugged. “I’d lose my own head if it weren’t attached.”

Jason frowned.

“Pregnancy hormones. Dr. Putnam says there’s nothing to worry about, remember? Sorry for upsetting you.”

He didn’t look satisfied, but managed a weak smile.

Claire wasn’t satisfied either.
I’m not losing my mind. I am not!
She glanced at her phone, knowing it hadn’t been there before.
 

Under Mother’s Thumb

Stan and Aida Portendorfer had stayed up late watching
Casablanca
Saturday night, so they skipped mass, and when Aida went straight to work on the flower beds - it was time to plant the seedlings - the sun was high.
 

Meanwhile, Stan took Pookie Bear for his morning constitutional, saying hello to the neighbors. Many were doing the same as Aida. Phyllis Stine was just finishing up sowing snapdragon seedlings among her white rose bushes and Hank and Crystal Lowell were planting snaps in the flowerbed bordering the sidewalk. Stan shot the breeze with them for a few minutes before moving on.
Nice people, those Lowells
.
 

Priscilla Martin, as usual, had beaten everyone else and already had her seedlings planted. She must’ve gotten up at the crack of dawn to do it - they weren’t there yesterday. Duane and Jerry hadn’t planted, and likely wouldn’t this year, and of course the Collins house stood dark and flowerless. It made him sad, so he moved on. Carl Vandercooth was planting, as were Ace and Iris Etheridge, and Bettyanne Crocker. Even the Dunworth Sisters had joined in by filling a big flowerpot with young snapdragons. The Deans never participated. As he returned to the house, he saw his Aida putting in her mass of seedlings. She was going at it like a soldier headed into battle.

“Looks great, Aida-honey!”

She looked up. “Did he poop?”

Stan sighed. “Yep. Everything was perfectly normal.”
 

She eyed him, probably trying to see if he was holding anything back, then smiled. “You ready to help?”

Damn
. “Yes. I’ll be right back out, Aida-honey.” She never let him off the hook when it came to the annual Snapdragon Festival. Honestly, he was surprised Prissy Martin always took the flag because Aida’s plantings - and Geneva-Marie’s,
rest her soul
- were spectacular. But Prissy always won and he admired Aida for never giving up.
 

“Did you check the mailbox yesterday?” he called.

“No,” she replied.

“Hold it a moment, Pookie,” he told the dog, who was straining to go inside. He put his hand in the mailbox and came out with an electric bill, a postcard from his optometrist telling him it was time for a checkup, and a white envelope.
 

He took the mail inside, set Pookie Bear free - he went straight for Stan’s chair and made himself comfortable - then opened the white envelope addressed to himself and Aida. It was typed:

Stanley and Aida Portendorfer: You think no one knows what you did, but I do. I know every detail about you. Do not underestimate me.
 

It wasn’t signed. “Jesus Christ. Again?”

“What’s keeping you, Stan?” Aida came up behind him.

“This.” He handed her the paper.
 

She read it aloud. “It has to be some kind of joke. It’s been decades since we’ve done anything worth talking about.”

“It’s probably just some kid who thinks he’s funny. Something random.”
 

“Probably. But I’d hate for anyone on the sac to know about …” She laid her hand over his.

He turned and hugged her. She hugged back, and they stayed that way for long minutes without saying a word.
 

“As I live and breathe! Steffie Banks, it’s good to hear your voice!” Paul Schuyler tilted his La-Z-Boy back, muted the football game, and settled in for a chat. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, Paulie! I read your e-mail but didn’t have a chance to call until now. That’s so wonderful about Carlene becoming Claire. I’m glad she did that.”

“It suits her.” Paul reached for a bag of chips, then stopped himself. Even though she couldn’t see him, he always liked to look his best around Steffie.

“Would you rather Skype?” she asked.
 

“Sure.”
 

“Let’s do it.”

“Okay. Skype me.” He hung up and pulled his laptop from the end table. A moment later, they were connected and there was Stephanie Banks, looking like a million bucks. Her auburn hair curled softly over her shoulders and her green eyes glinted with pleasure. Her lips looked soft and full, her smile generous.

“Wow, you haven’t changed a bit, except to get even more good-looking, Steffie.”

“Thanks. Now turn
your
camera on.”

He quickly ran his fingers through his hair and brushed away any crumbs that might have been clinging to his face or shirt -
damn, I wish I had a nicer shirt on! -
then clicked the camera. “Like I said in my email, I pretty much eat what I want - you know, no wife to keep me in line - so I’m a little porky.”