Her voice is firm and calm, chatty. She’s wearing a watermelon-colored wrap dress and her hair down, looking young enough to be my older sister. Mrs. Garrett has circles under her eyes these days, is gaunt and perpetually distracted. Though I’ve tried to keep things clean, the Garretts’ house gets messier by the day. Patsy’s fussy, George clingy, Harry misbehaving, Andy and Duff fighting like bears. Jase is tense and preoccupied, Alice even more acerbic. Everything is different next door. Nothing’s changed here.
“Would you like some lemonade?” Mom asks. “They had Meyer lemons at the Gibson’s Gourmet the other day, so I made it with those for a change. I think this is the best batch ever.” She pours me a glass, the picture of graceful efficiency and maternal solicitude.
“Stop it, Mom,” I say, sliding into the kitchen stool.
“You don’t want me to mother you so much, I know. But all the other summers when I’ve had to work, you’ve had Tracy to keep you company. Should I post a chart of what’s frozen and what’s fresh? I don’t need to do that. You’ll remember, right? I just suddenly realized how alone you are.”
“You have no idea.”
Something in my tone must get to her because she halts, glances at me nervously, then continues rapidly, “When this election is over, we’ll take a good, long vacation. Maybe somewhere in the Caribbean. I’ve heard great things about Virgin Gorda.”
“I can’t believe you. Are you, like, a robot now? How can you just act like everything’s normal?”
Mom stills in the act of putting Tupperware in the freezer. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says.
“You need to tell the truth about what happened,” I say.
She straightens up slowly, looking me in the eye for the first time in days, chewing her bottom lip. “He’ll be fine.” She snaps a lid tightly. “I’ve followed it in the news. Jack Garrett’s a relatively young man, in good shape. Things might be rough for a while, but he’ll be fine. In the end, no real damage done.”
I lean forward, hands flat on the counter, my palms sliding across the cool surface of the kitchen island. “How can you even say that? Do you actually believe it? This isn’t some, some nothing—” I fling one hand out, accidentally hitting the Waterford crystal fruit bowl full of lemons, sending it flying toward the wall, splintering on the tile floor with a jarring crash, lemons bouncing everywhere.
“That belonged to my grandparents,” Mom says tightly. “Don’t move. I’ll get the vacuum cleaner.”
Something about the accustomed sight of her, bent over, moving the vacuum in orderly symmetrical strokes in her dress and her heels, makes me feel as though I’m going to explode. I jump down from the stool and flick the OFF button.
“You can’t just tidy it up and forget it, Mom. The Garretts have no health insurance. Did you know that?”
She pulls the trash can out from under the sink, snapping on her rubber gloves, and begins methodically putting the larger chunks of glass into the bag. “That’s not my fault.”
“It’s your fault that it matters that they don’t. He’s going to be in the hospital for months! Then maybe rehab—who knows for how long? The hardware store was already struggling.”
“That also has nothing to do with me. Many small businesses are struggling, Samantha. It’s unfortunate, and you know I’ve made speeches about that very issue—”
“Speeches? Are you serious?”
She winces at the volume of my voice, then turns and switches the vacuum on again.
I yank the plug out of the wall.
“What about everything you’ve ever told me about facing up to your responsibilities? Did you mean any of it?”
“Don’t speak to me that way, Samantha. I’m the parent here. I am doing the responsible thing, staying where I can do the greater good. How will it help the Garretts if I lose my job, if I have to retire in disgrace? That won’t fix anything. What’s done is done.”
“He could have died. What if he’d died, Mom? The father of eight children. What would you do then?”
“He didn’t die. Clay called the police from the pay phone at Gas-and-Go that night. We didn’t just ignore the whole thing.”
“But you are ignoring the whole thing. That’s exactly what you’re doing. Mrs. Garrett is pregnant. Now they’re going to have another baby and Mr. Garrett won’t be able to work! What’s wrong with you?”
Mom jerks the vacuum cleaner cord out of my hands, winding it into tight coils. “Well, there you go. Who has that many children in this day and age? They shouldn’t have had such a large family if they couldn’t afford one.”
“How is Jase even going to go back to school this fall if he has to replace his dad at the store?”
“There, you see!” Mom says sharply. “It’s just like Clay told me. It all comes down to your feelings for this young man. This is all about you, Samantha.”
I stand there, incredulous. “It doesn’t have anything to do with me!”
She folds her arms and looks at me pityingly. “If I had accidentally hit someone you didn’t know, a stranger to you, would you be acting like this? Would you be asking me to give up my entire career because of something that’s going to cause some temporary challenges for someone?”
I stare at her. “I hope I would. I think I would. Because that’s the right thing to do.”
Her exhalation of disgust ruffles a few strands of her tidy hair. “Oh spare me, Samantha. The right thing to do is so easy to see when you are seventeen years old and don’t have to make any big decisions. When you know that no matter what you do, someone will take care of you and fix everything. But when you’re grown up, the world is not that black and white, and the right thing doesn’t have a tidy little arrow pointing to it. Things happen, adults make decisions, and that’s the bottom line.”
“The bottom line is that you hit a man and drove away—” I start to say, but the shrill of Mom’s cell phone interrupts.
She checks it, then says, “Here’s Clay now. This conversation is over. What’s done is done and we’re all going to move on.” She snaps the phone open. “Hello, sweetie! No, I’m not busy. Sure, just let me go into the office and get that.”
Her heels click on the tile down the hallway.
The corner of the kitchen is still covered with lemons and tiny crystal shards.
I slump back onto the stool, resting my cheek on the cool granite of the countertop. I’ve armed myself for days to talk to my mother, going over things in my head, the clearest arguments I could make. Now I’ve made them all, but it’s like the entire conversation didn’t even exist, like it just got swept up and put away.
That night I climb out my window, perching in my old accustomed spot. Despite all the years I sat in this same place alone, now it feels strange and wrong to be without Jase. But he’s at the hospital again. Through the Garretts’ kitchen window, I can see Alice doing dishes. The rest of the house is dark. As I watch, the van pulls into the driveway. I wait for Mrs. Garrett to climb out, but she doesn’t. She sits there, staring straight ahead until I can’t watch anymore and climb back into my room.
Nan said things just come my way without me lifting a finger.
It’s never felt like that to me, but I’ve always been able to get what I really wanted if I worked hard enough.
Not now.
No matter how hard I try, and I’ve never tried so hard for anything, I can’t make things better at the Garretts’. Worst of all, things with Jase are stressful. I offer to be the coach when he trains. “If your dad had the workouts written down, I can read them and call them out to you.”
“They were all in his head. So thanks, but I’m all right.” Dusty from delivering lumber, Jase turns on the faucet over the cluttered sink and splashes water on his face, then ducks his head to drink, accidentally knocking a half-full glass of milk off the counter. When it crashes onto the floor, instead of picking it up, he gives it a kick that sends it ricocheting across the linoleum, scattering milk.
Alarm grips the back of my throat, metallic-tasting. I go over and put my hand on his shoulder. His head is down and I can see a muscle in his jaw twitch. His arm is unyielding beneath my fingers and he doesn’t look at me. The leaden fist around my throat tightens.
“Dude!” Tim calls from the backyard, where he’s vacuuming the pool. “The frickin’ thing’s blowing out the dirt into the pool instead of sucking it in. Can you do your thing?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll fix it,” Jase calls back without moving.
“What would anybody do around here without you?” I say, going for a light tone. “Everything would be broken.”
He snorts without any humor. “Kind of already is, isn’t it?”
I move closer, rest my cheek against his shoulder, rubbing his back.
“How can I help?” I ask. “I’ll do anything.”
“There’s nothing you can do, Sam. Just…” He turns away, shoves his hands in his pockets. “Maybe…just…give me a little space.”
I back toward the kitchen door. “Right. Sure. I’ll head home for a while.”
This doesn’t feel like us at all. I hover in the doorway, expecting…I’m not sure.
Instead he nods without looking at me and bends to mop up the spilled milk.
When I get home, where it’s still and clean and hushed, all the outdoor sounds muffled by the central air, I climb upstairs, feeling as though I’m pushing through water or wearing shoes made of lead. I sit down abruptly halfway up, lean my head back against the step above me, shut my eyes.
A thousand times since this happened, I’ve been about to blurt out the whole story, unable to stop myself, unable to keep something this big inside from Jase. Every time, I’ve bitten my tongue, stayed silent, with the thought: If I tell him, I’ll lose him.
Tonight is when I know.
I already have.
Late that night, there’s only one dim light shining in the living room. Mom likes the overhead ones, so I know right away it’s not her. And I’m right. Clay’s sitting in the big armchair by the fireplace, shoes off, this big golden retriever at his feet. Mom is curled up on the couch, fast asleep, her hair tumbling out of her careful bun, draping over her shoulders.
Clay jerks his chin in the direction of the dog. “Courvoisier. I call him Cory. Pure bred from champions. He’s old now, though.”
Indeed, the muzzle that rests on Clay’s bare foot is white with age. Cory raises his head at my entrance, though, thumping a greeting with his tail.
“I didn’t know you had a dog. Mom’s asleep?” I ask, stating the obvious.
“Long day. Meet-and-greet at five a.m. at General Dynamics. Then we had a speech at Republicans for Change and dinner at the White Horse Tavern. She’s a pro, your mama. Just keeps going and going. She’s earned her rest.” He stands up and pulls the woven beige throw from the top of the couch, covering her.