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There are two full cartons on the table. Alice looks down at them, then at Jase. “But—” she starts.
He shakes his head at her. “Sam?”
I follow him out. I can see a muscle jump in his jawline; feel the tension in the set of his shoulders as though they are part of my own body.
As soon as we’ve cleared the steps, he wheels on me. “What is this? Why is she here?” I stumble back. “I don’t know,” I say. My mom’s acting so normal, so calm, the friendly neighbor dropping by. But nothing is normal. How can she be calm?
“Is this more of Clay’s bullshit?” Jase demands. “Is he having her come over here and act all nicey-nice, before everyone else finds out?”
My eyes prickle, tears so close. “I don’t know,” I say again.
“Like maybe my family will think that this sweet lady could never do something so bad, and I’ve just lost it or something and—”
I grab his hand.
“I don’t know,” I whisper. Could this be yet another part of Clay’s game? Of course it could. I’d been thinking, somehow, that Mom was making a gesture in there…a peace offering, but maybe it is just another political tactic. My stomach coils. I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what to feel. The tears I’ve been fending off spill over. I scrub at my cheeks angrily.
“I’m sorry,” Jase says, pulling me to him so my cheek rests against his chest. “Of course you don’t. I just…seeing her sitting there in the kitchen, eating pizza as if everything’s all great, it makes me—”
“Sick,” I finish for him, shutting my eyes.
“For you too. Not just Dad. For you too, Sam.”
I want to argue, repeat again that she’s not a bad person. But if she really has come over here at Clay’s bidding to show the “softer side of Grace,” then…
“Got that ice cream?” Alice calls out the door. “I didn’t think it was possible, but we’ll actually be needing it.”
“Uh…just a sec,” Jase calls back, hastily lifting the garage door. He reaches into the Garretts’ freezer case, always loaded from Costco, and takes out a carton. “Let’s get back in before they eat the bowls.” He tries for his old, easy smile, falls short.
When we return to the kitchen, George is saying to Mom, “I like this cereal called Gorilla Munch on top of my ice cream. It’s not really made of gorillas.”
“Oh. Well. Good.”
“It’s really just peanut butter and healthy stuff.” George searches around in the box, tipping it, then heaps cereal into his bowl. “But if you buy boxes of cereal, you can save gorillas. And that’s really good,
’cause otherwise they can get instinct.”
My mother looks at me for translation. Or maybe salvation.
“Extinct,” I supply.
“That’s what I meant.” George pours milk on top of his cereal and ice cream, then stirs it vigorously.
“That means they don’t mate enough and then they are dead forever.” Silence falls again. Heavy silence. Dead forever. That phrase seems to reverberate in the air, at least for me. Mr. Garrett lying facedown in the rain, that image Jase added to the echo of that sickening thud.
Does Mom see it too? She puts down her slice of pizza, her fingers tight on a paper towel as she dabs at her lips. Jase is staring at the floor.
My mother stands up so abruptly that her chair almost overturns. “Samantha, will you come outside with me for a moment?”
Dread snags at me. She’s not going to march me home to face Clay’s arm-twisting again. Please no. I glance at Jase.
Mom bends over the table so she’s eye to eye with George. “I’m sorry about your father,” she tells him.
“I hope he feels better soon.” Then she rushes out the door, sure I’ll trail after her, even after everything.
Go, Jase mouths at me, lifting his chin toward the door. A look at those eyes and it’s clear; he has to know everything.
I hurry after my mom as her sandals click down the driveway. She stills, then turns slowly. It’s almost fully dark now, the streetlamp casting a shallow puddle of light on the driveway.
“Mom?” I search her face.
“Those children.”
“What about them?”
“I couldn’t stay any longer.” The words drag slowly out; then, in a rush. “Do you know Mr. Garrett’s room number? He’s at Maplewood Memorial, yes?”
Melodramatic scenarios crowd my mind. Clay will go there and put a pillow over Mr. Garrett’s face, an air bubble in his IV. Mom will…I no longer have any grasp of what she’ll do. Could she really come over and eat pizza and then do something terrible?
But she already has done something terrible, and then showed up with figurative lasagna. Here I am, your good neighbor. “Why?” I ask.
“I need to tell him what happened. What I did.” She compresses her lips, her gaze drawn back to the Garretts’ house, the light a perfect square in the screen door.
Oh thank God.
“Right now? You’re going to tell the truth?”
“Everything,” she replies in a small, soft voice. She reaches into her purse, taking out a pen and her tiny
“flag this” notebook. “What’s his room number?”
“He’s in the ICU, Mom.” My voice is sharp—how can she not remember? “You can’t talk to him. They won’t let you in. You’re not family.”
She looks at me, blinks. “I’m your mother. ”
I stare at her, completely confused, but then I realize. She thinks I meant she wasn’t my family. In the moment, it feels true. And I suddenly know I’m standing somewhere very far away from her. All my strength, all my will, is diverted into defending this family. My mom…What she’s done…I can’t defend her.
“They won’t let you into the room,” is all I say. “Only his immediate relatives.” Her face twists and, with a jerk of my stomach, I interpret her expression. Some shame. Mainly relief.
She won’t have to face him.
My eyes fall on the van, the driver’s-side door. I know who deserves the truth just as badly as Mr.
Garrett, though.
Mom’s hand moves convulsively to smooth the skirt of her dress.
“You need to talk to Mrs. Garrett,” I say. “Tell her. She’s home. You can do it now.” Again that snap of a gaze at the door, then a sharp turn of her head, as though the whole house is the scene of the accident. “I can’t go in there again.” Mom’s hand is rigid in mine as I pull at her, trying to urge her back up the driveway. Her palm is damp. “Not with all those children.”
“You have to.”
“I can’t.”
My eyes draw back to the door too, as though I’ll find the solution waiting there.
And I do. Jase, with Mrs. Garrett standing next to him. His shoulders are set, his arm tight around her.
The screen door opens and they come out.
“Senator Reed, I told my mom you had something to say.”
Mom nods, her throat working. Mrs. Garrett is barefoot, her hair sleep-rumpled, her face tired but composed. Jase can’t have told her.
“Yes, I—I need to speak with you,” Mom says. “In private. Would you—care to come have some lemonade at my house?” She dabs at her upper lip with one knuckle, adding, “It’s very humid tonight.”
“You can talk here.” Jase obviously doesn’t want his mother within range of Clay’s hypnotism. She raises her eyebrows at his tone.
“You’re more than welcome to come inside, Senator,” Mrs. Garrett’s own voice is soothing and polite.
“It will be just the two of us,” Mom assures Jase. “I’m sure my other company has left.”
“Right here will be fine,” he repeats. “Sam and I will keep the kids occupied inside.”
“Jase—” Mrs. Garrett begins, her cheeks flushing at her unaccountably rude child.
“That’s fine.” Mom takes a deep breath.
Jase opens the screen door, motioning me back in. I stand for a moment, looking from my mom to Mrs.
Garrett and back again. Everything about the two women profiled in the driveway is poles apart. Mom’s su