NOW
When Frances awoke in the darkened room, she was momentarily discombobulated, but it took only a few seconds to recognize her girlish surroundings. The digital clock glowed 5:42 a.m., and the events of last night flooded back to her. She was in Daisy’s room. Marcus was sleeping peacefully across the hall. At least, he should be. Frances’s cannabis intake could have rendered her comatose last night. If her son had called out for her, would she have awoken?
She scrambled out of Daisy’s bed and scurried across the hall. Cracking the door to Charles’s room, she peered inside. In the predawn light, she could just make out the large lump on the floor that was her son’s sleeping form. Frances could hear his heavy, nasal breathing as he slept deeply, soundly. With a quick glance at Charles, curled up in a fetal position on his single bed, she closed the door behind her.
On silent feet, she crept down the stairs to the main floor. She would find her purse and her tiramisu pan and be gone before anyone awoke. Marcus would rise with a newfound confidence and independence, never knowing his mother had spent the night just fifteen feet away. A small light over the stove glowed. The spacious kitchen was pristine: Kate and Robert must have cleaned before retiring. Her pan, washed and dried, sat on the bare counter. Now where was her purse?
She recalled setting it down when she entered the home last night, perhaps next to the couch in the living room? Padding to the front of the house, she found the blinds closed and the room pitch-dark. Pausing in the entryway, she waited for her eyes to become accustomed to the lack of light.
“Hey.” The voice—young, female, sleepy—came from the sofa. It was Daisy, displaced by Frances, lying on her makeshift bed in the living room.
“I’m sorry to wake you,” Frances apologized. “I’m looking for my purse.”
“I think it’s by the chair.” The girl pointed.
Frances followed her direction and retrieved her bag from its spot on the floor. “Thanks, Daisy,” she whispered. Her vision having adjusted, she noticed the girl was still fully clothed, her jacket draped over her in lieu of a blanket. Kate must have forgotten to prepare her daughter’s camp. “I’m sorry I took your bed last night.”
“It’s okay.”
“I wasn’t feeling well, so your mom suggested I lie down for a bit,” Frances fibbed. “And then I fell asleep.”
“My mom said you were sleeping here because you weren’t comfortable being away from Marcus.”
Frances felt a stab of betrayal. She had thought Kate understood her insecurities, had expected her to cover for her. She felt embarrassed at being caught in a lie.
“Yeah,” she admitted. “I guess I’m too overprotective.”
“Not really,” Daisy said. “I think parents should care where their kids are.” There was an edge to her voice, and Frances thought about last night. Kate and Robert had let their fourteen-year-old wander off into the dark, without even asking where she was going, how she was getting there, when she’d be home. Frances moved closer.
“Did you have a nice dinner with your friends?”
“I didn’t go for dinner.” It must have been the darkness between them that created a confessional aura, because the girl continued. “And I don’t have friends.”
Frances perched on the arm of the sofa, near Daisy’s feet. “Where did you go?” she prodded gently.
“I just rode around on my bike.”
“That’s not very safe, Daisy.”
“Maybe not,” she said, with an indifferent shrug, “but it turned out fine.”
“There are predators out there, men who look for girls on their own, girls who are lost and alone.”
“I can take care of myself,” the girl retorted. Frances backed off, took a different tack.
“Why do you feel like you don’t have any friends?”
“Because I don’t,” Daisy said flatly. “There was this thing with a boy. . . . Nothing happened, but he told everyone that it did, that I was a crazy nympho or something. And I just let everyone believe it.”
“Why?” Frances was flummoxed. “Why didn’t you defend yourself?”
“I don’t know. . . . I wanted to push everyone away. I wanted to be alone.” The girl’s voice trembled. “I think there’s something wrong with me.”
Frances slipped off the arm of the sofa and sat near Daisy’s knees. She could see the girl’s eyes, shining with unshed tears, in the dark. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Daisy. High school is hard. Life is hard. But you have a family that loves you, and in the end, that’s all that really matters.”
Daisy’s voice was quiet. “You don’t really know us.”
“I know your mom,” Frances said, with a hint of indignation. Though it had only been a couple of months, she knew her friendship with Kate was deep and genuine.
“You might think you do.”
Frances didn’t respond. Daisy was angry with her mom and trying to disparage her. The girl probably resented her parents for making her move, for fostering new friendships while Daisy was being ostracized. Mother-daughter issues were common, especially in the teen years. Frances’s relationship with her own mother was still tense, having never fully recovered from the horrific crisis they’d endured. Frances had needed her mom then, but the woman had emotionally abandoned her. Frances didn’t blame her, after what Frances had done, but the desertion still stung. She understood Daisy’s angst.
“I know your mom loves you,” Frances finally said, not based on anything Kate had said or demonstrated, but because all parents loved their children. It was the most basic human instinct.
Daisy said nothing, and Frances was suddenly unsure how to fill the awkward silence. “I should go,” she said, patting the girl’s denim-clad knee. “If you ever need someone to talk to, I’m always here.”
The girl sat up a little. “Do you mean that?”
There was something so needy, so intense, in the child’s voice that Frances hesitated, for half a second, before she said, “Of course I do. I remember what it’s like to be your age. Here . . .” She reached down and picked up the girl’s phone from the floor next to the sofa. “Put my number in your phone.”
Daisy tapped the digits into her contacts. “Thank you,” she said, setting the device next to her. “That means a lot.”
Frances gave Daisy’s leg a squeeze and stood. “Go back to sleep,” she whispered, making her way toward the door. As she was stepping into her shoes, Daisy’s voice came through the darkness.
“Please don’t tell my mom that we talked.”
“I won’t,” Frances said automatically. She knew how to keep secrets.
* * *
The predawn walk home was silent, peaceful; even the constant hum of the freeway was muted at this hour. Frances’s house was a fifteen-minute stroll from the Randolphs’ neocolonial home. It wasn’t until she reached it that she realized she didn’t have a house key. Jason had driven them there and must have driven himself home once the effects of the marijuana had worn off. There was a spare key hidden in the backyard, under a metal watering can, but picking her way down the overgrown path beside the house in the dark, and rummaging through the yard in search of it, was a recipe for a twisted ankle at least. She rang the doorbell; she had no choice.
After several minutes, a light flicked on inside, and she could see her husband’s mussed hair in the glass panes at the top of the door. It swung open to reveal Jason, in his dark blue robe, rumpled from sleep. He looked groggy and mildly perturbed.
“I’m sorry to wake you,” Frances said, hurrying in out of the chilly morning. “I didn’t have a key.”
“It’s okay,” he grumbled.
“Go back to bed,” she said, kissing his cheek. “It’s still early.”
Jason stretched his arms overhead. “I’m up now. I’ll make coffee.”
Her husband shuffled to the kitchen as Frances removed her shoes and draped her coat over the banister near the door. She took a moment to survey her abode. In contrast to the Randolphs’ spacious, tasteful, and orderly home, the Metcalfe residence was small, cluttered, and chaotic. Their neutral sofa, sagging in the middle, the cushions fraying around the seams, housed two of Marcus’s hoodies and a blanket yanked from Frances and Jason’s bed. A dark wood coffee table was almost invisible under its toupee of remotes, mugs, video game cartridges, and spare change. The television sprouted a plethora of tangled cords attached to an Xbox and a number of other consoles, including a DVD player. (When was the last time they had watched a DVD? 2005?) On the floor, near her feet, an immersion blender, in its box, sat waiting to be returned to the store. Scrutinizing the mess, Frances suddenly felt motivated to get things in order, to de-clutter and pare down.
But first . . . coffee.
The late-autumn sun would not rise for another half hour, and with it, their boy would return home. Frances and her husband sat at their small kitchen table (one end relegated to unread newspapers, fitness magazines, school forms, and bills) and sipped their caffeine. They were both quiet and bleary, Jason in his robe, Frances in her slept-in clothing, drinking in silence. Finally, Jason spoke.
“What was that about last night?”
“What?”
“Marcus is eleven, Frances. He’s old enough to spend the night at a friend’s. Especially when we know the parents.”
Frances nodded. She knew he was right, rationally. But feelings weren’t rational, they were feelings. That didn’t make them wrong.
“Our son has a few issues, but what kid doesn’t?”
“Issues? He tried to get a classmate to drink his pee.”
“When I was in seventh grade, Andrew Turnmill took a dump in a Girl Guide cookie box and planted it in our teacher’s desk.”
“Ewww.”
“I know. . . . But he turned out okay, in the end. I think he manages a Whole Foods in Denver.”
“Remind me not to shop there.”
“Marcus made a mistake and he understands that now. We don’t have to treat him like a toddler or a . . . breakable china doll.” Jason touched her fingers. “Why won’t you let him grow up?”
Her partner was staring at her, and she met his slightly bloodshot gaze. Looking into his sleepy, handsome face, she was tempted to tell him the truth. It would all make sense once he knew what she had been through, the pain and the ugliness and the guilt. It would be a relief to stop pretending, to stop hiding what she’d done. But she couldn’t risk it. Jason was too kind, too good, too moral. If he knew who she really was, he would leave her. He could never find out.
“I was just stoned and paranoid,” she said. “I’m not going near pot again.”
“Good plan.”
“What went on after I went to bed?”
“Not much.” Jason sipped his coffee, his dark eyes avoiding hers.
“What?” she pressed.
“Nothing. I just . . . got a weird vibe off Kate.”
“What kind of weird vibe?”
“It was like she was flirting with me. Right in front of Robert. It was pretty uncomfortable.”
It was not uncommon for women to flirt with Frances’s attractive husband, but it was uncommon for him to notice. Jason, despite his swarthy good looks, was largely oblivious of his effect on other females.
“Did Kate say something? Do something?”
“Not really. It was just a vibe.”
Frances thought about the moment she’d witnessed between Kate and Jason in the kitchen. Her friend had assured her it was innocent. Her mind flitted to that day at the waterfront restaurant. Kate had flirted so effortlessly with those salesmen, had even seemed to be flirting with Frances at one point.
“I think Kate’s just the flirty type,” she said. “How did Robert react?”
“He didn’t seem bothered by it. In fact, he seemed cool with it.”
“You probably misread the signals. Because you were stoned.”
“I guess.” He stood with his empty coffee cup. “Or maybe Robert and Kate are swingers.”
“They’re not swingers,” Frances retorted. She considered herself a progressive, open-minded person. What consenting adults did behind closed doors was up to them. But she wasn’t entirely comfortable with her BFF being a swinger. Especially if her swinging sights were set on Frances’s husband.
Jason placed his mug in the sink. “I’m going to shower.”
“Okay. I’m going to tackle some of this mess.”
“Really?” Her husband looked mildly amused.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He kissed the top of her head then shuffled toward the stairs.
Frances had just started sorting the stack of papers into piles—file, chuck, action required—when a text arrived from Kate.
Hey early bird. Just having pancakes. Will bring Marcus home in 10 mins.
Frances texted back:
Thanks for having him. And for letting me stay over.
The response came.
No problem. The boys had a great time and Marcus has no idea you were here.
Frances smiled, gratitude forming a lump in her throat. Jason had to have imagined Kate’s flirtation. Kate would never do that to Frances. Her spouse had gotten his signals crossed. They would both stay away from pot in the future. She typed:
You’re the best!
When the doorbell rang, twelve minutes later, it was Robert with a bubbly Marcus full of details of pancakes and video games and ghost stories. He was hyped up on gluten and glucose, but Frances didn’t mind. It was good to see her son happy, enjoying a normal rite of passage: the sleepover. The boy hurried inside, leaving his distinguished chauffeur and his mom lingering at the door. Frances was painfully aware of the slovenliness of both her appearance and her surroundings, as Robert loitered.
“Thanks so much, Robert. For dinner and for having Marcus.”
“Our pleasure. That was a fun night.”
“Too bad I was asleep for half of it.”
“Yeah.”
“We’ll have you guys over soon,” Frances said, pushing the immersion blender box farther behind the sofa with her foot.
“We’d like that,” Robert said, and he sounded genuine. Genuine, but not remotely flirtatious. Of course, the attorney would never be attracted to Frances in her current state. She was still in her rumpled clothes, with bed head and smudged makeup. But even at her best, Robert would not be interested. Why would he ever want Frances when he had Kate?
“Have a nice day, Frances.”
“You, too.” She watched him jog down the steps to his Audi.