These Girls (35 page)

There wasn’t any way to do this but to plunge in. “Do you mind if we sit down for a minute?” Abby asked. “Maybe in the living room?”

After a brief pause, during which her parents’ eyes met, her mother said, “Sure.”

Abby’s father led them into the room. Unlike the kitchen, it
still looked exactly the same as it had when Abby was growing up—maybe because no one ever actually used it. It had navy blue couches stuffed with hard foam, shining dark wood coffee and end tables, and a mantel with family pictures in silver frames. But none of Stevie.

Thinking about it made a lump come into Abby’s throat. She’d once stumbled across an old sepia photo of him in a family album that her parents kept in the attic. She remembered he was wearing a little sailor suit and a big smile. Abby wondered if it had been his last picture. She was glad he looked happy.

“I wanted to ask you about Stevie,” she said. “I can’t stop thinking about him lately.”

She heard her mother’s sharp intake of breath.

“I know this is so hard,” Abby said. “It’s hard for me, too.” She paused.
You deserve this, Stevie,
she thought.
You deserve to be talked about. To be known.

“What do you want to know, Abby?” her father asked. She heard the ice clink in his glass as he raised it for another sip.

“What he was like,” Abby said. “When he began to walk and talk. Why you decided to name him Stevie . . .”

“He was a good boy,” her mother said. Just that one sentence; an entire life boiled down to five syllables.

“Mom, Dad, I’m so sorry you lost him,” Abby said. “I’m sorry for all of us. I would love to know more. I can’t remember much, but now that I’m taking care of Annabelle and she’s about the same age as when . . . as Stevie was . . . I just keep thinking about him.”

“I’m not sure we should—” her father began.

“Talk about him?” Abby interrupted. She felt unexpected anger rise within her, and her voice soared along with it. “Why not? Why don’t we
ever
talk about him?”

“Abby,” her father said. “He’s gone, okay?” He took another quick gulp of his drink. “He died twenty-four years ago last month.”

She looked at her father in surprise: He’d pulled out that date so quickly. Did he think about Stevie all the time? Maybe both of her parents did.

“What did Stevie like?” Abby persisted. “Trucks? Animals?”

“He loved flowers.”

Abby turned in surprise toward her mother’s voice.

“He’d take the hose and water all the flowers in the yard. We’d turn it on to just a trickle, and he’d carry it around for hours.”

“Thank you,” Abby breathed. She moved over to kneel on the carpet in front of her mother. “Mom, can you tell me what illness he had?”

“Abby.” Her father’s voice was a warning now.

She hadn’t expected this. She’d thought her mother would be the one to walk away, to cut off the conversation. She’d always felt a bit closer to her father than to her mother.

“Dad, please,” she said.

“It was an accident,” he said.

“I thought—I thought he was sick,” Abby said. She looked back and forth at her parents. “He wasn’t?”

They didn’t say anything.

“You told us he was sick,” Abby said. Her heart began to pound, but she couldn’t stop, not now.

“It seemed like . . . the right thing to do,” her father said. “Jesus, Abby, could you please . . .”

Her mother was still looking into space, as if in a trance. “I hated flowers after he died,” she said. “I tore them all out of the yard.”

“What kind of accident?” Abby whispered.

“We told you not to take him into the car,” her mother said, so softly that it took a moment for the meaning of the words to penetrate Abby’s brain.

“Oh, my God,” Abby said. “What happened?”

Her father began talking quickly. “You didn’t mean anything, Abby. You took him outside. We didn’t notice he was missing right away, and then we thought he was hiding somewhere. So we were looking for him inside. But you’d just figured out how to open the front door by yourself, and you took Stevie out to the car. You wanted to pretend to take him for a ride. You were showing Stevie how the levers and pedals worked and you . . .”

He stopped.

“What?” Abby whispered. “What did I do?”

Her mother spoke again. “You grabbed the wrong lever. You put the car into reverse.” She was staring into space, and her voice was a monotone. “The brake wasn’t on, and it was an old car. He fell out when the car began to roll. The newer ones don’t move without a key, but this car—”

Abby was still looking at her mother, but all she could see was the child lying on the macadam driveway in her dream. “The car ran over Stevie,” she whispered. “I did it.”

Her father cut in quickly. “It was an accident,” he repeated. “A terrible accident. Abby, we don’t blame you.”

Abby was still on her knees in front of her mother. She wanted to reach out to her, but she couldn’t. She could only manage to release one mangled word, a mixture of a plea and a sob: “Mom?”

“We told you never to take him outside without us. Again and again. Abby . . . I know you didn’t mean to do it. I just wish you’d listened,” her mother said. She exhaled, and her whole face sagged, as if it was a mask she’d been wearing all these years and had only now become loose. “He was such a happy little boy.”

Abby tried to stand up, but she fell back to her knees. “I’m sorry,” she cried. “I didn’t know.”

She pulled herself up and ran from the room on shaking legs.
We don’t blame you,
her father had said. But her mother had remained silent. She heard the wailing from her dream, that awful high-pitched sound, but now it was coming from her.

Abby opened the front door and hurried down the steps, stopping to grab the railing and lean over to retch in the bushes in front of the house. She’d given her mother flowers once when she was a little girl, and her mother had just stared at them. Her parents wouldn’t teach her how to drive. Was everything she did a constant reminder of Stevie’s death? Could they even look at her without thinking of it?

“Abby!” her father called from the doorway.

She didn’t turn to look. She fumbled for the keys in her purse, her breath coming in jagged gasps as she ran to her car. This explained the absence of laughter and light in their house. Her parents hadn’t forgotten Stevie. They’d never stopped thinking about him.

She’d left her coat inside her parents’ closet and she was shivering violently, but she didn’t feel the cold. She pulled up in front of Bob and Joanna’s house with no memory of how she’d gotten there and ran around to the side steps to look in through the window in the kitchen door. Bob might be cooking. She needed him to hold her, to keep her from shattering into a million pieces.

But as she approached, she could see into the brightly lit kitchen. All three of them were around the table with a spaghetti dinner in front of them. Annabelle was still wearing her tutu, and a bit of red sauce was on her nose. As Abby watched, Joanna leaned over and wiped it off with her napkin, then kissed the tip of Annabelle’s nose while Bob smiled at them.

At that moment the weight of everything she’d done crashed down on her, leaving Abby curled up on the cold metal steps outside the kitchen door, her arms clutching her stomach.
She’d thought that she was better than Joanna—that she could replace her—but she was wrong. Bob wasn’t going to leave Joanna. He’d never choose Abby.

She cried silently for a long time in the darkness, not moving even when it began to rain. Finally, she made herself stand up. She slipped in through the basement door and threw a few belongings into her backpack, then got back in her car.

Her mind clung to one word as she pointed her car toward the highway leading north:
Trey.

Twenty-six

IF SHE WAS TRYING
to look on the bright side, at least she’d gotten Nigel’s attention, Renee thought as she accepted the glass of orange juice Cate handed her. Passing out at your boss’s feet was certainly an unorthodox career strategy.

“Are you sure you don’t want to see a doctor?” Cate asked, her forehead wrinkling as she looked at Renee. “You’re already getting a bruise on your cheek.”

“I’ve got some fresh ice,” Abby said, coming into Renee’s bedroom and holding a Ziploc bag wrapped in a towel.

Trey kept ducking out of the way as the women maneuvered around the small room. Every time he found an empty spot, someone needed to pass by. Finally he just sat down on the foot of Renee’s bed. She’d imagined him in that precise spot more than once, but in none of those scenarios was she wearing a blood-splattered shirt—she’d bumped her nose as well as her cheek—while her friends stood by, offering to fix soup.

“I can’t believe the flu came on so suddenly,” Cate said, shaking out the quilt and laying it across Renee’s legs. “You seemed fine this morning. You weren’t feverish or anything, were you?”

Renee felt a flash of guilt. “Well, I have been feeling a little
dizzy and warm for the past day or so, but I didn’t think anything of it. And I guess I haven’t had much of an appetite lately.”

“Do you need anything else?” Abby asked.

“I’m okay, really,” Renee said for the hundredth time. She tried to smile, but it made her wince. “Maybe just one more Motrin.”

“We ran out, but I can—” Cate began.

“Let me go to the store,” Trey jumped in. “Anything else?”

“Trashy celebrity magazines?” Renee suggested. “I’m on my sickbed, you know. They’re my right.”

Trey grinned. “And you should probably have some junk food. It’s very healing. I’ll see if I can find a pastry shop.”

“You should get enough for everyone,” Renee suggested. “I could be contagious, and it’ll help them ward it off.”

Trey laughed. “In that case I’ll get a giant box.”

“I just wish we’d seen what was happening sooner. Trey jumped up to catch you, but you hit the floor so fast,” Cate was saying. “And then when you didn’t respond when I called your name. . . .”

She put a hand to her chest. “I’ve never been so terrified.”

“Are you angling for two pastries?” Renee asked.

Cate grinned and patted Renee’s leg through the quilt. “How about I make some tea?”

“Sure,” Renee said. “Tea sounds great.”

It was only after everyone else had left the room that Renee focused on Abby, sitting quietly in the lone chair, her big eyes taking everything in.

“I hope I don’t pass this flu on to you,” Renee said. “I actually don’t feel that awful anymore. Maybe it’s just a twenty-four-hour thing.”

Abby stood up and came over to perch on the end of Renee’s bed, tucking her legs up underneath her.

“Have you ever fainted before?” she asked.

“Just one other time,” Renee said.

“Recently?”

Renee hesitated a beat too long. “No,” she lied. “It was years ago.”

Abby nodded. “I was just thinking about when I had the nightmare,” she said. “You came and sat on my bed, just like we’re sitting here now. You knew how to help me.”

“I’m glad,” Renee said. She gave a little laugh. “Does that make up for my inability to walk across a lunchroom without creating drama?”

She was trying to lighten the mood, but Abby didn’t play along. “After Trey called to tell me what happened, I wanted to come see you,” she said. “To help you, if I could.”

“Thanks,” Renee said. “You didn’t need to, but I’m glad you did.”

“I don’t think you really have the flu,” Abby said. “Renee, please tell me. Are you sick?”

Renee opened her mouth to say something—a quick comment that would ease the worry in Abby’s eyes and turn the conversation in a new direction, but she couldn’t. Something in Abby’s sweet face made lying impossible. Her throat tightened.

“Remember that day when you tried on all your clothes and asked me what you should keep?” Abby asked.

Renee nodded.

“Every time I saw you after that, I kept noticing how different you looked,” Abby continued. “It didn’t seem possible that you were losing weight so quickly.”

Renee dropped her eyes and swallowed hard.
Don’t cry,
she told herself.

“It isn’t . . . Look, it’s nothing serious,” Renee said. “I’ve just been taking a few diet pills, that’s all. They make me dizzy sometimes.”

“How long have you been taking them?” Abby asked.

Renee ran a hand across her forehead. “Maybe a couple of weeks? I’m not exactly sure. But I promise you it isn’t a big deal.”

“How many pills do you take a day?” Abby’s voice was so gentle; there wasn’t a trace of judgment in it.

“A few.”

“Did you ever take more?” Abby asked.

“Maybe on some days,” Renee said. She cleared her throat and made herself smile. “Only when all the chocolate cake in the cafeteria visibly cringed when I walked by. Man, you should see my chocolate cake massacres.” Her laugh sounded hollow even to her own ears. “But, listen, Abby, I think—”

“I can tell you don’t want to talk about this,” Abby said.

Renee started to protest, but the truth in those words stopped her.

“I realized something recently,” Abby said slowly. “I think the hardest things to talk about are also the most important things to talk about.”

Abby’s eyes told Renee that she was speaking about herself, too.

They sat in silence for a long moment. Renee had tried so hard to be upbeat, to camouflage what was happening, but she was scared. She had no memory of fainting, and when she thought back over the past weeks, they were a blur. She was aware only of a weariness so deep it felt like her very bones were bruised.

“At first they just kept me from feeling hungry,” she whispered. “Then they kept me from getting too tired. It was like this huge jolt of caffeine. But I had to take more and more to get the same effect.”

Abby reached over and covered Renee’s hand with her own. “Your hands are shaking,” she said.

“Does anyone else know?” Renee finally asked.

“No,” Abby said. She kept looking steadily at Renee.

“But you think I should tell them?”

Abby looked down at their clasped hands, then back up at Renee. “I never told you why I left Maryland,” she said. “I think I should, if I’m asking you to talk about this.”