Closer Home (26 page)

“That’s a lot of food,” she says, when the table is all set. “You should invite Dale.”

“Too late now. The food would get cold.” I hide my face in the process of dishing up my plate.

“There’s a microwave.”

“Right. That’s what we call it, anyway. Just eat, okay? Maybe you can go up to the Elliots’ for dinner tomorrow. After we spend the day being normal for the reporter.”

She laughs a little bit at that, and we eat in companionable silence. The chicken is chewy and bland, the broccoli overcooked. I focus on my potato, slathering it with butter and sour cream and salt. It’s hard to go wrong with a baked potato.

“Don’t feed Melody,” Ariel says, pushing her plate away with half a piece of chicken uneaten. “She’ll call CPS on account of child cruelty.”

“Ha. Very funny. The potato is good.”

“I don’t like potato.”

“Then eat bread.”

“Can I put honey on it?”

“Do I care?”

“Like I said. Don’t feed Melody.”

We both burst out laughing. We load up on potatoes and bread, and then we clean the kitchen. Together. There’s no dishwasher, so she washes and I dry.

“This is nice,” Ariel says, when we get a rhythm going. “Mom never did dishes.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Even when you were kids?”

“Especially then.” She’s right: it is nice working together. It’s close to the feeling of making music with somebody. It used to be like this when Dale helped clean up the kitchen. But now any thought of Dale makes me feel like a boat adrift on a vast and lonely sea.

All at once my dish towel is wet and clammy; the plate in my hand is slippery, and I nearly drop it. Dale didn’t call today, not even to check on Ariel. Tomorrow, Ariel and I have to pal around all day with a camera-toting reporter while pretending to be normal.

We finish cleaning up the kitchen in silence, and my last lingering emotion before sleep comes is one of dread.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“She’s here.” Ariel stands at the living-room window, self-appointed watch person. She’s wearing the same outfit she wore to church the day we went to see Kelvin, freshly laundered and carefully pressed. A touch of makeup, all she ever wears. Her hair is braided, but she’s left a few strands loose around her face. She looks softer today, younger, despite the high alert.

I join her at the window, both of us in full view. It’s not like the lenses aimed in our direction are sniper rifles. If we’re going to be an open book for the media, then they might as well know we’re watching them.

The compact from Nevada has been freshly washed and is white again. It’s familiar by now, a known entity, and I feel almost friendly toward the driver. He leans against his door, sipping coffee from a paper cup. I catch myself, hoping he found something better than the gas station swill I had yesterday, and then I remind myself he’s the enemy and deserves the shittiest coffee imaginable. The brown sedan is missing. There are three unknown cars that might on another day be dismissed as people visiting neighbors, but each one is equipped with a camera. My own Subaru is back from the airport, parked in the driveway, freshly washed and respectable looking.

Melody Smith climbs out of a midsize rental, red curls like flame in the early morning light. Score one point for her—since I’m paying for the car, she could have had anything she wanted, but she kept it inconspicuous. The camera on the strap around her neck is another story. It looks bigger and shinier than the one I drowned in the pool. I’ll be getting the bill for the camera, too, but that’s fair. She pauses outside the car to shoot the house and the yard, no doubt with Ariel and me framed in the window. She takes some shots of the scavengers. And then she heads up the sidewalk toward the front door.

White Compact whistles at her back. “Hey, they’ve got a dog. Maybe guns.”

George joins us at the window and starts barking. It’s a big, mean bark, but Melody doesn’t break stride. Before she has time to ring the doorbell, I’ve got the door open, hustling her in. George stops barking and starts sniffing her over from the feet up. She laughs and takes his picture. Before she says a word, she snaps a shot of me and Ariel, too.

I know damn well the room behind her is spotless. I saw to that myself. We’re ready. The cupboards are stocked. We are neat, clean, pressed, and ready to present the best sides of ourselves to the world. Still, my insides are quaking, and I flinch every time the flash goes off. Social awkwardness swamps me. Do I invite her into the living room? Give her a tour of the house? My palms are damp and I’m breathing too fast.

“Long drive,” Ariel says, sounding calm. “Coffee? And let me show you where the bathroom is.”

“Coffee would be amazing,” Melody says, following her. “That drive from Spokane is kind of terrifying.”

“Right?” Ariel says. “Miles and miles of nothing. But at least there’s cell service.”

This leaves me blank. I’ve always thought it was a beautiful drive. At night, it’s a pain in the ass because no gas stations are open, but the drive through Spokane is much more anxiety provoking for me. All those cars, all those people. Leaving Melody to freshen up or do whatever needs doing in the bathroom, I follow Ariel into the kitchen. She pours out three mugs of coffee. We each doctor our own. About a half a cup of sugar for Ariel, nothing but half-and-half for me.

It’s not until Melody comes in and snaps a picture that I realize maybe other people don’t pour the cream right out of the carton or get the sugar out of the bag. People like Callie, anyway. The sort of people the paparazzi are used to following. Maybe they have cream pitchers and sugar canisters. My knees have that wobbly thing going again, and I’m grateful that the coffee gives me something to do with my hands.

Melody has no problem fixing her own cup. “Thanks for this,” she says, not meaning coffee. “It’s an amazing break for me.”

“It had to be somebody.”

She grins, not taking offense. “Look, I’m sure you’re not happy to have me in your house. But for what it’s worth, I think you’re right to do this. Best way to get the others off your back, at least for a while. Tell the story. Stop the speculation.”

“That’s just part of it,” Ariel says. “Making them go away. We want . . .” Her voice quavers and she takes a drink, her eyes pleading with me over the top of the cup.

“We’re also hoping this will help make Ricken’s accusations go away. The last thing Ariel needs is to be torn away from her family.”

“Which is you.” The green eyes are intelligent and laser focused. “I assume you haven’t found the father yet, or guardianship questions would be taking a whole different turn.”

Ariel chokes on her coffee. I grab the cup to save it from spilling, but it’s all reflexes. In the beginning, Ariel finding her father was all to the good. If she found him, and he was a decent guy, he could take over the responsibility of raising her. Now the very thought of her going to live with somebody else feels like an elbow to the gut.

“I’ll be staying with Lise,” Ariel says. “Looking for my father is on hold until the media thing settles down. Do you want a tour? Or did you want to talk first, or what?”

“I’m camera first, story later,” Melody says. “Walk me around and I’ll ask questions as we go. Am I right that this is where Callie grew up? I’d love to see her bedroom.”

The camera flash lights up every corner of the old house. Hallways and stairway, bedrooms and living room, the broken ivory on the old piano. I follow in its wake, seeing the house with different eyes. Shabby. Run-down. The rooms small and cramped. The curtains old and faded. All of it outdated and scruffy and countrified.

Melody asks questions along the way, and I answer her as best I can. In my parents’ room, she takes way more photos than I think are called for. She makes Ariel sit on the bed, stand by the window, hold an old china dog that sits on the dresser.

“Where are they?” she asks.

“Where are who?” The question derails my thoughts, which are on the house, the realtor, the nagging question of why I don’t do more to sell the place and move on.

“Your parents.”

“He’s in the cemetery. She’s in a nursing home.”

“Excellent.” She lets the camera drop to the end of its strap and puts her hands on the small of her back, leaning into a stretch.

“That’s not the usual response that comes to mind.”

“But perfect for us. We’re going to go visit them.”

“Wait just a minute. That’s not part of the—”

“Have you met your grandma?” Melody cuts me off midthought, swinging around to capture Ariel’s reaction with the camera.

“I was six. I don’t remember her very well.”

“Better and better. We go see Grandma in the home. It will be all very touching. And it presents Lise as a caring, dutiful, and responsible daughter. Then we go put flowers on the grave—”

“My parents are not part of this freak show!” My hands are shaking again. “The house, me, Ariel—that’s one thing. We set ourselves up for this. But exposing my mother’s dementia to all the world, pretending dutiful visits to my father’s grave, that’s different! I won’t do it.”

Melody shrugs. “Your funeral. You’re missing a golden opportunity.”

“You said you always visit Grandma in the afternoon,” Ariel says. Her voice is determined, her eyes challenging. “We’re doing normal, remember?”

“There’s nothing normal about bringing cameras into a nursing home. What we’re going to do is this: We go sit downstairs and Ariel tells the story of why she’s looking for her dad. Melody gets to ask some more questions and take some notes. No more pictures. We eat lunch. And that’s it. Interview over.”

“But—”

“No buts. I’m done.”

I turn and march through the door and down the stairs, not waiting to see if they’ll follow. The doorbell rings, and I’m mad enough to answer it. If it’s paparazzi, all the better, I have some things I want to say.

A stranger stands on the porch, but he doesn’t have a camera. Midthirties, navy slacks, pinstripe shirt, tie. His hair is slicked back, his face smoothly shaven. And he’s got a name tag that declares he’s Erik Crandall, MSW, an employee of the Department of Children and Family Services. He carries a briefcase in one hand.

I stare at him, blankly, all words blown away by that name tag.

He introduces himself politely enough. “We received a call from a concerned citizen that there is a child in your home who is at risk. May I come in?”

“It’s not a good time.”

He smiles with professional condescension. “It’s never a good time, is it? I can come back later with the police if you prefer.”

Out in the street, the camera guys are converging on the house like kids on a Christmas tree. I step aside and let him in, locking the door behind him.

“Can you tell me what the allegations are, specifically?” I manage to stay outwardly calm.

“Just some concerns about the child. Is she here? Or is she in school?”

“She’s here. Under the circumstances, the principal of her school in Nevada agreed it would be best for her to complete the year with home study.”

“May I see her schoolwork?”

“Her textbooks should be arriving today. You do know that her mother just died, right?”

“It’s usually best for a child to return to school and her usual routines quite quickly. I’d like to look around the house, if that’s okay.”

None of this is okay, of course, but I bite my tongue to keep from telling him so. “Where would you like to start?”

“How about the kitchen?”

I lead him down the hallway. At the bottom of the stairs we nearly collide with Ariel, Melody, and George.

“This is Ariel,” I say. “And Melody. She’s . . . um, visiting.”

No need to make introductions the other way. Ariel’s quick eyes have already caught the name tag and the purpose of the visit. She throws her arms around my waist and leans her head on my shoulder, turning a high-beam smile on Erik while George goes to work sniffing every square inch of his pants.

“Hi,” Ariel says. “I bet Ricken called you.”

“Now why would you say that?” Erik pushes George’s intrusive nose away from his crotch, brushing at the black fur clinging to his pants.

“We fired him. He got mad and he’s worried he’ll lose out on the money.”

“I can’t tell you who called, I’m afraid. Are you happy with your aunt?”

“Of course!”

I should get the girl some acting classes. She’s a natural. But I see from Erik’s face that her happiness isn’t necessarily the point. He opens his mouth to say something, stops, and stifles a sneeze with his sleeve.

“Allergic to dogs,” he says, looking down at George, who sits in front of him, panting happily and waiting to be petted.

I’m pretty sure Erik would like me to put the dog outside, but instead I turn and head for the kitchen. Ariel follows, George at her heels. Then Erik, with Melody bringing up the rear. Erik sets the briefcase on the counter and pulls out a pen and clipboard. Then he goes through the cupboards and looks in the fridge, checking off boxes and making notes as he goes. Thanks to Lexy, the fridge is full of milk and eggs, fresh vegetables, chicken, whole-grain bread. The cupboards are also all well stocked. The kitchen is spotless, and evidence of our junk-food binges and high-carb dinner is in the trash can.

He asks Ariel about school and she gives him the same information I did about finishing out the year from home. She volunteers that it’s important for her to be with me, her only family. Her smile is bright, her body language relaxed. But there’s a set to her chin and an expression in her eyes that reminds me she’s Callie’s daughter and my father’s grandchild. If she explodes while Erik is in the room, God help us all.

“One of the concerns is that both of you are using drugs,” Erik says, completely unaware of the storm that’s brewing. “Any truth to that?”

Ariel beats me to the retort. “Last I heard, pot was legal in Washington State. Are they taking kids for that now?”

I recognize the sarcasm. Erik misses it. “So you are using marijuana, then?” He pronounces the word precisely, like a medical term, and the wicked part of me wants to play with him, shake him up, scandalize him a little. But the last thing we need is a scandalized CPS guy. So I bite my tongue and dig my fingernails into Ariel’s hand as warning.

“Alcohol is legal as well,” he goes on, “but often creates an unhealthy environment for a child. Do you drink, Ms. Redding?”

“Rarely.”

“And you are aware that any alcohol or marijuana use is illegal for a sixteen-year-old, I’m sure.”

“She’s not using drugs.” Memory of the bottle stashed in Callie’s drawer colors my response and makes my voice fall flat. Where did Ariel put it? If he searches the room, he’ll never believe it’s been there for sixteen years.

“Well, it would be helpful to run a drug screen. Are you both able to do that today?”

“We have plans.”

“You can do it tomorrow, of course,” he says. “But then there will always be a level of doubt. It should only take a few minutes. Depending on how busy the lab is.” He smiles, showing all of his teeth. “Now. We need to talk about paternity and the media and what’s been going on the last few weeks. Maybe we should go sit down and get comfortable, yes? And maybe your photographer friend should leave.”

“Melody stays.”

“It’s exactly this sort of thing that makes it appear you are seeking media attention. It can’t be good for a vulnerable child to have a photographer actually in the home.”

“She’s here to make the others go away.”

“Or maybe you’ve been feeding the media information all along. It’s not uncommon, I understand, for stars to accidentally leak their location to get press.”

Turns out I’m also my father’s daughter. Rage, already simmering, flares hot and bright. I want to throw something, break something, slam a fist into his perfect little nose. I dig my fingernails into my palms, focusing on the pain. “If you’re suggesting—”

“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m asking.”

“Haven’t you been watching the news?” Ariel asks. “It was Shadow.”

“Oh, come now. And you really didn’t know what was going on?”