Saint Anything (13 page)

“Sydney,” he said. “How are you?”

“Good,” I replied. “Come on in.”

As I stepped aside to let him pass, Ames’s red Lexus pulled into the driveway. He got out right away and waved at me, which meant unless I wanted to shut the door in his face I had no choice but to stand there as he came up the walk. He opened his arms, then said, “Hey. Long time, no see.”

I hated the hugging. It was relatively new, having been instituted after the weekend he’d stayed with me. There was really no way to turn down a hug without looking like a bitch, and these were particularly squeezy and long. I let myself be drawn in and tried not to tense up totally as he slid his hands around me.

“Rough week, huh?” he said. “You doing okay?”

“Yeah,” I said, managing to untangle myself. “Mom’s inside.”

“Great.” He smiled at me, then headed down the hallway, where I heard him greet Sawyer and my parents with his usual loud familiarity. I stayed in the foyer, feeling like I needed a shower. When the doorbell sounded again, I opened it. A thin woman with her hair in a braid, wearing a flowing dress and leather clogs, was standing there. She looked very surprised to see me, as if she hadn’t just pushed a button to summon someone.

“Hi,” she stammered. “I’m, um, here to . . .”

“Michelle, right?” I asked. She nodded, blushing slightly. “I’m Sydney, Peyton’s sister. Come on in.”

She did, bringing the sweet smell of some kind of essential oil with her. “This is a lovely home,” she told me as I led her down the hallway. “I’ve . . . I haven’t been to this neighborhood before.”

“We like it,” I told her, because what do you even say to that? Thankfully, two more steps and we were in the kitchen. “Mom, Michelle’s here.”

“Hello!” my mother said. She was in her full-on gracious hostess mode, something I hadn’t seen in a while. Before Peyton’s problems, my parents had entertained a lot, both for my dad’s work and within their own social circle. In the last year, though, the dinners and cocktails had gone from sporadic to nonexistent. No one was in the mood for a party these days. “Thank you so much for coming. It’s an honor to have you.”

“You have a lovely home,” Michelle said again. There was a layer of pet hair—cat? dog? some other species?—on the back of her dress.

“This is Sawyer Ambrose, our family attorney,” my mom continued. “And my husband, Peyton, and our friend Ames Bentley. You met Sydney?”

Michelle nodded. “Yes. She’s . . . Yes, I did.”

I was no expert, but it seemed that to be a professional advocate, you
sort
of had to be able to talk to people. Michelle, in contrast, seemed nervous whenever she was addressed during the wine and cheese my mother put out before dinner. Undeterred, my mother kept talking to her, catching my dad and Ames up on the various conversations they’d had in the last week about dealing with the warden, finding out information that wasn’t being readily dispensed, and ways we could help Peyton from outside the prison.

“So,” Sawyer said to me in the midst of all this, “I hear you’re at Jackson High now. How are you liking it?”

“It’s good,” I said.

“My daughter Isley goes there,” he told me, helping himself to a small cracker and a very big slice of Gouda. “The teachers are good. The boys, though, trouble. Although I guess that’s the case wherever you are, am I right?”

“Um, yeah,” I said. My mother had gotten her social skills back, but mine were nowhere to be found. Apparently. “I guess.”

“She was dating this musician over the summer,” he continued. “Real blowhard. Walked around with a tuner in his pocket, yakking on about irony and nuance.”

That sounded awfully familiar. “What was his name?”

“Eric.” He sighed. “She came to her senses before it went too far, at least. If it was up to me, she wouldn’t date until college. But it
isn’t
up to me, of course.”

“Sawyer,” my mom interjected, putting a hand on his arm, “Michelle was just telling us about some really good opportunities for families to be involved at Lincoln.”

“I’m in,” said Ames right away. “Tell me more.”

“I don’t know,” Sawyer said, taking a sip of his wine. “You have to be careful. It might be better for Peyton for there to be a clear line between his life there and this one.”

“Well, of course Peyton’s well-being is our top priority,” my dad added, and Ames nodded.

Michelle cleared her throat. “It’s been my experience that at Lincoln they are more progressive than some of the other institutions.” A pause. A long one. Then, right when I could tell my mom was about to jump in, she continued. “Their warden is new and came from out of state—New York, I believe. He’s got a reputation for being compassionate toward families.”

“Well, I hope that is the case,” my mom said. “But first I have to get him to return my phone calls.”

“You called the warden?” Sawyer asked, surprised.

“Well . . .” My mom looked at my dad, then at Michelle. “Yes. I did. After this latest infraction, we couldn’t get any information. And I felt that it was important—”

“Julie. This is prison, not PTA.”

“I
know
that,” she said, an edge of irritation creeping into her voice. She must have heard it, too, as she paused, gathering herself, before saying, “I just wanted to know what was going on.”

“Which is your right,” Ames told her. “They can’t just keep information from you.”

“Actually, they can,” Sawyer said, wiping some crumbs from his mouth. “Really, the best thing you can do for Peyton is let him serve his sentence with as little interference as possible. He needs to keep his head down and do what he’s told. It’s the only way he has a chance of any time being shaved off.”

“I’m not interfering,” my mother said.

“Of course you aren’t.” God, Ames was such a suck-up.

“It’s important for families to feel involved,” Michelle added. When we all gave her our attention, she blushed. “It’s better than helpless.”

“No offense, miss, but I’ve been working in the law twenty years. I’ve seen a lot of clients in this situation. There are things that make it harder, and things that make it easier.”

“I think we should have dinner,” my mom announced, getting to her feet. “Just give me a minute. Sydney, a little help?”

I followed her into the kitchen, where she yanked open the stove a
bit
harder than necessary. “You okay?” I asked.

“Of course.” She took off her pot holder, picking up a spatula. “I just think we have to explore all options, in and out of the box. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Sawyer, however, disagreed, and continued to do so throughout dinner. He sparred with my mom, Ames, and a flustered Michelle while my dad kept his head down, eating the biggest slice of lasagna I’d seen him consume in recent memory.

“The basic fact,” Sawyer was saying at one point, long after I was done eating, “is that no matter what Peyton does, there’s always the truth of his case. The facts. You saw the paper this week, I’m assuming?”

“Let’s not—” my dad began.

“Totally biased piece,” Ames said.

“Biased?” I said. Now everyone looked at me. “How can you . . . It was all about that boy.”

“Yeah, but the way they wrote it.” He waved his hand, as if somehow this completed the thought and sentence. “I’m just saying.”

What
was
he saying? Never mind, I was sure I didn’t want to hear it.

“Of course we feel awful for that boy and his family,” my mom said. “But Peyton is our son. Our responsibility. We’ve got a duty to look out for him.”

That sounded familiar.

“You can only do so much now, Julie,” Sawyer said. “You need to accept that.”

“Well, I think you’re wrong,” she said simply. My dad and I exchanged a look. “Who wants dessert?”

It was, in a word, excruciating. After dinner, Ames went out to smoke while my dad took Sawyer up to his office to show him some new computer he’d just gotten. My mom and Michelle camped at the kitchen table with their coffees.

“Everyone that’s part of this process has a different viewpoint,” Michelle said to her, patting her arm. She seemed more comfortable now, one-on-one. “That’s why we need many voices. So we can have a conversation and keep it going.”

My mom sighed, running a finger around the rim of her mug. “I just . . . This is so hard. I’ve never felt so out of control.”

“It’s normal. You’re a mother. It’s been your job to protect him. You can’t just quit that, even when someone tells you to.”

By nine p.m., both Sawyer and Michelle had left. Ames remained, sitting at the table having a conversation with my parents, although my mother was doing most of the talking. The irritation she’d barely managed to mask earlier had now blown up into a full-on rage, with Sawyer as the target.

“You’d think, with all the money we paid him, he’d be more supportive,” she said at one point, taking a bite of the leftover cheesecake right out of the pan. “I mean, defending someone shouldn’t end the second a trial does.”

“Sawyer’s done right by us,” my dad said. “He just sees things differently.”

“Well, then maybe it’s time to look around for someone with a fresh view. I’ve heard great things about Bill Thomas.”

My dad sighed, clearly not convinced. Ames said, “The main focus has to be Peyton. We can’t lose sight of that.”

“Exactly,” my mom said, pointing her fork at him. “Thank God someone agrees with me.”

Not for the first time, I wondered if this was the reason I was so obsessed with David Ibarra and his aftermath and story. Someone had to carry the guilt. If my parents couldn’t—or wouldn’t—it was left to me.

“It’s still early,” Ames said to me, once my mom had gotten up to finish cleaning the kitchen and my dad disappeared upstairs. “Want to go out for some fro-yo? My treat.”

“Oh, that’s nice of you, Ames.” My mom, drying her hands on a dish towel, smiled at him. “I know this was not exactly the way Sydney wanted to spend her evening.”

In fact, she knew what my preference had been. I said, “Thanks, but I’m kind of tired.”

“Come on,” he said. “Are you really going to turn down a free hot-fudge sundae? Not to mention great company?”

“I’ll tell you what,” my mom said, reaching for her purse. “I’ll treat you both.”

“I’m really not in the mood,” I told her. “Thanks, though.”

My mom looked at me, raising an eyebrow. “You okay?”

“Fine. It’s just . . . a long week.”

She and Ames exchanged a knowing look. “It was,” she agreed, walking over and smoothing a hand over my hair. “Not to mention a long night. Ames, take a rain check?”

“Of course,” he said.

Sensing a chance to escape, I got to my feet. “I think I’ll just go upstairs and get ready for bed.”

My mom glanced at her watch. It was only nine thirty. As I started out of the room, she said, “Tomorrow is all yours, okay? Whatever you want to do.”

I had a feeling that going to Layla’s was not what she had in mind as she said this. But all I wanted was to get out of this house, be somewhere the ghost of my brother, not even dead, didn’t haunt every corner.

Up in my room, I got into my pajamas, then brushed my teeth. I kept checking to see if Ames had left yet, wondering what else he could possibly have to say to my mother, but as a half hour passed, and then another, his car remained. Finally, I crept halfway down the stairs to listen.

“She’s doing fine,” he was saying. “It’s a big adjustment. Imagine what it’s like to be in high school and dealing with this.”

“I just wish she’d stayed at Perkins. I feel like I’m losing touch with her, just because there’s so much I don’t know about her daily life.”

“That sounds like a common feeling for you.” I rolled my eyes.

“It is.” A pause. “All I ever wanted was for them to be happy.”

“Happy is a lot to ask for all the time.”

“I don’t want all the time,” she replied. “Not anymore. I’d just take a little and be grateful for it.”

She sounded so sad, so tired. At times like this it was hard to even remember the way my mom had once been, bubbling with energy and projects. Like the center of the wheel that was our family, she’d always held all our separate spokes together and kept them rolling. Now, though, more often than not, we were wobbling, lucky to be moving at all.

Before I turned out my light, I picked up my phone, glancing at the last text Layla had sent. I wished there was a way to catch her up all at once, so that she’d know what I was feeling right that moment and maybe understand. I flipped over to the article from the paper, still bookmarked, and copied the link, then pasted it into a fresh message. Then, before I could overthink it, I hit
SEND
. No explanation, no comment. Just the story as it was. I stayed awake for a while, wondering what she’d write back. When I woke up in the morning, I didn’t know whether to be happy or sad that there was no reply from her at all.

CHAPTER
11

I WAS
right. Despite her promises the night before, my mom was not exactly thrilled to discover that the one thing I wanted to do on Saturday was spend the night with Layla.

“Oh, honey,” she’d said that morning when I brought it up. It was only nine a.m., but I’d already made her sound weary. “I don’t think so. It’s already been a long week, and I don’t even know this girl.”

“She spent the night here already, though,” I pointed out, hoping to appeal to her sense of manners and social contracts. “Twice, actually.”

“That was different,” she replied, pouring herself more coffee. “You were here, and Ames was with you.”

Which was
so
much safer,
I thought. But of course she thought it was. I wondered if he actually looked different to her
physically
, his very features starkly different, since we saw him in such opposite ways. “I stayed home last night, like you asked me to. You said today was mine to do what I chose.”

“I meant something like going to the movies, or out to lunch. Not disappearing for a full night to a strange place.”

“Mom. It’s across town, not Neverland.”

She made a face at me, then looked at my dad, who was bent over his customary huge plate of bacon and eggs, reading the sports page. “Peyton? Could you weigh in here?”

“Sure.” He sat back, wiping his hands on a napkin. “On what?”

“Sydney wants to spend the night at her friend Layla’s house tonight.”

My dad looked at me, then back at her, clearly trying to guess what the issue was. I marveled, as always, at his ability to be literally inside a conversation and yet miss it altogether. Slowly, he said, “And the problem is . . .”

“That we don’t know her? Or her family?”

“Can we meet them?” he asked.

My mom looked at me, as if this prospect would dampen my drive to do this. “Sure,” I said. “Her parents own a pizza place over by my school. I’m sure they’re open for lunch. Her dad’s usually there.”

It was a tribute to how desperate I was that I was willing to bring my mom to Seaside. But this was not just me getting what I wanted. What I’d overheard her say to Ames the night before was still on my mind. There was nothing she could really do when it came to knowing more about Peyton’s world. But maybe I could give her a wider glimpse into mine.

Three hours later, I was in the passenger seat of her hybrid SUV, directing her into a parking space. My dad had a racquetball game, so it was just us, and I was strangely nervous, as if this was some sort of test I needed to pass. She cut the engine, then flipped down her visor, checking her lipstick. “Hungry?” she asked me.

“Totally,” I replied. “The pizza is great here.”

Inside, I saw Mac first, in a
SEASIDE
T-shirt and jeans, behind the counter spreading sauce onto an uncooked pie. For the first time, the thin silver chain he wore was fully visible, and I saw that it had a charm on it, something circular that looked like a coin, although it was hard to tell from a distance. “Hey,” he said. “Layla said you might be in.”

“Is she around?”

“On her way. Five minutes or so.”

I looked at my mom, who was silently taking in the dark décor, plastic tables, and black-and-white pictures lining the walls. “Mom, this is Mac,” I told her. “Layla’s brother.”

“Nice to meet you,” he said, wiping a hand on a nearby towel and extending it. My mom reached over the counter, and they shook. “Can I get you guys something?”

My mom squinted at the menu. “How are the salads?”

“Not as good as the pizza,” he replied.

At this, she smiled. “They never are, are they?”

“Nope.”

I shot him a grateful look, wondering how much Layla had told him.
Is your dad at Seaside?
I’d texted her earlier.
Mom wants a face to the overnight.

Noon,
she’d replied.
Don’t worry. We clean up well.

Texting was always weird when it came to tone, and seeing this, I wondered if I’d offended her. When she walked through the back door ten minutes later, though, I knew right off I shouldn’t have worried.

“Hey,” she said. She was in a wingy, patterned skirt and a white T-shirt, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, flip-flops on her feet. In her hand, glistening, was a cotton candy YumYum. Her dad was behind her, carrying a couple of shopping bags. She walked up to my mom and stuck out her hand. “Finally, we meet. I’m Layla.”

“Well, hello,” my mom said, shaking her hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Hopefully all good.” Layla looked at me. “Although I bet it was mostly food-related.”

“Layla loves French fries,” I explained to my mom. “And lollipops.”

“All the components of a healthy diet,” Layla said cheerfully. As she turned, looking at her dad, I could see my mom sizing her up, and wondered how she saw her. No fancy labels on her clothes, a worn purse not from this season or probably even the last. That lollipop. “Hey, Dad. Come here a second.”

Mr. Chatham emerged from behind the counter, tying an apron around his waist. “You must be Sydney’s mother,” he said to my mom. “Mac Chatham.”

“Julie Stanford. You and your son have the same name?” my mom said, shaking his hand.

“Family tradition,” he explained. “My dad was Macaulay as well.”

“It’s the same with my husband, his father, and Sydney’s brother. Three Peytons. When they’re all in the same room, confusion reigns.”

“I can usually tell which one my wife is yelling at by her tone,” he told her. “I get a bit more leeway, due to the marriage factor. But not much.”

“You have other children?”

“One. Rosie. She’s two years older than this one,” he said, cocking his thumb at Mac.

“She does competitive ice skating,” I added. “She toured with the Mariposa show.”

“Really?” my mother said. “How impressive. You must be so proud.”

“Until the drug bust,” Layla said. “Since then, not so much.”

Mr. Chatham just looked at her, while my mom, clearly surprised, struggled to get her expression back under control. I closed my eyes.

“Anyway,” Layla continued, “did you guys get everything you need? Drinks? Garlic knots?”

“We’re fine,” I told her. “I can’t wait for Mom to try your pizza.”

“I’ll make sure you get an extra big piece,” Mr. Chatham said, turning back to the counter. “Nice to meet you, Julie.”

“And you as well!” she replied. She sat back down as Layla followed him back behind the counter, turning to look at me. When they were out of earshot, she said in a low voice, “Drugs?”

“Rosie had an injury that led to some legal issues with prescriptions,” I explained, watching her face carefully. Before Peyton’s troubles, the judgment would have been automatic, almost a reflex. Now, however, she didn’t have that option unless she wanted to risk looking like a hypocrite. It was clever of Layla, I realized, to expose our common denominator right off the bat, letting her know that for all the differences, we did share something. “She’s getting back into skating now. I watched her practice the other day.”

“You did?” she said.

I nodded. “She was pretty amazing.”

Mac appeared beside us, carrying two plates of pizza. “One pepperoni, one roma,” he said, putting them down. “Anything else?”

“Not right now, I don’t think,” I told him. “Thanks.”

He nodded, then returned to the register, where Layla was now leaning against the counter, YumYum in her mouth, watching us. Her dad said something and she nodded, then replied, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.

“Wow,” my mom said, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin. “That
is
good.”

“Told you,” I said.

She glanced up at the picture beside us, which was of a boardwalk lined with games of chance, the sea visible in the distance. “I’m curious about the name. Not much coast around here.”

“I think it came from up north, from another place her granddad owned,” I said.

She nodded, then stopped chewing, cocking her head to one side. “Is that a banjo I hear?”

“Bluegrass,” I said. “It’s all that’s on the jukebox.”

For a moment, we ate in silence. The phone rang behind the counter. Mac took an order. Mr. Chatham disappeared into the office. Meanwhile, the sun slanted in the front window, making little bits of dust on the table beside us dance.

“How did you meet Layla, again?” my mom finally asked me.

I swallowed the bite in my mouth. “Here. I came in for a slice after school. And we just started talking.”

She looked back at Mac, who was pulling a pie out of the oven. “You said her mother was ill.”

“She has MS. I think they trade off taking care of her.”

“How awful.” She wiped her mouth. “And where do they live?”

“About two blocks from here.”

I could sense I was close to getting what I wanted, which was also near enough to worry about it slipping away. So I kept quiet and waited for her to speak again. Instead, the next sound that came was her phone.

She pulled it out of her bag. Upon seeing the screen, her eyes widened, and she quickly scrambled to hit the
TALK
button. “Hello?”

Distantly, I could hear the sound of an automated voice.

“Yes.” Her voice was clear and loud enough that Layla and Mac both looked over at us. “I’ll accept the charges.”

It was Peyton. I could tell by her face, the way her eyes filled with tears when, after a beat, he began to speak. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but I didn’t have to. I’d always had a sense when it came to my brother. And anyway, his voice had more presence than most people did face-to-face.

“Oh, honey,” she said, putting her other hand to her face. “Hello. Hello! How
are
you? I’ve been so worried!”

As he replied, she got to her feet and headed for the door, the phone clamped to her ear. Once outside, she began pacing on the sidewalk, her face all attention, listening hard.

“Looks like an important call.”

I glanced up to see Layla standing beside me. “My brother,” I said. “It’s the first time he’s had phone access in a while.”

She was still watching my mom, moving back and forth in front of the window. “She sure looks happy.”

“Yeah. She does.”

Neither of us spoke for a second. Then, wordlessly, she put a root beer YumYum beside my plate. Compensation? A gesture of sympathy? It could have been both these things, or neither of them. It really didn’t matter. I was grateful for it.

* * * 

When I got to Layla’s later that afternoon, I was surprised to see several cars parked in the driveway and along the curb. Clearly, I was not the only one who had been invited over.

No matter, though. I was just glad to be there, even if it did take my brother to make it happen. After hanging up with him, my mom was so over the moon, I probably could have gotten anything I asked for. This, though, was all I wanted.

I parked behind a minivan that I recognized as belonging to Ford, the bass player in Eric and Mac’s band, the name of which was still in flux. Before Hey Dude, they’d been known as Hog Dog Water, both names Eric felt did not “do their art justice.” This had been the subject of another extended discussion at lunch on Friday, during which Layla said he should pick a name and stick with it, for recognition if nothing else. He, however, maintained that a band’s identity was not something to be decided lightly: whatever they became next was important. Unlike, say, Hot Dog Water.

From there, the conversation had gone about how they all did, segueing from a somewhat civilized discussion to Eric performing a loud monologue that no one else could interrupt. I often left lunch feeling exhausted, and that day I’d almost fallen asleep in my ecology class afterward.

The band might have been nameless, but this didn’t prevent them from practicing, if the noise I heard as I walked up to the house was any indication. The music was coming from around the side of the house, so I followed it, coming upon an outbuilding that sat between a truck up on blocks and a large sedan with a sunken-in roof. Smaller than a garage, but bigger than a shed, it had two wooden doors that were open, revealing Mac at his drum set, Eric behind a microphone, and Ford, who was fiddling with an amplifier. In front of them was Layla, in a lawn chair. She was wearing sunglasses.

“Verdict?” she was saying as I came up behind her. “Too loud. Not good.”

Eric just looked at her. “Don’t feel the need to candy-coat, Chatham.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t.”

“We’re supposed to be loud, though,” Ford said, unplugging something, then plugging it back in. “That’s part of the whole ethos, right? That this music was, in its original form, so highly controlled and conducted, even computerized. Making it raw and rough turns it on its head.”

Mac, drumsticks in hand, raised his eyebrows. “Dude,” he said. “You’ve been hanging out with Eric
way
too much.”

“On the contrary, I think someone is finally talking sense around here,” Eric said. “Now we just need to get our drummer on board with the message and we’ll be all set.”

“Forget your message,” Layla told him. “Concentrate on playing well.”