The Word Game (7 page)

CHAPTER EIGHT

ID
A

Late Saturday morning

Müßiggang ist des aller Laster Anfang.
Being idle is the beginning to vice. Something her own mother used to say on a daily basis. She remembered growing up hating that saying, but with her own girls, she realized how true it really was. As long as she kept the girls busy with chores or other things around the house, they were out of trouble.

For the most part. There was only so much a mother could control. Unfortunately.

“What’s that you’re making?” Gord entered the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee.

“Strudel.” With all the ingredients now in the bowl, Ida began the work of hand mixing it. Strudel was a dessert that needed a personal touch, and using the new mixing bowl the girls had bought her a few years ago for Christmas just didn’t do the job right.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Why?” Ida worked the water into the flour mixture until a soft ball of dough formed.

“Because you never make strudel unless you’re
verrückt.
” Gord took his coffee and sat down at the kitchen table where Ida had placed the morning paper for him.

“Who said I was mad? I’m in the mood to bake.” With the dough ready, Ida wiped down the counter and then dusted it lightly with flour.

“Uh-huh.”

Ida grabbed the dough out of the bowl and dropped it hard down on the counter.

“Be careful, or you won’t get any of this.” Ida warned her husband. She wasn’t in the mood, not after the phone call with Tricia this morning.

Okay, so maybe she was upset. But not mad. More like worried.

In order for the dough to have the right texture for the strudel, you had to be rough with it in the beginning.
Pfund es wie Sie es bedeuten
. Pound it like you mean it, her mother used to say. While everyone else in the house would disperse whenever their Mutter prepared strudel, Ida would stand to the side and watch closely. She’d count the times her mother would pick up the dough and drop it back down, and she’d notice the way her mother’s body relaxed halfway through the steps, as if she worked out any issues she had on the dough.

Which is probably why Gord claimed she only made strudel when upset. It was cathartic for her.

“I heard you talking to Tricia. What happened?”

With lips pursed tight, Ida dropped the ball of dough onto the counter a few times.

“Alyson is upset.” She stole a glance over at her husband and saw his frown. “She got mad at Tricia for not being there when she arrived.”

“So? We were there.” Gord then nodded. “I see . . . because we were there, and she wasn’t.” His shoulders sagged, and he shook his head in bewilderment but didn’t say anything else.

He didn’t need to.

“I thought with her letting Lyla stay at Tricia’s . . . Why don’t I call her? Maybe explain to Scott. I need to speak to him anyways,” Gord suggested.

“Don’t you dare. It’ll only make things worse. Nothing we say or do is going to change our daughter’s mind about leaving her child with us, and we both know it.” She dropped the dough again. “And you just leave that boy alone. You know he works on his own projects on the weekends.”

“He shouldn’t have to. I pay him enough and keep him busy enough . . . He needs to pay more attention to his family.”

“He has his own path to walk, just like you did,” she reminded him.

Gord grunted.
“Ein weiser Mann hört auf die Älternen.”

When Gord spoke in German, Ida knew he was more than a little bothered.

“A wise man learns from his elders? You never did. Why”—a smile crept onto Ida’s face—“I seem to recall you complaining about all the lectures my own father used to give you.”

Gord muttered something low, and while Ida smiled, she didn’t ask him to repeat himself. Her father had been hard on Gord, but then, they’d been awfully young when they married, and Gord knew nothing about providing for a wife and child. It was thanks to her father that Gord learned his carpentry skills.

“I’ll talk to him tomorrow then.” The table chair skidded back as Gord stood. “Call your daughter before dinner tomorrow. The last thing I want is a family argument over hurt feelings.”

Ida sighed. “I’ll call my daughter in a little bit. When I’ve calmed down.”

“What’s there to calm down about? This issue of hers isn’t new. She’ll come around one day. Just call and apologize.”

“I am not apologizing for making cookies with my grandchildren. I will never apologize for being there and spending time with them.” The very idea had her blood pumping. He should know better. “Besides, Tricia said she was upset about something else. She seems to think something else happened last night other than Katy and Keera sneaking off.”

“Really? Is she maybe overreacting as usual?” her husband asked.

Ida shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Fine,” Gord grumbled. “Who’s hosting the dinner tomorrow anyways? Sure hope it’s not Aly’s turn. I don’t ever want to taste that cauliflower crap she tried to pass off as mashed potatoes again.”

“Tricia’s.” Every Sunday afternoon, they alternated homes for their family dinners.

“Gonna be a madhouse then.”

Ida nodded. It amazed her—the difference between her two daughters. Tricia’s home was chaos and noise and loud love. Aly’s home was serene, clean, and while not quiet, it was manageable.

“You know what? Don’t you think it’s time to stop giving Alyson the white-glove treatment? Both you and Tricia tiptoe around her as if she’s made of glass and you’re afraid she’s going to shatter if you stand up to her too much.”

“I . . . I do not,” Ida sputtered before picking up the dough and slamming it down onto the counter. By now, the dough was becoming smooth and stretchy, just the way it should be for strudel. “I do not tiptoe around my daughter,” she finally said through clenched teeth.

“You do. You always have. Ever since she was little and—”

“Enough!” Ida yelled, stopping her husband from saying anything more. “Enough,” she repeated, but this time with her voice lowered. “You’ve made your point. Now go, and leave me be. Don’t you have a cabinet or something to make?”

Without thought, she began to knead the dough, pushing with her clenched fists one way and then another, the rhythmic motions helping to calm her down. She knew Gordon was still there, standing behind her, but she ignored him. She counted the seconds, continuing the process for a full minute before she shaped the dough into a disk. She reached for the oil and spread it on top, smoothing it on with her fingers before putting the dough in a bowl and covering it with a cloth.

By the time she prepped the filing, the dough would be ready.

“Why are you still here?” She finally turned, hands on hips, and glared at her husband, who smiled at her. She ground her teeth with frustration.

“I love you.” He held out his arms.

“Verrückter alter Mann.”
You crazy old man.
Ida let out a long breath. “I love you too, you old fool. Now scat. I’ve got work to do and don’t need you distracting me.”

She lifted her head and accepted his kiss.

“Now go, or I’m never going to get this made.” She swatted at his arm and watched as he sauntered off to his workshop.

“I don’t tiptoe around Aly,” Ida mumbled to herself, while she gathered the washed apples from her sink. “You make it sound like I’m afraid of my own child and that’s the furthest thing from the truth. I just respect her boundaries, that’s all.”

To prove her point, she reached for the phone and called her daughter.

“Mom, now isn’t a good time,” Alyson answered.

“Sounds like it might be the perfect time then. What’s the matter?” For once, she’d like to be there for Alyson, really be there and have her daughter see it, accept it, acknowledge it.

“If I tell you, you won’t believe me, so I’m not going to waste my breath. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“No. Wait.” The words rushed out from Ida, worried that Aly would hang up on her. “Tell me. Let me help.”

Alyson snorted—the sound harsh and unforgiving. “Trust me, there’s nothing you can do to help.” Ida recoiled from the bitter ring in her daughter’s voice.

“Tricia mentioned—”

“Tricia mentioned what exactly?” Alyson interrupted her. “Seriously, does she need to go running to you all the time? If you’re calling to talk about my conversation with Tricia earlier, don’t. That’s between me and her.”

“Now that’s enough.” Ida didn’t like where this was going or how Alyson was talking about her sister. “I don’t understand where you get off thinking it’s okay to act this way with me. I’m your mother, and you can show me some respect. Whatever you think happened probably didn’t, but as usual, you’re blowing it out of proportion.”

The moment she said the words, Ida knew she’d gone too far.

“You don’t believe me—surprise, surprise. Why did I even think you would? I should know better by now. Do me a favor. Leave me alone right now.”

“Aly, that’s not what I—”

There was a click on the other end of the phone. Her daughter had hung up on her.

“Meant,” Ida finished. She groaned in frustration. Why couldn’t she say the right things at the right times, rather than messing it up?

She continued to slice the apples before adding the pieces to the bowl and coating them with cinnamon sugar. Something was wrong with Alyson, and she prayed it had nothing to do with Lyla. Alyson had her own demons, and hopefully, that was all it was.

Hopefully, it wasn’t anything worse. Ida didn’t know what she would do if history was repeating itself.

CHAPTER NINE

ALYSON

Fo
r the umpteenth time, Alyson checked the time on her phone. Scott was supposed to have been back ten minutes ago. He always called or sent a text if he was running late, and so far he hadn’t.

What could he be doing? Where was he? This wasn’t like him at all.

Exactly three minutes later, she heard the garage door open and she breathed a sigh of relief. She waited patiently for him to walk into the house, having already poured him a cold glass of water and set out some cubed cheese and pepperoni sticks for him to snack on before he walked up the stairs for a shower.

“Thanks, hon.” It was the first and only thing he said once he walked in the door. He downed the water, and bit into the cheese, and then he visibly relaxed.

“Where’s Lyla?” He looked around the room.

“Upstairs in her room.” She’d been up there for the past forty-five minutes. “We need to talk, but I know you want to shower first, so—”

“Can I hurry up?”

She gave him a nervous smile. “If you don’t mind. I need to run over to Tricia’s, but I wanted to talk to you first.”

“I’m not that sweaty. I can wait.” He grabbed the remaining snacks she’d laid out for him and sat down on a stool beside her. “What’s going on? Did something happen? Is Lyla okay?”

“She had fun at the sleepover, if that’s what you’re worried about, but things happened last night that I’m concerned about.”

Alyson filled him in on what Lyla had told her, about the two girls sneaking out of the basement, about the videos and the dancing the girls took part in. At first, Scott’s concern was focused on Lyla . . . Was she involved in any way? How did she feel about the videos they watched? But when Alyson stressed the things Lyla told her . . . the things that Keera apparently said, his face blanked, and she knew he understood her concerns.

“She actually said she wanted to know if a boy kissed like a man?”

Alyson nodded.

“How would she know? Why would she say something like that?” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the counter. “That doesn’t sound like Keera at all.”

“That’s not all.”

“There can’t be more.” Scott pulled back and ran his fingers through his hair, causing strands to stick up.

They cared a lot about Keera. Gordon liked to call Keera, Katy, and Lyla the three musketeers. They were always together.

“Apparently there were videos the girls danced to, but some of the dance moves Keera did were . . . they weren’t things Myah had taught the girls in class.” She really wasn’t sure how to explain what Lyla told her.

“Okay, that I believe. Both her parents are dancers, so of course she knows things the others don’t. Right?” Scott asked.

Alyson considered this. “Perhaps. But apparently Eddie has been giving Keera private lessons.”

Scott’s eyes widened as the understanding of what she was saying hit him.

“Have you talked to Tricia?”

“That’s why I’m going over. Well, that and something else too. When I went to pick Lyla up this morning, Tricia wasn’t home. It was just my parents.” She winced as she realized how pathetic her anger had been.

“Pick your battles, Aly, please? Lyla probably had a lot of fun with your mom and dad, right?”

She nodded. “She did. They made cookies, and she brought some home for tonight. I already got in an argument with Tricia about it,” she admitted.

Her husband shook his head at her. “You know how I feel, Aly.”

“And you know how I feel.” She wasn’t going to argue with him about it. Not now. They had bigger issues to deal with.

“What do I do about what Lyla told me?”

“Talk to your sister, and see what she has to say. She was there . . . maybe Katy or another one of the girls said something. I’m assuming all the girls heard what Keera said, right?”

Alyson didn’t know. It wasn’t something she thought to ask Lyla about, but she would need to.

“If what Lyla says is true—”

“If?” Alyson cut him off. “She wouldn’t lie about it.”

“Of course she wouldn’t. But what if Keera . . . exaggerated? As much as I hate to say it, but what if? You don’t want to do something or say something if it’s not true.” There was a note of caution in Scott’s voice.

“I don’t think Keera would lie about that. She’s too young to say stuff like that for attention . . . right?”

“I don’t know.” Scott stood up. “Kids are maturing a lot faster than we did now. Just . . . promise me you’ll talk to your sister first before doing anything?”

“Of course I’ll talk to Tricia.”

“First.” Scott reiterated. “Promise, Alyson. Figure it out with your sister. She knows Myah best, and there’s no need to overreact when there might not be anything to react to.”

Alyson swallowed a reply, but only because she knew he was right. She did have a tendency to jump first when it came to children and anything that looked suspicious.

“No child deserves to be hurt like that, Scott. You know how I feel.”

He laid his hand on her shoulder. “You’re very passionate about protecting those around you. It’s one of the things I love most about you.” He leaned forward and kissed her forehead.

“Heading over there now, then?” he asked her.

She nodded. “I’ll be back soon.”

She watched him walk up the stairs and thought about his comment—about not overreacting. As much as she tried not to let it, it hurt to hear him say that.

She thought of the time when she’d volunteered as a class mom in Lyla’s kindergarten class, and one of the boys had come to school covered in bruises and wearing the same soiled clothing nearly every day. All signs of abuse to her—or so she’d thought. She’d had no idea the family was on welfare, but then, if it hadn’t been for her, no one would have known just how sick the boy had been. Turned out he had hemophilia, a clotting disorder . . .

She wasn’t overreacting this time. She knew it in her heart. She believed what her daughter told her and knew it was crucial to do something about it. Kids just didn’t say things or play games like Keera wanted to play . . .

The thought of it made her sick to her stomach. No child deserved to be hurt like that—no child.